The Deep

Description

From the acclaimed and award-winning author of The Hunger comes a haunting psychological twist on one of the world’s most famous tragedies: the sinking of the Titanic and the ill-fated sail of its sister ship, the Britannic.

Someone, or something, must be haunting the ship. Between mysterious disappearances and sudden deaths, the guests of the Titanic have found themselves suspended in an eerie, unsettling twilight zone from the moment they set sail. Several of them, including maid Annie Hebley, guest Mark Fletcher, and millionaires Madeleine Astor and Benjamin Guggenheim, are convinced there’s something sinister—almost otherwordly—afoot. But before they can locate the source of the danger, as the world knows, disaster strikes.

Years later, Annie, having survived that fateful night, is working as a nurse on the sixth voyage of the Titanic‘s sister ship, the Britannic, newly refitted as a hospital ship. There she happens across an unconscious Mark, now a soldier fighting in World War I. At first Annie is thrilled and relieved to see he survived the sinking. But soon Mark’s presence awakens deep-buried feelings and secrets, forcing Annie to reckon with the demons of her past—as they both discover that the terror may not yet be over.

Brilliantly combining the supernatural with the height of historical disaster, The Deep is an exploration of love and destiny, desire and innocence, and, above all, a quest to understand how our choices can lead us inexorably toward our doom.Finalist for the Bram Stoker Award 
Finalist for the Locus Award 
Finalist for the Library of Virginia’s 2021 Literary Award in Fiction 

One of…
The Washington Post‘s “Favorite Scary Stories”
PopSugar‘s Spooky New Books
BookPage‘s Most Anticipated Mysteries & Thrillers of 2020
CrimeReads‘s “Which Scary Book Should You Pair with Scary Movies This Halloween Weekend?” Picks
Business Insider’s 21 Haunting Books to Read This Halloween

“This new horror novel release is . . . making waves.” —Scary Mommy

“Clever and haunting…Katsu is a wordsmith using vivid imagery and beautiful wording to create a story that will leave you wishing there was more.” —Suspense Magazine

“Katsu does for the Titanic what she did for the Donner party, bringing a dark supernatural twist to history in this gripping tale of the ship’s doomed first voyage, and one survivor’s efforts to deal with resurging terrors four years later, in the middle of war.” –Locus Magazine

“Alma Katsu’s The Deep isn’t just a haunting ghost story, it’s also a riveting historical romance.” –PopSugar

“I’m a sucker for a gorgeous cover, and the hardcover jacket for Katsu’s newest historical thriller is as haunting as its premise….Katsu has a knack for taking the history lessons we all thought we learned and crafting an even more twisted story out of them, making this book one of my most highly anticipated reads for 2020.” –BookRiot

“Looking for a read for your book club with gobs of atmosphere and page-turning psychological suspense, yet enough meat to discuss and debate? Look no further than Alma Katsu‘s The Deep….Katsu’s meticulous historical research and vivid imagination braid together into a chilling paranormal story that blurs the lines between fact and fiction while exploring the deep divides that existed between social classes at the turn of the 20th century.” –BookTrib

“Brilliantly combining fact and fiction, the historical and the horrific, The Deep reveals a chilling truth in an unputdownable narrative full of unnerving moments and with a growing, inexorable sense of foreboding.” –Nerd Daily

“A ghost story set against the backdrop of the sinking of the Titanic is a strong premise to set out with, from a writer who has good form with mixing horror with history after The Hunger….This creepy sounding tale…is highly appealing.” –Den of Geek

“A riveting, seductively menacing tale of love, loss, and betrayal set amid the glamour of the Titanic, filled with séances, sea witches, and second chances.” —Library Journal (starred review)

“Painstakingly researched and meticulously plotted…Though readers will be aware of the inevitable tragedies awaiting, Katsu successfully injects suspense into both time lines, spinning a darkly captivating tale of hauntings, possessions, secrets, and class….Katsu’s artful writing and calculated pacing keep the pages turning. This is an impressive, horror-tinged trip back in time.” —Publishers Weekly

“Atmospheric prose and exquisite attention to detail distinguish Katsu’s follow-up to The Hunger….A kaleidoscopic narrative adds color and depth.” —Kirkus Reviews

“A slow-burning but satisfying and eerie yarn.” —Booklist

“Even though you know what will happen—these ships are gonna go down—it does not diminish the eerie suspense one iota.” —BookPage

“Alma Katsu returns with another masterly supernatural reimagining of a historical tragedy: the sinking of the Titanic and her sister ship, the Britannic. Eerie, haunting, and filled with suspense, The Deep is a whirlpool of a novel that pulls you in and doesn’t let go.” —Danielle Trussoni, author of the Angelology series and The Ancestor
 
“At once both tragic and chilling, The Deep perfectly blends psychological thriller and eerie gothic ghost story to create something truly haunting, drawing you down into its dark depths before finally letting you up for air. Set in the claustrophobic confines of two doomed ships in their final days, Katsu’s excellently researched new novel establishes her as a unique voice in historical fiction. I can’t wait to see what she does next.” —Sarah Pinborough, author of Behind Her Eyes

“The way Alma Katsu weaves the true story of the Titanic and her sister ship, Britannic, with this dark, terrifying tale of possession and haunting is phenomenal. Part history, part drama, part love story, part creepy-as-heck ghost tale, with chills icier than the watery depths, The Deep is beautifully written, thoroughly absorbing, and totally terrifying.” —C.J. Tudor, author of The Chalk Man

“Here’s an incredibly ambitious setting, prose as ornate as the boat, mood as ghostly as gothic, and what must have been enough research to build a ship of her own. Yet, The Deep is thrilling, rich, frightening, unsettling, and, best of all, told from the heart. I’m going to have to read it again, because I’m not sure how she did it….The Deep is divine. I hear bugles blaring; the announcement of the arrival of a brilliant author.” —Josh Malerman, author of Bird Box, Unbury Carol, and Inspection

“The Deep deftly mashes up spellbinding historical fiction, adroit commentary on class and gender, and a classic yet surprising ghost story. Annie’s tale is truly haunting.” —Paul Tremblay, author of A Head Full of Ghosts and The Cabin at the End of the World

“Blending choice elements of mystery and horror into an impeccably recreated history, Alma Katsu has created a rich, haunting, irresistible novel that succeeds in rewriting the past while making it feel more ominously present than ever.” —Louis Bayard, author of Courting Mr. Lincoln and Roosevelt’s Beast
 
“Alma Katsu is a fantastic writer, with a unique ability to blur the lines of history, horror, humanity, and tragedy. Think Diana Gabaldon by way of Charlaine Harris. As with her exceptional novel, The Hunger, in The Deep Katsu takes on an infamous tragedy and adds her own haunting twists. A marvelous new addition to Katsu’s already impressive body of work.” —Michael Koryta, author of Those Who Wish Me Dead

“Like The Hunger, The Deep is historical reimagining laced with magic and mystery. Alma Katsu adds a sweeping love story and a ghostly tale of revenge to the sinkings of RMS Titanic and HMHS Britannic to tell a tale that is haunting, thrilling, and utterly original.” —Dacre Stroker, co-author of Dracul 

“Elegant and eerie. Alma Katsu really is something rather special.” —John Connolly, author of A Book of Bones
Alma Katsu is the author of The Hunger, The Taker, The Reckoning, and The Descent. She has been a signature reviewer for Publishers Weekly and a contributor to The Huffington Post. She is a graduate of the master’s writing program at the Johns Hopkins University and received her bachelor’s degree from Brandeis University. Prior to the publication of her first novel, Katsu had a long career as a senior intelligence analyst for several U.S. agencies. She lives outside of Washington, D.C. with her husband.

Chapter One

October 1916

Morninggate Asylum,

Liverpool

She is not mad.

Annie Hebbley pokes her needle into the coarse gray linen, a soft color, like the feathers of the doves that entrap themselves in the chimneys here, fluttering and crying out, sometimes battering themselves to death in a vain effort to escape.

She is not mad.

Annie’s eyes follow the needle as it runs the length of the hem, weaving in and out of fabric. In and out. In and out. Sharp and shining and so precise.

But there is something in her that is hospitable to madness.

Annie has come to understand the erratic ways of the insane-the crying fits, incoherent babblings, violent flinging of hands and feet. There is, after days and weeks and years, a kind of comforting rhythm to them. But, no, she is not one of them. Of that she is certain.

Certain as the Lord and the Blessed Virgin, her da’ might once have said.

There are a dozen female patients hunched over their sewing, making the room warm and stuffy despite the meagerness of the fire. Work is thought to be palliative to nervous disorders, so many of the inmates are given jobs, particularly those who are here due more to their own poverty than any ailment of mind or body. While most of the indigent are kept in workhouses, Annie has learned, quite a few find their way to asylums instead, if there are any empty beds to keep them. Not to mention the women of sin.

Whatever their reasons for turning up at Morninggate, most of the women here are meek enough and bend themselves to the nurses’ direction. But there are a few of whom Annie is truly afraid.

She pulls in tight to herself as she works, not wanting to brush up against them, unable to shake the suspicion that madness might pass from person to person like a disease. That it festers the way a fine mold grows inside a milk bottle left too long in the sun-undetectable at first but soon sour and corrupting, until all the milk is spoiled.

Annie sits on a hard little stool in the needle room with her morning’s labor puddled in her lap, but it is the letter tucked inside her pocket that brushes up against her thoughts unwillingly, a glowing ember burning through the linen of her dress. Annie recognized the handwriting before she even saw the name on the envelope. She has reread it now at least a dozen times. In the dark cover of night, when no one is looking, she kisses it like a crucifix.

As if drawn to the sin of Annie’s thoughts, a nurse materializes at her shoulder. Annie wonders how long she has been standing there, studying Annie. This one is new. She doesn’t know Annie yet-not well, anyway. They leave Annie to the late arrivals on staff, who haven’t yet learned to be frightened of her.

“Anne, dear, Dr. Davenport would like to see you. I’m to escort you to his office.”

Annie rises from her stool. None of the other women glance up from their sewing. The nurses never turn their backs to the patients of Morninggate, so Annie shuffles down the corridor, the nurse’s presence like a hot poker at her back. If Annie could get a moment alone, she would get rid of the letter. Stash it behind the drapes, tuck it under the carpet runner. She mustn’t let the doctor find it. Just thinking of it again sends a tingle of shame through her body.

But she is never alone at Morninggate.

In the dusty reflection of the hall windows they appear like two ghosts-Annie in her pale, dove-gray uniform, the nurse in her long cream skirt, apron, and wimple. Past a long series of closed doors, locked rooms, in which the afflicted mutter and wail.

What do they scream about? What torments them so? For some, it was gin. Others were sent here by husbands, fathers, even brothers who don’t like the way their women think, don’t like that they are outspoken. But Annie shies away from learning the stories of the truly mad. There’s undoubtedly tragedy there, and Annie’s life has had enough sadness.

The building itself is large and rambling, constructed in several stages from an old East India Company warehouse that shuttered in the 1840s. In the outdoor courtyard, where the women do their exercises in the mornings, the walls are streaked with sweat and spittle, smeared with dirty handprints and smudges of dried blood. Luckily the gaslights are kept low, for economy’s sake, giving the grime a pleasantly warm hue.

They pass the men’s wing; sometimes, Annie can hear their voices through the wall, but today they’re quiet. The men and women are kept separate because some of the women suffer from a peculiar nervous disorder that makes their blood run hot. These women cannot abide the sight of a man, will break out in tremors, try to tear off their clothes, will chew through their own tongues and fall down convulsing.

Or so they say. Annie has never seen it happen. They like to tell stories about the patients, particularly the female ones.

But Annie is safe here, from the great big world. The world of men. And that is what matters. The small rooms, the narrow confines are not so different from the old cottage in Ballintoy, four tiny rooms, the roiling Irish Sea not twenty paces from her front door. Here, the air in the courtyard is ripe with the smell of ocean, too, though if it is close by, Annie cannot see it, has not seen it in four years.

It is both a comfort and a curse. Some days, she wakes from nightmares of black water rushing into her open mouth, freezing her lungs to stone. The ocean is deep and unforgiving. Families in Ballintoy have lost fathers and brothers, sisters and daughters to the sea for as long as she can remember. She’s seen the water of the Atlantic Ocean choked with hundreds of bodies. More bodies than are buried in all of Ballintoy’s graveyard.

And yet on other days, she wakes to find plaster beneath her fingernails where she has scratched at the walls, desperate to get out, to return to it. Her blood surges through her veins with the motion of the sea. She craves it.

On the far side of the courtyard they enter the small vestibule that leads to the doctors’ private rooms. The nurse indicates that Annie should step aside as she knocks and then, at a command to enter, unlocks the door to Dr. Davenport’s office. He rises from behind his desk and gestures to a chair.

Nigel Davenport is a young man. Annie likes him, has always felt he has the well-being of his patients in mind. She’s overheard the nurses talk about how difficult it is for the parish to get doctors to remain at the asylum. Their job is discouraging when so few patients respond to treatment. Plus, it’s far more lucrative to be a family doctor, setting bones and delivering babies. He is always nice to her, if formal. Whenever he sees her, he thinks about the incident with the dove. They all do. How she was found once cradling a dead bird in her arms, cooing to it like a baby.

She knows it wasn’t a baby. It was just a bird. It had fallen out of the flue, hit the hearth in a puff of loose feathers. Dirty, sooty bird, and yet beautiful in its way. She only wanted to hold it. To have something of her own to hold.

He folds his hands and rests them on the desktop. She stares at his long fingers, the way they fold into one another. She wonders if they are strong hands. It is not the first time she has wondered this. “I heard you received another letter yesterday.”

Her heart trembles inside her chest.

“It is against our policy to intrude too much on our patients’ privacy, Annie. We don’t read patients’ mail, as they do at other homes. We are not like that here.” His smile is kind, but there is a slight furrow between his brows and Annie has the strangest urge to press her finger there, to smooth the soft flesh. But of course she would never. Voluntary touching is not allowed. “Here, you may show us only of your own free will. But you can see how these letters would be a matter of concern for us, don’t you?”

His voice is gentle, encouraging, almost a physical caress in the stillness. Bait. She remains silent, as if to speak would be to touch him back. Perhaps if she doesn’t respond, he will stop pressing. Perhaps she will vanish into air if she is quiet enough. She used to play this game all the time in the vast fields and cliffsides of Ballintoy-the recollection returns with startling clarity: the Vanishing Game. Generally, it worked. She could go whole days drifting in the meadow behind the house, imagining stories, without ever being seen or spoken to. A living phantom.

The doctor stretches his neck against his high collar. He has a good, solid neck. Hands, too. He could easily overpower her. That is probably the point of such strength. “Perhaps you would like to show it to me, Annie? For your own peace of mind? It’s not good to have secrets-secrets weigh on you, hold you down.”

She shivers. She longs to share it and burns to hide it. “It’s from a friend.”

“The friend who used to work with you aboard the passenger ship?” He pauses. “Violet, wasn’t it?”

She starts to panic. “She’s working on another ship now. She says they are in dire need of help and she wonders if I would return to service.” There. It’s out.

His dark eyes study her. She cannot resist the weight of his expectation. She has never been good at saying no; all she has ever wanted was to please people, her father, her mother. To please all of them. To be good.

Like she once was.

My good Annie, the Lord favors good girls, said her da’.

She reaches into her pocket and hands him the letter. She can hardly stand to watch him read, feeling as though it is not the letter but her own body that has been exposed.

Then he glances up at her, and slowly his mouth forms a smile.

“Don’t you see, Annie?”

She knots her hands together in her lap. “See?” She knows what he’s going to say next.

“You know that you’re not really sick, not like the others, don’t you?” He says these words kindly, as though he is trying to spare her feelings. As though she doesn’t already know it. “We debated the morality of keeping you here, but we were reluctant to discharge you because- Well, frankly, we didn’t know what to do with you.”

Annie had no recollection of her own past when she was admitted to Morninggate Asylum. She woke up in one of the narrow beds, her arms and legs bruised, not to mention the awful, aching wound on her head. A constable had found her unconscious behind a public house. She didn’t appear to be a prostitute-she was neither dressed for it nor stinking of gin.

But no one knew who she was. At the time, Annie scarcely knew herself. She couldn’t even tell them her name. The physician had no choice but to sign the court order to detain her at the asylum.

Her memory has, over time, begun to return. Not all of it, though; when she tries to recall certain things, all she gets is a blur. The night the great ship went down is, of course, cut into her memory with the prismatic perfection of solid ice. It’s what came before that feels unreal. She remembers the two men, each in their turn, though sometimes she feels as though they have braided together in her mind into just one man, or all men. And then, before that: fragments of green fields and endless sermons, intoned prayer and howling northern wind. A world too unfathomably big to comprehend.

A terrible, gaping loneliness that has been her only companion for four years.

Surely it is better to be kept safe inside this place, while the world and its secrets, its wars, its false promises, are kept away, outside the thick brick walls.

Dr. Davenport looks at her with that same wavering smile. “Don’t you think, Annie?” he is saying.

“Think what?”

“It would be wrong to keep you here, with the war on. Taking up a bed that could be used for someone who is truly unwell. There are soldiers suffering from shell shock. Everton Alley teems with poor and broken spirits, tormented by demons from their time on the battlefield.” His eyes are dark and very steady. They linger on hers. “You must write to the White Star office and ask for your old job, as your friend suggests. It’s the right thing to do under the circumstances.”

She is stunned, not by his assertions but that this is all happening so quickly. She is having trouble keeping up with his words. A slow dread creeps into her chest.

“You’re fine, my dear. You’re just scared. It’s understandable-but you’ll be right as rain once you see your friend and start working again. It’s about time, anyway, don’t you think?”

She can’t help but feel stubbornly rejected, spurned, almost. For four years, she’s managed things so that she could stay. Kept her secrets. Was careful not to disrupt anything, not to do anything wrong.

She has been so good.

Now her life, her home, the only security she knows, is being ripped away from her and she is once more being forced out into the unknown.

But there is no turning back. She knows she cannot refuse him this, cannot refuse him anything. Not when he has been so kind.

He folds up the letter and holds it out to her. Her gaze lingers on his strong hands. Her fingers brush against his when she takes it back. Forbidden.

“I should be happy to sign the release papers,” her doctor says. “Congratulations, Miss Hebbley, on your return to the world.”

3 October 1916

My dear Annie,

I hope this letter finds you. Yes, I am writing again even though I have not heard from you since the letter you sent via the White Star Line head office. You can understand why I continue to write. I pray your condition has not worsened. I was sorry to read of your current situation, although, from your letter, you do not sound unwell to me. Can you ever forgive me for losing track of you after that Terrible Night? I didn’t know if you had lived or died. I feared I would never see you again.

US

Additional information

Dimensions	0.9200 × 5.4800 × 8.1800 in
Imprint	G.P. Putnam's Sons
ISBN-13	09780525537922
ISBN-10	0525537929
Author	Alma Katsu
Audience	General / adult
BISAC	FIC014000, FIC031000
Subjects	horror book, scary stories, horror books, psychological suspense, historical novels, historical fiction books, historical books, horror novels, historical fiction novels, horror books for adults, ghost stories, scary books for adults, shipwreck, the astors, titanic book, supernatural book, titanic, titanic books, deep state, true story, adventure, Ghosts, horror, thriller, survival, suspense, mystery, paranormal, supernatural, history, FIC014000, thrillers, historical fiction, deep, FIC031000, thriller books, suspense books, alternate history
Format	General Trade