Winter-Kill

By Les Rendelstein

Syracuse Universitys 1960 Homecoming: The big game, dreamscape posters, voodoo-curse legends, and hyper-inebriation all swirl together for an unforgettable weekend. For Bud Elstein its even more. Its the beginning of his love affair with red-headed, sharp-witted and curvacious Carlee Stecher.

The affair, however, is not to last. By the next winter, Buds life and circumstances change radically. In this riveting, fast-paced tale based on actual history, his romantic dreams of both career and Carlee skid off the tracks. He loses her, quits college, and falls into the corruption of a mid-sized American city drowning in graft, gambling, bribery, coercion, prostitution, and murder.

Buds closest friend, Dave Nelligan, with whom hes worked in the local numbers and policy rackets, is murdered. Seeking vengeance and justice, Bud devises a plan to entice the suspected killerand rival for Carlees loveinto a midnight duel in a deserted park. Resorting to antique pistolsrumored to have been used 100 years before in a deadly shooting by an aggrieved loverthe two face-off against each other in a howling blizzard.

Once shots are fired, supernatural forces are released. What are they? Where are they from? How can Bud deal with them and with gamblers bent on killing him? Can he rescue Carlee from the police whove jailed her, and himself from horrible demons in sudden confrontation? Against terrible odds, his life and the life of the city depend upon his actions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jul 21, 2014
• ISBN: 9781458216205

Les Rendelstein

Les Rendelstein, a graduate of Syracuse University and the UCLA Theater Arts writing program, is the award-winning writer and director of twenty-three dramatic informational films and the author of Private Parts (MGM/Warner Home Video) and Stay Tuned for Terror. He was also a staff writer and director for the New York Life Insurance Company.

Book preview

WINTER-KILL

A Novel

by

LES RENDELSTEIN

36646.png

Copyright © 2014 Les Rendelstein.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Abbott Press

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.abbottpress.com

Phone: [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1620-5 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1619-9 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014909253

Abbott Press rev. date: 7/18/2014

CONTENTS

Acknowledgements

Flash-Foreword

Part 1 On The Hill

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

Part 2 Downtown

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

Part 3 Demons

30

31

32

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Special thanks to my wife Barbara, Ron Pies, and Jill Fulmer for their insights, sharp-eyed proof-reading, and encouragement. Sincere appreciation to Millie and Mickey Gurny for their reviews and college reminiscences. Heartfelt thanks to Jack Holodak, Kathy DeMeo, Janet Schoor, Tania Eicoff, Paul Kurzon, Ann Kiel, and Barbara Erlichman for their critiques and support.

FLASH-FOREWORD…

A s the brief merciful shroud of sleep fell away, I desperately needed to scratch the persistent torturous itching. In my cell, it was difficult to see anything with only the distant night-light flickering weakly through the bars, but I certainly heard them. I knew from all the previous mornings over the past months it wasn’t bedbugs, or some kind of allergy. The probable cause was far more terrifying. I hadn’t seen them since the game, but from their strange restless movement, the spooky high pitched screeching and low yelping sounds coming from up in the corner close to the metal ceiling, I was sure something far worse threatened.

Dawn crept in as gloomy light from my one tiny, elevated and barred window slowly inched its way across the steel wall. The narrow ledge, though, was dark and would remain so for another hour. Still, driven by the itching and the creepy din, I had to see more. I had to know for sure so, if necessary, I could scream for help—whatever good that might do. Barefoot, I balanced at full height on the free-standing bed with its rickety metal legs. The ledge was perhaps nine feet above the floor, the ceiling about 10 but, sinking into the mattress, I wasn’t high enough yet. I put my foot one further step up onto the metal tray bolted to the wall over one end of the bed, and tested. Immediately, it folded down almost vertically under my weight. Now, in desperation to see, and goaded by the itching, I cleverly lifted and leaned the bed on end against the wall, then climbed it like a ladder using its wire-like, sagging springs as rungs, which of course cut painfully into my feet.

Still, the sound, but nothing visible. I did, however, after teetering precariously, finally manage to pull the whole damned bed upside down on top of me crashing my head against the wall and my back onto the hard floor. I lay there for several minutes, not out cold but—dizzy and in pain—close to it. As I struggled to clear my head, turn over and pull the mattress off, I suddenly heard the familiar morning rattle of keys. Arms flailing, I squirmed half out of the wreckage just as Marvin, my guard—a heavyset black man with a long scar across one cheek, the only human being I’d been in contact with for months—entered with my breakfast tray. Stopping short, pushing back his army fatigue cap, he looked around, startled at the mess and my position in it.

Hey man! What in hell? …Git on your feet! he barked angrily like the top sergeant he once was. Now!"

I finally found a way to scramble up. Mornin, Marvin. Marvin shook his head in total disbelief.

Sorry, I said. Got the itchies. Thought I saw bedbugs.

"Ain’t no bedbugs in here, white boy! he said, highly indignant as if I’d insulted both his meticulous jail housekeeping and his honor. Pick up the muthafuckin’ bed!"

I did as I was told, replacing the mattress at the same time. Then, with his foot, he shoved it back to the wall, finally dumping the already cold gruel directly on it. Eat up!

My head aching and still spinning, I sat down with a loud, sagging bedspring creak next to the cold smelly mess on the bunched-up blanket. Hey Marvin, where’s Shelby? I’d asked that same question every morning, and every morning he ignored it. How about Creiner, where’s he at? Same non-response. Okay, here’s one I’m sure you can answer: Carlee Stecher. Where’s she at?"

He gestured toward my so-called breakfast. …Elstein, you gonna eat that? If not, I’ll git you a bucket and broom.

Yeah, you try eating this crap.

He actually snickered as he went for the door, exited, and came back two minutes later with a dustpan. "Jes pick it up or shovel it in this with your hands. We ain’t got but one broom the county give us, man, and it’s gone.

Big surprise, Marvin. Nobody in here but us crooks.

Watching as I slid the cold oatmeal glop into the pan, he must have felt some pity. That Stiker woman, she the one with red hair? I nodded. He tried to remember: Maybe three. Maybe four…

Four what?

Weeks! She be gone four weeks.

That surprised me, but maybe it meant I’d be released next. So… I’m the only inmate now, that right? He of course didn’t answer. Okay, what about Shelby? How long is he gonna let me stew in here? No hearing; no court appearance; no nothing. Just punishment for what happened at the game, right?

He brightened a little at mention of the game. Ain’t seen Chief Shelby quite a time. Ain’t seen that friend of his with the funny specs neither.

I knew he meant my boss, Otto the bookie, who wore pince-nez glasses clipped to his nose. You know, I informed him, keeping me in isolation like this is illegal. And no lawyer. Nobody in to see me. As he pushed open the door, I had one more thought: Hey, Marv, maybe you could get me something I need. He stopped for a minute, dustpan in hand. What I’d like… What I really need is a pen or pencil and some writing paper, like one of those yellow pads. To illustrate, I made a writing motion on my palm. Anything like that. Tell ‘em I wanna confess." At least, I thought, I could make marks on the wall to record the passage of time.

He looked at me kind of funny, stepped out and, with a loud clang, pulled my steel cage door shut behind him, locking it from the outside. I figured I’d never see a pad or pencil, but I knew it was possible because previous prisoners had scrawled their names, sentence durations, and various curses all over the walls. They, it seemed, had been mostly short-timers here in the Syracuse police lockup, unlike me, for whom they’d thrown away the key.

I lay back rocking on the unsteady creaky bed, hands behind my head, bored even before my long empty day began. Maybe writing some kind of diary, a few notes, would help kill the tedium or—I played with the word—could be some kind of evidence.

That’s when I started to hear those creepy scratching noises again. Demons! Yes, demons I’d already met: lizard-like open-mouthed creatures with big bulging, hooded red eyes… And, of course, along with that very accurate ghastly memory, the horrible itching increased.

I stretched my entire body, trying desperately to see them on the five inch ledge and fell back when I suddenly heard music and an echoing chorus:

Tootsie on a stick,

Tootsie on a stick,

Tootsie on a stick,

Oh won’t you come and take a lick!

Take a lick Lick the stick!

Tootsie on a stick,

Tootsie on a stick,

Orange and grape, lime, banana, and citrus punch.

Tootsie pop, tootsiepop, oh tootsie, tootsie, tootsie Pop!

I shoved myself up, stretching again until finally, on my knees, I could see some movement in the increasing light. Not the demons I expected, but unbelievably, to my absolute shock, at the front of the ledge, through a vision-clouding mist I saw the tiny doll-like figure of a beautiful girl with flaming red hair; a girl I knew well dancing, arms outstretched, twisting, turning, somersaulting! Was I crazy? Was she real? How could she be?

Come and be my tootsiepop, tell you why

Kisses sweeter than cherry pie

And when she does her crazy dance

Man I don’t stand a snowball’s chance…

Oh tootsie, tootsie, tootsie

Oh tootsie, tootsie, tootsie

Call my baby tootsiepop

Tell you why

Cause he’s sweeter than cherry pie.

It reached a crescendo. Not the rock beat, not even my raking fingernails digging deeper into my bleeding scratches, but my anger, my fury welling up from some deep-down unknowable place inside my brain and set loose: an unreasonable, uncontrollable fury at her cart-wheeling, flips and beckoning gestures. My head pounded and whirled, a fog and burning odor consuming the space of my narrow cage-like confines. "Carlee, you bitch!" I screamed. Then, literally, I saw not red, but scarlet, as somewhere inside my head something disintegrated; a partition of some kind dissolved.

As tootsie pop continued; I felt my hand very slowly, almost on its own, reach down. It touched my heavy jail-issued boot under the bed; I grasped it; the burning inside my chest scorching my lungs; the itching transforming into an agonizing orgasm. Utterly enraged yet ready to pass-out, tears running down my cheeks, I screamed again, swinging the shoe to kill, so hard I almost ripped my arm out of its socket. It slammed the wall above the ledge, but I never knew if it actually hit her because, abruptly, she vanished. And, suddenly I lapsed like a deflated balloon into sweet relief. The catharsis had run its course—the searing rage was spent. The itches ceased.

Falling, then, into a coma-like, dreamless sleep I was rudely awakened by something pushed through my bars, dropping and hitting the floor. Marvin had actually found and delivered a long yellow pad and leaky ballpoint pen. And so after much hesitation, I began.

HOO DOOO…WEE DOOO were the first words I wrote, a good beginning I thought, followed by: Syracuse University vs. Colgate. Homecoming, through 1961 a 70 year Central New York college football rivalry: a weekend of tradition, legends and festivities. I stared at the words. Who would ever believe the story I had to tell, which began innocently enough on that November, 1960 Colgate Weekend.…

But finally, even though my work would have to be sporadic, and actually hidden for long periods, the words, did begin to flow: As it almost always was, the legend of the ‘HOO DOO’—a corruption of the word ‘voodoo’— was invoked at the game in a haunting Colgate chant, the reason for which I will presently describe. In return, it provoked an immediate overpowering response from Syracuse fans, rising into the stratosphere far above the outdoor stadium. ‘WEE DOOO’ was meant to cast a counter-spell, to lessen the effects of or negate the ‘HOO DOO’ as year after year it reverberated off crisp fall afternoon clouds or ominous overcast, or through blinding snow concealing the whereabouts of distant goal posts.

An added note: Please understand in advance that what you’re about to continue reading is not a fantasy or the fabrication of a declining mind. It’s about a conflict between two very different worlds existing in each other’s shadows, colliding within the same city, and an incredible account of love, revenge…and murder.

PART 1

ON THE HILL

1

T he first thing I noticed of course was the flaming red hair. Through the choking haze of a smoke-filled room so crammed with live human bodies it made a Tokyo Metro car seem roomy, I watched her calmly sipping rotgut. Somehow in all the joyous, drunken pandemonium swelling around her she remained alert, listening with intense curiosity as if each uttered word might be the key to some timeless, yet incomplete jigsaw of lasting significance. Each detail, it seemed, deserved close examination:

You see him break tackle?

You see Morelli’s 50-yard pass?

With a lateral hooked on the end!

First down and five!

But then stall-city. Could you believe it?

That’s one hell of a defensive line!

But man, you can never say die on the 5-yard line. Like now I’m fifty bucks richer!

Our crowd: all our brothers with dates, alumni, guests, friends, relatives, and who knew who else celebrating our homecoming win were still streaming in, shedding heavy coats, gloves, hats, mufflers… But through it all I kept that unmistakable copper-red ponytail in sight, wondering who she was, who she was with, and how I could talk to her. Not that I was usually turned on so much by redheaded girls; that was only the icing on the cake, the cherry on top of the whipped cream on top of the ice cream. There were other things about her: The way she stood; her casual, detached cool; the way she moved; the way she laughed at some barely audible wisecrack—surveying everything without being obvious. Then, to check the level of my drink, I glanced down for a second…looked back up and she was gone, vanished into the unruly, shifting mob. Or were my senses simply drowning in a tidal wave of rotgut?

"HOO DOO! a single drawn out male voice thundered, answered at once, eerily and lustily, by the entire room: an equally long WEE DOO! And then, as if by magic, a flirtatious smile playing on her lips, she suddenly reappeared right next to me. Could you please explain, she shouted above the uproar, what this crazy hoo doo—wee doo stuff is?"

Tongue-tied for a long minute, I stared down at her—I was tall and she was maybe five-four. I was also usually kind of cool and controlled with girls, although she must have known I’d been observing her. Finally, I shouted back, It’s a legend! An ancient curse…

Ancient curse? Come on.

"No, no. Hoo doo is real. A real phantom."

She started to walk away. All right, if you’re gonna pull my leg I’ll ask someone else.

Wait, hold on. I had to raise and lower my voice along with the constant ebb and surge of shouting all around us, but it actually aided communication. Yelling, I didn’t have to come up with a lot of snappy patter, but to hold her I did need to be quick. It goes way back to ‘07, I think, 1907 when they were building Archbold Stadium. A Colgate student was said to have buried a maroon varsity C sweater in the still wet concrete. And they still believe that sweater holds the spirit of a certain deceased member of their team who will come out and defeat Syracuse single-handed when they call him.

When they yell out Hoo doo, which is like voodoo.

Right!

But why did they bury it in the first place? Did he die from foul play?

Look, you can’t question legends. Ignoring her incredulous stare, I went right on. So when they call out Hoo doo it frees him to run amok unless, of course, we yell back wee doo right away. Right away is important. She listened intently, her light blue eyes serious as I leaned closer to confidentially relate the hocus-pocus. She had the kind of clear, pale complexion only natural redheads possess. …And since then, I concluded, "Syracuse has lost more games to Colgate than we’ve won."

And you believe that wee doo baloney, don’t you? You have scientific proof.

Was she teasing me? You might not think so, but legends have power, and science isn’t always right.

Cocking her head to one side, she grinned impishly. So now what’s the score?

They’re ahead 31 to 26 plus five ties…but we’ve had our moments…like today’s, against the odds.

She looked at the cup in her hand. I guess if you drink enough of this crap you can believe anything, can’t you?

Hey, I made this rotgut. It’s a fraternity tradition.

Suddenly, we were interrupted by a giggling, uncontrollable female laugh. Uh oh… My eyes followed her concerned gaze to a thin girl with a pinched face. Just visible through a forest of legs, she reclined on the floor Cleopatra style as her boyfriend dutifully replaced her royal empty cup with a new one.

You know her? I asked.

That’s my roommate, Robyn. I may have to leave soon and put her to bed.

Evidently Red wasn’t with a date. Looks like Don’s already working on that. Don Bergman, a cherubic looking, husky fellow with glasses was a classmate and pledge-brother of mine.

"So you made this witches’ brew?"

I’m the house bartender, I announced proudly, and by the way, I’m also Bud Elstein."

She sipped her black magic and smiled almost shyly, revealing perfect teeth. And I’m Carlee Stecher. I’ll never forget that moment of actual introduction, the innocent yet engaging blue eyes, and the red hair tied back with a bow framing a striking wide face. Around us, the partiers began to sing as I contemplated the rotgut I’d mixed in three full size 48 quart milk cans already running low. The ingredients included ice, assorted juices, and several cases of bottled gin and vodka.

When the moon turns red with blood

When the moon turns red with blood

Oh lord I want to be in that number

When the saints go marching in.

As Carlee and I joined in, I thought back to a rather strange occurrence that morning. Because of the school’s outmoded, semi-religious, rarely observed ban on alcohol, our post-game cocktail party was held off-campus in this rented, ramshackle old house on Irving Avenue. I was alone blending the ingredients, pouring, mixing and, of course tasting to get it right. I knew it would take a lot of tasting, so I wasn’t surprised to find my first half-cup not exactly up to standard. Something was missing—exactly what, I wasn’t sure, but I started to look for it in the scattered empty cartons and torn brown bags in which all the ingredients had been pre-assembled. I found nothing more until, in a carton I could have sworn I’d searched through earlier, I spied a small innocent-looking box which contained one stoppered bottle of colorless liquid I’d somehow overlooked. The bottle, an old fashioned type found typically in chem labs, had no label or any odor, so I cautiously dipped the tip of my index finger in and licked off several drops. Slightly carbonated. Might make a difference. At any rate, here it was and here I was the executive alchemist already a bit high. Taking a chance, I heroically dumped it all in equal amounts into each milk can and scrambled back as all three suddenly exploded at the same moment belching black volcanic-like smoke into the room. Then, coughing after it all died down, I sipped again, and drank deeply. Now, at last it was perfect! The best rotgut ever!

Oh when the trumpet sounds the call,

Oh when the trumpet sounds the call,

Oh lord I want to be in that number,

When the saints go marching in.

A sudden cheer went up from the crowd as someone offered a toast to the Orange and the Saltine Warrior, and someone else started singing a fight song: The Saltine Warrior is a bold bad man and his weapon is a pigskin ball… The song, never finishing, trailed off into the general chaos.

So you fraternity guys have this great time every weekend. She said it as a fact, not a question.

"Every night, I cracked. Why did her eyes constantly seem to change color: light blue to dark blue, even blue-brown? I looked accusingly at the cup in my hand as I tried to give her a straight answer: Good parties, nice guys… Then, in a blur, over near the door among some newcomers, I suddenly saw my mother, father, and aunt, all up for the weekend, standing frozen and open-mouthed trying to comprehend the bedlam they’d blundered into. In a few seconds, though, they turned, attempted to wave and left. I guessed facing this orgy was a bit much, but I’d see them later anyway.

In fact, as a few brothers began a cursory cleanup, I saw that the room was already starting to empty. Most of the debris, however, was left to the old man who lived in the dump. A strange little character with wisps of hair growing out of his ears, he’d been hovering around all afternoon I suppose to make sure the place didn’t burn down. And, of course, if he could minimally contain damage, he’d come out a few bucks ahead.

Then, as Carlee and I searched the pile for our coats, I had a sudden inspiration: You know, we can continue this conversation sometime if you’d like."

Sure. Love to. She smiled, and now her eyes were twinkling.

Soon, I said.

Soon, she said, swirling the final contents of her cup.

Which dorm you in?

Sims Five.

Okay, I’ll walk you. Maybe it was the drinks. Of course we were high but, looking back, our conversation seemed almost preordained, scripted even. Hey, we’re having a sort of open house tonight. Wanna come?

You’re asking me out? she said.

Yeah… Of course I was.

As we stepped outside, a stiff breeze whipped up and the air held more than a hint of wet snow. So what? Who cared? Didn’t matter… A great game, a great cocktail blast and the day wasn’t over yet. Hearing that same awful giggle some yards behind us as we walked, we turned and saw Robyn, Carlee’s soused roommate, supported by Don Bergman who himself was tilting to starboard and back. Think they need help? I asked.

They need a gallon of coffee, Carlee said. What time’s your open house?

Eight thirty…nine? I’ll come by around a quarter of.

Okay.

And so we walked, learning more about each other while easily outdistancing the weaving slow-boats behind us. As I’d already sensed, she had a quick, inquisitive mind, wanting to know why I’d pledged a fraternity. I explained that at first I actually didn’t want one, nor did I think I could afford it.

So what got you to…

Well, I was curious. Went around during rushing just to see what they were all about, and differences between them.

And this one you liked.

A lot of great guys…

But they all seem kind of restrictive. She gestured at a couple of big houses set back from the street.

She was right. I’d transferred the year before from NYU and found Jewish houses, Gentile houses, jock houses, drinking houses, preppie houses… And there was so much else you could get involved in at Syracuse including sports, student government, committees, and chapel, you name it. I wanted to be part of everything, on every team, in six activities at once; why add the time a fraternity would take? Then I learned that besides a better social life, fraternities had all the influence, could help you get ahead in everything else. So I’d become a pledge the second semester of my sophomore year with three other guys—most had pledged the first semester—and moved into the house at the beginning of that, my junior year.

So all your friends are in one place? Convenient.

I wasn’t sure what she meant.

Well, like ready-made. I’ve heard that it’s hard to stay friendly with someone who pledged another house.

Oh I don’t know… I thought back to my dorm the year before and guys who I now hardly ever saw except in classes sometimes or occasionally on Marshall Street, the shopping strip near campus. But that’s the system…the way it is, I explained. Like some sororities are known for beautiful girls, others have a reputation for brainy girls, some for…"

How about a fra-sorority? she interrupted. Boys and girls together.

I’m with you. And how about coed dorms? She couldn’t quite imagine that, and I continued: So you, you’re not in a sorority?

No, she wasn’t. She was actually a freshman in a two-year Bus-Ad associate degree program toward becoming a Medical Records Librarian. That was a new one, Wow! I thought. She really knows exactly what she wants. But I didn’t say that. Instead, we listened to the sounds of celebration still echoing from blocks away and then closer: car horns honking and noisy street crowds. A few blocks further we walked past giant BEAT COLGATE posters erected on scaffolding in front of Walnut Avenue, Comstock, and Euclid fraternities, extensions of the memorably exciting pre-game scene of traditional pep rallies and marching bands along with raids into enemy territory; maroon C’s and orange S’s shaved into the scalps of students caught trying to light the opposing school’s bonfire.

We parted in front of her dorm. See you later then, she said. But first I gotta eat something… Sober up. I had no idea how tipsy she was until I saw her trying to make it up the front steps.

2

A t 6:30 my parents, Lou and Estelle, and my Aunt Roz came by the fraternity. I showed them around, briefly, because the house was no showplace, my mother wondering out loud if we ever cleaned. We actually had, but her standards were a bit higher than ours. Then we drove over to Tubberts, a restaurant in an old mansion. My mother loved restaurants in old mansions, and this one had a great reputation. While we waited for seating, my father said: That was quite a party this afternoon.

Yeah, it was fun. We do it every year.

Crazy, my mother said, her voice reflecting a kind of suppressed panic. We saw a girl throwing up outside.

Did they have this kind of thing at NYU? my father asked.

Probably, I answered, but I never went to one. Here, you have a big weekend, everybody let’s off a little steam.

Does that mean you have to get plastered? my mother asked.

Of course, I joked, what’s college for, anyway?

Never saw so many people squeezed into one small room… She shuddered. Like the Black Hole of Calcutta.

On the other hand, my father was smiling; giving me the feeling he actually enjoyed the party.

If someone fell down they’d never find the body, my mother persisted.

I had to go out, my aunt Roz said. said. And I understood since she was lame and walked with a cane. When they called our name and showed us to a table upstairs, it was a difficult climb for her, but she made it okay. The game and the weekend celebration which took over the entire campus were of course new kinds of events for them. My older sister—who was engaged—had commuted to downtown NYU from out on Long Island just as I had, our spare time taken up by hours of travel every single day rather than on any extra-curricular activities.

Anyway we enjoyed the dinner, after which my father handed me a sealed envelope. Bud, there’s a check in here for 50 dollars. A wonderful surprise, but when he went to the men’s room, my mother immediately warned me not to take it."

I didn’t want to ask, but I did. Why not?

He insisted you have it, but closings were way down this month. Give it back.

That’s the way they were. She was the practical one, my father more like me. She drove home her point as my aunt, slightly embarrassed, looked the other way. Your sister wants to get married this July or August and… Her voice lowered, I don’t know how we can pay for a wedding or how long we can keep you up here having a good time. My father, a closer for a title company, depended a lot on gratuities from property buyers and sellers, leading him to extend himself financially on income expectations that didn’t always materialize.

When he returned to the table we played a game. I shoved the envelope back to him, but he adamantly shoved it back. Well, I owe the fraternity for the rest of the semester, I said, finally folding it into my pocket. My parents looked at each other uncomfortably. You better tell him, Lou.

Annoyed, my father sighed. There’s still time for that.

Tell him, she insisted.

Tell me what?

She finally took the ball he refused to carry: That this is probably your last year here. We can’t afford anymore.

I was shocked. …But, don’t forget I have a part-time job, I reminded them, referring to the three nights a week I worked at a photo-finishing plant.

Then, suddenly, my father began to assert himself: Look Bud, we know you’re trying. He held up his hand to stop my mother from expounding further. Your marks haven’t been all that bad. Maybe you up them a little; we’ll see what we can do.

I thought my mother would turn blue. "He’s been having fun and we have to finance it."

Forget it Estelle! he thundered loud enough for two nearby waiters to turn around and several diners to look up.

I’ll do better, I said quietly.

I know you will. Don’t spend all your energy on this fraternity stuff. In the end, what pays are those grades.

So dinner was

Reviews for Winter-Kill

[wyvernfriend · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

It lacked a sense of time or space, interesting but didn't really grab me.In a society where everyone depends on everyone else for survival, there are leaders who enforce the rules with an iron fist, Emmeline is coming into adulthood, dealing with a world that confines her and that she strains against and trying to work out what is going on. The suggestion is that it's a place like the depths of Canada with people speaking both French and English and winter is a scary prospect and literacy is rare, and I find Emmeline being educated as a healer and being illiterate doesn't work all that well for me. When Emmeline starts asking questions the answers are going to change her life forever.It's not bad but I didn't really have a sense of time or place from it.

[arkhamreviews · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

I find this novel a little difficult to rate because, for me, it just contained too many "buts".The setting is enchanting and made me curious to learn more about how the settlement came to be but the novel doesn't really offer any answers. I wasn't even sure what time period the novel was set in. The settlement itself seemed rustic but there are hints that higher technology exists in the outside world.The plot builds an intriguing mystery that did keep me turning the pages, however this mystery is very slow burning and padded out with chapters where very little happens. As people have also commented many times, it also takes a lot from The Village. If you've seen this film, the twists of the novel won't come as much of a surprise to you. I also wasn't convinced that there was really a need to have so much French dialogue in the story. As Emmeline has grown up in a dual-linguistic environment, surely she'd be fluent in both languages?The characters are varied. Emmeline gets a lot of development in the novel and was therefore the only character that I really cared about. She starts off the novel feeling ostracised because of her injury and the inherited shame of her wayward grandmother, however gradually comes to see over the course of the story that she is her own greatest critic. But the relationship between her and Kane always seemed forced to me. She falls in love for him at first sight without even knowing his name. Kane was also such a blank slate that there actually felt to be more tension between her and Brother Stockham (who's actions seemed to make less and less sense to me as the story progressed).All in all, I didn't hate this book but there wasn't anything really exceptional about it either. I'd probably give it about 2.5 out of 5 if LibraryThing allowed for half-stars. I do have the second one on my to read pile so perhaps I'll have a look at it in a few months time to see if the series improves.

[tracycampbell-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I was pleasantly surprised to find out the the author lives in Edmonton as I do, so it was great to read a local author. This book was also a 2015 ARCA Finalist. I really enjoyed the story and found Emmeline, the main character, very likeable. Boorman's second book is scheduled for release October 16 and I look forward to meeting her at a local book-signing release event.

[stevealtier · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I was fascinated by the village they lived in, I wanted to learn more what was happing with the council members. Emmeline was a very likeable character, her waywardness was a nice way of saying she didn't follow orders very well. Kate Boorman, Great job! I had a hard time putting this book down. Yes I did order the sequel. Darkthaw, 5 of 5 stars for Winterkill.

[pat2011-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I received this as a review copy. When I first started this book, I wasn't sure I would finish it. As I got into the story it became better and seemed to flow. The village is an isolated village with no neighbors. It is cut off from everything and everyone. The village itself is divided into sections and the sections tend to stick together. Along comes Emmeline, a rebel or just a girl with an inquiring mind who doesn't like to follow the rules. Follow her adventures outside the walls of the village. It is an interesting story with a mix of French and English that adds to the mysticism of the time and village.

[obtusata · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I want to love this book so badly, but I can only get as far as liking it and having a great love for the author's writing style.

Do you remember M Night Shyamalan's movie The Village? This book is similar and I think that a lot of people are under the impression that it's just a redo of the movie: there's a village/fortress/compound, scary things outside of the village, creepy or fanatical people in charge of the village, and a damaged girl breaking all the rules. But, it has it's own unique touches (including some influences Canadians will appreciate, like the inclusion of French and Native culture). And, besides, there are a tonne of stories/movies that follow this same template.

I always want to love the damaged girl and her need to satisfy her curiosity and question the way things are while still being pulled by honest fear, but I did get a little tired of Emmeline's overly dramatic obsession with being "stained" (subject to prejudice because of bad things her grandmother did). I also have a strong dislike for romance novel style love triangles. I had to remind myself, often, that she's just 16. In the eyes of a 16 year old love is intense, life is unfair, and parents are as much the enemy as anyone.

All that said, I did still enjoy the novel. The story and the village's lore where interesting, but more importantly, the writing was very evocative. The author drew me in and kept me intrigued enough to overlook Emmeline's drama. I could feel Emmeline's fear, I could hear the forest noises, and I could see her dreams. Boorman also peppers the dialogue with French and Native (not sure which tribe), where appropriate, instead of forcing all the characters to only speak English, which I find very refreshing. And, she trusts the reader to be smart enough to understand without constantly translating every word (she translates enough to get the point across).

While I didn't love Emmeline, I did have a hard time putting the book down. The story was thrilling and full of the ebb and flow of trust and fear that Emmeline was experiencing. I'm looking forward to reading the next in the series and have high hopes for the author.

[roses7184_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

If you've read any other reviews of Winterkill, you probably already know what movie this book is being compared to. I'll admit, I had the same thought originally. A hidden settlement in the middle of the forest. An unknown terror that lurks right on the fringes, terrifying the inhabitants into submission. The group of people who rise up to make sure that their submission is total. Are you with still with me? Now, as much as I agree that this has a lot of similarities, it doesn't negate the fact that this actually an interesting story. Winterkill does have quite a bit to offer. Don't count it out just yet.

I adored Emmeline, our main character. As one of the Stained, she has a much different view of her town than most of the other people who populate it. She's on the outside, looking in. This creates a great way to see into the corruption that simmers beneath the surface. It makes it easy to understand that nothing is what it seems. It also creates this beautiful and mysterious atmosphere, that only increases as Emmeline slowly uncovers the truth. I couldn't pull myself away. I had to see what she found next. Her innocence clashed perfectly with what was going on around her, and I loved it.

Major points also go to Boorman for creating such a believable society in the first place. Although it is hinted at, it's never quite fully explained where Emmeline's community came from. We simply know that each Winter (La Prise) they struggle to survive, and welcome the next Spring. I was easily able to make myself a part of their struggle. Everything from chores, to customs, to classes was laid out for me. I was just another cog in the machine. I feel like that was an important part of why I read this so ravenously. I felt involved.

So why the three star rating, you ask? Simply, I felt like the first half of Winterkill was spectacular, and then things went downhill. By the time I neared the ending, I knew that there wouldn't be enough time to answer all my questions. There simply weren't enough pages left to tie everything up. I watched as Emmeline finally discovered the truth, and found myself sitting there confused. It wasn't what I was expecting, at all. It didn't feel like an ending worthy of all the lovely, atmospheric writing leading up to it. Overall though? I enjoyed my time in Emmeline's world. With its mysteries and romance, I couldn't fault it for not delivering the ending that I personally wanted. Three stars it is.

[bookswithbite · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

So I have not read this type of book in a while. I think that last civilization I read was “The Forest Of Hands & Teeth” where there was a civilization out in the middle of the woods, aren’t allowed to leave, etc. So I was pretty interested in what this story has to offer.Plot: This is about a group of people who leave out in the woods following a strict amount of rules. The live under religious restriction and are forced to do whatever the “brothers” tell them too. I found this story interesting because of the way they live. And of course the one girl who rebels, breaking rules, going deeper into the forrest. The plot also dives deep into the past on how this little town got started and why. I loved following the character, learning more of the why and how’s.Rules: A lot of the rules are the keep the people in fear as well as trapped there. No one comes back from the forrest so they are forced to live there. That is until the reader learns that there is indeed more outside of the forrest.Ending: The ending leaves for more to be explored. I really like the outcome and would like to read more “beyond” the forrest should there be a second book. It also ended on a happy, cheerful note, that even though so much was exposed, there is still much to be changed.I really enjoyed this book. It certainly wasn’t what I expected but it had certain parts that had me completely immersed. Winterkill is an crafty thriller with lots of twist and turns.

[bookishthings · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Review
Winterkill has a very The Village type of feel to it.  This kept me turning the pages.

Emmeline is a character that doesn't conform to the same rules in her village.  She doesn't take everything at face value, and wants to know what's in the woods.  I also liked the fact that she finds a few comrades in those that she lives with.  People don't always understand her, but they are willing to keep a few secrets.

There is of course romance in this book.  It plays a big part in who Emmeline can trust.  Not everyone has her best intentions at heart.  I was worried that the romance would detract from the story, but it only fueled it.  There are strange things that happen in the woods.  There are also many secrets out there.  Emmeline just wants to know what is going on, and why she has to walk around in shame for something she didn't do.

Winterkill will have you trying to figure out what is actually going on, and who you can trust.  It's a great mystery with characters that grow throughout the book.

[delenndax7 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Winterkill: Follow the Wayward Path by Kate Boorman was one of the best books I've read in a long time. I got the book free through a First Reads giveaway on GoodReads.com. Boorman is a fantastic writer! The characters, the time, & the setting seem so real. As I kept reading the book, I kept imagining something like an Amish or Puritan society. The main character is a 16 year old woman named Emmeline. She struggles with the stigma of being "stained", of having to bare the weight or her grandmother's "waywardness" for which she was executed. Her bad foot only seems like a reminder that she's stained, not good enough, not worthy. Boorman has created a whole new vocabulary for these characters that only serves to emerse you deeper into this world. I loved it, up until the very last sentence & then it was just "done." The End....wait, I went to the author's website..OMG! Winterkill is only the beginning..there will be 2 other books in this trilolgy, yippee! So have no fear, you WILL find out what happens to our characters we've grown so attached to once this story is complete.