So this week I’m reading The Girl with Ghost Eyes, by M.H. Boroson, which is not to be confused with The Girl with All the Gifts. Although if Ghost Eyes are a gift, then I suppose the girl with all the gifts would have them.
The Girl with Ghost Eyes is set around the turn of the (last) century, in San Francisco, and follows Li-lin, the titular girl, who in addition to being able to see spirits is also an exorcist, a minor spellcaster, and an expert in some variety of kung fu. The book has barely gotten started and she has already put all of those abilities to good use.
Up in the air, floating like a bat above the rest of the monsters, there was a white woman. Or segments of a white woman. Her head was flying there, and she wore a wide-brimmed hat over dark blond hair. She had a beautiful face, a young face. Men would fall in love, go mad, or write poems, if they saw her face, but her innards dangled under her throat. Her heart throbbed, her lungs pulsed, and coils of intestine bobbed as she flew through the night. She was a horror and an affliction. She radiated malevolence. I saw her silhouette pass in front of the moon, and I shuddered.
Hmm, I think I ran into one of those back in my AD&D days …
Li-lin encounters this particular entity, and a bunch of other oddities, towards the beginning of the book when she tries to solicit assistance from the creatures of the Night Parade of a Hundred Devils. (You can guess how well that works.) The parade itself reminds me of the famous Crazy Parade from one of my favorite anime films, Paprika.
Meanwhile, speaking of big trouble, the characters over in my current project, Fathers Books, are in it. They just don’t know it yet.
The notebook seemed to be about one-third filled with scribblings, doodles, notes. He looked at the last page with writing on it. The top line said, I pray to God this is the last one. Then, a paragraph: Writing them down doesn’t work anymore. They will not go away. They’re outside my door, in the hallway. Waiting for me. I hear the floorboards creak when they walk. I hear them whisper outside my window. And one last line, this one in black, a virtually illegible scrawl. Richard stared at it for a little while and finally decided that it said I think this will be the day. The day for what was not explained.
A moleskine notebook filled with little hearts and pictures of birds, it is not.