When I was a kid, a bookmobile would sporadically appear in the church parking lot down the street—a camper filled with the quiet smell of musty pages. Always the same mute, mildly disapproving man at the wheel-turned-checkout counter. I’d make a pretence at browsing, but in the end, I chose the book I always chose: Wait Till Helen Comes by Mary Downing Hahn.
Despite the updated cover, the story is more safe mystery than horror, even though the stakes are high (and creepy): a girl moves to the country, where her entitled and scheming young stepsister falls prey to a ghost who tries to drown her.
It was a far cry from my typical genre in those days (mostly Sweet Valley Twins & Nancy Drew), but I always turned back to it.
After a 30 year hiatus, I recently read it again with my youngest child. (She loved it too!) I’d forgotten most of the plot and found myself equally on edge at the end of each chapter. Having the adult advantage, I obviously skimmed ahead after she went up to bed.
I found myself reading another (more grown-up) ghost story in tandem: Daniel Mason’s North Woods. It’s a novel in short stories—interconnected by a property and house in upstate New York. Beginning with runaway early-colonist lovers, the stories carry us from owner to owner into the present and just beyond. The ghosts of residents past play a palpable role in each succeeding story. The reader is pleased to carry the secret history and hauntings of the space in all its iterations. It’s a gorgeously written book that took me half the novel to truly get into, but then I couldn’t put it down.
Lastly, and somewhat strangely, I’m listening to yet another ghost book: Take Back the Magic by Perdita Finn. It’s partly a memoir about her now-deceased father, an egomaniacal and difficult surgeon, and partly a manifesto about how the dead are all around us, gifted with perspective and eager to help.
It’s heavy on woo, and probably not for everyone (this was the disclaimer from the person who recommended it to me), but it’s opened me up to the idea of my ancestors cheering me on, caring about my tedious worries and tasks. It makes me feel loved and seen at a time when, frankly, I’m feeling (perimenopausally?) lonely and sad.
Do you have a favorite ghost story? A book you obsessed over in childhood? I’d love to hear about it!
Cheers,
Lacy
P.S. I keep trying to puzzle out what drew me so obsessively to this particular bookmobile title. But the greater mystery is: who kept returning it? This I have no memory of. (Let’s be real, it was probably my mom.)
P.P.S. Other terrific literary ghost stories this is bringing to mind: Lincoln in the Bardo and The Haunting of Hill House. What else am I missing?
P.P.P.S. I had a story published this month in Sequestrum! It’s ripped from a headline I read in college that always haunted me: two Chinese graduate students were murdered in their bed but their baby was left unharmed. I wondered for years afterward: what happened to the baby??