{"product_id":"shadows-isbn-9780553560275","title":"Shadows","description":"They call it the Academy. A secluded, cliff-top mansion overlooking the rugged Pacific coast. A school for children gifted -- or cursed -- with extraordinary minds. Children soon to come under the influence of an intelligence even more brilliant than their own -- and unspeakably evil. For within this mind a dark plan is taking form. A plan so horrifying, no one will believe it. No one but the children. And for them it is already too late. Too late, unless one young student can resist the seductive invitation that will lead... into the \u003ci\u003eShadows\u003c\/i\u003e.\"Saul has the instincts of a natural storyteller.\" -- \u003ci\u003ePeople\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJohn Saul\u003c\/b\u003e’s\u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003efirst novel, \u003ci\u003eSuffer the Children\u003c\/i\u003e, was an immediate million-copy bestseller. His other bestselling suspense novels include \u003ci\u003ePerfect Nightmare\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e Black Creek Crossing\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eThe Presence.\u003c\/i\u003e He is also the author of the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling serial thriller \u003ci\u003eThe Blackstone Chronicles\u003c\/i\u003e, initially published in six installments but now available in one complete volume. Saul divides his time between Seattle and Hawaii.PROLOGUE\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Shadows.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Timmy Evans woke up in shadows.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Shadows so deep he saw nothing.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Shadows that surrounded Timmy, wrapping him in a blackness so dense that he wondered if the vague memory of light that hovered on the edges of his memory was perhaps only a dream.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Yet Timmy was certain that it was not merely a dream, that there was such a thing as light; that somewhere, far beyond the shadows in which he found himself, there was another world.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A world, he was suddenly certain, of which he was no longer a part.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He had no idea what time it was, nor what day, nor even what year.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Was it day, or night?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He had no way of knowing.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Tentatively, the first tendrils of panic already beginning to curl themselves around him, Timmy began exploring the blackness of his shadowed world, tried to reach out into the darkness.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He could feel nothing.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It was almost as if his fingers themselves were gone.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He put his hands together.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Instead of the expected warmth of one palm pressed firmly against the other, there was nothing.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e No feeling at all.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The tendrils of panic grew stronger, twisting around Timmy Evans like the tentacles of a giant octopus.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e His mind recoiled from the panic, pulling back, trying to hide from the darkness.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e What had happened?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Where was he?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e How had he gotten there?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Instinctively, he began counting.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Two.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Three.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Four.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The numbers marched through his head, growing ever larger as he listened to the voice in his mind that silently intoned the words that meant the most to him in all the world.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The same voice he remembered from the suddenly dim past, when there had been light, and sounds other than the voice that whispered the numbers to him in the silence of his mind.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Even then, before he had awakened in the shadows, only the numbers had truly meant anything to him.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e It had always been that way, ever since he was very small and had lain on his back, staring at an object suspended above his crib.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The numbers on the blocks hanging from the mobile had meant something to Timmy Evans.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Though he had been too young to have a word for the mobile itself, the memory of it was clear.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One, two, three, four.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The object, brightly colored and suspended from the ceiling on a string, turned slowly above him, the voice in his head speaking each numeral as his eyes fastened on it.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One, two, three, four.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Later, he’d seen another object, on the wall high above his crib.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.”\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Timmy Evans had learned to count the numbers as the hands on the clock pointed to them, though he had no idea what the clock was, nor what purpose it served. But he would lie in his crib all day, his eyes fixed on the clock, saying each number as the hand came to it.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e When he’d learned to walk, he’d begun counting his steps, saying each number out loud.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Counting the steps that led down from the front porch of his parents’ house.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Counting the cracks in the broken sidewalk that separated his yard from the street.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Counting the panes in the stained-glass windows when his parents took him to church, the pillars that supported the church’s high ceiling.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Counting the slats in the Venetian blinds that covered the window of his room at home, and the neat rows of vegetables in the little garden his mother planted in the backyard.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Counting everything, endless numbers streaming through his mind.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Numbers that meant something.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Numbers that meant order.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Numbers that defined his world.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The numbers filled his mind, consumed him.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e They were his friends, his toys.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He put them together and took them apart, examining them in his own mind until he understood exactly how they worked.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Multiplying them, dividing them, squaring them, and factoring them.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Even as he’d grown up and begun to talk of other things, the numbers were always there, streaming through his mind.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Now, in the terrifying darkness into which he’d awakened, he began to play with the numbers once more.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Timmy began with a million.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He’d always liked that number.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A one, with six zeros after it.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He multiplied it by nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Then multiplied the total by nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He kept going, the numbers in his head growing ever larger, occupying more and more of his mind.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e And yet the shadows were still there, and though he tried to concentrate only on the numbers, never losing track of the total, the shadows and the silence still closed around him.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He moved the numbers into the space in the back of his mind where he could keep them going with half his mind, and used the rest of his mind to try once more to figure out where he was, and how he’d gotten into the shadows.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e School.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He’d been at school before he woke in the shadows.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A nice school. A school he liked, where the other kids were almost as good at numbers as he was.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A pretty school, with a big house set on a broad lawn, shaded by the biggest trees Timmy had ever seen.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Redwood trees.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He’d never seen trees that big before his parents had brought him to the school.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Nor had he ever had friends before.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Friends like himself, who could do things with their brains that other children couldn’t.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But now something had happened to him.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e What?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He tried to remember.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He’d been in his room.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e His room on the third floor.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He’d been asleep.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e And before that, he’d been crying.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Crying, because he’d felt homesick, missing his mother and father, and even his little brother, whom he didn’t even really like.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He’d cried himself to sleep, wondering if everyone was going to tease him the next morning, because he’d burst into tears in the dining-room, and run out, and up the stairs, slamming his door and not letting anyone in all evening.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Then, sometime in the night, he’d awakened and heard something.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Heard what?\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Timmy couldn’t remember.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He concentrated harder, and a memory—so fleeting it was barely there at all—stirred.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e A rattling sound, like the old elevator that went from the first floor all the way up to the fourth floor.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Then—nothing!\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Until he’d awakened in the shadows.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Awakened, to find that there was still nothing.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Once more, he tried to reach out, but his body refused to respond, refused, even, to acknowledge the commands his mind issued.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Paralyzed!\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e His entire body was paralyzed!\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Now the panic that had been entangling him in its grasp gripped him with an irresistible force, and he screamed out.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Screamed out—silently.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He tried to scream again, when out of the shadows, lights began to shine. Brilliant lights, in a spectrum of colors he’d never beheld before in his life.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Sounds, too, burst forth out of the silence that had surrounded him from the moment of his awakening, a cacophony of achromatic chords, layered over with the screeches and cries of the damned souls of Hell.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The sound built, along with the blazing lights, until Timmy Evans was certain that if it didn’t stop, his eyes would burn away, and his eardrums would burst.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Crying out once more, he tried to turn his mind away from the sights and sounds that assaulted him, to turn inward, and bury himself among the numbers that still streamed through the far reaches of his consciousness.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But it was too late.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e He couldn’t find the numbers, couldn’t make sense of the gibberish he found where only a few short seconds ago the order of mathematics had been.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Then, as the sensory attack built to a crescendo, Timmy Evans knew what was happening to him.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Just as he realized what was happening, the last moment came.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e The lights struck once more, with an intensity that tore through his brain, and the howling cacophony shattered his weakening mind.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e In a blaze of light, accompanied by the roaring symphony of a thousand freight trains, Timmy Evans died.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Died, without ever remembering exactly what had happened to him.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Died, without understanding how or why.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Died, when he was only eleven years old.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Died, in a manner so horrible no one would ever be told about it.\u003cbr\u003e  ","brand":"Bantam","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300862578917,"sku":"NP9780553560275","price":9.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780553560275.jpg?v=1767736433","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/shadows-isbn-9780553560275","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}