.jpg)
It was Easter Monday, 1952. It was a day like any other. The slat truck rolled into camp with half a dozen new convicts. I counted a couple of vagrants, one drunk, one assaulter and one assaultee.
All of that and Olan Walker.
Olan Walker was first out of the slat truck and he could have slid through one of the slats. That man was nothing but lank. He was as lean as a dog in Lent. He was as lean as hunger poured thinner than a spoon full of prison soup. He looked like he ate nothing but wind and shadow all his life. If there was a king and queen of skinny; a duke of raw bone, an earl of gaunt, and a prince of scrawny - well Olan Walker was the lord high ruler of them all.
It didn't take too long before we all found out what Olan Walker really was.
Olan Walker was a conjure man.
Fans of haunting southern Gothic horror stories will want to give this one a read.
WHAT PEOPLE ARE SAYING ABOUT STEVE VERNON
"If Harlan Ellison, Richard Matheson and Robert Bloch had a three-way sex romp in a hot tub, and then a team of scientists came in and filtered out the water and mixed the leftover DNA into a test tube, the resulting genetic experiment would most likely grow up into Steve Vernon." - Bookgasm
"Steve Vernon is something of an anomaly in the world of horror literature. He's one of the freshest new voices in the genre although his career has spanned twenty years. Writing with a rare swagger and confidence, Steve Vernon can lead his readers through an entire gamut of emotions from outright fear and repulsion to pity and laughter." - Cemetery Dance
"Armed with a bizarre sense of humor, a huge amount of originality, a flair for taking risks and a strong grasp of characterization - Steve's got the chops for sure." - Dark Discoveries
"Steve Vernon was born to write. He's the real deal and we're lucky to have him." - Richard Chizmar
My Mom thinks I am pretty cool too...
Genre: FICTION / HorrorThe Forever Long Road of Olan Walker
I am the teller, and I am telling you it was the craziest thing anyone seen. An army of reporters, politicians, and police, trying to figure what emptied an Alabama work farm of sixty-eight convicts. What left a dozen bosses and twice as many gun bulls cindered down to charcoaled bone.
I am the only one who survived.
Sort of.
I ain’t even here. You can’t see me, and you sure as hell don’t want to hear me.
I’m just the teller telling you the tale, a forever long way from you.
So stand there in the Alabama sun, scratching your heads and your asses while pretending to know what you’re looking at, because this is how the whole story all unwound.
It was Easter Monday, 1952. It was a day like any other. The slat truck rolled into camp with half a dozen new convicts. I counted a couple of vagrants, one drunk, one assaulter and one assaultee.
All of that and Olan Walker.
Olan Walker was first out of the slat truck and he could have slid through one of the slats. That man was nothing but lank. He was as lean as a dog in Lent. He was as lean as hunger poured thinner than a spoon full of prison soup. He looked like he ate nothing but wind and shadow all his life.
| Language | Status |
|---|---|
|
Italian
|
Already translated.
Translated by Stefano Vazzola
|
|
Portuguese
|
Already translated.
Translated by Danilo Tavares Marinho da Silva
|
|
Spanish
|
Already translated.
Translated by Angel Franco and Daniel Camacho
|
|
|
Author review: This is the first time that I have worked with Angel Franco and Daniel Camacho, but their fast turn-around really pleased me. I'll work with them again. |
