77 Shadow Street: A Novel by Dean Koontz77 Shadow Street: A Novel by Dean Koontz

77 Shadow Street: A Novel

byDean Koontz

Hardcover | November 17, 2014

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I am the One, the all and the only. I live in the Pendleton as surely as I live everywhere. I am the Pendleton's history and its destiny. The building is my place of conception, my monument, my killing ground. . . .
The Pendleton stands on the summit of Shadow Hill at the highest point of an old heartland city, a Gilded Age palace built in the late 1800s as a tycoon’s dream home. Almost from the beginning, its grandeur has been scarred by episodes of  madness, suicide, mass murder, and whispers of things far worse. But since its rechristening in the 1970s as a luxury apartment building, the Pendleton has been at peace. For its fortunate residents—among them a successful songwriter and her young son, a disgraced ex-senator, a widowed attorney, and a driven money manager—the Pendleton’s magnificent quarters are a sanctuary, its dark past all but forgotten.
But now inexplicable shadows caper across walls, security cameras relay impossible images, phantom voices mutter in strange tongues, not-quite-human figures lurk in the basement, elevators plunge  into unknown depths. With each passing hour, a terrifying certainty grows: Whatever drove the Pendleton’s past occupants to their unspeakable fates is at work again. Soon, all those within its boundaries will be engulfed by a dark tide from which few have escaped.
Dean Koontz transcends all expectations as he takes readers on a gripping journey to a place where nightmare visions become real—and where a group of singular individuals hold the key to humanity’s destiny. Welcome to 77 Shadow Street.
Dean Koontz, the author of many #1 New York Times bestsellers, lives in Southern California with his wife, Gerda, their golden retriever, Anna, and the enduring spirit of their golden, Trixie.
Title:77 Shadow Street: A NovelFormat:HardcoverDimensions:464 pages, 9.58 × 6.45 × 1.46 inPublished:November 17, 2014Publisher:Random House Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0553807714

ISBN - 13:9780553807714


Rated 5 out of 5 by from Awesome book! Another great book by a truly gifted author. I have read almost every book Dean has writt over and over again. They just keep getting better and better.
Date published: 2015-01-16
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Awesome Very good read
Date published: 2014-09-02
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Woah Nail biter 4 sure...Couldn't put it down until I knew how it ended!
Date published: 2014-01-24
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Spooky! I actually really enjoyed this book and was anxious to find out what would happen to the people inhabiting the Pendleton Residence. There are plenty of chills and suspense - it kind of reminded me of House on Haunted Hill and how the story unfolds bit by bit from the perspective of each character. I loved that, and definitely think it's worth checking out!
Date published: 2013-10-14
Rated 4 out of 5 by from 77 Shadow Street Great read...Koontz is graphic without going over the toptop.
Date published: 2013-10-04
Rated 5 out of 5 by from 77 Shadow Street: A Novel My all-time favorite author wields his pen once more with this gripping tale, demonstrating without fail, as the master of thriller and terror, he is able to hold your attention right to the very end. Here is another material for a block buster movie. Highly recommended!
Date published: 2013-06-16
Rated 3 out of 5 by from 77 Shadow Street Not great but good
Date published: 2013-06-09
Rated 5 out of 5 by from 77 SHADOW STREET True Dean Koontz style. Twists and turns and the bonds of people. Of course the thing you never want to meet in your life time. Great read couldn't put it down.
Date published: 2013-02-02
Rated 3 out of 5 by from A little disappointing Great premise, but thin characters.
Date published: 2013-01-01
Rated 5 out of 5 by from Thank you Mr. Koontz, again. A very riveting read. Confusing at first but brought together in the end like the pro Mr. Koontz is. Very fine and enjoyable read, again. That's why I read ALL his books.
Date published: 2012-12-27
Rated 1 out of 5 by from Sadly Disappointing The house is called the Pendleton now and it was built as the dream home of a tycoon in the 1800’s. The original family was plagued with tragedy and ever since there has been a cycle of tragic events … coincidentally every 37 years. In the 1970’s it was remodeled as luxury apartments inhabited by the rich and famous, the rich and not so famous and the downright notorious. The curse of tragedy, however, seems to have stayed on despite the renovations and now ghostly images, disembodied voices and glowing mold haunt the residents of 77 Shadow Street. In my on going quest for a good ghost story I thought of all people Mr. Koontz would deliver. I hate to say this, but not so much! I’ll admit to being a long time Koontz fan, and although lately there have been some hits and some misses I always look forward to reading his books. This one was definitely on the “miss” side of the column. There are so many characters in this book … obviously the inhabitants of a luxury condo building … and the story progresses as each tells a part of the action. Sometimes this works, but in this case it is like watching a movie with too many fast cuts. Instead of adding to the drama and action it actually takes away from it. By the end of the book I didn’t care about the characters and was a little tired of the lengthy reflection on the bleakness of the world and the “darkness” of humankind. Would not recommend this one, even to a Koontz fan
Date published: 2012-05-11
Rated 3 out of 5 by from "Not the usual great Dean Koontz" I purchased this book right after the New Year, I think the day it came out. I am a big fan of Dean Koontz and couldn't wait to get my hands on this book. Sad to say, I was very disappointed, but kept reading hoping that it would get better. The beginning of the book was pretty scary, but not in a gory sort of way.I could not read it alone. It was just creepy. Then it all got very weird, and I am not totally sure, I really understand the story line. Not at all what I expected from Koontz. I am usually on the edge of my seat waiting to see what was going to happen next, all I wanted to do with 77 Shadow St., was finish it, so I could get into my next book. I gave this book a 3 but that was being generous. I have to give Koontz a lot of credit for his imagination, but this book was just a little too weird and wacky for me. I hope his next book doesn't disappoint like this one did.
Date published: 2012-01-23
Rated 4 out of 5 by from Spooky fun The Good Stuff Unique, spooky storyline Intriguing characters with good back story development Story slowly builds until you are on the seat of your pants wondering what is going to happen Loved the kid Winny - very unsusual kid, found myself worried that something would happen to him The two old eccentric sisters are adorable and get the best dialogue Hilarious dialogue at times which was exactly what you needed to read when the storyline was so creepy Forgot how much I enjoyed reading Koontz's books, my fav is the Watchers Love how he puts together groups of people in strange situations and shows how different characters react and how they work with each other - always fascinating Like the maps of the layout of the building nice little social commentary at times Just a fun spooky wild ride - perfect for snuggling on the couch with on a cold winters night The Not So Good Stuff Spooked while reading had to sleep with the lights on -- you owe me a coffee Koontz, barely slept the night I finished reading Could have used a wee bit of editing in terms of unneeded characters -- but hey he just kills them off anyway A couple of stereotypical remarks about Librarians that made me snort in disgust Favorite Quotes/Passages "Offending a concierge was a bad idea. Your mail might go missing. The suit you expected back from the dry cleaner by Wednesday evening might be delivered to your apartment a week later. With food stains. Although flashing the finger at Norman would be satisfying, a full apology would require doubling the usual gratuity." "Being famus and never knowing what to say would be the worst, everybody hanging on your every word but you didn't have any words for them to hang on. That would be like falling facedown into manure in front of everybody like twenty times a day, everyday of your life." "Quick, vaguely glimpsed, and enigmatic describes my first husband`s performance in the bedroom and he wasn`t supernatural.`` ``No, but he was cute,`` Edna said. Who Should/Shouldn't Read Fans of Koont`s works will enjoy, I also think fans of Stephen King will get something out of this Those who like supernatural spooky stories will love Not for those who don`t like to read scary stuff 4 Dewey's I received this from Random House in exchange for an honest review
Date published: 2011-12-27
Rated 3 out of 5 by from Good not great for this reader 3.5/5 I remember begging my parents to buy The Exorcist for me to read when I was 11 or 12. They did - not really realizing what it was about. I devoured it in the hammock at the cottage in a few days. It's easy not to be frightened in a sunny place! That was the beginning of scary books for me. Dean Koontz quickly found a place on my list of horror authors that I faithfully followed. But my tastes evolved over the years and it's been quite awhile since I've read one of Koontz's books, so I thought I would give his latest book 77 Shadow Street, a shot. The Pendleton is a luxury apartment building - in its' former life it was the private home of the well to do Pendleton family. The book opens with a great scene - one of the residents hops on the elevator to ride up to his apartment, but when the doors open - definitely not his floor. Other residents of the building start seeing shadows and more - creatures, ghosts and ..... We are introduced to a myriad of characters in the beginning. I enjoyed the many different players and wondered how they would fit into the plot. Koontz has included floor plans of the building in the opening flyleaves. I found myself studying the floor plans as the action progressed. The detail provided added much to bringing the story 'alive' in my imagination. One of the residents, a retired lawyer, is also a expert amateur historian. As events progress, he realizes that events from 38 years ago are repeating themselves. Something is very, very wrong in their building. What is frightening? To everyone it's a little something different. I think the shadow seen flitting by out of the corner of your eye or the television watching you is much more terrifying than blatantly grotesque 'creatures'. Subtlety works better for me. Koontz cuts in and out with short narratives from a being who calls himself The One. I found his pronouncements a bit cheesy and found myself skimming over them. The second half of the book moves much more quickly and caught my interest more when the residents start taking action. Although there is a large cast of characters, for me, it is the two children who stand out the most. Koontz has done a fantastic job with young Winny, brave beyond his years. I found myself rooting for him time and time again. In the second half of the book Koontz also throws a spanner into what I had initially taken as a run of the mill horror book. He has presented an interesting background and reason for the happenings in the Pendleton that I didn't see coming. My only complaint is some of the overly long (and a wee bit boring) rhetoric from some of the characters. More action, more thrills, more spookiness, less thought provoking diatribes on post humanism. Publishers have mounted a pretty spectacular website for the book. You can enter The Pendleton and explore the various apartments.
Date published: 2011-12-27

Read from the Book

1The North ElevatorBitter and drunk, Earl Blandon, a former United States senator, got home at 2:15 a.m. that Thursday with a new tattoo: a two-­word obscenity in blue block letters between the knuckles of the middle finger of his right hand. Earlier in the night, at a cocktail lounge, he’d thrust that stiff digit at another customer who didn’t speak En­glish and who was visiting from some third-­world backwater where the meaning of the offending gesture evidently wasn’t known in spite of countless Hollywood films in which numerous cinema idols had flashed it. In fact, the ignorant foreigner seemed to mistake the raised finger for some kind of friendly hello and reacted by nodding repeatedly and smiling. Earl was frustrated directly out of the cocktail lounge and into a nearby tattoo parlor, where he resisted the advice of the needle artist and, at the age of fifty-­eight, acquired his first body decoration.When Earl strode through the front entrance of the exclusive Pendleton, into the lobby, the night concierge, Norman Fixxer, greeted him by name. Norman sat on a stool behind the reception counter to the left, a book open in front of him, looking like a ventriloquist’s dummy: eyes wide and blue and glassy, pronounced marionette lines like scars in his face, head cocked at an odd angle. In a tailored black suit and a crisp white shirt and a black bow tie, with a fussily arranged white pocket handkerchief blossoming from the breast pocket of his coat, Norman was overdressed by the standards of the two other concierges who worked the earlier shifts.Earl Blandon didn’t like Norman. He didn’t trust him. The concierge tried too hard. He was excessively polite. Earl didn’t trust polite people who tried too hard. They always proved to be hiding something. Sometimes they hid the fact that they were FBI agents, pretending instead to be lobbyists with a suitcase full of cash and a deep respect for the power of a senator. Earl didn’t suspect that Norman Fixxer was an FBI agent in disguise, but the concierge was for damn sure something more than what he pretended to be.Earl acknowledged Norman’s greeting with only a scowl. He wanted to raise his newly lettered middle finger, but he restrained himself. Offending a concierge was a bad idea. Your mail might go missing. The suit you expected back from the dry cleaner by Wednesday evening might be delivered to your apartment a week later. With food stains. Although flashing the finger at Norman would be satisfying, a full apology would require doubling the usual Christmas gratuity.Consequently, Earl scowled across the marble-­floored lobby, his embellished finger curled tightly into his fist. He went through the inner door that Norman buzzed open for him and into the communal hallway, where he turned left and, licking his lips at the prospect of a nightcap, proceeded to the north elevator.His third-­floor apartment was at the top of the building. He did not have a city view, only windows on the courtyard, and seven other apartments shared that level, but his unit was sufficiently well-­positioned to justify calling it his penthouse, especially because it was in the prestigious Pendleton. Earl once owned a five-­acre estate with a seventeen-­room manor house. He liquidated it and other assets to pay the ruinous fees of the blood-­sucking, snake-­hearted, lying-­bastard, may-­they-­all-­rot-­in-­hell defense attorneys.As the elevator doors slid shut and as the car began to rise, Earl surveyed the hand-­painted mural that covered the walls above the white wainscoting and extended across the ceiling: bluebirds soaring joyously through a sky in which the clouds were golden with sunlight. Sometimes, like now, the beauty of the scene and the joy of the birds seemed forced, aggravatingly insistent, so that Earl wanted to get a can of spray paint and obliterate the entire panorama.He might have vandalized it if there hadn’t been security cameras in the hallways and in the elevator. But the homeowners’ association would only restore it and make him pay for the work. Large sums of money no longer came to him in suitcases, in valises, in fat manila envelopes, in grocery bags, in doughnut-­shop boxes, or taped to the bodies of high-­priced call girls who arrived naked under leather trench coats. These days, this former senator so frequently felt the urge to deface so many things that he needed to strive to control himself lest he vandalize his way into the poorhouse.He closed his eyes to shut out the schmaltzy scene of sun-­washed bluebirds. When the air temperature abruptly dropped perhaps twenty degrees in an instant, as the car passed the second floor, Earl’s eyes startled open, and he turned in bewilderment when he saw that the mural no longer surrounded him. The security camera was missing. The white wainscoting had vanished, too. No inlaid marble under­foot. In the stainless-­steel ceiling, circles of opaque material shed blue light. The walls, doors, and floor were all brushed stainless steel.Before Earl Blandon’s martini-­marinated brain could fully absorb and accept the elevator’s transformation, the car stopped ascending—­and plummeted. His stomach seemed to rise, then to sink. He stumbled sideways, clutched the handrail, and managed to remain on his feet.The car didn’t shudder or sway. No thrumming of hoist cables. No clatter of counterweights. No friction hum of rollers whisking along greased guide rails. With express-­elevator speed, the steel box raced smoothly, quietly down.Previously, the car-­station panel—­B, 1, 2, 3—­had been part of the controls to the right of the doors. It still was there, but now the numbers began at 3, descended to 2 and 1 and B, followed by a new 1 through 30. He would have been confused even if he’d been sober. As the indicator light climbed—­7, 8, 9—­the car dropped. He couldn’t be mistaking upward momentum for descent. The floor seemed to be falling out from under him. Besides, the Pendleton had just four levels, only three aboveground. The floors represented on this panel must be subterranean, all below the basement.But that made no sense. The Pendleton had one basement, a single underground level, not thirty or thirty-­one.So this could not be the Pendleton anymore. Which made even less sense. No sense at all.Maybe he had passed out. A vodka nightmare.No dream could be this vivid, this intensely physical. His heart thundered. His pulse throbbed in his temples. Acid reflux burned his throat, and when he swallowed hard to force down the bitter flood, the effort brought tears that blurred his vision.He blotted the tears with a suit-­coat sleeve. He blinked at the indicator board: 13, 14, 15. . . .Panicked by a sudden intuitive conviction that he was being conveyed to a place as terrifying as it was mysterious, Earl let go of the handrail. He crossed the car and scanned the backlit control board for an emergency stop button.None existed.As the car passed 23, Earl jammed a thumb hard against the button for 26, but the elevator didn’t stop, didn’t even slow until it passed 29. Then rapidly yet smoothly, momentum fell. With a faint liquid hiss like hydraulic fluid being compressed in a cylinder, the car came to a full stop, apparently thirty floors under the city.Sobered by a supernatural fear—­fear of what, he could not say—­Earl Blandon shrank away from the doors. With a thud, he backed into the rear wall of the car.In his storied past, as a member of the Senate Armed Services Committee, he had once been to a meeting in the bunker far beneath the White House, where the president might one day try to ride out a nuclear holocaust. That deep redoubt was bright and clean, yet it impressed him as more ominous than any graveyard at night. He had some experience of cemeteries from his earliest days as a state lawmaker, when he had thought that in such lonely places, from earth and graves and dust, no one could be raised up to witness the paying of a bribe. This quiet elevator felt far more ominous than even the presidential bunker.He waited for the doors to open. And waited.Throughout his life, he’d never been a fearful man. Instead, he inspired fear in others. He was surprised that he could be so suddenly and completely terrorized. But he understood what reduced him to this pathetic condition: evidence of something otherworldly.A strict materialist, Earl believed only in what he could see, touch, taste, smell, and hear. He trusted nothing but himself, and he needed no one. He believed in the power of his mind, in his singular cunning, to bend any situation to his benefit.In the presence of the uncanny, he was without defense.Shudders passed through him with such violence that it seemed he should hear his bones knocking together. He tried to make fists, but proved to be so weak with dread that he could not clench his hands. He raised them from his sides, looked at them, willing them to close into tight knuckled weapons.He was sober enough now to realize that the two words tattooed on the middle finger of his right hand could have made his insult no clearer to the clueless third-­world patron in the cocktail lounge. The guy probably couldn’t read En­glish any more than he could speak it.As close to a negative self-­judgment as he had ever come, Earl Blandon muttered, “Idiot.”As the car doors slid open, his enlarged prostate seemed to clench as his fists would not. He came perilously close to peeing in his pants.Beyond the open doors lay only a darkness so perfect that it seemed to be an abyss, vast and perhaps bottomless, into which the blue light of the elevator could not penetrate. In this icy silence of the tomb, Earl Blandon stood motionless, deaf now even to the pounding in his chest, as if his heart were suddenly dry of blood. This was the quiet at the limit of the world, where no air existed to be breathed, where time ended. It was the most terrible thing he had ever heard—­until a more alarming sound, that of something approaching, arose from the blackness beyond the open doors.Ticking, scraping, muffled rustling: This was either the blind but persistent questing of something large and strange beyond the power of the senator’s imagination . . . or a horde of smaller but no less mysterious creatures, an eager swarm. A shrill keening, almost electronic in nature yet unmistakably a voice, quivered through the blackness, a cry that might have been of hunger or desire, or bloodletting frenzy, but certainly a cry of urgent need.As panic trumped Earl’s paralyzing dread, he bolted to the control panel, scanning it for a close door button. Every elevator offered such a feature. Except this one. There was neither a close door nor an open door button, neither one labeled emergency stop nor one marked alarm, neither a telephone nor a service intercom, only the numbers, as if this were an elevator that never malfunctioned or required service.In his peripheral vision, he saw something loom in the open doorway. When he turned to face it directly, he thought the sight would stop his heart, but such an easy end was not his fate.

Editorial Reviews

PRAISE FOR DEAN KOONTZ“One of the master storytellers of this or any age.”—The Tampa Tribune “Koontz writes first-rate suspense, scary and stylish.”—Los Angeles Times  “A rarity among bestselling writers, Koontz continues to pursue new ways of telling stories, never content with repeating himself. He writes of hope and love in the midst of evil in profoundly inspiring and moving ways.”—Chicago Sun-Times “A master at spinning dark tales . . . Koontz knows how to dial up the terror.”—Associated Press “Koontz is a superb plotter and wordsmith. He chronicles the hopes and fears of our time in broad strokes and fine detail, using popular fiction to explore the human condition [and] demonstrating that the real horror of life is found not in monsters, but within the human psyche.”—USA Today “Koontz . . . is a master storyteller and a daring writer. . . . He gives readers bright hope in a dark world.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review) “Dean Koontz . . . has the power to scare the daylights out of us.”—People “Dean Koontz is not just a master of our darkest dreams, but also a literary juggler.”—The Times (London)