Heart-Shaped Box by Joe Hillfile:///private/tmp/@/Hill-HeartShapedBox-Nove Synopsis Judas Coyne is a collector of. Heart-Shaped Box. Home · Heart-Shaped Box Author: Hill Joe. 42 downloads Views KB Size Treasure Box. Read more · Treasure Box · Read more. Judas Coyne is a collector of the macabre: a cookbook for cannibals a used hangman's noose a snuff film. An aging death-metal rock god, his taste for the .

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Get Free Read & Download Files Heart Shaped Box By Joe Hill PDF. HEART SHAPED BOX BY JOE HILL. Download: Heart Shaped Box By Joe Hill. HEART. Get Free Read & Download Files Joe Hill Heart Shaped Box PDF. JOE HILL HEART SHAPED BOX. Download: Joe Hill Heart Shaped Box. JOE HILL HEART . Editorial Reviews. etgabentisttus.cf Review. Do you sleep with the light on? Are you in the habit of Look inside this book. Heart-Shaped Box: A Novel by [Hill, Joe].

Jude flees his house with his current girlfriend, Georgia, with the ghost in hot pursuit. The ghost's intent is to separate Jude from his two dogs, Angus and Bon, who, as familiars , can protect their owners from the dead.

Jude and Georgia take the dogs with them while fleeing south. The dogs save them several times, but the ghost eventually kills them. Jude and Georgia discover that Florida had been hypnotized and molested by her stepfather, Craddock McDermott. When Florida threatened to turn in Craddock and her elder sister Jessica to the police, they killed her and staged her death as a suicide. Later, a dying Craddock hexed the suit and arranged for Jessica to sell it to Jude.

After a series of gory battles between Jude and Craddock, Georgia finds a way to contact Florida beyond the grave for help fighting her stepfather's ghost.

In the end, Craddock is vanquished, freeing Jude and Georgia from his curse, and Jessica is sent to jail.

After surviving the horrendous ordeal, Jude and Georgia eventually marry. Publication[ edit ] Hill received a great deal of attention with the publication of Heart-Shaped Box. Subterranean Press published the advance edition of copies and they sold out within days, long before publication.

He had a three-hundred-year-old confession, signed by a witch. It had come to him by way of a police officer, a man who had worked security at some shows in L. The cop had said the video was diseased. He said it with some enthusiasm.

Jude had watched it and felt that he was right. It was diseased. Still he held on to it. Many of the objects in his private collection of the grotesque and the bizarre were gifts sent to him by his fans. It was rare for him to actually download something for the collection himself.

It was like going out to eat, hearing the special, and deciding you wanted it without even looking at the menu. Some impulses required no consideration. With its climate control, OfficeMax furniture, and coffee-and-cream industrial carpet, the office was coolly impersonal, nothing at all like the rest of the house. That was for the All Eyes On You tour. No sooner had the addition been built than Jude had come to regret it.

When Jude was in the kitchen, he could hear the phones ringing in there, both of the office lines going off at once sometimes, and the sound was maddening to him. He had not recorded an album in years, had hardly worked since Jerome and Dizzy had died and the band with them , but still the phones rang and rang. He felt crowded by the steady parade of petitioners for his time, and by the never-ending accumulation of legal and professional demands, agreements and contracts, promotions and appearances, the work of Judas Coyne Incorporated, which was never done, always ongoing.

When he was home, he wanted to be himself, not a trademark. For the most part, Danny stayed out of the rest of the house. But Danny considered him fair game if Jude strayed into the office — something Jude did, without much pleasure, four or five times a day. Passing through the office was the fastest way to the barn and the dogs. But he always did.

Danny was from Southern California originally, and there was no end to his talk. He would boast to total strangers about the benefits of wheatgrass, which included making your bowel movements as fragrant as a freshly mowed lawn. He was thirty years old but could talk skateboarding and PlayStation with the pizza-delivery kid like he was fourteen. He was impossible to embarrass.

Then Danny told him someone was selling a ghost, and Jude forgot all about begrudging him. Danny had discovered the ghost at an online auction site, not site but one of the wannabes. Jude moved his gaze over the item description while Danny read aloud.

He had a streak of subservience that Jude found, frankly, revolting in a man.

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He was staying with us at the time. He had no home of his own and traveled from relative to relative, visiting for a month or two before moving on.

Everyone was shocked by his passing, especially my daughter, who was very close to him. He was active to the end of his life. Never sat in front of the TV. Drank a glass of orange juice every day. Had all his own teeth. So she has been sleeping with me ever since. The guest room is cold all the time. I poked around in there and noticed it was worst in the closet, where his Sunday suit was hung up.

People shrink up a little after they die. The water in them dries up. His best suit was too big for him, so we let the funeral home talk us into downloading one of theirs.

But she is eleven and needs a normal life and to sleep in her own room, not in mine. The only thing I can think is to try and find Pop another home, and the world is full of people who want to believe in the afterlife.

Well, I have your proof right here. Of course a soul cannot really be sold, but I believe he will come to your home and abide with you if you put out the welcome mat. As I said, when he died, he was with us temporarily and had no place to call his own, so I am sure he would go to where he was wanted. Do not think this is a stunt or a practical joke and that I will take your money and send you nothing. The winning bidder will have something solid to show for their investment.

I will send you his Sunday suit. I believe if his spirit is attached to anything, it has to be that. High bid is eighty bucks. If you want to own a ghost, looks like he could be yours for a hundred. Put in a bid for a hundred dollars? He put his finger on it, tapping the glass. Danny rotated in his chair. He grinned and raised his eyebrows. Danny had high, arched, Jack Nicholson eyebrows, which he used to great effect. Later he thought it might be good publicity: Judas Coyne downloads a poltergeist.

The fans ate up stories like that. But that was later. Right then, in the moment, he just knew he wanted to be the one who bought the ghost. He had told her to put on her clothes half an hour ago but expected to find her still in bed. He had the sense she planned to stay there until she got the fight she was looking for.

He glanced back at Danny. Maybe I bought something for you. I had a good memory once. I was in the chess club in junior high. The idea that I was in the chess club? It seems so… geeky. But I used severed fingers for pieces. The sycophantic little suck-ass. Jude was up and outside with the dogs. The driver remained behind the wheel, peering down at him with the calm but intent expression of a doctor considering a new strain of Ebola through a microscope.

Jude caught the leash and pulled on it, harder than he meant to. Angus sprawled on his side in the dirt, then twisted and sprang back up, snarling. By now Bon was in on the act, straining at the end of her leash, which Jude held in his other hand, and yapping with a shrillness that hurt his head.

Because it was too far to haul them all the way back to the barn and their pen, Jude dragged them across the yard and up to the front porch, both of them fighting him the whole time. He shoveled them in through the front door and slammed it behind them.

Immediately they set to flinging themselves against it, barking hysterically.

The door shuddered as they slammed into it. Fucking dogs. Jude shuffled back down into the driveway, and reached the UPS truck just as the rear door slid open with a steely clatter. The deliveryman stood inside. He hopped down, holding a long, flat box under his arm.

Cute little dogs like house cats. You ever think about getting a couple cute little dogs like that? He brought the box through the house and into the kitchen.

He put it on the counter and poured coffee. Jude was an early riser by instinct and conditioning. When he was on the road, or recording, he had become accustomed to rolling into bed at five in the morning and sleeping through most of the daylight hours, but staying up all night had never come naturally.

On the road he would wake at four in the afternoon, bad-tempered and headachy, confused about where the time had gone. Everyone he knew would seem to him clever impostors, unfeeling aliens wearing rubber skin and the faces of friends.

It took a liberal quantity of alcohol to make them seem like themselves again. It was a childhood of mud, barking dogs, barbed wire, dilapidated farm buildings, squealing pigs with their flaking skin and squashed-in faces, and little human contact, beyond a mother who sat most of the day at the kitchen table wearing the slack, staring aspect of someone who had been lobotomized, and his father, who ruled their acres of pig shit and ruin with his angry laughter and his fists.

So Jude had been up for several hours already but had not eaten breakfast yet, and he was frying bacon when Georgia wandered into the kitchen. She was dressed only in a pair of black panties, her arms folded across her small, white, pierced breasts, her black hair floating around her head in a soft, tangly nest.

She was twenty-three. Ever think? She bent into the fridge for the orange juice. He enjoyed the view, the way the straps of her underwear cut into the almost-too-white cheeks of her ass, but he looked away while she drank from the carton. He was glad for the adoration of the Goths. He appreciated the sex even more, their limber, athletic, tattooed bodies and eagerness for kink. But he had been married once, to a woman who used a glass and put things away when she was done, who read the paper in the morning, and he missed their talk.

It was grown-up talk. It was grown-up companionship. Georgia used a steak knife to slice open the UPS box, then left the knife on the counter, with tape stuck to it. A second box was contained within the first. It was a tight fit, and Georgia had to tug for a while to slide the inner box out onto the counter. It was large, and shiny, and black, and it was shaped like a heart. Candies sometimes came in boxes like that, although this was much too big for candies, and candy boxes were pink or sometimes yellow.

He frowned. She pried the lid loose and took out what was inside, lifting it for him to see. A suit. Someone had sent him a suit.

Heart-Shaped Box

It was black and old-fashioned, the details blurred by the plastic dry-cleaning bag pulled over it. Georgia held it up by the shoulders, in front of her body, almost as if it were a dress she was thinking of trying on but she wanted his opinion of it first. Her gaze was questioning, a pretty furrow between her eyebrows. Some woman was convinced her stepfather was haunting her.

So she put his restless spirit up for sale on the Internet, and I bought it for a grand. She thinks it might be the source of the haunting. His own reaction surprised him. His skin crawled, went rough and strange with gooseflesh. For one unconsidered moment, the idea struck him as obscene.

Her smirk deepened a little, and he realized he had sounded… well, not frightened but momentarily weak. In that one instant, he could not imagine anything more repellent.

And that was saying something. He was unused to feeling disgust. She stared at him, interested at this wavering of his usual self-possession, and then she pulled off the plastic dry-cleaning bag.

The suit was somber, as dark as crow feathers, but those buttons, the size of quarters, gave it something of a rustic character. Angus began to bark, high, shrill, panicked barking.

Heart-Shaped Box: A Novel

He shoved himself back on his haunches, tail lowered, rearing away from the suit. Georgia laughed. She held the suit in front of her and waved it back and forth, walking it through the air toward Angus, flapping it at him, a bullfighter with cape.

She moaned as she closed in on him, the throaty, drawn-out cry of a wandering haunt, while her eyes gleamed with pleasure. Angus scrambled back, hit a stool at the kitchen counter, and knocked it over with a ringing crash. Georgia laughed again. She shot him a snotty, perversely happy look — the look of a child burning ants with a magnifying glass — and then she made a face of pain and shouted.

Swore and grabbed her right hand. She flung the suit aside onto the counter.

A bright drop of blood fattened at the tip of her thumb and fell, plink, onto the tiled floor. When she was gone, he got up and put the juice back into the fridge. He smoothed it out, folded the arms over the chest, felt carefully around. He laid it gently back into its box. An acrid odor caught his attention. He glanced into the pan and cursed. The bacon was burnt. The sound jumped him and halted him in his tracks. Jude tilted his head to listen, concentrating intently on the low, sibilant voice… and in another moment he identified what he was hearing, and his pulse began to slow.

There was no one in there. It was only someone talking on the radio. Jude could tell. A voice in a well had a deep, round echo, while a voice in a closet sounded condensed, all the fullness squeezed out of it. Music was also geometry. What Jude was hearing now was a voice clapped into a box.

Danny had forgotten to turn off the radio. He opened the door to the office, poked his head in. The lights were off, and with the sun on the other side of the building, the room drowned in blue shadow.

The office stereo was the third-worst in the house, which was still better than most home stereos, a stack of Onkyo components in a glass cabinet by the water cooler.

The readouts were lit a vivid, unnatural green, the color of objects viewed through a night-vision scope, except for a single, glowing, vertical slash of red, a ruby mark showing the frequency to which the radio was tuned. A fat man, judging by the wheeze when he exhaled.

In truth, Jude suspected that Danny had no particular musical preferences, no strong likes or dislikes, and that the radio was just background sound, the auditory equivalent of wallpaper.

Jude started across the room to turn off the stereo but had not gone far before his step hitched, a memory snagging at his thoughts. He had stood at the end of the dirt turnaround, enjoying the sharpness of the air, the sting on his cheeks. Someone down the road was burning a waste pile of deadfall and autumn leaves, and the faint odor of the spiced smoke had pleased him as well.

Danny had come out of the office, shrugging on his jacket, headed home. They stood talking for a moment — or, to be more accurate, Danny stood jawing at him while Jude watched the dogs and tried to tune him out.

You could always count on Danny Wooten to spoil a perfectly good silence. The office behind Danny had been silent. Jude started forward once more, but he was ill at ease again. It was all of it. It was the dimness of the office and the glaring red eye staring out from the face of the receiver. It was the thought that someone had recently passed through the office and might still be close by, maybe watching from the darkness of the bathroom, where the door was open a crack — a paranoid thing to think and unlike him, but in his head all the same.

He reached for the power button on the stereo, not really listening anymore, his gaze on that door. He wondered what he would do if it started to open.


The dead pull the living down. Down into the cold. Down into the hole. He twitched, startled, and stabbed the power button again, to get the voice back, figure out what the hell the weatherman had just been going on about.

Dig it. Jude clicked the power button once more, returning the room to stillness. He shifted around behind the desk for a glance at caller ID. It was a number, which he identified immediately as a prefix for eastern Louisiana.

Not unless a medical miracle had transpired. She was sixty-nine, and her voice was all twang and warble. To her he would always be Justin Cowzynski.

You know. The line hissed with white noise. Jude had been interviewed over the phone by a radio personality in Beijing and taken calls from Brian Johnson in Australia, and the connections had been as crisp and clear as if they were phoning him from down the street. Voices from other phone calls would bleed in and out, faintly audible for a few moments and then gone.

They might have high-speed Internet connections in Baton Rouge, but in the little towns in the swamps north of Lake Pontchartrain, if you wanted a high-speed connection with the rest of the world, you souped up a car and got the fuck out. And vanilla custard. He never used to have a sweet tooth. Are you sure? He just chokes on whatever I put in his mouth.

Free ebook of Joe Hill's Heart Shaped Box for owners of the print book

Newland was in to see him yesterday. He thinks your dad had another infarction. This was one of the little blow-outs. We can care for him just as well or better here. Newland in every day. But we can send him to the hospital. It would be cheaper there, if that matters to you.

What happens now? He had an idea that the question had taken her by surprise. Her tone, when she spoke again, was both gently reasonable and apologetic, the tone of a woman explaining a harsh truth to a child.

Till he has another little blowout and he forgets how to breathe. Or we can just let him be. Are you? When he replied, though, his voice was steady and his own. No tube. Keep me updated, all right? The conversation had taken a leap from one thing to another, without warning, like a needle skipping across a record from one track to the next.

He had not seen his father, stood in the same room with him, in three decades. Jude did not want to see the old man before he was gone, and he did not want to look at him after. He had no plans to so much as attend the funeral, although he would be the one to pay for it. It was the best thing the money could download: distance. He turns his eyes to watch folks come and watch folks go. People get that way, once enough lights have burned out. He thought maybe the conversation was over, and was prepared to say good-bye.

It was only when you got close that you could see that all those tiny red figures were actually images of shriveled dead rats.

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He leaned into her and pulled her hand out of her mouth to inspect her thumb. The tip was swollen and had a white, soft-looking sore on it. As soon as he said it, a part of him wished he could take it back.

In their metal-studded bracelets and glossy black, dead-girl lipstick, they wanted harshness, the girls like Georgia.

They wanted to prove something to themselves about how much they could take, to prove they were hard. That was why they came to him, not in spite of the things he said to them or the way he treated them but because of those things. And it was just understood that sooner or later they would go away. Jude woke just after three in the morning at the sound of it, pacing in the hallway, a rustle and a light swish of restless movement, a soft bump against the wall.

One of them had got into the house somehow, that was all. Jude sat for a moment, still drunk and stuporous from sleep. A blue splash of moonlight fell across Georgia, sleeping on her belly to his left.

Now he heard nothing in the hallway. He slid out of bed. The damp and the cold took him by surprise. The day had been the coolest in months, the first real day of fall, and now there was a raw, clinging chill in the air, which meant it had to be even colder outside. Maybe that was why the dogs were in the house. Maybe they had burrowed under the wall of the pen and somehow forced their way in, desperate to be warm.

They had an indoor-outdoor pen, could go into the heated barn if they were cold. He started toward the door, to peek into the hall, then hesitated at the window and twitched aside the curtain to look outside. The dogs were in the outdoor half of the pen, both of them, up against the wall of the barn.

Angus roamed back and forth over the straw, his body long and sleek, his sliding, sideways movements agitated. Bon sat primly in one corner. Her eyes flashed a bright, unnatural green in the darkness.

She was too still, too unblinking, like a statue of a dog instead of the real thing. But that was not as bad as knowing that something else was in the house, moving around, bumping into things in the hallway. Jude glanced at the security panel next to the bedroom door. The house was monitored, inside and out, by a collection of motion detectors. Jude wondered if the chip was smart enough to tell the difference between a dog and a naked psychotic scrambling around on all fours with a knife in his teeth.

Jude had a gun, but it was in his private recording studio, in the safe.

He reached for the Dobro guitar leaning against the wall. Jude had never been one to smash a guitar for effect. His father had smashed his very first guitar for him, in an early attempt to rid Jude of his musical ambitions. In a sense he supposed he had always used them as weapons. He heard one floorboard creak in the hall, then another, then a sigh, as of someone settling. His blood quickened. He opened the door. But the hallway was empty. Jude plashed through long rectangles of icy light, cast by the skylights.

He stopped at each closed door, listened, then glanced within. A blanket tossed across a chair looked, for a moment, like a deformed dwarf glaring at him. In another room he found a tall, gaunt figure standing behind the door, and his heart reared in his chest, and he almost swung the guitar, then realized it was a coatrack, and all the breath came rushing unsteadily out of him.

He returned to the corridor and went downstairs. It was the wrong kind of stillness, the shocked stillness that follows the bang of a cherry bomb. His eardrums throbbed from the pressure of all that quiet, a dreadful silence. He leaned the guitar against the wall and exhaled noisily. By then he was so ill at ease the sound of his own voice unnerved him, sent a cool, prickling rush up his forearms.

He had never been one to talk to himself. He climbed the stairs and started back down the hall to the bedroom. His gaze drifted to an old man, sitting in an antique Shaker chair against the wall.

As soon as Jude saw him, his pulse lunged in alarm, and he looked away, fixed his gaze on his bedroom door, so he could only see the old man from the edge of his vision. In the moments that followed, Jude felt it was a matter of life and death not to make eye contact with the old man, to give no sign that he saw him. He did not see him, Jude told himself. There was no one there. His hat was off, resting on his knee.

His hair was a close bristle, with the brilliance of new frost. The buttons down the front of his coat flashed in the gloom, chromed by moonlight. Jude recognized the suit in a glance. He had last seen it folded in the black, heart-shaped box that had gone into the rear of his closet. But by then Jude was beyond him, almost to the door. He was careful not to run. He let himself into the bedroom and clicked the door shut behind him.

He went straight to his bed and got into it and immediately began to shake. A part of him wanted to roll against Georgia and cling to her, let her body warm him and drive away the chills, but he stayed on his side of the bed so as not to wake her.

He stared at the ceiling. Georgia was restless and moaned unhappily in her sleep. Georgia was on her side, her small hand resting lightly on his chest and her breath soft on his shoulder.

He slipped out of bed and away from her, let himself into the hall and walked downstairs. The Dobro leaned against the wall where he had left it. The sight of it gave his heart a bad turn. He had set himself a goal of not thinking about it. But there was the Dobro. He had nothing to say to Danny and no reason to bother him, but in another moment he was at the door of the office. The compulsion to be in the company of another human, someone awake and sensible and with a head full of everyday nonsense, was irresistible.

Danny was on the phone, craned back in his office chair, laughing about something. He was still in his suede jacket. He himself had a robe over his shoulders and was hugging himself under it. The office was filled with a damp cold. He mouthed the words You okay? Danny got rid of whoever he was talking to, then rotated in his chair to turn a solicitous look upon him. You look like fucking hell. Then he hugged himself, mock-shivered. Tipped his head toward the phone.

This place is a fucking tomb. It came. I want to call her. I want to find some things out. He swiveled partway back to his computer and got the phone, but his gaze remained fixed on Jude. Find her number, will you? The temperature was in the low fifties, and the air was white with a fine-grained mist. Still, it was more comfortable than the damp, clinging cold of the house.He enjoyed the view, the way the straps of her underwear cut into the almost-too-white cheeks of her ass, but he looked away while she drank from the carton.

The second printing sold out within hours of being announced. Place is crawling with toothless, possumeating trailer trash full of weird ideas. Synopsis Judas Coyne is a collector of Voices from other phone calls would bleed in and out, faintly audible for a few moments and then gone.

TRUDI from Hickory
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