In Christopher Golden's first horror novel in more than a decade---a work reminiscent of early Stephen King---Snowblind updates the ghost story for the modern age.
The small New England town of Coventry had weathered a thousand blizzards . . . but never one like this. Icy figures danced in the wind and gazed through children's windows with soul-chilling eyes. People wandered into the whiteout and were never seen again. Families were torn apart, and the town would never be the same.
Now, as a new storm approaches twelve years later, the folks of Coventry are haunted by the memories of that dreadful blizzard and those who were lost in the snow. Photographer Jake Schapiro mourns his little brother, Isaac, even as---tonight---another little boy is missing. Mechanic and part-time thief Doug Manning's life has been forever scarred by the mysterious death of his wife, Cherie, and now he's starting over with another woman and more ambitious crimes. Police detective Joe Keenan has never been the same since that night, when he failed to save the life of a young boy . . . and the boy's father vanished in the storm only feet away. And all the way on the other side of the country, Miri Ristani receives a phone call . . . from a man who died twelve years ago.
As old ghosts trickle back, this new storm will prove to be even more terrifying than the last.
Spellbinding in scope and rooted deeply in classic storytelling, Christopher Golden has written a chilling masterpiece that is the best work of his career and a standout supernatural thriller. With richly textured characters, scarred and haunted by the ghosts of those they loved most, Snowblind is rooted deeply in classic storytelling. Christopher Golden has written a chilling masterpiece that is both his breakout book and a standout supernatural thriller.
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CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN is the award-winning, bestselling author of such novels as The Myth Hunters, The Boys Are Back in Town, The Ferryman, Strangewood, Of Saints and Shadows, and (with Tim Lebbon) The Map of Moments. His original novels have been published in more than fourteen languages in countries around the world.Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
Ella Santos stood on the sidewalk with a cigarette in her hand, watching the snow fall and feeling more alone than she ever had in her life. The storm seemed to loom around her, holding its breath and waiting for her to go back inside. For a couple of impossibly long minutes, no cars or plows appeared on the street. The bank and the boutique and the music store and the other restaurants on that stretch of Washington Street had all been closed up for hours, windows dark and abandoned. The city of Coventry had given itself over to the storm, and suddenly Ella felt foolish that she hadn’t already gone home and crawled into bed with a mug of tea and an old movie.
She took a long drag on her cigarette and huddled deeper inside her down jacket before exhaling the smoke from her lungs. The only sound was the snow itself, falling so hard and fast that she could hear the strange shush of it accumulating. Ella shivered, and not entirely from the cold. Alone on the street, she might have been the last woman on Earth, the only human voice remaining but afraid to interrupt the quiet conversation between snow and sky.
A squeak of hinges and a burst of laughter came from behind her and she jumped, startled by two women emerging from the restaurant at her back. Quiet music—the lilt of an acoustic guitar—carried out to her as well, just before the door swung shut.
“Night, Ella,” one of the women said, pushing her blond hair out of her eyes. “Thanks for staying open.”
Ella smiled, feeling foolish for the way she’d let the weird isolation out on the street get under her skin. As a kid she’d loved snowstorms, but as the adult owner of a restaurant, snow days were few and far between … and very bad for business.
“My pleasure,” she said, waving as the two women hurried across the street to their car, their shoes leaving tracks in the newfallen snow. “I hope you enjoyed your meal. Get home safe.”
“You, too!” called the second woman, whose dress was entirely inappropriate for a snowstorm, even covered by her heavy jacket.
“Closing soon,” Ella replied.
The women had been inside the restaurant for just over an hour and at least an inch of snow covered their car. Instead of trying to clean it off they piled in, and now the windshield wipers kicked on, sweeping areas of the glass clean. The rear window remained covered with snow as they pulled from the curb. The driver would hardly be able to see a thing, but fortunately there weren’t a lot of other cars on the road. Even the plows didn’t seem to be making many appearances tonight.
Ella took another drag on her cigarette, letting the smoke warm her before she blew it out through her nostrils. She had started smoking one summer in high school when most of her girlfriends had taken up the habit. Now she hated it, knew it made her look weak and foolish instead of cool and sexy, but she’d tried to quit half-a-dozen times and always started up again.
A loud bang and scrape announced the arrival of a plow several blocks distant and she turned to watch its grinding progress, the upper halves of its headlights peering over the giant metal blade.
The restaurant door swung open again and she turned to see her bartender, Ben Hemming, poking his head out. His blue eyes blinked against the sudden gust that drove snow into his face.
“You okay, boss?”
Ella smiled, reaching up to wipe snow from her eyelashes. “Just thinking. Things wrapping up in there?”
“Near enough,” Ben replied.
If he thought she had a screw loose, standing out there in a storm that was fast becoming a blizzard, he hid it well. Maybe it is a little crazy, Ella thought. But as isolated as it made her feel, she liked the pure white calm of it all.
“Time?” she asked.
“Quarter after eight,” Ben replied, snowflakes adding to the premature white in his hair.
“All right,” she said, tossing the cigarette to the snowy sidewalk and grinding it out with her bootheel. “Last call. We’ll close up at eight thirty.”
“Thanks,” Ben said. He started to duck back inside, then hesitated. “You sure you’re okay?”
Ella bent to pick up the crushed, damp cigarette butt. “Always.”
Ben didn’t recognize the lie or at least didn’t challenge it. He let the door swing shut, in a hurry to start closing out tabs. Ella couldn’t blame him; Ben had a pretty wife and a new baby at home and he didn’t want to leave them alone in the storm. Nobody was waiting for Ella back at her little house on Cherry Road. For her, there was no rush.
As she pulled on the ornate door handle a massive gust of wind slammed it tight again. It felt as if the storm fought against her, but she forced the door open and slipped inside. She turned as the door swung shut and caught a glimpse of the plow going by. In its headlights she saw just how thick and fast the snow was falling. Then the door slammed and she flinched. The blizzard had arrived.
The Vault had two big fireplaces, which had been roaring all through dinner and had now begun to die down. The early evening had been fairly busy despite the storm. Now, only three tables were occupied, but the family at one and the older couple at another were in the process of gathering their things and slipping on jackets and scarves and gloves. The trio of twentysomething guys at the last table seemed in no hurry, sipping their coffees while one worked slowly at his tiramisu.
Four people were at the bar—all of them regulars who would go now that Ben had doubtless announced last call. In the far corner, where she had live music Thursdays through Saturdays, TJ Farrelly sat on a stool with his fat-bellied acoustic guitar, playing an old Dave Matthews song. It made Ella smile. As long as somebody was there to hear, TJ would keep playing. Sometimes he would play after all the customers were gone, entertaining the staff while they swept up and cashed out.
Snow melting in her hair, trickling icily down her neck, Ella went into the ladies’ room to flush her cigarette butt, promising herself she wouldn’t smoke again tonight. She glanced in the mirror and laughed softly at her reflection, reaching up to brush the snow out of her hair and off the shoulders of her coat.
As she left the bathroom, the small window set high on the wall began to rattle in its frame and she thought she could actually feel the building sway. The restaurant was sturdy—once upon a time it had been a bank—but the walls shook and the draft that whipped around her made the bathroom door close with a bang.
It almost felt as if the storm had come in after her.
* * *
TJ watched Ella cross the restaurant and exchange a quiet word with the last group of diners at The Vault, three guys who seemed intent on camping overnight at the table if only someone would keep the coffee coming. TJ thought it was funny how the career drinkers at the bar would happily slide off their stools, tip the bartender, and head home, but the guys reminiscing over coffee were reluctant.
Old friends, TJ figured. High-school buddies who haven’t seen each other in a while. He would have asked them, but he felt fairly certain. TJ had always been observant; he had a knack for figuring people out, though Ella tended to puzzle him. The restaurant was basically her life. TJ figured it was normal for someone to be that wrapped up in an endeavor like this, where the financial margins were slim and the risk of ruin was pretty sizable. But Ella was thirty-two years old and single, not to mention considerably attractive, with long legs and chocolate-brown eyes and a mouth he’d thought more than once about kissing. There had to be someone she trusted enough to manage the restaurant a couple of times a week so that she could do something for herself—go to a movie or a concert or, for once, eat somewhere other than in her office in the back room of her own restaurant.
As if summoned by his ruminating about her, Ella came his way, a drink in one hand. In the other she carried her blue down jacket, which dripped with melting snow. The storm had wreaked havoc with her wavy, shoulder-length hair, but TJ thought the disheveled look worked for her.
He cut off the song he’d been singing even as she dumped her jacket onto the four-top table closest to him and sank into a chair. Sipping the drink—he guessed Captain Morgan and Coke—she put her feet up on the chair across from her. The back fireplace crackled off to her left and he saw that she was enjoying the heat.
“Play you something, Ella?” he said.
She pulled a mock-sad face. “You put away your harmonica.”
TJ reached into his backpack. “Anything for you.”
Sometimes she liked him to do sad, old Neil Young songs and sometimes more upbeat Dave Matthews stuff, full of heartache and irony. He considered Blues Traveler, but the night was winding down early and it felt later than it was, so something melancholy felt appropriate. Only after he had launched into “Sugar Mountain” by Neil Young did he recognize the sadness in Ella’s eyes and realize it might have been a mistake. But as he sang he watched her settle into the song the way she settled into her drink and he could see that both had somehow made her feel better, and he was glad. TJ knew he couldn’t make Ella happy—only she could do that—but he sure as hell didn’t want to make her sad.
He loved playing at The Vault. Music had never earned him enough to live on, but he didn’t think he could get through a day without laying his hands on a guitar. His father had forced him to learn a trade, which was how TJ had ended up with an electrician’s license, and he was grateful to the old man for pushing him. But even when he wasn’t playing music he could hear it in his head, feel invisible guitar strings under his fingers. That was the trick with a restaurant audience, he’d found. They didn’t clap much, but as long as he was playing for himself, he didn’t need their applause.
Tonight, though, he found himself playing for Ella.
“That what you had in mind?” he asked when he’d hit the last note.
“Perfect,” she said. “I wish you could sing me to sleep some nights.”
Ella smirked and glanced away. “Flirt.”
“Sorry. Can’t help it, I’m afraid. My father was an incorrigible flirt. It’s in the DNA. No cure.”
She laughed softly and shook her head. “Oh, well … in that case you’re forgiven.”
The last of the stragglers were heading for the door and the staff had started to set up for the next day. Ella glanced toward the kitchen, probably thinking she ought to be overseeing the activity back there. TJ wanted to remind her that the chef and his people knew what they were doing—it was all washing dishes and prepping for tomorrow—but he kept his mouth shut. It was none of his business.
“I guess we all ought to be heading home, huh?” Ella said, glancing at the trio of coffee drinkers as they finally made their exit.
“Not me. I told my mother I’d crash at her place tonight.”
Ella leaned back in her chair, took a sip of her drink, and gave him a dubious look. “Your mother?”
TJ shrugged, his hands idly toying with notes on his guitar. “She’s an old lady—though she’d punch me if she heard me say it. If the power goes out, I don’t want her to be afraid, y’know?”
“That’s really sweet.”
“Nah. I’m her son. It’s what you do.”
“Not what all sons do,” Ella said, getting up from the table. “You’re a good guy, TJ.”
She kept her glass with her—she wouldn’t have left it on the table for anyone else to pick up—and started to the kitchen.
“You should get going,” Ella said. “Bring your mom in for dinner some night. My treat.”
“I’ll do that,” he replied. “But I’m not in a rush. She’s not expecting me for a while yet and she’s only gonna want me to watch the Food Network with her or something. You mind if I keep playing till it’s time to lock up?”
Ella glanced back at him. “As long as you want to play, you’ll never hear me telling you to stop.”
She hurried away to the kitchen. TJ smiled as he watched her go, wondering if he might not be the only flirt in The Vault tonight.
* * *
Allie Schapiro stood vigilant by her microwave oven, listening to the kernels pop inside. The microwave gods had a cruel sense of humor, putting the little button labeled POPCORN right on the front of the machine. After burning bags of popcorn over and over she had finally learned that just pressing the button and walking away led to scorched kernels and that horrid smell. So while the movie played on in the living room—she had refused to let Niko pause it for her—she listened to the popping until the intervals began to seem like pauses, and then she took it out.
Opening the steaming bag, she found the corn popped to perfection, the buttery scent wafting through the kitchen. Allie gave her microwave nemesis a smirk and a soft “hah,” and then separated the popcorn into two plastic buckets she’d retrieved from a cabinet.
When she returned to the living room, Marty McFly was eluding Biff on a skateboard in 1955. Back to the Future was one of Allie’s favorite movies and she’d been shocked to discover that Niko and his daughter, Miri, had never seen it.
“That smells good,” Niko said. Beside him on the sofa, eleven-year-old Miri shushed him, totally under the movie’s spell. Her copper eyes were bright, framed by a lovely tangle of curly brown hair.
Allie’s kids—sons Jake and Isaac—lay on their bellies on the floor, chins propped on their hands, staring at the giant flatscreen. At twelve, Jacob was two years older than Isaac, but they were similar enough that people sometimes mistook them for twins. Allie didn’t see it, really. Jake had darker hair and nearly always wore a serious expression, while Isaac never lacked a grin … not to mention that he was four inches shorter than his older brother. She figured it was something in the way they connected, the way they sometimes spoke at the same time, each filling in missing words in some tale they were concocting. And, like their mom, they loved movies.
She set one of the buckets between them and Jake grabbed it immediately and pulled it in front of himself.
“Jacob,” she said, not quite sternly. “Share.”
He didn’t look up, just slid the bucket back to the space between them. Isaac had never taken his eyes off the television. When Biff crashed his car into the back of a manure truck and ended up buried in shit, both boys laughed. So did Allie. Watching this movie was like coming home in some strange way, and sharing it with Niko and his daughter tonight was something special, the two families together.
Strange, but wonderful.
She settled onto the sofa on Niko’s left and tucked her legs beneath her, handing him the popcorn.
“Thanks, love,” he said, kissing her cheek as he dug out a fistful, then held out the bucket to Miri.
The little girl seemed entranced by the movie, but Allie had long since gotten the impression that Miri noticed all sorts of things when she didn’t seem to be paying attention. Not so little a girl, Allie thought. At eleven years old, Mirjeta Ristani was a hell of a lot more sophisticated than Allie had been at that age.
Now Miri glanced up at her father, took note of the kiss that had just occurred, and smiled at Allie.
“Thanks, Ms. Schapiro.”
“We’re not at school, Miri. You can call me Allie.”
Miri nodded and dug into the popcorn, noncommittal on the subject of calling her former teacher by her first name. The boys, of course, had no problem calling Niko “Niko,” but that familiarity did not mean that they accepted him just yet.
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