From international bestselling authors James S. Murray (better known as “Murr” on the hit TV show Impractical Jokers) and Darren Wearmouth, comes You Better Watch Out, a suspenseful, serial killer thriller that leaves you wondering, is Christmas really the best time of the year?
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from James S. Murray and Darren Wearmouth’s You Better Watch Out, which is out October 15th 2024.
Forty-eight hours until Christmas, Jessica Kane wakes up with blurred vision, ears ringing, and in excruciating pain. A gash in her head and blood running down her face, the last thing she remembers is going for a run and something or someone hitting her in the head.
It doesn’t take her long to realize she is trapped in an unknown, deserted town with five other strangers who share similar stories of being attacked and stranded there. Unsure why and how they got there, she knows one thing for certain, she has to find a way out.
That becomes nearly impossible when someone is meticulously orchestrating their deaths, one by one, and the only thing Jessica can do is watch the life leave their eyes.
The fenced-in town is the killer’s very own playground and there’s nowhere left to hide… she better watch out because she could be next.
CHAPTER 2
Eddie’s head felt like it was about to explode. His body shivered on the freezing ground. Every muscle ached. He swallowed hard to moisten his parched throat. A biting wind whipped against the back of his wet clothes, sending a shudder down his spine. His hands tightened into fists as he attempted to collect his thoughts.
Images swirled in his mind, eventually crystallizing into coherent thoughts. Driving home at night. Old Forge. The grocery store. A purse packed with cash.
George and Dorothy.
They’d taken him out in a matter of seconds.
The old couple hadn’t been simply defending themselves. A spray of Mace in his eyes? He could get that. But who carried syringes in their pockets, primed with a powerful drug, ready to inject into a thief . . .
His eyes slammed open, mind racing over the last thing he remembered. It took a few seconds for his vision to clear. A few more seconds to register his surroundings. This wasn’t the parking lot or Old Forge. It looked even more historic.
Ornate streetlights lined the sidewalks at irregular intervals. Snow drove through their dazzling yellow ambience and blasted against his shivering body.
Eddie groaned to a crouch on a cobblestone street. He let out a rasping breath. Wrapped his arms around himself for warmth, glancing in both directions. One end of the road disappeared into utter darkness. For a moment he wondered if the old couple had left him in a deserted hamlet, miles from anywhere, to teach him a lesson. The other end of the road led to a brightly lit town square.
But . . .
There were no cars . . . No people in sight . . . No signs of life anywhere.
What the hell?
Weak lights bled out of several buildings. Every one of them had hokey Christmas decorations in their windows, reminiscent of a bygone era. A few of the storefronts looked vaguely familiar, like the pharmacy and the diner, but he couldn’t place them in time or space. It was more like a memory from childhood, invoked by a song or a phrase.
Eddie winced at the pain from the cold. He needed to get inside—anywhere—to establish where he was and find a way home.
He pawed at his jean pockets. Empty.
The old couple must have taken his cell phone and wallet.
What the hell . . .
An old-time saloon lay directly to his right, resembling something he imagined from the early part of the twentieth century. Thin light radiated out of its four windows. A set of wooden steps led underneath a veranda toward the entrance. It looked like the type of place where the customers wouldn’t appreciate a stranger’s presence. Then again, Eddie wasn’t welcome in most places, whether he was a stranger or not.
His limited options meant braving the cold and likely catching hypothermia, or braving the locals and getting run out of town.
He opted for the locals. Most Upstaters didn’t have pitchforks.
A strong gust of wind roared through the street, shrouding him in a cloud of snow. He climbed to his feet, still woozy from whatever drug he had been injected with. He was guessing it was propofol, or something similar.
He stumbled to the sidewalk in front of the bar, like a drunk looking for a late night spot to keep the party going. He clambered up the saloon steps and shoved the doors open forcefully.
Eddie had expected raucous locals drinking it up after a long day’s work in the terrible storm outside. The clack of pool balls. Terrible music thumping out of a jukebox. Maybe a few heads whipping in his direction as he entered, checking out the stranger in town.
Instead, the bar was completely empty.
The odors of timber and burning oil instantly hit him. His boots creaked over the wooden floorboards as he advanced into the room.
A distant choral version of “Silent Night” came from somewhere in the bar. The volume was low but distinguishable. The track had the distinctive, soothing crackle of an old-time record player.
The soft tones were out of place in a small-town bar.
He slowly turned in a complete circle. All of the tables inside were empty, though several had beer glasses on them. The long-paneled bar at the side of the room had tinsel taped all around it, but no barkeep stood behind the faded taps.
Eddie cupped his hands around his mouth and breathed on them for warmth. He scanned the apparently abandoned establishment for any hint of life.
The lighting in the saloon came from three lit kerosene lamps. One had been placed on the corner of the bar. Another sat on a table by the window. The third was on top of a dark jukebox.
The bar had electricity, though, meaning the place wasn’t dead to the world. A string of multicolored Christmas lights had been hung around a pitiful-looking plastic Christmas tree.
“Hello?” Eddie called out, baffled by the entire experience.
Nobody replied.
If the Mary Celeste had been on dry land, this would be it.
The record spun to a finish, leaving only the sound of the endless crackle.
Wait a second . . .
Someone must have been here. Recently. The kerosene lamps and the record player told him that much.
None of this made sense.
For a moment, he wondered if he was dreaming.
Dream or not, his priorities were clear.
Get warm and dry.
Call my brother for a ride back to Fort Drum.
Get the fuck outta here.
Eddie weaved between the empty tables and approached the bar. A seven-inch single spun on the record player. He frowned. From memory, he knew this could’ve only lasted a few minutes at most. So who had played the track?
A door lay to his right, probably leading to a kitchen or a stockroom in the back.
“Yo,” he shouted. “Anyone home?”
Once again, nobody replied.
He racked his brain for answers.
None of this feels real.
Where the hell did the old couple leave me?
From You Better Watch Out by James S. Murray and Darren Wearmouth. Copyright © 2024 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
