Winter Moon

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DEEPEST NIGHT, MONTANA. An eerie light proclaims the arrival of a mysterious watcher in the woods. And one solitary man begins a desperate battle against something unknown - and unknowable.

BROAD DAYLIGHT, LOS ANGELES. An ordinary morning erupts in cataclysmic violence. A young family is shattered in a ...
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DEEPEST NIGHT, MONTANA. An eerie light proclaims the arrival of a mysterious watcher in the woods. And one solitary man begins a desperate battle against something unknown - and unknowable.

BROAD DAYLIGHT, LOS ANGELES. An ordinary morning erupts in cataclysmic violence. A young family is shattered in a heartbeat.

Fate will lead this family to an isolated Montana ranch, but their sanctuary will become their worst nightmare. For there they will face a chillingly ruthless enemy, from which no one - living or dead - is safe.

The #1 bestselling author of Dragon Tears returns with a thriller. A Hollywood director goes on a killing spree in the streets of L.A., while an old caretaker on a lonely Montana ranch witnesses a chilling vision. Connecting both incidents is policeman Jack McGarvey, who is drawn into a terrifying confrontation with something unearthly. Original.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
A brush with death prompts L.A. policeman Jack McGarvey to move wife Heather and son Toby up to Quartermass Ranch, a Montana estate bequeathed to them by Eduardo Fernandez, the father of Jack's former partner. The McGarveys settle in, dismissing strange noises and smells, as well as weird trances that seem to grip Toby from time to time, as the embodiment of common fears of urbanites confronted by open spaces. It seems Eduardo had had uninvited visitors: the Givers, creatures from another dimension who came for an incomprehensible, apparently evil purpose. Scared out of his wits, Ed succumbed to a heart attack, but not before scrawling his discovery on a legal pad and stashing it in the freezer. These Givers are actually takers, assuming control of bodies and corpses to use them as vehicles in which to create mayhem. And now they want control of Toby. Bestselling author Koontz Hideaway exploits and occasionally skewers many horror novel and film conventions--including telepathic mind control games and the obligatory ``surprise'' blizzard during the climatic battle--to great effect while building tension in this gripping parable about the real cost of ``getting away from it all.'' Feb.
John Mort
It seems these nasty octopi have invaded Montana. At first, you don't see them. Then they go inside raccoons and squirrels and crows and make their brains explode. Then they ride around on corpses a la "Night of the Living Dead". Shotguns won't stop them. Uzis won't stop them. Fire won't stop them. Only mind control works. The mind of the innocent: young Toby McGarvey, son of that brave policeman Jack McGarvey, who was nearly killed ridding the earth of scum down in L.A. The family comes to Montana because they inherit a ranch from Eduardo Fernandez, whose only son was Jack's slain partner. There's also some stuff about a crazed movie director out on a killing spree, but it's never quite connected to the octopi. Are the octopi symbolic of the evil that slinks and oozes among Angelenos? Probably not. Does Koontz mean to trade upon the contemporary myth of cattle mutilations? Maybe so. Anyhow, this paperback original is the first of 10 that Ballantine intends to publish, and the print run is two million.
From the Publisher

“America’s most popular suspense novelist.”—Rolling Stone
“No matter where Koontz goes, from crime-infested L.A. to the wastes of Montana, terror goes, too.”—The Buffalo News
“[A] gripping parable about the real cost of ‘getting away from it all.’ ”—Publishers Weekly
“Swift supernatural action.”—California Bookwatch

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780553582932
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 1/28/2001
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 480
  • Product dimensions: 6.98 (w) x 4.10 (h) x 1.29 (d)

Meet the Author

Dean Koontz
The books of Dean Koontz are published in 38 languages, and worldwide sales top 400 million copies. Eleven of his novels have risen to number one on the New York Times hardcover bestseller list, and several have been adapted into feature films and TV miniseries. Dean and Gerda Koontz live in southern California with their golden retriever, Anna, grand-niece of the famous and beloved Trixie.
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    1. Also Known As:
      David Axton, Brian Coffey, K.R. Dwyer, Deanna Dwyer, John Hill, Leigh Nichols, Anthony North, Richard Paige, Owen West, Aaron Wolfe
    2. Hometown:
      Newport Beach, California
    1. Date of Birth:
      July 9, 1945
    2. Place of Birth:
      Everett, Pennsylvania
    1. Education:
      B.S. (major in English), Shippensburg University, 1966
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Death was driving an emerald-green Lexus. It pulled off the street, passed the four self-service pumps, and stopped in one of the two full-service lanes.

Standing in front of the station, Jack McGarvey noticed the car but not the driver. Even under a bruised and swollen sky that hid the sun, the Lexus gleamed like a jewel, a sleek and lustrous machine. The windows were darkly tinted, so he couldn't have seen the driver clearly even if he had tried.

As a thirty-two-year-old cop with a wife, a child, and a big mortgage, Jack had no prospects of buying an expensive luxury car, but he didn't envy the owner of the Lexus. He often remembered his dad's admonition that envy was mental theft. If you coveted another man's possessions, Dad said, then you should be willing to take on his responsibilities, heartaches, and troubles along with his money.

He stared at the car for a moment, admiring it as he might a priceless painting at the Getty Museum or a first edition of a James M. Cain novel in a pristine dust jacket -- with no strong desire to possess it, taking pleasure merely from the fact of its existence.

In a society that often seemed to be spinning toward anarchy, where ugliness and decay made new inroads every day, his spirits were lifted by any proof that the hands of men and women were capable of producing things of beauty and quality. The Lexus, of course, was an import, designed and manufactured on foreign shores; however, it was the entire human species that seemed damned, not just his countrymen, and evidence of standards and dedication was heartening regardless of where he found it.

An attendant in a gray uniformhurried out of the office and approached the gleaming car, and Jack gave his full attention, once more, to Hassam Arkadian.

"My station is an island of cleanliness in a filthy sea, an eye of sanity in a storm of madness," Arkadian said, speaking earnestly, unaware of sounding melodramatic.

He was slender, about forty, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. The creases in the legs of his gray cotton work pants were knife-sharp, and his matching work shirt and jacket were immaculate.

"I had the aluminum siding and the brick treated with a new sealant," he said, indicating the facade of the service station with a sweep of his arm. "Paint won't stick to it. Not even metallic paint. Wasn't cheap. But now when these gang kids or crazy-stupid taggers come around at night and spray their trash all over the walls, we scrub it off, scrub it right off the next morning."

With his meticulous grooming, singular intensity, and quick slender hands, Arkadian might have been a surgeon about to begin his workday in an operating theater. He was, instead, the owner-operator of the service station.

"Do you know," he said incredulously, "there are professors who have written books on the value of graffiti? The value of graffiti? The value?"

"They call it street art," said Luther Bryson, Jack's partner.

Arkadian gazed up disbelievingly at the towering black cop. "You think what these punks do is art?"

"Hey, no, not me," Luther said.

At six three and two hundred ten pounds, he was three inches taller than Jack and forty pounds heavier, with maybe eight inches and seventy pounds on Arkadian. Though he was a good partner and a good man, his granite face seemed incapable of the flexibility required for a smile. His deeply set eyes were unwaveringly forthright. My Malcolm X glare, he called it. With or without his uniform, Luther Bryson could intimidate anyone from the Pope to a purse snatcher.

He wasn't using the glare now, wasn't trying to intimidate Arkadian, was in complete agreement with him. "Not me. I'm just saying that's what the candy-ass crowd calls it. Street art."

The service-station owner said, "These are professors. Educated men and women. Doctors of art and literature. They have the benefit of an education my parents couldn't afford to give me, but they're stupid. There's no other word for it. Stupid, stupid, stupid." His expressive face revealed the frustration and anger that Jack encountered with increasing frequency in the City of Angels. "What fools do universities produce these days?"

Arkadian had labored to make his operation special. Bracketing the property were wedge-shaped brick planters in which grew queen palms, azaleas laden with clusters of red flowers, and impatiens in pinks and purples. There was no grime, no litter. The portico covering the pumps was supported by brick columns, and the whole station had a quaint colonial appearance.

In any age, the station would have seemed misplaced in Los Angeles. Freshly painted and clean, it was doubly out of place in the grunge that had been spreading like a malignancy through the city during the nineties.

"Come on, come look, look," Arkadian said, and headed toward the south end of the building.

"Poor guy's gonna blow out an artery in the brain over this," Luther said.

"Somebody should tell him it's not fashionable to give a damn these days," Jack said.

A low and menacing rumble of thunder rolled through the distended sky.

Looking at the dark clouds, Luther said, "Weatherman predicted it wouldn't rain today."

"Maybe it wasn't thunder. Maybe somebody finally blew up city hall."

"You think? Well, if the place was full of politicians," Luther said, "we should take the rest of the day off, find a bar, do some celebrating."

"Come on, officers," Arkadian called to them. He had reached the south corner of the building, near where they had parked their patrol car. "Look at this, I want you to see this, I want you to see my bathrooms."

"His bathrooms?" Luther said.

Jack laughed. "Hell, you got anything better to do?"

"A lot safer than chasing bad guys," Luther said, following Arkadian.

Jack glanced at the Lexus again. Nice machine. Zero to sixty in how many seconds? Eight? Seven? Must handle like a dream.

The driver had gotten out of the car and was standing beside it. Jack noticed little about the guy, only that he was wearing a loose-fitting, double-breasted Armani suit.

The Lexus, on the other hand, had wire wheels and chrome guards around the wheel wells. Reflections of storm clouds moved slowly across its windshield and made mysterious smoky patterns in the depths of its jewel-green finish.

Sighing, Jack followed Luther past the two open bays of the repair garage. The first stall was empty, but a gray BMW was on the hydraulic lift in the second space. A young Asian man in mechanic's coveralls was at work on the car. Tools and supplies were neatly racked along the walls, floor to ceiling, and the two bays looked cleaner than the average kitchen in a four-star restaurant.

At the corner of the building stood a pair of soft-drink vending machines. They purred and clinked as if formulating and bottling the beverages within their own guts.

Around the corner were the men's and women's rest rooms, where Arkadian had opened both doors. "Take a look, go ahead -- I want you to see my bathrooms."

Both small rooms had white ceramic-tile floors and walls, white commodes, white swing-top waste cans, white sinks, gleaming chrome fixtures, and large mirrors above the sinks.

"Spotless," Arkadian said, talking fast, running his sentences together in his quiet anger. "No streaks on the mirrors, no stains in the sinks, we check them after every customer uses them, disinfect them every day, you could eat off those floors and it would be as safe as eating off the plates from your own mother's kitchen."

Looking at Jack over Arkadian's head, Luther smiled and said, "I think I'll have a steak and baked potato. What about you?"

"Just a salad," Jack said. "I'm trying to lose a few pounds."

Even if he had been listening to them, Mr. Arkadian couldn't have been joked out of his bleak mood. He jangled a ring of keys.

"I keep them locked, give the keys only to customers. City inspector stops around, he tells me a new rule says these are public facilities, so you've got to let them open for the public, whether they buy anything at your place or not."

He jangled the keys again, harder, more angrily, then harder still. Neither Jack nor Luther tried to comment above the strident ring and rattle.

"Let them fine me. I'll pay the fine. When these are unlocked, the drunks and junkie bums who live in alleys and parks, they use my bathrooms, urinate on the floor, vomit in the sinks. You wouldn't believe the mess they make, disgusting, things I'd be embarrassed to talk about."

Arkadian was actually blushing at the thought of what he could have told them. He waved the jangling keys in the air in front of each open door, and he reminded Jack of nothing so much as a voodoo priest casting a spell -- in this case, to ward off the riffraff who would despoil his rest rooms. His face was as mottled and turbulent as the stormy sky.

"Let me tell you something. Hassam Arkadian works sixty and seventy hours a week, Hassam Arkadian employs eight people full time, and Hassam Arkadian pays half of what he earns in taxes, but Hassam Arkadian is not going to spend his life cleaning up vomit because a bunch of stupid bureaucrats have more compassion for some lazy-drunken-psycho-junkie bums than they have for people who are trying their damnedest to lead decent lives."

He finished his speech in a rush, breathless. Stopped jangling the keys. Sighed. He closed the doors and locked them.

Jack felt useless. He could see that Luther was uncomfortable too. Sometimes a cop couldn't do much more for a victim than nod in sympathy and shake his head in sorry amazement at the depths into which the city was sinking. That was one of the worst things about the job.

Mr. Arkadian went around the corner to the front of the station again. He wasn't walking as fast as before. His shoulders were slumped, and for the first time he looked more dejected than angry, as if he had decided, perhaps on a subconscious level, to give up the fight.

Jack hoped that wasn't the case. In his daily life, Hassam was struggling to realize a dream of a better future, a better world. He was one of a dwindling number who still had enough guts to resist entropy. Civilization's soldiers, warring on the side of hope, were already too few to make a satisfactory army.

Adjusting their gun belts, Jack and Luther followed Arkadian past the soft-drink dispensers.

The man in the Armani suit was standing at the second vending machine, studying the selections. He was about Jack's age, tall, blond, clean-shaven, with a golden-bronze complexion that could have been gotten locally at that time of year only from a tanning bed. As they walked by him, he pulled a handful of change from one pocket of his baggy trousers and picked through the coins.

Out at the pumps, the attendant was washing the windshield of the Lexus, though it had looked freshly washed when the car first pulled in from the street.

Arkadian stopped at the plate-glass window that occupied half the front wall of the station office. "Street art," he said softly, sadly, as Jack and Luther joined him. "Only a fool would call it anything but vandalism. Barbarians are loose."

Lately, some vandals had traded spray cans for stencils and acid paste. They etched their symbols and slogans on the glass of parked cars and the windows of businesses that were unprotected by security shutters at night.

Arkadian's front window was permanently marred by half a dozen different personal marks made by members of the same gang, some of them repeated two and three times. In four-inch-high letters, they had also etched the words THE BLOODBATH IS COMING.

These antisocial acts often reminded Jack of an event in Nazi Germany about which he'd once read: Before the war had even begun, psychopathic thugs had roamed the streets during one long night, Kristallnacht, defacing walls with hateful words, smashing windows of homes and stores owned by Jews until the streets glittered as if paved with crystal. Sometimes it seemed to him that the barbarians to which Arkadian referred were the new fascists, from both ends of the political spectrum this time, hating not just Jews but anyone with a stake in social order and civility. Their vandalism was a slow-motion Kristallnacht, conducted over years instead of hours.

"It's worse on the next window," Arkadian said, leading them around the corner to the north side of the station.

That wall of the office featured another large sheet of glass, on which, in addition to gang symbols, etched block letters proclaimed ARMENIAN SHITHEAD.

Even the sight of the racial slur couldn't rekindle Hassam Arkadian's anger. He stared sad-eyed at the offensive words and said, "I've always tried to treat people well. I'm not perfect, not without sin. Who is? But I've done my best to be a good man, fair, honest -- and now this."

"Won't make you feel any better," Luther said, "but if it was up to me, the law would let us take the creeps who do this and stencil that second word right above their eyes. Shithead. Etch it into their skin with acid just like they did to your glass. Make 'em walk around like that for a couple of years and see how their attitude improves before maybe we give them some plastic surgery."

"You think you can find who did it?" Arkadian asked, though he surely knew the answer.

Luther shook his head, and Jack said, "Not a chance. We'll file a report, of course, but there's no manpower to work on small crime like this. Best thing you can do is install roll-down metal-shutters the same day you replace the windows, so they're covered at night."

"Otherwise, you'll be putting in new glass every week," Luther said, "and pretty soon your insurance company will drop you."

"They already dropped my vandalism coverage after one claim," Hassam Arkadian said. "About the only cling they'll cover me for now is earthquake, flood, and fire. Not even fire if it happens in a riot."

They stood in silence, staring at the window, brooding about their powerlessness.

A cool March wind sprang up. In the nearby planter, the queen palms rustled, and soft creaking noises arose from where the stems of the big fronds joined the trunks.

"Well," Jack said at last, "it could be worse, Mr. Arkadian. I mean, at least you're in a pretty good part of the city here on the West Side."

"Yeah, and doesn't it break your heart," Arkadian said, "this is a good neighborhood?"

Jack didn't even want to think about that.

Ludher started to speak but was interrupted by a loud crash and a shout of anger from the front of the station. As the three of them hurried around the corner, a violent gust of wind made the plate-glass windows thrum.

Fifty feet away, the man in the Armani suit kicked the vending machine again. A foaming can of Pepsi lay behind him, contents spreading across the blacktop.

"Poison," he shouted at the machine, "poison, damn it, damn you, damn you, poison!"

Arkadian rushed toward the customer. "Sir, please, I'm sorry, if the machine gave you the wrong selection--"

"Hey, wait right there," Luther said, speaking as much to the station owner as to the infuriated stranger.

In front of the office door, Jack caught up with Arkadian, put a hand on his shoulder, stopped him, and said, "Better let us handle this."

"Damn poison," the customer said furiously, and he made a fist as if he wanted to punch the vending machine.

"It's just the machine," Arkadian told Jack and Luther. "They keep saying it's fixed, but it keeps giving you Pepsi when you push Orange Crush."

As bad as things were in the City of Angels these days, Jack found it difficult to believe that Arkadian was accustomed to seeing people fly off the handle every time an unwanted can of Pepsi dropped into the dispensing tray.

The customer turned away from the machine and from them, as if he might walk off and leave his Lexus. He seemed to be shaking with anger, but it was mostly the blustery wind shivering the loosely fitted suit.

"What's wrong here?" Luther asked, heading toward the guy as thunder tolled across the lowering sky and the palms in the south planter thrashed against a backdrop of black clouds.

Jack started to follow Luther before he saw the suit jacket billow out behind the blond, flapping like bat wings. Except the coat had been buttoned a moment ago. Double-breasted, buttoned twice.

The angry man faced away from them still, shoulders hunched, head lowered. Because of the loose and billowing fabric of his suit, he seemed less than human, like a hunchbacked troll. The guy began to turn, and Jack would not have been surprised to see the deformed muzzle of a beast, but it was the same tan and clean-shaven face as before.

Why had the son of a bitch unbuttoned the coat unless there was something under it that he needed, and what might an irrational and angry man need that he kept under his jacket, his loose-fitting suit jacket, his roomy goddamned jacket?

Jack called a warning to Luther.

But Luther sensed trouble too. His right hand moved toward the gun holstered on his hip.

The perp had the advantage because he was the initiator. No one knew violence was at hand until he unleashed it, so he swung all the way around to face them, holding a weapon in both hands, before Luther and Jack had even touched their revolvers.

Automatic gunfire hammered the day. Bullets pounded Luther's chest, knocked the big man off his feet, hurled him backward, and Hassam Arkadian spun from the impact of one-two-three hits, went down hard, screaming in agony.

Jack threw himself against the glass door to the office. He almost made it to cover before taking a hit to the left leg. He felt as if he'd been clubbed across the thigh with a tire iron, but it was a bullet, not a blow.

He dropped facedown on the office floor. The door swung shut behind him, gunfire shattered it, and gummy chunks of tempered glass cascaded across his back.

Hot pain boiled sweat from him.

A radio was playing. Golden oldies. Dionne Warwick. Singing about the world needing love, sweet love.

Outside, Arkadian was still screaming, but there wasn't a sound from Ludher Bryson.

Luther was dead. Jack couldn't think about that. Dead. Didn't dare dlink about it. Dead. Wouldn't think about it.

The chatter of more gunfire.

Someone else screamed. Probably the attendant at the Lexus. It wasn't a lasting scream. Brief, quickly choked off.

Outside, Arkadian wasn't screaming anymore, either. He was sobbing and calling for Jesus.

Hard, chill wind made the plate-glass windows vibrate. It hooted through the shattered door.

The gunman would be coming.

Copyright 2001 by Dean Koontz
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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 4
( 74 )
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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 75 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted October 24, 2013

    Not my favorite Koontz story

    The story starts off fast and engaging. I liked that it wasn't as predictable as some seem to be. I was thoroughly entertained and enthralled all the way to the end. However, I was a bit disappointed in the ending, it did seem odd that they would return to the home where it all began.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted March 6, 2013

    What a dissapointing ending.

    While I really enjoyed reading this book, getting familiar with the characters and their hardships and then enjoying their windfall the ending was just plain dumb.
    They return to the same hell they left to begin with? Dumb, just plain dumb. Really disappointing in the last few pages.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 2, 2014

    To 'BlazeClan'

    [You need to change your name. There is already a BlazeClan!]

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 2, 2014



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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 2, 2014


    Yes. My den is third result.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 26, 2013

    Read this and couldn't put it down. Loaned it to a friend, who

    Read this and couldn't put it down. Loaned it to a friend, who brought it back a few weeks later...looking all disgusted. I thought he hadn't liked it. He said I COULDN'T STOP READING IT!
    The only problem was, he took it on an out of the country flight...overnight. Couldn't SLEEP! Read the WHOLE FLIGHT! And it seriously CREEPED HIM OUT! To the point where...he was a little nervous using the tiny airplane bathroom!
    And his jet lag was HORRIFIC, because he never slept in flight!
    Now...THAT'S a GOOD BOOK!
    (Just don't read it on long airplane trips out of the country...LOLOL!)

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 18, 2012



    0 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 14, 2012

    Awesome in the usual Koontz fashion. Keeps you riveted to the end.

    Awesome in the usual Koontz fashion. Keeps you riveted to the end.

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  • Posted March 1, 2012

    more from this reviewer

    They can't all be winners

    I listened to the audio book of Winter Moon. I have been a Dean Koontz fan for many, many years. Winter moon is easily my least favorite Koontz book.

    I love the premise of the story and the climax, once we got there, was fantastic. But getting there took way too long. The book moved very slowly. I felt way too much attention was spent on everyday menial tasks, which is quite boring to read about, or listen to in this case.

    The book started out strong. Jack is a police officer in Los Angeles. The very first chapter starts with him and his partner getting into a shootout. From there, we go to Quartermass Ranch in Montana where we meet Eduardo. Eventually, Jack moves with his wife and son to Montana and live at Quartermass Ranch, which is when things start to get strange and the story starts to pick up. However, this is about three-quarters of the way into the book already.

    I had considered more than once to stop listening and put the book aside, but because I am such a huge fan of Koontz I kept expecting it to get better. I guess they can't all be winners. I won't hold this against him. Still a huge fan, and looking forward to reading more!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 2, 2011

    Fun, thriller...

    I enjoyed WINTER MOON by Dean Koontz. It was easy to read and a real page turner. Thrilling concept, and fun horror. Good characters.

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  • Posted August 6, 2011

    Wow! :D

    Amazing. Suspenseful. Page-turner. Finished it in 2 days. Love Dean Koontz, Amazing. :D

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  • Posted October 10, 2009

    Great book!

    I usually buy audio books to listen to in the car during my 45 minute commute(one way)to work and back each day. This book was so good I could not wait to get in the car and find out what happened next. I would definately recommend this book to anyone who loves a story that you can't predict the end to.

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  • Posted September 4, 2009

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Winter Scare:)

    This one is hard to want to read from the get go, but it definitely takes off after a few chapters. I Loved the parts with the "wild" animals, and also, how the old man thought he might have gone mad. It's suspenseful, but if you are looking for a SCARY book, go read "Phantoms." Scary as hell. That is, given you don't watch the movie starring Ben Affleck. Ugh.

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  • Posted October 25, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    If you like a good scare...

    If you like a good scare while reading a book, then I suggest reading Winter Moon. I read this book at night and it gave me goosebumps! Jack takes his family and moves to a ranch in rural Montana. When they get there though, they are not alone. There are walking cadavers, glowing lights, messages in the electronic devices, and wild animals acting not so wild. The situation is brought to a climax during the first blizzard of the season. Will the "Giver" win out against humanity or will the imagination of an 8 year old boy be it's downfall?<BR/><BR/>The only fault I can find in Winter Moon is the divide in the story. The first half and the second half of the book are almost like two separate books. I don't really see how the first half of the story relates much to the rest of the book. The disconnectedness is easily overlooked though. Koontz sure knows how to write a spooky story

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 18, 2008

    slow out first...but...

    this was the second koontz book that i read, it was really slow at first, i think i quit reading it like three times, but once everything picks up it IS AWSOME!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 13, 2007

    Awesome effort

    I loved it, reccomend for everyone who has common sense...

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 30, 2004


    Once I started reading this book, I couldn't put it down. The action and horror is outstanding. This is my first Dean Koontz books and I'm going to try to read other books by him. I would recommend this book to anyone, to the fans fo Dean Koontz and to those that haven't read any of Dean Koontz books. This book will not disappoint you!

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 2, 2004

    the ending was blah but i'm giving a 5 anyway

    yes, the ending was a little like 'From the Corner of his Eye': everyone lives happily ever after. The part of the book that involved Ed when he was alive, up to the point when he died was awesome. At one point, I read this book for 5 hours straight. Finished in about 2 days. I know i don't have a life but anyway...No other Koontz book has hooked me like that for some reason, so that's why i gave it a 5 because of the suspense factor.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted December 29, 2003

    Not the best Dean you ever read.

    Scary it isn't. Maybe a little annoying once you reach the end of the book and realize that the big monster/alien thing is something that you've seen on television a 100 times already. Sorry not the best.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 28, 2003


    This is my 9th book by Koontz. I have to say it's not by any means my favorite. I rc'd this book from another fan who swore it to be a 5 star book. I wouldn't agree. The book was interesting, I seemed to care for the characters but once Eduardo meets the 'monster' it was no longer suspensful. Then once they inherited Eduardo's ranch the rest was expected. You could read into it perfectly.

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