The White Devil: A Novel

By Justin Evans

“Evans is so good at nail-biting narrative.” —WashingtonPost
 
“[A]crackling literary mystery. . . . Harrow itself contains Shirley Jackson levelsof gloomy passages and dark secrets. Smart, scary, sexy, and gorgeously writtento boot.” —Booklist (starredreview)
 
Joe Hill’s Horns meets Donna Tartt’sThe Secret History in this bold new thriller from Justin Evans, authorof the critically acclaimed A Good and Happy Child. Whenseventeen-year-old Andrew Taylor is transplanted from his American high schoolto a British boarding school—a high-profile academy for the sons of England’sfinest—his father hopes that the boy’s dark past will not follow him fromacross the Atlantic. But blood, suspense, and intrigue quickly surround Andrewonce again as he finds himself struggling with a deadly mystery left unsolvedby a student from Harrow School’s past—the enigmatic poet Lord Byron.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: May 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9780062092021

Justin Evans

Justin Evans, the author of A Good and Happy Child, is a digital media executive in New York City, where he lives with his wife and their two children.

Book preview

Prologue

OUTSIDE A COOL

evening awaited. The perspiration on his back and neck turned icy. He staggered through the darkness, his breathing heavy. It had seized him, like a beast, a monkey sinking fangs into him, clinging to him and weighing him down, waiting for him to tire; a predator making a kill.

Get as far from people as you can.

He climbed the stairs. When he reached the top, he stumbled forward. He pulled up a trouser leg and found his calves and ankles had swollen: taut, puffy; dragging beneath him like bags of fluid.

What was happening to him?

He was enduring the journey from life to death. The force he was confronting was taking its revenge on him. He was experiencing in the space of an hour what might otherwise be a slow, consuming decline.

He reached up and touched his face; felt the ridge of his own cheekbone, traced it with his fingertip. The fat had melted away. The sores grew in his mouth. The fever burned his cheeks. He was plummeting quickly through the expected symptoms. He realized he had very little time left.

It was going to kill him.

It was going to kill all of them.

PART I

What exile from himself can flee?

1

Gap Year

ANDREW TAYLOR STOOD

alone before a gate. The growl of his taxi pulling away had long since faded. A sky, whipped by winds, changing preternaturally, galloped overhead: clouds, sun, low-slung fog, in rapid succession. So this was English weather. The place felt wet. A smoky smell (bracken, burnt by gardeners) stung his nose. From somewhere close, a church bell rang. He was on a high hilltop, a few miles to the northwest in the swirl of suburbia flung off by London. The taxi had dropped him on the High Street, a twist of road lined with whitewashed shops, three-story town houses, and weary-looking trees leaning out of holes cut in the pavement. There were views to the north, more hills, rolling away, each stamped with a chain link of identical suburban homes: brown brick, chimney, walled yard. Until he saw the gate, and the eccentric building that would be his new home, he thought he might have come to the wrong place. This was supposed to be a school for England’s elite. That’s what his father had told him. You don’t know how lucky you are, he had said—repeatedly. But Andrew had attended schools for the elite. And in his experience, they were sprawling green campuses, with golf courses and big gymnasiums and gleaming dining centers . . . not buildings distributed along a street. Yet here he was. Twenty-five High Street, Harrow-on-the-Hill, Middlesex. Same address as on the welcome packet, on the brochure, on the welcome letter from his housemaster. And it looked like a fucking time warp.

First, there was the name. The Lot. It bore the funk of English eccentricity. Andrew already felt allergic to it. Back at Frederick Williams Academy, in Connecticut, the houses were named after donors. Andrew had been two years in Davidson, two in Griswold, and his senior year—the most decadent by far, in a large double room, perfumed by bong water and unwashed clothes—in Noel House. But the Lot rose before him now, a shambling Victorian mansion, ascending four stories to an old-fashioned cross-gabled roof. It was constructed of moldering red brick, with triangular nooks and attic rooms pointing upward, arrowlike, in various spots, while over the door—and elsewhere, wherever a lintel presented a broad hunk of brick—there were carvings on agricultural themes. Hay and scythes. Sunshine and tilling. Moss, soot, and old grit competed for residence in the thin lines of mortar. A low wall, of the same red brick, encircled the place. Between the wall and the house lay a driveway of beige gravel, like a pebbly moat. The arms of the wall met in a gate: two square brick posterns, topped by cast-iron lanterns. Andrew felt his heart sink. This place was dank, cramped, old. The year he would stay here suddenly seemed wearingly long.

I don’t want to hear a word of complaint out of you. I moved mountains to get you in there.

Andrew’s father’s voice entered his head, unbidden. As it had a tendency to do. Fierce, southern-accented, accusatory. When Andrew was younger he used to hear it in the shower, arising from the babble of the water pounding the bathtub. He would stop the shower, get out, dripping, and stand in the doorway calling Yes? Yes, Daddy? when it had been nothing. Just the guilt; the internal clock telling him it had been several hours since he heard the hammer and tongs of that voice. And Andrew had heard the voice plenty this past summer.

I sold the last of Grandfather’s shares for this. Sold them for pennies, in this market, to get your sorry ass out of trouble. What a waste, his father had ranted. What a failure for us all. Ah, me, he would groan. I never thought I would see this happen. Never.

That was the speech designed to stamp out any complaints about the school. Harrow School. The brochure had made it look like a miniseries on PBS. Scrubbed British schoolboys in jackets and ties and odd, tidy straw hats, which, his father informed him with some relish, were the tradition of the school. Choirboys. Andrew knew the school was prestigious. He knew he was lucky—sort of. But he couldn’t forget that he wasn’t here because he wanted to be here; not even because he deserved to be. Far from it. It was to get him out of sight, quickly. Off, across the Atlantic, to some cross between reform school and finishing school. So that his college applications would have a new listing at the top. So he would have a new set of teachers and administrators to write recs. So the last five years at Frederick Williams Academy would be just a footnote. I went to the prestigious Harrow School . . . and oh, yes, the equally prestigious Frederick Williams Academy. But the less said about that, the better. Maybe, with college applications bragging international experience, the gap between his ninetieth-percentile SATs and his C grades would stand out less. Maybe phrases like doesn’t apply himself . . . tests well, but lazy . . . and most recently, the packed euphemism discipline issues would seem less prominent.

Despite the urgent circumstances, the welcome packet for Harrow School had impressed his father. There was the school crest: a prancing lion, heraldic symbols, a Latin motto. Bragging rights: seven prime ministers had attended the school, including Winston Churchill. Andrew’s father had puffed with pride. The Taylors, in his view, were aristocrats. There had been the family plantations in Louisiana. There had been the great-great-uncle, the Civil War admiral, with a battleship named for him (every few years they got hats from some pal of his dad’s in the navy—dark blue with orange stitching: U.S.S. Taylor). And grandfather Taylor had been president of a contact lens manufacturer, Hirsch & Long, had made a small fortune in stock, and had been quite a grandee in Killingworth, Connecticut, living in a lovingly restored farmhouse—a landmark—with stone walls around a generous property. Never mind that Andrew’s father had floundered for years at American Express, bridling that he’d risen to be no more than a mere vice president, passed over for promotion to executive rank (due, no doubt, to his temper, and his poorly concealed snobbery); or that Hirsch & Long stock had foundered since the introduction of laser surgery and cheap Chinese imports; or that Andrew, the grandson, was now a certified screwup. Never mind that there was no fortune or prestigious career to raise them to the upper echelon of Connecticut or New York society. They would be damned if they were middle class. They were American aristocrats, Andrew’s father thought. They had the stamp of quality. The Taylors deserved Harrow School. In the eyes of his father, this was a homecoming, not an exile.

But all his son could see were rules. Infantilizing, seemingly infinite rules. A tiny, prim pamphlet Andrew received, titled Newboys Guide, helpfully pointed them out.

No drinking.

No smoking.

No eating in the street.

No leaving the Hill without a chit. (Whatever that was.)

Boys must wear their Harrow hat to classes.

Boys must wear school uniform at all times. Except on Sundays, when Sunday dress is mandatory.

No wearing light-colored raincoats to school meetings. (This one left him speechless.)

No food in the rooms.

Boys must cap the masters when passing on the street—raise one finger to the brim of the Harrow hat.

For ladies or the Headmaster, boys must raise the Harrow hat.

Then there was the copious supply of precious, arcane jargon—cute nicknames, presumably developed over centuries, referring to every aspect of the school. The Newboys Guide offered a lexicon.

Shell = boy in first form. (Seventh grade, Andrew retranslated.)

Remove = boy in second form.

Eccer = exercise.

Bluer = boys’ school jacket, made of blue wool.

Greyers = boys’ school trousers, made of grey wool.

Beak = master (Teacher, Andrew retranslated.)

And so it went. Andrew felt the claws of claustrophobia on him, sinking deeper with every repetition of the word boy.

An all-boys’ school.

He felt awkward in guy groups. Remote and prickly, he was stung by the joshing of sporty types. His subjugation to his father made him hate bullies and provided fuel for outbursts of violent temper when confronted with casual cruelty in the dormitory halls. And generally wasting time with friends made him anxious. It seemed inefficient. He could waste time so much better on his own.

On the contrary, he liked girls. They sought him out at parties and at school socials—that is, when he deigned to go. He would hang back and make sarcastic remarks or sneak off smoking, or better yet make plans to have a bottle of liquor available and get plastered with some small side group. Most Saturdays, by ten o’clock check-in, he would be untangling himself from some girl’s bra and licking the Southern Comfort and punch that had been deposited, secondhand, around the rim of his mouth. The bohemian girls—the dancers, the hippie chicks—thought he was one of them, with his black T-shirts and angry rebellious questions in class and citations of obscure or otherwise cool literary figures (Mr. Wheeler, why can’t we read any Brautigan? Or Bukowksi?); and the preppie girls—the ones inclined to slum with the druggie kids—would sometimes venture his way as well. Summers, back at home in Killingworth, it was another story altogether. Girls with big hair and obvious perfume bought the package of Boarding School and Long Luxurious Black Hair. They would drink two or three beers and let him do what he wanted to them.

To get locked away on a hilltop with a few hundred boys made him nervous in a way he couldn’t completely comprehend. What happened when the girls, the sunshine, and the warmth were on the outside and you were on the inside, chilly, English, and isolated? It would be like passing a year in a meat locker.

Andrew squatted and gripped his heavy bags, and heaved one of them over his shoulder. He stood but he did not advance; he could not cross, not yet. The lanterns stared at him balefully; dirty and unlit. He felt that if he crossed that threshold, he would step into the nineteenth century and be lost there. You’d better get every damn thing right, his father’s voice came to him. Low profile. No rock bands (a reference to Andrew’s band, the One-Eyed Bandits, a favorite excuse for all-weekend bacchanals; cases of cheap beer and jam sessions until daylight). No school plays (Andrew had been busted for smoking outside rehearsals—twice). No party weekends (plenty of stories there). Homework and home. That’s your mantra. You make this good or we’re through with you. Andrew sensed the seriousness in his father’s voice. The anger in the eyes. The desperation. We’re through with you. Could his father really mean it? Cut him off? Throw him out of the house? Not pay for college? Andrew did not think of himself as spoiled, but the consequences of his parents being through with him, at seventeen, seemed hard. He knew the kids from Killingworth who never left the small town. Who worked in retail, or ended up as contractors—painters, landscapers, the guys who drove around in vans, eyes red from the joints they passed. . . . We’re through with you. Did he want to test his father’s resolve? To find out what through meant? He was jet-lagged, sleep-deprived, hungry . . . no. Not today he didn’t.

He breathed deep and took his first step onto Harrow School property. Squelch. Into a puddle.

Fuck. Figures.

He shuffled across the gravel, trying not to drop a bag.

APPARENTLY HE WAS

early.

You’re not due till five, snapped the woman who opened the door. She had frosted hair, overmascara’d lashes, and icy blue eyes that might have once been pretty. Now she was all bosom and belly. She wiped her hand on a towel. Off to the right, through the vestibule, Andrew could see a door opened to a small apartment; a lunch tray; the glow of a television.

I’m supposed to live here now, he said emphatically. I don’t have anywhere else to go.

American, she observed, glaring at him. Everything on your own time.

"Unfortunately there weren’t any flights to Heathrow scheduled to land when the maid was ready."

Maid? she drew herself up, angrily. I am Matron.

Was this a name, or a title? She announced it with ontological pride, as if Matron were an element in the periodic table, and she were made of it.

And I’ve been traveling since last night. May I please come in?

Matron—the Matron?—took a theatrical step to one side and let him through with a resigned sigh.

THE LOT, IN

keeping with its appearance, was something of a mess inside. Old glossy paint; battered bulletin boards; an overall dimness. The fumes of a disinfectant hung about, as if the place had been mopped in a hurry to prepare for the incoming boarders. Stairwells and passages spun outward from the main foyer. Up three flights of stairs—made of heavy slate, worn in the center by many years’ use—Matron led Andrew to his room. It shared a short corridor with three other rooms—all Sixth Formers, Matron told him (seniors, he silently translated). Its ceiling was slanted, giving it a cozy feel.

I suppose you’d like a tour, grumbled Matron.

The Lot, she said, bustling up to the next story, was really two houses: this one—the original, with all the character—and a new one, constructed onto the back of the original. She whirled him along passages and hallways. The house held sixty boys, Shells to Sixth Form. Wooden plaques with the names of the house’s former residents carved into them (Gascoigne, M.B.H.; Lodge, J.O.M. The Hon; Podmore, H.J.T. ) lined the walls of the longer corridors; upstairs there were common rooms with satellite TV and kitchenettes. Downstairs there was a snooker room, music rooms, shower, and baths. (Snooker? he wondered.) They passed a filthy brick pit with a net covering that Matron referred to as the yarder—clearly a place to play, blow off steam in bad weather. A few abandoned balls were trapped in its webbing like inedible flies.

Then they descended a narrow stair into a warren of tight passages and low ceilings.

This the basement? Andrew asked. He felt a chill crawl up his arms. It’s cold. Feels like someone left the fridge door open.

Matron shot him a look of annoyance. You must have caught something on the plane.

He began to respond—Hey, I wasn’t criticizing—but stopped. There was something different about the basement. It was as if all the crumbling and decrepit parts of the house had been banished down here. The ceiling showed bare beams with beehived plaster and old bent nails, like somebody’s attic. The walls bared their brickwork like the layers of an archeological dig: in one place, herringboned, cathedral-like; in another, ranged in crude verticals, chewed by age, the survivor of a poorer, cruder era. Along the walls, older name-plaques stood stacked against the walls, gathering dust like ancient shields in some neglected treasure room. They were not the warmer, walnut-colored ones hanging on the walls upstairs; the blackness of their lettering merged into stained and sooty wood, as if the old plates themselves were forgetting the names carved into them. A dull, almost drugged sensation came over Andrew. His mind went into slow motion, taking all this in. Maybe he had caught something on the plane. The place seemed to throb. Here is where they hide the history.

They walked over to the shower stalls, a long, rectangular box of terra-cotta tile, lined with showerheads and soap trays. You can fight your way for a spot through all the naked boys, Matron was wryly saying, and as she spoke the words, she conjured the pictures, bare white figures twisting to bathe and scrub themselves through a scrim of steam. Andrew shook off the image. It was as if it had materialized, then vanished, on its own accord.

I don’t like it down here, Matron continued. Gives me the creepy-crawlies. There’s a ghost in the Lot, you know. Boys tease that it’s up in the rooms. I think it’s down here.

Ghost? he said.

If you believe that sort of thing.

Not really, he drawled.

THEY COMPLETED THE

tour, Matron chattering about the rules of the house. Andrew, at last, could not take any more in. His face screwed up, his eyes tightened. Matron caught his expression.

You’re tired, she said.

Without another word, she led him to his room and withdrew quickly, knowing from years of experience what was coming next.

Andrew flung himself on the bare mattress, and, to his shame, found himself crying. He plunged his face into the starchy, uncased pillow, not wanting Matron to hear. It all piled on top of him suddenly, on his hazy, jet-lagged brain. The long journey. The crummy loneliness of the place. That vertigo underpinning everything: How did I end up here. How can I last a year here. It lasted for two short minutes. Then he fell into a stupor.

SMEARING DROOL FROM

his chin, Andrew awoke to a soft knock and the whoosh of his door opening. You need a minute? came a voice. His eyes focused and Andrew saw his first Harrovian. Small-framed, and far from being a sickly boy cased in a wool uniform, a young man stood who was forged from sunshine: his clothes were colorful, stylish, expensive, unfamiliar—no fusty Brooks Brothers stuff here, but a purple shirt with a splayed collar and fitted, unpleated trousers and a suede jacket. His hair made tight yellow curls along his forehead; his eyes were deep-set and sympathetic. He was lean, athletic. The tendons around his neck quivered when he moved, his chest smooth and tanned a rich gold. Andrew gazed at him as if he were dreaming. Was this what they were like at Harrow? He felt soft, and pale, and . . . American. The specimen grinned at Andrew.

You’re the American, he stated. I’m Theo Ryder, next door. Andrew caught a different accent here: Nixt dooh. Matron told me you might need a bit of an introduction to the place.

Did she?

Theo laughed. Not exactly warm and fuzzy, is she? You get used to it.

Oh, so this isn’t your first year at Harrow?

I’ve been here since I was twelve. I was one of these Shells. Crying for my mummy into my pillow every night.

Andrew flushed and wondered whether his tears had left visible tracks.

Have you got your kit? Theo continued.

My . . .

Ties, boater, so forth.

No, I’ve got to get a boater.

"Godda gedda boaterr, Theo said with a grin, imitating his accent. You don’t have anything? No greyers, nothing? Andrew shook his head. We have work to do. Come on. Let’s get you to Pags & Lemmon."

THEY STROLLED TO

a dusty outfitter’s, where a white-haired man with a walleye (Hieronymus Pags, Andrew read on a business card on the counter) measured his chest, neck, and head and produced a heap of clothing: greyers, bluers, Harrow hat, and Harrow ties. His outfit for a year. The Harrow tie is black, Mr. Pags explained with a simper, in mourning for Queen Victoria.

Andrew stood in the mirror. He looked like a half-tamed animal, packed into the confining clothing, his wild black hair spilling out the top.

But he could not—or would not—tie the tie. It was the final submission. The dog collar. Theo laughed and climbed behind Andrew, standing on a chair and facing the mirror so he could see the gestures from his own perspective. His hands twisted around Andrew’s neck; Andrew squirmed; but Theo affably tugged and yanked until the job was done. He patted Andrew on the shoulder.

No escape now, mate. You’re one of us.

THEO WAS AGAIN

his guide on the way to dining hall—a low, 1970s structure, accessible through an unlabeled arch on the High Street.

This was a good thing, because anarchy awaited inside: a steamy, low-ceilinged room of brown brick, ababble with hundreds of boys’ voices. Two food lines stretched back from the kitchens. To amuse themselves, two huge boys had started pushing at the end of the lines, putting their shoulders to their companions and knocking them forward, like flexible dominoes. Oi, went up the aggrieved shout. Faces crinkled in annoyance. Monitors appeared—nervous in their roles as rising Sixth Formers, exercising their authority for the first time—and strained to hold the boys back like Security at a rock concert. Andrew eventually received a white plate with two fried eggs and a ladleful of beans. He was pleasantly surprised. It wasn’t gruel. He followed Theo across the room—weaving through boys in bluers and past an enormous toast station, heaped with grainy bread and lined with a half-dozen toasters and bowls of red jelly; these boys would live on toast, Andrew was to discover—toward a long, heavy wood table against the window. This was the Lot’s Sixth Form table. The lower forms ate at their own tables, perpendicular to this one.

Theo introduced him.

Oi, everyone: Andrew, from America. Say hello like human beings.

Go fuck yourself, Ryder.

Yeah, go fuck yourself.

Fuck you too, Yank.

Yeah, piss off.

There was sniggering at this.

Eat shit, assholes, snarled Andrew.

The crew looked up, somewhat startled that Andrew had not taken their remarks in fun.

Charming.

That how they say hello in America?

"Is that how you say hello in England?" Andrew snapped back.

It’s English humor, man, piped up one stocky boy with tight brown curls. Americans don’t understand English humor.

Let’s try this again, said Theo wearily. Andrew is a new student. He’s here on his gap year.

"You’re spending your gap year . . . here?"

You must be insane to come to this place.

What’s a gap year? asked Andrew.

What’s a gap year? sputtered the stocky boy again. Were you born yesterday?

Year for travel, before university, Theo explained, then gestured to the stocky boy. May I introduce Roddy Slough.

Total freak, added the freckled boy next to Roddy, as if this were Roddy’s subtitle.

Fucking loser, added another farther down the table, who threw a bunched-up napkin at Roddy.

You’ll have to excuse them. I seem to be the only one with any manners around here. Roddy stood and shook Andrew’s hand.

Roddy was the house oddball, Theo later confided; the others referred to him as nouveau, as in nouveau riche, because his father owned a chain of fast-food restaurants in London; Roddy was addicted to comics and spent most of his time in his room. He was a lightning rod for abuse, Theo explained, shaking his head.

Oh sit down, you git, barked the napkin thrower in disgust.

That, Theo told Andrew, in an aside, was St. John Tooley. Wild-eyed, jittery, St. John was hunched, with a greasy forelock and freckles. His father, Theo whispered, was one of the hundred richest men in England. Tooley, as in, Tooley, Inc., the global temp placement firm. As in Sir Howard Tooley.

A boy named Hugh was introduced: he had thick eyelashes and a fey manner. He was greeted with a volley of insinuating cat sounds, a kind of Mrrrowww. Hugh’s eyes went dark. This, Andrew realized, must be the term of abuse for suspected homosexuals. Real subtle.

And so it went. Andrew had the sensation of having crashed someone else’s family vacation—all the squabbles and petty hatreds of prolonged cohabitation were here in evidence. Epithets, embarrassing anecdotes; alliances and animosities. In succession each of them spilled bits and pieces to Andrew. He quickly realized this group had started together as Shells, and were desperate for someone new to tell their stories to.

So what’s the deal with the ghost? he ventured, during a lull.

Shhhh, he was told.

Newboys, someone stage-whispered. We’ll tell one of them tonight.

Tell them what?

We pick someone, explained a boy named Rhys, who, it turned out, was head of house; a stocky, genial guy with straw-blond hair from Wales who was studying agriculture. And tell him his room is haunted.

"Someone died in that very room," offered someone in a spooky tone.

Then later we come in and completely abuse him.

Soak him.

Scream.

Remember the year they dumped Pat out of bed?

The poor bastard thinks it’s the ghost and loses it, explained Rhys. It’s totally wet.

Fuck it is, it’s funny.

It’s a Lot tradition.

How’d you get hold of that, on your first day? someone asked him.

I thought I felt a chill in the basement.

A questioning glance was passed around the table.

Matron mentioned it, he explained to fill the awkward silence.

So why are you here? asked a large, muscular boy next to St. John. This, Theo explained, was Vaz: short for Vasily. White Russian. Family fled the 1918 revolution. Vaz was a thickset boy of enormous size; arms, legs, body all rounded and heavy as slabs of meat. (He’s our hooker for the First Fifteens, Theo whispered. Andrew had no idea what that meant but guessed it was an important position; and Fifteens, looking at Vaz, had to be rugby.) His face spread wide and flat across a football-shaped skull, with slitted, squinting eyes and light brown hair gelled into twists. He looked like a menacing and steroidal version of Ernie from Sesame Street. Vaz seemed to speak rarely, except to add to a communal joke, but when he did, the others paused to listen. St. John’s every jerky movement seemed designed to amuse Vaz.

Don’t ask him that, protested Theo. It’s his business.

Why not? You never see newboys in Sixth Form. There must be a reason.

Yeah, why are you here, Yank? demanded St. John.

The table went quiet. Andrew hesitated.

Uh-oh, he’s going to tell us to eat shit again.

General laughter.

My father thought it would be a good idea to take a year abroad, said Andrew, carefully.

"Mrrrowww, dad-dy," came the catcalls.

Your dad? Why?

What do you mean, why? Andrew parried, stalling for time. To get my grades up. And reapply to colleges. Universities.

Are you taking A-Levels? persisted Vaz.

Andrew paused. What are A-Levels?

Pandemonium ensued. Roddy especially could barely stay in his seat. You don’t know what A-Levels are? Are you mentally retarded? Do you even have schools in America? And so forth. It turned out A-Levels were big exams at the year’s end; everything in the whole school year led up to them. Whoops. Exploded by Andrew’s outrageous lack of knowledge, the conversation took different turns, and Andrew was out of the hot seat. But he caught Vaz eyeing him. No one who’d crossed the ocean to better his grades would not know what A-Levels were, and Vaz knew it. So what was Andrew the American hiding?

A BRIEF HOUSE

meeting followed, where the boys crowded onto benches in a long common room. Andrew stared at the framed photographs lining the walls: house photos. Rows of boys lined up in the garden in tailcoats. First in color, then, as the dates stretched back to the 1960s, in black-and-white. For one of the years the picture had bleached out. In place of faces was a white-hot, radioactive glow. Andrew was forced to stop looking when the boys on one end of his bench tried shoving the last guy off the other end.

Then came a scramble, and smirks: the housemaster had arrived, late. Fawkes, they whispered. Piers Fawkes swept in in his black beak’s robes, a slim, slightly stooped forty-five, his light brown hair boyish and uncombed, and his large eyes bulging slightly, giving him the placid, somewhat clownish expression of someone who’d been caught napping at his own birthday party. Drunk and useless, Rhys told him, shaking his head. Who arrives late to the first house meeting? Then added a single word—Poet—as if that explained everything.

AFTERWARD, ANDREW STAGGERED

to his room. He could not absorb any more. Theo stopped him in the corridor.

All right, mate?

My brain is mush.

It’ll come. Want a lager?

What?

Beer.

You sneak them in?

Sneak? I don’t sneak anything. It’s my beer allowance.

Andrew blinked. From home?

"From the bloody housemaster. God, you are tired. Come on. Beer?"

Andrew hesitated. His father’s voice materialized again. You make this good or we’re through with you.

It’s been a long day.

Don’t worry about those wankers. He nodded toward the rest of the house. That’s just the way they are.

I get it. Rain check on that beer.

Puzzled look. Rainjacket?

Never mind. Good night.

SLEEP CAME LIKE

a whirlwind, more frenetic than the stone drop of that afternoon’s nap. He had traveling dreams: airplanes, escalators, passport lines, nonstop images flashing like some endless video game. These combined with a relentless review of all the new language he’d been exposed to, as if his subconscious mind were scribbling it down for an exam: questions that rose in the middle, not the end of the sentence (have you ever BEEN there?); new idioms (lift, brilliant, jumper) and pronunciations (hoff for half, chizz for cheers—what does cheers mean anyway?). Then the images sped up, reached nauseating speeds.

The bleached-out faces from the common room photographs.

X rays. White hair and black faces.

Uniforms. Black clothes. Straw hats.

The face of a single Harrow boy with white hair came into view. Then whipped around and around, a repeating frame in a feverish slide show.

The face came closer with each pass. It pulsed with raw intensity. He knew, in his dream, that the face belonged to someone intensely exciting. Andrew grew aroused. He felt his heart beating, felt himself simultaneously panic and thrill.

He woke with a start. He was sweating. Disoriented in the dark.

School, he breathed. England. Dorm room. Then: sleep.

He drifted to murkier depths, free at last of word and image. He slumbered until his travel alarm woke him, at seven, with its merciless electric whine.

2

A Wrong Turn

ANDREW HAD LITTLE

time the next morning to reflect upon his dream. Only in the in-between moments. Pulling on his socks, standing in line for eggs and kippers (They really serve kippers here, he

Reviews for The White Devil

[snakes6 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Definitely had to suspend belief a bit - but the story was interesting and exciting.

[jjaylynny · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A mystery with some extra oomph, with true details from the life of Lord Byron, his year at a tony English boarding school, with some interesting tidbits about tuberculosis and a surprisingly brave and affecting ending.

[carol420 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The White Devil by Justin Evans3.5★'sFrom The Book:Set in a four-hundred-year-old boys' boarding school in London, a chilling gothic thriller...A fierce and jealous ghost . . .A young man's fight for his life . . .The Harrow School is home to privileged adolescents known as much for their distinctive dress and traditions as for their arrogance and schoolboy cruelty. Seventeen-year-old American Andrew Taylor is enrolled in the esteemed British institution by his father, who hopes that the school's discipline will put some distance between his son and his troubled past in the States.But trouble—and danger—seem to follow Andrew. When one of his schoolmates and friends dies mysteriously of a severe pulmonary illness, Andrew is blamed and is soon an outcast, spurned by nearly all his peers. And there is the pale, strange boy who begins to visit him at night. Either Andrew is losing his mind, or the house legend about his dormitory being haunted is true.When the school's poet-in-residence, Piers Fawkes, is commissioned to write a play about Byron, one of Harrow's most famous alumni, he casts Andrew in the title role. Andrew begins to discover uncanny links between himself and the renowned poet. In his loneliness and isolation, Andrew becomes obsessed with Lord Byron's story and the poet's status not only as a literary genius and infamous seducer but as a student at the very different Harrow of two centuries prior—a place rife with violence, squalor, incurable diseases, and tormented love affairs.When frightening and tragic events from that long-ago past start to recur in Harrow's present, and when the dark and deadly specter by whom Andrew's been haunted seems to be all too real, Andrew is forced to solve a two-hundred-year-old literary mystery that threatens the lives of his friends and his teachers—and, most terrifyingly, his own.My Thoughts:The story was intriguing...even though I didn't think it was exactly "chilling". " The Tsucon Citizen" gives a fairly true account of just what the story is about when it says "Evans has fused a literary mystery, sinister ghost story and Gothic romance with the story of a boy’s intellectual and sexual awakening.” The author has also made the characters as likable as 14-17 year old boys can be...you can't help be work up some sympathy for the main character...16 year old Andrew Taylor...an American boy sent to this old English school by his domineering and controlling wealthy father without a clue of the differences in cultures and even the language... that you would think would be somewhat the same.... that he will be forced to live with for the next year. I can recommend this novel but not as a Gothic thriller. If a thriller is what you are expecting you will be disappointed. But for an atmospheric Gothic mystery with well drawn characters...absolutely.

[vnesting-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

In the tradition of Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House, The White Devil is a masterful gothic ghost story. Set in a 400-year-old boarding school in London, the story begins with the arrival of the American student Andrew. He is anxious to succeed here after being kicked out of his previous boarding school, but trouble of a different sort seems to be following him. A fellow student dies suddenly of a mysterious illness and Andrew begins to see ghosts and suffer horrible nightmares from which he wakes up screaming. When Andrew is cast in the title role of a new play about one of the school's most famous students, Lord Byron, both he and the play's author begin to suspect that the mysterious events at the school are tied to Andrew's uncanny resemblance to Lord Byron. As they (along with the school's librarian) race to understand why the ghost is appearing now and what he wants, the tension builds to a shattering climax.

[drewsof · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A thoroughly ordinary Gothic mystery. It hits all of its marks and acquits itself nicely - but it doesn't bring anything new to the table. If you're looking for a reliable ghost story, you could do a lot worse - but this book doesn't have anything that demands your attention. Read it in October - don't bother any other time. Oh, unless you're a Byron fan. Which is also justification.

[jan0fleming · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I wish I liked this more than I did, after reading the blurb I thought I would have LOVED it!

SYNOPSIS Set in a four-hundred-year-old boys’ boarding school in London, a
chilling gothic thriller by the author of the critically acclaimed ‘A Good and Happy Child’ When frightening and tragic events from that long-ago past start to recur in Harrow’s present, and when the dark and deadly spectre by whom Andrew’s been haunted seems to be all too real, Andrew is forced to solve a two-hundred-year-old literary mystery that threatens the lives of his friends and his teachers—and, most terrifyingly, his own.

An interesting concept, a well thought out literary mystery with an excellent moody, atmospheric feel but I just couldn't take to the characters. The lead, Andrew, I never felt as if I got to know him, I couldn't stand Persephone Vine. I felt that some of the characters were trying too hard to be English eccentrics. Some chilling set pieces that worked really well but ultimately I felt the characters let the story down and it never lived up to the hype.

Still worth a read if you like spooky,gothic, atmospheric novels.

[pidgeon92_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An intelligent ghost story.

[foolplustime · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I loved Justin Evans' A Good And Happy Child - loved it - so I was rather enthused to read this one. Sure, I wasn't too struck on the blurb, but that was true of his other book and that turned out to be great.

This one, not so much.

Part of it is not the fault of the book: I am hypersensitised to errors about Britain made by US authors. However, this was inadvertently hilarious. We begin with a short and threatening prologue which fulfils the role of bad prologues everywhere: making up for the fact little happens in your first chapter.

The White Devil opens proper with American student Andrew getting to grips with the oddity that is Harrow. We get parts of the welcome pack, the glossary - but don't worry if you're not paying attention, it doesn't actually make much difference. Then, Andrew meets Matron, who is cross that he's an American.

Later, he meets the other chaps in the 6th Form, all of whom are astounded to meet an American. They tell him to go f**k himself, he calls them assholes, they're all "Woah, mate, bit aggressive, what? That's how we greet each other in England!" Then there's a conversation in which Andrew doesn't know what a gap year is, or what A levels are. Later one of the English people will be completely confounded by the phrase "rain check" but that's okay because Andrew doesn't know what lager is.

Assuming you haven't thrown the book across the room by this point, you have further delights to come: Harrow admits girls! Oh, no wait, just one girl, and that's for reasons which are completely realistic and would totally happen in real life; just like Harrow offering Agriculture as a subject, and Andrew being the only American in the school, and the only new person in the 6th form, and everybody there being white and English (apart from Andrew, oh and Rhys, the Welsh Agriculture student).

When a location is (as far as I can tell) so important to the plot it can't be remade as an unnamed public school - as in Patrick Gale's Friendly Fire, which is based on Winchester - you'd better, at least, glance at the website.

I gave it till P78, but even when the story had got going my suspension of disbelief was shot and I was questioning everything (would the police have conducted the interview like that, or does Andrew count as a minor?) Andrews motivation was flimsy. The final scene I read - that of an attempted rape of a child who, it seems clear, is the ghost Andrew saw in the graveyard - pointed too heavily towards public school cliche and, frankly, made me disinclined to read any further.

Terrible. Go and read his other book. That's much better.

[muddyboy · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Perhaps I am being to lenient but although I could guess most of what was going to happen I did enjoy reading the book which takes place at an English boarding school. It is essentially a ghost story connected to Lord Byron who was once a student at the school. I was entertained but it wasn't a book that you say Wow! about. There is murder afoot and it is a murder mystery of sorts.

[darkfaerietales_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Review courtesy of Dark Faerie TalesQuick & Dirty: A troubled youth meets another with a vengeful quest in this paranormal thriller. Opening Sentence: Andrew Taylor stood alone before a gate. The Review: I have never read anything by Justin Evans, but when I was given The White Devil, I was definitely intrigued. This genre is outside of my reading comfort zone, but didn’t stop me from admiring the graphically haunting cover. The White Devil was the cause of eerie goosebumps and restless nights, but I had a hard time connecting with a few of the story’s elements. Andrew Taylor has been taken away from the comforts of America, his home in Connecticut, his high school, and everything familiar to him. His father enrolled him in a British boarding school, Harrow School, an all-boys school that is full of centuries-old traditions and prestige. Andrew’s father had one goal in mind, to erase his past mistakes. But they were all wrong. Andrew soon has visions of a ghost, a pale boy from the dark corners of Harrow’s past. Andrew’s life gets worse as dangerous mysteries remain unexplained and he himself is blamed by all of his peers. Andrew turns to a life of isolation, lonely and obsessing over the story for whom the ghost thinks Andrew resembles. Danger lurks in the corners of Harrow School. It was difficult for me to relate to Andrew, in most aspects, but it has always been difficult for me to relate to male characters. Andrew was troubled and lonely, having fallen into trouble and bad habits. In this last-resort effort, he moves to a prestigious boarding school. This is where I started to disconnect. I sympathized with Andrew, for all of the familial problems, and I definitely related to his loneliness, but it was hard for me to understand this troubled youth. Andrew goes through a lot, in The White Devil, everything more horrifying than the next. And Andrew has a hidden strength. He must have, right? To endure everything he goes through, he definitely has to have strength. The stereotypes of England play really well with the setting of Harrow School. I was definitely scared just reading the details of Andrew’s new environment. From the mansion that he stays at to the dark halls of Harrow School, there wasn’t a moment that I didn’t hold my breath. Evans is a lyrical genius, blending between the normal and paranormal. It was seamless and realistic, and boy did my imagination run away with it. The White Devil had perfect pacing for the tone and various scenes of the story. The pacing sped up when needed, and slowed down just when Evans wanted the reader to be attentive. He has this approach to fiction and literature that is captivating and creative, and I will be a fan forever. I enjoyed the characters enough, favoring some more than others. Evans’ dialogue and banter is enjoyable and adds to the details and flaws of his characters. Notable Scene: Andrew gaped. The meaning of the words struck him. An erotic charge crackled in the air. The pure submission of it. The boy advanced, his legs bare, smooth, and feminine, his shirt hanging in shreds. The boy pulled the remnants of his shirt apart, offering himself. Andrew took another involuntary step back. Then something caught Andrew’s eye. Down and to his right. A candle, in a dull metal holder. This had been the source of that dim light all along. Wait– a candle? The boy moved faster toward him now. Andrew continued his retreat until his foot struck something. A tinkle of metal on tile. A pssh sound. The candlestick. The room went black.FTC Advisory: Harper provided me with a copy of The White Devil. No goody bags, sponsorships, “material connections,” or bribes were exchanged for my review.

[arielfl · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I picked this up based on a recommendation I saw from Stephen King in Entertainment Weekly. I had high hopes for this book but it never took off for me. There were many places where I had to force myself to get through it. The novel takes place when Andrew Taylor, fresh from being dismissed from his American prep school due to drugs, enrolls in the Harrow boarding school in England. Andrew bears a remarkable likeness to the poet, Lord Byron and his arrival at the school seems to set off a string of illness and deaths. In my opinion the pacing was not good. For most of the book nothing happens and then it is all wrapped up in the final chapters. In addition I did not like the characters. Some characteristics that could be ascribed to them include cold blooded, black mailing, stalker, murderer, promiscuous, and drug abuser. There were some graphic scenes, if it was a movie it would be rated R. I love a good Gothic English ghost story but I found this to be a let down. It made me long for the first time I read the far superior A Woman in Black.

[wyvernfriend · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Andrew Taylor is on his last chance. Caught at his school in America with drugs he's now in Harrow, an English Boarding School trying to fit in. As a strange coincidence he resembles Byron and he finds that there's a mystery he needs to solve to lay a ghost to rest.It took a while for this to get started and several of the characters blurred together into faceless background but it was an interesting story overall and the ending genuinely took me by surprise.

[smithsj01_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Once I'd got to the end of part one (page 157 in my copy) I became interested - it took that long and I genuinely felt like abandoning it many times before that. The only character I really felt was developed consistently was that of Piers Fawkes, who is Andrew's Housemaster. I couldn't visualise the characters at all, despite the extremely detailed information about them. Written in a literary style similar to that of some 18th and 19th century novels, there are passages upon passages of long-winded descrption which at times I felt detracted from essentially a great plot. I thought the setting in the novel was good - it added some atmosphere - and Justin Evans used his own experiences to present the location well enough for those who have never been there. I also didn't feel that the explanations for those not involved in this culture drew the readers' attention away from the developing story.I'd been looking forward to reading this as I loved the idea of the link with Byron and this really did work. The ghost story aspect was good but not chilling in the way I'd been hoping for. I had visions of feeling like I did when I read 'The Turn of the Screw' by Henry James for example but it didn't sadly. If it hadn't plodded along so slowly and had picked up the pace then it would've been 4 stars and having said that if it had flowed better it might even have been 5 stars because I did like the story. It isn't one I'd recommend to my friends unless I was certain they didn't mind the long-windedness of it.

[kraaivrouw · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I am always on the lookout for a good college/boarding school story. It's all Donna Tartt's fault that I'm usually disappointed - nothing is ever as good as The Secret History.I gave The White Devil a try, though - boarding school, murder, the ghost of Lord Byron, various kinds of evildoing - works for me. Except it only sort of worked for me. The beginning was good, then it became sort of okay, and then it pretty much just fell apart.Mr. Evans is a good writer, but this story just didn't connect to anything I care about. Maybe I've read one too many books about rich, whiny American kids to be able to handle another.Still - mildly entertaining, but could have used a better main character - Andrew was pretty two-dimensional and I want more than that from a read.

[undermyappletree · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Set at Harrow, a 400 year old British Boarding school known for educating England’s finest families, this book is part mystery, part thriller and part ghost story.Andrew Taylor’s parents have shipped him off to this prestigious school with the hopes that the strict discipline there will help with their son’s troubled past, but trouble seems to follow Andrew. Within days of his arrival one of his schoolmates has mysteriously died. To make matters worse, Andrew begins to see a ghost, a rather moody and nasty ghost. Andrew bears an uncanny resemblance to Lord Byron, and that is what is causing the 200 year old ghost to appear. Andrew becomes obsessed with Lord Byron and the ghost and soon he and his friends are in mortal danger.The story was well-written and has all the ingredients for a scary ghost story, however I found it to be more of a mystery than a ghostly thriller. The book starts out slowly and as the characters develop the pace begins to pick up, accelerating quickly in the final chapters. By this time I was more focused on the mystery than the haunting and wanted to know what it was that the ghost wanted from Andrew and why. In the end we do get our answers although I did find the conclusion to be a little abrupt.I listened to the audio version and perhaps listening while walking around in the daytime rather than reading in the evening gave it a less than scary feel. The audio production was good and the narrator, Christian Coulson, did a nice job. His reading was clear and easy to listen to, and an American accent for Andrew made him easy to distinguish from the other characters. As a side note, Christian Coulson is the actor that played Tom Riddle in the movie Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.Overall I liked the story even though it wasn’t as scary as I was expecting. It had enough creepy and ghostly moments to entertain me and should please most gothic fans.

[taletreader_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Of course the cover (and the title) intrigued me right from the start, but did little to prepare me for the ferocity of this book. I know a lot of reviewers are saying the book started off slowly, but I would put it more as "vaguely," which is good considering it built suspense...and I mean a mound of it. The "vague" beginning, like John Harness's fog, did leave me fighting my way through at first, but like any good suspense story, you want to know what happens, and that's exactly what the author begins to make you crave as you grasp onto the present and the past that the main character is experiencing. I was surprised at how phenomenal some of the phrasing was--this book is just excellently crafted. I wanted to mark some of my favorite passages for later but I loved the book so much I didn't dare disturb it! (And that's saying a lot, coming from me.) All in all, this is one of the best books I've read this year with the only complaint being the ending, but not because it wasn't good...because I'm a spoiled brat when it comes to endings and I wanted it to end MY WAY. I'll also say this is probably not the best book for YA, but who am I to judge that--I mean, most of them probably know by now what penises are.

[casualfriday_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Andrew Taylor is a screw-up American rich kid sent to Harrow School in England after being caught with drugs. As if the cultural shock of being thrust into one of England's most prestigious public schools isn't enough, Andrew finds himself the center of unfavorable attention after he witnesses the death of a housemate. The dead student is determined to have died of tuberculosis, setting off a school panic. Andrew's particular cause for panic is even more sinister: the death he witnessed was a murder, and the killer was a cadaverous white-haired spectre, with a connection, we later learn, to one of Harrow's most famous alumni, Lord Byron.This book has it all: horror, suspense, a great setting, a literary theme, yet it didn't quite do it for me. For one, I had a huge problem suspending my disbelief, and it may be because the author threw the supernatural elements in too soon, and didn't allow for enough creeping suspicion and horror. Also, the writing style was strictly modern suspense novel, with short chapters, short paragraphs, and short sentences, making the reading experience far too fast-paced. I like my literary mysteries to unfold slowly, and I like to revel in a rich atmosphere, and starting a new chapter every couple of pages mitigates against that effect. Finally, the author could have done a lot more with Byron's poetry, instead of assigning him a cameo role as a libertine. It felt like an opportunity missed.

[alexann_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Andrew Taylor, an American teen whose failures at school have exasperated his parents, has been sent off to England, to spend his last year of high school at Harrow-on-the-Hill, a highly esteemed and proper boarding school. In fact, Lord Byron was once a student there! This school had roots that went deep into the past. Andrew was nonplussed to be placed in the House (dorm) that was supposedly haunted. Of course, he didn't believe in ghosts--what 21st century American would?And then he saw his friend, Theo, ahead of him on one of Harrow's twisted paths, being attacked--by a strangely pale young man with a shock of bright white hair. This was only the first of his encounters with the ghost...will he be able to solve the mystery of Lord Byron and this ghostly acquaintance?Along the way, Andrew makes friends, if not with his fellow students, with some of the faculty. And finds a girlfriend, too. It seems as if all will be well...This novel moved very slowly at first. I didn't get really pulled into the story until about page 150! But then--every spare moment was spent reading, until the surprising end. A good old-fashioned ghost story to chill the bones and keep you from wandering alone in the dark!

[bookmagic_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Andrew Taylor was kicked out of his fancy prep school and lost his acceptances to Universities. His father has decided to ship Andrew off to England, to attend the prestigious and historical Harrow School, gets his grades up and then go to college.Andrew feels like a complete outsider as his classmates have been together since grade school. Things don't improve when he sees the famous Harrow ghost and sees the ghost kill one of his classmates.Then he meets Penelope, the only girl allowed to attend Harrow because her father is a headmaster. She befriends Andrew because of his uncanny resemblance to Lord Byron, one of Harrow's famous alumni, and the subject of a play being written by poet in residence, Piers Fawkes. Andrew continues to see the ghost and uncovers a connection between the ghost and Byron, which he needs to uncover quickly before anyone else is killed.At first, I didn't really like this, I prefer my ghost stories to be a little more subtle. But once I got further into it, I enjoyed it much more. The plot got more interesting and the story moved faster. However, it wasn't quite as Gothic and scary as the reviews would have you believe. There was plenty of suspense and enough literary history to keep me satisfied. At times though, I was unsure if the author was targeting a YA readership or adults.All in all, I would say it was a decent read, but not a must read, a bit over-hyped. Get from the library.my rating- 3/5

[dorritt_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

For as long as I can remember I've been a sucker for gothic thrillers, especially those set at British boarding schools. There's so much potential there - the ancient school buildings, the fog-shrouded landscapes, the sense of history frozen in time, the wafting hint of repression and unnatural obsessions. Alas, despite all that potential, no example of the genre has ever lived up to my melodramatic expectations. Either they're so poorly written that it's an effort not to gag at the overworked metaphors and lame cliches, or else they devolve into a climax so anticlimactic and silly that I find myself thinking: "Really? I've read all this way, and that's all you've got?" And then, finally, a book that delivers the goods! White Devil is a literate, well paced, dense ghost story with characters that engage, writing that absorbs, red herrings so intriguing you'll enjoy being led astray, and a plot that keeps tightening the tension until the final sentences of the story's wholly original, wholly satisfying, wholly creepy denouement. The story revolves around Andrew Taylor, a 17yr old American boy exiled by his outraged parents to an exclusive English boarding School after scandal and a death force him to flee his school in Connecticut. But the ghosts he's left behind are nothing compared to the ghost waiting for him at Harrow School - a pallid, spectral lad whose soul remains bound to earth by 200-year old cruelties and jealousies. Now add to the mix a bitter, washed-up poet grasping at his last chance to redeem himself; an eerily beautiful but precocious female classmate; White Devil, a bloody revenge tragedy authored by the troubled 19th century playwright John Webster; and rehearsals for a production of the life of the beautiful, scandalous, haunted Lord Byron (a Harrow School alumnus), to whom Andrew bears an uncanny resemblance ... set it all in an ancient boarding school complete with petty (and not so petty) adolescent cruelty, secrets concealed behind crumbling stone, and a string of mysterious deaths that begin soon after Andrew's arrival at Harrow ... stir vigorously, and enjoy losing yourself in a tale that is sure to keep you enthralled until the final paragraphs. Props to Justin Evans, whose bio reveals no particular literary credentials, for producing this literate gothic thriller. It's not easy to produce extreme characters that don't come off as sterotypical, to create mood/atmosphere that doesn't come off as stagy, to construct a plot so dense that the story never stops delivering chills, and to resist the urge to wrap up the story with a full and pat disclosure that explains all. Evans writes with the mastery of language and assurance of a pro. How fortunate that the idea for this story fell into the hands of someone able to make the most of it!

[ken1952 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

This ghost tale set in present day Harrow wasn't as much a creepfest as Evans' first book A GOOD AND HAPPY CHILD and maybe that's why it disappointed me a bit. Still, it kept me interested. Anyone who enjoys a well told ghost story should have fun with it.

[samantha71020 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

From Goodreads:"When seventeen-year-old Andrew Taylor is transplanted from his American high school to a British boarding school—a high-profile academy for the sons of England’s finest—his father hopes that the boy’s dark past will not follow him from across the Atlantic. But blood, suspense, and intrigue quickly surround Andrew once again as he finds himself struggling with a deadly mystery left unsolved by a student from Harrow School’s past—the enigmatic poet Lord Byron."My Thoughts:Sounds creepy, right? This book was filled with creepy, atmospheric moments that had me turning pages and guessing to see what would happen next throughout the story. The author creates such a dark mysterious atmosphere with a boarding school and ghost at the center of the story. The setting of the story was one of my favorite parts of the book as it adds so much to the storyline and the book itself. This book is just filled with atmosphere and I couldn't get enough! I found the storyline and history of Lord Byron, the poet, both interesting and intriguing. This book made me want to learn more about Byron's life and I'm looking forward to reading his poetry at some point in the near future. I couldn't help but be reminded of Jennifer Egan's The Keep as I was reading this book. Both books were filled with a gothic, creepy atmosphere and setting that kept me turning the pages. This book had a few intense, weird moments that also mirrored my reading experience of Egan's novel. Has anyone else read both of these??? I found that I couldn't put this book down though as I wanted to see what would happen next. Andrew was an interesting main character as he is mainly an outsider throughout the novel. His loneliness and sense of isolation helped to add to the creepiness that was present throughout the book. I don't want to say too much more and give anything away with the plot so I'll cut my thoughts a bit short and just say READ THIS. All in all, this was a book that kept me thinking about it long after I put it down and I'm looking forward to reading this author's other novel. Definitely recommended but with a warning that it was slightly graphic in a few parts....nothing that would stop me from telling others to give this book a try though.Disclosure: This book was sent to me for review from the lovely people at Harper Collins. These are my own honest thoughts!

[jamesterck · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Review: I received this book as an ARC through Shelf Awareness. I thought it sounded interesting (I love a good ghost story), but I wasn't prepared for how much I would like this book! It was such a pleasant surprise; a book full mystery, intrigue, romance, and humor. Twists around every corner. Just like I like 'em!When this book started out I wasn't sure if I would like it or not. The beginning is a little slow, with the main character Andrew getting adjusted to life at the esteemed Harrow school. His parents made him aware that this is his last chance; if he gets in trouble at this school they will cut all ties with him. He's kind of bitter for being sent to Europe, away from everything he knows into a very unfamiliar culture, but he also doesn't want to disappoint his parents so he tries his best. I definitely felt bad for Andrew, I can't imagine being sent overseas to a school where I didn't know anyone and where the things they say and do are very different from her in America. He's definitely singled out right away and some of the guys pick on him. On his tour through the building, he gets a weird feeling in the basement, an eerie feeling of someone else being in there with them. This is not the last time he feels this way throughout the book.Piers Fawkes is the headmaster for Andrew's house, but is more interested in getting drunk than anything else. He's in process of writing a play about Lord Byron, the poet (who attended Harrow 200 years ago); he gets the shock of his life when he notices that Andrew, the American transfer, is a dead ringer for Lord Byron. Andrew is alerted about the play by the only girl at the all-boy school, Persephone Vine. She doesn't think he'll get the part of Byron, what with his very American accent, but she's intrigued by him because he's different. When one of his fellow housemates dies and Andrew starts seeing a ghost, Fawkes becomes more and more interested in him. With his feelings for Persephone growing along with his fear of the ghost that keeps visiting him, Andrew must find out what the ghost wants before it's too late.I have to say, I loved the characters. They were very well developed; while the story mainly focused on Andrew's point of few, occasionally it switched to another character (most often Fawkes). Sometimes when books do this it really puts me off and irritates me. I thought it was well done here and the different points of view really enhanced the story. I really loved Persephone, she was such a tough chick. She didn't take any crap from Andrew or anybody else; I guess to be the only girl in an all-boy school you'd have to be tough and be able to take the mostly unwanted admiration and leers from the boys. I thought Fawkes was a great character too. I didn't like him too much at first, but when he became more involved with Andrew (after he confided in him about the ghost) I really started to see another side of him. That he actually was capable of caring about someone else's well-being.I really liked the mystery of this book. Some of the twists I had figured out, some caught me completely by surprise. The main point is it kept me reading; when the story picked up it really took off and it was impossible to put down! And I'm not a huge fan of history but I liked learning about Lord Byron. I kept wondering how much of it was truth and how much fiction, so I looked him up just to see. It seems as though the part about Byron having relationships with other boys while at Harrow is true. There are also some question as to whether his relationship with his half-sister, Augusta, went beyond just being siblings. If you're interested in learning more about Lord Byron, you can click here. It's very interesting stuff!The only thing I guess I didn't really like about the book was the ending. It seemed so abrupt that I just sat there thinking "Aww, is that it?" I guess I just expected more from the ending after the huge build-up to it. However, I still really enjoyed this book, more than I ever would have guessed. Even if you're not a huge fan of history (because I'm not), please give this book a chance. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised as well.My rating: 4/5 stars

[ccourtland_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Chuck the flying brooms and magic wands from that other spooky English school, mix in a dose of teen love affair from Scott Spencer's Endless Love and piss off the jealous stalker ghost of Lord Byron (former Harrow student) and you get genius, The White Devil! A beautifully crafted multi-level plot that flows simultaneously like subterranean rivers beneath the modern world. A past play, a present play and a future play reveals lost pieces of history and if the puzzle remains unsolved, people will die. The moment Andrew (the catalyst) arrives at Harrow, these events are put in motion-- words and lines slip through ears weaving the characters closer and making it impossible to tear apart. What starts off as an assignment turns into an obsession. The characters are driven by a unfortunate murder investigation associated with paranormal mysteries capable of appearing through the veil and attaching to the living. The parallels between characters provides the perfect circuit for this performance. The original goal of the present play was to discover whom Lord Byon's truly loved. While searching for answers, the characters might discover their own love, sacrifice, witness the terror of jealousy and ultimately define happiness. The characters experience small changes that don't over power the story with a grand epiphany, but rather serve to draw them in and bond with humanity. If nothing else, jealousy, oaths and revenge live long beyond the grave. It is best not to cheat the living because the cost will be astronomically greater than ever imagined. This is a book I'd re-read and in fact, want to read it again right now! Absolutely fell in love with The White Devil and will recommend it to many readers. Do we find out who Lord Byron truly loved? I'm left with 3 choices and would love to debate with others. It's absolutely fascinating. I'm very curious to get other readers take and impression about this read. Currently, available at NetGalley and also Amazon Vine.

[rritter504 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The White DevilWhat an engaging and thrilling book! All parts ghost story, love story, historical tale, literary treatise, mystery, psychological thriller, medical crisis, gloomy-homophobic/homoerotic boys’ school story, and coming-of-age tragic triumph. This book is many things and yet manages to weave them together into a story that flows with characters that grab you. This story manages to be sad while keeping the reader engaged enough in both the mystery and the lives of the characters. Part of what makes the story so engaging is that the reader doesn’t know where to place his/her sympathy. Evans crafts individuals who are all flawed, understandable, and sympathetic. Even the ghost, first seen as a horrific murderer, can be understood, in its vengeful quest driven by heartbroken confusion. Even the least detailed characters, i.e. Roddy, Sir. Vine, and Persephonie, still have a depth. The setting, the constant descriptions of the atmosphere, lend weight to the creeping horror of the ghost and its actions, present struggles, and history’s indiscretions.One of my favorite parts was the humorous and insightful dialogue (I read aloud to my husband the conversation between Piers and Kahn where she both berates him for being selfish and encourages him that he can be a better person). I enjoyed the way spoken word was sometimes in italics. I usually don’t like when books jump around and effectively “black out” of scenes, but it fit this story very well. This book is an excellent read that does a good job capturing, engaging and thrilling, and then provides an ending which wraps up the events in a way that fits the tone of the story and doesn’t simper to the intelligence and personality of both the characters and the reader.

[lukespapa · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Justin Evans’s White Devil is a time warp murder mystery set at Harrow, the famed English boarding school for boys. One of its most notable alums, Lord Byron, serves as the fulcrum, with a visiting American student wrestling with the ghost of Byron’s spurned male lover to stop the modern day madness. Infused with Byronesque sexual ambiguity, there are enough historical references to hold one’s interest. The novel’s weakness is the stereotypical depiction of English culture; however the book is redeemed by an ending so satisfyingly simple as to be unexpected.

[kathyhiester · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I had never really looked into the background of Lord Byron, but this book will got me up to speed rather quickly. Byron not only left behind a legacy as a poet, we find that he also left behind a ghost. Not his own ghost, but the ghost of his envious homosexual lover, John Harness. Harness spent 200 years or so as a quiet spirit in the basement of Harrow School, doing nothing much more than the sporadic rattling. But when American student Andrew Taylor shows up at the school, he decides that Taylor looks so much like Byron that it's time to get some long awaited vengeance. Harness has some unbelievable gifts as a ghost, and Taylor does a lot of scuttling to try and solve the mystery. The pace is quick and tends to jump around, as we cross the country and dart back-and-forth across the centuries. It’s wonderfully fun and funny. In fact it created what the urban dictionary calls a brain boner. In other words I now want to know everything I can about Lord Byron’s life. 3 Stars