“Who am I? Why, I’m you. Or parts of you. The best parts. I’m the touch of Richard Speck, Ed Gein, John Wayne Gacy, Ted Bundy, and Bin Laden in all of you. I am the thousand tiny angers and fleeting rages of your day—at the car that cuts you off on the freeway, at the kid who sneaks ahead of you in line at the movies, at the old fart with the full basket in the eight-items-only express checkout at the supermarket. I’m the nasty glee in the name-callers and the long-suffering pain, the self-loathing, the smoldering resentment, the suppressed rage, and the never-to-be-fulfilled promises of revenge in their targets. I’m the daily business betrayals and the corporate men’s room character assassinations. I’m the husband who beats his wife, the mother who scalds her child, I’m the playground beatings of your little boys, the backseat rapes of your daughters. I’m your rage toward a child molester and I’m the pederast’s lust for your child, for his own child. I’m the guards’ contempt for their prisoners and the prisoners’ hatred for their guards, I’m the shank, I’m the truncheon, I’m the shiv. I’m the bayonet in the throat of the political dissident, the meat hook on which he is hung, the cattle prod that caresses his genitals. You’ve kept me alive, you’ve made me strong. I am you.”
The immortal evil defeated in The Keep and reincarnated in Reborn has come of age and begun to settle scores. He targets a few unlucky individuals for destruction now, but soon the whole world will suffer. And he will feed on our tears and our pain.
About the Author
F. Paul Wilson, the New York Times bestselling author of the Repairman Jack novels, lives in Wall, New Jersey.
Read an Excerpt
Mr. Veilleur could feel the approaching summer storm in his bones as he sat in a shady corner of St. Ann’s cemetery in Bayside. He had the place to himself. In fact, he seemed to have most of the five boroughs to himself. Labor Day weekend. And a hot one. Anyone who could afford to had fled upstate or to the Long Island beaches. The rest were inside, slumped before their air conditioners. Even the homeless were off the streets, crouched in the relative cool of the subways.
The sun poured liquid fire through the hazy midday sky. Not a cloud in sight. But here in the shade of this leaning oak, Mr. Veilleur knew the weather was going to change soon, could read it from the worsening ache in his knees, hips, and back.
Other things were going to change as well. Everything, perhaps. And all for the worse.
He had been making sporadic trips to this corner of the cemetery since he’d first sensed the wrongness here. That had been on a snowy winter night many years ago. It had taken him a while, but he’d finally located the spot.
A grave, which was perfectly natural, this being a cemetery. This grave was not like the others, however. This one had no marker. But something else made this grave special: Nothing would grow over it.
Through the years Mr. Veilleur had seen the cemetery’s gardeners try to seed it, sod it, even plant it with various ground covers like periwinkle, pachysandra, and ivy. They took root well all around, but nothing survived in the four-foot oblong patch over the grave.
Of course, they didn’t know it was a grave. Only Mr. Veilleur and the one who had dug the hole knew that. And surely one other.
Mr. Veilleur did not come here often. Travel was not easy for him, even to another part of the city he had called home since the end of World War Two. Gone were the days when he walked where he wished, fearing no one. Now his eyes were bad; his back was stiff and canted forward; he leaned on a cane when he walked, and he walked slowly. He had an old man’s body and he had to take appropriate precautions.
Age had not dampened his curiosity, however. He didn’t know who had dug the grave, or who was in it. But whoever lay down there below the dirt and rocks had been touched by the enemy … the Otherness.
The enemy had been growing steadily stronger for more than two decades now. But growing carefully, staying hidden. Good thing too, for he had no one to oppose him. But he did not know that. He was waiting. For what? A sign? A particular event? Perhaps the one buried below was part of the answer. Perhaps the occupant had nothing to do with the enemy’s quiescence.
No matter—as long as the enemy remained inactive. For the longer the enemy delayed, the closer Mr. Veilleur would be to reaching the end of his days. And then he would be spared witnessing the chaotic horrors to come. His Heir would shoulder that burden.
A shadow fell across him and a sudden gust of wind chilled the perspiration that coated his skin. He looked up. Clouds were moving in, obscuring the sun. Time to go.
He stood and stared one last time at the bare dirt over the unmarked grave. He knew he would be back again. And again. Too many questions about this grave and its occupant. He sensed unfinished business here.
Because the grave’s occupant did not rest easy. Did not, in fact, rest at all.
Mr. Veilleur turned and made his unsteady way out of St. Ann’s cemetery. It would be good to get back to the cool apartment and get his feet up and have a glass of iced tea. He tried to believe that his wife had missed him during his absence, but with her mind the way it was, Magda probably hadn’t even realized he was gone.
Copyright © 2005, 2011 by F. Paul Wilson
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Haven't read anything of his I didn't like!!!!
One can only hope that another series as good as this is in the wings. Hands down the best horror series ever written. Even Stephen King thinks he is the best, and Stephen "ain't" wrong. Just make sure you read all 4 previous books of the Adversary/Cycle Repairman Jack Series.........and if you don't ever read another book as long as you live you absolutely must read the Keep. It is the best horror book ever written....period.