Dead Man's Song pd-2 Read online

  Dead Man's Song

  ( Pine Deep - 2 )

  Jonathan Maberry

  From the powerful imagination of a new horror master comes a bone-chilling tale set in a small town where good and evil are joined in a terrifying, deadly battle...

  Evil Endures

  Once an idyllic Pennsylvania village, Pine Deep awoke one morning to find itself bathed in a massive bloodletting. Twice in thirty years the townsfolk have endured the savage hungers of a murderous madman...but if the residents think the death of serial killer Karl Ruger put an end to the carnage, they're dead wrong.

  The Nightmare Never Ends

  Bodies mutilated beyond description, innocents driven to acts of vicious madness. A monstrous evil is preying on the living--and the dead--and turning the quiet little town into hell on earth. Their only hope is to find the source. But the secrets that lurk in the heart of Pine Deep are twisted into its very roots. This time the townspeople aren't just fighting for their lives, but for their very souls...

  Praise for Jonathan Maberry and Ghost Road Blues

  “Jonathan Maberry rushes headlong toward the front of the pack, proving that he has the chops to craft stories at once intimate, epic, real, and horrific.”

  —Bentley Little, author of

  The Burning and Death Instinct

  “Every so often, you discover an author whose writing is so lyrical that it transcends mere storytelling. Jonathan Maberry is just such an author.”

  —Tess Gerritsen, New York Times

  bestselling author of The Mephisto Club

  “Jonathan Maberry writes in the grand poetic horror tradition of Poe and Robert McCammon…King and Koontz.”

  —Stuart Kaminsky, 2005 recipient of the Grand Master Award from the Mystery Writers of America

  “Maberry knows that true horror lies in the dark, hidden places in the human heart and to take this journey with him is genuinely chilling.”

  —T. J. MacGregor, author of Cold As Death

  “This is horror on a grand scale, reminiscent of Stephen King’s heftier works.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Ghost Road Blues is a superbly woven, chilling tale that makes you wonder who the real monsters are—humans or the undead.”

  —L. A. Banks, author of The Vampire Huntress Legends series

  “As effective an opening as I’ve ever read, and the jolts just keep on coming.”

  —Jeremiah Healy, author of The Only

  Good Lawyer and Turnabout

  “Haunting, complex, terrifying, and deeply humane.”

  —Gary A. Braunbeck, Bram Stoker Award–winner, author of Destinations and Prodigal Blues

  “Stunning! A fierce and new talent!”

  —Ken Bruen, international bestselling author of American Skin and The Guards

  “You might want to keep the night-light on for this one. Really.”

  —Laura Schrock, Emmy Award–winning writer/producer

  “If I were asked to select only one new voice in horror fiction to read today, it would be Jonathan Maberry.”

  —Katherine Ramsland, author of The Science of Vampires

  “This is the real deal.”

  —Necrofile

  “It is hard to believe this is Jonathan Maberry’s debut novel because his writing is of such high caliber and his storyline is comparable to that of a master writer of horror.”

  —Harriet Klausner, Midwest Review

  “A grand work…highly recommended.”

  —MaximumHorrors.com

  “Prepare to be scared. Maberry frightens, amuses, and makes you think, often on the same page. Move over, Stephen King.”

  —J. A. Konrath, author of Dirty Martini

  “Maberry writes with a masterful skill that will scare the bejabbers out of you!”

  —John Lutz, bestselling author of Single White Female

  “Jonathan Maberry’s books should be on everyone’s must-read list.”

  —Yvonne Navarro, author of Species and Aliens: Music of the Spears

  “Jonathan Maberry is writing as well as anyone in the business right now.”

  —Steve Hamilton, author of A Stolen Season

  “Savagely beautiful, intricate, and deftly written.”

  —Jack Fisher, Flesh and Blood Magazine

  “Bristling with scares, thick with atmosphere, and rich with a picturesque sense of place. Highly recommended!”

  —Jay Bonansinga, bestselling author of Shattered and Twisted

  “If you have an appetite for evil, you’ll love sitting down to Ghost Road Blues, which is deliciously creepy.”

  —Richard Sand, author of the award-winning Lucas Rook mystery series

  “Jonathan Maberry is writing big, scary books that feel just right.”

  —Bill Kent, author of Street Legal, Street Fighter, and Street Money

  “A wild mélange of soulful blues music and gut-wrenching horror!”

  —Brinke Stevens, horror actress and author

  “Terrifying. Maberry gets deep into the heads of his troubled characters—and ours.”

  —Jim Fusilli, author of Hard, Hard City and Tribeca Blues

  “Maberry…delivers scare after scare.”

  —Scott A. Johnson, author of An American Haunting

  “Unputdownable!”

  —Michael Penncavage, editor of Dark Notes from New Jersey

  “Jonathan Maberry delivers! Echoes of King, Bradbury, Poe, Wellman, and Straub.”

  —C. Dean Andersson, author of I Am Dracula and Raw Pain Max

  “This is the best book I’ve read this year!”

  —Dave’s News and Reviews

  “Teeming with demons, brutality, and madness, but equally brimming with beauty, love, and wisdom.”

  —Kim Paffenroth, Ph.D., author of Gospel of the Living Dead

  “Dark, scary, and so darn well written, one might think this book was something Stephen King wrote and forgot about many years ago.”

  —Michael Laimo, author of Dead Souls and The Demonologist

  “Ghost Road Blues reminded me why I’m afraid of the dark.”

  —Charles Gramlich, author of Cold in the Light

  “Gruesome, scary, and bloody good fun.”

  —Simon Clark, author of Vampyrrhic, London Under Midnight, and Night of the Triffids

  “Ghost Road Blues will leave you breathless. Make sure you read it with the lights on.”

  —David Housewright, Edgar Award–winning author of Pretty Girl Gone and Tin City

  “Steeped in the blues and saturated with violence and foreboding.”

  —Bev Vincent, author of The Road to the Dark Tower: Exploring Stephen King’s Magnum Opus

  “Ghost Road Blues is a hell of a book.”

  —Jemiah Jefferson, author of Wounds, Voice of the Blood, Fiend, and A Drop of Scarlet

  “Evocative and chilling, Maberry’s fiction is the work of a dark magician with a poet’s soul.”

  —Tim Waggoner, author of Darkness Wakes, Pandora Drive, and Like Death.

  “Ghost Road Blues manages to touch every kind of horror from creepy chills to gruesome gore and builds to an unforgettable climax.”

  —H. R. Knight, author of What Rough Beast

  “Maberry writes with a kind of rhythmic, lyrical quality one might find in the work of Cady, Conrad, or even Faulkner.”

  —Kealan Patrick Burke, Bram Stoker Award–winning author of Currency of Souls, The Turtle Boy, and Vessels

  “A wonderful novel from a fresh new voice in the genre.”

  —Nate Kenyon, author of Bloodstone

  “Dark and mischievous…fun and inspired…Jonathan Maberry knows how to serve up the creepy goods!”

  —Jim O’Rear, horr
or film stuntman and haunted attraction consultant

  “Full of real characters and plenty of eerie atmosphere.”

  —David Wellington, author of Monster Island and Monster Nation

  “Ghost Road Blues is, hands-down, the best horror novel of 2006.”

  —Bryan Smith, author of Deathbringer and House of Blood

  “A chilling tale—lyrical, melodic, and dark. Maberry breathes new life into modern horror fiction.”

  —Scott Nicholson, author of The Home and The Harvest

  “A fine blend of authentic supernatural folklore and conventional villainy in a fully realized contemporary setting.”

  —Don D’Ammassa, author of the Encyclopedia of Fantasy and Horror Fiction

  “Ghost Road Blues is high-octane storytelling meant for chilly, full-moon nights.”

  —W. D. Gagliani, author of Bram Stoker Award finalist Wolf’s Trap

  “Vivid, fast-paced, and deliciously dark.”

  —Bruce Boston, author of Flashing the Dark and Masque of Dreams

  “This is a fun, fun read and creepy as hell.”

  —Gregory Frost, author of Attack of the Jazz Giants and Other Stories

  “Reading Maberry is like listening to the blues in a graveyard at the stroke of midnight.”

  —Fred Wiehe, author of Strange Days and The Burning

  “Unnerving and brisk!”

  —Noreen Ayres, author of the Smokey Brandon mystery series

  “Believable and nerve-shattering!”

  —E. F. Watkins, author of Dance with the Dragon and Paragon

  “Frightening!”

  —Montgomery County Intelligencer

  DEAD MAN’S SONG

  JONATHAN MABERRY

  To my wife Sara and my son Sam

  SO MANY PEOPLE TO THANK…

  To my first readers: Arthur Mensch, Randy Kirsch, Charlie Miller, and Greg Schauer…for your comments, observations, and insights.

  To my experts: Chief Pat Priore of the Tullytown Police Department; Larry Kaplan, DDS; Dan Noszinski; Richard F. Kuntz, First Deputy Coroner of Bucks County; and Jim Gurley. Any errors that remain in the book are purely the author’s doing.

  To the publishing folks: Michaela Hamilton, Sara Crowe, Elizabeth Little, and Doug Mendini.

  To my fellow writers: Tess Gerritsen, Stuart Kaminsky, J. A. Konrath, John Lutz, Yvonne Navarro, Steve Hamilton, Richard Sand, Bill Kent, Michael Laimo, Charles Gramlich, Simon Clark, David Housewright, Jeremiah Healy, Bev Vincent, Jemiah Jefferson, Stephen Susco, Tim Waggoner, H. R. Knight, Gary A. Braunbeck, Ken Bruen, Kealan Patrick Burke, Nate Kenyon, David Wellington, Bryan Smith, Katherine Ramsland, Scott Nicholson, Don D’Ammassa, W. D. Gagliani, Bruce Boston, Gregory Frost, Fred Wiehe, Noreen Ayres, and Kim Peffenroth for endless support.

  To my guest stars: Stephen Susco, Ken Foree, Tom Savini, Jim O’Rear, James Gunn, Brinke Stevens, Debbie Rochon, and Joe Bob Briggs for dropping by to make an appearance in this book and the next.

  To the Bluesmen, Mem Shannon and Eddy “The Chief” Clearwater, for allowing me to use their wonderful blues lyrics in this book and the next.

  My colleagues at Career Doctor for Writers (www.careerdoctorforwriters.com) and Writers Corner USA (www.writerscornerusa.com).

  And to the superstars of my Novels for Young Writers class, Brett Knasiak, Aly Pierce, Ali Dowdy, Charlie Patton, Richard Wang, Lee Biskin, Jack Inkpen, Rachael Lavin, and Julie Hagopian.

  PROLOGUE

  THE GUTHRIE FARM

  And I think I’m gonna drown I believe I’m gonna drown I think I’m gonna drown Standing on my feet.

  —Mem Shannon, Drowning on My Feet

  Sing it like the midnight wind, Sing it like a prayer; Sing it on to the way to hell, Them blues’ll take you there.

  —Oren Morse, Dead Man’s Song

  (1)

  It was October when it happened. It should always be October when these things happen. In October you expect things to die.

  In October the sun shrinks away; it hides behind mountains and throws long shadows over small towns like Pine Deep. Especially towns like Pine Deep. The wind grows new teeth and it learns to bite. The colors fade from deep summer greens to the mournful browns and desiccated yellows of autumn. In October the harvest blades are honed to sharpness, and that’s when the sickles and scythes, the threshers and combines, maliciously attack the fields, leaving the long stalks of corn lying dead in haphazard piles along the beaten rows. Pumpkin growers come like headsmen to gather the gourds for the carvers’ knives. The insects, so alive during the long months of July, August, and September, die in their thousands, their withered carcasses crunching under the feet of children hurrying home from school, children racing to beat the fall of night. Children do not play out-of-doors in the nights of Pine Deep.

  There are shadows everywhere—even in places they have no right to be. The shadows range from the purple haze of twilit streets to the utter, bottomless black in the gaping mouths of sewers. Some of the shadows are cold, featureless—just blocks of lightless air. Other shadows seem to possess an unnatural vitality; they seem to roil and writhe, especially as the young ones—the innocent ones—pass by. In those kinds of shadows something always seems to be waiting. Impatiently waiting. In those kinds of shadows something always seems to be watching. Hungrily watching. These are not the warm shadows of September, for in that month the darkness still remembers the warmth of summer suns; nor were they yet the utterly dead shadows of bleak November, to whom the sun’s warmth is only a wan memory. These were the shadows of October, and they were hungry shadows. When the dying sun cast those kinds of shadows, well…

  This was Pine Deep, and it was October—a kind of October particular to Pine Deep. The spring and summer before had been lush; the autumn of the year before that had been bright and bountiful, yielding one of those rare and wonderful Golden Harvests that are written of in tourist books of the region; and though there had been shadows, there hadn’t been shadows as dark as these. No, these shadows belonged to an autumn whose harvest was going to be far darker—these were the shadows of a Black Harvest October in Pine Deep. So, it was October when it happened. It should always be October when these things happen.

  In October you expect things to die.

  (2)

  “They said they’d send us some coffee and hot sandwiches in about half an hour,” called Jimmy Castle as he trudged back into the clearing a quarter mile from the Guthrie farmhouse. Yellow crime scene tape was strung from post to post along the rows of towering late season corn, the ends anchored to the wooden rails of the fence that marked the boundary of the big farm. Tarps were pegged down over the spot where Henry Guthrie had been gunned down just a few days ago, and the criminalists and other crime scene investigators would be back in the morning to finish up their comprehensive search of the area. Of the three gunmen who had come into town after fleeing a bloody shoot-out in Philadelphia, two were dead and one—Kenneth Boyd—was still on the loose. That meant that the scene had to be secured until the CSI team was completely done, and it also meant a long cold night for Castle—who was still on loan from Crestville to help with the manhunt—and his partner, Nels Cowan, who was local PD.

  Castle had his hands jammed deep into the pockets of his blue Crestville PD jacket, fists balled tight in a losing battle to try and hold on to some warmth. He walked briskly, shoulders rounded to keep the wind off his ears, his straw-colored hair snapping in the stiff breeze. “I told them to send some of those pocket hand-warmers, too…getting pretty freakin’ cold out….”

  His words trailed off to nothing as he entered the clearing and all thoughts of warmth were slammed out of his brain.

  He stopped walking, stopped talking, stopped breathing. The world imploded down into one tiny quarter-acre of unreality; time and order and logic all were smashed into one chunk of madness. All sound in the world died; all movement failed; all that existed was the tableau that filled his eyes as Jimmy Castle saw the two things that occupi
ed the clearing. His mouth sagged open as he stood there rooted to the spot, feeling all sensation and awareness evaporate into smoke as the seconds fell dead around him. All of his cop reflexes, all of his training in crisis management simply froze into stillness because nothing at the Academy, nothing he had seen on the streets of Pittsburgh, where he’d done his first years, and nothing since he’d moved to Crestville could have prepared him for what he saw there in the moonlight darkness of the Guthrie cornfield. His mind ground to a halt and he just stood there and stared.

  Nels Cowan lay on the muddy ground, arms and legs spread in an ecstasy of agony, head thrown back and lolling on what little was left of his throat. Cowan’s mouth was open, but any scream he uttered echoed only in the dark vastness of death; his eyes were open as if beholding horror, but that look was frozen onto his face forever, like an expression carved onto a wax mask. Blood glistened as thick and black as oil in the moonlight. The ghastly wounds on Cowan’s throat were so savage that Castle could even see the taut gray cords of half-severed tendons and the sharp white edge of a cracked vertebra. The dark shape hunched over Nels Cowan raised its head and looked at him without expression for a long moment, and then the bloody mouth opened in a great smile full of immense darkness and hunger, lips parting to reveal hideous teeth that were grimed with pink-white tatters of flesh. The teeth gleamed white through the streaks of red as the smile broadened into a feral snarl; its features were a mask of lust and hate, the nose wrinkled like a dog’s, the black eyes became lost in pits of gristle. A tongue, impossibly long and purplish-gray, lolled from the mouth and licked drops of blood from the thing’s chin.