Genre Fiction
![Jimmy Juliano - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B0BJQNPK93.jpg)
Dead Eleven: A Novel
"An ominously slow burn...Keep the lights on for this one."-A PEOPLE MUST-READ FOR SUMMER
"Very creepy...you've been warned."-R.L. STINE
"Gripping."-ANA REYES
On a creepy island where everyone has a strange obsession with the year 1994, a newcomer arrives, hoping to learn the truth about her son's death-but finds herself pulled deeper and deeper into the bizarrely insular community and their complicated rules…
Clifford Island. When Willow Stone finds these words written on the floor of her deceased son's bedroom, she's perplexed. She's never heard of it before, but soon learns it's a tiny island off Wisconsin's Door County peninsula, 200 miles from Willow's home. Why would her son write this on his floor? Determined to find answers, Willow sets out for the island.
After a few days on Clifford, Willow realizes: This place is not normal. Everyone seems to be stuck in a particular day in 1994: They wear outdated clothing, avoid modern technology, and, perhaps most mystifyingly, watch the OJ Simpson car chase every evening. When she asks questions, people are evasive, but she learns one thing: Close your curtains at night.
High schooler Lily Becker has lived on Clifford her entire life, and she is sick of the island's twisted mythology and adhering to the rules. She's been to the mainland, and everyone is normal there, so why is Clifford so weird? Lily is determined to prove that the islanders' beliefs are a sham. But are they?
Five weeks after Willow arrives on the island, she disappears. Willow's brother, Harper, comes to Clifford searching for his sister, and when he learns the truth-that this island is far more sinister than anyone could have imagined-he is determined to blow the whole thing open.
If he can get out alive....
"Very creepy...you've been warned."-R.L. STINE
"Gripping."-ANA REYES
On a creepy island where everyone has a strange obsession with the year 1994, a newcomer arrives, hoping to learn the truth about her son's death-but finds herself pulled deeper and deeper into the bizarrely insular community and their complicated rules…
Clifford Island. When Willow Stone finds these words written on the floor of her deceased son's bedroom, she's perplexed. She's never heard of it before, but soon learns it's a tiny island off Wisconsin's Door County peninsula, 200 miles from Willow's home. Why would her son write this on his floor? Determined to find answers, Willow sets out for the island.
After a few days on Clifford, Willow realizes: This place is not normal. Everyone seems to be stuck in a particular day in 1994: They wear outdated clothing, avoid modern technology, and, perhaps most mystifyingly, watch the OJ Simpson car chase every evening. When she asks questions, people are evasive, but she learns one thing: Close your curtains at night.
High schooler Lily Becker has lived on Clifford her entire life, and she is sick of the island's twisted mythology and adhering to the rules. She's been to the mainland, and everyone is normal there, so why is Clifford so weird? Lily is determined to prove that the islanders' beliefs are a sham. But are they?
Five weeks after Willow arrives on the island, she disappears. Willow's brother, Harper, comes to Clifford searching for his sister, and when he learns the truth-that this island is far more sinister than anyone could have imagined-he is determined to blow the whole thing open.
If he can get out alive....
Editorial Reviews
"[A] breathtaking debut thriller... Juliano draws memorable characters and places them in an indelible setting, using artful prose and judicious dashes of dark humor to leave a major impression. It's a scary-good debut." -Publishers Weekly (STARRED REVIEW)
"A creepy, fast-paced blast from the past…Juliano comes as a new voice in horror, perfect for fans of Stephen King, Grady Hendrix, and Paul Tremblay." -Booklist
"An ominously slow burn set on a creepy fictional island that appears stuck in the past. When a woman vanishes, residents and visitors dig into the strange local mythology. Keep the lights on for this one." -People
"Very creepy. Dreadfully creepy. Chillingly creepy. Horrifically creepy. You've been warned."
-R.L. Stine, New York Times bestselling author ofGoosebumpsand Fear Street
"Dead Eleven brought me right back to the nineties with its VHS tapes, Pogs and Trapper Keepers, balancing nostalgia and terror to explore the dangers of living in the past. If you liked Netflix's Stranger Things and Dark, don't miss Jimmy Juliano's gripping horror debut."
-Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines
"Dead Eleven is a strikingly original treasure chest of horror, suspense and nostalgia. I've never read anything like it. Jimmy Juliano is a first-rate storyteller. I was spellbound from the opening page." -Richard Chizmar, New York Times bestselling author of Chasing The Boogeyman
"A captivating mystery – not unlike the story's island – which draws you in and may never let you go. Jimmy Juliano proves how ef...
"A creepy, fast-paced blast from the past…Juliano comes as a new voice in horror, perfect for fans of Stephen King, Grady Hendrix, and Paul Tremblay." -Booklist
"An ominously slow burn set on a creepy fictional island that appears stuck in the past. When a woman vanishes, residents and visitors dig into the strange local mythology. Keep the lights on for this one." -People
"Very creepy. Dreadfully creepy. Chillingly creepy. Horrifically creepy. You've been warned."
-R.L. Stine, New York Times bestselling author ofGoosebumpsand Fear Street
"Dead Eleven brought me right back to the nineties with its VHS tapes, Pogs and Trapper Keepers, balancing nostalgia and terror to explore the dangers of living in the past. If you liked Netflix's Stranger Things and Dark, don't miss Jimmy Juliano's gripping horror debut."
-Ana Reyes, New York Times bestselling author of The House in the Pines
"Dead Eleven is a strikingly original treasure chest of horror, suspense and nostalgia. I've never read anything like it. Jimmy Juliano is a first-rate storyteller. I was spellbound from the opening page." -Richard Chizmar, New York Times bestselling author of Chasing The Boogeyman
"A captivating mystery – not unlike the story's island – which draws you in and may never let you go. Jimmy Juliano proves how ef...
Readers Top Reviews
C.G.
I love reading r/nosleep stories; My bf and I read them to each other in the hopes of actually and hopefully scaring the other. One particular subgenre? trope? we enjoy are the stories that have rules that need to be followed lest something terrible should happen. I had absolutely no idea Dead Eleven was written by an aforementioned NoSleep writer, or that this book would be a much beloved "rules horror" story 🥰 I requested this book based almost entirely on that incredible cover. I'm a collector of horror VHS, and it was obviously quite fitting to the story - which I was also intrigued by. I absolutely loved this book! It was honestly everything I look for in a book, and double that sentiment regarding horror. I loved the characters, especially Lily and Willow. I loved every 90's reference. I loved the creepy, sussy, isolated setting of Clifford Island. I've read so many books recently with multiple POV and time lines, to the point I was worried I was burnt out on the concept, but it was well-done here and easy to follow. Dead Eleven is a fun, creepy read that's sure to keep readers awake in fear. I vacillated between a 4 or 5 for this one, but ultimately decided on a 4 due to a few issues I had with the ending. That being said, I've already recommended this book and would happily read another book from Jimmy Juliano.
AlixCarole Wooten
2.5 stars I really didn’t like the format of this book because it felt very gimmicky. It’s a mix of letters, text messages, interviews, and articles not to mention the multiple character POV’s. The mixed format resulted in a lack of depth in the story. I also had a difficult time forming any connection to the characters; they are all very surface level. The overall mystery was certainly interesting but it was clear by the halfway point what was going on. I felt this book was way too long and it could have been written as a novella. Because of the length and slow pacing, it lacked any tension and the climax wasn’t as impactful as it should have been. Juliano’s style of writing and way of telling the story simply didn’t work for me. This could have been a genuinely creepy horror story if he had incorporated more descriptive details in order to create a foreboding atmosphere. Honestly, this book had so much potential but I was unfortunately let down by the execution.
Kindle
This was a good book, but I am not so into monster stories. With that said, I could like a good Stephen King monster story. Good, but, not Stephen King.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
The Old Woman and the Corpse
Esther and Gloria had a routine.
Every day at 1:12 p.m., the elderly neighbors would shuffle to their mailboxes-Esther on one side of the gravel road, Gloria on the other-and they'd wave to each other. The widows owned the only two houses on a rural, one-mile stretch of road on Clifford Island. Their properties had been cut into the forest a half century ago, their homes engulfed by pine trees, with hidden driveways peeking through thin gaps in the sweet and earthy-smelling woods. Not many cars went that way; some days it was only the mail truck. The fog was a bit heavier at this particular spot, and despite the lack of island traffic, more deer seemed to dart out and get obliterated there than any other place on the island. The stench of rotting flesh lingered for days. Something to remind the women that death could sneak up at any moment.
They were a superstitious pair, after all.
The women's routine went like this: Esther walked down her driveway wearing blue slippers, gray cotton pants, and a red cardigan. She reached her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who would be wearing a faded white nightgown. Gloria waved back. The women checked for mail and then doddered back up their driveways.
It went like that every day, rain or shine, sleet or snow, for twenty-five years.
Many days there was no mail delivered. Christmas, the Fourth of July, Sundays, of course. But sometimes there was just no mail. No letters, no bills, no JCPenney catalog. The mail truck drove right by, or simply didn't come at all. The women checked their mailboxes anyway, always at 1:12 p.m. If it was colder outside-and it certainly got very cold this far north, especially in the clutches of a Wisconsin winter-Esther and Gloria bundled up in jackets and mittens. But Esther always wore the gray pants and cardigan underneath, and Gloria always wore the nightgown. It was tradition.
The two women lived alone for decades, but they were far from bored. Esther played cribbage at the small community center on Thursday nights. Both women sang in the church choir on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Gloria enjoyed tending to her garden; Esther had a chicken coop. They often exchanged pleasantries at the café downtown, usually commiserating about the runny eggs and burnt coffee. Esther and Gloria were friendly, but they weren't friends. Some islanders wondered why they weren't friends, as if being old and alone meant you had to be friends with your neighbor, who was also old and alone. They'd even get asked that question from time to time. Why don't you drive together to church? You live across the street. But both women felt that they couldn't be friends. They knew their bond ran deeper than friendship.
The 1:12 ceremony was their purpose. It started one afternoon, and then they found that they needed to do it every day. The routine was all they needed and all they wanted from each other, and both women would be damned if they'd be the one to break the streak. It gave a sense of structure to their lives, a sense of balance to their little corner of the universe. It made Esther and Gloria feel that the things they did mattered, that someone else depended on them. No one else had depended on them for a really long time.
Check time. Open door. Walk down driveway. Wave. Open mailbox. Walk up driveway.
Every day.
Twenty-five years.
But then, one unseasonably warm October afternoon, Gloria wasn't at her mailbox. The moment Esther stepped outside her front door, she knew something was wrong. The world felt different, and she couldn't explain it. Esther walked past her mailbox, across the road, and up Gloria's driveway. She hadn't been to Gloria's house in years, and she felt like she was trespassing. Her chest tightened, and her pace quickened. She knew she had to do this, and she wanted to get it over with quickly.
The front door was unlocked. Esther clasped the handle and gave the door a gentle push, thinking how strange it was to open a front door that wasn't her own. The weight, the squeak. It felt so utterly foreign to her.
"Gloria?" Esther called out. Nothing. She felt the dread spread throughout her belly. She had a feeling about what she was about to find, and she just hoped it wasn't gruesome and that it wouldn't cause her to heave her small lunch of an English muffin and cottage cheese onto Gloria's floor. Esther rounded the corner into the living room, and there it was: Gloria's body slumped in a brown recliner.
"Oh, Gloria," Esther whispered.
Gloria was dead. Esther knew that immediately, and her first thought was relief-it was not a gruesome sight at all, and her lunch stayed put right where she'd...
The Old Woman and the Corpse
Esther and Gloria had a routine.
Every day at 1:12 p.m., the elderly neighbors would shuffle to their mailboxes-Esther on one side of the gravel road, Gloria on the other-and they'd wave to each other. The widows owned the only two houses on a rural, one-mile stretch of road on Clifford Island. Their properties had been cut into the forest a half century ago, their homes engulfed by pine trees, with hidden driveways peeking through thin gaps in the sweet and earthy-smelling woods. Not many cars went that way; some days it was only the mail truck. The fog was a bit heavier at this particular spot, and despite the lack of island traffic, more deer seemed to dart out and get obliterated there than any other place on the island. The stench of rotting flesh lingered for days. Something to remind the women that death could sneak up at any moment.
They were a superstitious pair, after all.
The women's routine went like this: Esther walked down her driveway wearing blue slippers, gray cotton pants, and a red cardigan. She reached her mailbox and raised her right hand to Gloria, who would be wearing a faded white nightgown. Gloria waved back. The women checked for mail and then doddered back up their driveways.
It went like that every day, rain or shine, sleet or snow, for twenty-five years.
Many days there was no mail delivered. Christmas, the Fourth of July, Sundays, of course. But sometimes there was just no mail. No letters, no bills, no JCPenney catalog. The mail truck drove right by, or simply didn't come at all. The women checked their mailboxes anyway, always at 1:12 p.m. If it was colder outside-and it certainly got very cold this far north, especially in the clutches of a Wisconsin winter-Esther and Gloria bundled up in jackets and mittens. But Esther always wore the gray pants and cardigan underneath, and Gloria always wore the nightgown. It was tradition.
The two women lived alone for decades, but they were far from bored. Esther played cribbage at the small community center on Thursday nights. Both women sang in the church choir on Wednesdays, Saturdays, and Sundays. Gloria enjoyed tending to her garden; Esther had a chicken coop. They often exchanged pleasantries at the café downtown, usually commiserating about the runny eggs and burnt coffee. Esther and Gloria were friendly, but they weren't friends. Some islanders wondered why they weren't friends, as if being old and alone meant you had to be friends with your neighbor, who was also old and alone. They'd even get asked that question from time to time. Why don't you drive together to church? You live across the street. But both women felt that they couldn't be friends. They knew their bond ran deeper than friendship.
The 1:12 ceremony was their purpose. It started one afternoon, and then they found that they needed to do it every day. The routine was all they needed and all they wanted from each other, and both women would be damned if they'd be the one to break the streak. It gave a sense of structure to their lives, a sense of balance to their little corner of the universe. It made Esther and Gloria feel that the things they did mattered, that someone else depended on them. No one else had depended on them for a really long time.
Check time. Open door. Walk down driveway. Wave. Open mailbox. Walk up driveway.
Every day.
Twenty-five years.
But then, one unseasonably warm October afternoon, Gloria wasn't at her mailbox. The moment Esther stepped outside her front door, she knew something was wrong. The world felt different, and she couldn't explain it. Esther walked past her mailbox, across the road, and up Gloria's driveway. She hadn't been to Gloria's house in years, and she felt like she was trespassing. Her chest tightened, and her pace quickened. She knew she had to do this, and she wanted to get it over with quickly.
The front door was unlocked. Esther clasped the handle and gave the door a gentle push, thinking how strange it was to open a front door that wasn't her own. The weight, the squeak. It felt so utterly foreign to her.
"Gloria?" Esther called out. Nothing. She felt the dread spread throughout her belly. She had a feeling about what she was about to find, and she just hoped it wasn't gruesome and that it wouldn't cause her to heave her small lunch of an English muffin and cottage cheese onto Gloria's floor. Esther rounded the corner into the living room, and there it was: Gloria's body slumped in a brown recliner.
"Oh, Gloria," Esther whispered.
Gloria was dead. Esther knew that immediately, and her first thought was relief-it was not a gruesome sight at all, and her lunch stayed put right where she'd...
