Quotes by Andrew Pyper

Last night I had the dream again. Except its not a dream I know because when it comes for me, Im still awake.Theres my desk. The map on the wall. The Stuffed animals I dont play with anymore but dont want to hurt Dads feelings by sticking in the closet I might be in bed. I might be just standing there, looking foe a missing sock. Then im gone.it doesnt just show me somthing this time, it takes me from here to THERE> standing on the bank of a river of fire. A thousand wasps in my head. Fighting and dying inside my skull, their bodies piling up against the backs of me eyes. Stinging and stinging.Dads voice. Somewhere across the river. Calling my name. Ive never heard him sound like that before. Hes so frightened he cant hide it, even though he tries (he ALWAYS tries).The dead boy floats by.Facedown. So I wait for his head to pop up, show the holes where his eye used to be, say somthing with his blue lips. One of the terrible things it might make him do. But he just passes like a chunk of wood. Ive never been here before, but I know its real. The river is the line between this place and the Other Place. And Im on the wrong side. Theres a dark forest behind me but thats not what it is. I try to get to where Dad is. My toes touch the river and it sings with pain. Then theres arms pulling me back. Dragging me into the trees. They feel like a mans arms but its not a man that sticks its fingers into my mouth. Nails that scratch the back of my throat. Skin that tastes like dirt. But just before that, before Im back in my room with my missing sock in my hand, I realize Ive been calling out to Dad just like hes been calling out to me. Telling him the same thing the whole time. Not words from my mouth through the air, but from my heart through the earth, so only the two of us could hear it.FIND ME

Tell me this. What is it with men and feeling like they have to act like self-destructive superheroes whenever trouble shows up?”“It’s the only way we know how to love.

Every poet — every storyteller — requires motivation.

Perhaps because my town was so naturally gothic in its architecture and relative isolation - the roads often closed in winter - my stories tended toward the ghostly and the creepily suspenseful right from the get-go.