The Memory Eater

Description

“An eerie tale offering equal measures of fright, angst, and emotional catharsis.” —Kirkus, starred review

A teenage girl must save her town from a memory-devouring monster in this piercing exploration of grief, trauma, and memory, from the author of The Valley and the Flood.

For generations, a monster called the Memory Eater has lived in the caves of Whistler Beach, Maine, surviving off the unhappy memories of those who want to forget. And for generations, the Harlows have been in charge of keeping her locked up—and keeping her fed.

After her grandmother dies, seventeen-year-old Alana Harlow inherits the family business. But there’s something Alana doesn’t know: the strange gaps in her memory aren’t from an accident. Her memories have been taken—eaten. And with them, she’s lost the knowledge of how to keep the monster contained.

Now the Memory Eater is loose. Alana’s mistake could cost Whistler Beach everything—unless she can figure out how to retrieve her memories and recapture the monster. But as Alana delves deeper into her family’s magic and the history of her town, she discovers a shocking secret at the center of the Harlow family business and learns that tampering with memories always comes at a price.A Kirkus Best Book of March

★ “Via poetic prose, darkly ominous ambiance, and Alana’s witty, undeniably teen voice, Mahoney movingly addresses themes of atoning for past mistakes, confronting intergenerational trauma, and overcoming grief in this unforgettable read.” —PW, starred review

★ “An eerie tale offering equal measures of fright, angst, and emotional catharsis.” —Kirkus, starred review

“A must-read study of memory and emotion, filled with complex characters in an eerie setting.” —School Library Journal

“Mahoney combines a touch of magic with a story of grief, loss, and growing up under the weight of a whole town’s survival.” —Booklist

“A contemplative, heartbreaking exploration of family and the ways in which we heal and hurt each other.” —BCCB

“Strange and beautiful, The Memory Eater is a book you won’t easily forget.” —Nicole Lesperance, author of The Wide Starlight and The Depths

“Tender and unsettling and endlessly inventive, The Memory Eater is a book unlike any I’ve read before. I will be thinking about this story for years to come—I only wish I could give my memory away and read it again for the first time.” —Courtney Gould, award winning author of The Dead And The Dark

“Eerie and atmospheric, here is a love letter to the power and importance of memory, wrapped up in a book you’ll surely never forget.” —Sarah Glenn Marsh, author of the Reign of the Fallen seriesRebecca Mahoney is a young adult and middle grade writer, and the co-creator of audio drama serial The Bridge Podcast. She’s a strong believer in the cathartic power of all things fantastical and creepy in children’s literature—and she knows firsthand that ghosts, monsters, and the unknown can give you the language you need to understand yourself. She was raised in Windham, New Hampshire, currently resides in Massachusetts, and spends her spare time watching horror movies, collecting cloche hats, and cursing sailors at sea. She can be found on Twitter @cafecliche.Josie ­Berenthal—​­the Atwoods’ ­next-​­door neighbor and my family’s most frequent ­customer—​­makes her slow, cautious way across the sand. She’s a tall, spindly white woman with a pile of gray hair on top of her head and eyes almost as big as Lena’s. Her arms are in the air like she’s balancing on a rickety bridge. “You okay there, Josie?” I call, trying not to smile.

“Just watching my footing, dear,” Josie says. Her little electric lantern swings in her hand. “After what happened to you, you can’t be too careful.”

I smile noncommittally. Whistler Beach is small, and my family has never exactly been low profile. But I try not to think of how horribly, publicly awful my February was.

“I don’t think we’ve seen you in a couple weeks now,” I finally say. “I hope that means things are good?”

“Would that it were so, dear,” she says. “The gallery’s been swamped; I couldn’t make the time. Jimmy kept asking me when I’d make an appointment next, poor man. He says I need to clear my head.”

“Mm‑­hmm,” I say. If I were Josie’s husband, I’d be a little more worried that she was on her way to forgetting her own name next, but what do I know?

“Oh!” Josie’s gaze shifts next to me. “I didn’t know you’d still be supervising, Lena.”

“Harlow family rules, Josie.” Lena’s smile is brittle. “You know how it is.”

“Yes, but that’s if the family proves incapable, isn’t it?” Josie rests a hand on my shoulder. “Alana slipped and fell. It could have happened to any of us.”

Somehow Lena manages to pat at my arm without looking at me. “No matter how capable she is, she’s still recovering.”

“Josie,” I say. Somehow I don’t scream it. “We should probably get started.”

“Oh, of course! Ah, and before I forget.”

Josie hands over an envelope, thick with bills, along with a slip of folded notebook paper. “I hope this is going toward your college fund, Alana. Just because you have a business to run doesn’t mean neglecting your education, you know?”

I dodge that particular question with a smile and tuck the folded paper into my hoodie pocket. I won’t need what’s written there until after the session is finished. “Do you need me to walk you in?”

“Oh, that’s fine, dear.” Josie laughs and hikes up her khaki shorts. “I know the way.”

Josie switches on her little electric lantern and sloshes into the cave, her bright green Crocs a cheery beacon in the dark. I make my own way into the water, directly opposite the cave mouth. When Grandma was alive, I was more ­laid-​­back about this. I could stay on the shore and read a book during sessions. But now that it’s my responsibility alone, I prefer to watch.

The little lantern light bobbles to the dry patch of rock near the seal. There’s a beat. And finally, the slow uncurling of the boss’s voice. “Josie. I was starting to miss you.”

“It’s my busy season.” Josie laughs again. “I suppose you know how that gets too, don’t you?”

“I suppose I do,” the boss says. She likes the way Josie talks to her, like some slightly unorthodox hairdresser. “Why don’t you tell me where I’m going today?”

My fingers start to quiver where they’re resting against my thighs. I don’t have to watch every second. If anything goes wrong, the boss understands the consequences even better than I do.
But lately, this job feels like walking down the stairs in the dark of an unfamiliar home. Like I can’t gauge the width of the steps.

“June seventeenth,” Josie says. “Of this year.”

There’s a brief, pointed silence. “That would be two days ago.”

“Does it matter?” Josie’s ­good-​­natured voice sharpens to a bite. “It’s a meal either way.”

“Trust me, you won’t hear me complaining,” the boss says dryly. “But one of these days you should ­try . . . sitting with it. See where that gets you.”

The wind whistles against the mouth of the cave. The boss stirs, like she’s leaning in. “You know how this goes, Josie. When you close your eyes, you will no longer be here, in this cave. You’ll be standing on the Whistler Beach boardwalk, looking down the long line of shuttered stalls. It is night. It is quiet. And you are alone.”

She lets that sit, a moment. “The tide is coming in. You can hear waves lapping against the beams under your feet. Time your breaths with those waves, Josie. Can you hear them? Can you feel them against the wood?”

When Josie’s reply comes, her voice is calm again. “I can.”

“Good.” The boss’s voice goes gentle, gentle. A voice you would hear and immediately trust. “Look back to the stalls. Imagine that each one represents a day in your life. A memory in your mind. The stalls nearest to you are your earliest days. The very last one is this moment, right now. Let’s walk to June seventeenth of this year, Josie. Walk with me.”

Josie’s breath evens; her chin bobs down to her neck. She’s still awake, barely. But nothing can reach her now. Nothing except the sound of that voice.

I try not to move. I don’t know how easily the trance breaks, have never wanted to push it. I’ve never been where Josie is, after all: sitting in the pale circle of light, my mind laid bare and unprotected.

(And I never will. It’s yet another Harlow rule, one of the first. The boss’s services are not for us. And they never can be.)

“All right.” I still can’t quite see the boss. I just faintly see the dark of her outline expanding. “All right, Josie. That stall that represents June seventeenth of this ­year—​­picture it shrinking at your feet. Small enough to cup in your hands. Reach out and pick it up. Are you holding it?”

Josie hums. She’s beyond words now. After all these sessions, she goes deep fast.

“Good,” the boss says. “Hold it out to me.”

Josie shivers. Then slowly, she lifts both arms, palms up like an offering. Her hands are empty. Or they look empty, if you didn’t know better.

“You offer it to me freely?” The words are calm and even. But the boss pitches her voice up and out so that I can hear it clearly. It’s for my benefit, after all.

Josie hums, long and low.

Slowly, the light of Josie’s lantern shrinks around her. It flickers, hitching like breaths. Josie’s fingers curl in a little as her hands are swallowed into the dark. But the set of her shoulders is relaxed. Peaceful.

The click of the boss’s claws against the rock floor stops. And I hear the smallest sigh. I hear the hunger in it.

There is a creature hidden in the caves of Whistler Beach, held to the salt and sand by a spell and a deal struck on a stormy sea over two hundred years ago. She has no name that she’s given us. My ­great-​­grandfather called her “the boss.” Grandma always called her “our co‑­worker.” But the people of Whistler ­Beach—​­and the clients who seek out our ­services—​­they have a different name for her.

The little lantern flickers out. And just as I have for more than half my life, I listen to the Memory Eater take her first meal of the day.US

Additional information

Weight	15.2 oz
Dimensions	1.1400 × 5.7500 × 8.5000 in
Imprint	Razorbill
Format	General Trade
ISBN-13	09780593524602
ISBN-10	0593524608
Author	Rebecca Mahoney
Audience	Teenage
BISAC	YAF026000, YAF041000
Subjects	teen fiction books, YAF041000, halloween books for teens, teen horror books, horror books for teens, horror books for adults, books for 12 year old boys, fantasy books for kids age 12-15, horror novels, books for 12 year old girls, good books for teens, young adult novels, books for 13 year old boys, books for 13 year old girls, magic, fiction books, horror books, young adult fantasy books, young adult fiction, scary books, fantasy books, YAF026000, fantasy books for teens, Monsters, young adult, creepy, fantasy, horror