The Creeps (Samuel Johnson Series #3)

( 3 )

Overview

In this delightfully imaginative novel, once again, hell threatens to break loose as Samuel Johnson and his ragtag group of friends must defend their town from shadowy forces more threatening than ever before...

In this clever and quirky follow-up to The Gates and The Infernals, Samuel Johnson's life seems to have finally settled down—after all, he’s still got the company of his faithful dachshund, Boswell, and his bumbling demon friend, Nurd; he has foiled the dreaded forces of...

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The Creeps (Samuel Johnson Series #3)

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Overview

In this delightfully imaginative novel, once again, hell threatens to break loose as Samuel Johnson and his ragtag group of friends must defend their town from shadowy forces more threatening than ever before...

In this clever and quirky follow-up to The Gates and The Infernals, Samuel Johnson's life seems to have finally settled down—after all, he’s still got the company of his faithful dachshund, Boswell, and his bumbling demon friend, Nurd; he has foiled the dreaded forces of darkness not once, but twice; and he’s dating the lovely Lucy Highmore, to boot.

But things in the little English town of Biddlecombe rarely run smoothly for long. Shadows are gathering in the skies, a black heart of pure evil is bubbling with revenge, and it rather looks as if the Multiverse is about to come to an end, starting with Biddlecombe. When a new toy shop’s opening goes terrifyingly awry, Samuel must gather a ragtag band of dwarfs, policemen, and very polite monsters to face down the greatest threat the Multiverse has ever known, not to mention assorted vampires, a girl with an unnatural fondness for spiders, and highly flammable unfriendly elves.

The latest installment of John Connolly’s wholly original and creepily imaginative Samuel Johnson Tales, The Creeps is humorous horror for anyone who enjoys fiction at its best.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
05/19/2014
The modest English town of Biddlecombe has largely recovered from the events of The Infernals and hesitantly welcomed a few friendly demons. The demon Mrs. Abernathy is being recovered—one molecule at a time—by a servant of the Great Malevolence, and a team of CERN scientists is studying how a sleepy town became the nexus for a great deal of trans-dimensional activity. Added to the mix are a performing troupe of ill-behaved little people, a washed-up boy band, and creatures of dark matter that are even worse than demons. The sweetness of protagonist Samuel Johnson's nature and his friendship with the demon Nurd, which were cornerstones of the previous two books, are obscured by the comic set pieces. Even Connolly's energetic storytelling and funny, capacious footnotes can't contain the bursting seams of his trilogy's finale. (Feb.)
From the Publisher
“Connolly’s graceful prose, laced with acerbically witty footnotes, is a joy to read, and he easily alternates among slapstick comedy, powerful drama, and skin-crawling horror.”—Publishers Weekly

“Brilliantly funny, often touching, with enough action to keep adventure fans on the edges of their chairs, this novel combines top-notch writing with cutting wit.”—Kirkus Reviews

“Roald Dahl meets Harry Potter.”—My Shelf Confessions

“Connolly lets his imagination and his wit run delightfully wild as he describes Hell’s denizens and the human band’s pilgrimage through its geography.”—New Orleans Times-Picayune

From the Publisher
“Connolly’s graceful prose, laced with acerbically witty footnotes, is a joy to read, and he easily alternates among slapstick comedy, powerful drama, and skin-crawling horror.”—Publishers Weekly

“Brilliantly funny, often touching, with enough action to keep adventure fans on the edges of their chairs, this novel combines top-notch writing with cutting wit.”—Kirkus Reviews

“Roald Dahl meets Harry Potter.”—My Shelf Confessions

“Connolly lets his imagination and his wit run delightfully wild as he describes Hell’s denizens and the human band’s pilgrimage through its geography.”—New Orleans Times-Picayune

Kirkus Reviews
2013-10-01
Connolly whisks readers back to the unsettling English village of Biddlecombe for another oddly entertaining adventure populated by hoards of demons, monsters, ghostly creatures and one valiant little boy with his small canine sidekick. In this third installment in the Irish writer's fanciful Samuel Johnson series (The Infernals, 2011, etc.), Connolly returns to the place where it all started: an English town with a decidedly strange propensity to attract weird, frightening and sometimes wonderful creatures. But Biddlecombe is more than simply a vortex for all things strange and occasionally inhospitable; it's also the home of a young boy, Samuel Johnson, and his resourceful dachshund, Boswell. Samuel and Boswell have twice faced the worst that hell and the evil lord that presides there could devise. On their previous adventure, Samuel and Boswell came back with several new friends in tow, including four thieving dwarves, a couple of police officers, and a once-fearsome demon and his smelly but enterprising assistant. Now, it looks like both Samuel and the town are going to need all of the help they can muster, since evil has once again returned to haunt Biddlecombe. This time, it's in the form of a group of bizarre and otherworldly creatures determined to turn the town into a memory. The action starts when someone notices the architecture that defines the town forms a pentagram. The late architect, who has been immortalized in a statue that disappears and reappears at will, and the architect's crowning achievement, a building renovated and turned into a toy store, also figure into this tale of what happens when two small and insignificant creatures go up against the worst the universe can throw against them. Connolly's storytelling skills never falter in this delightful follow-up to his two previous books in the series, where the footnotes are every bit as entertaining as the prose. Connolly has perfected delivering clever, funny, offbeat tales that are guaranteed to delight both older and younger readers.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9781476757094
  • Publisher: Atria/Emily Bestler Books
  • Publication date: 10/22/2013
  • Series: Samuel Johnson Series , #3
  • Pages: 336
  • Sales rank: 368,122
  • Product dimensions: 5.70 (w) x 8.40 (h) x 1.20 (d)

Meet the Author

John Connolly is the author of Every Dead Thing, Dark Hollow, The Killing Kind, The White Road, Bad Men, Nocturnes, and The Black Angel. He is a regular contributor to The Irish Times and lives in Dublin, Ireland. For more information, see his website at JohnConnolly.co.uk.

Biography

John Connolly was born in Dublin, Ireland in 1968 and has, at various points in his life, worked as a journalist, a barman, a local government official, a waiter and a dogsbody at Harrods department store in London. He studied English in Trinity College, Dublin and journalism at Dublin City University, subsequently spending five years working as a freelance journalist for The Irish Times newspaper, to which he continues to contribute.

His first novel, Every Dead Thing, was published in 1999, and introduced the character of Charlie Parker, a former policeman hunting the killer of his wife and daughter. Dark Hollow followed in 2000. The third Parker novel, The Killing Kind, was published in 2001, with The White Road following in 2002. In 2003, John published his fifth novel - and first stand-alone book - Bad Men. In 2004, Nocturnes, a collection of novellas and short stories, was added to the list, and 2005 marked the publication of the fifth Charlie Parker novel, The Black Angel.

John Connolly is based in Dublin but divides his time between his native city and the United States, where each of his novels has been set.

Author biography courtesy of Atria Books.

Good To Know

Some fun and fascinating facts gleaned from our interview with Connolly:

"I once worked as a debt collector, although I didn't know it at the time. I was just delivering the letters for a courier company, and only discovered they were final notices when a little man chased me out of his sawmill with an ax."

"I did my graduate thesis on the first closure of Jerusalem to the Palestinians, during the course of which I a) was involved in a car crash on the Gaza Strip, which provided the residents with their entertainment for the day; b) was imprisoned briefly by Egyptian immigration officials, an experience I can heartily advise everyone to avoid; and c) discovered that I was a worse photographer than a writer, as none of my pictures came out."

"While interviewing my idol, James Lee Burke, for The Irish Times, I managed to get lost in the Rattlesnake Wilderness while out walking with Burke. His dogs found me. Eventually."

"I can cook a pretty good Cajun meal. I know a bit about wine, but only South African wine." "I love going to the movies, but think cell phones have made it a less enjoyable experience than before. In fact, I think cell phones have made life that little bit less bearable, and I can't imagine how awful it will be when people can use them on aeroplanes. In the last couple of books I've written, people have died terrible deaths because of their fascination with cell phones. I always feel a little calmer after I've killed someone in print."

"Rather embarrassingly, the only pseudonym I've used is a woman's name. Earlier this year, one of the editors at Hodder Ireland, the Irish arm of my U.K. publisher, announced that she was putting together a book of stories, entitled Moments, for tsunami relief, with all of the contributions to be written by female writers. She asked if I might be interested in submitting a story under a pseudonym, just to see if anyone would spot the interloper. I agreed to try, although admittedly there was alcohol taken at the time and had she asked me to swim naked down the Amazon with ‘Pirahna Food' written on my back I would probably have agreed to that as well. The story was called ‘The Cycle' and appeared under the pseudonym ‘Laura Froom' in the book, which was the name of the vampire in one of the short stories in my Nocturnes collection. So there: my secret shame has been revealed."

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    1. Hometown:
      Dublin, Ireland
    1. Date of Birth:
      May 31, 1968
    2. Place of Birth:
      Dublin, Ireland
    1. Education:
      B.A. in English, Trinity College Dublin, 1992; M.A. in Journalism, Dublin City University, 1993
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

The Creeps

I


In Which a Birthday Party Takes Place, and We Learn That One Ought to Be Careful with Candles (and Dangling Prepositions)

IN A SMALL TERRACED house in the English town of Biddlecombe, a birthday party was under way.

Biddlecombe was a place in which, for most of its history, very little interest had ever happened. Unfortunately, as is often the case in a place in which things have been quiet for a little too long, when something interesting did happen it was very interesting indeed; more interesting, in fact, than anybody might have wished. The gates of Hell had opened in a basement in Biddlecombe, and the town had temporarily been invaded by demons.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Biddlecombe had never really been the same since. The rugby team no longer played on its old pitch, not since a number of its players had been eaten by burrowing sharks; the voice of the captain of the Biddlecombe Golf Club could still occasionally be heard crying out from somewhere at the bottom of the fifteenth hole; and it was rumored that a monster had taken up residence in the duck pond, although it was said to be very shy, and the ducks appeared to be rather fond of it.

But the creature in the pond was not the only entity from Hell that had now taken up permanent residence in Biddlecombe, which brings us back to the birthday party. It was not, it must be said, a typical birthday party. The birthday boy in question was named Wormwood. He looked like a large ferret that had suffered a severe attack of mange,1 and was wearing a pair of very fetching blue overalls upon which his name had been embroidered. These overalls replaced a previous pair upon which his name had also been embroidered, although he had managed to spell his own name wrong first time round. This time, all of the letters were present and correct, and in the right order, because Samuel Johnson’s mother had done the stitching herself, and if there was one thing Mrs. Johnson was a stickler for,2  it was good spelling. Thus it was that the overalls now read WORMWOOD and not WROMWOOD as they had previously done.

Wormwood was, not to put too fine a point on it, a demon. He hadn’t set out to be a demon. He’d just popped into existence as one, and therefore hadn’t been given a great deal of choice in the matter. He’d never been very good at being a demon. He was too nice for it, really. Sometimes folk just end up in the wrong job.3

A chorus of voices rang out around the kitchen table.

“Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Woooorrrrrmmmmmwoooood, Happy Birthday to you! For he’s a jolly good, um, fellow . . .”

Wormwood smiled the biggest, broadest smile of his life. He looked round the table at those whom he now thought of as his friends. There was Samuel Johnson and his dachshund, Boswell. There were Samuel’s schoolmates Maria Mayer and Tom Hobbes. There was Mrs. Johnson, who had started to come to terms with having demons sitting at her kitchen table on a regular basis. There were Shan and Gath, two fellow demons who were employed at the local Spiggit’s Brewery as beer tasters and developers, and who were responsible for a 50 percent increase in the brewery’s profits, as well as a 100 percent increase in the number of explosions due to the instability of the still-experimental Spiggit’s Brew Number 666, also known as “The Tankbuster,” which was rumored to be under consideration by the military as a field weapon.

And then there was Nurd, formerly “Nurd, the Scourge of Five Deities” and now sometimes known as the Nurdster, the Nurdmeister, and the Nurdman, although only to Nurd himself. Nobody else ever called Nurd anything but Nurd. Nurd had once been banished to the remotest, dullest region of Hell for being annoying, and Wormwood, as his servant, had been banished with him. Now that they had found their way to Biddlecombe, Wormwood preferred to think of himself as Nurd’s trusty assistant rather than his servant. Occasionally, Nurd liked to hit Wormwood over the head with something hard and memorable, just to remind Wormwood that he could think of himself as anything he liked just as long as he didn’t say it aloud.

But in the end Nurd, too, was one of Wormwood’s friends. They had been through so much together, and now they worked alongside each other at the Biddlecombe Car Testing Institute, where Nurd tested the safety of new cars, aided by the fact that he was immortal and hence able to walk away from the worst crashes with only the occasional bruise for his trouble.

Wormwood had never had a birthday party before. He didn’t even know there was such a thing as a birthday until he arrived on Earth. It seemed like a very good idea to him. You got cake, and gifts, and your friends sat around and sang about what a jolly good fellow you were. It was all quite, quite splendid.

The singing ended, and everyone sat waiting expectantly.

“What do I do now?” asked Wormwood.

“You blow out the candles on the cake,” said Samuel.

When they’d asked Wormwood how old he was, he’d thought that he might just be a few billion years younger than the universe itself, which made him, oh, about ten billion years old.

“The cake’s only a foot wide!” Mrs. Johnson had pointed out. “He can’t have ten billion candles. They won’t fit, and if we try the whole town will go up in flames.”

So they’d settled on one candle for every billion years, which seemed like a reasonable compromise.

Nurd was seated directly across the table from Wormwood. He was wearing a red paper party hat, and was trying unsuccessfully to blow up a balloon. Nurd had changed a lot in the time that they’d been in Biddlecombe, thought Wormwood. His skin was still green, of course, but not as green as before. He now looked like someone who had just eaten a bad egg. His head, which had formerly been shaped like a crescent moon, had shrunk slightly. It was still long and odd-looking, but he was now able to walk the streets of Biddlecombe without frightening too many children or causing cars to crash, especially if he kept his head covered.

“This balloon appears to be broken,” said Nurd. “If I blow any harder, my eyes will pop out. Again.”

That had been embarrassing. Samuel had used a spoon to retrieve them from Nurd’s glass of lemonade.

Wormwood took a deep breath.

“Make a wish,” said Maria. “But you have to keep it to yourself, or else it won’t come true.”

“Oh, I think I’ve got the hang of the balloon now,” said Nurd.

Wormwood closed his eyes. He made his wish. He blew. There was a loud whoosh, followed by a pop and a distinct smell of burning.

Wormwood opened his eyes. Across the table, Nurd’s head was on fire. In one of his hands, he held the charred, melted remains of a balloon.

“Oh, thank you,” said Nurd as he tried to douse the flames. “Thank you very much.”

“Sorry,” said Wormwood. “I’ve never tried to blow anything out before.”

“Wow,” said Samuel. “You have inflammable breath. I always thought it smelled like petrol.”

“The cake survived,” said Tom. “The icing has just melted a bit.”

“I’m fine,” said Nurd. “Don’t worry about me. I love being set alight. Keeps out the cold.”

Samuel patted Nurd on the back.

“Seriously, I’m okay,” said Nurd.

“I know. Your back was on fire, though.”

“Oh.”

“There’s a hole in your cloak, but I expect Mum will be able to fix it.”

Mrs. Johnson cut the cake and gave everybody a slice.

“What did you wish for, Wormwood?” asked Tom.

“And if you tell me that you wished my head was on fire, we’ll have words,” said Nurd.

“I thought I wasn’t supposed to say,” said Wormwood.

“That’s before you blow,” said Tom. “It’s all right to tell us now.”

“Well, I wished that everything would stay just the way it is,” said Wormwood. “I’m happy here. We all are.”

Shan and Gath nodded.

And in the general hilarity and good cheer that followed, nobody noticed that it was only Nurd who had not agreed.

1. For those of you unfamiliar with mange, it is an ailment that causes a loss of fur. Think of the worst haircut you’ve ever received, and it’s a bit like that, but all over your body.

2. Technically, that sentence should read “if there was one thing for which Mrs. Johnson was a stickler,” as nobody likes a dangling preposition, but I said that Mrs. Johnson was a stickler for good spelling, not good grammar.

3. Such as Augustus the Second (1694–1733), King of Poland and Grand Duke of Lithuania, also known as Augustus the Strong. He managed to bankrupt his kingdom by spending all of its money on bits of amber and ivory, lost a couple of battles that he really would have been better off winning, and fathered over three hundred children, which suggests that, in between losing battles and collecting trinkets, he had a lot of time on his hands, but his party piece consisted of gripping a horseshoe in his fists and making it straight. He would probably have been very happy just straightening horseshoes and blowing up hot-water bottles for a living, but due to an accident of birth he instead found himself ruling a number of kingdoms. Badly. You should bear this in mind if your dad or mum has a name beginning with the words “His/Her Royal Highness,” and you are known as “Prince/Princess Something-or-Other.” Unless, of course, your name is really “Something-or-Other,” in which case you don’t have anything to worry about (about which to worry—darn it) as your parents didn’t care enough about you to give you a proper name, and you are therefore unlikely to amount to anything. Sorry.

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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 3.5
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Sort by: Showing all of 3 Customer Reviews
  • Posted June 13, 2014

    This story is laugh out loud funny. So much so that my husband g

    This story is laugh out loud funny. So much so that my husband gave me funny looks every now and again when he heard me laughing. LOL. This book did not have as much excitement and action that the first two in the series did but it made up for that with the humor.

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  • Posted May 23, 2014

    more from this reviewer

    The last of the Samuel Johnson novels written by the author of t

    The last of the Samuel Johnson novels written by the author of the Charlie Parker mysteries and meant for young adults (and children of all ages), his hometown, the little English village of Biddlecombe, is once again besieged by the forces of evil. This time, however, the setting is a new toy store designed to entrap Samuel, his dog, Boswell, and the demons and policemen who accompanied Samuel to hell in the previous book of the trilogy, “Lost Things,” and back to earth, saving it from the forces of the Great Malevolence.

    The newly opened toy store is really the stage established by Ba’al, whose body contains the heart of Mrs. Abernathy, whose hatred of Samuel is unbounded, seeking revenge for his actions in the previous entry. An invitation is sent to Samuel and the two demons as special guests for the opening of the toy store, and Samuel accepts, only to encounter all kinds of dangers as the toys become “alive” and battles occur floor to floor.

    As in the previous two entries, the well-written fairy tale is filled with amusing footnotes, historical references and asides. The trilogy is an interesting exercise by a talented writer, but I miss Charlie Parker. Can’t wait till he comes back. That fact notwithstanding, “The Creeps” is recommended.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 10, 2014

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