Thrillers & Suspense
![Chuck Wendig - [object Object] author](https://res.cloudinary.com/readsomnia/image/upload/authors/a_B003P9JZ0O.jpg)
The Book of Accidents: A Novel
NATIONAL BESTSELLER • A family returns to their hometown-and to the dark past that haunts them still-in this masterpiece of literary horror by the New York Times bestselling author of Wanderers
"The dread, the scope, the pacing, the turns-I haven't felt all this so intensely since The Shining."-Stephen Graham Jones, New York Times bestselling author of The Only Good Indians
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY AND LIBRARY JOURNAL
Long ago, Nathan lived in a house in the country with his abusive father-and has never told his family what happened there.
Long ago, Maddie was a little girl making dolls in her bedroom when she saw something she shouldn't have-and is trying to remember that lost trauma by making haunting sculptures.
Long ago, something sinister, something hungry, walked in the tunnels and the mountains and the coal mines of their hometown in rural Pennsylvania.
Now, Nate and Maddie Graves are married, and they have moved back to their hometown with their son, Oliver.
And now what happened long ago is happening again . . . and it is happening to Oliver. He meets a strange boy who becomes his best friend, a boy with secrets of his own and a taste for dark magic.
This dark magic puts them at the heart of a battle of good versus evil and a fight for the soul of the family-and perhaps for all of the world. But the Graves family has a secret weapon in this battle: their love for one another.
"The dread, the scope, the pacing, the turns-I haven't felt all this so intensely since The Shining."-Stephen Graham Jones, New York Times bestselling author of The Only Good Indians
NAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY THE NEW YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY AND LIBRARY JOURNAL
Long ago, Nathan lived in a house in the country with his abusive father-and has never told his family what happened there.
Long ago, Maddie was a little girl making dolls in her bedroom when she saw something she shouldn't have-and is trying to remember that lost trauma by making haunting sculptures.
Long ago, something sinister, something hungry, walked in the tunnels and the mountains and the coal mines of their hometown in rural Pennsylvania.
Now, Nate and Maddie Graves are married, and they have moved back to their hometown with their son, Oliver.
And now what happened long ago is happening again . . . and it is happening to Oliver. He meets a strange boy who becomes his best friend, a boy with secrets of his own and a taste for dark magic.
This dark magic puts them at the heart of a battle of good versus evil and a fight for the soul of the family-and perhaps for all of the world. But the Graves family has a secret weapon in this battle: their love for one another.
Editorial Reviews
"[The Book of Accidents] is Chuck Wendig's magnum opus, blazing with imagination, humanity, and a tiny glimmer of hope for a world drowning in cruelty. It's horror for right now, and it's Wendig's best so far."-Christopher Golden, New York Times-bestselling author of Road of Bones
"Only Chuck Wendig can blend horror, fantasy, and science fiction into a propulsive thriller that is as funny as it is frightening, clever as it is uncanny, tender as it is terrifying. A magical ride."-Alma Katsu, author of Red Widow and The Deep
"Chuck Wendig's The Book of Accidents transported me to the golden age of sprawling horror novels that I loved so much as a kid. Sweeping yet intimate, multilayered and bighearted, this is a novel to sink deeply into."-Dan Chaon, New York Times bestselling author of Ill Will
"In the tradition of Stephen King's Dark Tower books, Wendig views the cosmic and terrifying through the lens of the domestic, anchoring his visions of the sublime in the grit of the familiar. The result is a novel to ramble around in, to get lost in."-John Langan, author of Children of the Fang and Other Genealogies
"An unforgettable, terrifying dose of top-flight horror that hits on our most basic core fears, The Book of Accidents chills you to the bone while still warming your heart."-Alex Segura, author of Star Wars Poe Dameron: Free Fall and Miami Midnight
"With a story both universally horrifying and viscerally intimate, Wendig brilliantly uses The Book of Accidents to explore a painful truth: In the end, we all haunt ourselves. I couldn't get through the pages fast enough."-Kiersten White, New York Times bestselling author of The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein
"Move over King, Chuck Wendig is the new voice of modern American horror. The Book of Accidents is a masterwork, and Chuck is only just getting started."-Adam Christopher, author of Stranger Things: Darkness on the Edge of Town
"A bold, impressive novel with fierce intelligence and a generous, thrumming heart . . . It's intimate and panoramic. It's humane and magical. It's a world-hopping, time-jumping ride that packs a deep emotional punch."-Library Journal (starred review)
"Only Chuck Wendig can blend horror, fantasy, and science fiction into a propulsive thriller that is as funny as it is frightening, clever as it is uncanny, tender as it is terrifying. A magical ride."-Alma Katsu, author of Red Widow and The Deep
"Chuck Wendig's The Book of Accidents transported me to the golden age of sprawling horror novels that I loved so much as a kid. Sweeping yet intimate, multilayered and bighearted, this is a novel to sink deeply into."-Dan Chaon, New York Times bestselling author of Ill Will
"In the tradition of Stephen King's Dark Tower books, Wendig views the cosmic and terrifying through the lens of the domestic, anchoring his visions of the sublime in the grit of the familiar. The result is a novel to ramble around in, to get lost in."-John Langan, author of Children of the Fang and Other Genealogies
"An unforgettable, terrifying dose of top-flight horror that hits on our most basic core fears, The Book of Accidents chills you to the bone while still warming your heart."-Alex Segura, author of Star Wars Poe Dameron: Free Fall and Miami Midnight
"With a story both universally horrifying and viscerally intimate, Wendig brilliantly uses The Book of Accidents to explore a painful truth: In the end, we all haunt ourselves. I couldn't get through the pages fast enough."-Kiersten White, New York Times bestselling author of The Dark Descent of Elizabeth Frankenstein
"Move over King, Chuck Wendig is the new voice of modern American horror. The Book of Accidents is a masterwork, and Chuck is only just getting started."-Adam Christopher, author of Stranger Things: Darkness on the Edge of Town
"A bold, impressive novel with fierce intelligence and a generous, thrumming heart . . . It's intimate and panoramic. It's humane and magical. It's a world-hopping, time-jumping ride that packs a deep emotional punch."-Library Journal (starred review)
Readers Top Reviews
R. Harvey
I haven't finished yet. Don't want to so reading the last few pages really slowly! Absolutely wonderful book. Love the characters and the writing is just perfect.
L. YoungKindle
I really wanted to like this book but alas it wasn't to be. I found the writing to be truly awful; all over the place and the "quirky" asides grated on me. The story line just felt ridiculous, nothing like the small town horrors crafted by King. Such a shame.
treesycL. YoungKi
I rarely read horror stories but was very glad I fell for this one as it is a great read. The story, while featuring some staples of the genre, is very clever and kept my interest throughout. I liked the characters and appreciated the humour as well as the tension. All in all, very enjoyable and I will read more by the author.
Gregory H. WebbBr
A decently entertaining story. The constant dribble of liberal cliches got irritating though.
Mr. MeGregory H.
I was planning go space The Book of Accidents out, but I started it the night before last, stayed up way too late, and finished it yesterday afternoon. There are two prologues, which both confused and intrigued me, and 6 or 7 parts to the book itself. The first part does an excellent job of setting up the situation, ratcheting the roller coaster up to the top of that first peak, and after that it is a ride. (Warnings: Abuse, violence, and disturbing imagery.) It's definitely a horror story, but I enjoy those sometimes, and this is one I enjoyed very much.
Short Excerpt Teaser
1
Tinnitus
This was Oliver:
The boy, fifteen, knelt on the ground, his chin against his chest, the soft undersides of his forearms pressing into his ears even as his fingers dug into the thatch of messy hair at the back of his head. His ears rang sharply-not the tolling of a bell but a shrill whine, like that of a dental drill. To one side of him: yellow lockers. To the other: a water fountain. Above: a waterfall of bright fluorescence. Somewhere ahead were two gunshots, bang, bang. Each made his heart jump. Somewhere behind him were the murmur and rustle of students moving from classroom to classroom, seeking safety. Oliver imagined them dead. He imagined his teachers dead. Blood on linoleum. Brains on chalkboard. He imagined weeping parents on the news, and the suicides of survivors, and the thoughts and prayers of uncaring politicians-he could see the pain like a little ripple that became a wave, that met other waves and became tsunamis roaring back and forth over people until all were drowned underneath.
A hand grasped his shoulder and shook him. A word spoken as if through a fishbowl-his name. Someone was saying his name. "Olly. Oliver. Olly!" He gently rocked himself back on his ankles, sitting partly upright. It was Mr. Partlow, his BioSci teacher. "Hey. Hey, lockdown drill's almost over, Oliver. You okay? Come on, kiddo, let's get you-"
But then the teacher let go and took a half step back. Mr. Partlow stared down at the floor-no, not at the floor. At Oliver. Oliver took a look, too. His crotch was wet. Fingers of liquid were spreading down his pant legs. Ahead, he saw a few students gather and stare. Landon Gray, who sat behind him in homeroom, looked sad. Amanda McInerney-who was in all the plays, and chorus, and student council-made a gross face and giggled.
Mr. Partlow helped him stand up and took him away. Oliver wiped tears from his face, tears he didn't even know he'd spilled.
2
The Lawyer
This was Nate:
That same day, Nate sat in a lawyer's office in Langhorne. The lawyer was round and grub white, like the inside of a cut potato. In the window of the office, an AC unit grumbled and growled, so that the man had to raise his voice in order to be heard.
"Thank you for coming," the lawyer, Mr. Rickert, said.
"Uh-huh." Nate tried to keep his hands from balling into fists. Tried, and failed.
"Your father is sick," the lawyer said.
"Good," Nate answered without hesitation.
Rickert leaned forward.
"It's cancer. Colon cancer."
"Fine."
"He'll be dead soon. Very soon. He's on hospice."
Nate shrugged. "Okay."
"Okay," the lawyer repeated, and Nate couldn't tell if the man was surprised by his reaction-or prepared for it. "Mr. Graves-"
"I know you expect me to be broken up about all this, but I'm not. Not one little bit. My father was-or, is, I guess-a tremendous piece of garbage. I have no love for him. I have only hatred and disdain for that monster masquerading as a man, and truth be told, I've been dreaming of this day for the better part of twenty years, maybe longer. I've imagined how it would go. I've prayed to whatever god that would listen that my father, the piece of shit that he is, would go painfully and miserably, that it wouldn't be fast, wouldn't be a quick sprint to the end, but, rather, a slow, stumbling marathon, a . . . a clumsy run where he's painting the walls with his lung blood, where he's drowning in his own fluids, where he's gotta wear some, some bag on his side to contain his own f-his own mess, a bag that breaks on him or that pops out of its port every time he moves to adjust his ruined, dying body. You know what? I was hoping it'd be cancer. A crawling, steady cancer, too, not fast like pancreatic. Something that eats him up from the inside sure as he ate up our family. Cancer for cancer, tit for tat. I figured it'd be lung, given the way he smoked. Or liver, given the drink. But colon cancer? I'll take colon. He was . . . he was always full of shit, so that is a fitting end for that semi-human sack of septic excrement."
The lawyer blinked. Silence passed between them. Rickert pursed his lips. "Are you done monologuing?"
"Go to hell." He paused, regretting being so angry at this man who probably didn't deserve it. "Yes, I am."
"Your speech doesn't surprise me. Your father said you'd say those things." He laughed a little, a high-pitched titter, and he gesticulated with both hands so it looked like his fingers were little moths taking flight. "Well, not those things, exactly. But the gist."
"So, what's the point? Why am I here?"
"Your father, before he pa...
Tinnitus
This was Oliver:
The boy, fifteen, knelt on the ground, his chin against his chest, the soft undersides of his forearms pressing into his ears even as his fingers dug into the thatch of messy hair at the back of his head. His ears rang sharply-not the tolling of a bell but a shrill whine, like that of a dental drill. To one side of him: yellow lockers. To the other: a water fountain. Above: a waterfall of bright fluorescence. Somewhere ahead were two gunshots, bang, bang. Each made his heart jump. Somewhere behind him were the murmur and rustle of students moving from classroom to classroom, seeking safety. Oliver imagined them dead. He imagined his teachers dead. Blood on linoleum. Brains on chalkboard. He imagined weeping parents on the news, and the suicides of survivors, and the thoughts and prayers of uncaring politicians-he could see the pain like a little ripple that became a wave, that met other waves and became tsunamis roaring back and forth over people until all were drowned underneath.
A hand grasped his shoulder and shook him. A word spoken as if through a fishbowl-his name. Someone was saying his name. "Olly. Oliver. Olly!" He gently rocked himself back on his ankles, sitting partly upright. It was Mr. Partlow, his BioSci teacher. "Hey. Hey, lockdown drill's almost over, Oliver. You okay? Come on, kiddo, let's get you-"
But then the teacher let go and took a half step back. Mr. Partlow stared down at the floor-no, not at the floor. At Oliver. Oliver took a look, too. His crotch was wet. Fingers of liquid were spreading down his pant legs. Ahead, he saw a few students gather and stare. Landon Gray, who sat behind him in homeroom, looked sad. Amanda McInerney-who was in all the plays, and chorus, and student council-made a gross face and giggled.
Mr. Partlow helped him stand up and took him away. Oliver wiped tears from his face, tears he didn't even know he'd spilled.
2
The Lawyer
This was Nate:
That same day, Nate sat in a lawyer's office in Langhorne. The lawyer was round and grub white, like the inside of a cut potato. In the window of the office, an AC unit grumbled and growled, so that the man had to raise his voice in order to be heard.
"Thank you for coming," the lawyer, Mr. Rickert, said.
"Uh-huh." Nate tried to keep his hands from balling into fists. Tried, and failed.
"Your father is sick," the lawyer said.
"Good," Nate answered without hesitation.
Rickert leaned forward.
"It's cancer. Colon cancer."
"Fine."
"He'll be dead soon. Very soon. He's on hospice."
Nate shrugged. "Okay."
"Okay," the lawyer repeated, and Nate couldn't tell if the man was surprised by his reaction-or prepared for it. "Mr. Graves-"
"I know you expect me to be broken up about all this, but I'm not. Not one little bit. My father was-or, is, I guess-a tremendous piece of garbage. I have no love for him. I have only hatred and disdain for that monster masquerading as a man, and truth be told, I've been dreaming of this day for the better part of twenty years, maybe longer. I've imagined how it would go. I've prayed to whatever god that would listen that my father, the piece of shit that he is, would go painfully and miserably, that it wouldn't be fast, wouldn't be a quick sprint to the end, but, rather, a slow, stumbling marathon, a . . . a clumsy run where he's painting the walls with his lung blood, where he's drowning in his own fluids, where he's gotta wear some, some bag on his side to contain his own f-his own mess, a bag that breaks on him or that pops out of its port every time he moves to adjust his ruined, dying body. You know what? I was hoping it'd be cancer. A crawling, steady cancer, too, not fast like pancreatic. Something that eats him up from the inside sure as he ate up our family. Cancer for cancer, tit for tat. I figured it'd be lung, given the way he smoked. Or liver, given the drink. But colon cancer? I'll take colon. He was . . . he was always full of shit, so that is a fitting end for that semi-human sack of septic excrement."
The lawyer blinked. Silence passed between them. Rickert pursed his lips. "Are you done monologuing?"
"Go to hell." He paused, regretting being so angry at this man who probably didn't deserve it. "Yes, I am."
"Your speech doesn't surprise me. Your father said you'd say those things." He laughed a little, a high-pitched titter, and he gesticulated with both hands so it looked like his fingers were little moths taking flight. "Well, not those things, exactly. But the gist."
"So, what's the point? Why am I here?"
"Your father, before he pa...
