"It made him feel, for a moment, like maybe no
stories were lies. Not Tinshoe Jone's stories about aliens. Not Dad's stories about things getting better or things getting worse. Clearly, not Poppy's stories about the Queen. Maybe all stories were true ones."
I just loved this book. It is at once a legitimately creepy ghost story, a bittersweet story about the terrible inevitability of growing up, and a love song to story-telling itself. Thanks, Holly Black.