The Saturday Night Ghost Club: A Novel by Craig Davidson (English) Paperback Boo

Description: The Saturday Night Ghost Club by Craig Davidson Originally published: Canada: Alfred A. Knopf, 2018. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description A short, irresistible, and bittersweet coming-of-age story in the vein of Stranger Things and Stand by Me about a group of misfit kids who spend an unforgettable summer investigating local ghost stories and urban legendsSOME TOWNS ARE MORE HAUNTED THAN OTHERS...An irresistible and bittersweet coming-of-age story in the vein of Stranger Things and Stand by Me about a group of misfit kids who spend an unforgettable summer investigating local ghost stories and urban legends"Acelebration of the secret lives of children, both their wonders and their horrors . . .Immensely enjoyable, piercingly clever, and satisfyingly soulful." -Jason Heller, NPRGrowing up in 1980s Niagara Falls - a seedy but magical, slightly haunted place - Jake Baker spends most of his time with his uncle Calvin, a kind but eccentric enthusiast of occult artifacts and conspiracy theories. The summer Jake turns twelve, he befriends a pair of siblings new to town, and so Calvin decides to initiate them all into the "Saturday Night Ghost Club." But as the summer goes on, what begins as a seemingly light-hearted project may ultimately uncover more than any of its members had imagined. With the alternating warmth and sadness of the best coming-of-age stories, The Saturday Night Ghost Club is a note-perfect novel that poignantly examines the haunting mutability of memory and storytelling, as well as the experiences that form the people we become, and establishes Craig Davidson as a remarkable literary talent. Author Biography Craig Davidson has published five other books of literary fiction- Rust and Bone, which was made into a Golden Globe-nominated feature film, The Fighter, Sarah Court, the Scotiabank Giller Prize-nominated Cataract City, and Cascade. Davidson is a graduate of the Iowa Writers Workshop, and his articles and journalism have been published in Esquire, GQ, and The Washington Post, among other places. He lives in Toronto, Canada, with his partner and their child. He also publishes bestselling horror fiction under the pseudonym Nick Cutter. Review "[Davidsons] powers of description poetically evoke the magic of youth…The masterful segues between the narratives of child Jake and adult Jake shimmer. And even more profoundly, the book is a celebration of the secret lives of children, both their wonders and their horrors...Immensely enjoyable, piercingly clever, and satisfyingly soulful, Saturday Night Ghost Club is an exquisite little talisman of a book, one that doesnt flinch as it probes the dark underside of nostalgia." -Jason Heller, NPR"This compact novel is reminiscent of Ray Bradburys Dandelion Wine and Stephen Kings The Body: dark and unforgettable coming-of-age stories." -Shelf Awareness "If you like darkness poured out like molasses from a bucket,youll love this novel."-BookPage"Davidson makes beautifully clear how the ghoulish tales we feared when we were young cant compare to the blood-bathed teeth we eventually encounter as adults. The Saturday Night Ghost Club is a tale for those who like their Stranger Things spiked, Stand by Me charred, and who are battered enough yet still brave enough to revisit that moment when made-up horrors finally come to root in a world beyond invention. A novel that both stabs and breaks your heart." -Mark Z. Danielewski, bestselling author of House of Leaves"The Saturday Night Ghost Club is not only creepy and chills-down-your-spine fun, its also incredibly poignant and heartwarming. This is a tender coming-of-age story that isnt afraid to face the darkness in the world or meditate on the power of memory and the mysteries of the human brain. Craig Davidson is such a nimble storyteller and his latest novel is proof of his remarkable gift."-Edan Lepucki, New York Times bestselling author of California and Woman No. 17"A moving, delightful, thrillingly unexpected coming-of-age story about the irresistible collision of childhoods dark wonders and adulthoods haunting mysteries." -Elan Mastai, author of All Our Wrong Todays"A delightfully creepy tale of misfits and misadventures, The Saturday Night Ghost Club perfectly captures the ache and wonder of growing up. In this trim, accomplished novel, Craig Davidson sheds brilliant light on the ways that scary stories can not only make us shudder, but can also lead us down unexpected paths and foster our most meaningful connections." -Matthew Sullivan, author of Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore "A well-crafted, whimsical coming-of-age tale…Davidson creates a quirky landscape and colorful characters, resulting in a novel that will entertain readers while providing a nice dose of nostalgia."—Publishers Weekly"A lovely book that proves how a good storyteller requires only a big heart to resonate with readers. The Saturday Night Ghost Club has a lot of heart, and it carries these characters through every tender page." -Locus"Through the intensity of his characters experiences, Davidson reconnects us to our own memories of growing up."—Kirkus Reviews Review Quote "[Davidsons] powers of description poetically evoke the magic of youth...The masterful segues between the narratives of child Jake and adult Jake shimmer. And even more profoundly, the book is a celebration of the secret lives of children, both their wonders and their horrors...Immensely enjoyable, piercingly clever, and satisfyingly soulful, Saturday Night Ghost Club is an exquisite little talisman of a book, one that doesnt flinch as it probes the dark underside of nostalgia." -Jason Heller, NPR "This compact novel is reminiscent of Ray Bradburys Dandelion Wine and Stephen Kings The Body : dark and unforgettable coming-of-age stories." -Shelf Awareness "If you like darkness poured out like molasses from a bucket,youll love this novel." -BookPage "Davidson makes beautifully clear how the ghoulish tales we feared when we were young cant compare to the blood-bathed teeth we eventually encounter as adults. The Saturday Night Ghost Club is a tale for those who like their Stranger Things spiked, Stand by Me charred, and who are battered enough yet still brave enough to revisit that moment when made-up horrors finally come to root in a world beyond invention. A novel that both stabs and breaks your heart." -Mark Z. Danielewski, bestselling author of House of Leaves " The Saturday Night Ghost Club is not only creepy and chills-down-your-spine fun, its also incredibly poignant and heartwarming. This is a tender coming-of-age story that isnt afraid to face the darkness in the world or meditate on the power of memory and the mysteries of the human brain. Craig Davidson is such a nimble storyteller and his latest novel is proof of his remarkable gift." -Edan Lepucki, New York Times bestselling author of California and Woman No. 17 "A moving, delightful, thrillingly unexpected coming-of-age story about the irresistible collision of childhoods dark wonders and adulthoods haunting mysteries." -Elan Mastai, author of All Our Wrong Todays "A delightfully creepy tale of misfits and misadventures, The Saturday Night Ghost Club perfectly captures the ache and wonder of growing up. In this trim, accomplished novel, Craig Davidson sheds brilliant light on the ways that scary stories can not only make us shudder, but can also lead us down unexpected paths and foster our most meaningful connections." -Matthew Sullivan, author of Midnight at the Bright Ideas Bookstore "A well-crafted, whimsical coming-of-age tale...Davidson creates a quirky landscape and colorful characters, resulting in a novel that will entertain readers while providing a nice dose of nostalgia."-- Publishers Weekly "Through the intensity of his characters experiences, Davidson reconnects us to our own memories of growing up." -- Kirkus Reviews Excerpt from Book 1. MONSTERS Most people believe the human brain is solid. They imagine a loaf of bread soaked in gelatin: you can hack off quivering slices, same as you would with a Jell-O mold at a family picnic. But the truth is, the brains texture is more like toothpaste. Brain matter will squeeze through a keyhole. In cases of severe cranial swelling, surgeons use a drill-I prefer the RA-II, a Korean model: 30,000 rpm, with silicone handgrips for comfort-to bore into the skull. If the swelling cannot be stopped, the living brain will project from the hole in an inverted funnel. This is called a "coning," and it marks an end. Most people also believe the brain is gray. Its cells are called gray matter, after all, and isnt that how the organ looks in horror flicks: a slaty walnut floating in a jar of formaldehyde in some mad scientists lab? But a sheathed brain is bracingly pink. The tissue only turns gray once the cerebrospinal sac has been perforated, once the air hits it. When a brain cones, the tissue changes color; traceries of ash thread through that bubblegum pink as a million thoughts flicker and die. People think neurosurgeons cut into brains with a scalpel. Another myth. How can you carve toothpaste? An infants brain matter is even less substantial than an adults, like pancake batter. I operate with a sucker wand, a tool that is exactly as it sounds. As I investigate the runnels of a patients brain, it grips me that something unforgivingly solid-my wand-is moving through something ephemeral, dreamlike: a patients memories. Though I work carefully and with a keen knowledge of the cerebral topography, my wand remains a beast blundering through fields of budding shoots. If I trample something critical, the patient may awaken lacking a vital memory. That one where they gazed into the sky as a child wondering how a star might taste, settling on breathtaking wintergreen. The smell of their newborn daughters scalp, or that haunting tingle on their lips following their first kiss. I navigate the storerooms of a patients consciousness, passing memories in their golden vaults, my wand clumsily bayoneting-it often seems-the pink jelly that holds everything the patient is or will ever be. Hard as I try not to disturb the furniture, things happen. I am forced to accept these tragic outcomes for the same reason that the patients on my table must accept their own lot: we are only human, a condition of perpetual uncertainty and failure. The brain is the seat of memory, and memory is a tricky thing. At base level, memories are stories-and sometimes these stories we tell allow us to carry on. Sometimes stories are the best we can hope for. They help us to simply get by, while deeper levels of our consciousness slap bandages on wounds that hold the power to wreck us. So we tell ourselves that the people we love closed their eyes and slipped painlessly away from us. That our personal failures are the product of external forces rather than unfixable weaknesses. That we were too damn good for the rat-assed bastards who jilted us, anyway. Tell yourself these stories long enough and you will discover they have a magical way of becoming facts. But a secret can be hidden from everyone save its holder, and the brain is not only a storyteller, it is a truth-seeking organ. If the stories we tell are no more than an overlay, the equivalent of six feet of caliche covering a pool of toxic sludge, somethings bound to bubble up, right? And the most awful truths will do so in the darkest hours of night, when were most vulnerable. If you bury those secrets so deep that you forget they ever happened, okay, maybe youve beat the devil. But the truth is a bloodhound. Thats something I can tell you with certainty. The truth is that abandoned dog following you over sea and land, baying from barren clifftops, never tiring and never quitting, forever pining after you-and the day will come when that dog is on your porch, scratching insistently at your door, forcing you to claim it once again. i. As a boy, I believed in monsters. I was convinced that if I said "Bloody Mary" in front of a mirror, a hideous witch-woman would reach through the glass with nails sharp as splinters. I considered it a fact that the Devil lingered at shadowy crossroads and went to dance halls in disguise, where hed ask the prettiest girl to dance and reel her across the floor while spectators stood terror-stricken at the sight of the Devils goatish shanks, until the girl fainted dead away and the Unclean One vanished in a puff of brimstone. There was no falsehood I wouldnt swallow, no quilt of lies you couldnt drape over my all-too-gullible shoulders. But for a boy like me-chubby, freckled, awkward; growing up in a city where the erection of a new Kmart occasioned our mayor to announce, "This marks a wondrous new chapter in our towns history"-imagination was my greatest asset. Not to mention my defense against a foe worse than the most fearsome monster: loneliness. My ally against that foe was my uncle Calvin. If I told him there was a bottomless pit in my basement, hed say, "Tell me, Jake, is the air denser around the mouth of the pit than in other areas of the basement?" Cocking an eyebrow: "Do ominous growling sounds emanate from this pit of yours?" Uncle C was the ideal nursemaid for my paranoid fantasies. His knowledge of urban legends and folklore was encyclopedic-with the added bonus that he seemed to consider most of it true. "Hey," hed say, "did you know there are crocodiles living in the sewers of our fair city? The poor suckers get smuggled up from Florida by dumb tourists. Sure, theyre cute as a bugs ear when theyre six inches long. But when they grow up and get nippy? Ba-whooosh, down the porcelain mistake eraser. They get fat n sassy down there in the pipes, where theres plenty to eat if youre not choosy. Every year a couple of sanitation department workers get gobbled up by sewer crocs. The press bottles it up, unscrupulous snakes that they are, but its a fact you can set your watch to." Uncle C would fiddle with the beads of his bracelet-each an ornate pewter Cthulhu head, mouths and eye sockets sprouting tentacles-and offer a wistful sigh. "And that, Jake, is why owning a pet is a big responsibility." Once, when I was six or seven, I became convinced a monster lived in my closet. I told my dad, who did what 99 percent of adults do when their child makes this claim: he flung my closet door open, rattled coat hangers and shoved shoeboxes aside, making a Broadway production of it. "See? No monsters, Jake." But monsters make themselves scarce when adults are around, only to slither back after dark. Every kid knew this to be an unshakable fact. Uncle C arrived for dinner that night, as usual-Mom invited him every Sunday. He got an inkling of my worry as I sat picking at my Salisbury steak. "Whats the matter, hombre?" "We have an unwanted visitor in a closet, apparently," Mom informed him. "But weve established that theres no monster," my father said. "Right, buddy?" "Ah," said Uncle C. "I have some expertise in this area. Sam, with your permission?" Mom turned to my father and said, "Sam," in the tone of voice youd use to calm a jittery horse. "Of course, Cal, as you like," my father said. My uncle pedaled home to his house, returning ten minutes later with a toolbox. Once we were in my bedroom he motioned to the closet. "I take it this is its lair?" I nodded. "Closets are a favorite haunt of monsters," my uncle explained. "Most are harmless, even good-tempered, if they have enough dust bunnies and cobwebs to eat. Do you clean your closet?" I assured him that it was hardly ever tidied unless my mother forced the chore on me. "Good, let them feast. If they get too hungry theyll crawl over to your clothes hamper and eat holes in your underwear. No need to check the seat of your drawers for confirmation, as I can see by your expression that yours have indeed met this cruel fate." Calvin cracked the toolbox and pulled out an instrument-one that today Id recognize as a stud finder. "Its a monster tracer," he said, running it over the closet walls, making exploratory taps with his knuckles. "There are token traces of ectoplasm," he said in the voice of a veteran contractor. "Monster slime, in laymans terms. What does this monster look like?" "Hairy in some parts, slimy in others." "Whats its shape? Like a snake, or a blob?" "A blob. But it can stretch, too, so it can look like a snake if it wants." "Were dealing with a hairy, slimy blob with uncanny stretching capacities." He gripped his chin. "Sounds like a Slurper Slug. Theyre common around these parts." "A slug?" "Correct, but were not talking your garden-variety slug." He laughed-actually, he exclaimed ha-ha. "A little paranormal humor for you, Jake my boy. These peculiar and particularly gross slugs infest closets and crawl spaces. You havent been keeping anything tasty in your closet, have you?" "Thats where I put my Halloween candy." "Slurper Slug, then, guaranteed. Theyre not dangerous, just revolting. They could make a mortician barf his biscuits. If you let one hang around hell call his buddies and before long youve got an infestation on your hands." He rooted through his toolbox for a pouch of fine red powder. "This is cochineal, made from the crushed shells of beetles. Its used in containment spells." He laid down a line of powder in the shape of a keyhole: "This," he said, pointing to the circle, "is the trap. The Slurper Slug will traipse up this path, se Details ISBN0143133934 Author Craig Davidson Pages 224 Language English Year 2019 ISBN-10 0143133934 ISBN-13 9780143133933 Format Paperback Publication Date 2019-07-09 Imprint Penguin USA Subtitle A Novel Country of Publication United States DEWEY 813.6 Place of Publication New York Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Short Title The Saturday Night Ghost Club US Release Date 2019-07-09 UK Release Date 2019-07-09 Narrator Andy Full Cast Illustrator Ted Hammond Position Professor of Early Medieval History Translator Andreas Mayor Edited by Sarah Hasted Birth 1868 Death 1936 Affiliation University of Bath, UK Qualifications M.S., RN-CS, Pnp Audience General NZ Release Date 2019-07-08 AU Release Date 2019-07-08 We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:124844302;

Price: 25.87 AUD

Location: Melbourne

End Time: 2024-11-16T02:43:18.000Z

Shipping Cost: 0 AUD