Along the River of Flesh (Gone to See the River Man, #2)

by Kristopher Triana

Love is a ghost story, and the heart is its haunted house. If there’s life after death, I’ll be callin’ your name from Hell.

“Nice place,” Gary said, shaking his head. “It’s the unwashed asshole of the south.”

All her life she’d felt it—a pull toward something she could not name but felt deep within like a convulsive fetus.

Their only guide was a sorrowful moon that hung swollen amongst the stars, a baneful, white eye watching with indifference.

The white birch trees were now the color of flayed salmon, and their black knots made visages like the heads of ventriloquist dummies within the drear.

The River Man’s milky eyes churned. “The cobra looks down upon the rattlesnake, yet both are filled with venom.”