I killed a demon. I don't know if it was really, technically a demon, but I do know that he was some kind of monster, with fangs and claws and the whole bit, and he killed a lot of people. So I killed him. I think it was the right thing to do. At least the killing stopped.
Well, it stopped for a while.
In I Am Not a Serial Killer, John Wayne Cleaver saved his town from a murderer even more appalling than the serial killers he obsessively studies.
But it turns out even demons have friends, and the disappearance of one has brought another to Clayton County. Soon there are new victims for John to work on at the mortuary and a new mystery to solve. But John has tasted death, and the dark nature he used as a weapon-the terrifying persona he calls "Mr. Monster"-might now be using him.
No one in Clayton is safe unless John can vanquish two nightmarish adversaries: the unknown demon he must hunt and the inner demon he can never escape.
In this sequel to his brilliant debut, Dan Wells ups the ante with a thriller that is just as gripping and even more intense. He apologizes in advance for the nightmares.
About the Author
Dan Wells is the author of I Am Not a Serial Killer and I Don't Want to Kill You. He lives in Orem, Utah, with his wife, Dawn, and four young children.
Read an Excerpt
It was one a.m., and I was staring at a cat.
It was probably a white cat, but here in the dark I couldn’t tell for sure; what little moonlight filtered through the broken windows turned the room into an older version of itself, a scene from a black and white movie. The cement block walls were gray, the dented barrels and stacks of wooden planks were gray, the piles of half-used paint cans were gray; and there in the center, refusing to move, was a gray cat.
I played with the plastic jug in my hands, turning it back and forth, listening to the gasoline as it sloshed around inside. I had a book of matches in my pocket and a pile of oily rags at my feet. There was enough old wood and chemicals in here to fuel a spectacular fire, and I desperately wanted to light it, but I didn’t want to hurt that cat. I didn’t even dare scare it away, for fear that I might lose control.
So I stared at it, waiting. As soon as it left, this place was gone.
It was late April, and spring was finally winning its battle to transform a dull, frozen Clayton County into a cheerful green one. A big part of this, of course, was the fact that the Clayton Killer had finally left us alone—his vicious killing spree had lasted almost five months, but he’d stopped very suddenly, and no one had heard from him since January. The town had huddled in fear for another two months, barring their doors and windows every night, and waking up each morning hardly daring to turn on the TV and see another shredded corpse on the morning news. But nothing had come, and slowly we’d started to believe that it was over for real this time, and there wouldn’t be any more bodies to clean up. The sun came up, the snow melted away, and people started smiling again. We’d weathered the storm. Clayton had been tentatively happy for almost a month now.
I was the one person, in fact, who hadn’t been worried at all. I’d known for certain that the Clayton Killer was gone for good, way back in January. After all, I’m the one who killed him.
The cat moved, turning its attention from me to drop its head and lick its paw. I held completely still, hoping it would ignore me or forget me and go outside to hunt or something. Cats were supposed to be nocturnal hunters, and this one had to eat sometime. I pulled my watch from my pocket—a cheap plastic wristwatch that I’d torn the straps off of—and checked the time again: 1:05. This was going nowhere.
The warehouse had been built as a supply dump for a construction company many, many years ago, back when the big wood mill in town was new and people still thought Clayton County might turn into something. It never did, and while the wood mill still struggled along, the construction company had cut its losses and gone home. In the years since, I wasn’t the only one who’d made use of this long-abandoned building—the walls were covered with grafitti, and the ground inside and out was littered with beer cans and empty wrappers. I’d even found a mattress behind some wooden pallets, presumably some vagrant’s temporary home. I wondered if the Clayton Killer had got him, too, before I stopped him; either way, the mattress was musty from disuse, and I figured nobody had been out here all winter. When I finally got a chance, that mattress was slated to be the core of my carefully crafted fire.
Tonight, though, there was nothing I could do. I followed rules, and those rules were very strict, and the very first one said “Do not hurt animals.” That made this the fourth time the cat had stopped me from burning down the warehouse. I suppose I should have been grateful, but . . . I really needed to burn something. One of these days I’d take that cat and—no. I wouldn’t hurt the cat. I’d never hurt anyone again.
I set down the gas jug; I didn’t have time to wait for the cat, but I could burn something smaller. I grabbed a wooden pallet and dragged it outside, then went back in for the gas. The cat was still there, now sitting in a ragged square of moonlight, watching me.
“One of these days,” I said, then turned and walked back out. I drizzled a little gas on the pallet, just enough to make it easy, then placed the jug by my bike, far away from where the fire would be. Safety first. The stars were out, and the trees in the forest loomed close, but the warehouse was in a clearing of gravel and dead grass. Somewhere through the trees the interstate rumbled by, filled with late-night semis and the occasional drowsy car.
I knelt down by the wooden pallet, smelling the tang of gas in the air, and pulled out my matches. I didn’t bother to break up the planks or build a proper fire, I just struck the match and dropped it on the gas, watching it flare up bright and yellow. The flames licked up the gas and then, slowly, started in on the wood itself. I watched it closely, hearing the little snaps and pops as the fire found pockets of sap. When it had a firm grip on the board, I grabbed the pallet by a safe corner and turned it on its end, letting the fire spread, and then flopped it down on the other side so the flames could reach up and spread to the rest of the boards. It moved like a living thing, probing the wood with a thin yellow finger, tasting it, then reaching out greedily and lapping it up.
The fire caught well, better than I expected. It seemed a shame to waste it on just one pallet.
I pulled another pallet from the warehouse and dropped it on top of the fire. The blaze was big enough now that it roared and crackled, jumping on to the new wood with obvious delight. I smiled at it, like the proud owner of a precocious dog. Fire was my pet, my companion, and the only release I had left; when Mr. Monster clamored for me to break my rules and hurt someone, I could always appease it with a good fire. I watched the blaze tear into the second pallet, hearing the dull roar as it sucked in oxygen, and smiled. It wanted more wood, so I went inside for another two pallets. Just a little more wouldn’t hurt.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
I loved it when she said that. Somehow, for some reason, I always expected her to say “Are you going to hurt me?” but she was too smart for that. She was tied to the wall in my basement, and I was holding a knife—of course I was going to hurt her. Brooke didn’t ask stupid questions, which is one of the reasons I liked her so much.
“Please, John, I’m begging you: please don’t hurt me.”
I could listen to that for hours. I liked it because it got right to the point: I had all the power in the situation, and she knew it. She knew that no matter what she wanted, I was the only one who could give it to her. Alone in this room, with this knife in my hand, I was her entire world—her hopes and her fears together, her everything at once.
I moved the knife almost imperceptibly, and felt a rush of adrenaline as her eyes twitched to follow it: first left, then right; now up, now down. It was an intimate dance, our minds and bodies in perfect sync.
I had felt this before, brandishing a knife to my mom in our kitchen, but even then I’d known that Brooke was the only one who really mattered. Brooke was the one I wanted to connect with.
I raised the knife and stepped forward. Like a partner in a dance, Brooke moved in unison, pressing back against the wall, eyes growing wider, breath growing quicker. A perfect connection.
Everything was perfect—exactly as I’d imagined it a thousand times. It was a fantasy become real, a scenario of such utter completeness that I felt it begin to gather me up and sweep me away. Her wide eyes focusing completely on me. Her pale skin trembling as I reached toward her. I felt emotions surging, roiling inside me, spilling out and blistering my skin.
This is wrong. This is exactly what I’ve always wanted, and exactly what I’ve always wanted to avoid. Right and wrong at the same time.
I can’t tell my dreams from my nightmares.
There was only one way it could end; only one way it ever ended. I shoved the knife into Brooke’s chest, she screamed, and I woke up.
“Wake up,” said Mom again, turning on my light. I rolled over and groaned. I hated waking up, but I hated sleeping even more—too much time alone with my subconscious. I grimaced and forced myself to sit up. I made it through another one. Only twenty hours before I have to do it again.
“Big day today,” said Mom, pulling open the blinds in my window. “After school you’ve got another appointment with Clark Forman. Come on, get up.”
I squinted at her, bleary-eyed. “Forman again?”
“I told you about this last week,” she said. “It’s probably another deposition.”
“Whatever.” I climbed out of bed and headed for the shower, but Mom blocked my path.
“Wait,” she said sternly. “What do we say?”
I sighed and repeated with her our ritual morning phrase: “Today I will think good thoughts and smile at everyone I see.” She smiled and patted me on the shoulder. Sometimes I wished I just had an alarm clock.
“Corn flakes or Cheerios this morning?”
“I can pour my own cereal,” I said, and pushed past her to the bathroom.
My mom and I lived above the mortuary in a quiet little neighborhood on the outskirts of Clayton. Technically we were across the municipal line, which put us in the county rather than the town, but the whole place was so small that nobody really noticed or cared where any of the lines were. We lived in Clayton, and thanks to the mortuary we were one of the only families that didn’t have at least one person working in the wood mill. You might think that a small town like this wouldn’t have enough dead people to keep a mortuary in business, and you’d be right—we were on the ropes most of last year, struggling to pay the bills. My dad paid child support, or more correctly, the government garnished his wages to pay it, but it still wasn’t enough. Then last fall the Clayton Killer had shown up and given us plenty of business. Most of me thought it was sad that so many people had to die to keep our business solvent, but Mr. Monster loved every minute of it.
Naturally, Mom didn’t know about Mr. Monster, but she did know that I had been diagnosed with Conduct Disorder—which is mostly just a polite way of saying that I’m sociopathic. The official term is Antisocial Personality Disorder, but they’re only allowed to call it that when you’re eighteen or older. I was still a month shy of sixteen, so Conduct Disorder it was.
I locked myself in the bathroom and stared in the mirror. It was encrusted with little notes and Post-its Mom left to remind us of important things—not daily things like appointments, but long-term words to live by. I could sometimes hear her recite them to herself as she got ready in the morning: things like “Today will be the best day of my life,” and other crap like that. The largest was a note she had written specifically for me, compiling a list of rules written on lined pink notepaper and taped to the corner of the mirror. These were the same rules I’d created years ago to keep Mr. Monster locked up, and I’d followed them just fine on my own until last year when I had to let him out. Now Mom had taken it upon herself to enforce them. I read the list while I brushed my teeth:
I will not hurt animals.
I will not burn things.
When I think bad thoughts about someone, I will push the thoughts away and say something nice about that person.
I will not call people “it.”
If I start to follow someone, I will ignore them as much as possible for a full week.
I will not threaten people, even implicitly.
If people threaten me, I will leave the situation.
Obviously, the one about burning things had already been tossed out. Mr. Monster was so insistent, and my mom’s supervision so restrictive, that something had to give, and that was it. Lighting fires—small, contained fires that wouldn’t hurt anyone—was like a release valve that let out all the pressure building up in my life. It was a rule I had to break to have any hope of following the others. I didn’t tell Mom what I was doing, of course; I just left it on the list and ignored it.
Honestly, I appreciated Mom’s help, but . . . it was getting very hard to live with. I spat out the toothpaste, rinsed my mouth, and went to get dressed.
I ate breakfast in the living room, watching the morning news while Mom hovered in the hall behind me as far as her curling iron could reach. “Anything interesting going on at school today?” she asked.
“No,” I said. There was nothing interesting on the news, either—no new deaths in town, at least, which was usually all I cared about. “Do you really think Forman wants to see me for another deposition?”
Mom paused for a moment, silent behind me, and I knew what she was thinking—there were things we still hadn’t told the police about what happened that night. When a serial killer comes after you, that’s one thing, but when that serial killer turns out to be a demon, and melts away into ash and black sludge right before your eyes, how are you supposed to explain that without getting thrown into an asylum?
“I’m sure they just want to make sure they have everything right,” she said. “We’ve told them everything there is to tell.”
“Everything except the demon who tried to—”
“We are not going to talk about that,” said Mom sternly.
“But we can’t just pretend—”
“We are not going to talk about it,” said Mom. She hated talking about the demon, and almost never acknowledged it out loud. I was desperate to discuss it with someone, but the only person I could share it with refused to even think about it.
“I’ve already told him everything else twenty-seven times,” I said, flipping to another new channel. “He’s either suspicious or he’s an idiot.” The new channel was as dull as the last one.
Mom thought for a moment. “Are you thinking bad thoughts about him?”
“Oh, come on, Mom.”
“This is important!”
“I can do this myself, Mom,” I said, putting down the remote. “I’ve been doing this myself for a very long time. I don’t need you reminding me constantly about every little thing.”
“Are you thinking bad thoughts about me now?”
“I’m starting to, yes.”
I rolled my eyes. “You look very nice today,” I said.
“You haven’t even seen me since you turned on the TV.”
“I don’t have to say sincere things, just nice things.”
“Sincerity will help, though—”
“You know what will help,” I said, standing up and taking my empty bowl into the kitchen, “is for you to stop bugging me all the time. Half the bad things I think about are caused by you breathing down my neck every second of the day.”
“Better me than somebody else,” she called from the hallway, unfazed. “I know you love me too much to do anything drastic.”
“I’m a sociopath, Mom, I don’t love anybody. By definition.”
“Is that an implicit threat?”
“Oh for the—no, it was not a threat. I’m leaving.”
I stepped back into the hallway, staring at her in frustration. We recited it again: “Today I will think good thoughts and smile at everyone I see.” I picked up my backpack, opened the door, then turned around and looked at her one last time.
“You do look very nice today,” I said.
“What was that for?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Copyright © 2010 by Dan Wells
All rights reserved.
Edited by Moshe Feder
A Tor Book
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
Its a strange coincidence that son of sams alleged first killing was a girl named michelle forman? And son of sam is who john names his dark side after
This story, in my opinion, has all the best of the first story while strengthening some of the weaknesses in the first. As much as I loved the confrontation scenes in the book, my favorite scene has to be where John goes through the embalming process. On the surface that scene should be useless filler, however I think it really helps get into John's head and helps the reader understand why (usually) the embalming process calms him and helps keep him from doing what he shouldn't. Another thing I loved about this book was all the interaction between Brooke and John. Part of me was rooting for them to get together, while the sane and sensible part of me was wanting her to stay as far away from him as possible. All told, a wonderful book I would more than likely read again.
Wells, D. (2010). Mr. Monster. New York: Tor.Appetizer: Things have calmed down since the events of I Am Not a Serial Killer. There haven't been any more murders and the people in Clayton are starting to relax. Even though John knew the fate of the killer before anyone else, he's still having his own problems. He broke down the wall that kept his dark impulses under control. Mr. Monster is out now and is urging John to do more violence.But then, another body, a girl this time, is found and it looks like the town has another killer. John fears that the dead girl is a message. A message for him.He must deal with the new killer, with trying to keep Mr. Monster in check and, most surprisingly of all, going on a date with a neighbor girl, Brooke, the girl he has been trying to control his obsession with for months.I really liked John's struggle with trying to date Brooke. It was a good challenge for John. *Spoiler for mid-book in this paragraph* I also liked the drama involving John's sister, who is dating an abusive egotistical guy who reminds John of his father. It was an interesting trigger for John's murderous impulses and for insights into the family's past. Although, after John sees a bruise on his sister's face and has to vent his anger, I really hated who is hurt by John's rage. It was a sad enough scene that I almost wanted to stop reading. *End spoiler*I have to admit, Mr. Monster included a lot of dark aspects that won't be for every reader. Reader, be warned.The third and final book in this trilogy, I Don't Want to Kill You, will be out at the end of March. You can pretty much count on the fact that I will be picking it up, wanting to know what happens to John and his many demons.Yet again, I am left feeling like I know way too much about human embalming. I am off to read a book that involves less death. *glances around at YA dystopian, vampire and zombie trends* Assuming there are any light books left out there.Dinner Conversation:"I want to do a lot of terrible things, and it's just easier to come to terms with that side of me by pretending it's someone else--it's not John who wants to cut his mother into tiny pieces, it's Mr. Monster. See? I feel better already.But here's the problem: Mr. Monster is hungry. Serial killers often talk about a need--some driving urge that they can control at first, but that builds and builds until it's impossible to stop, and then they lash out and kill again. I never understood what they were talking about before, but now I think I do. Now I can feel it, deep in my bones, as insistent and inevitable as the biological urge to eat or hunt or mate.I've killed once, and it's only a matter of time before I kill again." (p. 12)."For my sixteenth birthday I got a dead body to play with: Mrs. Soder, the oldest woman in Clayton County, finally died. The corpse was laid out on the stainless steel embalming table, the body bag removed and the body motionless. It had died in the hospital, and they'd shipped it to us in a hospital gown. This made it a lot easier; rather than wrestle with real clothes, or try to get the family's permission to cut them off, we could just snip a tie here and there and have the hospital gown off in seconds. The embalming would be almost too easy--I wanted to take as much time as possible, so I could really enjoy it" (p. 76)."For me, embalming was a form of medication; it brought a sense of peace that I had never found in any other aspect of my life. I loved the stillness of it, the quietness. The bodies never moved or yelled; they night fought or left. The dead simply lay there, at peace with the world, and let me do whatever I needed to do. I was in control of myself.I was in control of them." (p. 79)."They found the second woman's body on Saturday, lying in a ditch on Route 12, covered with a similar array of torture wounds. It was the same place where the Clayton Killer's second victim was found, less than ten feet from the ex
Wow. I am a big fan of Dan Wells. I Am Not A Serial Killer, to which this novel is a sequel, was one of my very favorite books I've read this year. Since this is a sequel, it lacked a bit of the freshness I enjoyed in IANASK - we've seen inside John Cleaver's twisted mind once already, so it isn't new - but it's still a fascinating world. And John has an even more difficult time battling with his inner demon - Mr. Monster - since he let him out to deal with Mr. Crowley last time. Once I reached the middle of the book, the plot took a great twist and I stayed up all night reading, unable to put it down! Wells definitely knows how to creep out his readers. The villain in this one is quite different from Mr. Crowley, and, if possible, more terrifying. Mr. Monster is also clearly the second book in a trilogy; the final installment is set up very nicely at the end of this one, and I can't wait to read it! Highly recommended!
From my blogI am in love with this horrifying sociopath, lol. John Clever is a great character indeed. We are introduced to Mr. Monster in this sequel to I am not a Serial Killer. John has serial killer tendencies, he actually dreams about violence. He is more comfortable in the mortuary with his mom, the family embalming business, he is like a kid with candy when waiting for the bodies to arrive. Most people are uncomfortable with dead bodies but when bodies start showing up John is always around. Why is this? Is someone sending John a message, is it coincidence or is John the killer, you will enjoy this thrill ride trying to figure it out.I enjoyed the beginning reminding me why I enjoyed I am not a Serial Killer and then BANG, it all comes to a head and I can't stop reading. I am wow'd with this series. John lives by rules in order to not become a serial killer and he does fight and try to be good. One of his rules is to not look or stalk females, especially Brooke who he really likes and she is so intrigued with him, she likes him too. I enjoyed this part of the story also. Dark and twisted, even horrifying but then a touch of cute.I highly recommend this series, so glad the next in the series just came out. I recommend to read this series in order. The important thing to remember about me is I love stand alone's, I want it all but I have truly enjoyed this series, I feel complete at the end but Dan Wells makes me excited for what is next, the last sentence, OMG. I want more, yes I do.Note - there is a disturbing scene regarding animal cruelty, some may not be able to handle this.
The 2nd book in the series starts off several months after the events in the first book. John Wayne Cleaver is still struggling to keep his inner beast inside. He is a sixteen year old sociopath, who could become a serial killer at any moment. He knows what he is, but doesn't want to be what he is destined to become. The character is so fleshed out and real, this is a compliment to the talents of Dan Wells. He makes you care about this kid and feel his anguish. The ending is a set up for the next novel. I can't wait.
By the end of I Am Not a Serial Killer John Cleaver, teen psychopath with a heart of gold, had allowed himself to unleash the monster within just long enough to defeat the demon that had been plaguing John's small hometown. As Mr. Monster opens, six months later, John has been working extra hard--with the unwanted but enthusiastic help of his mom--to follow the rules he long ago created to help him tamp down the killer inside him (which he's dubbed "Mr. Monster"). He's afraid to go to sleep at night because of the nightmares that plague him, but he does get an awful lot of reading in.He's even making tentative stabs at normality, using the clunker of a car his mom got him to drive Brooke, the girl of his nightmares dreams to school everyday. Of course, his rules are so elaborate that he doesn't even allow himself to look at what Brooke's wearing when she's sitting beside him in the car (because when he does he can't help but remember those nightmares, in which he has her on a slab in the family mortuary), but it's a start. But bodies will start piling up in small towns with an attraction for serial killers (supernatural or otherwise), and once again, here they are. Young women, this time, strangers to the town, but definitely dead...and horribly abused before their deaths. John, who's been called regularly into the office of FBI Agent Forman who has for some reason set up shop in town after the killings of the previous year, is once again intrigued; on one of his visits for "follow-up" questioning he attempts to elicit information from Forman, who is surprisingly forthcoming.Hmm.Dan Wells has written a sequel which is every bit as good as its predecessor. In fact, though John's investigations into the killings and subsequent discovery of the killer are good--particularly the climactic sequence, which involves prisoners, torture, and a woman bricked up in a wall--what's even better is Wells's peek into the mind of an adolescent boy struggling simultaneously with his first real crush and keeping his psychopathic inner self under control.
Disturbing, but quite good.
I was very pleased with this sequel to Dan Wells' book, I Am Not a Serial Killer. It is just as funny, dark, scary, and compelling as the first one. This one takes place about six months after, and John Wayne Cleaver, his family, and community, are recovering from the aftermath of the Clayton Killer. John Cleaver calls his inner monster, Mr. Monster, and it has now been unleashed. It knows now what it means to kill and John must struggle to quell the monster inside him. Although marketed for young adults, his struggle is very adult, his actions have meaning and consequences; his inner struggles are very real. Now he must go on as normal, while pretending to be normal and have a girlfriend, dealing with his mom and wayward sister, and interacting with federal agent who is trying to get to the bottom of the Clayton Killer mystery. This is a very compelling book that read non-stop in one night. I highly recommend reading both this book and I Am not a Serial Killer.
Books do not have an excuse to fall flat in the second novel. These are not movies, and arc to the next story. They need to stand strong, or stronger, than the predecessor to hold interest. This one did not fail. This novel explored Mr. Monster a bit better and the character was flushed out the way he should have been in the first novel. John ends up in another predicament with a demon, but where I was wondering how they would link another demon to the small Clayton County, Wells manages to do just that seamlessly and without the reader ever questioning how John keeps coming in contact with demons. John shows he does have a caring heart while he battles his darker side and that he is not the unemotional boy he continued to claim he was in the first one. This is a boy with feelings, though the feelings are torn. He is a much better character in this story and I lost the need to compare him to other unemotional psychopaths and found he stood on his own. Brava.
Sequel to Wells' I Am Not a Serial Killer, featuring teenage sociopath who wants to be a good guy, John Wayne Cleaver. The plot here isn't as substantial as in the first one, although it does feature at least one interesting twist. The real antagonist here is John's dark side, "Mr. Monster", which it turns out is not exactly easy for him to put away after being forced to let it out for the events of the previous book. I found this installment a lot darker and more disturbing than that one -- which isn't necessarily a bad thing. The fact that Wells somehow manages to make John simultaneously sickening and sympathetic is really kind of impressive.
I enjoyed Wells follow up to I Am Not a Serial Killer more that the first book. I think partly because I was aware of the supernatural undertones already. While I love I Am Not a Serial Killer, I was reading it thinking it was a Dexterish serial killer novel, and then when he veered into the supernatural I was a little unprepared. So my enjoyment wasn't as full as it could have been. Mr. Monster I enjoyed more because I knew what I was getting into now and could fully appreciate it. Overall am very interested with where he is going with this series and look forward to the third book.
You would think by the title of this book, that it would be about a sociopath. The book is about a sociopath, but in a more intriguing way. Dan Wells does a spectacular job of describing the thoughts of a sociopath, but he twists things to a certain degree to not make him a serial killer; adding in demons and the supernatural. This is a series well worth the read.
There were many surprises in this book that I never thought were coming so be prepared!
The book was hard to put down. I was introduced to the series with the third book, and went back to read the first two. The way Wells develops the depth of his characters, the depth of his research and the richness of his scenes, makes this a entertaining and slightly disturbing read.
Well written. Dan Wells is talented and an author who fully researches the subject matter of his stories. I have never been disappointed by his talent. There is mystery in life. In all things. I believe in evil. Do I believe in demons? I haven't decided yet. I hope that I never find out for sure. I am confused about the readers who find a conflict with the genre of these novels. I'm not confused and I don't believe Dan Wells is confused either. There is a touch of fantasy in his stories. Why is that a problem? These are fictional novels. I know they may at first glance look like psycho murder mysteries but wonderfully enough they are s much more than that. They can make you question reality. His other series is full of science technology dealing with robot humans. Nanotechnology I think is the term. Those novels are just as much sci-fi as these are. I have loved every novel he has written. He writes fiction. In a fictional story anything can happen. I was taken by surprise by the demon in the first novel of this series. Pleasantly so. ;) I love fantasy. I was reading this series because Dan Wells is a great writer and I had just finished his other series "Partials" and loved it. I found his style and talent for telling a story that captivates the reader wonderful. His character developement flawless. I wanted to be entertained by someone who wouldn't disappoint. So I did what anyone who reads a lot would do. I spent my money on a sure thing. More books by Dan Wells. Thank you Mr. Wells. Please keep writing. I have been reading for years and I loved it that you took me by surprise with the demon angle. Seldom are there those kind of surprises for me. Keep writing. Thank you again for all the entertainment you have given me. Sanna7125
Mr. Monster/John Cleaver is well written by Dan Wells. While the series has more than a little genre confusion, the main character is interesting enough that it almost doesn't matter. This book was a fun, suspenseful and easy read.
Mr. Monster is the second of three books about John Cleaver. The first book reminded me a bit of the Dexter books in an off-handed way. (Not the TV show.) This book shows that it can hold its own with adult readers. I dont usually read YA books. This one was worth it. Very well written. Good pace. Intense in the right places. The character constantly struggles with his inner demons while fighting real ones in human guise. Complex storyline without being overly complicated. John Cleaver is a fascinating character. I would love to read an ongoing series featuring him. The subject matter in this book is not for children. Mature teens and adults may enjoy it. Highly recommeded. I thought it was a great and intense book. Keep it up, Mr. Wells! -AvidReader
This was a fun little read about a teen who is saddled with dealing with demons and other things that go "bump in the night." A little intense during the embalming scenes. I would recommend reading this three-book series in order just to keep the chronology and teen romance thread straight.