The Ferryman

Table of Contents

 

 

“With his customary style and economy, Christopher Golden has penned a powerful and haunting tale.”
—
Clive Barker

“Golden delivers what I'm looking for: good, old-fashioned storytelling with a contemporary sensibility. There's no lack of tension, and he doesn't back away from the consequences of the darkness he has set upon his characters.... I liked his deft touch with his characters, his crisp prose, and how he lets the story unfold.”
—
Charles de Lint

“
The Ferryman
is a compulsive read, one I finished in a single sleep-deprived night. The characters are easy to care about, the story unpredictable and involving. Rarest of all, Golden conveys the terrible sadness of the supernatural in a way few authors have managed.”
—
Poppy Z. Brite

“Low-key but quite effective horror.”
—
Don D'Ammassa

“An intelligent, compelling ghost story in the classic horror tradition.... Superior characterization, an exquisitely detailed setting, and superbly orchestrated suspense set this above the usual run of horror novels.”

“A horrifying, disturbing assault... tight, focused and almost claustrophobically intimate.”—
Fangoria

 
“
The Ferryman
[is] shot through with a sadness that sometimes gently aches and other times deeply wounds. Golden's subtle and clever way with a plot really shines.”
—
Brian Hodge,
Hellnotes

 
“Golden has a talent for [creating] the most realistic characters you're likely to find outside of a Stephen King novel.You care for these people and their well-being as much as you would for people you know. Golden has proven to be one of the great horror authors of our time. [His] works have impressed me in ways most horror novels can't even approach. [
The Ferryman
] is horror in its purest form.”
—
Creature Corner

“Christopher Golden gradually brings into being a world of haunted and perilous fantasy which, while moving into greater solidity, never loses touch with its painful, sweet, embattled human context.... A beautiful and wildly inventive hymn to the most salvific human capacity: imagination.”

—
Peter Straub

“A terrific novel. Excellent. An impressive achievement by a fine writer whose message could not be more timely. It's the strength of Golden's characters that gives this novel its power.”
—
Bentley Little

“A daring and thoroughly engrossing blend of wonder and adventure, terror and tenderness.”
—
F. Paul Wilson

“Enthralling....The imagination that it took to create this world—well, I am in awe of Christopher Golden.... You will weep. I did.”

“Golden has taken the conventions of modern urban fantasy and the fondly remembered books of our childhood and come up with something wonderfully strange and new. [He] inject[s] the modern fantasy with some real imagination!”
—
Craig Shaw Gardner, author of
Dragon Burning

“A fascinating read. It deserves success.”
—Cemetery Dance

“With a sure voice and a steady hand, Golden weaves a story both deceptively simple and vibrantly realized, and he does it with pure artistry. I believe in his characters, his world, his talent.”
—
Greg Rucka, author of
A Fistful of Rain

“Golden makes the unbelievable quite believable. Compelling characters and the heart-wrenching horror of an endangered child combine for an inventive and engrossing page-turner.”
—
Paula Guran for DarkEcho

“Harrowing, humorous, overflowing with plot contortions ... abundantly entertaining. A portent of great things to come.... A writer who cares passionately about the stuff of horror.”

—
Douglas E. Winter, editor of
Revelations

“[Golden's] work is fast and furious, funny and original!”

—
Joe R. Lansdale, author of
Lost Echoes

 
“Just when you thought nothing new could be done with the vampire mythos, [Christopher Golden] comes along and shows us otherwise.”

—
Ray Garton, author of
Live Girls
and
Dark Channel

“Christopher Golden is an imaginative storyteller whose writing is both chilling and suspenseful.”
—
Philip Nutman, author of
Wet Work

“Golden has painted an intriguing canvas... filled with action, sweep, and dark mythology.”
—
Rex Miller, author of
Slob
and
Chaingang

 
“A breathtaking story that succeeds in marrying gore and romance, sex and sentiment. A brilliant epic.”
—Dark News
(Paris)

“One of the best horror novels of the year. Filled with tension, breathtaking action, dire plots, and a convincing depiction of worlds existing unseen within our own. One of the most promising debuts in some time.”

ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
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80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

 
Published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in a Roc mass market edition.

 
First Roc Trade Paperback Printing, September 2008

 
Copyright © Christopher Golden, 2002

eISBN : 978-0-451-46227-5

Afterword copyright © Charles de Lint, 2008
All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

 
PUBLISHER'S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

 
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.

I am grateful to so many for so much. First, of course, to my wife, Connie, and my children. The story echoes, but echoes fade.

To my editor, Laura Anne Gilman, and my agent Lori Perkins.

To Ginjer Buchanan, for giving this book a second life, and to Charles de Lint for his kind words and inspiration.

To Joelle Corcoran, for talking about what it was like to almost die.

To Hank Wagner and Bill Sheehan (and Connie again), all of whom read this novel in various stages and offered both enthusiasm and very helpful suggestions.

To my family, those still with me and those long departed.

And, at the last and always, to my friends, those who swim with me against the current and lend me their strength when I grow weary. I hope I do the same. I am grateful to all of you, and most especially to: Tom Sniegoski, Jose Nieto, Rick Hautala, Amber Benson, and Tim Lebbon.

On the banks of a broad, roiling river, Janine Hartschorn turned in a wild circle, searching for a familiar landmark, anything that might jog her memory, help her figure out where she was and how she had gotten here. Failing that, she'd have been happy to simply find a path that led away from the rushing water, a path to somewhere—anywhere—else.

But Janine couldn't see a damn thing.

A thick, damp mist enshrouded her and spread its tendrils through the trees and across the river. If she looked straight up, she could see a few breaks in the fog, but she tried not to pay attention to them. If she did, she would have to think about the stars.The night sky seemed somehow closer here, wherever
here
was, and the stars that punctured the darkness were red like scarlet tears against the face of the night.

Or wounds.

They might have been wounds.

Something brushed past her in the mist. Janine gasped and turned quickly to peer deeper into the damp shroud around her, but she could see nothing. A branch, perhaps. It might have been only a branch, yearning toward her under the press of the wind. But there was no wind.

Her breathing quickened, yet each breath was shallower. Her eyes shifted in sudden spasms of paranoia as she gazed around her at each swirl of fog. Out there, within the cloud that lingered upon the marshy ground that squelched beneath her feet, someone watched her. Suddenly Janine was seven years old again, and her older brother and his friends had led her into the wood behind their house and left her, like Hansel and Gretel's parents.They crouched snickering behind trees as she called out into the sunless forest.