By Kealan Patrick Burke
A brand new novel by way of the Bram Stoker Award-winning writer of THE TURTLE BOY.
On a hot sizzling summer time day in Elkwood, Alabama, Claire Lambert staggers bare, wounded, and half-blind clear of the scene of an atrocity. She is the only survivor of a nightmare that claimed her neighbors, or even as she prays for rescue, the killers -- a family members of cannibalistic lunatics -- are remaining in.
A soldier being affected by post-traumatic pressure affliction returns from Iraq to the inside track that his brother is one of the murdered in Elkwood.
In snowbound Detroit, a waitress trapped in an abusive courting will get an unforeseen stopover at that may bring about bloodshed and ship her again at the street to a prior she has spent years attempting to outrun.
And Claire, the single survivor of the Elkwood bloodbath, haunted by means of her lifeless buddies, goals of vengeance... a dream with a purpose to be learned as grief and rage flip stable humans into cold-blooded murderers and strength alliances between strangers.
It's time to come back to Elkwood.
In the spirit of such iconic horror classics because the Texas Chainsaw bloodbath and Deliverance, family members starts off on the finish and experiences the potential aftermath for the survivors of such traumas upon their go back to the genuine international -- the guilt, the grief, the thirst for revenge -- and units them on an unthinkable journey... again into the guts of darkness.
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And laugh. They laugh, Don! ” He shook his head sharply. ” Donelly never abandoned an argument. “But why not? I don’t understand, Greg. You’d be good at it, the best. ” Trager looked up, studied Donelly briefly while the youth sat quietly, waiting. Josie’s words came back; open, be open. The old Trager, the Trager who lived friendless and alone and closed inside a Skrakky handlers’ dorm, was gone. He had grown, changed. “There was a girl,” he said, slowly, with measured words. Opening. “Back on Skrakky, Don, there was a girl I loved.
Perhaps somehow he could meet her, he thought at last. Still a boy, still hopelessly naive, he was sure he would love her. Then he would take her away from the meathouse to a clean, corpseless world where they would be happy together. One day, in a moment of weakness, he told Cox and the others. Cox looked at him, shook his head, grinned. Somebody else snickered. Then they all began to laugh. “What an ass you are, Trager,” Cox said at last. “There is no fucking handler! ” He explained it all, to laughter; explained how each corpse was tuned to a controller built into its bed, explained how each customer handled its own meat, explained why non-handlers found meathouse women dead and still.
He tried. But something was missing. Magic? The words were the same. How many times can you speak them, Trager wondered, speak them and believe them, like you believe them the first time you said them? Once? Twice? Three times, maybe? Or a hundred? And the people who say it a hundred times, are they really so much better at loving? Or only at fooling themselves? Aren’t they really people who long ago abandoned the dream, who use its name for something else? He said the words, holding her, cradling her, and kissing her.
Kin by Kealan Patrick Burke