United States
![Erin E. Adams - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_a_erin_e_adams.jpg)
Jackal: A Novel
A young Black girl goes missing in the woods outside her white rust belt town. But she's not the first-and she may not be the last. . . .
"I read this thriller that is Get Out meets The Vanishing Half in one night."-BuzzFeed
A PHENOMENAL BOOK CLUB PICK
It's watching.
Liz Rocher is coming home . . . reluctantly. As a Black woman, Liz doesn't exactly have fond memories of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, a predominantly white town. But her best friend is getting married, so she braces herself for a weekend of awkward, passive-aggressive reunions. Liz has grown, though; she can handle whatever awaits her. But on the day of the wedding, somewhere between dancing and dessert, the couple's daughter, Caroline, disappears-and the only thing left behind is a piece of white fabric covered in blood.
It's taking.
As a frantic search begins, with the police combing the trees for Caroline, Liz is the only one who notices a pattern: A summer night. A missing girl. A party in the woods. She's seen this before. Keisha Woodson, the only other Black girl in Liz's high school, walked into the woods with a mysterious man and was later found with her chest cavity ripped open and her heart removed. Liz shudders at the thought that it could have been her, and now, with Caroline missing, it can't be a coincidence. As Liz starts to dig through the town's history, she uncovers a horrifying secret about the place she once called home. Children have been going missing in these woods for years. All of them Black. All of them girls.
It's your turn.
With the evil in the forest creeping closer, Liz knows what she must do: find Caroline, or be entirely consumed by the darkness.
"I read this thriller that is Get Out meets The Vanishing Half in one night."-BuzzFeed
A PHENOMENAL BOOK CLUB PICK
It's watching.
Liz Rocher is coming home . . . reluctantly. As a Black woman, Liz doesn't exactly have fond memories of Johnstown, Pennsylvania, a predominantly white town. But her best friend is getting married, so she braces herself for a weekend of awkward, passive-aggressive reunions. Liz has grown, though; she can handle whatever awaits her. But on the day of the wedding, somewhere between dancing and dessert, the couple's daughter, Caroline, disappears-and the only thing left behind is a piece of white fabric covered in blood.
It's taking.
As a frantic search begins, with the police combing the trees for Caroline, Liz is the only one who notices a pattern: A summer night. A missing girl. A party in the woods. She's seen this before. Keisha Woodson, the only other Black girl in Liz's high school, walked into the woods with a mysterious man and was later found with her chest cavity ripped open and her heart removed. Liz shudders at the thought that it could have been her, and now, with Caroline missing, it can't be a coincidence. As Liz starts to dig through the town's history, she uncovers a horrifying secret about the place she once called home. Children have been going missing in these woods for years. All of them Black. All of them girls.
It's your turn.
With the evil in the forest creeping closer, Liz knows what she must do: find Caroline, or be entirely consumed by the darkness.
Editorial Reviews
"A heady, page-turning, all-too-relevant reinvention of the return-to-home horror story-truly gut-wrenching and frightening."-Paul Tremblay, author of A Head Full of Ghosts and The Pallbearers Club
"Real horror surrounds us in plain sight, nestled in the hearts of fiends who hide behind the barest of masks. Erin E. Adams takes you on a breathless ride with Jackal, revealing the courage it takes to stand up to monsters."-Alma Katsu, author of The Fervor and The Hunger
"A thrilling blend of detective story, turn-all-the-lights-on-in-your-house-while-reading horror, and social commentary about how often women of color, especially Black women, go missing and get little attention . . . It's an impressive and thoughtful debut."-Megan Giddings, author of The Women Could Fly
"Jackal is both a gripping thriller about missing girls and the dangers lurking in the woods, and a searing and brilliant dissection of what it means to be the ‘only one' in a small town and a Black woman in the United States of America. Liz Rocher will stay with me for a long time."-Stephanie Feldman, author of Saturnalia
"Vicious, sharp, and inventive-Jackal grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go. Erin E. Adams lures readers deep into the woods with electric prose and then cuts through the dark with a monstrous and haunting tale."-Deb Rogers, author of Florida Woman
"Jackal is a visceral, poetic read of mythic proportions. Adams's no-holds-barred mysterious plunge into the shadows is both tender and thrilling, buoyed by her incandescent prose and an unforgettable hero. Don't miss it."-Meredith Hambrock, author of Other People's Secrets
"This book will raise your blood pressure. It's a searing and achingly raw exploration of what it means to be Black in white spaces, of the contortionist act we are required to perform, the innocence stolen, and the monsters among us, all wrapped up in a suspenseful thriller that will fill you ...
"Real horror surrounds us in plain sight, nestled in the hearts of fiends who hide behind the barest of masks. Erin E. Adams takes you on a breathless ride with Jackal, revealing the courage it takes to stand up to monsters."-Alma Katsu, author of The Fervor and The Hunger
"A thrilling blend of detective story, turn-all-the-lights-on-in-your-house-while-reading horror, and social commentary about how often women of color, especially Black women, go missing and get little attention . . . It's an impressive and thoughtful debut."-Megan Giddings, author of The Women Could Fly
"Jackal is both a gripping thriller about missing girls and the dangers lurking in the woods, and a searing and brilliant dissection of what it means to be the ‘only one' in a small town and a Black woman in the United States of America. Liz Rocher will stay with me for a long time."-Stephanie Feldman, author of Saturnalia
"Vicious, sharp, and inventive-Jackal grabbed me by the throat and wouldn't let go. Erin E. Adams lures readers deep into the woods with electric prose and then cuts through the dark with a monstrous and haunting tale."-Deb Rogers, author of Florida Woman
"Jackal is a visceral, poetic read of mythic proportions. Adams's no-holds-barred mysterious plunge into the shadows is both tender and thrilling, buoyed by her incandescent prose and an unforgettable hero. Don't miss it."-Meredith Hambrock, author of Other People's Secrets
"This book will raise your blood pressure. It's a searing and achingly raw exploration of what it means to be Black in white spaces, of the contortionist act we are required to perform, the innocence stolen, and the monsters among us, all wrapped up in a suspenseful thriller that will fill you ...
Readers Top Reviews
Ann Bresnan
The Jackal (Erin E. Adams) is a multi-layered story about a serial killer but also about friendships and trust. The Jackal takes place in a small town, so many girls missing for so many years should have set off all kinds of alarms. Some of the missing were classified as runaways and because no body was found it stayed that way. At the end the tale kind of goes off the rails, but still a good story.
MichelleSuzi
Jackal is a book that defies all genres. A bit of horror, a bit of thriller, a bit of mystery, and a whole lot of suspense. Liz returns home to Johnstown, PA to attend her best friend, Melissa's, wedding. She is dreading this journey as she promised herself never to return. Tasked with keeping an eye on Melissa's daughter, Caroline, at the wedding she is shocked to find that Caroline disappeared when she hit the bar for a drink. Turns out that black girls have been disappearing on the summer solstice every year for the last thirty years and Liz is determined to not only find Caroline but to stop the monster that has been hunting them down after all these years. "A man and his shadow live in the trees. When they walk in time both are pleased. If one calls your name, or the other tempts you off the path, you must ignore both, or face their wrath." Such a juicy premise and beautifully written, so much so, that it pains me to say this story lost its way in the end. To be clear, this is probably more so a *me* thing. For the first 70% this was a solid 4 star read but as the loose ends started coming together and the motivations made clear my vision of it all only got muddied up. I would have rather that the book kept it's footing on solid, realistic ground instead of going all woo woo weird. Again, this is most assuredly a me thing and I do believe that this will be a momentous success for Erin E. Adams. And it should be. For a debut this an amazing accomplishment. The fact that she discusses racism and classism all while crafting an intricate story that moves seamlessly though multiple genres earns my respect as a reader. The stunning cover alone will have readers far and wide grabbing this off the shelves of bookstores, libraries, and Amazon. So while this didn't quite hit my sweet spot I'd be remiss in denying the allure and creativity of this story. 3 stars! Thank you to NetGalley and Random House Publishing Group - Ballantine for my complimentary copy.
Short Excerpt Teaser
ONE
June 17, 2017
Welcome to Johnstown: Home of the World's Steepest Vehicular Inclined Plane.
All of that, every single word, is emblazoned on a massive billboard visible about a mile outside of town. Because of the angle of the train's approach, the Inclined Plane is the first and only landmark I see. It means I've reached my final destination. The journey here has been rife with spotty cell service, dotted with tiny towns and abandoned industries consumed by thick forests. Yes. After fourteen years away, I, Liz Rocher, am returning to Johnstown, Pennsylvania. The rust belt.
Home.
I take another gulp of my train wine. The cheap varietal burns my palate. Varietal. Palate. Who do you think you are? There it is. Judgment. One of the many things I ran from when I left.
The train slows. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. With my thick natural hair and dark skin, my Appalachian origins are unexpected. I buzzed all my hair off a little over three months ago. It's finally settled into its new length. Returning home with no hair means no protection. That's why this trek required a trip to Harlem to get a decent wig. Her name is Valerie. On the box, she looked like a pop star. On me, she looks like a PTA mom. Between the wig and my rumpled business casual, I look like a mockery of what I've become: a "city girl." You'll never be rid of that backwoods, small-town stink. There it is again. My therapist, a tall white woman who gives me names for my feelings, would call that voice my anxiety. The tightness in my chest is my imposter syndrome. The occasional inability to catch my breath is a perfectionist tendency. Neat little notes in her records. My next sip of wine becomes a full gulp, finishing off the split.
"This stop is Johnstown, Pennsylvania."
I gather my things. My phone lights up with a notification from the office. Sales never sleeps. I've taken the weekend off, but I have work to do. I always have work to do. If I don't, I ask for more. The first time I did, my then-boss laughed and asked, "Trouble at home?" Implying that I didn't have ambition, I had misplaced avoidance. I smiled back at him with all my teeth. In two years, I had his job and an engagement ring on my finger. I don't have the ring anymore, but the work is a constant. Sometimes I wonder how he knew. I try to open the document but it refuses to load. A single bar of service flickers in and out. Great. I cling to my technology, like the rind of this place won't get on me if I'm shiny enough.
Moving into the aisle, I have to peel my dress pants off the backs of my thighs. I chose slacks over sweats because I feel powerful in a suit. In control. Every sweaty wrinkle threatens to break that illusion.
The train comes to a stop. What should have been an eight-hour journey became ten because of delays, and my body is sore and stiff. I turn my head to stretch my neck. A ligament pulls tight all the way down the center of my back, pinching right behind my heart. My eyes land on a red sign at the top of the open train door.
Exit.
My suitcase is above my head. One good pull and I can roll off this train. Or I could stay? Ride on to Pittsburgh. Take a flight back to New York.
My phone rings.
Melissa Parker.
How does she always know exactly when to call? I answer it.
"You're here!" she says.
I glance across the car, half expecting her to pop out from one of the empty seats. "How do you- I've been delayed for-Are you tracking my trip?"
"Someone won't stop asking when you're going to get here." Mel is more than enough reason to come home. Her daughter, my goddaughter, Caroline, is another.
I lift my bag into the aisle, but I don't leave the train just yet. A few passengers slide by me.
"Last call for Johnstown!"
I look back at my seat. Seats. Plural. I paid for both of them back in January when Mel called me and said, "I'm getting married." No hello. No how are you. No delighted scream. No girlish cheering. Mel started the call with a statement. She ended it with a date. That's how I knew she was serious. I bought tickets. The details would come later. She'd made a New Year's resolution to live in the "present." After more than ten years of living with her boyfriend, Garrett Washington, Melissa Parker was going to take his last name. Then, I had been all too eager to attend because I was finally who I imagined myself to be: Successful. Great job. Great fiancé. I'd become a New Yorker who had plans to move to Connecticut in three years.
"How does it feel to be home?" Mel asks.
"My home is dead." The phone is warm on my ear by the time this unprompted observation spills out of me.
"Liz," s...
June 17, 2017
Welcome to Johnstown: Home of the World's Steepest Vehicular Inclined Plane.
All of that, every single word, is emblazoned on a massive billboard visible about a mile outside of town. Because of the angle of the train's approach, the Inclined Plane is the first and only landmark I see. It means I've reached my final destination. The journey here has been rife with spotty cell service, dotted with tiny towns and abandoned industries consumed by thick forests. Yes. After fourteen years away, I, Liz Rocher, am returning to Johnstown, Pennsylvania. The rust belt.
Home.
I take another gulp of my train wine. The cheap varietal burns my palate. Varietal. Palate. Who do you think you are? There it is. Judgment. One of the many things I ran from when I left.
The train slows. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. With my thick natural hair and dark skin, my Appalachian origins are unexpected. I buzzed all my hair off a little over three months ago. It's finally settled into its new length. Returning home with no hair means no protection. That's why this trek required a trip to Harlem to get a decent wig. Her name is Valerie. On the box, she looked like a pop star. On me, she looks like a PTA mom. Between the wig and my rumpled business casual, I look like a mockery of what I've become: a "city girl." You'll never be rid of that backwoods, small-town stink. There it is again. My therapist, a tall white woman who gives me names for my feelings, would call that voice my anxiety. The tightness in my chest is my imposter syndrome. The occasional inability to catch my breath is a perfectionist tendency. Neat little notes in her records. My next sip of wine becomes a full gulp, finishing off the split.
"This stop is Johnstown, Pennsylvania."
I gather my things. My phone lights up with a notification from the office. Sales never sleeps. I've taken the weekend off, but I have work to do. I always have work to do. If I don't, I ask for more. The first time I did, my then-boss laughed and asked, "Trouble at home?" Implying that I didn't have ambition, I had misplaced avoidance. I smiled back at him with all my teeth. In two years, I had his job and an engagement ring on my finger. I don't have the ring anymore, but the work is a constant. Sometimes I wonder how he knew. I try to open the document but it refuses to load. A single bar of service flickers in and out. Great. I cling to my technology, like the rind of this place won't get on me if I'm shiny enough.
Moving into the aisle, I have to peel my dress pants off the backs of my thighs. I chose slacks over sweats because I feel powerful in a suit. In control. Every sweaty wrinkle threatens to break that illusion.
The train comes to a stop. What should have been an eight-hour journey became ten because of delays, and my body is sore and stiff. I turn my head to stretch my neck. A ligament pulls tight all the way down the center of my back, pinching right behind my heart. My eyes land on a red sign at the top of the open train door.
Exit.
My suitcase is above my head. One good pull and I can roll off this train. Or I could stay? Ride on to Pittsburgh. Take a flight back to New York.
My phone rings.
Melissa Parker.
How does she always know exactly when to call? I answer it.
"You're here!" she says.
I glance across the car, half expecting her to pop out from one of the empty seats. "How do you- I've been delayed for-Are you tracking my trip?"
"Someone won't stop asking when you're going to get here." Mel is more than enough reason to come home. Her daughter, my goddaughter, Caroline, is another.
I lift my bag into the aisle, but I don't leave the train just yet. A few passengers slide by me.
"Last call for Johnstown!"
I look back at my seat. Seats. Plural. I paid for both of them back in January when Mel called me and said, "I'm getting married." No hello. No how are you. No delighted scream. No girlish cheering. Mel started the call with a statement. She ended it with a date. That's how I knew she was serious. I bought tickets. The details would come later. She'd made a New Year's resolution to live in the "present." After more than ten years of living with her boyfriend, Garrett Washington, Melissa Parker was going to take his last name. Then, I had been all too eager to attend because I was finally who I imagined myself to be: Successful. Great job. Great fiancé. I'd become a New Yorker who had plans to move to Connecticut in three years.
"How does it feel to be home?" Mel asks.
"My home is dead." The phone is warm on my ear by the time this unprompted observation spills out of me.
"Liz," s...
