Supernatural has a new Novel released. It’s “Supernatural: Night Terror“, written by John Passarella.
The story with Bobby sending Sam and Dean to check out nightmare scenarios in Colorado: a homless man being attacked by a giant Gila monster; a little boy chased by uprooted trees; a speeding car with no driver. The Winchesters must save a town who is no longer safe from their dreams, even when they are awake.
Night Terror is set during season six of the series, and falls between the “Frontierland” and “Mommy Dearest” episodes. Night Terrors got out already, on September 13th.
You can buy the book here.
The site FearNet has an excerpt (the prologue) of the book.
Read it:
Prologue
Gavin “Shelly” Shelburn ambled along the tree-lined streets of downtown Clayton Falls, Colorado with enough conviction to avoid any charges of loitering. Occasionally, he sat on one of the secured wrought-iron benches to rest his perpetually sore feet, which had worn down the soles of his scuffed boots to the intimation of rice paper. Mostly, he spent the evening hours circling the restaurant district, eight square blocks encompassing the most popular sit-down restaurants, asking for handouts.
Whether people were about to sit down to a good meal, or returning to their cars after enjoying a fine repast, his strategy was to impart a touch of guilt on these more fortunate citizens. With a notoriously bad economy struggling to right itself, Shelburn remained on the bottom looking up. Not that it was much consolation to a man who had lost his wife to a lengthy illness, his job to subsequent neglect in unforgiving times, and his house to dispassionate bankers, but his current disenfranchised condition lacked the stigma of years past. With record unemployment and housing foreclosures “There but for the grace of God, go I” had become a familiar refrain.
The decline and fall of Gavin Shelburn had begun in advance of the so-called Great Recession, but he wasn’t above accepting the sympathy of those still gainfully employed to keep his stomach, if not full, then at least occasionally mindful of its gastric function. To that end, he made his nightly rounds wearing a battered fedora—which he unfailingly tipped to the ladies and regularly flipped over to accommodate folded donations—along with a rumpled overcoat that also served as his blanket and fell to the top of his second-hand combat boots. His gaunt torso gained some bulk from the two button-down shirts he wore, one over the other, though he switched the layers each day in lieu of regular laundering. Combined, the two shirts had a complement of buttons sufficient for one. His threadbare jeans retained a hint of their original black color.
On most nights, the reliable combination of sympathy, guilt and polite panhandling kept Shelly’s stomach fed and, yes, his spirits warm, while steering clear of Chief Quinn’s holding cell. But the lingering effects of a poor economy led to slow evenings in the restaurant district, especially on weeknights. He’d reached the outskirts of his bread-and-butter zone, near the smaller pizza joints which offered slim pickings at the best of times, and was about to head back, when a middle-aged woman rushed out of Joe’s Pizza Shack with a large pizza box and a two liter bottle of Coke.
“Good evening, Madam,” he said, tipping his multi-purpose fedora.
“Oh,” she said, startled, pausing in her dash to her car, a white Nissan idling at an unfed parking meter. “Alright.” She set the pizza box on the hood of the car, fished a crumpled dollar bill out of her purse and dropped it in his hat. “Here ya go.”
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