By Mo Hayder
A born skeptic, journalist Joe Oakes believes every thing has a rational clarification. He makes a residing exposing supernatural hoaxes, but if he visits a distant Scottish island and a secretive spiritual group accused of Satanism, every little thing he thinks he is familiar with is overturned. What has occurred to Pastor Malachi Dove, the chief of the group? Why will nobody speak about the unusual apparition noticeable wandering the lonely shorelines of Pig Island? The solutions will lead Oakes to a disagreement and a bloody aftermath that strength him to query even if he is probably not accountable for a bad crime. during this compulsive and irritating novel, Britain's " Queen of Fear" dares her readers to stand their terror head-on.
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Extra resources for Pig Island
I’m in a floating pile of junk. Useless as I am, maybe I belong here. What original use the junk may have had is not obvious. Some of it seems to have been alive—animals of a sort, leaking life blood—but nothing I see is familiar. An odd feeling comes back to me, however. I’ve done this before. I know from weightless. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. I’ve practiced this sort of maneuver before, often—in Dreamtime. Large masses remain dangerous even when weightless—they can crush.
The team rearranges, and together, despite my clinging, desperate hands, they drop me into a roaring tunnel. I fly through. The tunnel opens like the bell of a trumpet to a bigger space. A moist, lateral wind has taken hold of me. I’m flying. I look back and see the team of three flow one by one into the chasm. I can’t see the girl, but the three are about fifty meters behind me. We move along at the same speed. The opening vanishes behind us in the murk. The bigger space is dimly illuminated. I can finally see that it’s a conduit—another curved, circumnavigating tube, but broader, deeper.
Finally, despite the bitter cold, we all just lie flat on the smooth floor, our weight increasing, giving us better purchase. Besides, the floor is warmer than the wind. I’m almost at eye level with the omnipresent little glowing beads that faintly illuminate everything. Glims. Glim lights. The whole chamber is spinning up—or the entire Ship. I don’t know which or why in either case. I’m sick of it. All of it. If this is the way life is going to be, then I’m ready to chuck it all and freeze. But my body disagrees.