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The String Diaries
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The String Diaries opens with Hannah frantically driving through the night — her daughter asleep in the back, her husband bleeding out in the seat beside her. In the trunk of the car rests a cache of diaries dating back 200 years, tied and retied with strings through generations. The diaries carry the rules for survival that have been handed down from mother to daughter since the 19th century. But how can Hannah escape an enemy with the ability to look and sound like the people she loves?
Stephen Lloyd Jones’s debut novel is a sweeping thriller that extends from the present day, to Oxford in the 1970s, to Hungary at the turn of the 19th century, all tracing back to a man from an ancient royal family with a consuming passion — a boy who can change his shape, insert himself into the intimate lives of his victims, and destroy them.
If Hannah fails to end the chase now, her daughter is next in line. Only Hannah can decide how much she is willing to sacrifice to finally put a centuries-old curse to rest.
It was only when Hannah Wilde reached the farmhouse shortly after midnight that she discovered how much blood her husband had lost.
They had spoken little during the drive to Llyn Gwyr. Hannah concentrated on the road ahead, her vision blurred through rain and tears. Beside her, Nate slumped in the Discovery’s passenger seat, a crooked shadow. She tried to glance over at him as the distance to what they’d left behind increased, but it was impossible to comprehend the full horror of his injuries while they were on the road. Each time she suggested they pull over Nate shook his head and urged her on.
Get to the farmhouse, Hannah. I’ll be OK. I promise.
Close to midnight, after four hours behind the wheel, she watched the English place names flashing past the Discovery’s headlights surrender to their Welsh cousins: Cyfronydd; Llangadfan; Tal-y-llyn.
No other vehicles shared this night with them. And although Hannah could see little more than what lay directly ahead, she could feel the country growing wilder, opening up around her.
The road bucked and twisted, tried to throw them loose. For a time they chased a rushing mountain stream, the fractured diamonds of moonlight on its surface the only clue to its presence. When the road looped, climbing higher, the reflections winked out, lost to the night.
Half a mile from Llyn Gwyr, near the crest of a hill, Hannah slowed the 4x4 to a crawl and turned off its headlights. She inched the vehicle up the final few yards of the slope, to where a clump of ash trees grew. For a moment she watched the silhouette movement of their naked branches.
Hannah switched off the ignition. The sound of the engine had masked the voice of the wind until now. Here, at the summit of the hill, it sang around them, buffeting the car on its springs.
By God, what were you thinking? Did you really believe this place would be safe?
In the passenger seat, Nate roused himself, lifting his head. He squinted out of the window. “What do you see?”
Beyond the trees, the land dropped away below them, receding toward the shore of an almond-shaped lake. Although the moon had draped itself in rainclouds creeping in from the west, a phosphorescence lingered on the water’s surface. The black line of a river, snaking down from the mountains, fed the lake at its westernmost point.
Llyn Gwyr’s farmhouse stood on the lake’s far shore. A steep gravel track, crossing the river at a stone bridge, linked it to the main road.
“I can hardly see a thing from this far away,” she told him. “Not in the dark, anyway.”
“There should be some binoculars in the door well. Check the bridge first. See if it’s clear.”
Hannah found the glasses, raised them to her eyes. Trained them in the direction of the river. She needed a moment to orient herself, and then she found the bridge. Its crumbling stone arch looked barely robust enough to support the weight of their Land Rover.
No debris on the bridge itself, that she could see. Nothing lurking beneath it. No signs of a potential ambush.
“OK, now check the house.”
She heard him shift his weight in the seat and try to conceal a gasp of pain. Immediately she wrenched the binoculars from her face. “Nate? What is it? What can I do?”
“Nothing, Han. I’m fine.” His voice was husky with exhaustion. “Go on. Check the house.”
She raised the glasses back to her eyes, trained them on the farmhouse this time. Its whitewashed stone walls glowed with the reflection of a nebulous moon. She found the outline of what she knew from photographs was a sagging slate roof. “What am I looking for?”
“Check the windows first. Are they intact?”
A pause while she checked all four. “Yes. The ones that I can see.”
“That’s good. What about the door? Is it open? Does it look like it’s been forced?”
“It’s difficult to tell but—” She frowned. “No, I think it’s secure.”
“That’s good, Han. That’s great. OK, look. I don’t think anyone is here. I don’t think anyone can be. But we’re going to be cautious all the same. We’re going to keep the lights out until we’re off the main road, and we’re going to drive slowly. The entrance is just up ahead. From what I remember of this place, it’s rough going until we get down to that bridge. Then it flattens out. We’ll park around the far side of the house so that nobody can see our car from the road.” He paused, hissing through his teeth as he shifted his weight again. “Are you ready?”
Hannah blew air from her cheeks, nodded. “Take the binoculars for me.”
She held them out to him. Felt his hand brush against hers. His fingers were wet, sticky. She felt her throat constricting. “Nate, are you still bleeding?”
“Doesn’t matter. Come on. We’re nearly safe now.”
She suddenly had to know. Despite his calming words, his encouragement, she was still reeling from the shock of tonight’s events. Before they went any further she needed to know exactly what she faced. On impulse, her hand went to the overhead light. She snapped it on.
Some of the hope Hannah had been clinging to died then, as she saw the true state of him. She clenched her teeth and forced her jaw to still itself, determined not to reveal how acutely his appearance affected her.
Blood drenched him.
His woollen jacket was saturated with it. The fabric of his shirt glistened and dripped. Blood pooled between his legs. It collected in the folds of the seat. It soaked his jeans.
When Hannah raised her eyes to his face her emotions betrayed her and she sobbed. He was dying. She could have no doubt. Scarcely any life could remain inside him. His lips had lost all of their color. His cheeks, where he had not wiped blood over them, were as pale as milk. Despite the cool air inside the 4x4, sweat stood out in beads upon his skin.
Nate tried to smile, but when his lips drew back from his teeth she saw a corpse leering at her. “I think the bleeding is starting to slow down.”
Her voice trembled, on the verge of a scream. “We need to get you to a hospital, Nate. Right now.”
He shook his head. “No. We can’t. I’ll be all right. I promise you.”
“No. Hannah, listen to me.” Nate paused, and she saw he was gulping for air. “We can’t take any risks with this. You know that, I know you do. What happens to me is irrelevant. We have to protect Leah.”
The scream pressed at the back of Hannah’s throat, taunting her. At the mention of Leah’s name, she turned to look at their daughter, asleep on the back seat. The sight of her smooth face, so fragile and so serene, terrified her and rallied her in equal measure.
He was right; they had no choice. But how did she meet Nate’s eyes and accept his words without protest? How could she become an accessory to sacrifice like that? It tore something within her. Only two people in the world she loved like this. Putting one before the other was unthinkable. As was the alternative.
Nate eased his hand out of his jacket, stared at his bloodied fingers. “This is survivable, Han. Believe me. I’ve lost a lot of blood, I know that. I realize how bad it looks, but I’ve seen injuries like this before and I can make it, I swear. As long as we can get inside soon.”
Hannah batted tears from her eyes. She didn’t believe him. He was a ghost. But she found herself swallowing the scream and twisting the keys in the ignition. “Hold tight, then. We’ll be there in a few minutes. Are you comfortable?”
“Are you serious?”
She forced herself to laugh. It sounded like she was choking.
Easing off the handbrake, she nudged the 4x4 into motion. They coasted over the brow of the hill and followed the road down the other side, descending through forest that reached for them with arms of spruce and Douglas fir. She saw the turning on the left and took it.
Once they were off the main road, boxed by tall conifers, she risked using dipped beams. The track below them was little more than a rocky slope. She had to keep their speed under walking pace to navigate around the larger boulders and avoid jolting Nate as much as possible. Even so, every couple of yards he groaned as the wheels alternately skidded and gripped on the stones. She flinched at his every sound.
Damn the odds, keeping fighting until you have nothing left.
Wasn’t that her father’s favorite phrase? This sense of helplessness, this fear, served no one. She forced herself to consider what she knew about blood loss. If Nate were to stand any chance of survival, she had to prevent him going into shock. His labored breathing and sweating were symptoms of serious hypovolemia.
She had to stop the bleeding. She had to keep him warm. And she had to get liquids into him.
They drove past a wooden sign, black lettering on a rotting whitewashed plank. LLYN GWYR. One of her father’s prepared bolt-holes.
At the bottom of the incline, the track’s surface improved. She followed its curves, easing the Discovery over the arched bridge and swinging it toward the farmhouse. Its headlights swept the front of the building, illuminating all but Llyn Gwyr’s windows. Those black countenances remained stubbornly impenetrable.
The driveway looped around the far side of the house. They passed stone-built stables and an empty cowshed. Gravel crunched under the Discovery’s tires as she pulled up behind the house.
Hannah switched off the engine, then the lights. She pulled the keys from the ignition. “I’m going to unlock the house. I’ll be back in a minute to help you inside.”
“Take the torch.”
She nodded, reaching behind her seat and grabbing their powerful four-cell Maglite. Leaning forward, she kissed him. His lips were clammy, cold.
“Don’t go wandering off anywhere,” she said.
“Forgot my hiking boots anyway.”
Good that he could still joke. But she could barely hear his voice.
Hannah put her hand on the door handle, hesitating. Now that they had arrived, she was reluctant to get out of the Discovery; it had been their haven for the last five hours. As if seeking to dissuade her further, the wind railed with greater force.
Every minute mattered now. She could delay no longer. Hannah opened the car door and jumped down onto the driveway.
Immediately the wind slammed into her, rocking her back on her feet. It gusted and eddied, an angry wraith, pasting her hair to her face and squeezing fresh tears from her eyes. Swinging the car door shut, tucking her head down, she zippered her fleece and stepped away from the Discovery.
Although her vision had not fully adjusted to the darkness, she could discern the outline of the farmhouse against the sky, the deeper black of its windows, the back door, the conservatory. A vague impression of outbuildings off to her left.
Quickly, Hannah closed the distance between the car and the main residence, wondering what she would find. She knew the place had stood unoccupied for years. Her father paid someone to check on it every now and then, but she had no idea how often. She noticed that one of the ground-floor windows—of what might be a living room—had been smashed. Not good. But there was no time left for caution. She had to get Nate inside.
Hannah reached the back door and peered through the kitchen window. Nothing but darkness within. She found the key and was sliding it into the lock when she heard movement behind her.
She froze, right hand on the doorknob, left hand holding the key fob. The sound vanished as abruptly as it had arrived. And then she heard it again: a skittering of loose gravel on the drive behind her.
Once more it disappeared, overtaken by wind and rain.
She had tucked the Maglite under her left arm. Although she had nothing else with which to defend herself, the torch was solid: machined aluminum. The sound behind her couldn’t have been Nate. She would have heard him opening the car door.
Hannah transferred the flashlight to her right hand, gripping it toward the bulb like a club. Her index finger hovered over the control switch. In her ears she felt the pulse of blood in her arteries.
They’re depending on you. Nate and Leah. You’re all they’ve got.
Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned on the spot.
Beyond the gravel driveway stood a neglected kitchen garden. At the end of the garden, on the far side of a post-and-rail fence, lay the fields attached to the farm. She could see the moon-dusted heads of vegetation bending in the wind. In the distance, silhouetted mountain peaks.
Between her and the garden, just a few yards away, something loomed on the driveway. She was unable to see it clearly in the darkness, but it was large. Bigger than her.
Hannah heard a bass grunt. A snort of breath.
Whatever it was, it was nearer to her than the car. Tensing, she thumbed the flashlight.
Caught in the brilliance of the Maglite’s beam, washed in light, stood the largest stag Hannah had ever seen. Its coat was a reddish brown, darkening around the throat. Antlers, each displaying a cluster of individual tines, swept upwards and forward from its head. Two liquid eyes regarded her. She found herself locked in their gaze.
The torch had clearly startled it. She could see muscles twitching and contracting in its flank. But for some reason it did not bolt. The stag sidestepped, gravel dragging under its hooves, and raised its nose high to sniff the air. It stood motionless for a few seconds, then tilted its head.
Hannah noticed that she was holding her breath. If it chose, the animal was powerful enough—and its antlers sharp enough—to run her through.
She saw its muscles bunch again, felt herself tense in response. Now it moved its head to the right, appraising her with a single glossy eye.
So abruptly that she nearly cried out in shock, the stag twisted about in an explosion of gravel chippings, and with three leaps was gone.
Hannah stared into the dark, transfixed by what she had just seen. It had been a red deer. But she had never heard of a population in Snowdonia before.
Dismissing it, needing to focus on Nate, Hannah turned back to the farmhouse. She opened the door and stepped into the kitchen. A cursory sweep with the torch revealed a large room with an uneven flagstone floor. An inglenook fireplace. A sofa and two chairs. Glass-fronted kitchen cabinets above dusty countertops. Two Welsh dressers: one displaying crockery, the other spilling over with paperback books, fishing reels, candles, seed packets, matches, a first-aid kit. A round table by the window. A doorway leading to an unlit hall.
Spotting a light switch on the nearest wall, Hannah toggled it. Dead. She remembered Nate telling her the place was too remote to be on the grid. There must be a generator in one of the outbuildings. It, and the electric lights, would have to wait.
Grabbing a box of matches, resting the Maglite on the floor beside her, she knelt by the fireplace. Someone had left logs and kindling stacked in the grate. In under a minute she had a fire going. She took two candles from the dresser and lit them, placing one on the table and another on the counter. She would light more later. Right now she had to get her husband inside.
Outside, the wind’s intensity had increased. Frozen air sluicing down from the mountains brought an aching chill. Ducking her head, Hannah hurried to the passenger side of the Discovery. She wrenched the door open.
Nate slumped inside, unconscious, skin as white as linen.
“Hey!” Slapping his face, she managed to rouse him. He lurched up in his seat, and she could see he was trying to focus, but his eyes were rolling in his head. “I’ve got you, Nate, OK? Don’t try to speak. It’s only a short walk. I’ve got a fire going. You’ll have to help me just for this next bit. I’m afraid it’s going to hurt a little.”
Hannah braced herself as somehow he managed to lean forward and topple out of the car into her arms. It took all her strength to stop him from falling to the ground, and all her resilience to ignore his scream. “Good. Good, Nate. That’s the hard part. Just a few steps more.” She cast a look back at her sleeping daughter.
Nine years old. How can this be happening to us?
“Leah, sweetheart, I’ll come back for you.” Hannah kicked the passenger door closed, shutting the girl inside, away from the storm.
Side by side, Nate’s arm around her shoulders, they managed to hobble to the kitchen, where the fire was already warming the room.
“Sofa,” he slurred.
“That’s where we’re heading.” She eased him down onto it. Pushed a cushion under his head. Raised his legs. “I need to see under your shirt.”
Nate’s hands fell away from his sides. She opened his jacket and ripped his shirt open, scattering buttons. His torso glistened with blood.
Immediately, she saw the two puncture wounds, each an inch in length. One was just above his lowest rib. She couldn’t tell if his lung had been pierced, couldn’t remember from biology how far down the ribcage the lung extended. The second wound sat even lower, in his abdomen.
Hannah fetched the first-aid kit—a green plastic briefcase—from the dresser. Popping the catch, she threw open the lid, rummaging through its contents. She found wipes and quickly cleaned his wounds. Within a couple of seconds blood began to seep from them. At least it wasn’t flowing freely. Then again, he had lost so much already. Finding a bag of wound closure strips, she tried as best she could to tape him up. She placed dressing pads over the strips and bound them to his body with bandages, wrapping them tightly by passing the rolls underneath his spine.
It wouldn’t save him, she knew. Only professional medical care could do that now.
With a blanket from one of the armchairs, she covered him up. “Nate, stay awake, OK? We need to get some fluids into you.”
He nodded, whispered, “I love you.”
Hannah turned away from him, wiping her eyes, unable to reply. At the sink, she found a glass and filled it with water. In one of the cupboards she found a packet of sugar and poured some into the glass, stirring it with a spoon. “Drink.” She held it to his lips, lifting his head as he slurped it down.
He drank two more glassfuls before he indicated he’d had enough. Then he took a shallow breath. “Han…in the hall. Cupboard.” His voice was so low she could barely hear him. “Gear…for the lake.”
“What gear, Nate? What do you mean?”
Hannah frowned, then his meaning hit her. She stepped into the dark hallway. Using the Maglite, she found the cupboard under the stairs. Inside, among coats, overalls and hats, stood a diving tank and regulator. She directed her beam at the chipped white cylinder. On its side in printed black letters: Enriched Air NITROX. In handwriting on a peeling sticker above this: MOD 28M. 36% O2. She rapped on the tank with her knuckles, tilted it. Full.
The enriched air would help him to breathe, allowing more oxygen to enter his system. It might just win them some time. Buoyed by her discovery, she dragged the tank into the kitchen, attached the regulator and pressed it into Nate’s mouth. “OK, you’re not going to win any fashion prizes, trust me. But keep breathing. Nice and slow.”
He was too weak to reply, but he held eye contact with her. Hannah felt a thousand things pass between them in that look. She took his hand. Squeezed it.
Inside the room, the crackle of the logs in the grate and the mechanical sucking of the regulator made the only sounds. Outside, the wind hurled fistfuls of raindrops against the windows.
Hannah got to her feet, took a deep breath and was just about to go outside to Leah when something heavy crashed against the front door of the farmhouse.
Balliol College, Oxford
Charles Meredith asked himself two questions that July morning, as he made the drive from his Woodstock home to the Balliol College library. First, would the girl be there for a fourth morning in a row? Second, how much did it matter to him?
While he wouldn’t be able to answer his first question until he arrived on campus, the fact that he found himself navigating summer tourist traffic on a Saturday morning to find out suggested it mattered to him quite a bit.
The girl was both pig-headed and short-tempered—traits, Charles conceded, that he shared. Inevitably, it had led them to an entanglement. Yet as well as being pig-headed and short-tempered, the girl was also an enigma, a puzzle demanding his attention.
Her sudden appearance, crashing into his life like thunder in a restless sky, could hardly have come at a worse time. In less than six weeks he was due in Princeton, New Jersey, where he was to deliver a lecture to academia’s finest—and fiercest—scholars of early medieval history. Not only was that work incomplete, he had just discovered a weakness in the architecture of his central tenet so severe it threatened to bring the entire edifice crashing down.
Wednesday morning, he had arrived on the campus with his six-week deadline bearing down on him like Theseus’s Minotaur. Carrying a satchel of research papers, scribbled thoughts and books, he walked through Balliol’s library to his table near the wooden statue of St. Catherine. It was the table Charles used every time he visited. From here, surrounded by printed works, he could look through the arched windows to the front quad, and could also see the portrait of George Abbot, former Canterbury Archbishop, and one of the forty-seven translators responsible for the King James Version.
Lately, Charles had discovered that the table was not the only one he liked to use; it had become the only one he could use. If he tried to place himself anywhere else in the building, at any other desk, he found his concentration ebbing, his temper fraying. At first he told himself he simply drew comfort from having St. Catherine and old Abbot gazing down on him while he worked. It had—he now accepted—been a lie.
Like the precisely ordered shirts hanging in his wardrobe, the carefully stacked cutlery in his kitchen drawer, the tins of food meticulously arranged in his larder, the collection of flattened foil milk-bottle tops on his sill, the table represented another symptom, another warning sign, another encroachment of the compulsions beginning to haunt him. Charles had been embarrassed to discover that both colleagues and students had sensed his fixation and were content to indulge him, with the result that whenever he visited the library, at whatever time of day, he found the table empty and waiting for him. That was until Wednesday morning, when he discovered his squatter.
She was young. At least ten years his junior. When he arrived she had reference books scattered before her like the picked-over leavings of a carrion feast. It would, he thought, take her an age to pack up all her materials and move to another desk. Since he had left his house, a dozen new ideas and worries had occurred to him. He needed to commit them to paper before they evaporated. Charles felt a tic pulling at his right eye.
He made a show of opening his satchel and noisily removing documents and pens. The girl looked up at him, blinked, and returned to her book. This left him standing in the middle of the library, awkwardly clutching a sheaf of papers and a swinging satchel. He glanced around. Few other scholars were using the library at this hour. Certainly no other women. Balliol had only accepted its first female Fellow a few years earlier. The first intake of female undergraduates was not due to arrive until the Michaelmas term. That meant she was a visitor, rather than a member of the college.
He could see Pendlehurst working his way down the stacks, paper in hand, mouth moving wordlessly. The librarian spotted Charles, saw the girl occupying his table and elected to drift out of sight.
Charles felt his jaw clenching. He cleared his throat. Stared.
The girl had a long face, almost equine. Chocolate-brown eyes. Auburn hair tied back in a ponytail. Again, she looked up at him. Holding his gaze a moment longer this time, she raised a challenging eyebrow. When he didn’t respond—it was difficult to as his own eyebrows were already raised—she returned to her work, picking up a pencil and writing something down on her notepad. Charles glanced at the cover of her nearest book.
She looked up. “Yes?”
“I’m sorry, you’re sitting in my seat. Can you move?”
She leaned back in the chair, considering him with a puzzled expression. When she spoke, her accent was French. “You are sorry?”
“No, I’m not sorry.” Charles hesitated, frowned. “I’m not sorry. I meant…Look, that’s my chair.”
“This is your chair?”
“Yes, at my table.”
He felt his fingers tightening around his papers. Tried to calm himself. “Look, it’s not a problem.” He gestured around the library. “There are plenty of free tables.”
She followed his gaze. “Yes. The library is quite empty.”
He waited for her to say something else, or to begin packing her belongings. Then, appalled, he realized that she intended to do neither. Her eyes continued to examine him.
He smiled. Rather, he widened his mouth, exposing teeth. “I come in here every day. And I always sit at this table.”
“It is a nice table.”
“If I came here every day, I would want to sit here too.”
“If you came here every day, you’d quickly discover that I am always to be found in that seat.”
Now she returned his smile. “Except today.”
Charles sucked in a breath, held it. Exhaled. He tried to ignore the muscle twitching in his cheek. “Indeed. Well, I don’t want to hold you up any longer, and I’d also like to get started please, so can you…” He left the sentence hanging.
“Can I what?”
- "The String Diaries is terrifying, and deliciously so . . . A sophisticated horror story that induces elemental terror. It's perfect for the beach, particularly since you don't want to be alone with it in the dark."—Sherryl Connelly, New York Daily News
- "This is a book of authorial wizardry, as Jones hopscotches among three time periods and locales (late 1800s Hungary; 1970s France and England; and present-day Snowdonia, in northern Wales) with grace, wit and dexterity."—Joy Tipping, Dallas Morning News
- "Jones doles out his narrative revelations with patience, turning over his cards deliberately like a well-trained casino dealer."—Entertainment Weekly
- "A scary and exciting horror novel that keeps us off kilter, trying to figure out what's going on until we're so involved in the story that we couldn't look away even if we tried. . . . This is Jones' first novel, and you don't see many debuts more ambitious and memorable than this one."—Booklist (starred)
- "The String Diaries is an engrossing, mind-bending supernatural tale, and Stephen Lloyd Jones is as exciting a new voice as I've come across in some time, a writer who understands what makes the pulse race."—Michael Koryta, author of Those Who Wish Me Dead
- "I have never read a book with such frenzied impatience. The String Diaries is unputdownable. Stephen Lloyd Jones has written a debut novel as frightening and layered as Elizabeth Kostova's The Historian and as clever and riveting as Dan Brown's The Da Vinci Code."—Benjamin Percy, author of Red Moon, The Wilding and Refresh, Refresh
- "Reading The String Diaries made me feel, in the best sense, like a child again. Nothing was more important than the fate of Stephen Lloyd Jones's courageous and very human heroine Hannah Wilde. Meals went uncooked, bills went unpaid, as I waited to find out if she would win freedom for herself and her daughter against the forces of darkness. I was scared, enthralled and amazed by this stunning debut."—Margot Livesey, author of the New York Times bestselling The Flight of Gemma Hardy
- "A marvel, a new take on a genre that one would have thought completely bled dry of new ideas by now,"—Joy Tipping, The Dallas Morning News
- "[A] vividly written tale."—Milwaukee Journal Sentinel
- "An elegant and exotic neo-Gothic horror story....This globe-trotting, time-traveling page-turner continues with both passages of great beauty and buckets of blood... [T]hose who are willing to let Mr. Jones string them along, are in for an exciting ride."—Margie Romero, Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
- "I loved this book."—Marcus Sakey, author of Brilliance
- "With The String Diaries, Stephen Lloyd Jones has created a new mythology of the monstrous to rival Stoker's or Shelley's. Grounded in the real world and populated by characters we believe in, this is a book of magic for the doubtful, a fantastic tale for skeptics, at once transporting and convincing."—Andrew Pyper, author of The Demonologist
- "This novel is a breakneck chase down a long and winding road with the devil sitting beside you in the car."—Ben Loory, author of Stories for Nighttime and Some for the Day
- "At once chilling and soulful, this hauntingly powerful tale weaves together the best elements of the psychological thriller, fantasy horror, and historical fiction. Stephen Lloyd Jones has penned a deeply inventive, dazzling debut novel."—Eliot Pattison, author of Edgar Award-winning The Skull Mantra and Ashes of the Earth
- On Sale
- Jan 6, 2015
- Page Count
- 448 pages
- Mulholland Books