A Head Full of Ghosts: A Novel Read Online Free
Author: Paul Tremblay
sank into my toes. The door was blockaded because this was a joke and shewasn’t going to make a new story with me. I yelled, “You promised!” again.
Marjorie then said in her normal voice, which wasn’t as helium-high as her laughter, “Okay, okay. You may enter, Miss Merry.”
I did a quick little dance I’d seen on SpongeBob . “Yeah! Woo!” I shifted the book so its top was tucked under my chin and partly pinned against my chest by my elbows. I didn’t want to drop the book to the floor, that was bad luck for the book, but I needed both hands free to turn the doorknob. I finally bullied my way in, grunting and ramming my shoulder against the stubborn, monolithic door.
Because I was convinced that I was going to grow up to be exactly like Marjorie, entering her room was like discovering a living, breathing map of my future, and a map with consistently shifting geography. Marjorie was always rearranging her bed, dresser, desk, assorted bookcases, and milk crates filled with the most current accessories of her life. She even would rotate her posters, calendar, and astronomy decorations on the walls. With each permutation, I’d remodel the interior of my cardboard house to match hers. I never told her that I did that.
On this Saturday her bed was wedged tight into one corner and underneath her only window. The curtains were gone and only a thin, lacy white treatment remained. Her posters hung crookedly, overlapped, and clustered haphazardly on the wall across from her bed. The rest of the walls were bare. Her dresser and mirror were shoved into another corner, with her bookcases, nightstand, and milk crates filling the other two corners so that the middle of the room was wide open. The room’s floor plan was an X without the crossing part.
I slowly tiptoed in, careful not to trigger any unseen trip wires that might set off Marjorie and her increasingly unpredictable mood swings. Any perceived transgression on my part could spark an argument thatwould end with either my crying and running to my cardboard house or with Dad’s brutish method of mediating (i.e., his yelling the loudest and longest). I stood in the center of her room’s centerless X, and my heart rattled like a quarter loose in a dryer. I loved every second of it.
Marjorie sat cross-legged on her bed, in front of the window so that she was silhouetted by the graying light. She wore a white T-shirt and her new, soccer-team-issued sweatpants. They were Halloween-orange with the word Panthers stenciled in black along the side of one leg. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.
She had a large book open on her lap. By large, I don’t mean thick like a dictionary. The book spanned the width of her crossed legs. The pages were splashed with color, and they were tall and wide, about the size of the pages in my Scarry book that I still held against my chest like a shield.
I said, “Where’d you get that?”
I didn’t really have to ask. It was obvious that Marjorie had a kid’s book in her lap, which meant that it was one of mine.
Marjorie sensed the twitching and grinding in my head and started talking thirteen thousand miles per hour. “Please, please, please, don’t be mad at me, Merry. I had this amazing story just suddenly come to me, and I knew it wouldn’t quite fit in your book. I mean, we already have a molasses story in your book, right? So, okay, I just gave part of the story away, that it’s another molasses story, but this one is so different, Merry. You’ll see. And, anyway, I figured maybe the Scarry book was full and it was time to start a new book so I went into your room, and, Merry! I found the perfect book! I know it was not fair of me to go into your room without asking when I know that if you did the same to me I’d be so mad. I’m sorry-sorry, little Merry, but wait until you hear it and see what I drew.” Marjorie’s face was a giant smile; all white teeth and all wide eyes.
“When did you go
Marjorie then said in her normal voice, which wasn’t as helium-high as her laughter, “Okay, okay. You may enter, Miss Merry.”
I did a quick little dance I’d seen on SpongeBob . “Yeah! Woo!” I shifted the book so its top was tucked under my chin and partly pinned against my chest by my elbows. I didn’t want to drop the book to the floor, that was bad luck for the book, but I needed both hands free to turn the doorknob. I finally bullied my way in, grunting and ramming my shoulder against the stubborn, monolithic door.
Because I was convinced that I was going to grow up to be exactly like Marjorie, entering her room was like discovering a living, breathing map of my future, and a map with consistently shifting geography. Marjorie was always rearranging her bed, dresser, desk, assorted bookcases, and milk crates filled with the most current accessories of her life. She even would rotate her posters, calendar, and astronomy decorations on the walls. With each permutation, I’d remodel the interior of my cardboard house to match hers. I never told her that I did that.
On this Saturday her bed was wedged tight into one corner and underneath her only window. The curtains were gone and only a thin, lacy white treatment remained. Her posters hung crookedly, overlapped, and clustered haphazardly on the wall across from her bed. The rest of the walls were bare. Her dresser and mirror were shoved into another corner, with her bookcases, nightstand, and milk crates filling the other two corners so that the middle of the room was wide open. The room’s floor plan was an X without the crossing part.
I slowly tiptoed in, careful not to trigger any unseen trip wires that might set off Marjorie and her increasingly unpredictable mood swings. Any perceived transgression on my part could spark an argument thatwould end with either my crying and running to my cardboard house or with Dad’s brutish method of mediating (i.e., his yelling the loudest and longest). I stood in the center of her room’s centerless X, and my heart rattled like a quarter loose in a dryer. I loved every second of it.
Marjorie sat cross-legged on her bed, in front of the window so that she was silhouetted by the graying light. She wore a white T-shirt and her new, soccer-team-issued sweatpants. They were Halloween-orange with the word Panthers stenciled in black along the side of one leg. Her dark brown hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail.
She had a large book open on her lap. By large, I don’t mean thick like a dictionary. The book spanned the width of her crossed legs. The pages were splashed with color, and they were tall and wide, about the size of the pages in my Scarry book that I still held against my chest like a shield.
I said, “Where’d you get that?”
I didn’t really have to ask. It was obvious that Marjorie had a kid’s book in her lap, which meant that it was one of mine.
Marjorie sensed the twitching and grinding in my head and started talking thirteen thousand miles per hour. “Please, please, please, don’t be mad at me, Merry. I had this amazing story just suddenly come to me, and I knew it wouldn’t quite fit in your book. I mean, we already have a molasses story in your book, right? So, okay, I just gave part of the story away, that it’s another molasses story, but this one is so different, Merry. You’ll see. And, anyway, I figured maybe the Scarry book was full and it was time to start a new book so I went into your room, and, Merry! I found the perfect book! I know it was not fair of me to go into your room without asking when I know that if you did the same to me I’d be so mad. I’m sorry-sorry, little Merry, but wait until you hear it and see what I drew.” Marjorie’s face was a giant smile; all white teeth and all wide eyes.
“When did you go
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