Sunny Lee is on the top of the world. She’s one third of Sweet Cadence, the hottest up-and-coming teen pop group, alongside her new BFFs, Candie and Mina. The three are inseparable as they ride their way to the top of the charts, even as Candie and Sunny fight to resist the growing spark between them. But when a shocking scandal breaks, the group is suddenly torn apart. Then the unthinkable – Mina dies tragically right before Sunny and Candie’s eyes. And Sunny suspects the dark and otherworldly secrets she and Candie were keeping may have had something to do with it . . .
NOW:
For the past two years, Sunny has spent her days longing for her former life and her nights wondering just what caused Mina’s death. So when she discovers that Candie is attending a new K-pop workshop right in her hometown, Sunny has no choice but to follow her there. Candie might be chasing stardom again, but Sunny is only after one thing: answers.
At the workshop, the lines between nightmare and reality start to blur as Sunny is haunted by ghostly visions and her competitors’ bodies turn up bizarrely maimed and mutilated. To survive the twisted carnage, Sunny will have to expose the ugly truth behind the workshop’s spotlights and the sinister forces swirling around Candie. Stitched with cutting commentary on the ugly side of stardom and impossible beauty standards, Linda Cheng’s mind-bending thriller will have readers screaming and swooning for more.
GRADE: A
REVIEW:
Wow! This was one wild ride. The prologue started off with a bang, it was mysterious, devastating and utterly hooked me into the story. I really loved the characters Sunny, Candie, and Mina. So even when it was a little slow, it wasn’t boring. I liked getting to know more about the K-pop music industry and what it takes to become a pop star. The book took some very crazy turns that I wasn’t expecting but that I absolutely loved. This was a mixture of horror and sapphic romance. This was a mixture of so many things: folklore, cults, celebrity worship, and beauty obsession. I couldn’t stop reading because I was so invested in finding out what was happening (so many twists and secrets!). For horror fans, some truly gruesome, unsettling scenes would make for a very twisted horror movie. I really enjoyed reading this book and loved the main character Sunny a lot, even though she wasn’t necessarily always good and sometimes made poor choices, but it’s what made her more human to me.
I recommend this book to those who love sapphic horror novels, and although it is marketed as a YA, I feel like it can be a fun read even for adults.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Roaring Book Press for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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The mountain had existed long before there had been anyone around to name it, pushed up by the inevitable forces that made the Appalachian Range millions of years ago. Hulking, it stood with a peculiar formation at its apex, two peaks like a pair of horns, giving the mountain its eventual name of Devil’s Peak. The coal mine inside was abandoned long ago.
On the southern side of Devil’s Peak was the town of Wesley Falls, where there were no remnants of the mine except for the overgrown paths crisscrossing up to two entrances, ineffectually boarded up, partially hidden but available to anyone looking hard enough. Down the western side were the steeper paths, far more overgrown with vegetation, leading down to the abandoned town of Evansville. That side of the mountain and beyond grew strange because of the coal fire that had been burning underground for almost a century. The Bureau of Mines had managed to contain the fire to the western side of the mountain so that only Evansville suffered. Only Evansville had bouts of noxious gases, open cracks of brimstone in the roads, residents complaining of hot basements and well water. Over time they left town, leaving behind a ghost.
Unlike its unfortunate neighbor, Wesley Falls had avoided the mine fire and transitioned from a coal-mining town to something not unlike Pennsylvania suburbia. It was the sort of town where one of the billboards outside the Golden Praise megachurch proclaimed, “Wesley Falls: the BEST place to raise a family!” and most adults agreed with that assessment. The sort of place where the city council had voted against a bid to allow a McDonalds to open, arguing that it would “lead to the deterioration of the character of Wesley Falls.” This had less to do with concerns about childhood obesity or dense traffic than it did a desire to keep the town trapped in amber. The sort of town where the sheriff was the son of the previous sheriff.
Jia Kwon, stepping off a train at the station some miles away from Wesley Falls, looked around the crowded station for that son—the sheriff—now in his thirties, though she had trouble picturing this. Sheriff Zachary Springsteen had an air of formality that she couldn’t match up with the image of the boy she knew from high school, whom everyone called Blub. He was an inoffensive, nondescript kid who delivered papers via his clackety bike, who then grew to be the generic teen who stood in the back row of yearbook pictures. She had always been friendly with him, but never quite friends, starting from when she had transferred from St. Francis to the Wesley Falls public school system and Blub sat next to her in homeroom.
Was the fact that she had chosen to keep in contact with this not-quite-friend after she moved away from Wesley Falls an accident? No—she knew that now. Blub had been the perfect person to report back town news over the years because he never suspected her interest was anything more than curiosity. Their exchanges over the years had been just enough for him to feel comfortable, or compelled enough, to make the phone call that had brought her here.
Jia paused to put her phone in her purse, pretending she did not notice any stares. No one looked twice at her in Philly, but here she stood out as the only Asian, drawing even more attention to herself because she had dyed her hair a shade of silvery gray with hints of lavender in it. It would only be worse when she got into town, but even as a kid she had been so used to being stared at that she just exaggerated her strangeness, opting for bright clothes rather than trying to blend in.
“Jia?” said an uncertain voice.
She turned her head and instantly recognized Blub, who stood with the gawky awkwardness of someone uncomfortable with his own height. “Blub!” she exclaimed, coming closer. She embraced him, her head only coming up to his midchest. “You’ve grown two feet!”
He shoved his hands into his pockets, smiling. “Want to ask me if I play basketball?” Their smiles felt hollow, she realized, because of the strangeness of the situation and everything they weren’t saying. “I appreciate you taking the time to come out here. I know you’re probably busy but…” He led her to his patrol car. “Sorry, you’ll have to ride in the back.”
“It’s no problem,” she murmured, surprised to see that he had brought someone along for the ride.
“This is Deputy Sheriff Henry,” Blub said, turning the car on. A smaller man whom she did not recognize half turned and nodded at her curtly, though Jia could see him looking at her in the rearview mirror as they pulled away from the station. What on earth had Blub told him?
That once, in one of their email exchanges, when he complained about having to repair his roof, she made a joke about which team to bet on for the Super Bowl, and he did, and she had been right? That she had one too many stock tips that turned out to be good? That she inexplicably sent him a “You okay?” email at 8:16 a.m. on September eleventh, thirty minutes before American Airlines Flight 11 crashed into the North Tower of the World Trade Center? There had been enough incidents as strange as these that when he called her last year asking for help, it felt like something clicking into place. Something that was supposed to happen. Over the years, she had started to feel comfortable with that clicking feeling, rather than being afraid of it. Last winter he had called her saying that Jane Merrick was missing from the old-folks home—she was prone to running— and she was outside in the freezing weather in only a nightgown, and they were worried about her. He did not say why he was asking her, a person who hadn’t lived in Wesley Falls for two decades, a person who neither knew nor liked Jane Merrick. She told him to look in the barn on the Dandriges’ property without providing an explanation of how she knew. She knew because she saw it. She knew because sometimes she could call up things when she wanted to, though not all the time, but this was still significantly better than when she was a kid and she couldn’t control when the visions hit her, or stop them, or even understand them.
And now, in the peak of summer heat, he had called again, saying that there was a missing person, could she help, friends were worried. She did not ask who because she felt something like the deepest note on a double bass vibrating, reverberating through her body. She saw herself walking, her white maxi dress—the one she was wearing right now—catching on brambles as she maneuvered her way down the overgrown path to the ghost town.
She had to go back to Wesley Falls. It was time.
“You all went to school together?” Deputy Sheriff Henry said when they pulled onto the highway.
“Yeah,” she said. “We didn’t overlap with you, did we?” Henry shook his head. “Blub and I go way back,” she said, meeting Blub’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“I’ll never get over the fact that people call you Blub,” Henry remarked. “How’d you get that name anyway? Were you chubby or something?”
“I don’t think there’s an origin story,” Blub said, looking like he wanted the subject to change.
“I remember!” Jia exclaimed. “It’s when you threw up in fourth grade.” She leaned forward, pressing against the grate that divided the car, addressing Henry directly. “It was during homeroom. He threw up on his pile of books. I remember because it was clear and ran down the sides like pancake syrup.”
Henry laughed and Blub flushed. “Jia, you can’t remember that because you weren’t there. You were at St. Francis in grade school!”
She stopped laughing abruptly. “I could have sworn I remember that happening!”
“Sometimes when enough people tell you a story, you start to remember it like you were there,” Henry mused.
Sometimes, Jia thought. But there were other people who could see things that had happened or would happen, even if they weren’t there.
As they drove down the highway and drew closer to Wesley Falls, the mood shifted to an anxious silence. Jia checked her phone for anything work related. She ran a small solar panel company called Green Solutions with her two best friends, both hyper-competent, both probably picking up on Jia’s strange tone when she said she had to go back home for a short trip. They probably thought that it had to do with the settling of her mother’s estate, and Jia, even though she was uncomfortable with lying, allowed them to believe this. When her mother had died, Jia had come to Wesley Falls to liquidate everything in The Gem Shop and sell the store itself to the least annoying bidder: a fifty-something-year-old former teacher who wanted to open a bakery. A significant part of the decision had been not that her baked items were good—they were—but something about her aggressive combinations of spices had seemed witchy, and, most importantly, she did not attend Golden Praise. Jia’s mother, Su-Jin, would have approved.
And now, with Blub turning off the highway, her heart felt torn in different directions. Wesley Falls wasn’t home, but it was, because it was where most of her memories of Su-Jin lived. As the car moved it felt as if they traveled through an invisible veil, something that felt uncomfortable in a way she could not put into words anyone else would understand, but was familiar and, she knew, strange. Strange like how she was strange.
But then it came: the feeling that arose every time she had gone home to visit her mother—the feeling that she shouldn’t be here. Except this time, it was worse. They had just arrived in Wesley Falls, passing Wiley’s Bar, which was on the outskirts of town. It was frequented by truckers stopping for a cheap burger and beer.
“That place is still here?” she murmured.
“They got karaoke now,” Blub offered.
“Please kill me,” Jia responded, trying to sound light. Blub laughed, then turned onto Throckmartin Lane. The street hadn’t changed in twenty years: it still housed Greenbriar Park, which everyone called “The Good Park,” and the larger homes where the wealthier families lived. Built before McMansions had hit this part of Pennsylvania, the houses differed in their architecture—some colonial, some farmhouse—but were all similar with their immaculate lawns, American flags, and WESLEY FALLS FOOTBALL signs.
Blub slowed to a stop, making eye contact with her in the rearview mirror. He was waiting for directions.
She gestured for him to turn onto Main Street, that old, curved road with the bottom half of the C drawn out like a jaw that had dropped wide open—it was impossible to drive anywhere in Wesley Falls without driving on Main Street at some point. They passed the police station, then the row of shops. Some of the mom-and-pop stores that lined Main Street had changed, but Wesley Falls still didn’t have a Target, a chain grocery store, or a reasonable place to buy clothes. Indeed, the best place to raise a family was apparently a place where you had to drive ten miles to the mall to get many of the things people wanted. She gazed at the bakery that used to be The Gem Shop. Spade’s Hardware was still there—her mother had had a grudging friendship with the owners. The candy shop had changed ownership but it was still a candy shop. They drove along the north side of town, by the lake and the Neskaseet River—called Chicken River by locals because of its proximity to and usage by the chicken processing plant at the north edge of town.
Wesley Falls and Evansville had both popped up in the 1800s, their economies at first built entirely around the Wesley coal mine, which resided inside Devil’s Peak. No matter how many times well-meaning adults attempted to close off the entrance of the mine, which had been abandoned in the 1930s when the coal ran out, high school kids always found their way in. Drawn to the allure of ghost stories, rumors that if you found the right path you could find the mine fire in Evansville, and the inevitable urban legends about the Heart.
Jia pointed and Blub turned onto the unpaved road that crossed the Neskaseet and wound up the side of Devil’s Peak to Evansville. From this elevation, she could see the entire tiny, abandoned town. The simple, squared-off eight shape of the town’s few roads, the dilapidated strip of larger buildings at the center, then the rectangles of homes, all identical because they had been provided by the mining company.
The road came to an end, trees and shrubbery blocking their passage. Blub put the car in Park, turning to face Jia. “Can’t drive farther.”
“Then we walk,” she said. She led the way, ignoring the looks from both men as she freed herself from prickly branches that caught onto her dress. Blub used his nightstick to whack away a tangle of vegetation, then Jia found a path that led down to the town.
It smelled like sulfur with a hint of cigar. Jia picked her way gingerly down the main road, which was buckled and cracked in places, then turned a corner behind the old church and stopped. There was someone in the road wearing a bright fuchsia shirt. She could only see the top half of the figure’s body. The lower part, from the stomach down, was trapped inside the road in what looked like a fresh sinkhole.
Jia knew without looking. Some part of her had known from the moment Blub called her. He needed help finding a missing person, but he hadn’t said who. This was the thing that had pulled her back, made her feel an insistent anxiety for the past few months.
Blub and Henry were running to the body, the latter yelling. When Jia finally approached, Blub was trying to get a pulse. She watched the two men huddle over the body, Henry almost making an attempt to pull her from the chasm before Blub stopped him. This could be a crime scene.
Blub sat back on his haunches. The fuchsia T-shirt was soaked with last night’s rain. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail, tendrils stuck to the sides of her face. That face. Familiar but different. She’s still so pretty, Jia thought. Her mouth was open and a scratch stood out livid on her pale cheek. Her eyes were closed.
“It’s her,” Blub stated.
“Maddy Wesley,” Henry said, disturbed and awed.
“You knew that Maddy was the missing person? You didn’t tell me,” Jia said, trying to keep her voice stable.
Blub remained crouched, his elbows on his knees with his hands dangling down. “Didn’t think I needed to,” he stated, his voice devoid of the warmth it had had while in the car. He didn’t look at her as he examined the scene, and it occurred to Jia that he was actually the sheriff. Not Blub, the kid who threw up on his pile of books, but an actual agent of the law.
Jia edged backward, fearful that the road could break under her.
“You know her?” Henry asked.
His gaze made her self-conscious. Jia had never been a good liar. Much of the lying she had done that summer so many years ago had been by omission. She was working on a project. She was hanging out with Padma. These things had been true, but misleading.
“She was in our year,” Jia managed. “We all went to high school together.”
Blub’s eyes went from the body to Jia. “You weren’t friends, though, were you?” Maddy ran with the popular crowd, the Golden Praise crowd. Jia had been the opposite of that.
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She blinked in surprise, wondering if this too, was the voice of some ghost….
PLOT SUMMARY:
Across Italy, there are many half-empty towns, nearly abandoned by those who migrate to the coast or to cities. The beautiful, crumbling hilltop town of Becchina is among them, but its mayor has taken drastic measures to rebuild—selling abandoned homes to anyone in the world for a single Euro, as long as the buyer promises to live there for at least five years.
It’s a no-brainer for American couple Tommy and Kate Puglisi. Both work remotely, and Becchina is the home of Tommy’s grandparents, his closest living relatives. It feels like a romantic adventure, an opportunity the young couple would be crazy not to seize. But from the moment they move in, they both feel a shadow has fallen on them. Tommy’s grandmother is furious, even a little frightened, when she realizes which house they’ve bought.
There are rooms in an annex at the back of the house that they didn’t know were there. The place makes strange noises at night, locked doors are suddenly open, and when they go to a family gathering, they’re certain people are whispering about them, and about their house, which one neighbor refers to as The House of Last Resort. Soon, they learn that the home was owned for generations by the Church, but the real secret, and the true dread, is unlocked when they finally learn what the priests were doing in this house for all those long years…and how many people died in the strange chapel inside. While down in the catacombs beneath Becchina…something stirs.
GRADE: C-
REVIEW:
I was looking forward to reading this book as I was a huge fan of the author’s book The Road of Bones, although I must admit since this novel took place in Sicily (where I’m from) I was a bit hesitant as I didn’t enjoy the inaccuracies in Diavola (another horror book set in Italy). The premise of this novel is very intriguing, an American couple Tommy and Kate leave the United States for Sicily after they purchase one of those one euro homes with the promise of rebuilding the old home. But the couple doesn’t know that their home was owned by the Catholic church which would send their worse cases of demonic possession there.
Now, all that sounds very thrilling and scary. However, the execution wasn’t so. First of all, the couple Tommy and Kate are highly unlikable and entitled. They move to Sicily but instead of trying to befriend the local community, they’re only interested in becoming friends with other foreigners known as the imports and trying to convince their friends in the United States to leave Boston and follow them to a ghost town that doesn’t offer much in regards to economic growth or resources. Not to mention, that they suddenly decide the town has to pay to get their catacombs up to safety norms because they want to attract tourists to Becchina. This is highly improbable, as a dying town wouldn’t have the resources to do that. We never know what jobs these two people have that they can easily work from home, but for them to think that their friends could easily move across the globe just to keep them company is absurd.
Another con is that so much of this book is telling. Not much actually happens in the book until the very end. Not to mention that the author thinks Sicily is like California having earthquakes every three seconds (this isn’t true, yes Sicily gets earthquakes but they’re rare and when they do occur they’re bad). I do give the author props for having done some research in regards to how Sicilians are and the typical foods they have, but anytime the author has Italian characters use Italian, the grammar is incorrect in some cases. Note to authors, if you or your editorial team cannot ensure that something in a foreign language is correct, maybe don’t use it.
This book might appeal to those who want to read horror taking place in other places other than the U.S. But if you’re looking for a genuine possession or haunted house story, this straddles both but ultimately doesn’t explore either very well.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and St. Martin’s Press for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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This is a collection of short stories by some very talented writers that explore all the themes of love gone wrong, whether it’s romantic love, sibling love, or friendships – there’s a story for everyone.
Lollipop is in love with her classmate Stella Morris. But love for her is difficult as her family is a coven of witches that maintain themselves by making delicious gummy candies using a very particular ingredient (not for the squeamish).
When Spencer Torres becomes possessed by Dever, her life as she knows it upends. But it’s difficult for her to wish to get rid of the demon when he’s cunning, alluring, and the only one who wants to truly help her find out what happened to her last summer.
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It is the twilight of Europe’s bloody bacchanals, of murder and feasting without end. In the nineteenth century, a vampire arrives from Europe to the coast of Buenos Aires and, for the second time in her life, watches as villages transform into a cosmopolitan city, one that will soon be ravaged by yellow fever. She must adapt, intermingle with humans, and be discreet.
In present-day Buenos Aires, a woman finds herself at an impasse as she grapples with her mother’s terminal illness and her own relationship with motherhood. When she first encounters the vampire in a cemetery, something ignites within the two women—and they cross a threshold from which there’s no turning back.
GRADE: A-
REVIEW:
This novel is set up in two portions. In the first half, we follow a vampire (whose name we truly never know, apart from the one she uses for a brief while – Maria) and see her journey from the old world to the new (specifically Buenos Aires). I enjoyed reading about the vampire and how she tried to survive in an ever-changing and evolving world, one that she didn’t really understand or get accustomed to.
The second half of the novel takes place in present time Buenos Aires and it’s about a woman, Alma, who has to deal with the grief of her mother’s sickness and the dissolution of her marriage. Obviously, at one point the protagonist of the second portion of the book comes in contact with the vampire from the first half of the novel.
This novel was well written but it was marketed as a literary vampire romance, and well, I’m not sure if that’s entirely accurate because the romance part comes so very late in the novel, and when it does it rushes full speed. I guess I was expecting more of a slow burn (or at least it occurred earlier in the book).
Overall, I did enjoy the book and enjoyed the vampire character a lot. But if you’re looking for a romantic vampire book I’m not sure if this one exactly fits the bill as one might expect. If you wish to read a character study about a vampire and a woman dealing with grief, then this will be up your alley.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Dutton (Penguin Books) for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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ABOUT NECESSARY DEEDS: Matt Connell, a formerly successful literary agent who’ s been in prison for four years for a crime of passion— homicide by strangulation after learning his wife slept with a friend— receives an early release from Sing Sing to join an FBI undercover investigation of multiple murders in Manhattan. Killings continue to mount as Matt does his best to calm his “ Ferrari brain” — a condition in which his mind accelerates wildly into negative thoughts and worst-case scenarios— even as he falls in love with a suspect, then discovers disturbing truths about his past and hers. When he finds his own life in danger, can he stand up for the Bureau’ s heralded principles of Fidelity, Bravery, and Integrity? Not to mention genuine love?
ABOUT MARK WISH: Mark Wish’s previous novels have been praised by Daniel Woodrell, Delia Ephron, Salman Rushdie, Rebecca Makkai, Ben Fountain, Anne Serling, the Chicago Tribune, and the Los Angeles Times. His short fiction has won a Pushcart Prize and appeared in more than 125 print venues including BEST AMERICAN SHORT STORIES. A renowned book doctor for thirty years, he now edits and publishes COOLEST AMERICAN STORIES, whose inaugural volume went to a third printing.
“What makes Necessary Deeds so irresistible and addictive is that it’s a devilishly inventive murder mystery presented in the finest of sentences and filtered through a mind wonderfully beset at every turn by the dark truths of human desire, ambition, envy, and jealousy—but most of all by love itself. If Mark Wish’s life imitates his art, his gift for storytelling might just get him
murdered. But not before his next book deal, please. In any case, Necessary Deeds is a necessary read.”
—TIM JOHNSTON, New York Times bestselling author of Descent
“By turns tense and tender, Mark Wish’s Necessary Deeds delivers a high-stakes noir and a taut tale of jealousy, murder, and redemption.”
—LAURA MCHUGH, internationally bestselling author of The Weight of Blood
“Necessary Deeds is a tight, tense thriller that explores some of the darkest, twistiest workings of the human mind. Mark Wish asks the question: Who can you trust if you can’t trust yourself?”
— LOU BERNEY, winner of Edgar, Hammet, Anthony, Dagger, and ALA Awards, author of November Road
“Mark Wish’s Necessary Deeds hits the sweet spot: sly, sharp, and satirical. Highly entertaining!”
—ALAN ORLOFF, Anthony, Agatha, Derringer, and two-time Thriller Award Winning author
“Smart and gripping, nuanced and wryly observed, Necessary Deeds is unputdownable, and Wish is clearly a writer at the top of his game. A phenomenal thriller that will leave you breathless.”
—TISH COHEN, author of The Summer We Lost Her
“Bursting at the seams with voice and tension, Mark Wish’s Necessary Deeds reads like the literary lovechild of Bellow, Chandler and Robert Bolaño. This is a literary page-turner, full of life and poetry. A novel to be devoured, then savored.”
—DANIEL TORDAY, two-time winner of the National Jewish Book Award, author of The Last Flight of Poxl West
“In Necessary Deeds’ Matt Connell, Mark Wish has created a diabolically compelling anti-hero—a literary agent with both romance and murder in his heart. As soon as I read the first few lines of this novel, I was all the way in—Wish portrays the high-stakes New York City literary world and the conflicted soul of Connell with humor, pathos, and supreme suspense.”
—Grace Paley Prize Winner CHRISTINE SNEED, author of Little Known Facts
“Smart, exceptionally told, and a pleasure to read, this mystery by Mark Wish is complemented by dialogue brimming with emotional insights, whether about the foreboding passion between a man and a woman, or the rage of a wounded husband. Necessary Deeds is the kind of book you read in a rush but remember long after.’
—E. A. AYMAR, bestselling author of No Home for Killers
“I was hooked by the first sentence—one of the best I’ve read—and followed Mark Wish’s tale on and on. Wish knows how to tell a story, and in Necessary Deeds, he has given us a varied, surprising, and irresistibly engaging one.”
—Pulitzer Prize winner TIM PAGE, author of Parallel Play
“Necessary Deeds is a captivating, spiraling story that doesn’t let up off the throttle. When it was over, I found myself wanting—no, needing—that speed again. Wish has created a stunning narrative with so much drive and power. Any reader would love this.”
—PEN Award winner MORGAN TALTY, national bestselling author of Night of the Living Rez
“Necessary Deeds is a rarity: A murder mystery that keeps you guessing until the very end, and most important, is a lot of fun. Mark Wish has written a witty page-turner that’s necessary reading.”
—LELAND CHEUK, author of No Good Very Bad Asian
“Mark Wish’s Necessary Deeds is a deliciously gleeful send-up of the New York literary world, a wildly satirical removal of the veil over High Art. Most notably, it’s a genuine whodunnit: Who is murdering the Talented Writers in the city (with their outsized advances)? Intertwined throughout is a noir love story and humor, but also a clear-eyed gaze at what has happened to notions of Integrity, Literature…and Fame. The twist at the end took me by surprise while making perfect wicked sense.”
—Drue Heinz Literature Prize winner KATHERINE VAZ, author of Fado and Other Stories
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This trip is going to be Dylan’s big break. Her geologist friend Clay has discovered an untouched cliff face in the Kentucky wilderness, and she is going to be the first person to climb it. Together with Clay, his research assistant Sylvia, and Dylan’s boyfriend Luke, Dylan is going to document her achievement on Instagram and finally cement her place as the next rising star in rock climbing.
Seven months later, three bodies are discovered in the trees just off the highway. All are in various states of decay: one a stark, white skeleton; the second emptied of its organs; and the third a mutilated corpse with the tongue, eyes, ears, and fingers removed.
But Dylan is still missing—and no trace of her, dead or alive, has been discovered.
Were the climbers murdered? Did they succumb to cannibalism? Or are their impossible bodies the work of an even more sinister force?
This dread-inducing debut builds to a bloodcurdling climax, and will leave you shocked by the final twist.
GRADE: B+
REVIEW:
This book was inspired by the Dyatlov Pass which I’ve always been fascinated by (if you don’t know what that is, Google it and go down a rabbit hole that will keep you busy for hours). I breezed through the beginning portion of this novel, as I find rock climbing (and mountain climbing) very fascinating (probably because I don’t partake in it so I can live vicariously through characters who do!). The moment the four friends arrive at the valley, strange things begin to happen. I find forests pretty intimidating and scary so the setting was definitely creepy for me and I enjoyed that. I loved the history behind the forest and what occurred before the friends arrived there (that we got to learn later on in the book). There are many scary moments in this novel that horror fans will absolutely love. The only snag I had was that towards the middle mark the novel became a little repetitive when the friends kept going around in circles in the woods (and that’s probably the point) but for a debut, this was a strong novel. Not to mention that I haven’t read too many books that have a sentient forest ready to unleash its fury upon those who dare trespass on it.
Horror fans (especially those who love gore) will love this novel. I think it’d make an excellent movie too!
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Quirk Books for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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Carter Cho wasn’t really into science experiments.
Otherwise, he might have completed his degree in quantum mechanics. Cooking experiments, though? Totally different, because there was a real joy to that process. But setting a hypothesis, identifying controls, and looking for…stuff?
Seriously, that seemed like such a slog.
Except for this particular Thursday morning, on the corner of a crosswalk and standing across from the world’s biggest, most advanced particle accelerator, a science experiment felt necessary.
He didn’t really have a choice. It seemed to be the only way to possibly understand or even escape his very strange predicament.
Carter checked the time on his phone, waiting for it to tick specifically to twenty-three seconds past 8:22 a.m.
At that moment, the crosswalk light would switch, signaling for pedestrians to go.
Then everything would cascade, a waterfall of specific actions by the world around him:
The person on Carter’s right would step out first.
The person behind him would wait an extra four seconds, eyes stuck on his phone.
Annoyed, the woman next to that person would let out an exaggerated sigh, move around, then rush forward six steps into the street before catching her shoe.
Then she would stumble forward, her coffee spilling. The first time he went through this, he’d noticed the spill just in time to sidestep it before continuing on.
All of these actions sat line by line on the old-fashioned paper notebook in his hands, a checklist of what was to come with the precision delivered by his photographic memory.
Science experiments all led to a result. As for this, he wasn’t quite sure what the result, or even the purpose, might be. He already knew he was in a loop of some sort, something that started the instant he woke up on Monday mornings.
And it always ended up with the huge facility across the street exploding.
The Hawke Accelerator, both a modern marvel of technology circa 2094 and also some sort of weird top-secret project that no one really understood—now also the place that would simply go boom.
Carter should know. The first time he experienced this, he was in the accelerator chamber’s observation room, right in the heart of where the go boom happened at precisely 12:42 p.m. on Thursday. Which was today, again. Just a few hours from now.
He’d been through this six times before, each time expanding his acute understanding of the details surrounding him. Usually he wrote things down at the end of the day, a memory trick he’d learned about himself very early on that helped cement the details into place, so even when he started the loop over without any scribbled notes to organize his thoughts, his photographic memory recalled it.
But this morning, he went in reverse, writing out the exact steps as they were meant to be.
And then he’d make sure it played out that way, bit by bit.
After that, he wasn’t sure. Carter thought of his parents, their usual voices chastising him for his lack of planning and forethought, how his teenage foray into coding and hacking was more about fun than applying himself, and now look at him, simply a technician running tests and tightening screws. Even now that he’d been through this loop several times, he hadn’t bothered to call them back from their birthday messages. Part of him used the excuse that he should stay as close to the original path as possible, but he knew better.
Even if this weird loop existence meant a complete lack of consequences, calling his parents was the last thing he wanted to do.
Carter checked his phone one more time, five seconds remaining until the crosswalk kicked off the sequence. He gripped the notebook, staring at the list of things to come.
A chime came from the crosswalk. And Carter began to move.
The person on the right moved.
The man behind Carter stayed.
An exasperated sigh came from behind him. Carter kept his eyes on his notebook, counting steps in his head. “Ack,” the woman said, right when Carter sidestepped. His focus moved down to the next item on the list, then the next, then the next, not once looking up. Instead, he executed through a combination of memory and instinct, sliding sideways when a cyclist rolled by on the sidewalk and slowing down just enough to follow in a group waiting at the front entrance of Hawke.
Someone coughed, marking a time to pause and wait thirteen seconds, enough time to review the next items on the notebook still in front of him:
Front desk hands out mobile device for the David AI digital assistant.
Security guard says something about visiting group from ReLive project.
Passing scientist asks what time Dr. Beckett’s flight gets in.
He moved through the security gate designated for employees, taking him past the lobby threshold and over to the main hallway that split in three directions. He stopped, leaned against the wall and waited for the final item to come to pass. Nothing special or unique, just the sound of heels walking in a hurried cadence from his right to his left. Carter checked the notebook, waiting for the visitor’s David AI to speak exactly what he wrote.
“Your next meeting starts in two minutes,” the AI said from the small mobile unit in his familiar London accent. “Oops! Looks like you might be late. Should I give the meeting notice of that?”
Carter mouthed the words as the visitor spoke, his voice fading down the hallway. “No, thanks. I’ll just hurry.”
David’s simulated voice could still be heard as Carter put the notebook down, holding it at his side while considering what just happened. He wasn’t particularly religious, though part of him wondered if he’d been condemned to some sort of purgatory. The predictability of it all, the strange exactness of everything he saw playing out as written on the notebook in his hands.
The first few times, he’d felt disbelief. Then curiosity. Then amusement.
This time, well, he guessed that was the purpose of this experiment: to figure out how he felt knowing he could predict every exact movement of every person he encountered.
Disbelief, curiosity, amusement, and now the whole thing was just unnerving.
Nothing out of turn. Nothing different. Nothing unexpected.
He blew out a sigh, hands pushing back his wavy black hair. Something tugged at him, a wish for things to be different. A person walking from his left instead of his right. Or the plant behind him coming to life and biting his arm. Or a piano dropping out of the sky and smashing his foot.
Anything at all to end this.
Ten minutes passed with Carter lost in his own thoughts, but that in itself turned out to be a change. Normally, he’d take a walk to clear his head, but the list’s finality wound up freezing him. All the previous loops, he’d tried to follow his original path as closely as possible, always ending back in the observation room where the accelerator started to deteriorate and a massive blast of energy struck him. Perhaps that was the only real difference, as he’d changed spots in those final moments to see exactly where the bolt landed on the floor, even using his photographic memory to draw a precise grid of the floor panels.
What he could do with that information, he wasn’t sure. But it had to mean something.
This time, though, a weight paused him, an all-encompassing blanket that left him pondering far longer than he’d ever done.
And then it hit him: he’d deviated farther from his path than before, and nothing bad had happened.
Heck, if he wanted something bad to happen simply so it could, maybe it’d be best if he pushed farther. Or even went in the complete other direction.
At this point, he’d normally turn right, check in with the technician’s desk, grab his cart of tools and begin going through his assignments for the day. But a sharp, almost foreign defiance grabbed him.
He would turn left. He would not check in with his supervisor. Instead he’d go…
Carter’s eyes scanned, looking for the most opposite thing he could possibly do.
Of course.
His steps echoed as he pressed ahead, a strange jubilance to his feet. He moved around people milling about or talking about actual work things, practically skipping with joy until he turned to the entrance of the Hawke cafeteria and straight to the bakery station and its waft of morning pastries.
Ten minutes passed with Carter lost in his own thoughts, but that in itself turned out to be a change. Normally, he’d take a walk to clear his head, but the list’s finality wound up freezing him. All the previous loops, he’d tried to follow his original path as closely as possible, always ending back in the observation room where the accelerator started to deteriorate and a massive blast of energy struck him. Perhaps that was the only real difference, as he’d changed spots in those final moments to see exactly where the bolt landed on the floor, even using his photographic memory to draw a precise grid of the floor panels.
What he could do with that information, he wasn’t sure. But it had to mean something.
This time, though, a weight paused him, an all-encompassing blanket that left him pondering far longer than he’d ever done.
And then it hit him: he’d deviated farther from his path than before, and nothing bad had happened.
Heck, if he wanted something bad to happen simply so it could, maybe it’d be best if he pushed farther. Or even went in the complete other direction.
At this point, he’d normally turn right, check in with the technician’s desk, grab his cart of tools and begin going through his assignments for the day. But a sharp, almost foreign defiance grabbed him.
He would turn left. He would not check in with his supervisor. Instead he’d go…
Carter’s eyes scanned, looking for the most opposite thing he could possibly do.
Of course.
His steps echoed as he pressed ahead, a strange jubilance to his feet. He moved around people milling about or talking about actual work things, practically skipping with joy until he turned to the entrance of the Hawke cafeteria and straight to the bakery station and its waft of morning pastries.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s totally fine. I, uh,” he said. She bit down on her lip, brow scrunched, though eventually they locked gazes. “I should have watched where I was going.” He gestured at the growing coffee stain on his outfit.
“You sure?”
“Absolutely. It’s work clothes. It gets dirty. No big deal.”
The woman’s expression broke, relief lifting her cheeks into a toothy grin, one of those unexpected sights that made everything a little bit better. She looked back at the group, then the coffee cup in her hands. “Damn it, I spilled a bunch. Is there a place to get a refill?”
“You’re going to the main conference room?”
“Yeah. Spent all week there.”
All week. All the times Carter had been through the loop before, even seen the names of various guest groups on schedules, and yet they’d never crossed paths—not until he did the exact opposite of his routine.
Funny how that worked.
“We finally get to see the observation room, though. In a little bit.” She held up her coffee cup. “Just need a refill somewhere along the way.”
“Café is back there,” he said, thumb pointing behind him. “Way back there.”
“Ah,” she said with furrowed brow, a conflicted look that seemed about much more than a coffee refill. “Probably should meet with the team. Not enough time.”
Not enough time. The concept almost made Carter laugh. “Well,” he said, pulling out a bag, “a donut for making you late?”
She took the bag and peaked inside, cheeks rising with a sudden smile. “I don’t usually like donuts. But these glazed ones. Simple, you know?” She shuffled the bottom of the bag to nudge the donut out the opening. “Are you sure? I spilled coffee on you.”
“Yeah. I’m, uh,” he started, pausing as their gazes lingered. “My fault for running into you.”
The wrapper crinkled as she examined it up close before taking a small bite. “I should get back to my team. Maybe they’ll hand out free coffee by the time we get to the observation room. Thanks for this.”
Carter dipped his chin, a quick farewell as he considered the inevitability of the next few hours, a march toward a chaotic and violent reset. He matched her smile, though as she turned, he pondered saying something.
Normally, he wouldn’t. But with the world exploding soon? He went with the opposite of normal.
“My name’s Carter, by the way,” he said. “Carter, the guy who gives people donuts.”
Her gaze shifted, first looking at the floor, then up at the ceiling, even at the bag on her shoulder before finally locking eyes again. “Mariana,” she said, holding up the donut bag, “the woman always looking for coffee.” She bit down on her lip before glancing around. “I’m going to tell you something completely random.”
“Okay?” Carter said slowly. “About donuts?”
She laughed, an easy, bright laugh, though her eyes carried something far heavier. “No. The group I’m with. We’re touring the facility. But I’m quitting. They don’t know yet. Today’ll be my last day. Science is great until it’s not.” Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. Probably because we’ll never see each other again.” She spun on her heel, an abrupt move followed by determined steps forward.
“Not unless you need another glazed donut.”
She turned, slowing as she walked away backward, this mystery scientist who spilled coffee on him and then caught his attention. Because the idea that someone didn’t like most donuts, well, that was as opposite as anything he’d ever encountered in his life. “Maybe that,” she said with a small grin.
“I’ll remember your name in case we do,” he said. “Mariana.”
Her fingers fluttered in a quick wave, then she turned, and Carter leaned against the wall, ignoring the people who came and went.
Mariana. Maybe he should write that down, just in case she became important. He pulled the notebook out from under his arm, only to find the pages soaked with coffee.
A pen would rip through those pages. He’d have to trust his memory to recall her name, her voice, her face. On the off chance that they ever met again.
None of it mattered anyway, but as experiments went, this morning did at least prove helpful.
Now Carter knew that he could do anything, even the opposite of normal. And that might just lead to him escaping this thing. Or, at the very least, a lot more pastries.
Mariana disappeared into the sea of people, and as she did, her words echoed in his mind. First her group went to the conference room, then the observation room above the accelerator core. He knew that space well; after all, he’d been in that same room when everything began to explode and—
Wait.
That was it. A possible connection that he’d somehow missed before. He’d been there, of all places, summoned to check some of the power conduits lining the walls as the whole thing fell apart. Could that exact space be important?
Carter’s head tilted up. Maybe the observation room held the key to everything.
And if it did, what would happen if others were caught in it too?
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My parking garage off Fifth was nearly a mile from where I worked at city hall. I could have paid twice as much to park two blocks from my building and avoid the rows of homeless people: the worn tents, the used needles, the stinking garbage, the aura of hopelessness and distrust that filled a corner park and bled down the streets.
I was listening to my favorite podcast, LA with A&I. Amy and Ian started the podcast two years ago to talk about computer gaming, technology, entertainment and Los Angeles. It had blossomed into a quasi news show and they live streamed every morning at seven. They’d riff on tech and local news as if sitting down with friends over coffee. Like me, they were nerds, born and bred in the City of Angels. I’d never met Amy or Ian in real life, but felt like I’d known them forever.
We’d chatted over Discord, teamed up to play League of Legends, and I often sent them interesting clips about gaming or tech that they talked about on their podcast, crediting my gaming handle. Twice, we’d tried to set up coffee dates, but I always chickened out. I didn’t know why. Maybe because I thought they wouldn’t like me if they met me. Maybe because I was socially awkward. Maybe because I didn’t like people knowing too much about my life.
Today while I drove to work, they’d discussed the disaster that was city hall: all the digital files had been wiped out. The news story lasted for about five minutes, but it would be my life for the next month or more as my division rebuilt the data from backups and archives. It was a mess. They laughed over it; I tried to, but I was beginning to suspect the error was on purpose, not by mistake.
Now they were talking about a sweatshop that had been shut down last week.
“We don’t know much,” Amy said. “You’d think after eight days there’d be some big press conference, or at least a frontpage story. The only thing we found was two news clips—less than ninety seconds each—and an article on LA Crime Beat.”
“David Chen,” Ian said, “a Chinese American who allegedly trafficked hundreds of women and children to run his factory in Chinatown, was arraigned on Monday, but according to Crime Beat, the FBI is also investigating the crime. And—get this— the guy is already out on bail.”
“It’s fucked,” Amy said. “Look, I’m all for bail reform. I don’t think some guy with weed in his pocket should have to pay thousands of bucks to stay out of jail while the justice system churns. But human trafficking is a serious crime—literally not two miles from city hall, over three hundred people were forced to work at a sweatshop for no money. They had no freedom, lived in a hovel next door to the warehouse. Crime Beat reported that the workers used an underground tunnel to avoid being seen—something I haven’t read in the news except for one brief mention. And Chen allegedly killed one of the women as he fled from police. How did this guy get away with it? He kills someone and spends no more than a weekend behind bars?”
“According to Crime Beat, LAPD investigated the business for months before they raided the place,” Ian said. “But Chen has been operating for years. How could something like this happen and no one said a word?”
I knew how. People didn’t see things they didn’t want to.
Case in point: the homeless encampment I now walked by.
I paused the podcast and popped my earbuds back into their charging case.
“Hello, Johnny,” I said to the heroin addict with stringy hair that might be blond, if washed. I knew he was thirty-three, though he looked much older. His hair had fallen out in clumps, his teeth were rotted, and his face scarred from sores that came and went. He sat on a crusty sleeping bag, leaned against the stone wall of a DWP substation, his hollow eyes staring at nothing. As usual, he didn’t acknowledge me. I knew his name because I had asked when he wasn’t too far gone. Johnny, born in Minnesota. He hadn’t talked to his family in years. Thought his father was dead, but didn’t remember. He once talked about a sister and beamed with pride. She’s really smart. She’s a teacher in…then his face dropped because he couldn’t remember where his sister lived.
Four years ago, I left a job working for a tech start-up company to work in IT for city hall. It was barely a step up from entry-level and I couldn’t afford nearby parking garages. If I took a combination of buses and the metro, it would take me over ninety minutes to get to work from Burbank, so factoring the combination of time and money, driving was my best bet and I picked the cheapest garage less than a mile from work.
I used to cringe when I walked by the park. Four years ago, only a dozen homeless tents dotted the corner; the numbers had more than quadrupled. Now that I could afford a more expensive garage, I didn’t want it. I knew most of the people here by name.
“Hey, Toby,” I greeted the old black man wearing three coats, his long, dirty gray beard falling to his stomach. He had tied a rope around his waist and attached it to his shopping cart to avoid anyone stealing his worldly possessions when he slept off his alcohol.
“Mizvi,” he said, running my name together in a slur. He called me “Miss Violet” when he was sober. He must have still been coming down off whatever he’d drank last night.
I smiled. Four years ago I never smiled at these people, fearing something undefinable. Now I did, even when I wanted to cry. I reached into my purse and pulled out a bite-size Hershey Bar. Toby loved chocolate. I handed it to him. He took it with a wide grin, revealing stained teeth.
One of the biggest myths about the homeless is that they’re hungry. They have more food than they can eat. That doesn’t mean many aren’t malnourished. Drug and alcohol abuse can do that to a person.
A couple weeks ago a church group had thought they would bring in sandwiches and water as part of community service. It was a nice gesture, sure, but they could have asked what was needed instead of assuming that these people were starving. Most of the food went uneaten, left outside tents to become rat food. The plastic water bottles were collected to return for the deposit, which was used to buy drugs and alcohol.
But no one gave Toby chocolate, he once told me when he was half-sober. Now, whenever I saw him—once, twice a week—I gave him a Hershey Bar. He would die sooner than he should, so why couldn’t I give him a small pleasure that I could afford? Toby was one of the chronics, a man who’d been on the street for years. He had no desire to be anywhere else, trusted no one, though I thought he trusted me a little. I wished I knew his story, how he came to be here, how I could reach him to show him a different path. His liver had to be slush with the amount of alcohol he consumed. Alcohol he bought because people, thinking they were helping—or just to make themselves feel better—handed him money.
As I passed the entrance to the small park, the stench of unwashed humans assaulted me. The city had put four porta-potties on the edge of the park but they emptied them once a month, if that. They were used more for getting high and prostitution than as bathrooms. The city had also put up fencing, but didn’t always come around to lock the gate. Wouldn’t matter; someone would cut it open and no one would stop them. Trespassing was the least of the crimes in the area.
I dared to look inside the park, though I didn’t expect to see her. I hadn’t seen her for over a week. I found myself clutching my messenger bag that was strapped across my chest. Not because I thought someone would steal it, but because I needed to hold something, as if my bag was a security blanket.
I didn’t see her among the tents or the people sitting on the ground, on the dirt and cushions, broken couches and sleeping bags, among the needles and small, tin foils used to smoke fentanyl. I kicked aside a vial that had once held Narcan, the drug to counteract opioid overdoses. The clear and plastic vials littered the ground, remnants of addiction.
There was nothing humane about allowing people to get so wasted they were on the verge of death, reviving them, then leaving them to do it over and over again. But that was the system.
The system was fucked.
Blue and red lights whirled as I approached the corner. I usually crossed Fifth Street here, but today I stopped, stared at the silent police car.
The police only came when someone was dying…or dead.
Mom.
I found my feet moving toward the cops even though I wanted to run away. My heart raced, my vision blurred as tears flashed, then disappeared.
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“I flinch, sure a hatchet is about to come spinning out of the darkness, sure a scythe is swinging our way.”
PLOT SUMMARY:
It’s been four years in prison since Jade Daniels last saw her hometown of Proofrock, Idaho, the day she took the fall, protecting her friend Letha and her family from incrimination. Since then, her reputation, and the town, have changed dramatically. There’s a lot of unfinished business in Proofrock, from serial killer cultists to the rich trying to buy Western authenticity. But there’s one aspect of Proofrock no one wants to confront…until Jade comes back to town. The curse of the Lake Witch is waiting, and now is the time for the final stand.
GRADE: A+
REVIEW:
I had no doubts that I was going to love this third installment from the Indian Lake trilogy. I loved every moment of this bloody, gory, action-packed novel. Jade Daniels is back and out of prison, and is currently the history teacher in her former high school. Everything seems alright, until the first bodies are found and then Jade must figure out if she’s back in a slasher again, trying to recall all the rules for the third sequel. What this means is that the killer is going to be superhuman, anyone can die, including the the main character, and the past will come to haunt you. Our protagonist has to deal with all those things during the duration of the novel, and at times the reader can’t help but doubt if maybe Jade could somehow be behind the murders this time. This novel kept me on the tip of my toes, and every few pages I couldn’t help but mutter, “Oh f**k.” This novel isn’t for the faint of heart – and it will surely have you teary eyed several times, but I trusted Jones to give us the ending this trilogy deserved and he delivered tenfold. If you haven’t read this series, I urge you to read My Heart is a Chainsaw, especially if you’re a fan of slasher films and horror film history. Obviously, if you have read the previous books from this series, then reading this final installment is a MUST. I absolutely loved this book and the whole trilogy and wasn’t ready to say goodbye to Jade, my only hope is that someone picks this up to become a miniseries in the future.
*Thank you so much to NetGalley and Saga Press for the digital copy of this book in exchange for an honest review!
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The Inkblotters 