One Bloody Thing After Another Read Online Free PDF

what does that mean? Every day. Knock on Mrs. Richards’ door, and then what? The ghost just stands there, pointing, drooling black blood on the carpet. Charlie wants to help her, but he has no idea how. What does she want?
    And Mrs. Richards is always accusing Mitchie of barking, even though it’s been years since he’s been able to make a sound. Charlie doesn’t mind, though. She’s not so bad. Some people just like to complain. At least she’s got some spark left in her, not like the other people in this place. No, Mrs. Richards is fine. Let her complain about Mitchie. It doesn’t faze Mitchie, so why should Charlie care?
    The ghost is a different story. The ghost won’t leave him alone. Does she want him to tell Mrs. Richards something? Does she have some spooky missive from beyond the grave?
    â€œDo you know anyone who got their head cut off, Mrs. Richards?”
    â€œIf you don’t keep him quiet, I’ll have to make a formal complaint, Charles,” she says. “Honestly. The dog barks all night, and then you come knocking on my door. Oh hello Charles. How are you today? Can I help you? Oh, you just want to talk more about a headless ghost that follows you and that stupid dog of yours around? I guess I’ll see you tomorrow. Well, you know what, Charles? I would prefer if I didn’t see you tomorrow. Knock on somebody else’s door tomorrow with your idiot dog.”
    â€œMy dog is not an idiot,” Charlie says. But when he looks down Mitchie is standing with his face pressed against the wall again. “Turn around and defend yourself, Mitchie, for the love of Christ.”
    The ghost is still pointing a bloody finger in Mrs. Richards’ face. Its lips are sounding out empty words. What does it want? Who has time for this nonsense?
    Every stupid day.
    too.
15
    The wood under Jackie’s feet is slippery. She moves forward, trying to get a better grip with her sneakers, but that isn’t going to be enough. She needs to reach out a free hand and steady herself, except Ann would think less of her. Ann has her black hair clipped up. Even in the pouring rain it looks good.
    â€œYou can give up, if you’d like,” Jackie says. “There’s only a little shame in defeat.” Their hands are lashed together with a bandana. This is a fight to the death, Jackie thinks. They are standing on top of this playground equipment in the rain like they don’t have the sense they were born with. The broken-arm tree is wide above them, but Ann doesn’t know that. She thinks this is just a straightforward fight to the death, without symbolism. Jackie’s foot slides again. Don’t look down, she thinks. But looking at Ann makes her dizzy, too.
    â€œGive up,” she says again.
    â€œNo,” Ann tells her.
    â€œI’m just saying,” Jackie says, “it’ll probably hurt less. Have you noticed how high up we are?” But Ann isn’t scared. “If you give up now,” Jackie says, “nobody needs to know you were scared. We can tell people you had female problems .”
    It wasn’t raining when they’d got on the streetcar to come out here, but it sure is raining now. They’d climbed up the hill to the playground anyway.
    Jackie fell out of that tree up there, years ago, when there was no playground equipment here. She was hanging upside down, with her arms and hair reaching for the ground. She had long hair, then. She had skinny arms. But she didn’t have much in the way of common sense.
    She was up there, flipping around on the branch like Jackie the little gymnast, way up in a tree with no one around. She could have snapped her neck and died. Instead she broke her arm and walked home.
    Their neighbor Carol came running down her lawn when Jackie walked past. Jackie’s arm was just hanging dead. She couldn’t hear anything Carol was saying. She thought she had gone deaf. Carol thought