Horror

In the middle of the night, in a house on a quiet street in suburban Minneapolis, intruders silently murder Luke Ellis's parents and load him into a black SUV. The operation takes less than two minutes. Luke will wake up at The Institute, in a room that looks just like his own, except there's no window. And outside his door are other doors, behind which are other kids with special talents--telekinesis and telepathy--who got to this place the same way Luke did: Kalisha, Nick, George, Iris, and ten-year-old Avery Dixon. They are all in Front Half. Others, Luke learns, graduated to Back Half, "like the roach motel," Kalisha says. "You check in, but you don't check out."

In this most sinister of institutions, the director, Mrs. Sigsby, and her staff are ruthlessly dedicated to extracting from these children the force of their extranormal gifts. There are no scruples here. If you go along, you get tokens for the vending machines. If you don't, punishment is brutal. As each new victim disappears to Back Half, Luke becomes more and more desperate to get out and get help. But no one has ever escaped from the Institute.

As psychically terrifying as Firestarter, and with the spectacular kid power of It, The Institute "is another winner: creepy and touching and horrifyingly believable, all at once" (The Boston Globe).

"A surreal, riveting, keep-the-lights-on masterwork of horror . . . I will be haunted by this book for years to come." --Kim Fu, author of Lesser Known Monsters of the 21st Century

I know this place. The room is too dim to see clearly. It smells like the bones.

Yewon dreams of a hotel. In the hotel, there are infinite keys to infinite rooms--and a quiet terror she is both eager to understand and desperate to escape. When Yewon wakes, she sees her life: a young woman, out of her job at a convenience store, trapped in the tiny South Korean village of her birth, watching her mother wash the bones of their ancestors in their decrepit bathtub. Every house has them, these rotting and fragmented ribs, tibias, and femurs, whose constant care and persistent stench serve as reminders of what they have all lost to the Forgotten War that never seems to end.

Now Yewon's brother is stationed near the North Korean border, her sister has experienced a life-changing tragedy, and her mother is overwhelmed by anxiety, her health declining. When Yewon begins to drive a local woman named Ms. Han, a mysterious and aging North Korean refugee, to visit her brother at a distant prison, Yewon's dreams intensify. As the line between reality and illusion slowly begins to blur, Yewon is led to an unsettling truth about her country's collective heritage.

A work of literary horror in the gothic tradition, The Invisible Hotel is a startling, speculative tale of a woman in crisis and in stasis, and a country's shifting identity in the long afterlife of the Korean War.

This third perspective on myself is disconcerting.

The heroine of the spare and haunting It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over is voraciously alive in the afterlife. Adrift yet keenly aware, she notes every bizarre detail of her new reality. And even if she has forgotten her name and much of what connects her to her humanity, she remembers with an implacable and nearly unbearable longing the place where she knew herself and was known--where she loved and was loved. Traveling across the landscapes of time and of space, heading always west, and carrying a dead but laconically opinionated crow in her chest, our undead narrator encounters and loses parts of her body and her self in one terrifying, hilarious, and heartbreaking situation after another.

A bracing writer of great nerve and verve, Anne de Marcken bends reality (and the reader's mind) with throwaway assurance. It Lasts Forever and Then It's Over plumbs mortality and how it changes everything, except possibly love. Delivering a near-Beckettian whopping to the reader's imagination, this is one of the sharpest and funniest novels of recent years, a tale for our dispossessed times.