Help for the Haunted

by John Searles

  “My uncle took me to a doctor,” I said. “Turns out the shhhh I heard all this time is caused by tinnitus brought on by the gunshot that night in the church. The doctor said it will come and go for a long time, since there’s no cure.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It seems to be getting quieter every day actually. I get the feeling that, pretty soon, I won’t hear it at all.”

  “That’s happy news. And your sister? Have you heard anything?”

  “No word,” I told him, thinking of that globe spinning and spinning, all those faraway places. “But someday, a long time from now, I bet I’ll hear from her.”

  “Well, it is important to stay hopeful,” Boshoff told me.

  With that, the bell rang. The sound broke some spell between us as the halls filled with the roar of students eager to leave this part of their lives behind and start the next. I supposed I was one of those students now too. “I should go,” I said. “While I can still escape the stampede.”

  “Okay, Sylvie. Thank you again for thinking of me.”

  “Thank you,” I told him.

  When I stepped into the hallway, I turned in the direction of the crowd, which did not part the way it used to do, but rather, carried me along until I was moving out the front doors into the daylight once more. When I climbed into the Jeep, my uncle was waiting for me. He had rolled down his sleeves so I could see only a hint of his tattoos, not that I minded them. “All set?” he asked.

  “All set.”

  We managed to beat the buses and pull onto the main road ahead of the traffic. Howie asked if I wanted to go by the old house or maybe go visit Dereck at the garage, which was something we sometimes did. But I told him that maybe we could skip those things for today. Instead, we turned up the radio and just drove for a while, as I leaned back and felt the sun on my face. Sometimes, when we were together, I glanced over and glimpsed my father in his resemblance. Whenever that happened, my mind flashed on the morning I went down to the basement to find Abigail gone and my father cleaning up the chaos with a strained look on his face. Why had she decided to go against our plan and leave during the night, stopping at Father Coffey’s house on the way? And when my father discovered her gone, did he decide right then and there to make it look as though she had left on account of those things in our basement, arranging the scene just so in order to support that story? And did that wrench wrapped in a towel in his nightstand have something to do with those horses and the way they were broken? Some answers, I still did not know and supposed I never would. Mostly, I found myself wondering if he really did send Rose away because of his beliefs or if it was simply convenient once she caught on to what he was doing.

  When all that becomes too much to think about, I turn to my journal still. There was only a handful of empty pages left when I arrived at Kev and Bev’s, and I’ve since filled them with those things I wonder about, hoping the answers might be made clear. Just last night, in fact, I realized I had come to the final page. Instead of putting down any more questions, I decided to write about something else instead. This is what I wrote:

  Sometimes at night, when it is dark inside my room, I get down on my knees to pray. First, I pray for my sister. And then I pray for my parents’ souls. Whenever I do that, I feel something change in the air around me. It is more than their memory returning; it feels like their spirits. Despite all the things that haunted my mother and father during their time in this world, despite the mistakes they made too, the feeling of having them close brings me comfort somehow.

  When I am finished praying and get into bed and close my eyes, I picture my father. Only not the person I knew. Instead, I conjure him as a young boy standing in the dark of that theater, watching shadows dance around him, having no idea about the truth of what they were and how they would change the course of his life.

  And then I think of my mother beside me, hair fanned all around on the pillow the way it had been that night in our motel room so long ago. If I keep my eyes closed, I feel her there again. I hear her breath, hear her voice telling me, “Each of us is born into this life with a light inside of us . . . What’s most important is to never let that light go out, because when you do, it means you’ve lost yourself to the darkness. It means you’ve lost your hope. And hope is what makes this world a beautiful place. Do you understand what I am trying to say?”

  I think about those words a lot, and I think about their spirits too.

  If you believe in those sorts of things.

  I do and I don’t believe.

  But mostly—mostly, mostly—I do.

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank three amazing women in my life who make everything happen: My talented, insightful, and patient editor, Kate Nintzel, read endless drafts and helped to shape this story and keep it moving. My incredible literary agent, Joanna Pulcini, offered inspiration and devoted countless hours discussing these characters and figuring out their world. And Sharyn Rosenblum, my friend and book publicist, brings boundless energy and so much fun to our work together.

  Also at HarperCollins, I am enormously grateful to Liate Stehlik, Michael Morrison, Lynn Grady, Virginia Stanley, Kayleigh George, Annie Mazes, Tavia Kowalchuk, Carla Parker, Beth Silfin, Andrea Molitor, Laurie McGee, Kim Chocolaad, Caitlin McCaskey, Erin Simpson, Jennifer Civiletto, and Margaux Weisman.

  I am indebted to the Corporation of Yaddo, where I began writing this story in earnest while living in an old Tudor in the woods not unlike Sylvie’s old Tudor in the woods. In particular, Elaina Richardson, Candace Wait, and Jonathan Santlofer helped immensely with my two generous residencies there.

  Also tremendously helpful were homicide detective Dennis Harris of the Boston Police Department and Cory Flashner, the assistant district attorney of Suffolk County, Massachusetts, who sat with me in an interview room at the station and answered my endless “what if?” questions. Plus, Ed McCarthy answered all my questions about how certain things might happen in an old theater.

  The careful responses and encouragement from my early readers were invaluable: Stacy Sheehan, Elizabeth Barnes, Carolyn Marino, Jennifer Pooley, Ken Salikoff, Katherine Hennes, and Jessica Knoll.

  On the film and foreign fronts, I am indebted to Matthew Snyder and Whitney Lee for all they do on behalf of my books. At Cosmo, I’m thankful to current Editor-in-Chief Joanna Coles. I also had the great fortune to work side by side with Cosmo’s previous longtime Editor-in-Chief, the one and only Kate White, and I owe her a huge thanks.

  And then there’s the people I’m just lucky to have in my life: Susan Segrest, Amy Chiaro, Betty Kelly, Michele Promaulayko, Abigail Greene, Isabel Burton, Amy Salit, Colleen Curtis, Cheryl (Cherry) Tan and Nicholas (Butter) Boggs, Ross Katz, Fred Berger, Kate Billman, Carol Story, Wade Lucas, Jamie Brickhouse, Esther Crain, Blake Ellison, Glenn Callahan, Boo Wittnebert, Brenda Tucker, Lucy (Lulu) Puls, Jeremy Coleman, Oscar (Oscy Pants) Gonzalez, Danielle Atkin, Adriana Trigiani, Hilary Black, Matthew Carrigan, Dean and Denise Shoukas, Bob Sertner, Alan Poul, Zoe Ruderman, Andrea Lavinthal, Ashley Womble, Christie Griffin, Dan Radovich, Diane Les Becquets, Jan Bronson, Ruth Calia Stives, Michael Taeckens, Kristin Matthews, Bethane Patrick, and David (Doo Doo) Vendette.

  Finally, I’m always grateful to my family: Mom, Dad, Keri, Ray, Tony, Joyce, Mario, Birute, Paul, Beth, Christian, Yanna, and most especially, Thomas Caruso.

  P.S.

  Insights, Interviews & More . . .

  About the author

  Meet John Searles

  JOHN SEARLES is the author of the national bestsellers Boy Still Missing, Strange but True, and Help for the Haunted. He appears frequently as a book critic on NBC’s Today show and numerous other television and radio shows to discuss his favorite book selections. His writing has appeared in the New York Times, the Washington Post, and many other national newspapers and magazines. He lives in New York City and can be found on Fac
ebook at www.facebook.com/JohnSearlesAuthor and also on Twitter @searlesbooks.

  Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.

  About the book

  Q&A with Gillian Flynn

  Writers imbue all of their characters with a little bit of themselves. Obviously, Sylvie Mason—a young teenage girl—is very different from you. What were the challenges of writing her as a protagonist? How did you find a window into Sylvie?

  I always joke to people that deep down, I’m really a teenage girl. Growing up, my dad worked as a cross-country truck driver and my older brother was usually off with his friends, so my mom and my two younger sisters and I spent most of our time together in a tiny house with two bedrooms. As an adult, I went on to become an editor at a women’s magazine, where I worked in an office full of—what else?—women. So in a weird way, it was almost easier for me to write from a female perspective than from a male one.

  You’ve talked before about how your sister’s death affected your writing. How so in this book?

  After my sister Shannon died, my parents divorced, my brother moved out, and I took off for New York City to try and become a writer. In the wake of all that, our youngest sister, Keri, was left behind. Keri was around the age that Sylvie is in Help for the Haunted. At some point during the writing of this book, I realized I was channeling her voice and emotions and experience from that time. She was so young to be faced with such a terrible tragedy.

  Help for the Haunted has some seriously scary moments and delves into a subculture that few are familiar with—that of haunted souls and paranormalists. What inspired you to explore this world?

  As a kid, I was obsessed with scary things. I used to make haunted houses in our garage, and when I got my driver’s license, I used to load my friends into my station wagon and drive us all down a dirt road at night, where I’d do my best to scare the hell out of them.

  Also, I grew up in the same town as the couple who were the real-life inspiration for the movie, The Conjuring. As a kid, I used to see them in church and at the grocery store and just the sight of them used to scare me. Years later, I saw the woman at an event at our local library. The two of us were posing for a photo for the town newspaper, and I started wondering what it would be like if Sylvie’s parents also had an occupation that dealt with the paranormal.

  Do you believe in the supernatural? Do you feel you have to believe even just a little bit to tell a convincing story?

  In Help for the Haunted, Sylvie says, “I do and I don’t believe.” Her mix of feelings is very much like my own and like so many people I’ve talked to who have read the book. Logically, we know better than to believe in ghosts and the supernatural, but every once in a while life serves up some unexplainable phenomena and that little part of us can’t help but believe again.

  This will be your third book, the first two being the bestselling novels Strange but True and Boy Still Missing. How do you think you’ve grown as a writer over the course of your career?

  I have always tried to take risks in my writing, but with Help for the Haunted, I took more than ever before. I don’t just mean telling the story from a young girl’s perspective, but also combining a murder mystery with a coming-of-

  age tale, plus switching back and forth in time, and introducing the idea of supernatural elements. I used to go to lunch with my editor and ask her again and again, “Are you sure this story isn’t too weird?” Thankfully, she loved it and always told me to keep going.

  Did you begin Help for the Haunted knowing what was going to happen, or did you follow your characters to see where they’d lead you?

  All I had at the very beginning was the voice of Sylvie, a teenage girl, who was left in the care of her tough older sister. The rest of the story came in pieces. The old Tudor in the woods where the family lives was inspired by an old Tudor where I stayed during a writing residency at Yaddo, an artist colony in Upstate New York. The sisters’ part-time jobs doing telephone surveys about bubble gum and fast food was one I had in high school, and I decided to use it while writing. The doll in the basement came to me when I discovered old Raggedy Ann and Andy dolls in my mother’s attic. She had made those things years before, and I forgot about them until they were staring me in the face—and scaring me!—once more.

  All writers have quirky habits and rituals for when it’s time to work. Could you share some of yours?

  Lying on the floor and staring at the ceiling. Push-ups. Chin-ups. Long runs. Coffee. More coffee. Baths. Looking up weird facts online. I do all of those things when I am trying to figure stuff out because sometimes you have to distract your mind in order for the ideas to come. Plus, when I go on a real writing jag, I don’t bother to change my clothes or shower or shave. At one point, while revising Help for the Haunted, I had been in the library for eight hours straight and realized I was starving. I took a break and stumbled into a restaurant, where I sat at the bar and ordered dinner. All of New York City and who sits down next to me, perfectly groomed and dressed all swanky, but Jay McInerney. Someone introduced us and he looked at me with my greasy bedhead and scraggly beard and ripped clothes, and I swear he was about to say, “Excuse me, but the soup kitchen is down the street.”

  Reading Group Guide

  Questions for Discussion

  After her parents’ deaths, Sylvie learns from Father Coffey that her family was driven out of the church by rumors and gossip. But the Masons were very devout. How does the tension between their faith and their unusual activities play out? In what ways do the intersections of these two forces make sense?

  When speaking in Ocala, Sylvester says he investigates “the otherness” of the world we live in. What, exactly, do you think this means? Are demons and spirits the only manifestations of “otherness” we encounter in the novel? Are there any kinds of “otherness” that the Masons are not interested in confronting?

  When Sylvester drags Rose out of their hotel in Ocala—once she has returned from her evening with Uncle Howie—what do you think he says to her?

  In the theater, Howie recounts for Sylvie how he admitted to Sylvester the truth about the “globules.” Why do you think Sylvester reacted the way he did (with silence)? How do you explain the other encounters he had where Howie was not involved? Why were the ghosts so important to him?

  Why are the horses Howie gave her so significant to Sylvie? What do you think they represent, and why is she so upset when they break?

  Sylvie’s mother says of the Entwistles, “What they were doing, I believe, was sharing with us a kind of truth they had created for themselves. . . . There are times when it is easier to fool yourself than swallow some jagged piece of reality.” What are some other examples in the book of characters fooling themselves?

  With her father gone, there are many different men that Sylvie turns to for guidance: Sam Heekin, Detective Rummel, Derreck, Arnold Boshoff, Father Coffey, Lloyd, and Uncle Howie. What roles do each of them play in her life?

  Sylvie’s mom and dad have very different reactions when Abigail begins to take Rose’s place in their household. Why is this? And what does Abigail represent for each of them?

  In the book Sylvie makes for Mr. Boshoff, she includes the quote: “If all the world hated you and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved of you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends.” The quote is from Jane Eyre, a book all of the Mason women read throughout the novel. What is the significance of the quote? What is the relation of Jane Eyre to Sylvie and her sister and mother?

  Derreck says to Sylvie, “It’s not the end of the world if you don’t always know all the answers.” We eventually learn who killed the Masons, but at the end of the book, what questions are we still left with? What are some answers that Sylvie is still looking for?

  Read on

  Excerpt from Boy Still Missing

  June 1971

  “Once you get into this novel, you’ll forget the world—the
book is that seductive, that suspenseful.”

  —Frank McCourt, author of Angela’s Ashes and ’Tis

  WHENEVER MY FATHER DISAPPEARED, we looked for him on Hanover Street. My mother drove us slowly along in our orange Pinto, gazing into shadowy windows. Between the rows of smoky bars glowing with Schlitz and Budweiser signs were slim alleyways where he parked his fender-dented GMC. My mother’s best friend, Marnie, sat in the passenger seat, and I squeezed in the back. Marnie’s job was to keep an eye out for my father’s truck, but she spent most of the time applying foundation, darkening her lashes, and glossing her thin lips in the visor mirror. Marnie had recently read somewhere that all men were intrigued by Southern women, so she adopted the appropriate lingo. Besides the occasional “y’all” and “yahoo,” it meant a lot of nicknames. Peaches. Honey pie. Cupcake. At fifteen I considered myself practically a man, and the sound of all that food coming from her mouth did nothing but make me hungry.

  Tonight Marnie was in the middle of plucking her eyebrows when she said, “Is that his truck, peaches?”

  “Where?” I said, sticking my head between them. I loved being part of Find-Father-First, and when she spotted his truck, it pissed me off, because I felt I had lost somehow.