projections

“So when you said Raggedy Ann,” I said, “you meant Molly.”
“She’s like this . . . battered, stained, torn-up doll,” Murphy said. “Believe me. It fits.”
“Battered, torn-up, scary doll,” Will said quietly.
“And . . . you just let her be that way?” I demanded.
Murphy ground her teeth. “No. I talked to her half a dozen times. We tried an intervention to get her off the street.”
“We shouldn’t have,” Will said.
“What happened?” Mort asked.
Will apparently assumed it had been my question. “She hammered us like a row of nails on balsa wood is what happened,” he said. “Lights, sound, images. Jesus, I’ve got a picture in my head of being dragged off into the Nevernever by monsters that I still can’t get rid of. When she gave it to me, all I could do was curl up into a ball and scream.”
Will’s description made me feel sick to my stomach. Which was ridiculous, because it wasn’t like I ate food anymore—but my innards hadn’t gotten the memo. I looked away, grimacing, tasting bitter bile in my mouth.
“Memories are weapons,” Sir Stuart said quietly. “Sharp as knives.”


Ghost Story Chapter 10, Page 112-113