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3.7 3
by Ramsey Campbell

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The bookstore's shelves are put in order every night, but every morning, books are found lying all over the floor, many damp and damaged beyond repair. The store's computers keep acting up, and even when the machines are off, they seem to glow with a spectral gray light.

Things soon go from bad to worse. A salesclerk abruptly loses his ability to read. One


The bookstore's shelves are put in order every night, but every morning, books are found lying all over the floor, many damp and damaged beyond repair. The store's computers keep acting up, and even when the machines are off, they seem to glow with a spectral gray light.

Things soon go from bad to worse. A salesclerk abruptly loses his ability to read. One employee accuses another of making sexual advances. A hit-and-run in the parking lot claims a life. The security monitors display half-seen things crawling between the stacks.

Desperate to pass a company inspection, the manager musters his staff for an overnight inventory. When the last customers reluctantly depart, leaving almost-visible trails of slime shining behind them, the doors are locked, sealing the staff inside for a final orgy of shelving.

The damp, grey, silent things that have been lurking in the basement and hiding in the fog may move slowly, but they are inexorable. This bookstore is the doorway to a hell unlike any other.

Editorial Reviews

From the Publisher
Acclaim for The Overnight

"Rich and evocative prose serves to wrap scenes in a dense miasma of disturbing images and shadowy shapes. A high water mark of horror."

Publishers Weekly (starred review)

"Slice-of-life characters and fast-paced plotting give a cinematic feel to this tale of modern terror."—Library Journal

"Psychologically intense, this well-crafted horror tale isn't for the faint of heart."—Romantic Times BookClub Magazine

"Ramsey Campbell's gift is his ability to transform the profoundly mundane into the profoundly dreadful. The sketches of each character are vivid. The supernatural menace of The Overnight is splendidly vicious, malignant, and vague. The menace manifests itself in a deliciously sly way. The Overnight is a worthy addition to Campbell's mythic body of work."—Michael Marano on SciFi.com

Acclaim for The Darkest Part of the Woods

"A gripping horror extravaganza. A richly textured tale of modern horror, it confirms Campbell's reputation as one of the most formidable dark fantasists working today."—Publishers Weekly (starred review)

"Campbell's masterpiece. Magically fresh and memorable."—Kirkus Reviews

"This satisfyingly nasty mood piece has one starting at shadows and attending to odd noises in the dark."—Booklist

"Some of the imagery here is among Campbell's most disturbing. One of the most unsettling voices in horror literature, back in fine, eerie form with The Darkest Part of the Woods."—Fangoria

"Pure dark magic. Amongst the infinite variety on the menu of horror, this is haute cuisine."—Cemetery Dance

The Washington Post Book World
"A creepy, sometimes blackly funny account of a haunted bookshop. A distinctly contemporary spin on the traditional tale of terror."

Romantic BookClub Magazine
"Psychologically intense, this well-crafted horror tale isn't for the faint of heart."

Michael Marano on SciFi.com
"The supernatural menace is splendidly vicious and malignant. The Overnight is a worthy addition to Campbell's mythic body of work."

Denver Post
"A deliciously creepy bookstore nightmare."

The Barnes & Noble Review
This horror novel by acclaimed fright master Ramsey Campbell takes place in a setting that is decidedly not scary: a large American chain bookstore that has just opened a location in a new strip mall in England. But when the staff pulls an overnight shift to get the store ready for an important visit from the home office, strange things start to happen -- and booksellers begin to die.

Woody Blake is the manager of the new Texts bookstore that just opened up off the expressway in Fenny Meadows. The overenthusiastic American expatriate is trying his best to motivate his British staff and increase flagging sales, but with little success. When it is announced that corporate suits from the States are coming for a visit, Woody decides to schedule his staff for an overnight shift of coffee-powered restocking and straightening. But when the night doesn't go as planned -- the power goes out, Woody gets locked in his office, and a soupy, almost sentient, fog surrounds the store -- being a bookseller suddenly becomes a life-and-death affair. Based in large part on Campbell's own retail experience at a large chain bookstore, The Overnight will not only appeal not only to horror aficionados but also to anyone who has ever worked in a bookstore...the endless shelving, unusual hours, irritating customers, book signings with self-absorbed authors, etc. Longtime fans of Campbell (The Doll Who Ate His Mother, The Face That Must Die, etc.) will undoubtedly enjoy this aptly titled novel, which could quite easily keep readers up overnight. Paul Goat Allen
Library Journal
Woody has come from America to England to manage a new branch of Texts, a book megastore. At first, only small things seem to go wrong: machinery malfunctions, books are misplaced, and the ubiquitous fog seems to seep into workday communications. When a staff member dies from a hit-and-run accident and another loses the ability to read, events take a more sinister turn, culminating in an overnight stock party to prepare the store for its visiting owners-or to bring everyone together for an evening of terror. The prolific Campbell excels in displaying the horror of the everyday. His slice-of-life characters and fast-paced plotting give a cinematic feel to this tale of modern terror. For most horror collections. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Amusingly damp horror in a fog-bound British bookstore. Don't touch that shelf! Despite his many titles and high standing among lovers of babbling madness, Campbell (The Darkest Part of the Woods, 2003, etc.) reveals in his acknowledgments that he found himself short-funded in March 2001 and went to work at a British branch of Borders. He avers that none of the folks in his novel resemble fellow book-shelvers met during those days in the darkest part of the royalty woods. Woody Blake, an American manager for Texts bookstores who has put shops shipshape in New Orleans and Minneapolis, has now been sent to Fenny Meadows Retail Park in northern England to open a giant new Texts store. In the States, such haunts are usually built on an Indian burial ground, but this one is on a fenny meadow-which means things get very misty. And that's not all. Overnight, books leap from their rightful shelf to that opposite. They resist nightly tidying up after closing hour and lie splayed about come morning. People order books, but orders vanish from computer screens or the book lands among the discards, its inner pages lost and print blurry. Blurry print spreads like a virus. Books get grubby, damp, slimed. Weird damp fog-things (well, squat gray jellies) slurp about the aisles at night. A hit-and-run kills store worker Lorraine in the car park. Another worker, mind-wiped, can no longer make sense of words. And now the bosses are coming for a Christmas-rush inspection of Woody's work. Horrors: this calls for an overnight with the whole staff pitching in to put the store in order. Power fizzles, something invades and blurs the grey computer screens. And can the inspectors even find the shop in the soddenfog on this sinking soggy tarmac? The mud, the mud! Whole villages long ago sank from sight right here. An appealing little fancy. Display this upfront.

Product Details

Tom Doherty Associates
Publication date:
Edition description:
First Edition
Product dimensions:
4.14(w) x 6.74(h) x 1.13(d)

Read an Excerpt


What time Is this supposed to be? He seems hardly to have slept but already there’s the travel alarm. No, it’s the cordless phone that comes with the house and is forever wandering off. The muffled shrilling makes him feel jet-lagged all over again, though it’s months since he moved to England. He sprawls out from under the quilt that’s meant to protect him from the northern English weather, only to find he’s left the phone downstairs. A robe would be welcome, but the tag is twisted around the hook on the door and the phone may not wait Maybe it’s Gina thinking it’s daytime this side of the ocean. Maybe she’s decided to give his bookstore a chance after all.
He slaps the switch for the barely shaded light and tramps fast out of the room and down the stairs that aren’t quite as wide as a telephone booth. Banisters slick with chilly paint the colour of old teeth creak a warning not to lean on them too hard. The globe over the stairs spends most of its energy just being yellow. He wouldn’t have thought, until he walked on it barefoot, that a carpet could be so cold, but it can’t compete with the linoleum in the kitchen. The phone isn’t in there either. At least renting a house so small nobody except Brits would want to own it means there aren’t many places for a phone to hide.
It’s in the front room, by the chair facing the television that has so few channels it doesn’t even need a TV Guide. The stale chocolate curtains are drawn, and he switches on the pink-shaded light on the way to the chair. The phone isn’t by it, it’s down the side, and what else is he dredging up? A candy wrapper decorated with hair and fluff, a greenish coin so old he doubts it’s legal. He turns on the phone with his other hand. “Woody Blake.”
“Is that Mr Blake?”
Did he dream he just told the man that? “You got me, sure enough.”
“Mr Blake the manager of Texts?”
By now Woody has shaken the sticky paper off his fingers into the dented wastebasket embellished with the same florid paper as the walls. He risks perching his unprotected rear on the edge of the prickly armchair. “That’s what I am.”
“It’s Ronnie on patrol at Fenny Meadows Retail Park. We’ve got an alarm at your shop.”
Woody’s on his feet. “What kind?”
“Could be false. We need someone to check.”
“I’m on my way.”
He’s already past the shadows a flight of plaster ducks left on the stairway wall. Half a minute in the bathroom takes some of the pressure off, and then he’s back into clothes that have borrowed a chill from the building. He adds the overcoat that was heavy enough for the Minnesota winter and slams the lumbering front door behind him as he steps onto the sidewalk, which is all of six feet wide. Two strides take him to the car he rented, an orange Honda, though it would be white except for the streetlights that make everything look steeped in pumpkin juice from last week’s Halloween. The street—what the Brits call a terrace, houses squeezed together like a red brick concertina with their front windows bulging out—is silent except for him and his orange-tinted breath. The car marks its space with an ochreous cloud before turning one hundred and eighty degrees, past the Flibberty Gibbet pub that apparently used to be called the Hangman and the premises where half the local men seem to spend their days betting on horses. Half a mile of terraces and traffic signals showing him red lights on nobody’s behalf takes him out beyond the houses and the sidewalks, past lush verges where dandelions are flowering late in the year and streetlamps colour evergreens autumnal. Two miles of highway bring him to the motorway, the freeway between Liverpool and Manchester. He’s hardly topped the speed limit when he has to brake for the exit to the retail park.
He’s sure the bookstore has the best position of any business in the half-mile oval. As soon as he drives onto the exit ramp he sees the giant elongated letters spelling TEXTS along the two-storey concrete wall. Fog surrounds the store with a whitish aura. He drives around the outside of the development, past several uncompleted buildings, and through the entrance between the Stack o’ Steak diner and the Frugo supermarket. Trios of saplings planted in strips of grass decorate the blacktop of the parking area. They net Woody’s car with shadows cast by floodlights standing guard over the stores—the Stay in Touch mobile phone showroom, Baby Bunting next to Teenstuff, TVid with its window full of televisions, the Happy Holidays travel agency sharing an alley with his bookstore. An incessant chirping like the cry of a huge maddened nightbird fills his ears as he parks across three spaces in front of the entrance to Texts.
A heavyweight in uniform with a clipboard under his arm plods to meet him. “Mr Blake?” he shouts in a voice as flat as his crew cut and an accent as broad as his earnest humourless face.
“And you have to be Ronnie. Not too long, was I?”
It takes a consultation of his fat black wristwatch and a good scratch of the scalp to let the guard say “Nearly seventeen minutes.”
He’s shouting louder than ever, which together with the squalling of the alarm feels capable of crowding all the intelligence out of Woody’s head. “Let me just …” Woody yells, gesturing at Texts, and types on the keypad between the handles of the glass doors. Two twelve one eleven admits him to the mat that says READ ON! between the security pillars. He taps another code on the alarm panel, which is showing a red light for the sales floor, and then there’s an aching silence except for a tiny shrill buzz he would blame on a mosquito if he were still working in the New Orleans branch. He hasn’t identified the source when Ronnie says “You’ll need to sign my board.”
“Happy to when I’ve checked the store. Will you help?”
The guard is clearly daunted by the sight of half a million books, beginning with the table heaped with Tempting Texts beyond the mat. Woody switches on all the lights in the ceiling tiles and turns left past the counter with the cash registers and the Information terminal. “You could take the other side,” he suggests.
“If anyone’s up to no good I’ll fix them.”
Ronnie sounds eager to manhandle someone. He sets off fast into and out of Travel and History, where Woody noticed through the right-hand window that the shelf-end promotions are due for renewal—he’ll remind Agnes, Anyes as she calls herself, that customers deserve to see something new every time they visit Texts. He’s quickly through Jill’s Fiction and Literature aisles in front of the left window. There’s no hiding place by the side wall full of video cassettes and DVDs and compact discs, and the shelves in the middle of the floor are no taller than his shoulders. Wilf’s section is so tidy you might think nobody had time for Beliefs any more, religions or the occult either, but every book has its reader—that’s another Texts motto that is international now. Meanwhile, Ronnie’s head is dodging back and forth in Jake’s Genre Fiction aisles. “Nothing,” he says as Woody catches his eye, “just books.”
Woody can’t help taking this personally. Nobody should be so unenthusiastic when Texts has a world of books to offer—it bothers him more than the possibility of an intruder. “What kind do you read?” he calls.
Ronnie is in Erotica before he admits “Funny stuff.”
“Humour’s on the side wall.”
Though Woody was playing safe, Ronnie looks as if he’s struggling to the conclusion that it was a joke at his expense, and so Woody turns his attention to the back wall, the children’s section. Some of the alcoves look as if monkeys had been let loose on the shelves. That isn’t how they should be left at the end of the day; he’ll need to have a word with Madeleine. Nobody is lurking behind the chairs in any of the alcoves—it would take a dwarf to do that—but a book is sprawled on its face on the carpet in Tiny Texts. It’s a first reading book with a single-syllable word opposite a picture on each of the pairs of board pages. Surely Madeleine wouldn’t have left it there; perhaps its fall triggered the alarm. Woody checks that it hasn’t been damaged and returns it to its shelf. He has found nothing else unshelved by the time he meets Ronnie beside Tempting Texts.
The guard is poking out his lips at them. Some bestseller appears to have captured his fancy. Woody is about to encourage him when Ronnie slams the clipboard on top of the pile of Ringo by Jingo. “That’s for you, you little pisser.”
However much he hates the Beatles or just the drummer, there’s never an excuse for damaging a book—and then Woody sees what the assault accomplished. A mosquito is twitching its last on the famous nose. Ronnie scrapes the insect off with a thumbnail he wipes on his trousers, leaving a snotty trail under Starr’s left nostril. “It’s all this global warming,” Ronnie mutters. “Weather doesn’t know where it is any more.”
Woody cleans the cover with his handkerchief until there’s no trace of the incident. He’s watching the guard pore over inking a letter on the clipboard sheet when the overhead speakers burst into song. “Goshwow, gee and whee, keen-o-peachy …” It’s the first track on the compact disc that head office provides to liven up the staff when they’re fitting out and stocking a new branch. Woody has to admit it’s one of the few things that make him ashamed to be American, and why has it started up? Perhaps a similar glitch in the power supply tripped the alarm. As he turns off the player behind the counter, Ronnie frowns at it “I liked that,” he complains.
Woody ignores the implicit request while the guard labours over writing and at last passes him the clipboard and a ballpoint fractured by his grasp. FALS ALARM TEXT’S BOOKSHOP 00.28—00.49, says the whole of the inscription, followed by an inkspot. “Thanks for looking after my store,” Woody says as he tries to incorporate the inkspot in the first of his vowels, though this lends it a resemblance to the less blind of a pair of eyes.
“That’s my job.”
He sounds as if he thinks Woody said too much. Maybe he thinks the manager oughtn’t to be so proprietorial. Woody is tempted to reveal this is the first branch he’s managed after working his way up through New Orleans and Minneapolis, but if that didn’t mean enough to Gina, why should it to the guard? It was bad enough that she took a dislike to Fenny Meadows, far worse that she couldn’t say why. Impressions are no use if you can’t or won’t put them into words. No doubt Mississippi is where she ought to stay—this wouldn’t be her kind of weather. “Okay, I guess we’re through for the night,” says Woody, realising too late that Ronnie is nothing of the kind.
Ronnie drags his shadows past the stores and unoccupied properties towards the guards’ hut next to Frugo as Woody resets the alarm. The floodlights sting his eyes until he climbs into the Honda, but he’ll save feeling tired for when his head returns to the pillow. As he speeds onto the slip road, graffiti on the concrete pillars under the motorway meet the headlamp beams, short crude words in primitive letters as giant as the mind behind them is small, he suspects. That’s one breed of customer Texts can manage without, and Woody hopes Ronnie and his colleagues will keep them clear until the store has its own guard. Otherwise he’s sure his staff are up to any challenge, including the Christmas season, however much more experience they would have brought to it if the store had opened in September. He couldn’t have brought that about; the builders overran their schedule. Now he can do everything that’s required, though, and he needn’t expect less of the staff. It doesn’t matter where he lives until he’s happy with the store. Maybe that’s really why Gina decided against working there: she didn’t like sharing his narrow bed, though it didn’t stay cold for long. The possibility brings a wry smile to his lips as he drives onto the motorway and the fog sinks into the glow of the retail park.
Copyright © 2005 by Ramsey Campbell Teaser copyright © 2006 by Ramsey Campbell

Meet the Author

Ramsey Campbell is one of the world's most renowned and honored horror writers. He has won more British Fantasy and World Fantasy Awards than he has fingers, plus three Bram Stoker Awards. Campbell is the author of such classic works of horror and dark fantasy as Obsession, The Fact That Must Die, The Nameless, Incarnate, and The Influence, and more recent novels, The Darkest Part of the Woods and Nazareth Hill. His short fiction has been collected in several volumes include Alone With the Horrors and Scared Stiff. Campbell lives with his wife, Jenny, in Merseyside in England.

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The Overnight 3.7 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 3 reviews.
harstan More than 1 year ago
American based Texts Bookstores opened up a superstore in Fenny Meadows Retail Park in northern England. However, the store has failed to live up to expectations. Yank Woody Blake, who has successfully turned around stores in New Orleans and Minneapolis, is sent to fix the English shop built on the fens....................... During closing hours, books jump from shelves even landing in the discard pile and the fen reclaims the store every night leaving inventory wet, oily and yucky. With the suits arriving to inspect his progress, Woody orders an all-nighter to get the store ready. However, he and his employees learn first hand who the anti-bibliophiles are. Slimy blobs come out of the fog that has engulfed Texts Bookstore and the electricity blacks out. The outside doors are locked by some other force with no way to exit and Woody is further sealed in his office that might be his tomb as the store is sinking just like whole villages have vanished here before....................... Fans of Ramsey Campbell and anyone who has worked at a bookstore will appreciate this tongue in cheek horror tale that grips the audience the moment readers grasp that this is not just another retail establishment. Woody is a fabulous protagonist who serves as the focal point holding the thriller together (someone has to ¿ try pinning jello blobs to a wall). He and his staff portray working at a bookstore so well and his transformation from save the store ultra-energy to trapped mouse is cleverly handled as in between he sees all sorts of the nasties occur to his staff. Mindful of Poltergeist but with humor, Mr. Campbell provides a delightful tale that will ironically leap off the bookshelves............... Harriet Klausner
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
After 500 pages of undeveloped characters squabbling over every mundane detail of the bookstore, I could take no more. Stilted dialogue, lack of any sense of intrigue or suspence. Cured my insomnia though, which earned it a star.
Cat_Cavendish More than 1 year ago
I love bookshops. I love the feel of being surrounded by books. They transport you into worlds you would otherwise never visit. Ramsey Campbell worked, for a couple of years, in a branch of Borders, in Cheshire and his inside knowledge of the mundane routines of shelf-stacking and stock rotation are put to good use here. Especially when things start to happen during the performance of those daily tasks. It starts with a fog. seemingly innocuous enough at first - well, the store is on a retail park called Fenny Meadows - marshland all around providing a magnet for low lying, swirling mists. But this fog persists, it gets worse. It invades, insinuates itself and provides a highly effective cloak for whatever is lurking in its shadowy depths. The author builds the plot and characters deliciously. A mysterious death, staff behaving oddly - or are they? Wonderful tension between the characters that we can all relate to in a working environment. The action moves forward. By now there can be no doubt in the reader's mind that something is about to go horribly wrong for the staff of Texts. Then comes the overnight shift... Wonderful reading. Highly recommended.