Chapter 85

A stack of horror paperbacks that Evie bought for me from a garage sale, back when I was younger and would read anything even remotely scary. I went through these books in one summer, devoured them, sometimes reading two in one day. They’re quick, nothing spectacular, just a bunch of fluff tucked between the covers, stories about vampires and werewolves and a few true crime serial killers. I only remember a handful of the storylines—as I pick up the books one by one, the plots and characters whirl together in my mind, the equivalent of those outrageous B movies from the fifties. They go back into their paper bag, and the bag goes by the door.