By Alison Littlewood
A depressing and unsettling story from a daring voice in horror writing, British author Alison Littlewood's first novel was once decreed "hugely enjoyable--perfect interpreting for a gloomy winter's night," by means of the influential Richard & Judy publication membership. "A frightening learn that would sit back you to the bone," acknowledged Library Journal.
After the battlefront loss of life of her husband, a soldier, within the sands of the center East, a distraught Cass comes to a decision to maneuver to the bucolic village of Darnshaw--a position she as soon as knew and loved--with her teenaged son, with the wish swap in surroundings might be simply the article to assist her family members heal. however the locals aren't as pleasant as she had was hoping and the net connection isn't as trustworthy as her paintings calls for. Ben starts to show an uncharacteristic hostility. A snow fall moves Darnshaw, marooning it in a sea of snow, and Cass starts to depression. She reveals a sympathetic ear within the individual of her son's alternative instructor. yet his attentions can't positioned to leisure her transforming into nervousness approximately her son and her enterprise. and shortly, she reveals herself pitted opposed to darkish forces she will slightly understand. The chilly season has begun.
From the Hardcover edition.
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Extra info for A Cold Season
He made mint and sassafras tea, and on one occasion he sneaked into a farmer’s ﬁeld and pilfered a handful of potatoes left over from the previous year’s harvest, and that night he made potato pancakes. On another occasion, Cain got out some string and a hook he kept in his saddlebags, and they caught themselves a mess of brook trout, which Little Strofe fried up in lard that night. Now and then they had a treat of venison or wild turkey roasted over a spit on the ﬁre, but mostly it was the monotonous diet of soldiers, corn pone and dried ﬁsh, salt pork and jerked beef.
One goes by Henry,” he explained. “He’s a right stout nigger. Missing an ear. ” The Negro stared up at him mutely, as if English was not his own language. He eyed their guns. SOUL CATCHER 45 “We know they’re here,” Strofe said. ” Frowning, the Negro glanced down at his basket of eggs. Then he did an odd thing. He looked up and silently held the basket out to Strofe, as a kind of offering. Funny how when a man is offered something, no matter what it is, he tends to take it, and Strofe instinctively leaned down from his saddle and reached for the basket.
Sometimes when he hunted alone, Satan’s was the only voice Cain would hear for days. He reminded Cain of a southerner: both honorable and petty, vainglorious and doomed from the start, yet too proud and foolish to know when he was beaten. He put Cain in mind of the stubborn, proud men at the Alamo, those heroes every southern boy had read about and dreamed one day of emulating—Bowie and Travis and Crockett. “It’s a long poem by a blind fellow,” Cain explained. ” Little Strofe asked. ” Little Strofe chewed on this notion for a moment.
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