Alone
By Cyn Balog
Sourcebooks
Fire
November
7, 2017
Advance
Praise for Alone
“Even
careful readers will be caught off guard by twists and unexpected but divine
surprises. This first-rate thriller delivers everything a thriller should, and
adds more. With a wink and a nod to Stephen King’s The Shining, Balog provides
a shocker for the young adult crowd.” –VOYA Magazine, VOYA Perfect 10
Review
“This is the
perfect premise for a chilling tale, and Balog fills every inch with classic
horror references, red herrings, and uncertain motivations. As Balog gradually
builds tension and paranoia, she manipulates reader expectations to set up
several possible endings, yet still manages to end with a shocker. This is
fantastically creepy psychological horror.” –Booklist
"A bloody, wonderfully creepy scare ride." –Kirkus
Reviews
Book Info:
This
must-read for lovers of Stephen King's The Shining will leave readers breathless as
Seda and her family find themselves at the mercy of a murderer in an isolated
and snowbound hotel.
When
her mom inherits an old, crumbling mansion, Seda's almost excited to spend the
summer there. The grounds are beautiful and it's fun to explore the sprawling
house with its creepy rooms and secret passages. Except now her mom wants to
renovate, rather than sell the estate—which means they're not going back to the
city...or Seda's friends and school.
As the
days grow shorter, Seda is filled with dread. They're about to be cut off from
the outside world, and she's not sure she can handle the solitude or the
darkness it brings out in her.
Then a group of teens get stranded near
the mansion during a blizzard. Seda has no choice but to offer them shelter,
even though she knows danger lurks in the dilapidated mansion—and in herself.
And as the snow continues to fall, what Seda fears most is about to become her
reality...
Excerpt
from Alone:
Sometimes I dream I am drowning.
And then I
wake up, often screaming, heart racing, hands clenching fistfuls of my sheets.
I’m in my
bed at the top of Bug House. The murky daylight casts dull prisms from my snow
globes onto the attic floor. My mom started collecting those pretty winter
scenes for me when I was a baby. I gaze at them, lined neatly on the shelf in
front of my window. My first order of business every day is hoping they’ll give
me a trace of the joy they did when I was a kid.
But either
they don’t work that way anymore, or I don’t.
Who am I
kidding? It’s definitely me.
I’m insane. Batshit. Nuttier than a fruitcake. Of course, that’s not an
official diagnosis. The official word from Dr. Batton, whose swank Copley
Square office I visited only once when I was ten, was that I was bright and
intelligent and a wonderful young person. He said it’s
normal for kids to have imaginary playmates.
But it gets
a little sketchy when that young person grows up, and her imaginary friend
decides to move in and make himself comfortable.
Not that
anyone knows about that. No, these days, I’m good about keeping up appearances.
My second
order of business each day is hoping that he won’t leak
into my head. That maybe I can go back to being a normal sixteen--year--old
girl.
But he
always comes.
He’s a part
of me, after all. And he’s been coming more and more, invading my thoughts. Of course I’m here, stupid.
Sawyer. His
voice in my mind is so loud that it drowns out the moaning and creaking of the
walls around me.
“Seda,
honey?” my mother calls cheerily. She shifts her weight on the bottom step,
making the house creak more. “Up and at ’em, buckaroo!”
I force my
brother’s taunts away and call down the spiral staircase, “I am
up.” My short temper is because of him, but it ends up directed at her.
She doesn’t
notice though. My mother has only one mood now: ecstatically happy. She says
it’s the air up here, which always has her taking big, deep, monster breaths as
if she’s trying to inhale the entire world into her lungs. But maybe it’s
because this is her element; after all, she made a profession out of her love
for all things horror. Or maybe she really is better off without my dad, as she
always claims she is.
I hear her
whistling “My Darlin’ Clementine” as her slippered feet happily scuffle off
toward the kitchen. I put on the first clothing I find in my drawer—-sweatpants
and my mom’s old Boston College sweatshirt—-then scrape my hair into a ponytail
on the top of my head as I look around the room. Mannequin body parts and other
macabre props are stored up here. It’s been my bedroom for only a month. I
slept in the nursery with the A and Z twins when we first got here because they
were afraid of ghosts and our creepy old house. But maybe they—-like Mom—-are
getting used to this place?
The thought
makes me shudder. I like my attic room because of the privacy. Plus, it’s the
only room that isn’t ice cold, since all the heat rises up to me. But I don’t
like much else about this old prison of a mansion.
One of the
props, Silly Sally, is sitting in the rocker by the door as I leave. She’d be
perfect for the ladies’ department at Macy’s if it weren’t for the gaping chest
wound in her frilly pink blouse. “I hate you,” I tell her, batting at the other
mannequin body parts descending from the rafters like some odd canopy. She
smiles as if the feeling is mutual. I give her a kick on the way out.
Despite the
morbid stories about this place, I don’t ever worry about ghosts. After all, I
have Sawyer, and he is worse.
As I climb
down the stairs, listening to the kids chattering in the nursery, I notice the
money, accompanied by a slip of paper, on the banister’s square newel post. The
car keys sit atop the pile. Before I can ask, Mom calls, “I need you to go to
the store for us. OK, Seda, my little kumquat?”
I blink,
startled, and it’s not because of the stupid nickname. I don’t have a license,
just a learner’s permit. My mom had me driving all over the place when we first
came here, but that was back then. Back when this was a
simple two--week jaunt to get an old house she’d inherited ready for sale.
There wasn’t another car in sight, so she figured, why not? She’s all about
giving us kids experiences, about making sure we aren’t
slaves to our iPhones, like so many of my friends back home. My mother’s always
marching to her own drummer, general consensus be damned, usually to my horror.
But back then, I had that thrilling, invincible,
first--days--of--summer--vacation feeling that made anything seemed possible.
Too bad that was short lived.
We’ve been nestled
at Bug House like hermits for months. Well, that’s not totally true. Mom has
made weekly trips down the mountain, alone, to get the mail and a gallon of
milk and make phone calls to civilization. We were supposed to go back to
Boston before school started, but that time came and went, and there’s no way
we’re getting off this mountain before the first snow.
Snow.
I peer out
the window. The first dainty flakes are falling from the sky.
Snow.
Oh God. Snow.
Cyn Balog is the author of a number of young adult novels. She lives outside Allentown, Pennsylvania with her husband and daughters. Visit her online at www.cynbalog.com.a Rafflecopter giveaway
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