A Head Full of Ghosts

by Paul Tremblay

  I went and stood next to Mom, who put her hands on my shoulders. I motioned for her to come down to my level so I could whisper into her ear. “I don’t know how to pray.”

  She whispered down to me and breathed on my face. I covered my nose. “It’s okay. Just bow your head and think good thoughts for Marjorie and if you want to, ask God for help.”

  The three men held hands. Dad held out a hand to Mom or me. Mom took it, and then she took my hand. Father Wanderly said a prayer asking for God’s love and strength in the face of the evil we might encounter. Dr. Navidson’s eyes were closed so tightly, it was as though he was afraid to open them. Father Wanderly said, “Lord, hear our prayer,” which was echoed by Dad and Dr. Navidson. Then he started another prayer that began with “Our father, who art in heaven,” and everyone joined in, even Mom. I moved my mouth, pretending that I knew the words too.

  When we finished, Father Wanderly walked over to me and said, “Do not be afraid, Merry. Anyone who believes in our Lord Jesus Christ has nothing to fear.”

  Mom bent down and whispered to me again, before Father Wanderly had stopped talking. “Don’t worry, I’ll be up there with you, and we can leave whenever you want, okay?”

  Barry jogged downstairs and asked that we give him one more minute for them to set up the shot and the lighting in the hallway and in Marjorie’s room. He clapped his hands together and no one said anything. Dad started pacing again. Mom finished her wine and left the glass on the coffee table.

  After getting the okay from Barry, us Barretts led the way upstairs. Dad went first, with Mom and I right behind him. The rest of our wagon train followed: Father Wanderly, Dr. Navidson, and Tony the cameraman. Jenn was already at the top of the stairs, following our expedition’s progress.

  The second-floor hallway was warm and brightly lit. The ceiling fixtures had been scrubbed clean and the yellowish bulbs replaced with bright white ones. The two spotlights from inside the confessional/sunroom were pointed out into the hallway, flooding the second floor with their wattage. I could feel their heat on the back of my neck.

  Marjorie’s door was shut, but the doors to the bathroom and the other bedrooms were open. In those other rooms the lights were off, and each doorway was a dark mouth.

  Mom and I were jostled by the others jockeying for position in front of Marjorie’s door. Dad knocked lightly and said, “Honey? We’re here. We just want you to meet with Dr. Navidson and Father Wanderly for a few minutes like we talked about.” There was no response from Marjorie. Dad turned the knob and slowly opened the door as he said, “They’re going to ask you a few questions.”

  Dad walked in first, followed by the men. I was the last one in, shuffling behind Mom. Jenn stayed in the doorway, effectively blocking off my promised escape route. I felt tricked and trapped initially, but decided I’d be able to dash under and between her legs in an emergency. It was always smart to have a plan.

  Marjorie’s desk lamp was the only light on in the room. Everything looked clean and tidy. Her posters were gone. Her bureau top was visible and her closed laptop sat by itself on her desk. The stuffed animals and knickknacks had been taken away. The wall she’d kicked and punched holes into had been replastered but not painted.

  Father Wanderly said, “Hello, Marjorie. This is Dr. Navidson.” The two men sat in skeleton-thin wooden chairs that I’d never seen before. The chairs flanked her bed. The built-in lights on the two cameras focused on Marjorie, leaving the two men in shadow. She sat up with her back against the windowsill, legs hidden under the blankets. Her earbuds were in and I could hear faint, tinny music echoing from the bowls of her ears. She was wearing only a sports bra for a top. A dusting of acne colored the skin around her collarbones.

  Dr. Navidson said, “Hello, Marjorie. Nice to finally meet you.”

  Marjorie didn’t acknowledge him.

  Dad said, “Wait a minute, wait a minute. Barry, shouldn’t we get a shirt on her?”

  Barry had hovered out of camera range to the back of the room, near her closet. He shook his head no and made a camera rolling motion with his hand.

  Dad threw up his arms. “I’d like to put a shirt on her. She’s only fourteen.”

  Mom said, “Marjorie, do you want to put a shirt on? Are you comfortable being filmed this way?”

  Marjorie shrugged and looked bored, as though she were being asked to do some extra homework. “I’m okay, you okay.” Her speech was slow. Some of the letters were heavier than others.

  Dad said, “Can you take your earphones out at least?”

  “I’d rather leave them in. I feel better that way, you know?”

  “We just want to talk for a minute and—”

  “Dad, I can hear you fine. I can hear everything fine.” Marjorie grunted the words not like a demon, but like only surly teens can.

  Dad uncrossed his arms and took a quick half step toward Marjorie’s dresser, then stopped. What he wanted to do was to stomp over to her dresser, start ripping open random drawers until he found a T-shirt, throw it at her, yell at her until she put it on, and then rip the earphones off her head and chuck them across the room. But he couldn’t because of the cameras and his beloved priestly mentor.

  That’s a lot to read in uncrossed arms and a twitch toward the bureau, I know. Likely it’s hindsight, and all that happened after that has entwined with and mutated my memories of that night in Marjorie’s room. But it doesn’t mean my read of Dad isn’t an accurate one.

  As Mom withdrew and detached, Dad became both more pious and blindingly angry, and on that night I remember the fury emanating from him in waves, like heat from a space heater. Marjorie knew it too, and she smirked and rolled her eyes at him to make it all worse.

  Marjorie finally saw me latched on to Mom’s side and she perked up. “Oh, hi there, Miss Merry.”

  I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to answer her, if I was even supposed to talk at all. During the post-big-meeting proposal, the adults hadn’t told me anything other than that I was going to be in the room with them. I was mad that they hadn’t given me more specific directions. It made me think they didn’t really know what they were doing.

  I’d been quiet for a long time so I hurried out a quick “Hi?” like it was a question.

  Marjorie tied her hair back and then adjusted the straps of her sports bra. She said, “Don’t talk to me, Merry. It’s not safe. Didn’t Father Wanderly tell you that you shouldn’t be talking to me?”

  I caught Father Wanderly throw a quick look to Barry in the back of the room. Then he looked at me and nodded. “It’s okay, Merry. You may answer her if you wish.”

  I said, “No, he didn’t tell me that.”

  “Oh, man. Mom and Dad, you need to get a better priest.”

  Dr. Navidson opened his laptop and pecked at the keyboard with exaggerated finger strokes, like he was trying to poke a hole in the machine. He said, “Why is that, Marjorie?”

  “Idle and curious chatter with the demon should be avoided at all cost. It’s Exorcism 101. I’m surprised you assholes don’t know that. No, wait, I’m not surprised.”

  Dad sucked a breath in through his teeth. Mom squeezed my shoulders. They’d heard her swear plenty of times, especially during the last few months, but in this setting and in this company, they reacted as though she’d just punched each of them in the gut.

  Father Wanderly said, “Are we speaking with a demon right now?”

  “Yeah, sure. Why not?” Marjorie smiled and winked at me, which seemed like proof that she was faking, or proof that she really did have a demon inside her.

  Marjorie said, “Hey, Mom and Dad,” and then she paused to blow them a kiss. “Dr. Navidson, and everyone watching at home, did you know that Father Wanderly is breaking, like, one of the most important official rules according to the church?”

  Father Wanderly had his legs crossed and his hands folded on top of his leather-bound book. He said, “And what rule is that?”

  “No media, right? You’re no
t supposed to make a spectacle of the sacramental rite of exorcism. Duh. I’ll directly quote the Vatican for you.” Marjorie cleared her throat and then spoke in a voice that sounded decidedly, if not comically, male. “‘The presence of media representatives during an exorcism is not allowed.’”

  Mom said, “Is that true?”

  Father Wanderly said, “It is, however—”

  Marjorie interrupted. “No, no, no. Let me.” She changed her voice again, sounding airy, breezy, words stopping and breaking in an off-putting rhythm, and sounding very much like Father Wanderly. “However, Pope Francis just performed an exorcism in public, right? In front of cameras and everything. You can even watch it on YouTube. It’s on there like four different times and one of them has over two hundred thousand views. That new Pope, he’s such a rebel!” Marjorie stopped and coughed; it seemed exaggerated. “It hurts to talk like you, Father, so I’m stopping. But lucky for you, I guess, that the no-media rule has already been bent. So why not use me to shoot what’s going to be like a recruitment video, right? Some Norwegian dude tried it once already with a documentary featuring a Vatican-approved exorcist. But seriously, who watches Norwegian documentaries, right? Father Wanderly’s TV show will be a much bigger hit. It already is. The pilot episode was the Discovery Channel’s highest rated debut ever. So I’m told. Already, after two episodes, everyone involved, everyone in this room is making fistfuls of money, right? And just imagine all those gawd-fearin’ sheep-in-training out there watching our show, itching to come back to the church, soon to be saying their hallelujahs and filling donation baskets.”

  Mom had moved away from me toward Dad while Marjorie spoke. She put an arm around his midsection. Dad kept his arms crossed and when Marjorie finally finished talking, he started stammering, “Marjorie? What are you—I don’t—How does she know all this?”

  Father Wanderly said, “Do not be fooled by the lies.”

  “Lies? What lies? Nielsen ratings don’t lie. I can show you the Norwegian documentary. And it would take me two seconds to pull up the clip of Pope Francis and the cute little possessed guy in the wheelchair. Did you know that the chief Vatican exorcist said the reason the guy in the wheelchair was possessed was because of Mexico’s abortion laws? Makes sense to me. And now the archdiocese in Madrid wants to hire eight more exorcists. Maybe we can make them bump it up to an even ten after our show, yeah?”

  Dr. Navidson was a marble statue lit by the glow of his computer screen. He wasn’t typing anymore, and he sat with one hand partially obscuring his face and chin. He asked, “Can you show us on your laptop where you’ve been getting this information, Marjorie?”

  “Laptop? No laptop, necessary. It’s all common knowledge. Everybody’s talking about it, all my friends at school. You know, that’s what we talk about when we’re not talking about boys and their penises. No, wait. That’s not true. I get this all from the voices in my head, yeah. They’re not my friends but they tell me everything. It’s cool, but I have to shut them up sometimes, just to get some rest.” Marjorie pointed at her earbuds. “Or maybe the voices are useless and just suck and don’t really tell me anything but gibberish, stuff that almost sounds like words so I listen. And I think that if I just listen closely enough I’ll finally understand what they’re saying, and then they’ll stop, and then, boom! it’s like five hours later and I’m still listening so hard I want to cry, and I’ve bitten off all my fingernails until my fingers are ragged, raw, bloody, worn-down red crayons, and the voices are still there and I’m ready to stab out my eardrums and then stab everyone else. No, wait, I haven’t stabbed anyone yet, so maybe it’s all Merry’s fault. Yeah, Merry told me and tells me everything about everyone. She’s so sneaky! She can’t be trusted!”

  “No, I didn’t! Mom, I didn’t.”

  “Okay, okay, it wasn’t Merry. I was born with all of the universe’s information hidden in the infinite folds and wrinkles of my gray matter, and the information itself decides when it wants to come out and be known. Isn’t that kind of creepy? All that information just there already. How’d it get there in the first place, right?

  “Like, I didn’t know it until you came in here, but now that I see you and it and everyone else, I suddenly know that the red book in your lap has a Latin title and is called De Exorcismis et Supplicationibus Quibusdam. It’s a liturgical book—whatever that means—revised and published by the Vatican in 1999.

  “Or maybe. Maybe. Maybe I’m just a lost, confused kid, scared of what’s happening to me, to my family, to the world, and I hate school and I have no friends, and I spend my days sleeping with my iPod cranked up as loud as it’ll go, trying not to go completely crazy, and with all that time alone I’m looking shit up on the Internet, looking up the same stuff over and over, and I memorize it all because I’m wicked smart, because I have to fill my head with something other than the ghosts.”

  Father Wanderly said, “I suggest that you no longer allow her access to the laptop until after the rite has been performed successfully.”

  Mom said, “What? No. We—We can’t. She’s trying to keep up with some of her schoolwork online. She needs it.” Mom sounded as slurry and sleepy as Marjorie had when we first came into the room.

  Marjorie said, “Dr. Navidson, I’d be really sad and unhealthy without any connection to the outside world, don’t you think?”

  Dr. Navidson looked at my father said, “If you haven’t been doing so already, her online activities should be monitored.”

  “You guys are no fun. You can look at my browser history. I haven’t scrubbed it. No bad stuff. And sure I downloaded the Tor browser but I haven’t used it, not really. Father Wanderly, I’m sure you’ve heard of or used Tor.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. I am not very computer savvy.”

  Marjorie looked down into her lap and started talking fast, so fast that I had a hard time keeping up. “Oh, well, Tor allows you to surf anonymously and go to sites on the Dark Net, which is a fun name for groups of secret sites you can’t get to on regular browsers. Journalists and dissidents and hackers use Tor to keep out of the government eye and avoid censorship. Criminals use it too: weapons, drugs, and Father Wanderly’s favorite, kiddie porn. It’s a diddler’s haven!” Marjorie giggled and pulled her bedspread up to her neck.

  Dad swore under his breath. Father Wanderly was turned away from me so I couldn’t see his face.

  Mom crouched down in front of me so that we were face-to-face, nose to nose. “Merry, maybe we should go. Do you want to go?”

  I’m sure as an eight-year-old I’d heard the word porn and knew it was something bad, or if not bad, per se, then something not for kids, but didn’t really know what it meant. I certainly hadn’t seen any yet. So I wasn’t sure what Marjorie was talking about, but I remember the room feeling like it had just gotten more dangerous. I wanted to stay but didn’t say anything to Mom.

  Marjorie held out her stop hands and said in her regular voice, “Stay, Mom and Merry. Stay. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. That was an easy cheap shot. We’ll be good from now on, mostly.”

  Father Wanderly said, “We?” loudly, like he was a courtroom lawyer who had finally broken his witness. He looked over at Dr. Navidson, who just nodded and resumed typing on his laptop.

  “Slip of the tongue.” Marjorie was twitching now. Her shoulders jerked up and down, legs spasmed beneath the covers.

  “What is your name?”

  Marjorie laughed for a long time. “I’m sorry, you’re being serious. Okay. Marjorie. Or Yidhra. It’s an old, old, old family name. No one uses it anymore.” She laughed some more. I’d never seen her so manic, so clearly performing, and performing in a way that gained momentum, like an avalanche. It was terrifying.

  Father Wanderly asked, “Is your name funny?”

  “Maybe. Anyone heard of me? I’m pretty sure Ken has.”

  Ken wasn’t there. I wanted to go get him. I felt a weird pang of jealousy that his name would be brought up by Marjorie.

  Fa
ther Wanderly said, “We’ll be sure to ask Ken.”

  “We”—Marjorie stressed the word, wringing it out like a wet bathing suit—“consulted and have a few questions for you guys. Why is Merry here anyway?”

  Dad said, “Because she loves you and wants to help.”

  “That’s sweet. How exactly is she going to help us?” She slipped into a guttural voice, both high-pitched and sonorous, with a lilt of a British accent. It was the voice of Gollum. I thought for sure she’d gone too far, that Mom or Dad would call her on impersonating her favorite character from her favorite series of movies and accuse her of faking everything. But when no one answered right away, she said in her normal voice, “Okay. So Merry’s here to be part of the show. The more the merrier! Got it.”

  Father Wanderly said, “Dr. Navidson, have you seen enough?”

  “Wait! Don’t rush us. Dr. Navidson, are you a Freudian?”

  He ignored her question and closed his laptop.

  “We have another question for you, Father. Help us with this one: How come the church recommends that witnesses should be present, like now and during the exorcism, especially if the possessed is a young woman? It actually says that in the Catholic Encyclopedia: ‘This is specially enjoined, as a measure of precaution, in case the subject is a woman.’”

  Father Wanderly said, “I think it’s clear we’ve interacted far too much with the demon spirit already. John, I think you should stay here with me, and help try to settle Marjorie down for the evening. Everyone else should go downstairs.”

  “He’s not answering our question about the witness. Hey, does anyone else think that it’s kind of icky? Who is it that needs the protection of witnesses in that scenario?” Marjorie thumped her puffed-out chest and spoke in a man’s voice: “The righteous, courageous, humble, holy man who might be tempted by the unclean perversions of a demon-infested slut?” Marjorie then poked fingers into her cheeks, making dimples, and she spoke in a baby-doll voice, “Or the poor, vulnerable, hapless, helpless woman? I’m pretty sure I know the answer, but Dr. Navidson, help us out here. Even if you’re not a Freudian.”