The Keen family had always been outcasts, living on the fringes of society in a ramshackle cabin deep in the woods. Elijah Keen, a towering man with a perpetual scowl etched into his weathered face, worked sporadically as a logger when his drinking didn't interfere. His wife, Meredith, was a wisp of a woman, her once-vibrant spirit crushed under the weight of Elijah's fists and her own addiction to prescription pills. Their sons, Ed and Bubba, grew up in a world of shadows and silence, learning early on that the safest course was to make themselves invisible. They became experts at reading the signs-the slight tremor in their father's hands that signaled an impending rage, the glassy look in their mother's eyes that meant she'd retreated into her pharmaceutical haze. The night of their parents' death began like so many others-with the acrid smell of cheap whiskey and the sound of breaking glass. But there was something different in the air, a tension that crackled like electricity before a storm. "You think you're better than me, don't you?" Elijah's voice boomed through the cabin, slurred but no less menacing. Meredith's laugh was hollow, devoid of any real mirth. "Better? We're both in this hellhole together, aren't we?" The boys, huddled in their shared bedroom, exchanged glances. This wasn't the usual script. Their mother rarely fought back. "You want out?" Elijah's voice dropped to a dangerous growl. "I'll give you a way out." The sound of a drawer being yanked open made Ed's blood run cold. He knew what was in that drawer-their father's prized possessions, a pair of antique revolvers passed down through generations of Keens. "Elijah, what are you doing?" Meredith's voice held a note of fear now. "We're gonna play a game, Mer. Winner takes all." Ed and Bubba crept to their bedroom door, cracking it open just enough to peer into the dimly lit living room. Their father stood swaying, a revolver in each hand. Their mother sat on the threadbare couch, her eyes wide with a mix of terror and drug-induced confusion. "Pick one," Elijah said, holding out the guns. Meredith's hand trembled as she reached for the revolver on the left. Elijah's lips curved into a cruel smile as he kept the other for himself. "Now, we each take a turn. If you're so eager to leave me, here's your chance." What happened next seemed to unfold in slow motion. Meredith, her eyes suddenly clear and filled with a lifetime of pain and resentment, raised the gun to her temple. The boys wanted to scream, to run out and stop her, but fear kept them rooted to the spot. The click of the hammer echoed in the silence. Meredith pulled the trigger. The gun roared, and a spray of crimson painted the wall behind her. Her body crumpled to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. Elijah stood frozen, his face a mask of shock. Then, as if moved by some unseen force, he raised his own gun. "No!" Ed's scream came too late. The second shot was somehow louder than the first. Elijah's massive frame toppled backward, crashing through the rickety coffee table. The silence that followed was deafening. The acrid smell of gunpowder mixed with the metallic tang of blood, creating a nauseating cocktail that would haunt the boys' nightmares for years to come. Slowly, as if in a trance, Ed and Bubba emerged from their room. The scene before them was like something out of a horror movie-their parents' bodies sprawled in grotesque poses, blood pooling on the worn floorboards. Bubba was the first to break. He fell to his knees, retching violently. Ed stood paralyzed, his mind refusing to process the carnage before him. As the initial shock began to wear off, a new, terrifying reality set in. They were alone now, truly alone in a world that had never shown them much kindness. And they had two bodies to deal with.

A Boston Globe Best Nonfiction Book of 2011 Celebrated as one of the most poignant stylists of his generation, André Aciman has written a luminous series of linked essays about time, place, identity, and art that show him at his very finest. From beautiful and moving pieces about the memory evoked by the scent of lavender; to meditations on cities like Barcelona, Rome, Paris, and New York; to his sheer ability to unearth life secrets from an ordinary street corner, Alibis reminds the reader that Aciman is a master of the personal essay.

For centuries, ghost stories were part of an oral tradition, often involving a storyteller reciting the spooky tale before a fire on a chilly winter night. During the 1800s, as magazine production and literacy became more widespread, reading ghost stories rose in popularity. However, many authors attempted to preserve on paper the experience of listening to an account of the supernatural. Harriet Beecher Stowe, Mary E. Wilkins, E. Nesbit, Ambrose Bierce, Edith Wharton, M.R. James, and many others put their creative stamps on this distinctive tradition. Echoing Ghost Stories: Literary Reflections of Oral Tradition showcases such tales, establishing their fascinating place within the wider genre of the Victorian ghost story.

This compelling and often traumatic book is the memoir of one of the most important figures in modern Russian history, Dmitry S. Likhachev, revered as ‘a guardian of national culture’. Reflections on the Russian Soul is an incredible account of an intellectual’s turbulent journey through twentieth century Russia. Likhachev re-counts the fortunes of people with whom he came into contact and reproduces the air of passed years in Russia. Likhachev vividly portrays his childhood years in St. Petersburg and continues into his student life at Leningrad University that led to an agonizing period of imprisonment and near death. He describes how a harmless prank caught the attention of the Secret Police, resulting in his exile and confinement within the infamous prison island of Solovki. He describes his first-hand experience of brutality in prison during the early Stalin years and the incident that not only saved him but also haunted him for the rest of his life. He reflects on the years after his release from prison and the events leading up to the Second World War. His powerful recollection of the blockade of Leningrad provides the reader with a horrific insight into the harsh effects of war, hunger and survival. Lichachev goes on to describe post-war Russia and how his own livelihood developed from literary editor to a return to Leningrad University as Professor of History. This compelling autobiography finishes with Likhachev’s poignant return to Solovki as a free man.

This is a book of ghost stories, and for the most part, ghosts are jealous monsters, intent upon our destruction. They never appear overtly here, yet we gradually become aware of their presence the way spirits in haunted houses trod over creaky floors, slam doors, and issue sudden gusts of wind. The poems are Koan-like—the fewer the words, the more charged they are. The engine driving this sense of haunting and loss is money, which Davis describes as “federal bone” boiling around us. Bison in Nebraska are reduced to bones, “seven/standing men/tall” fodder for the fertilizer used by farmers in the 1800s. Though they often specify dates, there’s an equality to the hauntings—every instance has its moment, and persists, despite being in the past, present, or future. If there really was a 1980 or 1848 or 1499, Davis implies it is somewhere. Index of Haunted Houses is spooky and sad—a stunning debut, one that will surprise, convince, and most of all, delight.

Arcanium's fun and games until someone takes it all away. Neve's getting into the creepy, sexy spirit of demon hands in inappropriate places—claws, teeth and an incubus who agrees to just date for a while. Despite her initial trepidation, the dark circus of Arcanium is growing on her. But Arcanium's a slice of heaven meant to be a hell, and a demon sneakier and more powerful than Bell Madoc slithers into the circus with his eye fixed on Neve for his own. When he tears everything away from Bell, leaving him weak in the wake, the entire cast and crew land in a new Arcanium with a new Master who has much darker intentions for its inhabitants. A stadium with glass rooms for display... Leather and metal stained with blood... A horde of monsters who have been waiting for Arcanium to fall... And a red-skinned, black-hearted demon who lusts for his new pet's pleasure and pain...

Another Friday night, another trip through a potentially haunted house. Shay's not a believer, but she's willing to help her best friend, Max, with their amateur ghost hunting show. Little does she know she is about to be thrown into a world of witches and dangerous spirits.With newly discovered abilities, Shay finds that she can both see and touch spirits. The downside is, the ghosts can touch her back, and it seems that they'll do anything to get a hold of her.She was never much of a ghost hunter. How will she do when she is the one being hunted?Grave Reflection is the first book of Ghost Punch, an exciting paranormal series full of mystery and action!