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2 Beaverton Horror- General
2 Hawthorne Horror- General

Black House

by and

Black House Cover




Part 1
Welcome to Coulee Country

Right here and now, as an old friend used to say, we are in the fluid present, where clear-sightedness never guarantees perfect vision. Here: about two hundred feet, the height of a gliding eagle, above Wisconsin's far western edge, where the vagaries of the Mississippi River declare a natural border. Now: an early Friday morning in mid-July a few years into both a new century and a new millennium, their wayward courses so hidden that a blind man has a better chance of seeing what lies ahead than you or I. Right here and now, the hour is just past six a.m., and the sun stands low in the cloudless eastern sky, a fat, confident yellow-white ball advancing as ever for the first time toward the future and leaving in its wake the steadily accumulating past, which darkens as it recedes, making blind men of us all.

Below, the early sun touches the river's wide, soft ripples with molten highlights. Sunlight glints from the tracks of the Burlington Northern Sante Fe Railroad running between the riverbank and the backs of the shabby two-story houses along County Road Oo, known as Nailhouse Row, the lowest point of the comfortable-looking little town extending uphill and eastward beneath us. At this moment in the Coulee Country, life seems to be holding its breath. The motionless air around us carries such remarkable purity and sweetness that you might imagine a man could smell a radish pulled out of the ground a mile away.

Moving toward the sun, we glide away from the river and over the shining tracks, the backyards and roofs of Nailhouse Row, then a line of Harley- Davidson motorcycles tilted on their kickstands. These unprepossessing little houses were built, early in the century recently vanished, for the metal pourers, mold makers, and crate men employed by the Pederson Nail factory. On the grounds that working stiffs would be unlikely to complain about the flaws in their subsidized accommodations, they were constructed as cheaply as possible. (Pederson Nail, which had suffered multiple hemorrhages during the fifties, finally bled to death in 1963.) The waiting Harleys suggest that the factory hands have been replaced by a motorcycle gang. The uniformly ferocious appearance of the Harleys' owners, wild-haired, bushy-bearded, swag-bellied men sporting earrings, black leather jackets, and less than the full complement of teeth, would seem to support this assumption. Like most assumptions, this one embodies an uneasy half-truth.

The current residents of Nailhouse Row, whom suspicious locals dubbed the Thunder Five soon after they took over the houses along the river, cannot so easily be categorized. They have skilled jobs in the Kingsland Brewing Company, located just out of town to the south and one block east of the Mississippi. If we look to our right, we can see "the world's largest six-pack," storage tanks painted over with gigantic Kingsland Old-Time Lager labels. The men who live on Nailhouse Row met one another on the Urbana-Champaign campus of the University of Illinois, where all but one were undergraduates majoring in English or philosophy. (The exception was a resident in surgery at the UI-UC university hospital.) They get an ironic pleasure from being called the Thunder Five: the name strikes them as sweetly cartoonish. What they call themselves is "the Hegelian Scum." These gentlemen form an interesting crew, and we will make their acquaintance later on. For now, we have time only to note the hand-painted posters taped to the fronts of several houses, two lamp poles, and a couple of abandoned buildings. The posters say: fisherman, you better pray to your stinking god we don't catch you first! remember amy!

From Nailhouse Row, Chase Street runs steeply uphill between listing buildings with worn, unpainted facades the color of fog: the old Nelson Hotel, where a few impoverished residents lie sleeping, a blank-faced tavern, a tired shoe store displaying Red Wing workboots behind its filmy picture window, a few other dim buildings that bear no indication of their function and seem oddly dreamlike and vaporous. These structures have the air of failed resurrections, of having been rescued from the dark westward territory although they were still dead. In a way, that is precisely what happened to them. An ocher horizontal stripe, ten feet above the sidewalk on the facade of the Nelson Hotel and two feet from the rising ground on the opposed, ashen faces of the last two buildings, represents the high-water mark left behind by the flood of 1965, when the Mississippi rolled over its banks, drowned the railroad tracks and Nailhouse Row, and mounted nearly to the top of Chase Street.

Where Chase rises above the flood line and levels out, it widens and undergoes a transformation into the main street of French Landing, the town beneath us. The Agincourt Theater, the Taproom Bar & Grille, the First Farmer State Bank, the Samuel Stutz Photography Studio (which does a steady business in graduation photos, wedding pictures, and children's portraits) and shops, not the ghostly relics of shops, line its blunt sidewalks: Benton's Rexall drugstore, Reliable Hardware, Saturday Night Video, Regal Clothing, Schmitt's Allsorts Emporium, stores selling electronic equipment, magazines and greeting cards, toys, and athletic clothing featuring the logos of the Brewers, the Twins, the Packers, the Vikings, and the University of Wisconsin. After a few blocks, the name of the street changes to Lyall Road, and the buildings separate and shrink into one-story wooden structures fronted with signs advertising insurance offices and travel agencies; after that, the street becomes a highway that glides eastward past a 7-Eleven, the Reinhold T. Grauerhammer VFW Hall, a big farm-implement dealership known locally as Goltz's, and into a landscape of flat, unbroken fields. If we rise another hundred feet into the immaculate air and scan what lies beneath and ahead, we see kettle moraines, coulees, blunted hills furry with pines, loam-rich valleys invisible from ground level until you have come upon them, meandering rivers, miles-long patchwork fields, and little towns-one of them, Centralia, no more than a scattering of buildings around the intersection of two narrow highways, 35 and 93.

Directly below us, French Landing looks as though it had been evacuated in the middle of the night. No one moves along the sidewalks or bends to insert a key into one of the locks of the shop fronts along Chase Street. The angled spaces before the shops are empty of the cars and pickup trucks that will begin to appear, first by ones and twos, then in a mannerly little stream, an hour or two later. No lights burn behind the windows in the commercial buildings or the unpretentious houses lining the surrounding streets. A block north of Chase on Sumner Street, four matching red-brick buildings of two stories each house, in west- east order, the French Landing Public Library; the offices of Patrick J. Skarda, M.D., the local general practitioner, and Bell & Holland, a two- man law firm now run by Garland Bell and Julius Holland, the sons of its founders; the Heartfield & Son Funderal Home, now owned by a vast, funereal empire centered in St. Louis; and the French Landing Post Office.

Separated from these by a wide driveway into a good-sized parking lot at the rear, the building at the end of the block, where Sumner intersects with Third Street, is also of red brick and two stories high but longer than its immediate neighbors. Unpainted iron bars block the rear second- floor windows, and two of the four vehicles in the parking lot are patrol cars with light bars across their tops and the letters flpd on their sides. The presence of police cars and barred windows seem incongruous in this rural fastness-what sort of crime can happen here? Nothing serious, surely; surely nothing worse than a little shoplifting, drunken driving, and an occasional bar fight.

As if in testimony to the peacefulness and regularity of small-town life, a red van with the words la riviere herald on its side panels drifts slowly down Third Street, pausing at nearly all of the mailbox stands for its driver to insert copies of the day's newspaper, wrapped in a blue plastic bag, into gray metal cylinders bearing the same words. When the van turns onto Sumner, where the buildings have mail slots instead of boxes, the route man simply throws the wrapped papers at the front doors. Blue parcels thwack against the doors of the police station, the funeral home, and the office buildings. The post office does not get a paper.

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WOLF, January 1, 2011 (view all comments by WOLF)
Black House continues the story from the Talisman but several years later. It's creepier than the first book by King and Straub and doesn't disappoint in the fright department. Some of the narrative is more graphic than necessary, but that's King. The characters are incredibly fascinating in breadth and depth - a strength of both authors. If you can't stomach child killers, put it down before reading. Overall, a gripping tale to the very end.
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Product Details

King, Stephen
Straub, Peter
King, Stephen
Ballantine Books
New York, N.Y.
Horror tales
Serial murders
Horror - General
Fantasy fiction
Horror fiction
General Fiction
Edition Number:
1st paperback ed.
Edition Description:
Mass market paperback
Series Volume:
no. 164
Publication Date:
August 27, 2002
Grade Level:
6.88x4.24x1.50 in. .72 lbs.

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Black House Used Mass Market
0 stars - 0 reviews
$4.95 In Stock
Product details 672 pages Ballantine Books - English 9780345441034 Reviews:
"Review" by , "Black House allows us to see two master craftsmen, each at the top of his game, collaborating with every evidence of enormous enjoyment on a summery heartland gothic. The book is hugely pleasurable, and repays a reader in search of horror, adventure or of any of the other joys, both light and dark, one can get from the best work of either of these two scribbling fellows."
"Review" by , "[A]n immensely satisfying follow-up, a brilliant and challenging dark fantasy that fans of both authors are going to love....What is probably the most anticipated novel of the year turns out to be its most memorable to date, a high point in both the King and Straub canons."
"Review" by , "Black House cants more in the direction of horror (as opposed to fantasy) than The Talisman did, perhaps an indication that King and Straub realized that good fantasy calls on talents that they just don't have, at least not in abundance. While that shift ought to make the sequel the stronger of the two books, strangely it doesn't; instead it just emphasizes how incompatible the two genres can be....Because Black House isn't so firmly grounded in [the real] world, because it keeps having to refer back to a fantasyland that never feels as dense and as believed in as, say, Middle Earth, the novel has to strain for its chills."
"Review" by , "[King and Straub] have an almost Dickensian knack for writing about ordinary people...and making them vivid, complicated and frequently heroic....Jack's saga overflows with dark wit, sly literary references, suspense, and heartache. What elevates Black House beyond ordinary horror novels is the richness of its cast..."
"Review" by , "Extraordinary....Hard to put down."
"Review" by , "An intelligent...suspenseful page-turner....It?s a relief to find popular fiction that is as unpretentious yet rich in literary allusion and human detail as Black House."
"Review" by , "The auxiliaries are more colorful than Jack, and their eccentricities compensate for the hackneyed plot; verbose, wisenheimer wordplay; and annoyingly self-conscious, 'floating camera'-style narration. The King-Straub nightmare-team clearly strains to entertain this time."
"Review" by , "Every word grips. I could not say when I have enjoyed reading a novel more. From page one, Stephen King and Peter Straub have promised to give us a joy of storying. I take their word."
"Review" by , "It may be unsettling to the earlier novel's many acolytes, but I think that Black House is a better novel than The Talisman, one that is more wholly and comfortably what it is, and some kind of dark masterpiece. On the strength of what Straub and King have accomplished here, both in terms of narrative drive and genre manipulations...I'm ready for whatever the scribbling fellows are up to next."
"Review" by , "[A] thrilling epic packed with horrific monsters...and a surprisingly potent emotional payoff....Writing fiction is generally a solo exercise, and collaborations often smack of gimmickry. Yet this partnership brings out both writer's strengths — King's down-and-dirty storytelling and Straub's more sweeping literary style."
"Review" by , "Black House is a thriller, so let it thrill you. But notice the slippage, into chaos and bricolage. It's the usual Kingly mix of high, low, and middle-management cultures, a bouillabaisse of Moby Dick and Alice in Wonderland..."
"Review" by , "There are weaknesses....In the end, however, we forgive these faults, because the community and the men, women and children who suffer to preserve it are so well drawn."
"Review" by , "Those who haven't read The Talisman, the Dark Tower series, and Hearts In Atlantis will often be at sea here. Worse, they'll be lost amid purple prose that piles up rhetorical questions, ascribes emotions and interpretations to the reader, and chummily narrates in the first-person plural....The target audience of [King fans] will likely seek it out and soak it up, and complain later, if at all."
"Review" by , "This long...atmospheric novel, filled with glimpses of King's seemingly effortless ability to grip a reader with sheer terror, also contains some unexpected touches..."
"Review" by , "[King and Straub] have produced a novel that is, on occasion, the literary equivalent of two divas singing their hearts out, stretching every last note in an attempt to continue to be heard and not to be outdone....They are skillful, deliciously silly showmen who teeter close to vaudeville and whose talents highlight both horror's inherent childishness and its boundless thrills."
"Synopsis" by , In the long-awaited sequel to The Talisman, retired homicide detective Jack Sawyer is drawn back to a parallel universe called the Territories, where he must find the soul-strength to enter a terrifying house at the end of a deserted track of forest, there to encounter the obscene and ferocious evils sheltered within it.
"Synopsis" by , The bestselling sequel to "The Talisman" is now in paperback. It's been 20 years since Jack Sawyer entered the Territories to save his mother, but he has no memory of those events. Now a retired homicide detective, Jack lives in rural Wisconsin, where a series of gruesome murders draws him back to the Territories. There he must enter a terrifying house and face the evils sheltered in it.
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