The Vanishing

Table of Contents

 

 

‘‘Stephen King-size epic horror.’’—
Publishers Weekly

‘‘Little has the unparalleled ability to evoke surreal, satiric terror . . . should not be missed.’’

—Horror Reader

‘‘An explicitly repulsive yet surrealistically sad tale of everyday horror.’’ —
Publishers Weekly

‘‘A chilling tale.’’ —
Publishers Weekly

‘‘A master of horror on par with Koontz and King . . . so powerful that readers will keep the lights on day and night.’’ —
Midwest Book Review

‘‘A must-have for the author’s fans.’’

—
Publishers Weekly

‘‘Little’s often macabre, always sharp tales are snippets of everyday life given a creepy twist.’’ —
Booklist

‘‘Haunting . . . terrifying . . . graphic and fantastic . . . will stick with readers for a long time. Just enough sex, violence, and Big Brother rhetoric to make this an incredibly credible tale.’’ —
Publishers Weekly

‘‘A wonderful, fast-paced, rock-’em, jolt-’em, shock-’em contemporary terror fiction with believable characters and an unusually clever plot. Highly entertaining.’’

—Dean Koontz

‘‘Bentley Little’s
The Walking
is the horror event of the year. If you like spooky stories you must read this book.’’ —Stephen King

‘‘
The Walking
is a waking nightmare. A spellbinding tale of witchcraft and vengeance. Scary and intense.’’

—Michael Prescott, author of
Final Sins

‘‘The overwhelming sense of doom with which Bentley Little imbues his . . . novel is so palpable it seems to rise from the book like mist. Flowing seamlessly between time and place, the Bram Stoker Award- winning author’s ability to transfix his audience . . . is superb . . . terrifying. [
The Walking
] has the potential to be a major sleeper.’’

—
Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

‘‘This is Bentley Little’s best book yet. Frightening, thought-provoking, and impossible to put down.’’

—Stephen King

‘‘A singular achievement by a writer who makes the leap from the ranks of the merely talented to true distinction with this book. This one may become a classic.’’ —DarkEcho

‘‘Little is so wonderful that he can make the act of ordering a Coke at McDonald’s take on a sinister dimension. This philosophical soul-searcher is provocative.’’ —
Fangoria

‘‘I guarantee, once you start reading this book, you’ll be up until dawn with your eyes glued to the pages. A nail-biting, throat-squeezing, nonstop plunge into darkness and evil.’’ —Rick Hautala

‘‘Frightening.’’ —
Los Angeles Times

‘‘A thinking person’s horror novel.
The Mailman
delivers.’’ —
Los Angeles Times

‘‘By the time I finished, my nerves were pretty well fried, and I have a pretty high shock level.
University
is unlike anything else in popular fiction.’’

—Stephen King

ALSO BY BENTLEY LITTLE

SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, August 2007

Copyright © Bentley Little, 2007

All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

Printed in the United States of America

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

This book is dedicated to all of my loyal readers,
especially Lisa Allen and Paul Legerski. I know
you’re out there. And I appreciate it.

A special thanks to Lisa LaMunyon and Doug Lilley,
who lent their names to this novel in order to raise
money for Golden Hill Elementary School.

One

Another gorgeous day in paradise.

Well, it wasn’t really that gorgeous. The sky was white with smog rather than a traditional clear blue, and outside the air-conditioned environment of his Lexus, the temperature was far too warm to be comfortable. And it wasn’t really paradise. Just a few blocks down Sunset, transplanted pieces of used white trash, their dreams of stardom shattered, were either working as record store sales clerks, selling their bodies on the street or dealing drugs in their grim attempts to make ends meet.

But here in Victor Lowry’s world, everything was fine. Tentative tourists were walking up the Rodeo Drive sidewalks with their usual mixture of bravado and nervousness, knowing they didn’t belong but still prepared to aggressively defend their presence at the drop of a hat, while the matrons of Beverly Hills emerged from their gated homes on their way to multihour lunches with their friends and the young brides of older executives jogged along the winding roads pushing elaborately customized baby strollers.

Victor flew by them all, ignoring the speed limit as he swooped down the hill toward Wilshire and his office, CD player cranked up to earsplitting volume. Banners for the latest exhibition at the LA County Museum of Art hung from streetlamps as he turned left off La Brea. His parents were donors and permanent members, and he’d gone to the museum practically once a week when he was a kid. But the exposure hadn’t taken, and it had been years since he’d been inside the buildings. He felt guilty about that—but not guilty enough to actually start going. His interest was in pop culture not high culture, and the way he saw it, life was too short to go around feigning interest in subjects that didn’t appeal to him . . . even if it would impress other people.

Like his dad.

Victor turned hard into the underground parking garage, waving his electronic passkey to open the gate and pulling into the space marked with his name. There was no reason for him to have his own office, really, but apparently his father wanted him to
pretend
that he was some sort of businessman, that he had skills and talents of his own and wasn’t merely coasting through life on the coattails of his family.

Victor got into the garage elevator and pressed the button for fifteen.

The old man was one of those power-of-positive-thinking guys. He didn’t seem to realize that it was luck more than anything else that had led to his prosperity, and he continued to believe that focus and determination accounted for his success. It was why he had called his son ‘‘Victor.’’ He’d wanted to give him a name that
meant
something, that was descriptive of something to which he could aspire, and though Victor didn’t really like his name, at least it
was
a name—as opposed to ‘‘Champion’’ and some of the other appellations that his dad had originally considered, all of which sounded like descriptions of racehorses.