The Damned: A Novel - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Andrew Pyper (1968–2025) was the internationally bestselling author of fourteen novels, including The Homecoming, The Only Child, The Damned, and The Demonologist, which won the International Thriller Writers award for Best Hardcover Novel, as well as The Killing Circle, which was selected a New York Times Best Crime Novel of the Year. He lived in Toronto with his family.

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Damned

1

My name is Danny Orchard. It might ring a bell. I wrote a book a while back, a memoir of my near-death experience. A surprise, top-of-the-list bestseller from the moment it first appeared. Twenty-seven languages and fourteen years later, I still catch people reading it on the subway. I never introduce myself to tell them the story’s mine.

It’s made me an authority of a sort. A death expert. One of those third-tier celebrities who is invited to give after-dinner speeches at dentists’ conventions and service club fundraisers, a public figure who comes cheaper than a Super Bowl quarterback and has a more interesting story than a retired senator. Everyone remembers that spot I did on 60 Minutes when I showed my mother’s Omega watch—the book’s evidence that heaven is real—and Morley Safer’s eyes seemed to well up.

My book can make one other claim, namely its inspiring the formation of the Afterlifers, a community for those who’ve traveled to the other side and returned. You’d never guess how many of us there are out there. The last time I checked there were a dozen chapters across North America and a handful in Europe and Asia, too, each group meeting on a monthly basis to discuss the effect of NDEs on members’ lives, marriages, beliefs, work. They get together in the usual cheap, disheartening venues: church basements, HoJo conference rooms, linoleumed community centers. It’s like AA, except with booze.

I used to get asked all the time to be a guest at one of their gatherings in Miami or Toronto or Amsterdam or L.A., and sometimes I’d accept if they paid my way, but mostly I claimed to be too busy “working on something new.” A lie. The fact is, I’d had more than my fill of tearful recollections of angels taking the form of beloved first-grade teachers or the feelings of joy someone had in seeing their dearly departed, haloed and at peace, telling them not to be afraid.

Because it’s not always like that.

Sometimes, you should be afraid.

Still, it was a habit I couldn’t shake, like putting on a tie and going to church on Sunday, and for years I attended the monthly meetings of the local Boston chapter. I sat at the back and almost never spoke to the group, a priestly figure the other Afterlifers tended not to bother once they’d had their dog-eared copy of my book signed.

“So why do you come?” the chapter’s leader, Lyle Kirk, once asked me as he tossed a twenty onto the bar for the beers we often found ourselves drinking after a meeting. “Why show up if you’ve got nothing to say?”

I surprised myself by telling him the truth.

“Because you’re the only friends I have,” I said.

Followed by a thought I didn’t say.

And you’re not even really friends.

Lyle was a good guy, though, a Revere contractor who specialized in eaves troughs, manageably alcoholic, his nose a burst kernel of popcorn in the center of his face. His heaven was a bit unusual. An eternity spent rolling around on the grass, a diapered infant being tickled by the family dog as it licked spilled applesauce off his belly.

“To each his own,” he’d said with a shrug at the end of his presentation.

One night, four months ago, I sat in the corner of the banquet room of a Cambodian restaurant on Beacon Street. Maybe a dozen or so Afterlifers in the chairs in front of a lectern with crackly speakers built into its base, the mic unnecessarily on, so that every voice was turned to ground sand. And what did the voices talk about? Heaven stuff, for the most part. Repeating their tales of a glimpsed Forever. The sailboat trip with Mom. The hand-holding walk on the beach with a dead husband. The football game where the Hail Mary pass is caught every time. When Lyle asked if I’d like to speak I declined as usual, saying I was just there to offer support. But these people didn’t need support. They needed to get on with their lives before life was taken away from them and that walk on the beach was all they were left with.

Lyle was about to close the meeting when an arm went up.

An elderly woman smelling of clothes left too long in airless closets, sitting directly in front of me. She asked if there was time to tell her story. Lyle told her there was always time for someone who “knows what you know, sweetheart.”

It took her a while to make her way to the front. Not just the coaxing of an arthritic hip slowing her down but some deeper reluctance. When she turned we saw it wasn’t shyness. It was everything she could do to make the crossing from her fold-out chair to stand before us because she was quite plainly terrified.

“My name is Violet Grieg. My experience is a bit different from yours,” she said.

Her skin lost all its color in the time it took to speak these two sentences, the circles of rouge on her cheeks standing out like welts.

“Our father,” she started after a full minute, then paused again. I thought she was about to recite the Lord’s Prayer. I even lowered my eyes to join her in it. “When he was alive, our father was what everyone called ‘a good man.’ He had that kind of face, that kind of laugh. A family doctor up in Skowhegan where we grew up—delivered babies, doled out the pills. ‘Your father’s a good man,’ they’d say. But what in the good goddamn did they know?”

She shouted this last part. A furious blast into the mic that turned into a shriek of feedback.

“How can you tell a good man from bad if you don’t live with him, if you don’t have to trust him?” she went on when the noise had retreated. “A good man. It was an act! ‘I’ll just go upstairs to say goodnight to the girls,’ he’d say. Our mother never stopped him. It was just my sister and I who . . . knew what he really was.”

She made what I thought was a move to return to her seat, but it was only a step back to shake her head. A dizzy spell, or sudden chill. When she spoke again her voice had lowered to an unsettling growl.

“I tried to kill myself a year ago. But suicide—that’s a sin. That’s what the good book says. It’s a law.”

One of the Afterlifers got up and left, gesturing at his watch as if he had somewhere else to be.

“I was dead and gone,” Violet Grieg went on, her eyes fixed over our heads at the room’s back door, as if expecting someone to enter. “Taken to a place where the most terrible things I’d known happened over and over. It would’ve been like that forever except this world decided it wasn’t through with me yet. I came back. And now I see him all the time. Hear him, too. Coming up the stairs to wherever I try to hide. Wherever I go, he follows.”

Her forehead shone with sweat. The skin over the knuckles gripped to the lectern’s sides so thin I expected it to tear open, easy as tissue paper.

“I’ll stick a chair under the doorknob, lay pillows against the crack under the door so I don’t have to see the shadow of his shoes. I’m like a kid again. Lying in bed. Trying not to move, not to breathe. Watching him walking back and forth like he’s looking for a key to open the door. Sometimes he does.”

Lyle glanced back at the rest of the room with a seasick grin of apology. One of the fluorescent lights near the front started...