I read Paul Tremblay’s highly acclaimed novel, A Head Full of Ghosts, a few weeks ago and still find myself thinking about it. That’s high grade voodoo right there. Book is straight up haunting me.
Therefore, I’m not only writing this in an attempt to explain what’s causing it to linger, I want to get this shit out of my head.
On the surface, Tremblay’s book is a fun, entertaining story about a family dealing with a daughter who is either possessed or mentally ill. It’s told through the adult recollections of the possessed girl’s younger sister. Recollections that appear to be somewhat confused, and almost certainly unreliable. This woman is traumatized by what she experienced as a child, even if she doesn’t realize it. Pay attention to the way the woman she’s narrating her story to is reacting and you can see how strange and damaged she’s become. For me, that’s the most horrific part.
I went to the Decatur Book Festival this year in Atlanta, the largest independent book festival in the country. No telling how many books they had for sale. Thousands for sure.
I bought one: Mucho Mojo by Joe R. Lansdale. I got the best of the bunch.
Now listen, I have read several Lansdale books, and will undoubtedly read many, many more. And, to be honest, I could have written this post about any one of them. They all stack up. Mucho Mojo just happens to be the book that led me to this laptop in a stiff-legged stupor and got me typing. It was either do that or give a standing ovation to an empty room.
The size of this book, much like the little pond at the end of the storied lane, is deceiving. There is so much more packed within these pages than one would guess by merely glimpsing it on the shelf. You must crack the cover to see the true scale of the world Mr. Gaiman has imagined. But beware. Do that, and you’ll fall inside.