The Underwood (preorder)

(preorder—to be published in May/June)

Dust jacket and interior illustrations by Ebrahel Lurci.

Introduction by Gemma Files.

Published by Thunderstorm Books.

Ian Rogers, one of our favorite new horror writers (Sycamore, Every House is Haunted, and Family) has a new horror novel, The Underwood, with a very low limitation (only 200 copies).

About the Book:

A group of friends make a documentary about “the Bermuda Triangle of the woods,” in the deep Canadian wilderness. Their film is released and becomes a worldwide sensation.

But something is wrong.

Occurrences of paranormal activity are being reported. The Underwood is taking form. Is the entire planet in jeopardy? Can it be stopped?

Edition Features:

• 7×10 oversized trim in bonded leather with specialty endsheets.
• Introduction by Gemma Files
• Limited to 200 numbered copies signed by Ian Rogers and Gemma Files
• Dust jacket and three full-color interior illustrations by Ebrahel Lurci

The Underwood
(excerpt)

I only saw the film once.

It was the premiere at the Toronto International Film Festival. The last time the five of us were together. My memories of that night were a bit like a film themselves, with large sections left on the cutting-room floor, the rest a series of hastily-edited scenes that barely formed a coherent narrative. This was because I had gotten cataclysmically drunk, which I had deemed necessary in order to make it through the entire film.

I wasn’t ashamed of my work. I was afraid of it. Watching the film meant reliving what happened to us, and that wasn’t something I was particularly eager to do. Especially on the big screen.

Afterward there was a Q&A and I was dragged on stage with the others. I wasn’t expecting that. They don’t usually want to talk to the crew. But I guess we were all part of the film, whether we liked it or not. Dale and Molly fielded most of the questions, which made sense since it was their film. Director Dale and his wife/producer Molly, soon to become the darlings of the film festival circuit with their spooky little documentary. Standing next to them was their friend Nick, who had worked as a production assistant on the film. Next to him was Violet, sound mixer extraordinaire, and there on the end was me, Ben Cassidy, the guy behind the camera.

The questions from the audience flew fast and furious, several of them sounding like accusations, demanding to know the answers to the mysteries presented in the film. Every time he was asked what exactly we saw up there, Dale delivered what would become his stock reply: “We want the footage to speak for itself. It’s up to the viewer to decide what they believe.”

It was a cop-out answer, Dale knew it, we all did, but it was better than the truth.

The last question came from a reporter who asked each of us to recount our scariest moment from the film. When it was my turn, I said, “Standing here right now.” Everyone laughed and we left the stage to applause and a standing ovation.

Writers will tell you that words have power, and they do—that’s why I’m writing all of this down—but a picture is worth a thousand words, and a film is made up of thousands of frames, each one a picture of a moment in time. I think about all that power, set loose on the world every time those frames flash across a movie screen, or a television screen, or a smartphone screen. I think about that a lot these days.

My final memory of the evening was meeting Quentin Tarantino in the men’s room. We were standing next to each other at the urinals when I recognized him. I told him I was a big fan and he said guys were always saying that to him when he had his dick out. I laughed, which in turn caused me to accidentally pee on one of his shoes. I apologized profusely and he said, “I hope you’ve got better aim with your camera,” and I realized he recognized me, too. It turned out he had just come from the premiere of our film and he loved it, absolutely fucking loved it, and he wanted Dale’s address so he could send him the bills for all the psychiatrists he was going to have to start seeing because the film had fucked him up so completely (his words). “It’s going to do for the woods what Jaws did for the water. Except it’s real! Completely fucking real!” He insisted on buying me a drink, and I let him. He continued to gush about the film, saying he was going to see it again and again. I smiled appreciatively. I’d only seen the film once, but that was enough for me. I didn’t need to see it again. I had been there. I had lived it. I still was.

In the year since that night at TIFF, the film had gone on to win a bunch of awards, was picked up for distribution by a major studio, and became a box-office hit, the highest-grossing movie of the year, and one of the most controversial, most talked-about films of all time.

Dale and Molly became overnight sensations and moved to L.A.

Nick disappeared.

Violet killed some people and was committed to a psychiatric hospital.

And me, I went into therapy.

Ahh, showbiz.