{"product_id":"heads-will-roll-isbn-9780593544716","title":"Heads Will Roll","description":"\u003cb\u003eWillow’s worst nightmare was being canceled. But the shadows in the woods of Camp Castaway might destroy more than her reputation.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAfter sitcom star Willow tweets herself into infamy and stumbles blind-drunk into a swimming pool, her agent ships her off to Camp Castaway. Nestled deep in upstate New York, Castaway is a summer camp for adults who are desperate to leave their mistakes behind. No real names, no phones . . . no way to call for help.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWillow’s fellow campers seem okay. Her own favorite actress is even here, making a s’more. And did that jaded writer, Dani, just wink at her? But the peaceful vibe is shattered when one of the campers vanishes and Willow finds a mutilated doll in her room with a threatening message rolled up inside its mouth. Terror grips the group, campers begin to lose their heads—literally—and disturbing past deeds come to light.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIs Willow about to get cancelled all over again, this time for good?A BookBub Best New Horror Pick\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I enjoyed \u003ci\u003eHeads Will Roll\u003c\/i\u003e, with its compelling, complex characters and inventiveness in how it engaged politically with its horrors.” —Paul Tremblay, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of \u003ci\u003eHorror Movie\u003c\/i\u003e and other novels\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"I really enjoyed the way \u003ci\u003eHeads Will Roll\u003c\/i\u003e plays with all the horror\/slasher tropes, while also taking aim at the pitfalls of social media and cancel culture. A whole lot of bloody fun with a serious message at its heart\" —C.J. Tudor, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Gathering\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Taking an axe to smart phones, celebrity, and cancel culture, \u003ci\u003eHeads Will Roll\u003c\/i\u003e is a slasher that is both bloody and uplifting. And fun! Every copy should come with a bucket of popcorn.\" —Gus Moreno, author of \u003ci\u003eThis Thing Between Us\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Beautifully written and impossible to put down.” —Fiona Cummins, bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eAll of Us are Broken\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"With pacing that demands you keep turning pages, \u003ci\u003eHeads Will Roll\u003c\/i\u003e is the perfect summer slasher . . . it’s your favorite urban legend, wrapped in your worst social media nightmare, topped with absolute pandemonium.\" —\u003ci\u003eScream \u003c\/i\u003eMagazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Winning’s latest is a warm love letter to slasher flicks… [he] masterfully builds a story that will leave readers breathless.... The pacing is frenetic and captivating...Recommend to those who enjoyed \u003ci\u003eMy Heart Is a Chainsaw\u003c\/i\u003e by Stephen Graham Jones, \u003ci\u003eThe Final Girl Support Group\u003c\/i\u003e by Grady Hendrix, or \u003ci\u003eClown in a Cornfield\u003c\/i\u003e by Adam Cesare.” —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Winning takes cancel culture to terrifying extremes in this gruesome yet surprisingly upbeat horror novel... Between the frequent jump scares and blood spillage, \u003ci\u003eHeads Will Roll\u003c\/i\u003e is packed with an awful lot of heart. Readers will be on the edges of their seats.\" —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[A] slasher for the new generation with a big ol’ millennial heart.” —\u003ci\u003eFangoria\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Gather 'round the campfire but watch your neck because Josh Winning is swinging through with his red right hand to deliver another classic slasher for the modern age.\" —Brian McAuley, author of \u003ci\u003eCurse of the Reaper\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Paying homage to summer-camp-horror classics, Winning offers a new take, using tweets, texts and other found media between chapters to build the story while still giving readers the jump scares and twists that they love. Great fun, especially for readers who enjoy the gorier, campier side of horror.” —\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If you have never read one of Josh Winning’s books before, treat yourself. I’m serious. Winning is an auto-buy author in my household...\" —\u003ci\u003eBook Riot\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"If you’re missing ’80’s slashers and the Friday the 13th franchise, this is for you. Scares, gore, laughs, heart and just enough social commentary, fans of Grady Hendrix, Brian McAuley and Stephen Graham Jones unite, there’s a new slasher in town, and yes, HEADS WILL ROLL.\" — \u003ci\u003eFanFiAddict\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Frightening, heartfelt, and darkly funny, \u003ci\u003eHeads Will Roll\u003c\/i\u003e is a gleefully violent homage to the horror genre. In this modern summer-camp slasher, Winning wields wit (and an ax) against the complexities of cancel culture and trauma. Power down your phone, take a seat by the fire, and try not to lose your head.” — anya Pell, author of \u003ci\u003eCicada\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"This thrilling summer camp slasher horror had us hooked, eagerly turning the pages to uncover its next chilling twist.\" —\u003ci\u003eCapes and Tights\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Combining heart-in-mouth scares with a wicked sense of humor, \u003ci\u003eHeads Will Roll\u003c\/i\u003e explores how social media makes monsters of us all\" —Matt Glasby, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Book of Horror\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“\u003ci\u003eHeads Will Roll\u003c\/i\u003e puts a slasher spin on cancel culture. Delivering fast-paced thrills and chills, this is a story about shame, guilt, and our current age of “social media justice,” in which a single mistake can ruin your life.” —\u003ci\u003eDallas Voice\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A brilliantly fun horror concept, expertly executed by a blossoming talent in the genre - if you like your thrillers dark, funny, clever and bang up to date, then this is the book for you“ - Susi Holliday, author of \u003ci\u003eThe Party Season\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“A thrilling read...I really enjoyed this book. So chilling. It would make a great film.“ —Michael Wood via Twitter, author of \u003ci\u003eLast One Left Alive\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This book is incredible! A gripping slice of 80s-inspired horror with a rattling good plot, terrific characters and zingy dialogue, and with something important to say about the world today. I can’t recommend\u003ci\u003e Heads Will Roll\u003c\/i\u003e enough.” —William Hussey, award-winning author of \u003ci\u003eKilling Jericho\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003eJosh Winning\u003c\/b\u003e is the critically acclaimed author of \u003ci\u003eBurn the Negative\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Shadow Glass\u003c\/i\u003e. He is a senior film writer at \u003ci\u003eRadio Times\u003c\/i\u003e, has written for \u003ci\u003eTotal Film\u003c\/i\u003e for over a decade, and is the cohost of movie podcast \u003ci\u003eTorn Stubs\u003c\/i\u003e. During his years as a film journalist, he has been on set with Kermit the Frog (and Miss Piggy), devoured breakfast with zombies on \u003ci\u003eThe Walking Dead\u003c\/i\u003e, and sat on the Iron Throne on the Dublin set of \u003ci\u003eGame of Thrones\u003c\/i\u003e. Winning lives in London with his cat Penny and dreams of one day convincing Sigourney Weaver to yell “Goddammit!” at him.I\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A single bar shows in the corner of my phone screen: just one line out of a possible four. If I were yesterday me, the woman who depended on connectivity to survive, the lack of service would flood my system with panic. It would make me pace back and forth until more bars appeared.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But I'm not yesterday me. I'm now me; the one hunched over in the back of a BMW wearing yesterday's clothes, and that single bar makes me damn near giddy with relief.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Cut me off already,\" I whisper. \"Please just cut me the hell off.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm aware that I could stow my phone in my carryall. I could power it off myself without waiting for bad cell coverage to disconnect me from whatever satellite is spinning around Earth firing data at anybody with a SIM card.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But I can't do it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e No matter how much I want to, the command doesn't reach my fingers. The phone has practically grown into my hand, and I need it forcibly removed, like a polished black tumor. Just looking at the screen makes me feel sick and pathetic and lost in a hundred different ways.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shift my gaze to look out the window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We drive between pine trees that are so tightly packed, they block out the midday sun. We entered the forest somewhere north of White Plains twenty minutes ago, driving in a black Beamer that smells like bleached lemongrass, and the road has showed no sign of letting up. It keeps going, like the winding Montana travelogue at the start of The Shining, tunneling endlessly into the forest dark of upstate New York.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The gloom is comforting, though. It feels womblike. Protective. Nobody can reach me here. Nobody can take my picture or yell at me in the street or slide into my DMs to tell me real quick just how they're going to take me apart, piece by dripping piece.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm breathless with anticipation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I need this.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm so ready to disappear.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Soon, okay? Willow says in my mind. Soon you'll be free.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The car hits a bump and I only just keep hold of my phone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Sorry, ma'am,\" says the driver-forties, jowly and bushy browed. \"Only one road in and out of this place, and it looks like they haven't resurfaced since the millennium.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Which millennium?\" I ask. My voice is as cracked as the skin around my nostrils, but still he laughs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Our eyes meet in the rearview mirror and I try not to shrink from his gaze, imagining what he must see. My Lululemon cardigan hangs off me, foraged from the bedroom floor this morning, and my white jeans are stained with the wine that I spilled last night while rushing to switch off the news. My shoulder-length auburn hair is scraped back from my face, tied in a messy bun.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I haven't slept in three weeks.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My eyes hurt.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e They beg to close.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You're on TV, right?\" the driver says, and I flinch. Damn. I shouldn't have engaged. I want to revel in the silence as we travel farther from reality's reach. Besides, I'm afraid what I might say. My mouth has never been my friend.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That show,\" the driver says. \"The one about the girl.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could pretend I'm getting a call-I've acted with fake phones enough to know I could pull it off-but the lie feels too big. He must have noticed that my cell hasn't made a sound since the airport.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Willow,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"That's it! We Love Willow! My daughter can't get enough of you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A moth flutters in my chest, beating a fragile kind of hope. I can't help leaning forward in my seat.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"She's a fan?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Yeah, she was so into you,\" the driver says. \"She had a poster on her wall. It got ripped or something a couple weeks ago, though. Teenagers, right?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The moth crumples. I sit back, energy draining from my limbs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Right,\" I murmur. \"Teenagers.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e We Love Willow wasn't a teen show, but it was popular with the sixteen-to-twenty-four demographic. It hit that sweet spot between youthful optimism and knowing realism. Despite a shaky first year in which we struggled to find our audience, the show's title proved accurate by season three: everybody loved Willow McKenzie, the klutzy midtwenties New Yorker who was perpetually broke, single, and jobless but attacked every challenge with can-do enthusiasm, helped by her childhood imaginary friend, Eliza.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I loved Willow, too. I loved being that version of myself. Upbeat, smiley, and open. Most of all, I loved what she gave me. Not just steady work and financial security for the first time in my life, but a best friend in the shape of my co-star, Jenna. We became inseparable within a couple weeks of filming, real-life roommates by the time season one wrapped. We lived together for two years, until my fiancé, Matt, convinced me to move into his Santa Monica beach house.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e In so many ways, Willow made me a better person.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But now she's gone. The show's canceled. All because I can't keep my mouth shut.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I check to see if the driver's still looking at me, and I'm relieved that his focus is back on the road. Still, the fact that he recognized me is unnerving. I should have made more of an effort to change my appearance. Dyed my hair and got a home tan kit. I haven't exactly been thinking clearly, though, and tomorrow never seemed certain. Suddenly I feel as exposed as a raw nerve.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There must be something in my carryall. I root around inside it, dragging out clothes, sandals, and books. I tug out a gray bucket hat that I don't remember packing. It's ugly and shapeless and perfect. I put it on, pulling it over my auburn hair as far down as it'll go. My reading glasses are oversized and ridiculous, an impulse buy that I never wear in public. Also perfect.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Adding these layers makes me feel stronger. Less exposed. If you've got no place to hide, hide in plain sight.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"There's the sign,\" the driver says, and I look up, just as a wooden placard passes the window, too fast for me to read. \"Couple miles left. What is this place, anyway? Some kind of summer camp for adults?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Something like that,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He looks at me a moment too long in the mirror.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even after three weeks, it turns out I still care what people think. Every hate-fueled headline has left a bruise, so many of them that it hurts to breathe sometimes, and a part of me still can't believe that the terrible things people said were about me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The scariest thing is how quickly it all fell apart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The day after tweetageddon, Matt flew to New Mexico to shoot location work on his show, Crime: L.A. Nights, and he told me I should be gone by the time he got home. I'm still wearing the engagement ring, can't bring myself to take it off. Jenna was there for me for five days, brought me donuts and takeout while I ranted and dry-heaved, and then she ghosted me when it seemed she'd get canceled herself simply for associating with me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I found myself alone in a house I'd always hated. I never understood why a couple in their twenties needed six bathrooms.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Dark thoughts crept in like rising damp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sitting in the back of the BMW, I feel the churn again in the pit of my stomach, and I can't tell if I'm going to throw up or cry.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The tweet was meant to be a joke. I didn't want to offend anybody. I was living in my cozy little Willow bubble, safe in the knowledge that I was loved and understood. That people knew me. They'd get what I was saying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I couldn't have been more wrong.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I force an inhale and remind myself where I'm headed. Into the calming arms of nature.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As I start to repack my carryall, I notice the tattered color pamphlet sticking out of it. The paper is as thin as silk, but it's all I have. There's no website for Camp Castaway. No Twitter account. No online footprint to speak of. That's sort of their deal.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This place is so underground, Jason Bourne couldn't find you,\" my agent said as she handed me the literature two days ago, right after she found me lying facedown in the pool.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I don't remember how I got there. There was a cut on my forehead. I must have fallen and hit my head, then ended up in the water. The empty bottles on the counter were proof enough that I'd been drinking at four in the afternoon. It was sheer luck that my agent had decided to drop by with a care package and found me floating.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even my lowest moment is a BoJack Horseman meme.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e When the paramedics were gone, I sat at Matt's breakfast bar with its Victoria Arduino coffee machine and its Vitamix 5200, realizing that nothing in the kitchen was mine-nothing in the whole goddamn house-and clutched hold of the Camp Castaway pamphlet like a lottery ticket before the numbers are called.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The photographs of the forest are soothing. The cute little rough-hewn cabins look joyful in their simplicity. A woman laughs in a carefree way that makes my body ache. There's a map on the back-a rudimentary sketch of the lake, which is shaped like a kidney, squeezed in the middle. It talks about hiking, yoga, and games. It talks about disconnecting in order to reconnect, and right at the bottom there's the biggie, the single line that sealed the deal: You will be invited to hand over all electronic devices at check-in for a total digital time-out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Sign me up, buttercup.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Because this is the thing. Camp Castaway isn't just a port in a storm-it's a lifeline. A retreat in the truest sense of the word. I'm already jobless after being fired from the show, and now I'm homeless, too, thanks to Matt. After tweetageddon, the studio took back a lot of the money I had left, cited breach of contract, and I used up the last of my rainy-day savings on Camp Castaway. Five thousand big ones for two weeks of isolation.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I reach under the brim of the bucket hat and touch the slow-healing scab on my forehead.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e It was an easy decision.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew that if I didn't get away, I wouldn't make it through another rainy day.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My phone vibrates in my lap, and I jump. I changed my number two days ago and my cell has been pretty much dead ever since. That hasn't stopped me from clinging to it like a junkie, praying somebody will reach out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Ping. Ping.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I fumble with my phone, heart beating fast. It could be a text from Jenna. It could be Matt. It could be-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e A number I don't recognize.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I frown, hunching over my phone, opening WhatsApp.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As I read the messages, I stop breathing. I feel the trees crowding in through the windows. They whisper and press against my face, pushing branches into my mouth, and it's suddenly too quiet in here. Too unbearably quiet, aside from the thud of blood in my temples.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Nice try, but you'll have to do more than that to get\u003cbr\u003e rid of me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e You're going to beg to die.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e See you soon, Red. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e Netflix billing for We Love Willow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e S1E3 \"Willow vs. Work\"-Willow gets a job at a sushi bar but has to keep her shellfish allergy secret from her new boss, Marie (guest star Lucy Liu). Eliza gets assigned to a kid who refuses to believe in imaginary friends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e II\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Hey there, you're early,\" the man says, smiling as he approaches the car. He has olive skin and is mid-twenties, wearing a light green shirt and cutoff jeans. His black hair is buzzed short, and his dark eyes are sharp but friendly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I'm not sure how I managed to stand, but somehow, I'm out of my seat. One hand rests on the car door, the other presses my stomach. The scent of pine and dirt fills my nostrils.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I heard there was an early-bird special,\" I say. \"Don't tell me I'm wrong.\" The lame attempt at a joke works. The man laughs and shakes my hand, doesn't appear to notice I'm quietly freaking out.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'm Tye, camp groundskeeper. Great to meet you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The human contact is a shock. Nobody's touched me since my agent dragged me out of the pool. Warmth floods my face, but I feel protected by the oversize glasses and the bucket hat. Eat your alien heart out, Clark Kent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Bebe apologizes for not being here to greet you herself,\" Tye says. \"She's preparing for the party. But you'll meet her there. You'll meet everybody.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Can't wait,\" I say, remembering that Bebe is the \"Camp Mom\" who's in charge of the place.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e As much as I try to focus on Tye, I'm distracted by the knowledge that some threat-happy psycho has my new number. It's not the first death threat I've received. In the days following tweetageddon, my DMs filled up with graphic rants. My email and old cell number leaked online, and I watched as my safe spaces were swallowed up one by one. The majority of the messages were unrelated to the content of my tweet. People just wanted somebody to hate.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e And now one of them has my new number.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I could report it to the police, but I can't risk the chance that they'll tell me to cancel my trip. I can't go back. I can't go home, and not just because there's no home to go back to.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I'll grab those.\" Tye takes my suitcase and carryall from the driver.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It's chill,\" I say. \"I'm used to handling my own baggage-travel and otherwise.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Tye looks at me like I'm a college friend on vacation. \"Please, let me. We're going to look after you here.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The kindness in his tone makes me tremble. Either my disguise is working or he's an even better actor than anybody I've ever worked with. There's no hint that he recognizes me from TV or the internet. Maybe even the staff here are off the grid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I follow Tye to the wooden building nestled amid the trees. It resembles a ski lodge, part timber, part glass, with a peaked roof that points at an immaculate blue sky. As we climb the steps, I hear birds calling to each other, the faraway sound of laughter, and the hire car reversing out of the lot, leaving me behind.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Even here in the small clearing fringed by trees, I'm struck by the sense of space. The roominess of the great outdoors. The trees reach up, up, up into a limitless sky. I'm so accustomed to the congestion of L.A., the constant battle for air, it's easy to forget that L.A. isn't normal. It's a choice.","brand":"G.P. 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