{"product_id":"hold-back-the-dark-isbn-9780515156058","title":"Hold Back the Dark","description":"\u003cb\u003eA town in the thrall of evil. A summons that can't be ignored. The mass-market reprint of the nail-biting SCU novel from \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author Kay Hooper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eThe Chosen have been warned. Powerful psychics across the globe have gotten the same eerie and insistent message: \u003ci\u003eGo to Prosperity\u003c\/i\u003e. Because in this small North Carolina mountain town, madness has taken hold...\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTrapped in a nightmare they can't escape, the residents of Prosperity are killing one another, waking up with no memory of the monstrous acts they've committed--or the reasons why. Chief Deputy Katie Cole knows that whatever evil is afoot is beyond her expertise, and beyond the understanding of Sheriff Jackson Archer. They need help.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe Special Crimes Unit is called in for its specific brand of investigation, to aid the Chosen as well as the once-peaceful mountain town. It will take all the agents' training, all their experience, and every extra sense they can call on to get to the bottom of things in Prosperity. And as a sinister pattern begins to emerge, even the most experienced and hardened SCU agents must brace themselves for a flood of darkness unlike any the world has ever seen...\u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eWait for Dark\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Kept me on the edge of my seat, guessing as to who the darkly villainous mastermind was...I love how Kay Hooper expertly combines solid police work with paranormal abilities to craft one heck of a stunning thriller! \u003ci\u003eWait for Dark\u003c\/i\u003e grips the reader tightly from the very first page as the horrific crimes only intensify with each new victim. If you love dark thrillers that delve into the paranormal, then \u003ci\u003eWait for Dark\u003c\/i\u003e is perfect for you!”—Fresh Fiction\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Without question, Hooper is a master of the eerie and creepy, as she continues to creatively demonstrate in this latest Bishop\/Special Crimes Unit novel...If you love your serial killer mysteries layered with psychic and paranormal elements, then Hooper is just the author for you!”—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author Kay Hooper and her novels\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A dark thriller that plunges readers into the disturbing side of the paranormal.”—Fresh Fiction\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Filled with page-turning suspense.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Sunday Oklahoman\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A stirring and evocative thriller.”—\u003ci\u003ePalo Alto Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “When it comes to delivering the creepy and supernatural, Hooper is on a roll.”—\u003ci\u003eRT Book Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Kay Hooper has given you a darn good ride, and there are far too few of those these days.”—\u003ci\u003eDayton Daily News\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “It passed the ‘stay up late to finish it in one night’ test.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Denver Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eKay Hooper\u003c\/b\u003e, who has more than thirteen million copies of her books in print worldwide, has won numerous awards and high praise for her novels. She lives in North Carolina.Tuesday, October 7\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olivia Castle had experienced some monster headaches in her time,      but this one, she felt sure, was about to make her head quite      literally explode. It had come out of nowhere, as if something had      just yanked her head into an invisible, tightening vise without      warning. A vise with teeth. In pain, queasy, and shaking, she      managed to lever herself up from the couch, holding one hand      against the head she was sure was about to fall off, and hardly      spared a moment to wonder why she'd been on the couch.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Work. She should have been at work.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Shouldn't she be at work?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Had she come home for lunch? She didn't remember.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Her head hurt too much to keep thinking about that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She made it to the kitchen by holding on to various pieces of      furniture as she passed, fighting nausea and accidentally grabbing      Rex's tail when she gripped the edge of the sink.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Waaaurr!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sorry, sorry,\" she muttered, the headache so bad by then that her      cat's cry sounded like a dozen angry crows, her own quiet voice      sounded like booming thunder in her head, and even her vision was      affected in some way she didn't understand; she couldn't see the      pleasant Vermont view normally visible from this window. She      couldn't see any real view at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was seeing colors she was reasonably sure didn't exist in      nature. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Moving, swirling, like      colorful smoke driven by a capricious breeze, opaque and      translucent by turn. And everything was so damned bright.      \"Shouldn't sit on the counter. How many times have I told you?      Didn't see you, pal. Oh, damn, what is going on?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There was a large economy-sized bottle of an OTC painkiller near      the sink (just as there was one in almost every room of her small      house, and in her purse, with a box of extra bottles in the      storage closet, in case the zombie apocalypse came without warning      and all the pharmacies got looted before she could get to them).      Olivia closed her eyes against the unnatural brightness, fumbling      the bottle open while bitterly cursing childproof caps foisted      upon people who had no children, fumbled just as blindly for a      glass and the faucet, and managed, finally, to swallow about eight      pills, hoping she could keep them down long enough to do some      good.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Prrupp,\" Rex said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I know it's too many, you don't have to tell me that.\" She stood      there, eyes still closed, still hanging on to the edge of the sink      with one hand and her head with the other, trying to breathe      normally despite the pain keeping all her muscles rigid and      snatching at her ability to breathe at all, her stomach churning,      the weird colors still swirling even though her eyes were closed,      wishing pain meds took effect faster. Like immediately. It would      have been nice, she thought, to just take a shot of morphine and      become unconscious for the duration. But she'd discovered the hard      way that both the law and doctors frowned on patients      self-medicating, far less walking out the door of any hospital,      clinic, or pharmacy with their own supply of morphine or any other      industrial-strength painkiller. And besides, they said it was only      migraines.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Only migraines. Only migraines. Jesus. Even though no migraine      remedy known to medical science and quite a few exotic      possibilities Olivia had experimented with herself had so much as      touched her periodic killer headaches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She fumbled blindly for the bottle again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Waauurr!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"All right, all right. I know there hasn't been enough time. But      if the pain doesn't stop soon, I'm gonna take more. Shit.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A moment later, Rex hissed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olivia managed to pry her eyes open no matter how much the ungodly      brightness all around her hurt, and squinted at her cat in      surprise. Because Rex didn't hiss, or at least never had. But as      she focused on her rather odd-looking cat, his brindle-tortie coat      at odds with the brilliant blue eyes of a Siamese, she realized      even through the bright, swirling colors she was still seeing that      Rex was scared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Really scared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And Rex didn't scare easily. Or . . . at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He was staring past her into the space behind her, the kitchen and      den, and his pupils were so narrow that his eyes looked incredibly      creepy, like the unnaturally blue eyes of a snake. The fur along      his back was standing straight up, and his tail was about three      times its natural size.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At the same time, Olivia began hearing a strange rustling sound.      At first it sounded like dry leaves skittering along pavement,      which was weird enough to hear inside her house with no pavement      around. But then she realized it was . . . whispering. Lots of      voices. Lots and lots of voices. Whispering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was coming from behind her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olivia did not want to turn around. Her mouth was dry despite the      nausea, her skin was crawling unpleasantly, the pain in her head      was getting impossibly worse rather than better, and she was      afraid if she turned to confront an axe murderer, she'd beg him to      just cut off her head and be quick about it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Axe murderer. Idiot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not an axe murderer, of course. Not anyone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not any one . . . thing. Because she heard more than one whisper,      many whispers, countless whispers. And she didn't know what they      were saying, but she had the eerie feeling they were all      whispering the same thing. The same words.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Still holding the edge of the sink with one hand, Olivia turned      slowly to see what so frightened her cat and was making her own      skin crawl in a sensation she'd never felt before.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh, shit,\" she whispered.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The headache that was still hellishly painful didn't seem such a      big deal now. Because despite all the swirling colors nearly      blinding her, she could see, very clearly, why Rex was afraid.      Every sharp object in her kitchen and den-every single one from      every kitchen knife and fork she owned to three letter openers,      two pairs of scissors, two box cutters with razor blades visible,      the iron fireplace poker, and half a dozen pens and twice that      many sharpened pencils-floated in midair. Different levels, some      low, some as high as eye level.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e With their pointy ends aimed right at her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And they were all whispering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Waaurr,\" Rex muttered, his voice unusually quiet, questioning.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm not doing it. I'd know if I were doing it, right? I always      know. I have to concentrate to do it. I mean, unless I'm mad.      Angry, not crazy. Though maybe crazy too. Because this has never .      . . And, anyway, even if I'm mad, I don't . . . know how . . . to      make anything . . . whisper.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Or how to stop it when she instinctively tried, an effort that was      definitely not rewarded.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Unconsciously, both her hands lifted to her head, pressing as if      to hold something in, because the headache suddenly grew horribly      worse, impossibly worse, dragging a guttural groan from somewhere      deep inside her, and through the bright swirl of colors that was      beginning to truly blind her, she could still see all the      scary-sharp weapons floating inexorably toward her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Whispering.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e What was whispering? Inanimate objects couldn't communicate,      right? Not like this, at least.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The pain edged into agony, but even so she heard as if from a      great distance her own shaking, pleading question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"What? What are you saying? What do you want of me?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And from the same great distance, she heard the whispered demand      that made no sense to her.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Prosperity. Go to Prosperity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They were still floating eerily toward her, all the pointy things      that promised even more pain if they came much closer, and hard as      she tried, Olivia couldn't do anything about it, couldn't stop it,      couldn't see anything but them or hear anything except for that      whispered demand.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Go to Prosperity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Go to Prosperity.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Olivia heard one last thing: A moan of agony escaped her, and then      everything went black.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tuesday, October 7\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Logan Alexander considered himself a man of hardheaded      practicality, which to his way of thinking was ironclad proof that      the universe had a twisted sense of humor. Because he was also a      medium.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A medium.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And he hated being a medium. He hated being called a medium, being      dragged from peaceful obscurity into an unwelcome spotlight of      sorts, what he was and what he could do named if not understood,      word spreading among those who scorned with suspicion and those      who believed or desperately wanted to. Both always, always finding      him eventually and making his life hell so that he'd have to pull      up stakes again, usually in the middle of the night, and find      another place to live, in another town or city or state where he      could be anonymous again, just another stranger and left in peace.      Until the next time he was found, and the lost ones began to seek      him out again.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Not the \"Can you contact my uncle George and ask him where he hid      all the family money?\" sort of questions that only made him      impatient. Those were relatively easy to either avoid or else      respond to with some bullshit answer that would satisfy the sort      of people who would even ask that kind of silly question.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was the truly lost ones that got to him, the religious who had      lost their faith and needed proof of some kind of an existence      after death. The parents hollow-eyed and haunted in a very human      sense by the inexplicable and heartbreaking disappearance of a      child. The widows and widowers bereft by the loss of the other      half of themselves. And others, so many others, lost people who      were desperately hopeful that he could help them.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He hated it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But what he hated most about an ability way too many people with      no understanding of what they were talking about called a gift or      a curse (as if it could be anything so simple as either) was that      he had absolutely no control over it. And he had been told by      someone who did understand and should certainly know all about it      that the \"door\" most mediums opened in order to communicate with      the dead was, in him, always open.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Always. Or, hell, just missing entirely.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And also that mediums naturally attracted spirits. Whether they      wanted to or not.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He didn't talk to the dead, certainly not willingly. They talked      to him. Anywhere. Everywhere. No matter how hard he tried to      ignore them. Persistent, insistent, often desperate. Dogging his      steps. Showing up in different places. Making it impossible for      him to go out to dinner, or to a theater and enjoy a play or      movie. Impossible to attend a party, or even to date-or at least      date the same woman more than once.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He'd learned that lesson the hard way, with too many first dates      ending with a woman eyeing him uneasily because he'd spent too      much time sending brief, fierce glares at nothing she could see      past her shoulder or over her head, or at the empty chair at their      table. Most were either too kind or too wary to say it aloud, but      at least one date had told him frankly that she didn't see the      sense in a second date since it was obvious he had more baggage      than she did and she wasn't getting any younger.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And the last time an instant physical attraction had cut an      evening short for energetic (if not desperate) sex in his bed, the      lady had left before dawn after waking to find him sitting up in      bed having a whispered but clearly angry argument with someone      named Josephine.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e His bedmate's name wasn't Josephine, he was wide-awake-and as far      as the lady could see, nobody else was in the room. So she      snatched up her clothing and ran.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Logan had not blamed her one bit. He was just grateful that she      hadn't called the police to report an escaped lunatic.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At least a few before her had done something of the sort over the      years, reporting him as potentially dangerous, or mentally ill, or      just a man who had frightened them in an age when police were      finally paying more attention to that sort of thing, leaving him      to spend time in this jail or that \"detention room\" or in some      clinic or other while the police and sometimes doctors got things      sorted out to their satisfaction in the quest to determine whether      he was actually a danger-to himself or others. Sometimes there      were fines, sometimes an order for a psychiatric evaluation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All because he could see and talk to the dead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They stole any chance he had of living a normal life, these      spirits, and while his sympathy was sometimes roused by a      particularly sad or frightened spirit killed in some brutally      unfair manner and desperate for his help, he seldom could do      anything to help them, and that only added to his resentment.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At least most of them had had a shot at a normal life, before      whatever unfair act or illness or accident had put them in the      ground. Logan, on the other hand, could hardly get a normal day to      himself. Impossible to do everyday things. Wherever he went,      whatever he was doing, there was at least one dead person anxious      to talk to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Like now. He was just blamelessly walking in the park near his      current home in San Francisco, needing some morning air before he      returned to the freelance IT work he did from his home office,      because of course he couldn't work in a normal office setting with      people all around him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Besides, even the living had begun to wear on his nerves after a      while.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Maybe especially the living.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He'd just wanted some air, that was all. And there was a dead guy      walking beside him. Talking to him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"She didn't mean to poison me, I'm sure,\" the older gentleman of      about sixty was saying earnestly, for about the third time.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Logan paused on an arched footbridge and leaned his elbows on the      wooden railing, gazing down at the happily burbling, man-made      creek. A quick glance had shown him no one else was near, but he      still kept his voice low; bitter experience had taught him that,      as with dates, office jobs, and lovers, speaking aloud in public      to people only he could see whenever normal people were within      earshot too often meant a quick trip to the nearest loony bin, or      at least a night in a cell.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Adding insult to injury, the cells too were always filled with      dead people. Usually far more hostile than his living cellmates.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Listen, buddy-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"My name is Oscar.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Logan didn't bother telling him names didn't really matter.      \"Oscar, I don't know if your wife poisoned you-\"","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301970137317,"sku":"NP9780515156058","price":10.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780515156058.jpg?v=1767729125","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/hold-back-the-dark-isbn-9780515156058","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}