Clay McLeod Chapman writes novels, comic books, and children's books, as well as for film and TV. He is the author of the horror novels
The Remaking,
Whisper Down the Lane, and
Ghost Eaters. He also co-wrote
Quiet Part Loud, a horror podcast produced by Jordan Peele's Monkeypaw for Spotify. Visit him at claymcleodchapman.com.
“A Gothic-punk graveyard tale about what haunts history and what haunts the human soul. An addicting read that draws you into its descent from the first page.”—Chuck Wendig, New York Times best-selling author of The Book of Accidents
One of Vulture's Best Horror Novels of 2022, this terrifying supernatural page-turner will make you think twice about opening doors to the unknown.Erin hasn’t been able to set a single boundary with her charismatic but reckless college ex-boyfriend, Silas. When he asks her to bail him out of rehab—again—she knows she needs to cut him off. But days after he gets out, Silas turns up dead of an overdose in their hometown of Richmond, Virginia, and Erin’s world falls apart.
Then a friend tells her about Ghost, a new drug that allows users to see the dead.
Wanna get haunted? he asks. Grieving and desperate for closure with Silas, Erin agrees to a pill-popping “séance.” But the drug has unfathomable side effects—and once you take it, you can never go back.
One of Vulture's Best Horror Novels of 2022One of Paste’s Best Horror Books of 2022One of Book Riot’s Best Horror Novels of 2022One of CrimeReads’ Best Horror Fiction Books of 2022September 2022 LibraryReads PickOctober 2022 Indie Next Pick“Shades of
Flatliners and addiction drama pepper this tale about a woman who learns her college sweetheart died of an overdose – from a drug that allows folks to see the dead.”—
USA Today“[
Ghost Eaters is] a nostalgia trip to the late-’90s indie-nihilism of
Fight Club and
Donnie Darko, in a story about addiction and mushrooms that let you see the dead.”—
Esquire“A legitimately terrifying ghost story and also a thoughtful and smart (if grim) exploration of how addiction destroys lives,
Ghost Eaters should make Clay McLeod Chapman a star.”—
Vulture“Full of great character moments, unbelievably tense hauntings, and an emotional core that runs so deep you’ll still be unpacking it long after the last page.”—
Paste“A keenly observant narrative that, with a mix of body horror and just plain horror, plucks at the raw nerves of the grieving process.”—
SCI FI Magazine“Rife with body horror and hallucinations...the narrative sucks readers into its dark, disorienting world. It’s equal parts moving and gruesome.”—
Publishers Weekly“Chapman has created an experience so anxiety inducing, immersive, and intense that readers will feel like something is actually there, lurking over their shoulder as they turn the pages. A great choice for fans of
A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay,
Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia, and
Orphans of Bliss, edited by Mark Matthews.”—
Booklist, starred review
“A high anxiety, utterly original, and compelling contemplation of what it means to be haunted.”—
Library Journal“A compelling, relentless read...”—
Rue Morgue“The best book from Chapman yet…wicked, full of heart, and lasting, or more appropriately, haunting.”—
Cemetery Dance“Fans of body horror will rejoice as Chapman leads readers through a trippy world.”—
Book Riot“A nuanced, heartfelt story about addiction, grief, loss, and regret…
Ghost Eaters is as humane as it is horrific—which is another way of saying it’s Chapman doing what Chapman does best.”—
The Big Thrill“I truly loved it and all its creepiness.”—Lauren Simonis-Hunter for
AARP"While this book warns you away from mainlining Ghost, because of, you know, ghosts, what you will get hooked on here is Clay McLeod Chapman's writing."—
New York Times bestselling author Stephen Graham Jones,
Don't Fear the Reaper“An addicting read that draws you into its descent from the first page.”—Chuck Wendig,
New York Times best-selling author of
The Book of Accidents“Clay McLeod Chapman's guided tour of a shroom-and-gloom ghost world, where everyone is addicted to death, reads like a scared straight program that horrifies you into choosing life.”—Grady Hendrix,
New York Times bestselling author of
The Final Girl Support Group“A terrifying meditation of the horrors of modern life and our collective fixation with death. Clay McLeod Chapman’s
Ghost Eaters promises to fix what ails you, existentially speaking.”—Alma Katsu, author of
The Fervor“This is high-grade horror, and Clay McLeod Chapman is the real deal.”—Gabino Iglesias, author of
The Devil Takes You Home“A quintessential ghost story with a fresh, trippy twist. Chapman weaves hair-raising, goosebump-inducing horror through a sharp exploration of loss, addiction, and grim history. Haunting guaranteed.”—Rachel Harrison, author of
Cackle and
The Return
Praise for Clay McLeod Chapman“Chapman is the storyteller supreme.”—Andy Davidson, author of
The Hollow Kind“One of horror’s modern masters.”—Rachel Harrison, national best-selling author of
Cackle and
Such Sharp Teeth“A not-to-miss horror novelist.”—
Library Journal“Chapman is a maestro at building grim suspense to the point of unimaginable consequences, proving genuine horror dwells in the world we live in today.”—
Mystery and Suspense Magazine"Chapman is the 21st century’s Richard Matheson. He’s that good.”—Richard Chizmar,
New York Times best-selling author of
Chasing the Boogeyman
Tripping our asses off in the cemetery is Silas’s idea. We dose back at his dorm to give the acid a head start. By the time we abandon campus and hop the wrought-iron fence surrounding Hollywood Cemetery, the four of us are all well on our way to peak fry.
“What’re we doing what’re we doing,” Amara keeps repeating under her breath, a giddy litany. “What’re we doing what’re we—”
“Remember your partners,” Silas whispers as he scales the fence first. He just high-jumps those spikes like a grave-robbing Olympian. Now
that’s some gold-medal trespassing.
Poor Tobias can’t seem to find a foothold on the fence. His tattered Vans keep slipping, reminding me of that puny kid on the playground who doesn’t have the upper body strength to pull himself up the monkey bars on his own. He’s too embarrassed to ask for help, shooing Silas’s hand away whenever he offers it. “I got it, I got it,” he keeps muttering.
Amara and I are the only ones left on the street, so we plant our hands on Tobias’s scrawny ass and heave-ho him over. I can literally feel the bone in his butt cheek as we push. From where I’m standing, it looks like he takes flight for a moment, just a beanpole of a bat flapping his wings through the bruised purple sky.
Amara is next. She starts to shriek, practically impaling herself on one of the rusted spears. We all shush her—try to, at least, in between laughing our asses off. She flips over the fence and falls flat on her face. It’s far too dark for me to see her land—Silas won’t let us use the flashlights on our phones—so there’s a hot second where I worry if Amara’s cracked her skull open on a tombstone or something. But she’s cackling like an absolute candyflipping witch, rolling around in the grass, so we know she’s still breathing.
“Come on, Erin.” Silas beckons through the bars. He’s gripping them with both hands, leaning his face through the gap. He’s a convict and I’ve come to break him out. “Your turn.”
I can’t help myself. His face is right there. Lips
right there. I lean in and kiss him through the fence. Flecks of rust dig into my cheeks, smearing my makeup. Here comes the lockjaw.
“Jesus, guys,” Amara whispers-but-not-really-whispers. “Get a tomb already.”
Suddenly I’m second-guessing myself:
I can’t climb over this. What if I lose my footing and fall on one of those spikes?
“Easy does it,” Silas says. “I got you.”
Silas and Tobias each grab a foot and hoist me up while I pull on the top rail. Imagine a cheerleader pyramid, where these two strapping young lads lift me over their heads and I perform the most absolutely fucking perfect hip-over-head airborne tumble you’ve ever seen, both feet landing directly on a headstone, a total
Bring It On crowd-goes-wild dismount.
You’d be wrong. I land on my ass. Hard.
Silas hovers just above me. “You okay?”
“I think I broke my hip.”
“You’ll live,” Silas says. “Take my hand.”
Silas says hop on one foot. Silas says pat your head. Touch your nose. . . . Silas didn’t say. The four of us take in the meandering rows of tombstones tilting like loose teeth. The cemetery’s called Hollywood because a few Richmond natives became celebrities way back whenever, returning home only after they kicked the bucket to get buried in their native soil. Everyone returns to Richmond someday. Mostly this place is full of dead Confederates, but there are a few forgotten starlets in the ground. Tourists take photos next to their gaudy graves—but tonight, hours after the cemetery gates close and the only occupants are six feet under, all 135 acres of this place belong to us.
“Follow me,” Silas says. “Watch your step.”
Tobias trips on cue. Tripping while tripping,
hardy har. He’s practically blind on the best of days, even with his wire-rimmed specs. Swap out the daylight for some liquid sunshine and add a few granite stumbling blocks and it’s no wonder he can’t stay on his feet.
“Where are we going?” I have to ask.
“You’ll see.”
Silas never tells us what he’s got hidden up his sleeve. That would ruin the surprise, wouldn’t it? He has this uncanny ability to rally the troops, enlist the rest of us to do just about whatever he wants—and what he wants most out of life is to
gogogogo. His lust for life is addictive and thrilling and downright exhausting all at once. Who cares if we have to wake up tomorrow morning for class? Haven’t we realized academia is merely for sheep? Silas says we’re better than all the other undergrad lemmings, and who are we to argue? Sounds good to me. He can somehow convince us to forget our inhibitions, to lose ourselves in the white heat of the moment. To hop trains in the dead of night. To embark on random road trips with no destination. To take jaunts through haunted plantations that last until the sun rises over the abandoned tobacco fields.
This city is ours, he always says. The Four Musketeers. All for one and one for Silas . . .
Über den Autor
Clay McLeod Chapman writes novels, comic books, and children's books, as well as for film and TV. He is the author of the horror novels The Remaking and Whisper Down the Lane. Visit him at claymcleodchapman.com.
Klappentext
For fans of Riley Sager and Paul Tremblay, a terrifying supernatural page-turner that explores ghosts, grief, and god complexes.
Ever since their on-again, off-again college romance, Erin hasn't been able to set a single boundary with charismatic but reckless Silas, who's been chasing the next big high since graduation. When he texts her to spring him out of rehab, she knows enough is enough. She's ready to start a career, make new friends, and meet a great guy-even if that means cutting Silas off. But when Silas turns up dead from an overdose, Erin's world falls apart.
When Erin learns that Silas discovered a drug that allowed him to see the dead, she doesn't believe it's real but agrees to a pill-popping "séance" to ease her guilt and pain. When she steps back into the real world, she starts to see ghosts from her Southern hometown's bloody and brutal past everywhere. Are the effects pharmacological or something more sinister? And will Erin be able to shut the Pandora's box of horrors she's opened?
With propulsive momentum, bone-chilling scares, and dark meditations on the weight of history, this Southern horror will make you think twice about opening doors to the unknown.
