From the writer and director of the hit horror film Countdown comes a chilling debut novel.
While packing up their late father’s home, estranged brothers John and George Lawson unearth John’s childhood comic series SENTRY—a hero he invented as a boy to battle the ghosts only he could see. And at the center of the yellowed pages lurks the Blue Boy, a terrifying, monstrous figure who once terrified John from the darkness beyond his closet door.
As the weathered comics claw open a past full of monsters, long-buried secrets pour out, forcing the brothers to confront the trauma that shattered their family and unravel a deadly mystery thirty years in the making—one where the Blue Boy holds the terrifying truth.
Set against the haunting backdrop of a small New England town, SENTRY is a gripping supernatural thriller that explores the devastating strain mental health can place on a family, and the power of empathy, understanding, and forgiveness to heal even the deepest wounds. At its heart, it’s a story about how family is always there for you, even when you can’t see it.
From the writer and director of the hit horror film Countdown comes a chilling debut novel.
While packing up their late father’s home, estranged brothers John and George Lawson unearth John’s childhood comic series SENTRY—a hero he invented as a boy to battle the ghosts only he could see. And at the center of the yellowed pages lurks the Blue Boy, a terrifying, monstrous figure who once terrified John from the darkness beyond his closet door.
As the weathered comics claw open a past full of monsters, long-buried secrets pour out, forcing the brothers to confront the trauma that shattered their family and unravel a deadly mystery thirty years in the making—one where the Blue Boy holds the terrifying truth.
Set against the haunting backdrop of a small New England town, SENTRY is a gripping supernatural thriller that explores the devastating strain mental health can place on a family, and the power of empathy, understanding, and forgiveness to heal even the deepest wounds. At its heart, it’s a story about how family is always there for you, even when you can’t see it.
The aquarium or the museum? Those were the Lawson boys’ two choices on that snowy Wednesday morning, though the snow had started to become a mix of sleet and rain; mushy gray slush that swallowed their small New England town and stopped the two brothers from spending their Christmas break outside.
Ruth blew a swirl of steam away from her coffee, tapping her mug as she waited for a response from the head of their cramped kitchen table. The dingy space was tucked away in the rear half of a single-story ranch, once tastefully decorated by her daughter, Christine. But in the six short months since her passing, it had fallen into disarray.
Dust now coated the baseboards and draped every shelf and picture frame. Wall scuffs, once tended to routinely, were now permanent residents. The bright warmth Christine Lawson had once enveloped her home with had now become a dull flicker, though Ruth was determined to reignite the flame.
“Or we could go to the movies?” Ruth asked her two grandsons, still waiting for an answer as they shoveled Cinnamon Toast Crunch into their mouths like it was their last meal. “Anyone?”
“Movies!” John exclaimed at last through a mouth full of cereal. He sat beside her, his ten-year-old legs swinging playfully under the table as he focused on a drawing in front of him. Around his neck, a tattered red cape was tied, its frayed edges draped over the back of his pajamas. It was his most prized possession. He never took it off when he was home, racing through the house with his arms raised in front of him, making whoosh sounds as he “flew” from room to room. Somehow, the soft fabric his mom had bought at Filene’s Basement all those years ago was still hanging on after hundreds of imaginary battles, though its days felt numbered.
“I want to see Aladdin!” John said. He tapped the newspaper in front of him, already folded open to the movie section. All morning, he’d been using the ad for Aladdin (Exhilarating! Two Thumbs Up! A must-see for all ages!), looking from the big blue (or in this case, newspaper ink-grey) genie to the piece of paper next to him, his eyes darting back and forth as he drew him. The likeness was so close, it was like he’d traced it. He’d always been the artist in the family, a God-given talent that never ceased to amaze Ruth.
“I don’t feel like going to the movies,” John’s brother George said coldly from the seat next to him. “My vote’s the aquarium.”
George was fifteen and, oh, what a difference five years made. He was much bigger than John in height and weight, the latter being a sore subject, especially when it came to his pointy man-boobs (the sorest subject of all for a teenage boy). Ruth knew they made changing for gym class and summer pool parties a waking nightmare, but she promised he’d grow out of them one day. “It’s just baby fat,” she’d tell him. Not that her words comforted him or stopped kids from squeezing them and giving him purple nurples in the hall. It was that kind of torment that made George prefer to stay hidden in the shadows; a passenger in his own story. But not at home. At home, George was the driver. It was one of the few advantages of being born first. Whatever pain his classmates dreamt up for him, Ruth watched him recycle that very same trauma on his baby brother.
“Fine,” John muttered. He swallowed a half-chewed mound of cereal, his face sunken with defeat. “Aquarium.”
“Are you sure?” Ruth asked, an eyebrow raised. “You just said you wanted to see Aladdin.”
John nodded in silence. Ruth watched him look up at his big brother, hoping for some glimmer of acknowledgment for his surrender, but George just stared ahead, chewing his cereal, pretending like he had no part in John’s struggle. Another blow in the fraternal war he’d been born into.
“How about you, hon?” Ruth asked. She leaned her chair back, its toothpick legs creaking as she smiled at her son-in-law Doug. “You wanna play hooky and come look at some fish with us?”
“Ow!” Doug banged his head on a kitchen cabinet. “I wish I could,” he grunted, rubbing the sting away. “But the boss doesn’t get days off.” Coffee spilled out of his open thermos. “Shit. That’s hot. Hot-hot-hot.”
“The lid is in the dishwasher,” Ruth said. “It’s clean. I ran it last night.”
“Ruth, you’re a Godsend,” Doug said as he grabbed the lid wedged in a sea of damp plastic cups on the top rack of their old Maytag dishwasher. He screwed it onto his thermos and shrugged on his faded navy-blue winter coat. Their family business’s logo was stretched proudly across his chest: Lawson Family Home Center – Since 1936. Servicing all your lumber, hardware, and DIY needs. Beneath the patch, its outline curling at the edges, Doug’s name was embroidered in red cursive. Christine’s custom touch. A remnant from better days.
Every night since Ruth had come to stay, after the boys were fast asleep and she was drinking her evening tea and Doug was on the back half of a cold six-pack, they’d share Christine stories until they couldn’t keep their eyelids open anymore. Doug told her how most nights he could still feel her lying right next to him, and he’d start talking like it was the old days only to realize he was all alone in an empty bed. He supposed it was because the sheets still smelled like her no matter how many times he washed them. He cursed that scent for making him feel whole, if even for a moment, only to take her away all over again. He thought about getting rid of them, and donating her clothes still hanging in the closet and folded neatly in their dresser, but every time he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet. Maybe not ever. No one was. Especially the boys.
“You two be good for Nana,” Doug said as he finished buttoning his coat.
John and George both muttered something into their cereal bowls without looking up.
“Hey!” Doug shook the backs of their chairs. “Did you hear what I said?”
Goosebumps shot down the boys’ necks and they straightened up.
“Yes, sir,” George replied.
“We’ll be good, Daddy,” John quickly followed.
“That’s better.” Doug gave them a satisfied nod and turned to Ruth. “They get out of line, you call me right away.”
“Of course,” Ruth said, flashing her bloodshot eyes. Heavy bags of wrinkles were bunched beneath them, begging for one decent night of sleep, but what could she do? She knew her grandkids needed her, and besides, it wasn’t forever. It was just a few more days of keeping the house together, cooking three square meals and playing referee. That was the hardest part.
By themselves, the boys were sweet, but put them together and you had the curiosity of a ten-year-old colliding with the mood swings of an insecure teenager. The explosions were constant and unpredictable. Navigating them was an art form in itself.
Outside, the wind screamed as Doug opened the front door and stepped out into the storm. A blast of cold air tickled Ruth’s arms for a moment before the wind pulled the door shut again with a loud slam. They could all hear Doug’s pickup roar as he pulled out of the driveway, its sound disappearing down Chester Avenue until the only thing they could hear was the storm rising and falling in waves.
John lifted his cereal bowl and tipped it back, breaking the silence with a long slurp of cinnamon-dyed milk.
George turned sharply and glared at his brother. “Stop.”
“Stop what?” John knew damn well what George meant. He smiled and slurped some more.
“Nana!” George whined. “He’s doing it on purpose!”
Ruth sighed and told them both to knock it off.
Outside, a freight train of slush pelted the windows in heavy, wet globs.
George muttered something about how if Dad was still there, John would stop, and then went back to eating.
A mischievous grin stretched across John’s face, and he lifted his cereal bowl up again, sucking back an even noisier gulp of milk.
Without warning, George’s rolled-up fist exploded like a cannon against his brother’s arm, knocking the plastic bowl from John’s hands with a loud clang. It skipped across the table and sent a wave of milk sweeping across his drawing, soaking into the paper and warping the genie’s Crayola-blue face.
“That’s enough!” Ruth’s hand slammed down like a gavel. The table’s legs buckled and silverware rattled. Her referee shift had started early. Congratulations to George on getting the first yellow card. She sent him to his room to get ready and he dragged his feet like cinder blocks down the hall, whining every step of the way that John always got away with everything.
“You okay?” Ruth asked as she lifted John’s drawing from its milky grave. She always had a soft spot for her youngest grandson. Not because he was the baby (though that didn’t hurt), but because he reminded her of her daughter in the same way George reminded her of Doug.
The dreamer and the pragmatist.
John nodded, clenching his arm and sniffling. She could tell it didn’t hurt anymore, but she wanted to let him relish in the moment a little longer; a small win in the never-ending war of the siblings.
Ruth finished cleaning and then refilled her coffee. She took a long contemplative sip, staring off in her daughter’s old faded blue robe as she soaked in what was left of the morning, the quiet calm before the inevitable storm as a literal one raged outside.
“What?” she asked, her gaze shifting back to John beaming at her with a Cheshire-sized grin.
“Nothing,” John replied. “I just love you.”
Ruth’s heart melted. She could hear Christine in John’s voice. See her blue eyes reflected in his. She felt tears welling up and she smiled back. She told him she loved him too and sent him to get ready under the strict promise not to bother George. He agreed in earnest, hopping off his chair and running down the hall to his room, excited for the day ahead. But less than a minute later, she could hear their voices arguing again. She wondered if granddaughters fought as much as grandsons or sounded like elephants coming through the walls as words devolved into vicious combat.
Ruth took a deep breath and topped off her coffee. It was going to be a long day.
* * *
After forty-five minutes driving south down I-93 through swells of blinding flurries, followed by a tense search for parking that ended on the roof of the Boston Harbor garage, it only took a few hours before the Lawson brothers had seen all the fish they could take and it was time to go home.
The walk back to the car felt longer than the way in, and John’s feet were aching so bad he was starting to trip and stagger along the slick, uneven bricks that made up the sidewalk. He was hungry and cold and needed a break. Gurgling bubbles pulled at his stomach with a hollow ache, and he could feel his mouth starting to water with thirst. His tired eyes drifted down to George’s white plastic cup swinging back and forth in his hand, the aquarium’s blue logo emblazoned on one side and the bright red Coca-Cola emblem dripping with condensation on the other.
“Hey, George,” John said, tugging on his brother’s jacket. “Can I have some of that?”
“No,” George said, yanking his sleeve away. “You shoulda got your own.”
“But I’m thirsty,” John said, taking his Nana’s hand and leaning into her with a pouty look on his face.
“Stop being a jerk, George,” Ruth said. “Give your brother a sip.”
George protested. It was a collector’s item, he pointed out, and he didn’t want John’s dirty fingerprints all over it. Not to mention he paid for it with his allowance.
“And who do you think pays for your allowance?” Ruth asked.
George let out a long groan that became mist in the cold air. “Fine,” he said, begrudgingly holding the cup out for his little brother. But before John could take it, George yanked it back, and with a squint in his eyes that dared John to do something about it, he sucked back on the straw and drained every last drop of Coke until he was only pulling air. He let out a satisfied gasp and handed the cup over, declaring triumphantly, “It’s all yours.”
John shook the drink (which was roughly the same size as his own head), rattling nothing but ice and backwash. He looked up at his Nana, his big blue eyes filling with tears. He’d hit his limit.
“What’s the matter with you?!” Ruth yelled at George, her voice startling a young couple walking hand-in-hand past them. “He’s your brother!”
“I don’t care,” George said, shrugging and muttering under his breath how he worked his butt off shoveling heavy, wet snow in the freezing cold on top of delivering newspapers no matter what the weather was to make his allowance. And what had John done to earn his? Nothing. So the Coke was his, and he’d be damned if that spoiled little—
“Enough!” Ruth stopped, and without another word, she spun around, pulling John back the way they came.
“Hey,” George said, lingering behind. “Where you going?”
“We’re getting him his own,” Ruth replied without looking back. “Let’s go!”
“But we’re almost at the car!” George yelled, the “r” replaced by a long-winded “h.” He was just like his dad in that way. The more annoyed he grew, the thicker his Boston accent became. “Nanaaaaah…”
“I said let’s go!” Ruth shouted. “NOW!”
George stomped his boots and followed, but he made damn sure his brother could hear how much he’d pay for this later.
John had to quicken his pace to keep up with his Nana, dragging his aching feet back the way they came, through the thick current of departing families and into the busy gift shop. By the time they reached the register, he had already drunk a quarter of his very own “collector’s edition” Coke while waiting in line and didn’t even want the rest, but that was a secret he’d take to his grave.
“This it?” the cashier asked.
“Do you want anything else?” Ruth asked.
John’s eyes shifted to a row of stuffed animals neatly piled next to the register. Black and white orcas with smiles stitched to their faces and beady black eyes. They reminded him of the documentary they’d watched earlier. It was one of the highlights of the day where he and George were quietly synced, their eyes glued to the screen like it was Friday night and they were watching TGIF with a bowl of microwave popcorn between them.
“We’ll take this too,” Ruth said, grabbing one of the orcas and dropping it next to the Coke.
George’s mouth fell open. “Hey! No fair!”
“I don’t want to hear it,” Ruth said firmly. “Maybe next time, you’ll be nicer to your brother.”
John shifted nervously, knowing full well George would make him pay for this too (in addition to already paying for the Coke), with a dead leg or the dreaded Indian sunburn or worse: both.
“It’s okay, Nana,” John said, his voice small and wavering. “I don’t need it.”
“Too late,” she replied as the register popped open with a cheerful ding. “It’s already done.”
“This is bullshit!” George shouted.
A hush fell over the families in line behind them, and John saw a shift in their Nana’s eyes. Swearing was the greatest offense that could be committed under her roof, but out in the world in front of other people? That was the ultimate crime.
“What’d you just say?” Ruth asked, her voice small but forceful.
George shrugged, playing it off like he didn’t say what they all knew he said.
“Oh, I heard you,” she continued, “and when we get home, you’re going straight to your room. You’re grounded for the rest of the week.”
“I don’t care.”
“Do you want to make it two?”
“Fine!”
“George, stop!” John pleaded.
“Two weeks,” Ruth said, holding two fingers in the air to drive the point home. “No friends over, no radio, no TV. And you can bet I’m calling your father as soon as we get home.”
“I don’t care!” George screamed. “I hate you! I wish you were dead instead of my mom!”
John watched George’s words hit their Nana like poisonous darts, and his stomach instantly turned sour. He glanced around the gift shop in quiet shock, suddenly aware of the sea of eyes staring at them, his own eyes stopping on George. He could tell from the look on George’s face that he’d immediately regretted it, but the damage was done. And before anyone could say another word, George turned and ran, disappearing into the crowd.
John looked up at his Nana. Her face was crumpled with emotion, on the verge of tears. He felt a wave of shame wash over him, and he stared down at the cheap plastic cup dripping in his hands, wishing he could just disappear. All he’d wanted was a sip of Coke.
“Let’s go,” Ruth said, her voice barely above a whisper. She took John’s hand and led him through the crowd, their suffering now reduced to a cautionary tale for those who witnessed it.
The long walk back to the garage was tense and silent, and even though John’s feet hurt more than ever, he didn’t dare complain. He kept a sharp eye out for George, and as they neared the garage, he spotted him waiting with his back against the wall, his arms crossed in angst-filled silence. No one spoke as they passed by him, and he reluctantly fell in line a few feet behind, dragging his boots in bitter protest up all six stories of stairs to the top of the Boston Harbor garage.
The rain and sleet blasted them at a sharp angle as they stepped out of the stairwell onto the top floor. Most of the cars on the roof were buried in a gray slush that was starting to freeze over, encapsulating them in icy cocoons.
John’s hands trembled as he looked back at his brother, their eyes meeting in a silent exchange. He wanted to say he was sorry for his part in all of it, that he didn’t want George to get in trouble, never mind grounded. But George’s eyes replied with a quiet rage. He looked down at the prized orca dangling in John’s hand, its black, beady eye glaring at him, its sewn-on smile mocking him. It was a symbol of the injustice of the day, and suddenly, without warning, he lunged forward and snatched the stuffed animal from John’s hand.
“Hey!” John shouted. “That’s mine!”
“You want it?” George asked, dangling the orca high above John’s head. “Come and get it.”
George shoved his brother’s shoulder and took off running.
Without a second thought, John leapt off the curb after him. He could hear their Nana yelling for them to stop, but her voice was quickly drowned out by the howling storm swirling all around them.
John couldn’t feel his feet anymore as he raced ahead, his eyes locked on George running across the slippery pavement as fast as he could.
George blindly flipped John off as he took a sharp left, squeezing between two parked cars and skidding to a panicked stop in front of a station wagon that screeched to a halt just inches away from him, its headlights enveloping him. The horn blared and the man behind the wheel threw his hands up.
“Jesus, kid!” the irate driver yelled. “Watch it!”
George staggered out of the way and stumbled, skinning his palms on the cold, wet pavement to keep himself from face-planting into the concrete. The stuffed orca slipped out of his grasp as he fell and rolled to a stop in an icy puddle a few feet away.
John saw his chance. He sprinted past his brother and scooped up his prize, turning back with a triumphant smirk to see George still on his knees, looking down at his hands. They were scratched and blooming red under the surface, but worse was the tear on the wrist of his coat, his limited-edition Bruins Starter jacket. It was a birthday gift from their mom.
George looked up with a renewed fire in his eyes. “You’re dead!” he shouted.
Terror surged through John’s little body as he watched George rise to his feet and shoot toward him like something out of a horror movie.
John’s smirk fell away, and he took off running as fast as he could, dodging puddles, people, cars—anything to get away. Ice pelted his cheeks and bursts of cold air stabbed at his lungs, but he didn’t dare slow down. He could feel his brother bearing down on him and pushed his legs harder than he ever had before, straight toward a gap between floors that he’d have to jump to lose George. Without a second thought, he leapt into the air, never breaking his stride, never seeing the steel cable.
The thick coil of wire caught John’s windpipe with a violent snap, stopping him short and hurling him backward at the same speed he was running. The back of his skull slapped against the edge of the concrete he was trying to jump over, and his head made a hollow popping sound that reverberated through his entire body and echoed across the parking garage like a gunshot. His vision glitched for a moment like bad TV static, and before he knew what hit him, he was flailing through the air without a sense of up or down. Just a feeling in his belly that reminded him of the twisting, hilly road his mom used to drive down that made his stomach drop in giggle-filled waves. It was the same feeling he got when he rode his first roller coaster over the summer up at Canobie Lake Park and the cart dropped down, and he shifted between terror and joy as the wind blasted his face, and the glare of the summer sun burned into his eyes.
But there was no joy or giggles here.
And no warm sun.
Only cold and darkness and a feeling of falling that seemed to last forever.
I like when a horror book can freak me out and pull on the heartstrings at the same time. The kind of book where the scary parts are scary but the narrative is about much more than just the terror. This book balances those things perfectly.
John and George are brothers, five years apart in age, when tragedy struck their family. The death of their mother devastated them and their father. John was ten at the time, George was fifteen, but the sibling rivalry was apparent and began deteriorating after their mother passed. A trip to the local aquarium one day provided even more trauma for both. John wound up with a busted skull and the hospital.
That's when John started seeing monsters. The tall man, the milkman, and especially something he called the blue boy. Very real to him while everyone else thought it was in his mind. When he left, he never looked back. Now, twenty years later, the death of his father brings the two brothers together after two decades of no contact. And things are going to take several horrifying turns as these monsters of John ramp up tormenting him while George thinks he just needs to take his meds.
One big question which lingers in the book is whether these monsters are real or the result of John's head trauma from years ago. The reader is left wondering, swaying both ways throughout. Eventually, the truth will come out but not before secrets, forgotten memories, and displaced events come to light. While cleaning out their old home, John comes upon a comic book series he drew when he was young. A series called Sentry. The monsters from his real life are in these comic books and may provide some answers. Or maybe only more nightmares.
The monsters in here are the stuff of bad dreams, each one terrifying to think about. It gives the story an atmospheric dread because they come out of nowhere in John's waking life. The arc of these two brothers is done with a deft touch. Strained and awkward at first, the author resolves certain issues little by little until we can see the love they have for one another later.
Between the past and the present, answers will come to light and they could be much more horrific than we first imagined. There's a twist at the end which is shocking and absolutely memorable. I highly recommend it.