NOS4A2: A Novel
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NOS4A2 is a spine-tingling novel of supernatural suspense from master of horror Joe Hill, the New York Times bestselling author of Heart-Shaped Box and Horns.
Victoria McQueen has a secret gift for finding things: a misplaced bracelet, a missing photograph, answers to unanswerable questions. On her Raleigh Tuff Burner bike, she makes her way to a rickety covered bridge that, within moments, takes her wherever she needs to go, whether it’s across Massachusetts or across the country.
Charles Talent Manx has a way with children. He likes to take them for rides in his 1938 Rolls-Royce Wraith with the NOS4A2 vanity plate. With his old car, he can slip right out of the everyday world, and onto the hidden roads that transport them to an astonishing – and terrifying – playground of amusements he calls “Christmasland.”
Then, one day, Vic goes looking for trouble—and finds Manx. That was a lifetime ago. Now Vic, the only kid to ever escape Manx’s unmitigated evil, is all grown up and desperate to forget. But Charlie Manx never stopped thinking about Victoria McQueen. He’s on the road again and he’s picked up a new passenger: Vic’s own son.
Exclusive to the print editions of NOS4A2 are more than 15 illustrations by award-winning Locke & Key artist Gabriel Rodríguez.
ever knowing what was a sparrow and what was a blackbird, but we all know a swan when we see it. So it was with cars. Maybe you could not tell a Firebird from a Fiero, but when you saw a Rolls-Royce, you knew it. Bing smiled to see it and felt his heart fill with a rush of blood, and he thought, Now. He will open the door, and he will say, “Are you the young man, Bing Partridge, who wrote about a job at Christmasland?”—and my life will begin. My life will begin at last. The door did not open,
disappeared almost to the elbow, and Vic heard what sounded like hundreds of tiles grinding and clattering around. Maggie came up with another fistful, let them fall. FUFUFUFU “Fuck me? Fuck me?” Maggie cried. “Throw my earrings back in my face? Fff-f-ff-fuh-fuck you.” She plucked her cigarette out of her mouth, but before she could sink it into her own arm, Vic sat up, caught her wrist. “Don’t,” Vic said. The room swooped this way and that, as if Vic were sitting in a swing. Still, she held
wall, to her left, in green spray paint. SLEIGH HOUSE 1996 Haverhill VIC BENT, GRABBED A PIECE OF SHALE, AND FLUNG IT UNDERHANDED out onto the bridge. It hit the wood with a bang, skipped and bounced. There was a faint rustle of movement from above. The bats. It seemed a sturdy enough hallucination. Although maybe she had also hallucinated the piece of shale. There were two ways to test the bridge. She could roll forward another twelve inches, put the front tire on it. If it was
legs to stop shaking. She did not, at first, really believe that Manx was gone. She felt he was waiting for her to throw herself against the door, hammering against it and pleading to be let out. She could hear the fire. She heard things popping and cracking in the heat. The wallpaper sizzled with a crispy fizzling sound, like someone pitching handfuls of pine needles into a campfire. Vic put her ear to the door, to better hear the other room. But at the first touch of skin to metal, she
and made ugly faces. She threw the papers back at her. Their voices had carried, not well but well enough for Bing to hear one of them say “Manx.” Bing had wanted to wake Mr. Manx up, but you couldn’t wake him up when he was like he was. Because he isn’t really asleep, Bing thought, then shoved the unhappy notion aside. He had been in the bedroom once to look at Mr. Manx, lying on top of the sheets wearing nothing but boxer shorts. A great Y was cut into his chest and held shut with coarse