Cast a Cold Eye

By Derryl Murphy and William Shunn

“A genuinely spooky story that lies somewhere near the place where fantasy, horror, and science fiction meet.” —Harry Turtledove

From Aurora and Sunburst Award nominee Derryl Murphy and Hugo and Nebula Award nominee William Shunn comes a chilling ghost story set in the aftermath of the worst pandemic the world has ever known.

1921. Rural Nebraska. In a region devastated by Spanish flu, where not a single life has gone unscathed by tragedy, 15-year-old Luke Bryant has lost more than most. Orphaned, Luke toils as a farmhand for his strict uncle and aunt, barely recalling a world not gray, deadening, and oppressive. Worse, he can’t so much as visit the graves of his parents without the statues in the cemetery opening their stony eyes and watching his every move.

Enter Annabelle Tupper, itinerant spirit photographer. Half-blinded by the chemicals of her trade, she travels the countryside in pursuit of the ghost of her dead husband. When a local pastor arranges for Annabelle to take on the boy as an apprentice, both find their every belief turned upside-down. For Annabelle, eking out a bare living while trying not to be run out of town as a charlatan, Luke represents a power she can only dream of. But for Luke—reluctant, resentful, and increasingly violent—the older woman stands for every nightmare that haunts his waking hours.

As more and more restless spirits converge on the unblinking eye of Annabelle’s camera, Luke’s only hope for peace will be to confront the most terrifying specters of all—the ones he carries inside.

“An archetypal American myth. . . . Their depiction of 1921 Nebraska is vivid . . . but the real heart of the novella lies in the relationship between Luke and Annabelle, two strong but damaged characters who share an eerie bond.” —Paul Witcover, Locus Magazine

“Characterization is spot on, with no one who can be considered either evil or a criminal, just ordinary men and woman with all the flaws and virtues that implies. . . . I thoroughly enjoyed this book and recommend it without reservation.” —Peter Tennant, Black Static

“The authors know how to tell a story. They have good narrative drive, they deliver strong characterization without a lot of exposition, and the supernatural elements of the story are inventive, building one upon the other. . . . Cast a Cold Eye is one of those stories that work on many levels. I've reread the manuscript a few times since I first received it, and every time I do, I find another layer waiting for me. It's past time for you to discover its treasures for yourself.” —Charles de Lint

“After reading Derryl Murphy and William Shunn’s Cast a Cold Eye, I felt as if I had just awakened from a lucid dream . . . as if I had just experienced their protagonist’s psychic adventure into deepening horror as my own. This is a book constructed with craft, sensitivity, and resounding talent. I have but one caveat: don’t start reading this book if you have other things to do. Murphy and Shunn are plotmeisters. Once you start reading, you won’t stop until you’ve finished the book. And then you’ll need to think about what the hell just happened!” —Jack Dann

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sinister Regard
• Release date: Jul 30, 2019
• ISBN: 9781941928486

Book preview

'Cast a Cold Eye' by Derryl Murphy & William Shunn

Praise for Cast a Cold Eye

"Cast a Cold Eye is a genuinely spooky story that lies somewhere near the place where fantasy, horror, and science fiction meet. It has vivid people and a strong sense of time and place."

—Harry Turtledove

An archetypal American myth. . . . Their depiction of 1921 Nebraska is vivid . . . but the real heart of the novella lies in the relationship between Luke and Annabelle, two strong but damaged characters who share an eerie bond.

—Paul Witcover, Locus Magazine

Characterization is spot on, with no one who can be considered either evil or a criminal, just ordinary men and woman with all the flaws and virtues that implies. . . . I thoroughly enjoyed this book and recommend it without reservation.

—Peter Tennant, Black Static

"The authors know how to tell a story. They have good narrative drive, they deliver strong characterization without a lot of exposition, and the supernatural elements of the story are inventive, building one upon the other. . . . Cast a Cold Eye is one of those stories that work on many levels. I've reread the manuscript a few times since I first received it, and every time I do, I find another layer waiting for me. It's past time for you to discover its treasures for yourself."

—Charles de Lint

"After reading Derryl Murphy and William Shunn’s Cast a Cold Eye, I felt as if I had just awakened from a lucid dream . . . as if I had just experienced their protagonist’s psychic adventure into deepening horror as my own. This is a book constructed with craft, sensitivity, and resounding talent. I have but one caveat: don’t start reading this book if you have other things to do. Murphy and Shunn are plotmeisters. Once you start reading, you won’t stop until you’ve finished the book. And then you’ll need to think about what the hell just happened!"

—Jack Dann

"Cast a Cold Eye . . . creates a fantasticated interplay between the growth throes of a young man in [1921] Nebraska and L. Frank Baum’s Dorothy."

—John Clute, The Encyclopedia of Science Fiction

'Cast a Cold Eye' by Derryl Murphy & William Shunn

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this work are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

Originally published in a limited hardcover edition by PS Publishing.

Copyright © 2009 by Derryl Murphy & William Shunn

All rights reserved

eBook Edition

ISBN-13: 978-1-941-92848-6

ISBN-10: 1-941-92848-X

Cover photograph by Derryl Murphy

Sinister Regard

New York

Table of Contents

Cast a Cold Eye

About Derryl Murphy

About William Shunn

Also by Derryl Murphy

Also by William Shunn

Derryl Murphy:

In memory of my grandmother Elda and her sister Reva, whose stories of losing their father to the Spanish flu were one half of the ignition for starting this story.

William Shunn:

To my son Samuel, who fearlessly follows a path all his own.

Cast a Cold Eye

Lungs burning, Luke Bryant risked a quick look back over his shoulder as he sprinted through the gray afternoon. The Dixon twins were still keeping up. Henry, in fact, was even gaining ground. Luke tried to run faster, but his feet felt like bricks. He couldn’t keep going much farther. Him and his big mouth! When was he ever going to learn?

The main road here ran east to west along the southern edge of the woods. The Dixons had been lying in wait as he walked home from school, anxious to deal with Luke and his big mouth. When they popped out of hiding with their pimply faces and their scraggly whiskers in need of plucking, Luke had shoved Henry to the ground, told him to do something unrepeatable to his grandmother, and taken off running.

Somewhere along the way he had lost his textbooks, probably at the scene of the ambush. His uncle was going to kill him.

He heard a motor behind him in the road. Freddy the Finn, owner of the men’s clothiers in town, tooled past in his new Essex, waving jauntily and honking his horn. Yeah, thanks, Luke thought.

The graveyard, son, came his father’s voice in the back of his mind. It’s your only chance.

Luke shook his head. His parents were three years gone, but still he sometimes imagined he heard them in place of the conscience that was getting more and more of a workout these days. The graveyard was just ahead, on the north side of the road, and beside it the little Methodist church that mostly farmers like his aunt and uncle attended. But he couldn’t hide in the graveyard, not with the statues waiting there to watch him . . .

He heard the Dixon boys yelling from around the bend, getting closer, and that decided him. Graveyard it was. But not by the front entrance.

The wrought-iron gate flashed past on his right, flanked by decorative free-standing brick walls choked with ivy. Just ahead, a strange pickup truck was parked in the dirt lot beside the little church. Under the rust and dirt it showed a faded rainbow of colors. An enclosure of weathered gray plywood spanned the bed, peaked like a small house. Several holes had been patched over with old canvas, and painted on the side in cramped black letters was:

Annabelle Tupper

Spirit Photographer

Reasonable Rates

It was an odd thing to see at the church, but perfectly placed to cut behind for cover as he plunged into the woods west of the graveyard.

With what felt like a spear impaling his side, he snaked his way through the leaves and lashing branches, heedless of the cuts and scrapes he was no doubt collecting on his hands and face. He thought he could hear Henry and Clay yelling back in the road, but that only spurred him on. He hardly spared a thought for the statues.

When he stumbled into a clearing, he immediately turned and crouched, listening intently for any sounds of pursuit. There were none, only the sound of the melancholy breeze in the trees, the desultory chatter of birds, and the heaving of his own ragged breath as he gasped for air. Dappled shadows fluttered around him like the watery light in a dread enchanted kingdom at the bottom of the sea. He looked up. Above the old elms with their leaves just turning brown, the sky was a drab slab of gunmetal. It didn’t look cloudy, but still the heavens were dull and gray. He shivered. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt the sun on his skin, or even felt warm.

Was that why he kept doing things like slurring Henry Dixon’s grandmother, especially when he knew how close the boy was