A Dark Matter

A Dark Matter

by Peter Straub

Paperback(Mass Market Paperback)

View All Available Formats & Editions
Eligible for FREE SHIPPING
  • Want it by Wednesday, September 26?   Order by 12:00 PM Eastern and choose Expedited Shipping at checkout.
    Same Day shipping in Manhattan. 
    See Details


A Dark Matter by Peter Straub

An electric, chilling, and unpredictable novel from the master of modern horror.

On a Midwestern campus in the 1960s, a charismatic guru and his young acolytes perform a secret ritual in a local meadow. What happens is a mystery—all that remains is a gruesomely dismembered body and the shattered souls of all who were present. Forty years later, one man seeks to learn about that horrifying night, and to do so he’ll have to force those involved to examine the unspeakable events that have haunted them ever since. 

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781400096725
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Publication date: 02/22/2011
Pages: 608
Sales rank: 554,378
Product dimensions: 4.20(w) x 6.80(h) x 1.80(d)

About the Author

PETER STRAUB is the New York Times bestselling author of more than a dozen novels. In the Night Room and Lost Boy, Lost Girl are winners of the Bram Stoker Award, as is his collection 5 Stories. Straub is the editor of numerous anthologies, including the two-volume The American Fantastic Tale from the Library of America. He lives in Brooklyn.


New York City

Date of Birth:

March 2, 1943

Place of Birth:

Milwaukee, Wisconsin


B.A. in English, University of Wisconsin-Madison, 1965; M.A., Columbia University, 1966

Read an Excerpt

Chapter 1 A Few Years Back, Late Spring

The great revelations of my adult life began with the shouts of a lost soul in my neighborhood breakfast joint.

I was standing in line at the Corner Bakery on State and Cedar, half a block down the street from my pretty brick townhouse, waiting to order a Swiss Oatmeal (muesli) or a Berry Parfait (granola), anyhow something modest. The loudest noises in the place were the tapping of laptop keys and the rustle of someone turning newspaper pages. Abruptly, with a manic indignation that seemed to come from nowhere, the man at the head of the line started uttering the word obstreperous. He started out at a level just above ordinary conversation. By the time he found his rhythm, he was about twice that volume and getting louder as he rolled along. If you had to settle on one word to yell over and over in public, wouldn’t you pick something less cumbersome? Yet he kept at it, spinning those four lumpy syllables every possible way, as if trying them on for size. His motive, for nothing actually comes from nowhere, soon became obvious.

Obstreperous? ObSTREPerous? OBSTREPEROUS? Ob-strep?-ER-ous? OBstreperous?

Lady, you think I’m obstreperous now? This is what he was saying. Give me another thirty seconds, you’ll learn all about obstreperous.

With each repetition, his question grew more heated. The momentarily dumbfounded young woman at the order counter had offended him, he wished her to know how greatly. The guy also thought he was making himself look smart, even witty, but to everyone else in the shop he had uncorked raving lunacy.

His variations were becoming more imaginative.

Obstreeperous? Obstraperous? ObstrapOROUS?

To inspect this dude, I tilted sideways and looked down the good- sized line. I almost wished I hadn’t.

Right away, it was obvious that the guy was not simply playing around. The next man in line was giving him six feet of empty floor space. Under the best of circumstances, people were going to keep their distance from this character. Eight or nine inches of white- gray hair surged out in stiff waves around his head. He was wearing a torn, slept-in checked suit that might have been ripped off a cornfield scarecrow. Through a latticework of scabs, smears, and bruises, his swollen feet shone a glaring, bloodless white. Like me, he had papers under his elbow, but the wad of newsprint he was clamping to his side appeared to have lasted him at least four or five days. The puffed-up bare feet, scuffed and abraded like shoes, were the worst part.

“Sir?” said the woman at the order counter. “Sir, you need to leave my store. Step away from the counter, sir, please. You need to step away.”

Two huge kids in Southern Illinois sweatshirts, recent graduates by the look of them, jammed their chairs back and marched straight toward the action. This is Chicago, after all, where big, athletic- looking dudes sprout out of the sidewalks like dandelions on a suburban lawn. Without speaking to anyone, they came up on the homeless guy’s flanks, hoisted him by his elbows, and transported him outside. If he had gone limp, they would have had a little trouble, but he was rigid with panic and gave them no more difficulty than would a cigar store Indian. He went stiff as a marble statue. When he went by, I took in his blubbery lips and brown, broken teeth. His bloodshot eyes had a glazed look. The man kept saying, obstreperous obstreperous obstreperous, but the word had become meaningless to him. He was using it for protection, like a totem, and he thought as long as he kept saying it, he was out of danger.

When I looked into those flat, unseeing eyes, an utterly unforeseen thought jolted me. The impact felt like a blow, and brought with it a cryptic sense of illumination as brief as the flaring of a match.

I knew someone like that. This terrified man with a one-word vocabulary reminded me so vividly of someone that he might have been that person, now in the act of being ejected onto Rush Street. But . . . who in the world could it have been? No one I knew was anything like the damaged character now staggering forward and back on the sidewalk beyond the great windows, still whispering his totemic word.

A voice only I could hear said, No one? Think again, Lee. Deep in my chest, something big and decisive—something I had been ignoring and thrusting out of view literally for decades—stirred in its sleep and twitched its leathery wings. Whatever had nearly awakened tasted, in part, like shame, but shame was by no means all of it.

Although my first response was to turn away from whatever was causing my internal tumult (and turn away I did, with as much of my native resolve as I could summon), the memory of having witnessed an inexplicable illumination clung to me like a cat that had jumped onto my back and stuck its claws into my skin.

The next thing I did involved a typical bit of unconscious misdirection—I tried to believe that my distress was caused by the register girl’s stupid language. Maybe that sounds snobbish, and maybe it is snobbish, but I’ve written eight novels, and I pay attention to the way people use words. Maybe too much attention. So when I finally stood in front of the young woman who had told that ruined creature that he “needed” to leave her “store,” I expressed my unhappiness by ordering an Anaheim Scrambler, which comes with smoked bacon, cheddar cheese, avocado, and a lot of other stuff including hash browns, and a corn muffin, too. (Alas, I am one of those people who tend to use food as a way of dodging unwelcome emotions.) Anyhow, when did people start framing commands in terms of neediness? And how long had people in the restaurant business been calling their establishments “stores”? Couldn’t people see the ugliness and inaccuracy of this crap? The creature within me rolled back into its uneasy sleep, temporarily lulled.

I parked myself at an empty table, snapped open my paper—the Guardian Review—and avoided looking at the big front windows until I heard one of the staff bringing my tray to me. For some reason, I turned around and glanced through the window, but of course that wretched, half- sane character had fled. Why did I care what had happened to him, anyhow? I didn’t, apart from feeling a sort of generic pity for his suffering. And that poor devil did not remind me of anyone I knew or had once known. For a couple of seconds, a kind of misguided déjà vu had come into play. Nobody thought of déjà vu as anything except a momentary delusion. It gave you an odd buzz of recognition that felt like occult knowledge, but the buzz was psychic flotsam, of no value whatsoever.

Forty-five minutes later, I was walking back to my house, hoping that the day’s work would go well. The minor disturbance in the Corner Bakery hardly counted even as a memory anymore, except for the moment when I was sliding my key into the front-door lock and saw once again his glassy, bloodshot eyes and heard him whispering obstreperous obstreperous. “I need you to stop doing that,” I said out loud, and tried to smile as I stepped into my bright, comfortable foyer. Then I said, “No, I do not know anyone even faintly like you.” For half a second, I thought someone was going to ask me what I was talking about, but my wife was on an extended visit to Washington, D.C., and in the whole of my splendid house, not a single living thing could hear me.

Work, unfortunately, was of no use at all. I had been planning to use the days my wife was gone to get a jump-start on a new novel then known as Her Level Gaze. Never mind the total lameness of the title, which I intended to change as soon as I came up with a better one. Atop my oversized desk, a folder bulging with notes, outlines, and ideas for chapters sat beside my iMac, and a much smaller folder beside it held the ten awkward pages I had

managed so far to excrete. Once I started poking it, the novel that had seemed so promising when still a shimmer of possibility had turned into a slow-moving, snarling animal. The male protagonist seemed to be a bit slow-moving, too. Although I did not want to admit it, the main character, the young woman with the disconcertingly level gaze, would have eaten him for breakfast in a single bite.

At the back of my mind was a matter I did not actually want to think about that day, a far too tempting suggestion made some years ago, God, maybe as many as five, by David Garson, my agent, who told me that my publisher had, who knows how seriously, proposed to him over lunch that at least once I should write a nonfiction book, not merely a memoir, but a book about something.

“Lee,” David said, “don’t get paranoid on me, he wasn’t saying he wanted you to stop writing novels, of course he wasn’t. They think you have an interesting way of seeing things, that’s their main point here, and they think it might be useful if just once, and I mean just once, Lee Harwell could turn this reader-friendly yet challenging trait of his onto some event in the real world. The event could be huge, or it might be something smaller and more personal. He added that he thought a book like that would probably do you some good in the marketplace. He has a point there, actually. I mean, I think it’s an extraordinarily interesting idea. Do you want to consider it? Why don’t you just mull it over for a couple of days, see what occurs to you? I mean, just as a suggestion.”

“David,” I said, “no matter what my intentions are, everything I write winds up turning into fiction, including my letters to friends.” Yet David is a good guy, and he does look out for me. I promised to think about it, which was disingenuous of me because in fact I already had been turning over the possibility of doing a nonfiction book. An unpublished and unpublishable manuscript I had come across on eBay a couple of months earlier, a kind of memoir by a Milwaukee homicide detective named George Cooper, seemed to crack open an old, officially unsolved series of murders that had much interested my friends and me when we were in grade school and high school. Of even greater interest to me right now was that these “Ladykiller” homicides appeared to have an at least tangential connection to a dark matter that involved these friends of mine, including the amazing girl who became my wife, though not me, in our last year in high school. But of that I did not wish to think—it involved a young man named Keith Hayward who had been, it seemed, a sick, evil child tutored in his sickness and evil by a truly demonic figure, his uncle. All of that was in the sort-of memoir Detective Cooper had written out in his cursive, old-school hand, and even as I put the story together I was determined to resist the gravitational pull it worked on me. The immense theological question of evil felt too great, too complex to address with the tools and weapons I possessed. What I knew best had only to do with stories and how they proceeded, and a mere instinct for narrative wasn’t enough to take on the depths of the Hayward story. That my wife and our friends had come in contact with creepy Keith Hayward also put me off.

At the usual hour of one-thirty, hunger pulled me into the kitchen, where I put together a salad, warmed up some soup, and made half a sandwich with pumpernickel bread, Black Forest ham, coleslaw, and Russian dressing. Dinah Lion, my assistant, who would otherwise have been present, did not come in on Mondays, so the isolation of morning remained intact. Dinah would be gone for the next 10 days or so, also, in an arrangement we had worked out with my accountants that was going to let her join her parents in Tuscany at half pay in exchange for some juggling with the vacation she normally took in August.

For some reason, the second I sat down before my solitary little meal, I felt like weeping. Something vital was slipping away from me, and for once this sense wasn’t just a fantasy about the novel I was writing. The huge wave of sadness building up within me was connected to something more critical than Her Level Gaze; it was something I had lived with for much longer than I had my foundering book. Tears steamed up into my eyes and trembled there. For an excruciating moment, I was in the ridiculous position of grieving for a person, a place, or a condition that remained hidden from me. Someone I loved had died when we were both very young—that’s what it felt like—and I had committed the dim-witted crime of never stopping to mourn that loss until just now. This must have been the source of the shame I tasted before I started ramming scrambled eggs, avocado, and cheddar cheese into my mouth. I had let this person disappear.

At the thought of the breakfast I had forced down my throat in the Corner Bakery, my hunger curdled. The food on the table looked poisoned. Tears slid down my face, and I stood up to turn toward the counter and grab some tissues. After I had wiped my face and blown my nose, I bagged up the half sandwich, covered the salad bowl with clingy film, and slammed the soup bowl into the microwave, where I could be counted on to forget about it until the next time I opened the thing. Then I made an aimless circuit of the kitchen. The book I had begun writing seemed to have locked me out, which I usually take to mean that it’s waiting for some other, younger author to come along and treat it right. It would be at least a day before I could face my desk again, and when I did I would probably have to dream up some other project.

Customer Reviews

Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See All Customer Reviews

Dark Matter 2.5 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 91 reviews.
DogStreetBookGuy More than 1 year ago
I came to this new Straub book filled with anticipation. I have been a fan of his writing for decades, going back to Koko. I've not read everything he has written, but I have read a lot of it, both short form and novel length. His short story Pork Pie Hat is one of my favorite short stories...by anybody. Some might argue that all genre fiction falls short of attaining the status of art. I am not one of those people, but I can admit that there has been a proliferation of fluff in the horror genre. At his best, Mr. Straub elevates genre fiction to the level of true literature. But, and it's a big "but", at his worst, Straub comes across as intentionally obscure and embarrassingly self-indulgent, and "A Dark Matter" is a prime example. Ostensibly an account of a terrifying event that happened to the narrator while he was in high school during the 60's, or more accurately, an event that happened to a group of the narrator's friends, as the narrator chose not to share the experience with them...as he never tires of reminding the reader, over and over and over. So this earth-shattering event that changed the lives of this group of friends, which may, in fact, have changed the very nature of reality as we know it, is only an event that the reader learns about by heresay. The narrators eyes are, perforce, the readers eyes. Since he never witnessed this Dark Matter directly, then the reader never does either. And this is a fatal flaw. I think it is Wordsworth who gives the origin of poetry as "emotion recollected in tranquility." That's all well and good for poetry...but for a story of this sort I think we need more emotion and a little less tranquility. I'm not saying that Mr. Straub needs to take his cue from the splatterpunks of the 80s. But the reader needs to actually FEEL something. The narrator has buried his memories of the event so deeply that he seems to have no real feelings about it...ergo, the reader feels nothing, too. In the interest of full disclosure, I must admit that I did not finish A Dark Matter. But I TRIED. It's pacing is glacial. I found that my attention was constantly drifting. Mr. Straub seems oddly reticent to approach his subject matter directly, choosing instead to sidle up to it over and over again, only to slip away again. I found myself wishing he would just get to the point. One wonders if, just maybe, he was suffering (like his narrator) from a touch of writer's block. I WANTED to like this book...but it just didn't have a strong enough hook to pull me in. Life is too short to waste it reading bad books. I'm not a fast reader, but I finished The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss in less than a week, and it was nearly 900 pages. In the same amount of time, I managed to read barely 60 pages of A Dark Matter. And that speaks volumes.
jmpman44 More than 1 year ago
I've read The Talisman and Black House which Mr. Straub co-wrote with Stephen King, and thought I'd give one of his stand-alone novels a try. So, I picked up A Dark Matter and was looking forward to enjoying it. Overall, it's an extremely well-written book, and the plot and story is very good and very original. Unfortunately, I only really enjoyed half of the book. The parts of Lee and Don traveling and tracking down their old friends to try and unravel some of the mystery of what happened (You'll have to read to understand) were the parts I enjoyed reading. The monologues of their friends explaining what exactly did happen were at times almost impossible to comprehend and/or follow. Mr. Straub aimed for weird and far out there, and he hit the nail on the head. Unfortunately, it may have been a bit too far out there and at times left me concentrating way too hard trying to decipher what I was reading and see it in my head. This may not be the case for some, but for me this book was a very talented writer with a very unique vision that may have proved to be too hard to put into words.
TheBeanDude More than 1 year ago
I love Peter Straub, and have read practically everything he has written, and loved pretty much everything I've read of his (my favorites being ¿If You Could See Me Now¿, ¿Shadowland¿, ¿Mystery¿, and ¿Mr. X¿), but I really struggled with this. I have read a couple of reviews saying how they were having to reread sections because it was as if they had fallen asleep, well, I kept having that same problem as well. It pains me to pan a novel by Peter Straub, but so far, this one is confusing as h*ll and very bad. I kept asking myself "what the h*ll is this even about?!" as I continued to plunge through it. All the reviews I have read about it, whether good or bad, all seem to say the same thing about the plot being about four friends recollecting an incident from their past with a guru named Spencer Mallon; and the flashbacks are all told over and over again from different perspectives. And, that seemed to be a major complaint with a lot of people. However, I don¿t even see the novel doing that! I feel it started out strong within the first 100 or so pages, but then quickly deteriorated into a jumbled confusing mess. I was looking forward to the ¿Rashomon¿ style of storytelling that I read so many reviewers claiming this book had, but it is not in here. Maybe I am reading another copy of ¿A Dark Matter¿ than everybody else read; or at least I was questioning that over and over as I struggled to keep reading this. Again, it really pains me to say this because Straub is one of my all-time favorite authors, some of his novels I hail as the best pieces of literature ever, but this is not one of his better works; matter of fact, very far from it. I finally got around to finishing the novel. And, as much as I liked the immensely layered writing, the rich characterization, and even the final denoument of what happened in the meadow as told by the Eel, the final person to share her memories with the group, I still found it to be a very deadening thud of a bad read. The writing was so textured and had some really deep hidden gems in it, but overall, when I got to the very last page, I was left thinking "so what?!" Again, this pains me to say anything negative about a piece of literature by one of the chief writers working today, but this is not a book I can recommend. But either way I am glad I read it, and I may read it again in the future, but I am sure I will come to the same conclusion, the same opinion, the same result: This was not Straub's strongest effort by far! Thank you. :>)
harstan More than 1 year ago
Nomadic charismatic guru Spencer Mallon arrives in Madison, Wisconsin accompanied by his beautiful lover Meredith Bright and subservient University of Wisconsin students, Keith Hayward and Brett Milstrap. The charmer invites several high school students which include Lee Harwell, his tomboy girlfriend, Lee "Eel" Truax, Howard "Hootie" Bly, Jason "Boats" Boatman, and Donald "Dilly" Olson to attend a night ritual. Before the sun rises, Hayward is dead and Bright vanished. Over the years each has coped differently to that horrid night that changed all of them. Milstrap has avoided responsibility preferring Peter Pan to adulthood. The Lees married, but Eel has since lost her sight. Bly was taken to a mental institution on that horrific night and remains there while citing Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter as his only form of speech. Bright came out of whatever hole she had hidden inside of to marry into power. Boatsman went from shoplifter extraordinaire to shoplifting crime prevention extraordinaire. Filly Olson has never moved on. All will converge to relive what each chose to psychologically forget about that deadly night when novelist Harwell writes a nonfiction account of the horror that still impacts all of those who attended Mallon's malevolent ritual. This is a convoluted but enjoyable horror thriller as Peter Straub keeps the audience guessing whether what happened was a group psychological hysteria or something evil from beyond. All of the survivors realize they do not have total recall of what occurred in spite of the college student's death. Although at times difficult to fathom what truly happened as murky memories make for a murky story line, fans who prefer something different will want to know what the students faced on the night that changed each of them. Harriet Klausner
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Thoroughly enjoyed the characters and story development in Straub's A Dark Matter.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
First book I've read by Straub. I have read books he cowrote with Stephen King. His writing is very good, but the story is so thin and just boring. I was 200 pages in, still waiting fof it to hook me. I wound up skimming and it looks like it continued on. The "Dark Matter" seems like a bad LSD trip by some '60s students after reading too much Lewis Carroll. Lots of boring second hand accounts by other characters. Dull, dull, dull.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Dark matter was a pretty good read. However, It wasn't near the top of my favorites for Straub. I didn't find too many of the characters very likable and the whole "incident in the meadow" even after reading the different interpretations was still difficult to follow. I suppose if you love Straub read it. If you are new to the author I would read Koko or the Talisman.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
There's a reason this book has only two stars. It deserves it! This one needs to be on the discount Nook shelf.
scubafan More than 1 year ago
I agree with the other reviewers who are Straub fans but pretty much hated this book. I found nothing terrifying. The descriptions of the demons and visions read like an LSD trip, outrageously bizarre but with no continuity and no horror except for physical mutilations. It is never made clear what was so special about Eel or why she had the pivotal role, nor what her continuing relationship with Mallon was.A boy is murdered and mutilated and everyone there goes free. Besides not making much sense, I found the tale boring and about 4 times too long. The best part, since I listened to the audio version, was the reader whose voices help me visualize the personalities of the characters.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
LoveToReadKB More than 1 year ago
Great read...Peter Straub at his finest.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
yankavich More than 1 year ago
Peter Straub is normally a great author but I don't know what he was thinking of when he wrote this. It's like someone else used his name. The story jumps around too much, I had to re-read the same pages and paragraphs over and over again to figure out what was going on. Definitely not a thriller in any sense. I kept thinking that if I read a few more pages it will get better. But nope, just got worse and worse. It was nothing like the summary explains.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago