Mystery
![Blake Crouch - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_blake_crouch.jpg)
Abandon: A Novel
A century-old mystery-and a desperate battle to survive-unfold in this standalone thriller from the New York Times bestselling author of Dark Matter and Recursion.
On Christmas Day in 1893, every man, woman, and child in a remote mining town disappeared, belongings forsaken, meals left to freeze in vacant cabins, and not a single bone found.
Now, journalist Abigail Foster and her historian father have set out to explore the long-abandoned town and learn what happened. With them are two backcountry guides-along with a psychic and a paranormal photographer who are there to investigate rumors that the town is haunted.
But Abigail and her companions are about to learn that the town's ghosts are the least of their worries. Twenty miles from civilization, with a blizzard bearing down, they realize they are not alone.
The ordeal that follows will test this small team past the breaking point as they battle the elements and human foes alike-and discover that the town's secrets still have the power to kill.
Part journey into old-West history, part nail-biting survival thriller, Abandon is a bloody, darkly surprising tale as only Blake Crouch could deliver.
On Christmas Day in 1893, every man, woman, and child in a remote mining town disappeared, belongings forsaken, meals left to freeze in vacant cabins, and not a single bone found.
Now, journalist Abigail Foster and her historian father have set out to explore the long-abandoned town and learn what happened. With them are two backcountry guides-along with a psychic and a paranormal photographer who are there to investigate rumors that the town is haunted.
But Abigail and her companions are about to learn that the town's ghosts are the least of their worries. Twenty miles from civilization, with a blizzard bearing down, they realize they are not alone.
The ordeal that follows will test this small team past the breaking point as they battle the elements and human foes alike-and discover that the town's secrets still have the power to kill.
Part journey into old-West history, part nail-biting survival thriller, Abandon is a bloody, darkly surprising tale as only Blake Crouch could deliver.
Editorial Reviews
Blake Crouch's novels are . . .
"Gloriously twisting."-The New York Times Book Review
"Mind-blowing."-Entertainment Weekly
"Action-packed and brilliantly unique."-Andy Weir
"Relatable and unnerving." -USA Today
"Jet-propelled."-NPR
"Wildly entertaining."-AV Club
"Masterful."-Harlan Coben
"Gloriously twisting."-The New York Times Book Review
"Mind-blowing."-Entertainment Weekly
"Action-packed and brilliantly unique."-Andy Weir
"Relatable and unnerving." -USA Today
"Jet-propelled."-NPR
"Wildly entertaining."-AV Club
"Masterful."-Harlan Coben
Readers Top Reviews
RackmanPensionerM
This gritty thriller has an excellent setup and is very well-written. Crouch has an excellent sense of place and atmosphere which he uses to great effect here. The narrative takes place in two different historical settings - the eerie and menacing events of 1893 and the contemporary treasure hunt inspired by the same historical events. Sadly, the intriguing and immersive opening gets lost, mainly due to the contemporary storyline. The historical part remains strongly told and increasingly intriguing whereas the contemporary narrative degenerates rapidly into a schlocky bloodbath that reminded me of the film Cliffhanger. Characters suddenly pop up here and there and are usually dead by daybreak. It's a strange narrative choice which ultimately detached me from the story and caused me frustration. This detachment really affected my ability to swallow the premise of the denouement, which came off a bit rushed and entirely unbelievable. I'd give this 3.5 stars rounded up to 4 because of the quality of the writing and the intriguing premise. The historical part of the story gets a solid five stars.
MarinaLRackmanPen
A tale of the lost town of ‘Abandon’, where all of the inhabitants curiously disappeared on Christmas Day 1893, apparently having left their homes in an almighty hurry. Interwoven with this is the mystery of one of the wealthiest inhabitants of the town, Bart Packer, and the part that his gold played in the sudden disappearance of everyone. The story is explained by reference to a 2009 expedition which goes back to ‘Abandon’, in an effort to locate the remains of the townspeople and the missing gold. Of course, the expedition doesn’t go according to plan and whatever can go wrong, does. The situation is not helped by the worsening weather conditions and at an elevation of 12-13000 feet in the San Juan Mountain range in the Rockies, the group experience plummeting temperatures and blizzard conditions. Furthermore, there is a second, far more deadly group out there, also intent on laying their hands on ‘Packer’s Gold’ and not afraid to use lethal force to do so. An excellent story, exciting and very fast-paced. The only criticism I would have (and it’s not much of one really), is that some of the 1893 conversation is completely unintelligible. For example, Kindle page 159:- “I know it, Doc, and you’re slick-heeled. Hope that cremello a yours is clear-footed.” “Don’t worry. She may be light in the timber, but she’s lady-broke and she’s got bottom.” Ahhhh, yes – got it, I think??? (Actually, I'm still not too sure what it means really ...)
Raven1948MarinaLR
You should make this book into a movie. It would be great. Its the 3rd time I’ve read it. Love it!
The Cool GuyRaven
I was going to be very critical and say a bunch of negative stuff, but decided not to. Heck, the author has gotten published and is making money - can't argue with that success! If I were to name some constructive criticism areas where this author could improve, I would say: 1. Sometimes less is better when it comes to characters. There's a lot of different people to try to keep up with in this story. Culling a few of them would have made this easier for a reader like me. 2. While it's great that you did good research (hooray!), it is not necessary to show this off so much in your details. For example, we as readers do not care about the brand names of items used in this story, such as a "Clif" bar, or a "North Face" jacket, or that a baby cradle is a "mail-order" cradle. Honestly, it's distracting. Likewise, while it's cool that you studied guns for this book, we don't need to read every single little detail of how a certain gun works in order to push the story forward. I seriously don't care to read all the gun details. It kind of goes with the brand name thing. While I guess it could lend an air of authenticity, to me it comes off as the author trying to show off all his newfound knowledge just for showing off's sake. As far as the story goes, it took a long time to get anywhere, and I thought it was really cheesy in parts. But about halfway through, it did finally hook me and made me want to finish it. So good job, there. It had a fairly creepy villain, I thought. Also, I think that the idea of interweaving a past and future story into one coherent tale is a highly ambitious project, so I salute you being able to pull that off. Kind Regards, TCG
GhostThe Cool Guy
I just finished this novel and I gotta say, I really liked it (for the most part). Set in a fictional ghost town in the Colorado high country, this book grabs you hard from the start and wrings your emotions until you are left as drained as the protagonist. The book takes place in four days over two time periods and leaves you breathless as the author weaves his tale of greed, Godlessness and immorality in the town of Abandon. I have visited many, many Colorado ghost towns in my life and have never found one in the condition in which this author describes his fictional town. I realize he wants to give the reader a ghost town they can relate to, but his descriptions of mining era buildings containing stoves, large pots, couches, chairs, windows (with most of the glass intact), bars with 100+ year old bottles of booze etc., are nothing more than pure fantasy. There is only one true ghost town I have ever visited which remains in the state of suspended decay which he describes and that is the town of Bodie, in California. Oh well, his tale is still, for the most part, brilliantly told and has you feeling, hearing, seeing and smelling his creation. Very well written and edited, this offering will keep you turning the pages as you move through its body toward the conclusion. There is violence and, true to life, the descriptions are...violent; gee, who would have guessed??? There is foul language, something not unusual now nor then. There is a pervading sense of dread and mystery and suspense, and they all meld together beautifully to blow you away with the ultimate conclusion of the tale. Bravo! A masterfully crafted novel with all the earmarks of an author who is destined to become hugely successful. With a few tiny changes, this one would be five stars all the way!
Short Excerpt Teaser
CHAPTER 1
Abigail Foster stared through the windshield at the expired parking meter. Her fingers strangled the steering wheel, knuckles blanching, hands beginning to cramp. This had all seemed like such a good idea a month ago back in New York when she'd pitched the article to Margot, her editor at Great Outdoors. Now, on the verge of seeing him for the first time in twenty-six years, she realized she'd done herself the disservice of glossing over this moment and the fact that she'd have to walk into that building and face him.
Her watch showed five minutes to seven, which meant it was five to five, Mountain Time. She'd sat in this parking space for twenty minutes, and he was probably about to leave, thinking she'd decided not to come. The hostess showed her toward the back of the brewpub, which at five in the afternoon stood mostly empty. Peanut shells littered the floor, crunching beneath the heels of her black pumps, and the reek of brewing beer infused the air with a yeasty sourness. The hostess held the back door open and motioned to the only occupied table on the patio.
Abigail stepped outside, smoothed the Cavalli skirt she'd paid way too much for last year in Milan.
The doubt resurfaced. She shouldn't have come. No story was worth this.
He sat alone with his back to her at a west-facing table, with the town of Durango, Colorado, spread out before him in its high valley, specked with the bright yellows of cottonwood and aspen, enclosed by pine-wooded hills and bare shale hills and, farther back, the spruce forests and jagged peaks of the San Juans.
The sound of the patio door banging shut caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder, and at the sight of her, slid his chair back from the table and stood-tall, sturdy, wavy silver hair, dark blues, and dressed like something out of Backpacker magazine-plaid Patagonia button-up shirt tucked into a comfortable pair of jeans, Teva sandals.
She felt that knot constricting in her stomach again, noticed his left hand trembling. He seized the chair he'd been sitting in to steady it.
"Hi, Lawrence."
She knew he was fifty-two, but he'd aged even better than his photo on the history department's website indicated.
No handshake, no hug, just five seconds of what Abigail ranked as the most excruciating eye contact she'd ever held.
Easing down into a chair, she counted three empty pints on the table, wished she'd had the benefit of alcohol to steel herself for this meeting.
She rifled through her purse, found her sunglasses. It was Halloween, and though the air carried a chill, at this elevation the intensity of direct sunlight made it pleasant to sit outdoors.
"I'm glad you came," Lawrence said.
A waiter costumed as a hula dancer approached the table.
"Want a beer, Abigail?" Lawrence asked.
"Sure."
"They have a bunch of different-"
"I don't care. Something light."
He said to the waiter, "Bring her a Rock Hopped Pale."
"Right on."
The whistle of a steam-powered locomotive blew somewhere up the valley. Abigail saw the plume of smoke in the distance, heard the chugging palpitations of the valve gears as the train steamed south through the heart of town.
"I don't have any backpacking gear," she said.
"Scott will outfit you."
"Who's Scott?"
"Our guide."
The silence, uncomfortable as it came, crawled under her skin. "Pretty town you have here."
She couldn't help thinking this didn't feel anything like she'd imagined it would. Having run countless versions of this moment through her head, they'd all carried more gravitas. She would scream at him. She'd hit him. They'd break down and cry together. He'd apologize. She'd accept. She wouldn't. Now she understood none of that would happen.
They were just two people sharing a table, trying to limp through the awkwardness.
"I'm curious," she said. "All this time, and now you contact me."
"I've followed your journalism career, subscribe to all the magazines you contribute to, and I thought this . . . expedition . . . might be good fodder for your-"
"But you haven't been interested in helping me since I was four years old."
Lawrence slugged back the rest of his dark beer, stared at the mountains, wiped the foam from his beard.
Abigail said, "That came out more angry than-"
"No, it's fine. You've got standing to be as angry as you want."
"I'm not, though."
The patio door opened and the waiter returned with Abigail's pint and another round for Lawrence.
When he'd left, she raised her glass.
"Lawrence," she said, "here's to our p...
Abigail Foster stared through the windshield at the expired parking meter. Her fingers strangled the steering wheel, knuckles blanching, hands beginning to cramp. This had all seemed like such a good idea a month ago back in New York when she'd pitched the article to Margot, her editor at Great Outdoors. Now, on the verge of seeing him for the first time in twenty-six years, she realized she'd done herself the disservice of glossing over this moment and the fact that she'd have to walk into that building and face him.
Her watch showed five minutes to seven, which meant it was five to five, Mountain Time. She'd sat in this parking space for twenty minutes, and he was probably about to leave, thinking she'd decided not to come. The hostess showed her toward the back of the brewpub, which at five in the afternoon stood mostly empty. Peanut shells littered the floor, crunching beneath the heels of her black pumps, and the reek of brewing beer infused the air with a yeasty sourness. The hostess held the back door open and motioned to the only occupied table on the patio.
Abigail stepped outside, smoothed the Cavalli skirt she'd paid way too much for last year in Milan.
The doubt resurfaced. She shouldn't have come. No story was worth this.
He sat alone with his back to her at a west-facing table, with the town of Durango, Colorado, spread out before him in its high valley, specked with the bright yellows of cottonwood and aspen, enclosed by pine-wooded hills and bare shale hills and, farther back, the spruce forests and jagged peaks of the San Juans.
The sound of the patio door banging shut caught his attention. He looked over his shoulder, and at the sight of her, slid his chair back from the table and stood-tall, sturdy, wavy silver hair, dark blues, and dressed like something out of Backpacker magazine-plaid Patagonia button-up shirt tucked into a comfortable pair of jeans, Teva sandals.
She felt that knot constricting in her stomach again, noticed his left hand trembling. He seized the chair he'd been sitting in to steady it.
"Hi, Lawrence."
She knew he was fifty-two, but he'd aged even better than his photo on the history department's website indicated.
No handshake, no hug, just five seconds of what Abigail ranked as the most excruciating eye contact she'd ever held.
Easing down into a chair, she counted three empty pints on the table, wished she'd had the benefit of alcohol to steel herself for this meeting.
She rifled through her purse, found her sunglasses. It was Halloween, and though the air carried a chill, at this elevation the intensity of direct sunlight made it pleasant to sit outdoors.
"I'm glad you came," Lawrence said.
A waiter costumed as a hula dancer approached the table.
"Want a beer, Abigail?" Lawrence asked.
"Sure."
"They have a bunch of different-"
"I don't care. Something light."
He said to the waiter, "Bring her a Rock Hopped Pale."
"Right on."
The whistle of a steam-powered locomotive blew somewhere up the valley. Abigail saw the plume of smoke in the distance, heard the chugging palpitations of the valve gears as the train steamed south through the heart of town.
"I don't have any backpacking gear," she said.
"Scott will outfit you."
"Who's Scott?"
"Our guide."
The silence, uncomfortable as it came, crawled under her skin. "Pretty town you have here."
She couldn't help thinking this didn't feel anything like she'd imagined it would. Having run countless versions of this moment through her head, they'd all carried more gravitas. She would scream at him. She'd hit him. They'd break down and cry together. He'd apologize. She'd accept. She wouldn't. Now she understood none of that would happen.
They were just two people sharing a table, trying to limp through the awkwardness.
"I'm curious," she said. "All this time, and now you contact me."
"I've followed your journalism career, subscribe to all the magazines you contribute to, and I thought this . . . expedition . . . might be good fodder for your-"
"But you haven't been interested in helping me since I was four years old."
Lawrence slugged back the rest of his dark beer, stared at the mountains, wiped the foam from his beard.
Abigail said, "That came out more angry than-"
"No, it's fine. You've got standing to be as angry as you want."
"I'm not, though."
The patio door opened and the waiter returned with Abigail's pint and another round for Lawrence.
When he'd left, she raised her glass.
"Lawrence," she said, "here's to our p...
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