Cover image for Lost boy lost girl : a novel
Title:
Lost boy lost girl : a novel
ISBN:
9781400060924
Edition:
1st ed.
Publication Information:
New York : Random House, 2003.
Physical Description:
281 p. ; 25 cm.
Holds:

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Summary

Summary

A woman commits suicide for no apparent reason. A week later, her son--beautiful, troubled fifteen-year-old Mark Underhill--vanishes from the face of the earth. To his uncle, horror novelist Timothy Underhill, Mark's inexplicable absence feels like a second death. After his sister-in-law's funeral, Tim searches his hometown of Millhaven for clues that might help him unravel this mystery of death and disappearance. He soon learns that a pedophilic murderer is on the loose in the vicinity, and that shortly before his mother's suicide Mark had become obsessed with an abandoned house where he imagined the killer might have taken refuge. No mere empty building, the house on Michigan Street whispers from attic to basement with the echoes of a long-hidden true-life horror story, and Tim Underhill comes to fear that in investigating its unspeakable history, Mark stumbled across its last and greatest secret: a ghostly lost girl who may have coaxed the needy, suggestible boy into her mysterious domain. With lost boy lost girl, Peter Straub affirms once again that he is the master of literary horror.


Author Notes

Author Peter Straub was born in Milwaukee, Wisconsin in 1943. He earned degrees in English from the University of Wisconsin and Columbia University. He taught English at his former high school for three years and worked for a time on his doctorate in Ireland. He began writing in 1969 and published two books of poetry in 1972. His novel Julia (1975) was an attempt to find a successful genre in which to work, after his first novel, Marriages (1973), did not sell well.

He found that he had a talent for writing horror thrillers in the Gothic tradition. His stories are complex and well paced, with authentic settings that add to the believability of the plot. He is particularly good at creating grotesque characters and gruesome situations; the eeriness of his work is captivating. He has won numerous awards including the British Fantasy Award, the Bram Stoker Award, and the World Fantasy Award.

(Bowker Author Biography)


Reviews 5

Publisher's Weekly Review

For its high artistry and uncanny mix of dread and hope, Straub's 16th novel, his shortest in decades, reaffirms the author's standing as the most literate and, with his occasional coauthor Stephen King, most persuasive of contemporary novelists of the dark fantastic. This brilliant variation on the haunted house tale distills themes and characters from Straub's long career, including two of the author's most popular creations: Manhattan novelist Tim Underhill (from Koko, Mystery and The Throat) and Tim's friend, legendary private detective Tom Pasmore (from Mystery and The Throat). Written from multiple viewpoints, the narrative shuttles disturbingly through time and space as Tim travels home to Millhaven, Ill., to attend the funeral for his sister-in-law, a suicide. In that small city based loosely on Straub's hometown of Milwaukee, Tim spends time with his callow widowed brother, Philip, and his nephew, sensitive Mark, 15, who found his mother's naked body in the bathtub, wrists slit and a plastic bag over her head. Meanwhile, a serial killer is snatching teen boys from a local park, and Mark and his sidekick, Jimbo, begin to explore a nearby abandoned house. Mark grows obsessed with the house, eventually revealed as the rotting source of the evil that stalks Millhaven, but also as the harbor of a great marvel. When Mark disappears, Tim pursues his trail and, with Tom Pasmore's help, that of the serial killer who may have taken the boy away. Straub remains a master of place and character; his insight into teens, in particular, is astonishingly astute. His myriad narrative framings allow multiple interpretations of events, making this story work on many levels, yet they also increase the urgency of the story, up to its incandescent ending. With great compassion and in prose as supple as mink, Straub has created an exciting, fearful, wondrous tale about people who matter, in one of his finest books to date. 100,000 first printing; 6-city author tour. (Oct. 7) Forecast: Straub's last book, the King-coauthored Black House, hit #1 on bestseller lists. Readers will remember Black House and The Talisman, as well as Straub's earlier major solo bestsellers such as Ghost Story, Floating Dragon and Koko. The book's brevity may draw new readers, as should strong reviews and, down the road, inevitable award nomination. This title has the potential to be Straub's biggest seller in years. (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved


Booklist Review

Once more, Straub employs the scene (Millhaven, Illinois) and the protagonists--'nam-vet novelist Tim Underhill and rich, super-attentive and -intuitive P.I. Tom Pasmore--of his hefty best-sellersoko (1988), Mystery (1989), and The Throat (1993). Relegating Pasmore to the secondary cast and using Tim as both first-person recorder of events and third-person general narrator, Straub explores two appalling tragedies. Tim's sister-in-law, Nancy, an appealing woman whom many pity for marrying ill-tempered Philip Underhill, kills herself for no apparent reason. Mere days later, Philip and Nancy's handsome 15-year-old, Mark, disappears. Since a serial killer has been "disappearing" middle-teen boys from the park in which Mark and his best friend,imbo, hung out nights, the worst is feared. With Pasmore working behind the scenes, Tim sets out to understand his two losses. Mostly, he must getimbo to reveal all that he knows. As he succeeds with the boy, Tim discovers that in the abandoned house across the alley from Philip and Nancy's are the keys to the puzzles of her death, Mark's vanishing, and other mysteries. Much of what Tim learns is hideous, but some of it points to transcendent redemption for Mark and a girl who disappeared long ago in even grislier circumstances. This is the great novel of the supernatural Straub has always had it in him to write, one as beautiful, moving, and spiritually rich as the best stories in his dazzling collections Houses without Doors (1990) and Magic Terror (2000). --Ray Olson Copyright 2003 Booklist


Guardian Review

Peter Straub is associated with three things: the early novel Ghost Story , now something of a modern horror classic; his subsequent Vietnam-flavoured mysteries, including Koko and The Throat ; and his co-authorship of The Talisman and its sequel Black House , with Stephen King. There is a problem with classification. Ghost Story is supernatural, The Talisman was a dark and epic modern fantasy, but the mysteries are harder to define: set in a largely conventional world, they are none the less shot through with something unstable, an off-kilterness that can threaten to push the reader through the walls of the known. If you wander into these uncertain areas, you're not allowed to just be a "novelist": you've got to have a label. So what kind of writer is Straub? What kind of book is this? Lost Boy, Lost Girl starts with a death. Tim Underhill - who will be familiar to Straub readers from the mysteries - returns to his home town after the suicide of his sister-in-law. A week later, her son Mark disappears. At the root of one or perhaps both of these events lies a madman called the Sherman Park killer, who has been haunting the neighbourhood; and also a nearby house, which had become Mark's obsession before he vanished. Underhill begins to fear that in unravelling the house's secrets his nephew may have been coaxed deep into darkness, seduced by lingering forces. He's right. So it's a haunted-house story, and a mystery too, which unfolds in a fashion both elegant and compelling. It also fits into the mould of the modern American novel, concerned as it is with the strangeness of families, the transition from adolescence to adulthood, and the further step into middle age, with its sense of drifting and loneliness and loss. Straub and King have done more than enough to be considered simply as exponents of the American novel or perhaps just "fiction". In their novels the dead still sometimes walk - big deal. No one labels Franzen for the artifice of his conceptual structures or Pynchon for his playful surreality. It's simply part of what they do. Neither should Straub be classified merely for his willingness to step outside the boundaries of mundane reality - as we do when we turn because we feel someone is looking at us, or react to death by seeing the shadows of the world differently, and by feeling hands reaching for us in our dreams. We all recognise these oddnesses in the margins of everyday experience: Straub is a master of bringing them into narratives about real people and their lives. Though a ghost story, this novel is not about the ghosts, but about what happens to us when we think we see them; just as, in a novel of ideas, the subject should not be the notions themselves but their manifestation in our world. Lost Boy, Lost Girl is intense and yet measured; serious and melancholy at times, but also humorous. Straub's prose has a tart clarity that allows him to delineate the muddiness of life with great economy and richness. He has a superb ear for dialogue, both spoken and silent - notably in the churning sibling fug between Underhill and his brother. He is adept, too, with ambiguity: the emotional blur of the real world, of our tentative and ambivalent responses to each other and the things we do. These qualities create an atmosphere that lingers like the novel's own ghost, and Straub achieves this invisibly, in the background. He doesn't insist you notice how intelligent and subtle the novel is, and you don't: you merely appreciate how good a time you're having, and that you don't want it to stop. Michael Marshall Smith's most recent novel is The Straw Men (HarperCollins). To order Lost Boy, Lost Girl , for pounds 15.99 plus p&p call Guardian book service on 0870 066 7979. Caption: article-straub.1 [Peter Straub] is associated with three things: the early novel Ghost Story , now something of a modern horror classic; his subsequent Vietnam-flavoured mysteries, including Koko and The Throat ; and his co-authorship of The Talisman and its sequel Black House , with Stephen King. There is a problem with classification. Ghost Story is supernatural, The Talisman was a dark and epic modern fantasy, but the mysteries are harder to define: set in a largely conventional world, they are none the less shot through with something unstable, an off-kilterness that can threaten to push the reader through the walls of the known. If you wander into these uncertain areas, you're not allowed to just be a "novelist": you've got to have a label. So what kind of writer is Straub? What kind of book is this? - Michael Marshall Smith.


Kirkus Review

The veteran horror writer's circuitous 16th outing (stories: Magic Terror, 2000, etc.). A suburban mom's suicide, a spooky abandoned house, and a teenager's unwitting pursuit of the truth about "one of the nation's livelier serial killers"--such are the ingredients here. They're pieced together, after a fashion, by successful NYC novelist Tim Underhill (first seen in Koko, 1988), who's summoned to the midwestern town of Millhaven by his brother Philip, a misanthropic high school vice-principal. Tim learns that his teenaged nephew Mark has found his mother Nancy dead in her bathtub. Following this essentially straightforward setup, the novel breaks apart into alternations of present action with flashbacks, experienced and relayed through various characters' viewpoints, Tim's "journal," and an omniscient narrative voice only intermittently firmly distinguished from Tim's own. The central action is Mark's exploration (initially abetted by best pal Jimbo) of the uninhabited house directly behind his own--a house, we're asked to believe, that Mark had scarcely noticed (!) prior to his mother's suicide. Its secrets--sharply imagined and brimming with promising narrative menace--have to do with Nancy Underhill's first cousin Joseph Kalendar, a serial rapist, child abuser, and murderer. As the intrepid Mark (a sweet-natured golden boy whose stunning good looks are rather creepily overstressed) keeps uncovering nauseating things, Tim and Philip and involved local authorities (aided by Detective Tom Pasmore, on loan from Mystery, 1989, and The Throat, 1993) also zero in on Kalendar's horrific legacy. The fates of adolescent boys lured away by a malign sexual predator are painstakingly, laboriously connected to that of a "lost girl" (herself an otherworldly seductive force) who "haunts" those who failed to save her. And, in a nod to Straub's sometime collaborator Stephen King, Tim realizes that (à la King's The Dark Half) his own literary creations may have assumed lethal form. Strikingly imagined indeed, but the zigzag structure blurs the momentum and effect of what might have been one of Straub's best. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.


Library Journal Review

Timothy Underhill (remember Koko and The Throat?) returns to his hometown to track down a "lost boy" whom he fears has been lured into a spooky house by a "lost girl." (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Chapter 1 Nancy Underhill's death had been unexpected, abrupt--a death like a slap in the face. Tim, her husband's older brother, knew nothing more. He could scarcely be said really to have known Nancy. On examination, Timothy Underhill's memories of his sister-in-law shrank into a tiny collection of snapshots. Here was Nancy's dark, fragile smile as she knelt beside her two-year-old son, Mark, in 1990; here she was, in another moment from that same visit, snatching up little Mark, both of them in tears, from his baby seat and rushing from the dim unadorned dining room. Philip, whose morose carping had driven his wife from the room, sat glaring at the dried-out pot roast, deliberately ignoring his brother's presence. When at last he looked up, Philip said, "What?" Ah Philip, you were ever a wonder. The kid can't help being a turd, Pop said once. It seems to be one of the few things that make him feel good. One more of cruel memory's snapshots, this from an odd, eventful visit Tim had paid to Millhaven in 1993, when he flew the two and a half hours from La Guardia on the same carrier, and from all available evidence also the same craft, as this day: Nancy seen through the screen door of the little house on Superior Street, beaming as she hurried Tim-ward down the unlighted hallway, her face alight with the surprise and pleasure given her by the unexpected arrival on her doorstep of her brother-in-law ("famous" brother-in-law, she would have said). She had, simply, liked him, Nancy had, to an extent he'd understood only at that moment. That quietly stressed out little woman, often (Tim thought) made wretched by her husband and sewn into her marriage by what seemed determination more than love, as if the preparation of many thousands of daily meals and a succession of household "projects" provided most of the satisfaction she needed to keep her in place. Of course Mark must have been essential; and maybe her marriage had been happier than Tim imagined. For both their sakes, he hoped it had been. Philip's behavior over the next few days would give him all the answers he was likely to get. And with Philip, interpretation was always necessary. Philip Underhill had cultivated an attitude of discontent ever since he had concluded that his older brother, whose flaws shone with a lurid radiance, had apparently seized from birth most of the advantages available to a member of the Underhill clan. From early in his life, nothing Philip could get or achieve was quite as good as it would have been but for the mocking, superior presence of his older brother. (In all honesty, Tim did not doubt that he had tended to lord it over his little brother. Was there ever an older brother who did not?) During all of Philip's adult life, his grudging discontent had been like a role perfectly inhabited by an actor with a gift for the part: somewhere inside, Tim wanted to believe, the real Philip must have lived on, capable of joy, warmth, generosity, selflessness. It was this inner, more genuine self that was going to be needed in the wake of Nancy's mysterious death. Philip would need it for his own sake if he were to face his grief head-on, as grief had to be faced; but more than that, he would need it for his son. It would be terrible for Mark if his father somehow tried to treat his mother's death as yet another typical inconvenience different from the rest only by means of its severity. From what Tim had seen on his infrequent returns to Millhaven, Mark seemed a bit troubled, though he did not wish to think of his nephew in the terms suggested by the word "troubled." Unhappy, yes; restless; unfocused; afflicted with both a budding arrogance and what Tim had perceived was a good and tender heart. A combination so conflicted lent itself naturally to restlessness and lack of focus. So, as far as Tim remembered, did being fifteen years old. The boy was trim and compact, physically more like his mother than his father: dark-haired and dark-eyed--though presently his hair was clipped so short its color was merely some indeterminate shade of darkness--with a broad forehead and a narrow, decisive chin. Two steel rings rode the outer ridges of his right ear. He slopped around in big T-shirts and oversized jeans, alternately grimacing and grinning at the music earphoned into his head from an improbably tiny device, an iPod or an MP3 player. Mark was devoted to a strange cross section of contemporary music: Wilco, the Magnetic Fields, the White Stripes, the Strokes, Yo La Tengo, Spiritualized, and the Shins, but also Bruce Springsteen, Jimmy LaFave, and Eminem, whom he seemed to appreciate in an ironic spirit. His "pin-up girl," he had informed his uncle in an e-mail, was Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. In the past sixteen months, Mark had e-mailed his uncle four times, not so briefly as to conceal a tone Tim found refreshing for being sidelong, sweet, and free of rhetorical overkill. Mark's first and longest e-mail used the excuse of a request for advice, Tim thought, as a way to open communications between them. From: munderhill697@aol.com To: tunderhill@nyc.rr.com Sent: Sunday, February 3, 2002 4:06 PM Subject: speak, o wise one hi de ho this is your nephew mark in case u couldn't decipher the from line. so I was having this lil disagreement with my father, and I wanted 2 ask your advice. after all u managed 2 get out of this burg & travel around & u write books & u live in nyc & all that means u shd have a pretty open mind. I hope it does. bcuz u & u alone will decide what i do next. my dad sez he will go along with u no matter what. I dunno maybe he doesn't want 2 have 2 decide. (mom sez, quote, don't ask me, I don't want to hear abt it, unquote. that's what mom sez.) i turn 14 next month and 2 celebrate my bday I'd like 2 get a tongue piercing. 1 of my friends has a pierced tongue and he sez it isn't 2 painful at all and its over in a jiff. I'd really like 2 do this. don't u think 14 is the rite age 2 go out and do something dumb, provided u do think it is dumb to pierce your tongue, which I obviously do not? in a year or 2 I'll take it out & go back 2 being boring & normal. or what d'you say, move up 2 a cool tat? waiting 2 hear from the famous unk m From: tunderhill@nyc.rr.com To: munderhill697@aol.com Sent: Sunday, February 3, 2002 6:32 PM Subject: Re: speak, o wise one Dear Mark, First of all, it is wonderful to hear from you! Let's do this more often. I like the idea of our being in touch. I've been thinking about your question. To begin with, I'm flattered that you thought to ask my opinion on such a personal matter. I'm also flattered that your father placed the decision in my hands, but I suppose he really did not want to think about his son having his tongue pierced! If I had a son, I wouldn't want to think about it, either. bcuz, as u wld say, the idea of tongue piercings makes me feel a bit queasy. I like your earrings and I think they look good on you, but whenever I see some young person with a metal ball riding on top of his/her tongue, I begin to fret about the discomfort of such an arrangement. Doesn't it complicate the whole eating business? I almost hate to admit this to you, but to me tongue piercings really do seem like weird self-mutilation. So you are far ahead of me in this regard. This is not the answer you were expecting, I'm sure. I'm sorry to stand in the way of you getting what you want, but you asked and I had to answer you truthfully. I'd rather think of you without a metal ball in your mouth than with one. Sorry, kiddo, but I love you anyhow. Is there anything special you'd like me to get for your birthday? Maybe I can make up for being so boring and middle-class. Uncle Tim The next day two messages from his family turned up in his Inbox. From: munderhill697@aol.com To: tunderhill@nyc.rr.com Sent: Monday, February 4, 2002 7:32 AM Subject: Re: speak, o wise one TYim, this is nme Philip using Mark's computyer. Hje showed me what you wrote him. I hadf the feeling you'd do the right thing for once. So, well, thanks. IO hate that crap too. From: munderhill697@aol.com To: tunderhill@nyc.rr.com Sent: Monday, February 4, 2002 5:31 PM Subject: Re: speak, o wise one >Is there anything special you'd might like me to get for your birthday? now that you mention it, yep. ordnance. :) m For once, as his brother would put it, Tim was grateful for the Internet's assumption that its users were incapable of perceiving a joke unaccompanied by a nudge in the ribs. Philip's error-riddled message contained a different kind of reassurance--that of its having been sent at all. During Pop's life, the brothers had come together--meaning that Tim flew to Millhaven from New York--once or twice a year; in the five years since his death, they had scarcely spoken. Pop had come to New York once, as a widower of two years in his late seventies, saying that he wanted to see what all the fuss was about, and he had stayed in Tim's loft at 55 Grand Street, which he had found awkward and discomfiting. His knees made the trek up and down three flights of stairs difficult, and Tim had overheard him complain to dear Michael Poole, who lived one floor up with the amazing and equally dear Maggie Lah, that he had imagined his son was at least rich enough to put in an elevator. ("I used to run an elevator, you know," he told Michael. "At the famous St. Alwyn Hotel, right there in Pigtown. All the big musicians stayed there, niggers included.") The next day, at an informal little get-together Tim put together with Maggie Lah, Michael Poole, and Vinh Tran, who with Maggie owned and operated Saigon, the Vietnamese restaurant on the ground floor of 55 Grand Street, Pop turned to Michael and said, "You know something, Doctor? As far as I'm concerned, the whole world can blow up right soon's I die, and I wouldn't give a damn. Why should I?" "Doesn't Tim's brother have a son?" Michael asked. "Don't you care what happens to your grandchild?" "Not a hell of a lot." "You a tough ol' coot, aren't you?" Maggie said. Pop grinned at her. Vodka had loosened him up to the point where he supposed this stunning Chinese woman could see through the cobwebby disguise of old age to the seductive rascal he was at heart. "I'm glad someone down here in New York City is smart enough to understand me," he said. Tim realized he had read through three pages of the new George Pelecanos novel without registering anything more than individual words. He looked up the aisle to discover that the flight attendants handing out the wrapped lunches were only two rows in front of him. On Midwest Air, a one-class airline noted for its wide seats and attentive service, the approach of the in-flight meal could still arouse some interest. A blond woman with a Smithsonian-quality Millhaven accent handed him a wrapped chicken Caesar salad, more than acceptable by airline standards, and a minute later her twin sister filled his Midwest Air wine glass a quarter of an inch above the line with a decent cabernet, and when he had taken a sip and let it slide down his throat, it came to Tim Underhill that for the past twenty minutes, when he was supposed to be enjoying George Pelecanos as a kind of palate cleanser before making notes for his new and highly uncharacteristic project, he had been engaged in the fruitless task of obsessing about his brother. If he actually did intend to accomplish any work during this trip, which in spite of everything he hoped he might, he was going to have to stop brooding about his brother and dedicate at least some of his attention to a surprisingly little known figure in American life, Dr. Herman Mudgett, a.k.a. H. H. Holmes. Probably the country's first serial killer and undoubtedly one of its most prolific, Mudgett had adopted the surname of a famous fictional detective and constructed in Chicago a monstrous murder palace in the form of a hotel just in time to siphon off young women in town to attend the 1893 Columbian Exposition. In his vast hotel, he killed almost every woman who became involved with him to a degree greater than serving him breakfast in a local restaurant or selling him collars and cravats at the haberdashery. LD Bechtel, a young musician of Tim's acquaintance, had suggested that they collaborate on a chamber opera about Holmes, and for the past two months this project had occupied a portion of his thoughts. He knew when he had first begun to see his own access into it. The moment had been the result of various unrelated objects producing a small but vital electrical pulse when accidentally joined together. He had gone out to loaf through the St. Mark's Bookshop and pick up a cup of coffee at Starbucks, and the first element of his inspiration had been an odd slogan stenciled atop a high, rounded Spring Street gutter passed on his eastward trek. The stencil had just been applied, and the ink glistened. It consisted of four words, all lowercase: lost boy lost girl. Downtown indie-rock bands sometimes advertised themselves by stenciling their names on sidewalks, and Tim had known of a couple of small presses that did the same with titles of books they did not have the money otherwise to promote. He supposed that somewhere, someone had done it with a movie title. Whatever it was, he liked the phrase and hoped he would remember to notice where it might crop up again. Excerpted from Lost Boy, Lost Girl: A Novel by Peter Straub All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.