Daemon Hall - Hardcover

Nance, Andrew

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0805081712 ISBN 13: 9780805081718

Verlag: Henry Holt Books for Young Readers, 2007

Inhaltsangabe

Is winning a writing contest worth risking your life?

Nothing exciting ever happens in the town of Maplewood—that is, until famous thriller writer Ian Tremblin holds a short-story writing contest with a prize that seems to be the opportunity of a lifetime: five finalists will get to spend the evening with Tremblin himself in the haunted mansion Daemon Hall, and the winner of the best short story will see publication.

Wade Reilly and the other finalists could never have imagined what they find lurking in the shadows of this demonic mansion. During a suspenseful night of tale-telling, strange incidents mix the realms of the real and the supernatural. What is Tremblin really up to, and can he be trusted? What about Daemon Hall—is it alive? And, more to the point, will any of the contestants make it out of this hall of horrors to tell their story?

In the tradition of Stephen King, this chilling novel will have teen readers on edge in anticipation of what’s to come with the next extinguished candle.

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Andrew Nance is retired from a twenty-five-year career as a morning radio DJ. He uses his storytelling skills to give ghost tours throughout historic St. Augustine, Florida, where he lives. This is his first novel for young adults.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

Prologue
 
It's going to be an awesome day. Finals are over and I did pretty well. I'll coast the rest of the week and then, look out; summer vacation begins. Plans include keeping it late on both ends: staying up late and sleeping late. I'll hang with my friends, watch way too much TV, and see if I can't finally learn a backside ollie good enough so that I don't fall off my skateboard. And I'm going to enter that contest, so I'll have to do some serious writing. I think I'll use that spider story I've been working on. I feel good. I might work up the nerve to ask Erin Page if she'd like to go out this weekend.

Maybe.

I run downstairs in the silent house. My parents already left for work. My brother, Lee, has gone to meet some friends at the pancake house for a before school breakfast. I'm in a hurry and make a quick meal of toast and plum jelly, pack my book bag, and open the door. The morning sun touches my face and feels great--for a second. Pain hits from nowhere and I grunt. Sometimes it comes on slow, sometimes a little faster. Today it feels like I'm slammed by a speeding tractor-trailer.

The book bag falls from my hand as I clutch at my chest. I want to scream, but my teeth are clenched and I can only manage a drawn-out hiss that empties my lungs. I struggle for a deep breath but can only wheeze. A chill sweeps through my body, yet I pour sweat. Dizziness overtakes me and I fall by the front door.

 

Fear! The terrible fear has returned. But why? Why now? Shaking violently, I crawl into the house and use the banister to pull myself up the stairs. In my room I only think of one thing: finding someplace safe. I crawl under the bed. Fears that never concern me in everyday life now plague me: nuclear war, terrorists, spiders, disease. Then, worst of all, my terror finds focus with my own mortality. Oh God, I'm going to die here. They won't find my body until the smell of decomposition leads them to check under the bed.

The fear ebbs just enough so that I wonder what is wrong with me? One word repeats over and over in my head: insanity, insanity, insanity.
 
.... 
 
FROM THE DESK OF
Ian Tremblin
1313 Mystical Way
Pennbrook, NY 

Wade Reilly
3318 Cascade Rd.
Maplewood
 
Dear Wade,
 
Often when I am corresponding it is for purposes other than pleasure. Most of my mail has to do with business, usually between the Macabre Master publisher and myself. I do spend quite a bit of time answering my legion of fans, but that too has lost its charm. Other correspondences range in mundane topics from research to financial. So it is indeed a great pleasure to put pen to paper, or finger to keyboard, to announce that you are one of five finalists in my young horror writer contest.

I found your entry, "A Countdown to Infestation," promising in its unique delivery of the chronology of the story. Watching the hours tick away for your protagonist and his inevitable fate proved to be truly suspenseful. Keep your fingers crossed that you will win and have a book published in the Macabre Master series.

I will arrive in Maplewood on July 31, but you are to have no contact with me until the following night, when you and four other finalists will meet me at sunset at the front gate leading to Daemon Hall. Please arrive alone. Wear comfortable clothing. Bring a bedroll, though I seriously doubt that anyone will sleep. No backpacks, handbags, or sacks are allowed. If it doesn't fit in your pockets, don't bring it. Cameras, cell phones, iPods, and recording devices of all kinds are prohibited. Flashlights are also on the expressly forbidden list. In fact, anyone discovered with a flashlight will be immediately evicted from Daemon Hall and forfeit any eligibility to win the contest. CANDLES WILL BE OUR SOLE SOURCE OF LIGHT!

Enclosed is a legal waiver absolving me of all responsibility in the case of death, injury, demonic possession, paranormal haunting, werewolf consumption, or vampiric bloodletting. Have a parent sign the form and mail it back to me at your earliest convenience.

I look forward to meeting you, as I am sure you are eager to meet me.   
 
Sincerely,
 
Ian Tremblin     
 
 
.... 
 
My brother dropped me at the front gate of Daemon Hall a half hour before sunset. Three others were already there. I climbed out of the old VW Bug and pulled my Boy Scout bedroll after me.

"If you die of fright, I get all your CDs," Lee said, and drove off. Jerk.

I turned to the other finalists. "Hi. What's up?"

"Four little Indians going out to sea, a red herring swallowed one and then there were three," a black guy said. He was about my age, skinny and tall, with extensions hanging to his shoulders.

"Huh?"

"Don't mind Demarius," another finalist, a goth, said. She wore the appropriate black clothes and makeup. Other than one strand left its natural red, her hair had been dyed black. "He's been quoting Agatha Christie since we got here. Drop your bedroll over there with ours."

"I read Ten Little Indians again to get in the mood for tonight. You ever read it?"

I added my bedroll to the pile. "Uh, no. I saw the movie once."

"Books are always better. But you know the story. Ten people go to that empty island and start dying according to the poem. Choking, cut up, poisoned--you gotta love it! That's what tonight reminds me of. Wouldn't surprise me if bodies started piling up."

"In Maplewood?" the goth said. "Nothing exciting happens here in the armpit of the world. That mansion may look spooky, but Ian Tremblin wouldn't use it if it were dangerous. The only thing dying tonight is your chance of winning the contest."

"Ooooh, sounds like someone is full of herself," Demarius said.

She turned to me. "I'm Chelsea, Chelsea Flynt. You've already met Demarius Keating. And this is Kara Bakshi," she indicated a younger girl.

I shook Chelsea's hand and then held out my hand for Kara. She looked at it like it might be a snake in disguise and then briefly grabbed it. Ugh, her palm was clammy.

"I'm Wade Reilly."

She mumbled something unintelligible. She was around thirteen, with straight black hair, a dark complexion, and some pudge, courtesy of lingering baby fat. Her eyes were magnified through the thick lenses of her glasses.

"We're all finalists," Chelsea said. "I wrote 'The Babysitter (Revisited).'  Kara's entry is 'Too Much TV,' and Demarius," she hooked her thumb in his direction, "has the losing entry, 'The Field Trip.'"

"The losing entry? Someone is living in fantasy land." Demarius rolled his eyes. "What's your story, Wade?"

 

"I wrote 'A Countdown to Infestation.'"

"Cool title. What's it--"

The roar of a powerful engine interrupted our conversation. A dark blue Firebird raced up the dirt road and lost traction, but the driver regained control without slowing. With a final burst of acceleration, the driver spun the steering wheel and hit the brakes, causing the rear of the car to spin around and come to rest in a shower of dirt. Music thumped but ended as the driver shut off the engine. The door opened, and a muscular guy got out.

"I don't believe it," Chelsea mumbled, and glared at the new arrival.

The driver looked at us. He focused on Chelsea a moment, gave her a wink, and ducked back into the car. He stood again, holding something.

"Here--think fast," he said, and threw it at Demarius.

"Hey!"...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: Henry Holt Books for Young Readers
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2007
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0805081712
• ISBN 13: 9780805081718
• Einband: Gebundene Ausgabe
• Zeichner: Polhemus Coleman
• Anzahl der Seiten: 254
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar