Ghost Eaters

by Clay McLeod Chapman

Genres: Occult & Supernatural; General Fiction; Horror; Thrillers; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

“A Gothic-punk graveyard tale about what haunts history and what haunts the human soul. An addicting read that draws you into its descent from the first page.”—Chuck Wendig, New York Times best-selling author of The Book of Accidents

From the acclaimed author of The Remaking and Whisper Down the Lane, this terrifying supernatural page-turner will make you think twice about opening doors to the unknown.

Erin hasn’t been able to set a single boundary with her charismatic but reckless college ex-boyfriend, Silas. When he asks her to bail him out of rehab—again—she knows she needs to cut him off. But days after he gets out, Silas turns up dead of an overdose in their hometown of Richmond, Virginia, and Erin’s world falls apart.
 
Then a friend tells her about Ghost, a new drug that allows users to see the dead. Wanna get haunted? he asks. Grieving and desperate for closure with Silas, Erin agrees to a pill-popping “séance.” But the drug has unfathomable side effects—and once you take it, you can never go back.

Release date: September 20, 2022

Publisher: Quirk Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

Tripping our asses off in the cemetery is Silas’s idea. We dose back at his dorm to give the acid a head start. By the time we abandon campus and hop the wrought-iron fence surrounding Hollywood Cemetery, the four of us are all well on our way to peak fry.
     “What’re we doing what’re we doing,” Amara keeps repeating under her breath, a giddy litany. “What’re we doing what’re we—”
     “Remember your partners,” Silas whispers as he scales the fence first. He just high-jumps those spikes like a grave-robbing Olympian. Now that’s some gold-medal trespassing.
     Poor Tobias can’t seem to find a foothold on the fence. His tattered Vans keep slipping, reminding me of that puny kid on the playground who doesn’t have the upper body strength to pull himself up the monkey bars on his own. He’s too embarrassed to ask for help, shooing Silas’s hand away whenever he offers it. “I got it, I got it,” he keeps muttering.
     Amara and I are the only ones left on the street, so we plant our hands on Tobias’s scrawny ass and heave-ho him over. I can literally feel the bone in his butt cheek as we push. From where I’m standing, it looks like he takes flight for a moment, just a beanpole of a bat flapping his wings through the bruised purple sky.
     Amara is next. She starts to shriek, practically impaling herself on one of the rusted spears. We all shush her—try to, at least, in between laughing our asses off. She flips over the fence and falls flat on her face. It’s far too dark for me to see her land—Silas won’t let us use the flashlights on our phones—so there’s a hot second where I worry if Amara’s cracked her skull open on a tombstone or something. But she’s cackling like an absolute candyflipping witch, rolling around in the grass, so we know she’s still breathing.
     “Come on, Erin.” Silas beckons through the bars. He’s gripping them with both hands, leaning his face through the gap. He’s a convict and I’ve come to break him out. “Your turn.”
     I can’t help myself. His face is right there. Lips right there. I lean in and kiss him through the fence. Flecks of rust dig into my cheeks, smearing my makeup. Here comes the lockjaw.
     “Jesus, guys,” Amara whispers-but-not-really-whispers. “Get a tomb already.”
     Suddenly I’m second-guessing myself: I can’t climb over this. What if I lose my footing and fall on one of those spikes?
     “Easy does it,” Silas says. “I got you.”
     Silas and Tobias each grab a foot and hoist me up while I pull on the top rail. Imagine a cheerleader pyramid, where these two strapping young lads lift me over their heads and I perform the most absolutely fucking perfect hip-over-head airborne tumble you’ve ever seen, both feet landing directly on a headstone, a total Bring It On crowd-goes-wild dismount.
     You’d be wrong. I land on my ass. Hard.
     Silas hovers just above me. “You okay?”
     “I think I broke my hip.”
     “You’ll live,” Silas says. “Take my hand.”
   Silas says hop on one foot.
   Silas says pat your head.
   Touch your nose.
   . . . Silas didn’t say.
     The four of us take in the meandering rows of tombstones tilting like loose teeth. The cemetery’s called Hollywood because a few Richmond natives became celebrities way back whenever, returning home only after they kicked the bucket to get buried in their native soil. Everyone returns to Richmond someday. Mostly this place is full of dead Confederates, but there are a few forgotten starlets in the ground. Tourists take photos next to their gaudy graves—but tonight, hours after the cemetery gates close and the only occupants are six feet under, all 135 acres of this place belong to us.
     “Follow me,” Silas says. “Watch your step.”
     Tobias trips on cue. Tripping while tripping, hardy har. He’s practically blind on the best of days, even with his wire-rimmed specs. Swap out the daylight for some liquid sunshine and add a few granite stumbling blocks and it’s no wonder he can’t stay on his feet.
     “Where are we going?” I have to ask.
     “You’ll see.”
     Silas never tells us what he’s got hidden up his sleeve. That would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it? He has this uncanny ability to rally the troops, enlist the rest of us to do just about whatever he wants—and what he wants most out of life is to gogogogo. His lust for life is addictive and thrilling and downright exhausting all at once. Who cares if we have to wake up tomorrow morning for class? Haven’t we realized academia is merely for sheep? Silas says we’re better than all the other undergrad lemmings, and who are we to argue? Sounds good to me. He can somehow convince us to forget our inhibitions, to lose ourselves in the white heat of the moment. To hop trains in the dead of night. To embark on random road trips with no destination. To take jaunts through haunted plantations that last until the sun rises over the abandoned tobacco fields.
    This city is ours, he always says. The Four Musketeers. All for one and one for Silas . . .