{"product_id":"night-film-isbn-9780812979787","title":"Night Film","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNEW YORK TIMES \u003c\/i\u003eBESTSELLER • “A hair-raising mystery that’s equal parts family drama, horror movie, and jigsaw puzzle. . . . It’s impossible to look away.”—\u003ci\u003e People\u003c\/i\u003e (four stars)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“Maniacally clever . . . like an M.C. Escher nightmare about Edgar Allan Poe . . . You’ll miss your subway stop, let dinner burn, and start sleeping with the lights on.”—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eA BEST BOOK OF THE YEAR: NPR, \u003ci\u003eCosmopolitan, Kirkus Reviews, BookPage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eOn a damp October night, beautiful young Ashley Cordova is found dead in an abandoned warehouse in lower Manhattan. Though her death is ruled a suicide, veteran investigative journalist Scott McGrath suspects otherwise. As he probes the strange circumstances surrounding Ashley’s life and death, McGrath comes face-to-face with the legacy of her father: the legendary, reclusive cult-horror-film director Stanislas Cordova—a man who hasn’t been seen in public for more than thirty years.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eFor McGrath, another death connected to this seemingly cursed family dynasty seems more than just a coincidence. Though much has been written about Cordova’s dark and unsettling films, very little is known about the man himself. Driven by revenge, curiosity, and a need for the truth, McGrath, with the aid of two strangers, is drawn deeper and deeper into Cordova’s eerie, hypnotic world.\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003eThe last time he got close to exposing the director, McGrath lost his marriage and his career. This time, he might lose even more.“\u003ci\u003eNight Film\u003c\/i\u003e has been precision-engineered to be read at high velocity, and its energy would be the envy of any summer blockbuster. Your average writer of thrillers should lust for Pessl’s deft touch with character.”\u003cb\u003e—Joe Hill, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Mysterious and even a little head-spinning, an amazing act of imagination.”\u003cb\u003e—Dean Baquet, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Maniacally clever . . . Cordova is a monomaniacal genius who creeps into the darkest crevices of the human psyche. . . . As a study of a great mythmaker, \u003ci\u003eNight Film\u003c\/i\u003e is an absorbing act of myth-making itself. . . . Dastardly fun . . . The plot feels like an M. C. Escher nightmare about Edgar Allan Poe. . . . You’ll miss your subway stop, let dinner burn and start sleeping with the lights on.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Washington Post\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Haunting . . . a suspenseful, sprawling page-turner.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Entrancing and delightful . . . [a] whipsmart humdinger of a thriller . . . It feels, above all things, new.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Gripping . . . a masterful puzzle . . . Pessl builds up real suspense.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A very deeply imagined book . . . sprints to an ending that’s equal parts nagging and haunting: What lingers, beyond all the page-turning, is a density of possible clues that leaves you leafing backward, scanning fictional blog comments and newspaper clippings, positive there’s some secret detail that will snap everything into focus.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eNew York\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Hypnotic . . . The real and the imaginary, life and art, are dizzyingly distorted not only in a Cordova night film . . . but in Pessl’s own \u003ci\u003eNight Film \u003c\/i\u003eas well.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eVanity Fair\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A literary mystery that’s also a page-turner . . . \u003ci\u003eNight Film\u003c\/i\u003e might be the most talked-about novel this summer.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eTime Out New York\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Noirish, impish and stylish, this literary thriller delivers twists, kinks and characters to care about. . . . \u003ci\u003eNight Film \u003c\/i\u003egets two thumbs up.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMore\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “You won’t put this book down.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMarie Claire\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A shrewdly contemporary whodunit.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eW Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “The sort of a top-shelf whodunit that thriller buffs dream of. Seriously, people, this is the \u003ci\u003eGame of Thrones\u003c\/i\u003e of murder mysteries.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eOut\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eNight Film\u003c\/i\u003e is an engrossing yarn, full of twists and cliffhangers. . . . Pessl handles Cordova’s menace superbly, keeping readers in thrall.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Economist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “It may be true, as the opening scene of the novel says, that everybody has a story about Cordova. But it’s hard to imagine any one that would be better than \u003ci\u003eNight Film\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eSt. Louis Post-Dispatch\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Screenshots of online news articles and the Cordovite fansite, as well as copies of mental hospital patient assessment forms and other official documents—all fictional—plus McGrath’s terror-filled imagination, pull the reader into Pessl’s masterfully played ruse. Pessl has matured into a cleverly entertaining writer who wields her strengths with greater precision than in \u003ci\u003eSpecial Topics\u003c\/i\u003e.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eThe Kansas City Star\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A gothic thriller that’s among the best novels I’ve read this year.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eMilwaukee Journal Sentinel\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Having finished \u003ci\u003eNight Film,\u003c\/i\u003e I now find myself a dedicated Cordovite.”\u003cb\u003e—Rob Brunner, \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A testament to Pessl’s tremendous gifts as a storyteller.”\u003cb\u003e—Scott Smith, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Ruins\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A rare and wonderful thing—an ambitious novel that hits its target fair and square. \u003ci\u003eNight Film \u003c\/i\u003eis beautifully imagined, beautifully written, and hypnotically suspenseful.”\u003cb\u003e—Lee Child, author of \u003ci\u003eA Wanted Man\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “This summer’s \u003ci\u003eGone Girl\u003c\/i\u003e: a completely absorbing literary thriller.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Inventive . . . Think Edgar Allan Poe and Stephen King meet Guillermo del Toro.”—\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Seven years after \u003ci\u003eSpecial Topics in Calamity Physics, \u003c\/i\u003ePessl returns with a novel as twisted and intelligent as that lauded debut.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Expands from a seemingly straightforward mystery into a multifaceted, densely byzantine exploration of much larger issues.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eMarisha Pessl\u003c\/b\u003e’s bestselling debut novel, \u003ci\u003eSpecial Topics in Calamity Physics,\u003c\/i\u003e won the John Sargent Sr. First Novel Prize (now the Center for Fiction’s Flaherty-Dunnan First Novel Prize), and was selected as one of the 10 Best Books of the Year by \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e. Pessl grew up in Asheville, North Carolina, and currently resides in New York City.PROLOGUE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNew York City\u003cbr\u003e2:32 AM\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEveryone has a Cordova story, whether they like it or not.\u003cbr\u003e Maybe your next-door neighbor found one of his movies in an old box in her attic and never entered a dark room alone again.  Or, your boyfriend bragged he’d discovered a contraband copy of \u003ci\u003eAt Night All Birds Are Black \u003c\/i\u003eon the Internet and after watching, refused to speak of it, as if it were a horrific ordeal he’d barely survived.  \u003cbr\u003e Whatever your opinion of Cordova, however obsessed with his work or indifferent—-he’s there to react against.  He’s a crevice, a black hole, an unspecified danger, a relentless outbreak of the unknown in our overexposed world.  He’s underground, looming unseen in the corners of the dark.  He’s down under the railway bridge in the river with all the missing evidence, and the answers that will never see the light of day. \u003cbr\u003e He’s a myth, a monster, and a mortal man.\u003cbr\u003e And yet, I can’t help but believe when you need him the most, Cordova has a way of heading straight toward you, like a mysterious guest you notice across the room at a crowded party.  In the blink of an eye, he’s \u003ci\u003eright beside\u003c\/i\u003e you by the fruit punch, staring back at you when you turn and casually ask the time. \u003cbr\u003e       My Cordova tale began for the \u003ci\u003esecond\u003c\/i\u003e \u003ci\u003etime\u003c\/i\u003e on a rainy, mid-October night, when I was just another man running in circles, going nowhere as fast as I could.  I was jogging around Central Park’s Reservoir after two A.M--a risky habit I’d adopted during the past year when I was too strung out to sleep, hounded by an inertia I couldn’t explain, except for the vague understanding that the best part of my life was behind me, and that sense of possibility I’d once had so innately as a young man, was now gone. \u003cbr\u003e       It was cold and I was soaked.  The gravel track was rutted with puddles, the black waters of the Reservoir cloaked in mist.  It clogged the reeds along the bank and erased the outskirts of the Park as if it were nothing but paper, the edges torn away.  All I could see of the grand buildings along Fifth Avenue were a few gold lights burning through the gloom, reflecting on the water’s edge like dull coins tossed in.  Every time I sprinted past one of the iron lampposts, my shadow surged past me, quickly grew faint, and then peeled off--as if it didn’t have the nerve to stay.\u003cbr\u003e I was bypassing the south gatehouse, starting my sixth lap, when I glanced over my shoulder and saw someone was behind me.  \u003cbr\u003e A woman was standing in front of a lamppost, her face in shadow, her red coat catching the light behind her, making a vivid red slice in the night. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eA young woman out here alone\u003c\/i\u003e?  Was she crazy?\u003cbr\u003e I turned back, faintly irritated by the girl’s naiveté--or \u003ci\u003erecklessness\u003c\/i\u003e, whatever it was that brought her out here.  Women of Manhattan, magnificent as they were, they forgot sometimes they weren’t immortal.  They could throw themselves like confetti into a fun-filled Friday night, with no thought as to what \u003ci\u003ecrack\u003c\/i\u003e they fell into by Saturday. \u003cbr\u003e The track straightened north, rain needling my face, the branches hanging low, forming a crude tunnel overhead.  I veered past rows of benches and the curved bridge, mud splattering my shins. \u003cbr\u003e The woman—-whoever she was—-appeared to have disappeared. \u003cbr\u003e But then--far ahead, a flicker of \u003ci\u003ered\u003c\/i\u003e.  It vanished as soon as I saw it, then seconds later, I could make out a thin dark silhouette walking slowly in front of me along the iron railing.  She was wearing black boots, her dark hair hanging halfway down her back.  I picked up my pace, deciding to pass her exactly when she was beside a lamppost so I could take a closer look and make sure she was all right.  \u003cbr\u003e As I neared, however, I had the marked feeling she\u003ci\u003e wasn’t\u003c\/i\u003e.  \u003cbr\u003e It was the sound of her footsteps, too heavy for such a slight person, the way she walked so stiffly, as if waiting for me.  I suddenly had the feeling that as I passed she’d turn and I’d see her face was not young as I’d assumed, but \u003ci\u003eold\u003c\/i\u003e.  The ravaged face of an old woman would stare back at me with hollowed eyes, a mouth like an axe gash in a tree.\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eShe was just a few feet ahead now.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e She was going to reach out, seize my arm, and her grip would be strong as a man’s, \u003ci\u003eice cold\u003c\/i\u003e—-\u003cbr\u003e I ran past, but her head was lowered, hidden by her hair.  When I turned again, she’d already stepped beyond the light and was little more than a faceless form cut out of the dark, her shoulders outlined in red.  \u003cbr\u003e I took off, taking a shortcut as the path twisted through the dense shrubbery, branches whipping my arms.  \u003ci\u003eI’ll stop and say something when I pass her again-—tell her to go home\u003c\/i\u003e.  \u003cbr\u003e But I logged another lap and there was no sign of her.  I checked the hill leading down to the bridle paths.  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eNothing\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e Within minutes, I was approaching the north gatehouse—-a stone building beyond the reach of the lamps, soaked in darkness.  I couldn’t make out much more than a flight of narrow stairs leading up to a rusted set of double doors, which were chained and locked, a sign posted beside them: KEEP OUT PROPERTY OF THE CITY OF NEW YORK.  \u003cbr\u003e As I neared, I realized in alarm, glancing up, that she was\u003ci\u003e there, \u003c\/i\u003estanding on the landing, staring down at me.  \u003ci\u003eOr was she looking through me\u003c\/i\u003e?  \u003cbr\u003e By the time her presence fully registered I’d already run blindly on.  Yet, what I’d glimpsed in that split-second drifted in front of my eyes as if someone had taken a flash picture: tangled hair, that blood red coat decayed brown in the dark, a face so entirely in shadow it seemed possible it wasn’t even there. \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eClearly\u003c\/i\u003e I should’ve held off on that fourth scotch.  \u003cbr\u003e There was a time not \u003ci\u003etoo\u003c\/i\u003e long ago when it took a little more to rattle me.  \u003ci\u003eScott McGrath, a journalist who’d go to hell just to get Lucifer on the record,\u003c\/i\u003e some blogger had once written.  I’d taken it as a compliment.  Prison inmates who’d tattooed their faces with shoe polish and their own piss, armed teenagers from \u003ci\u003eVigário Geral\u003c\/i\u003e strung out on \u003ci\u003epedra\u003c\/i\u003e, Medellin heavies who vacationed yearly at Ricker’s--none of it made me flinch.  It was all just part of the scenery. \u003cbr\u003e Now, a woman in the dark was unnerving me.\u003cbr\u003e She had to be drunk.  Or she’d popped too many Xanax.  Or maybe this was some sick teenage dare--an Upper East Side mean girl had put her up to this.  Unless it was all a calculated setup and her street-rat boyfriend was somewhere here, waiting to jump me.  \u003cbr\u003e If \u003ci\u003ethat\u003c\/i\u003e were the idea they’d be disappointed.  I had no valuables on me except my keys, a switchblade, and my MetroCard, worth about eight bucks.\u003cbr\u003e Alright, maybe I was going through a \u003ci\u003erough patch, dry spell\u003c\/i\u003e--whatever the hell you wanted to call it.  Maybe I hadn’t defended myself since--well, \u003ci\u003etechnically\u003c\/i\u003e the late\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003enineties.  But you never forgot how to fight for your life.  And it was never too late to remember, unless you were dead.\u003cbr\u003e The night felt unnaturally silent, \u003ci\u003estill\u003c\/i\u003e.  That mist--it had moved beyond the water into the trees, overtaken the track like a sickness, an exhaust off something in the air here, something malignant. \u003cbr\u003e Another minute and I was approaching the north gatehouse.  I shot past it, expecting to see her on the landing.  \u003cbr\u003e It was deserted.  There was no sign of her anywhere.\u003cbr\u003e Yet, the longer I ran, the path unspooling like an underpass to some dark new dimension in front of me, the more I found the encounter unfinished, a song that had cut out on an expectant note, a film projector sputtering to a halt seconds before a pivotal chase scene, the screen going white.  I couldn’t shake the powerful feeling that she was very much \u003ci\u003ehere\u003c\/i\u003e, hiding somewhere, watching me.  \u003cbr\u003e I swore I caught a whiff of perfume embroidered into the damp smells of mud and rain.  I squinted into the shadows along the hill, expecting, at any moment, the bright red cut of her coat.  Maybe she’d be sitting on a bench or standing on the bridge.  \u003ci\u003eHad she come here to harm herself\u003c\/i\u003e?  What if she climbed up onto the railing, waiting, staring at me with a face drained of hope before stepping off, falling to the road far below like a bag of stones?\u003cbr\u003e Maybe I’d had a \u003ci\u003efifth\u003c\/i\u003e scotch without realizing.  \u003ci\u003eOr this damned city had finally gotten to me\u003c\/i\u003e.  I took off down the steps, heading down East Drive and out onto Fifth Avenue, rounding the corner onto East Eighty-sixth Street, the rain turning into a downpour.  I jogged three blocks, past the shuttered restaurants, bright lobbies with a couple of bored doormen staring out. \u003cbr\u003e At the Lexington entrance to the subway, I heard the rumble of an approaching train.  So I sprinted down the next flight, swiping my MetroCard through the turnstiles.  A few people were waiting on the platform—-a couple of teenagers, an elderly woman with a Bloomingdale’s bag.  \u003cbr\u003e       The train careened into the station, screeching to a halt and I stepped into an empty car.\u003cbr\u003e       “\u003ci\u003eThis is a Brooklyn-bound four train.  The next stop is Fifty-ninth Street\u003c\/i\u003e.” \u003cbr\u003e       Shaking off the rain, I stared out at the deserted benches, an ad for a sci-fi action movie covered in graffiti.  Someone had blinded the sprinting man on the poster, scribbling out his eyes with black marker.  \u003cbr\u003e       The doors pounded closed.  With a moan of brakes, the train began to pull away.  \u003cbr\u003e       And then, suddenly, I was aware, coming slowly down the steps in the far corner—-shiny black boots and \u003ci\u003ered\u003c\/i\u003e, a red coat.  I realized, as she stepped lower and \u003ci\u003elower\u003c\/i\u003e, soaked black hair like ink seeping over her shoulders, that it was she, the girl from the Reservoir, the ghost--\u003ci\u003ewhatever the hell she was\u003c\/i\u003e.  But before I could comprehend this impossibility, before my mind could shout, \u003ci\u003eShe was coming for me\u003c\/i\u003e, the train whipped into the tunnel, the windows went black, and I was left staring only at myself.New York Times bestseller; Author of Special Topics in Calamity Physics","brand":"Random House Trade Paperbacks","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304241090789,"sku":"NP9780812979787","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780812979787.jpg?v=1767733711","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/night-film-isbn-9780812979787","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}