{"product_id":"pearl-isbn-9780593237854","title":"Pearl","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom Josh Malerman, the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eBird Box\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eMalorie,\u003c\/i\u003e comes the legend of Pearl, a strange new monster unlike any other in horror (previously published as \u003ci\u003eOn This, the Day of the Pig\u003c\/i\u003e).\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eNAMED ONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR BY \u003ci\u003eTHE WALL STREET JOURNAL \u003c\/i\u003e• “Daring readers should find this tale of a malevolent telepathic pig to be a memorable experience.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere’s something strange about Walter Kopple’s farm. At first it seems to be his grandson, who cruelly murders one of Walter’s pigs in an act of seemingly senseless violence. But then people in town begin to whisper that Walter’s grandson heard a voice commanding him to kill.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd that the voice belongs to a most peculiar creature: the pig named Pearl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWalter is not sure what to believe. He knows he’s always been afraid of the strangely malevolent Pearl. But as madness and paranoia grip the town and the townspeople descend on Walter’s farm with violent wrath, they begin to discover that true evil wears a human face.\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e“Daring readers should find this tale of a malevolent telepathic pig to be a memorable experience. . . . The novel shares the same racing narrative that made \u003ci\u003eBird Box\u003c\/i\u003e hard to put down and is Malerman’s most accomplished work outside of the Bird Box series.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A perfect, fast-paced slasher filled with violent, cinematic action sequences . . . Malerman delivers with another completely different yet equally crowd-pleasing and awesome horror novel that is not to be missed.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A strange, un-put-down-able thriller . . . part twisted fairy tale, part animal rights protest, part PTSD drama, and part Triumph the Insult Dog, the novel never runs out of unsettling doors to open.”\u003cb\u003e—\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cb\u003eJosh Malerman\u003c\/b\u003e is a \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author and one of two singer-songwriters for the rock band The High Strung. His debut novel, \u003ci\u003eBird Box\u003c\/i\u003e, is the inspiration for the hit Netflix film of the same name. His other novels include \u003ci\u003eUnbury Carol\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eInspection\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eA House at the Bottom of a Lake\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eMalorie\u003c\/i\u003e, the sequel to \u003ci\u003eBird Box\u003c\/i\u003e. Malerman lives in Michigan with his fiancée, the artist-musician Allison Laakko.Up Murdock, away from downtown Chowder, passing the wheat fields and the forest east of the road, tall pines that unfolded like a long, complex bedspread, separating Chowder from Goblin and the other less agricultural areas of mid-Michigan, they pulled onto Grandpa’s gravel drive just before noon. Sherry eyed Jeff briefly, checking to see if maybe he’d had a change of heart. If maybe he was smiling like he used to. Grandpa’s world was a fun world if you let it be. The farm. Where Jeff and Aaron used to ride the horses and chase chickens and oink at the pigs. Where the brothers spent nights outside, sometimes without a tent, sometimes just on their backs on the grassy slope that led from the farmhouse to the barn. This place was childhood. This place was supposed to be special. The farm \u003ci\u003emeant\u003c\/i\u003e something.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Doesn’t it?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSherry hadn’t meant to say that out loud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Doesn’t what?” Aaron asked. But Sherry didn’t answer. And Jeff stared at her like he might’ve known what she was thinking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSherry parked the wagon by the front porch steps. She looked up to see Grandpa standing behind the screen door. He waved.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hey, Dad,” Mom called from behind the rolled-up window.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrandpa waved again, as if maybe he’d forgotten he’d already done so.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHis thin white hair stirred with an easy autumn breeze. Sherry wondered what was on his mind, what clutter of his own.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe and the boys got out of the car.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello, Sherry,” Grandpa said. “Hello, boys.” He looked tired. Sherry always said Grandpa was toughened by farm life. Jeff used to believe that.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSherry hugged him at the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Thought I’d put them to work today,” Grandpa said, nodding to the boys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That sounds good,” Mom said. “They could use it.” And it would give her a chance to grovel in private.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt had been a hard summer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eStuff it in the mind-bag.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes. The mind-bag. The secret, unseen place where Sherry stuffed all her dark thoughts, her absurd worries, the unprovoked hunches she’d felt most her life, the premonitions of Pearl.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrandpa squinted down at his grandsons.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I was hoping Aaron could collect some eggs for me. And Jeff . . . maybe Jeff would like to feed the . . .”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff held his breath.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDon’t say feed the pigs, Grandpa. Don’t say Pearl.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd why not?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“. . . horses,” Grandpa finished.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSherry smiled, but her own private stresses were drawn firmly on her face. Often she imagined the mind-bag hanging on a curled finger in an otherwise lightless room. A place only she could find it, hidden from the prying eyes of Chowder, Michigan, and the whole wide world beyond. But recently that bag had been relocated to her hip, a place anybody could see, if they cared to look. Yes, Sherry Kopple had started wearing her emotions on her sleeve, a look she didn’t quite love. Her recent anxiety stuck out like the stump of a third foot and was about as useful to boot.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“How’s that sound, boys?” Grandpa asked. “Good enough?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe brothers nodded. Yes. Eggs and horses. Safe areas on the farm.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrandpa walked them into the farmhouse, through the kitchen, to the back door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAaron followed Mom outside, a foot from the cellar door in the grass, but Jeff paused at the screen, looking down the slope to where the evergreens hid the pigpen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The horses can’t come to you,” Grandpa said. And when Jeff looked up, he saw all three of them were waiting.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAaron laughed at him as he exited the farmhouse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGrandpa led him to the stables, and on the way, Jeff heard them breathing behind the trees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pigs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe sound remained lodged in his mind, in his bones, as he passed them, loud, louder than the horses were, even when he stood inches from the muzzle of a mare.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“This here’s their favorite,” Grandpa said, fishing a handful of damp, yellowing oats from a brown wooden trough. “But you gotta be a bit careful ’cause they’ll chew your fingers clean off.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff looked up and saw Grandpa smiling, sadly, behind a show of white whiskers. His eyebrows had always remained dark as midnight, though.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Really?” Jeff asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No,” Grandpa said. “Not really. But it was fun to see the look on your face.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt felt good. Falling for a joke.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThrough the open door, Jeff saw Aaron eyeing the chicken coop, readying himself to pick some eggs.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Enjoy,” Grandpa said. “But don’t eat more than the horses.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnother joke. Good. Felt good.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen Grandpa left him alone in the stables. Jeff looked up, into the eyes of the brown horse he stood by.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello,” he said. “You hungry?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt felt good to talk. Felt good to pet the horse’s nose. To feel the strong neck and shoulders.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You remember me, right?” Jeff smiled at the horse. Wished it could smile back. “My name is—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eJeff . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff stepped quickly from the animal. The black emotional chasm that came with the sound of his name was wider, darker, deeper than any nightmare he’d known before. As if, in that moment, his ill-defined apprehensions about the farm had been galvanized, and everything Jeff was afraid of was true.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe dropped a handful of grains and stepped farther from the mare. Wide-eyed, he stared at her, waiting to hear it again, waiting to hear his name spoken here in the stables.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut the horse hadn’t said his name.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mom?” he called, looking to the stable door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCome, Jeff.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff backed up to the stable wall.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Aaron? Are you screwing with me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt could have been Aaron. It \u003ci\u003eshould\u003c\/i\u003e have been Aaron.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut Jeff knew it wasn’t.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe folded his arms across his chest, combating a cold wind that passed through the stable.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCome to me, Jeff . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt sounded like the voice was traveling on the wind. Or like it \u003ci\u003ewas\u003c\/i\u003e the wind. It was made of something his own voice didn’t have. He didn’t want to say what it really sounded like. Didn’t want to say it sounded like the voice was coming from outside the stables, up the hill, from the pigpen behind the trees.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff exited the stables, stood outside under the sun. Aaron was out of sight. Mom was probably in the farmhouse, talking to Grandpa.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt wasn’t pretty, watching Mom beg for money.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eJeff . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIt was coming from the evergreens. Jeff knew this now, could hear this now, and he wouldn’t have been shocked to see a farmhand peeking out between the branches using his pointer finger to beckon him closer.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eJeff . . . come here . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWithout deciding to do it, Jeff took the dirt path to the trees. He crouched on one knee and split the branches. Through them, he saw the pigpen and the pigs lazing in the mud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff stood up.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t want to get any closer. Didn’t want to be alone out here at all.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe ran up the grassy hill to the farmhouse.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eJEFF\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLouder now. Strong enough to root Jeff to the ground.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked over his shoulder back to the hidden pigpen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eCome, Jeff. Sing for me . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCautiously, Jeff walked back down the hill, to the end of the row of evergreens.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMost the pigs were gathered together at the far side of the fence. One paced the length of the pen, bobbing his head, snorting, half covered in mud. It looked to Jeff as if he was thinking.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff looked back to the chicken coop. No Aaron. Still.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen he turned back to the pen, Pearl was all he could see.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePearl.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSitting on his ass like a person might, his front hooves limp at the sides of his belly, his head was cocked slightly to the side, his pink ears straight, high above his head. His bad eye looked dark, hidden, but his good one was fixed on Jeff.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn it, Jeff saw an intelligence that scared him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe didn’t think a pig could “stare” the same way a man did. Yet Pearl \u003ci\u003ewas\u003c\/i\u003e tracking him, following his lead, as Jeff stepped slowly toward the pen.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBy the time he reached the gate, Jeff was breathing too hard. Felt like he’d done a lot of work. Felt like he’d unloaded a truckload of hay. Felt weak and skinny and cold and exposed and . . .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eDumb,\u003c\/i\u003e Jeff thought. \u003ci\u003eLike he’s smarter than you.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, \u003ci\u003edumb\u003c\/i\u003e. That was the worst of it. And Pearl, it seemed, knew it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eA half smile appeared under the pig’s snout, or maybe it was just the way his lips naturally curled up at their ends.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe pacing pig pissed, and it sounded like a hose shot at the mud.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello, Pearl,” Jeff said. He felt like he had to. Like it would have been insane not to—like he would have been admitting something too dark if he was too afraid to say hello to a pig.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe other pigs seemed roused by Jeff’s voice. They shuffled in the mud, sat up. One lifted his head to get a better look.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJeff fingered the latch. Pearl watched him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eStaring.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAssessing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003ePlanning?\u003c\/i\u003eNew York Times bestselling author of Bird Box; Previously published as On This, the Day of the Pig","brand":"Del Rey","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304492224741,"sku":"NP9780593237854","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593237854.jpg?v=1767734591","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/pearl-isbn-9780593237854","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}