DD 20/11/2017. Ok, this was a fun quick read right until I DNF-d as the whole thing was a bit too harebrained for my liking. I don't think such gullible people as portrayed here do exist anywhere. And if they do, my heart goes to them.
I do realize this whole shit probably happened as there are articles and reports that at least partially cofirm all this. Still I am not altogether persuaded that a self-proclaimed pathological liar is 100% truthful here, i.e. Liar paradox might be relevant.
While I do realize that human stupidity has been really staggering this century, personally, I am no fan of laughing at the expense of people with mental facilities way too weak to function so this book will probably wex me all along the way.
I will give another go at this one a bit later, when I'll be feeling more charitable toward the deficiencies of some humans' nature.
Q: The detective said, “I was dealing with a mastermind.”
Oh god, who doesn’t want to be called a mastermind?
He said, “This girl has left in her wake a group of professionals.” He was talking about the FBI, Interpol, the DEA, INS, a panel of twelve psychologists and psychiatrists, the ACLU, Ron Howard, almost—but not quite—the United States Congress, and finally a couple of sheriff’s departments.
I’d been busy.
He said, “I don’t believe a normal 15-year-old girl in America pulled this off,” and he called me a genius.
I put the newspaper to my lips to kiss the word.
Then he said I needed psychiatric help.
Well, that wasn’t nice but it was probably true. (c) And here goes nothing.
Q: I had been trying for years to be recognized as brilliant, but I was capable of some extraordinary acts of stupidity that undermined my efforts. (c)
Q: Months before, I’d gone to see the famed Chapel Hill Ghost Lights. For hours I sat with three friends on the side of the road, looking over the railroad tracks, hoping to see a decapitated signal man searching the tracks for his head. In the boredom, I lost mine and became condescending, stalking down the tracks shouting, “I’ve got your head,” trying to make him light his lantern and come have a look. Certain that a blue light was swinging in the distance and getting closer, my companions flipped to screaming. I didn’t see it, and nothing I said could persuade them to stay and show it to me either.
It took a week’s worth of promises to convince them I wouldn’t taunt any more ghosts, but once on the porch of Wartrace’s Walking Horse Hotel, I proved myself a liar trying to pet an ethereal horse they all shrieked was there.
I had to swear and swear again I wouldn’t antagonize the Bell Witch, but the thrill of being at her grave after dark proved too irresistible, and I tried to call her up by claiming to be a Bell heir. I didn’t think the witch believed it, but something certainly chased my friends out of the cemetery.
After two months of such late-night supernatural nonsense, all that remained to be seen in Tennessee was Wolf Meadows and Old New Hope Church.
And no one wanted to contemplate me at Wolf Meadows after dark. (c)
Q: I wasn’t so much sacrilegious as certain everyone else was wrong. There were a lot of things that made no sense to me as they were explained. (c)
Q: I was nine years old ... I was a little apprehensive because I didn’t want to cry and make a fool of myself. I had nothing against Christ, but I needed to confirm if what the preacher had said was true, because it just didn’t sound right. ... The preacher was wrong and I earnestly thought he should know so as not to embarrass himself with that story again. He did not take it well. (c)
Q: Oh. Good. God. I couldn’t breathe. Breathing would require moving, and any movement would lead to running; running would lead to screaming, and screaming in a haunted house was bad. (c)
Q: Nothing too immodest though, I merely desired something ambiguous, like countess. Surely no one was keeping up with the world’s many countesses. There must be thousands of them, and if one more showed up, no one would notice. (c)
Q: And I’d been faking a British accent for years, so that was hardly a problem. I would change my intonation to entertain myself, often publicly teasing grown men into a fevered passion before retreating behind my father with a face of uncomprehending innocence. And when the opportunity presented itself, I would play proper English to fool adults into selling me alcohol or tickets to R-rated movies.
But that wasn’t enough anymore. I’d just turned fifteen and the world was passing me by. I knew it was; I read the national papers and news magazines. So many wonderful things were happening while I sat bored and unchallenged in small town Shelbyville. I loved my family and they loved me, but there was no more time to wait. I had to go.
And they had no idea. I had always presented myself with impassive restraint, so my parents had no reason to suspect my brain was being ripped apart by restless turmoil. They couldn’t have guessed I was wandering the highway after midnight. I didn’t show my discontent and I was careful to hide the games I played when they weren’t looking. (c)
Q: Sometimes I think there is something slightly wrong with me, and not in the way most people suspect. I lack a proper sense of fear. I’m hard to scare but easy to startle, and I’m not entirely fearless. For instance, I want no part of bungee jumping, skydiving, or any other high-altitude scare; but things on the ground have to get pretty extreme for my heart rate to change. I have a difficult time recognizing danger when walking into it. Before my time in Dallas was over, a mafia henchman was going to hold a gun to my head, and that did not so much frighten as annoy me. So, even though I had no plan, I was not alarmed or concerned. Even though this was going to be the biggest act I had ever put on, I intended to play it as I always had—pure improvisation, all on impulse, with little more known than I would be playing the part of a countess. (c)
Q: I didn’t know where this fiction was ultimately going, but I had a goal. I wanted to live in Dallas with the title of countess. The only problem was I had not yet learned how to create a legitimate, federally recognized identity, and as it was 1985, there was no readily available information on the topic. Uncertain how to acquire identification, I needed a compelling history to explain why I had none. Every question Mike asked allowed me to give the tale more detail, but so far, he had about as much of a clue as I did how the story was going to proceed. (c)