Hemlock Grove

by Brian McGreevy, Cécile Leclère (Translator)

Overview

Libérez la bête en vous !

Hemlock Grove (Pennsylvanie) n'est plus une petite ville paisible. Dans les bois, le corps mutilé d'une jeune fille vient d'être retrouvé. Une chasse à l'homme est lancée. Au sein de la communauté, cependant, une angoissante question se fait jour : ce meurtre est-il vraiment l'œuvre d'un homme ? Et si certains en savaient plus qu'ils ne voulaient bien le dire ?

C'est sans doute le cas de Peter Rumancek, jeune gitan qui vient d'emménager en ville avec sa mère et qui a raconté aux élèves du lycée qu'il était un loup-garou. Ou de Roman Godfrey, héritier local, qui fait preuve auprès de ses camarades d'un complexe de supériorité pathologique, alors que sa petite sœur Shelley souffre d'une maladie monstrueuse. Les deux garçons – que tout oppose – vont se rapprocher à la suite de ce meurtre pour tenter d'en percer le mystère. Parallèlement, la famille de Roman s'efforce de cacher les étranges expériences scientifiques effectuées par le Dr Johann Pryce au sein de la société Godfrey...

Page-turner impitoyable, chronique adolescente dark en diable, roman gothique 2.0, Hemlock Grove est une plongée sans retour dans le miroir inversé du rêve américain. C'est aussi une série à succès dont les trois saisons ont été diffusées sur Netflix.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9782370560919
Publisher:	Sonatine
Publication date:	08/24/2017
Sold by:	EDITIS - EBKS
Format:	eBook
Pages:	299
File size:	3 MB
Language:	French

About the Author

Hemlock Grove - qui deviendra la série télévisuelle éponyme. Il collaborera à de nombreuses adaptations dont celle de The Son, nouvelle écrite alors par un camarade de classe, Philipp Meyer, qui obtiendra le Pulitzer. Il est aujourd'hui l'un des membres fondateurs de la maison de production El Jefe, basée au Texas.

Read an Excerpt

Something Happened

 

 

The lone wolf howls to rejoin the pack from which he is separated. But why does the pack howl when no wolf is lost?

Isn’t it obvious?

Because there is no other way to say it.

*   *   *

The night after the Harvest Moon, the body was discovered. It was nearing October and the sun was still hot, but the leaves were falling now with intention and every night was colder. Peter was walking home from the bus stop when he saw the flashing light of a fire truck up at Kilderry Park. He wondered if there had been an accident. Peter, who was seventeen at the time of which I’m writing, liked accidents: modern times were just so fucking structured. He saw in addition to the fire truck a few cop cars and an ambulance, but no signs of wreckage. He turned his head in passing, but there was nothing more to see beyond the norm. Two of the cops combing the area by the swings he knew; they’d hassled him a couple of times in that kind of obligatory cop way that, in Peter’s experience, every uniform was an SS uniform. Probably some junkie had OD’d or something. There was that bum who hung out around here, an old black guy with yellow and black teeth and one dead eye that looked like a dirty marble who might not have been old, really. Peter had given him a light once, but no change. Better that paid for his own drugs. His interest flagged. Old black junkie kicks it it’s no more news than chance of rain tomorrow. Then he heard it, one sentence. No sign of a weapon, Sheriff. Peter looked again but there was no more to see than a milling cluster of uniforms by the tree line and he put his hands in his pockets and went on.

He had a bad feeling.

Nicolae had always told him that he had been born with an unusually receptive Swadisthana chakra and that underneath the surfaces of things, the illusion of the illusion, there is a secret, sacred frequency of the universe and that the Swadisthana was the channel through which it would sing to you. And the Swadisthana being located of course just behind the balls, he should always always trust his balls. Peter did not know what it was, but something about the scene in Kilderry Park had his balls in a state of agitation.

When he got home he told his mother, “Something happened.”

“Hmm?” she said. She was smoking a joint and watching a quiz show. The trailer was warm and smelled sweet, pot and baked apple. “Hummingbird!” she yelled suddenly, in response to the question What is the only bird that can fly backwards.

He told her what he saw. He told her he had a bad feeling.

“Why?” she said.

“I don’t know, I just do,” he said.

She was thoughtful. “Well, there’s cobbler,” she said.

He went to the kitchen. She asked if he’d been in town.

“Yeah,” he said.

She emptied his backpack of items so small and modest it could hardly be considered stealing while Peter scraped the tar of sugar at the edge of the cobbler and tried to shake this feeling. The feeling that whatever had happened in Kilderry Park was no good. And not in some greater existential sense but no good with his number on it. There was a coffee mug on the counter with the comic strip character Cathy on it and a small chip the shape of a shark’s tooth that held loose change. He dipped his hand in the mug and went to the door and scattered a handful of coins on the stone path out front.

“Why did you do that?” said Lynda.

Peter shrugged. He had done it because he wanted to hear something dissonant and beautiful.

“You are one strange customer, you know that?” said Lynda.

“Yeah,” said Peter.

 

Copyright © 2012 by Brian McGreevy

Editorial Reviews

This is straight-ahead horror with a respect for its literary antecedents…Fictional high schools are now so crowded with the supernatural that there are more creatures than cheerleaders, but Hemlock Grove offers horror that hasn't been sparkled up or watered down.
—Yvonne Zipp

The Washington Post

It takes a rare stroke of genius to reconfigure the gothic novel within the postindustrial barrens of steel country, and another entirely to upstage this conceit with a mythic and ambitious story of adolescence and alienation. Like a collaboration between Edgar Allan Poe and J. D. Salinger, this is a real emerging talent.” —Philipp Meyer, author of American Rust

 

"A wonderfully creative and twisted reinvention of classic monster archetypes, wrapped up in a mysterious thriller. I loved it. Brian McGreevy is a welcome new voice in horror literature, but be warned: it's not for the faint of heart, or stomach." —Eli Roth, director of Hostel

“This is . . . horror with a respect for its literary antecedents.” —Yvonne Zipp, The Washington Post

From the Publisher