Tinfoil Butterfly by Rachel Eve Moulton

Tinfoil Butterfly

Watching Her by Emmy Ellis, Lily Harlem
English | 2019 | Horror | ePUB | 1.6 Mb

Tinfoil Butterfly : Joe Hill meets Carmen Maria Machado in this spellbinding debut about a young woman trapped in a Black Hills ghost town in the dead of winter
Emma is hitchhiking across the United States, trying to outrun a violent, tragic past, when she meets Lowell, the hot-but-dumb driver she hopes will take her as far as the Badlands. But Lowell is not as harmless as he seems, and a vicious scuffle leaves Emma bloody and stranded in an abandoned town in the Black Hills with an out-of-gas van, a loaded gun, and a snowstorm on the way.
The town is eerily quiet and Emma takes shelter in a diner, where she stumbles across Earl, a strange little boy in a tinfoil mask who steals her gun before begging her to help him get rid of “George.” As she is pulled deeper into Earl’s bizarre, menacing world, the horrors of Emma’s past creep closer, and she realizes she can’t run forever.
Tinfoil Butterfly is a seductively scary, chilling exploration of evil—how it sneaks in under your skin, flaring up when you least expect it, how it throttles you and won’t let go. The beauty of Rachel Eve Moulton’s ferocious, harrowing, and surprisingly moving debut is that it teaches us that love can do that too.

“Time is it?” I stretch my arms up in a casual gesture that ends abruptly when my knuckles hit the bare metal ceiling.

“You fell asleep,” Lowell says.

“I got that part. Where are we?”

He stretches out his arm to rest on my shoulder, then gives my long, dark hair a little tug that’s more affectionate than sexual. I don’t like it.

“You look good today, Emma. Better than usual,” Lowell says. “I like you. You know that? I really do.”

“Sure you do, Lowell, because I’m incredibly likable. Adored by millions. Where are we.” It’s late October and the South Dakota I fell asleep to was endlessly brown and flat, so boring it put me to sleep. It is nothing like Ray promised. He said the Badlands would be desolate and endless, the kind of unexplored place that you have to stand right up on the edge of before you’ll know if you are the kind of person who has the guts to jump.

“Why don’t we go back to sleep?” Lowell suggests with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Don’t be gross. And answer me. Where are we?”

“Where are we? That’s what you want to know. We’re still in South Dakota. Feels like we’ve been here our whole damn lives, doesn’t it? Piece-of-shit state.”

The van smells like the sex we had in it before I fell asleep for God knows how long. I was dreaming of my hair falling out in large chunks of scalp and silky thin threads. Just before I woke up, a man passing by said, “Why don’t you knit a blood sweater?” The dream, unlike the gnawing pain in my gut, is unfamiliar.

“Hottest girl I’ve ever been with,” Lowell says, as if he’s making a note to himself to share with his friends. “And that’s saying something.”

I’ve hated my body my whole life, but that squirrelly Emma-and-Lowell-humping scent reminds me that breasts, particularly my set of double Ds, are quite -“.


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