Handwritten page of a diary dated July 11, 1983
… but our house won’t be ready to move back into or a while, so Dad rented us an apartment where we’ll be living for six months. When he first drove us by it, I thought it looked cool, but then he turned to me and said, “I know this is a pain for you to have to change schools for one semester BUT …” and then he pointed out the heart-shaped window, and told me that would be my bedroom. But the more I looked at it, the creepier it looked — like one of those rooms where people see a ghost looking out of if. Like maybe a little girl tragically died in that room and now her soul is trapped there forever and if the moon is shining just right, you can get a pretty good glimpse of her standing there with her old raggedy doll. I told Alan that later but he said too bad, he wasn’t sleeping in a bedroom with a heart-shaped window, so no he would not offer to switch with me. And not only that but after I finally got to sleep, I felt something fall on my head and I woke up screaming. Alan had actually gone up to the attic and gotten one of my old dolls and wrapped it in torn rags and thrown it on me in the dark. That was not even a little bit funny and I’ll tell you right now — this means war. And I don’t mean a little war like the Falkland Islands war. I mean like the Hundred Years War.