Mister B. Gone by Clive Barker

From Barnes & Noble

The Mister B. of the title is Jakabob Botch, a demon whose ghastly past could make even the most merciless sociopath whimper in sympathy. Born in the deepest regions of hell, the spawn of an abusive drunkard and his whorish wife, Jakabob escapes to the world above after suffering fiendish torture. Once topside, he lands conveniently in 15th-century Mainz, the home of printing inventor Johannes Gutenberg. However, Mister B. isn't interested in merely observing history; like any other self-respecting diabolical being, he's just searching for a new demonic angle. A ghoulishly good fright fest.

From the Publisher

The astonishing new novel from bestselling author Clive Barker

Mister B. Gone marks the long-awaited return of Clive Barker, the great master of the macabre, to the classic horror story. This bone-chilling novel, in which a medieval devil speaks directly to the reader, claims to be a never-before-published demonic memoir penned in the year 1438. The sole copy was, so the story goes, created by the inventor of the printing press, Johannes Gutenberg himself. But this historic piece of writing immediately vanished without a trace.

Until now...

A demon known as Jakabok has embedded his very self inside each word of this meticulously printed tale of autobiographical terror. The reader is taunted and teased by his pleas for release from the confines of the very ink and paper that provide the vehicle for his life story. Little do they know, the depths of horror they hold in their hands. Reader beware, indeed, as Jakabok (aka Mister B.) escorts you on an unforgettable journey into the ultimate origins of good and evil.

The Washington Post - Bill Sheehan

Like the traditional bildungsroman, Mister B. Gone is, in the end, the story of an education. Jakabok's education culminates in a secret room where angels and demons hold clandestine—and intensely pragmatic—negotiations that he was never intended to witness and that lead to his imprisonment in the pages of this book. As he watches the "endless fish-market bartering" for the future of the printed word, he comes to understand the paltry commercial nature of the grand struggle between evil and good. In the process, he creates a vivid portrait of the embryonic forces that will ultimately shape the world. It's a satisfying conclusion to a subtle, surprising book. Within the modest canvas of Mister B. Gone, Barker, who rarely does anything predictable, confounds expectations once again, giving us one of the most resonant, provocative novels of his career.

Publishers Weekly

This offbeat novel in the form of a minor demon's diary may satisfy devoted Barker fans eager for his return to adult fiction after several years writing the Abarat series, but others, especially first-time readers, are likely to find this fable about good and evil less than rewarding. Jakabok Botch, the child of two demons who has inherited his father's two tails, is rendered even more grotesque after he tumbles into a fire and most of his face is badly burned. A violent dispute with his abusive father, Pappy Gatmuss, leads to the pair being trapped by a net from our world. Jakabok manages to elude capture and eventually finds his way to the home of Johannes Gutenberg, whose wife turns out to be an angel in disguise. The book's format-simultaneously Botch's first-person narrative and his break-the-fourth-wall address to the reader pleading for him or her to burn the book-may puzzle readers unused to Barker's quirks. (Oct. 30)

Publishers Weekly

With a bone-chilling opening consisting of a gloomy score and a very angry Doug Bradley (Hellraiser's Pinhead himself), Barker's latest horror effort is brilliantly realized in this masterful reading. Bradley is inherently creepy as the narrator, one Jakabok Botch, or Mister B., detailing his demonic life in this journal, which he implores you not to read right from the start. His rich Liverpool accent adds to the insidiousness of Jakabok, who implores the reader to release him from the confines of the diary as it seems he is actually stuck in the very ink that fills the pages. Bradley's performance is so powerful and compelling, it's nearly impossible not to listen all the way through the first time around. Bradley speaks directly to the listener, creating a very uncomfortable atmosphere ripe for plenty of good scares. Bradley's tone and demeanor creates constant tension throughout, with random bursts of anger and rage sure to make hearts skip a beat in a thrillingly fun experience. Simultaneous release with the Harper hardcover (Reviews, Sept. 24). (Nov.)

School Library Journal

Adult/High School -Inside this beautifully designed book lies the incredibly gruesome memoir of a 14th-century demon. As the story begins, Jakobok's father has an abusive temper and his mother doesna't listen. But that's the least of his problems as he is soon fished from Hell by some demon-hunting priests from the above world. Despite their best efforts, he manages to escape again and again, hooking up with a partner in crime and leaving death, blood, and limbs in his wake. As the book nears its end, Johannes Gutenberg makes an appearance and the story goes off the rails a bit. Barker's demon narrator addresses readers frequently, and though it would be tough to call him sympathetic, teens will relate to him. There are grand pronouncements about the nature of evil, and the evil of even the supposed moral arbiters, as well as the use of the printing press to disseminate both good and evil. Teens who devour the "Saw" movies will probably appreciate this well-written, if slightly messy, horror novel.-Jamie Watson, Harford County Public Library, MD

Kirkus Reviews

Any narrative that begins "Burn this book" definitely merits attention-unfortunately, readers would be much better off were they to heed this advice. The novel starts in Hell, so there's literally nowhere to go but up. The demon Jakabok Botch, also the narrator, introduces us to his sadistic and dysfunctional family. Botch wants to ingratiate himself with his mother by inventing "the first mechanical disemboweler." Shortly thereafter he is horribly disfigured in (go figure) a fire and winds up with no nose and no lips. Soon Botch and his father, Pappy Gatmuss, succumb to the temptation of steak and beer, but this turns out to be bait from the Upper (i.e. our) World. Although they're both hauled up in a net through the nine circles of Hell, only Botch makes it up alive. To disguise his demonhood, he wears clothes that cover his devilish aberration, two tails. In the Upper World he links up with Quitoon, an elder demon who's even more adept at evil than Botch. For 38 years they travel around the countryside, doing (as we would expect) repulsive things like burning people (Quitoon's specialty) and taking baths in the blood of infants. Eventually they meet Johannes Gutenberg, of printing-press fame, and his wife Hannah, who turns out to be an angel and hence an arch-enemy of Botch and his homoerotic friend. An overfed and puffed-up archbishop is also revealed to be on the side of the devil. During an apocalyptic battle between Hannah and the archbishop, Botch inadvertently puts his finger (claw?) on the problem: "Everyone continued to watch them as they carved up Humankind's future . . . the whole thing, for all its Great Significance and so on and so forth, was actually beginning to boreme." Exactly. An affected and pathetic narrative-nothing would be lost by confining it to the ninth circle of Hell.

Product Details

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Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Burn this book.

Go on. Quickly, while there's still time. Burn it. Don't look at another word. Did you hear me? Not. One. More. Word.

Why are you waiting? It's not that difficult. Just stop reading and burn the book. It's for your own good, believe me. No, I can't explain why. We don't have time for explanations. Every syllable that you let your eyes wander over gets you into more and more trouble. And when I say trouble, I mean things so terrifying your sanity won't hold once you see them, feel them. You'll go mad. Become a living blank, all that you ever were wiped away, because you wouldn't do one simple thing. Burn this book.

It doesn't matter if you spent your last dollar buying it. No, and it doesn't matter if it was a gift from somebody you love. Believe me, friend, you should set fire to this book right now, or you'll regret the consequences.

Go on. What are you waiting for? You don't have a light? Ask somebody. Beg them. It's a matter of light and death Believe me! Will you please believe me? A little runt of a book like this isn't worth risking madness and eternal damnation over. Well, is it? No, of course not. So burn it. Now! Don't let your eyes travel any further. Just stop here.

Oh God! You're still reading? What is it? You think this is some silly little joke I'm playing? Trust me, it isn't. I know, I know, you're thinking it's just a book filled with words, like any other book. And what are words? Black marks on white paper. How much harm could there be in something so simple? If I had ten hundred years to answer that question I would barely scratch thesurface of the monstrous deeds the words in this book could be used to instigate and inflame. But we don't have ten hundred years. We don't even have ten hours, ten minutes. You're just going to have to trust me. Here, I'll make it as simple as possible for you:

This book will do you harm beyond description unless you do as I'm asking you to. You can do it. Just stop reading...

Now.

What's the problem? Why are you still reading? Is it because you don't know who I am, or what? I suppose I can hardly blame you. If I had picked up a book and found somebody inside it, talking at me the way I'm talking at you, I'd probably be a little wary too.

What can I say that'll make you believe me? I've never been one of those golden-tongued types. You know, the ones who always have the perfect words for every situation. I used to listen to them when I was just a little demon and—

Hell and Demonation! I let that slip without meaning to. About me being a demon, I mean. Oh well, it's done. You were bound to figure it out for yourself sooner or later.

Yeah, I'm a demon. My full name is Jakabok Botch. I used to know what that meant, but I've forgotten. I used to. I've been a prisoner of these pages, trapped in the words you're reading right now and left in darkness most of the time, while the book sat somewhere through the passage of many centuries in a pile of books nobody ever opened. All the while I'd think about how happy, how grateful, I'd be when somebody finally opened the book. This is my memoir, you see. Or, if you will, my confessional. A portrait of Jakabok Botch.

I don't mean portrait literally. There aren't any pictures in these pages. Which is probably a good thing, because I'm not a pretty sight to look at. At least I wasn't the last time I looked.

And that was a long, long time ago. When I was young and afraid. Of what, you ask? Of my father, Pappy Gatmuss. He worked at the furnaces in Hell and when he got home from the night shift he would have such a temper me and my sister, Charyat, would hide from him. She was a year and two months younger than me, and for some reason if my father caught her he would beat and beat her and not be satisfied until she was sobbing and snotty and begging him to stop. So I started to watch for him. About the time he'd beheading home, I'd climb up the drainpipe onto the roof out of our house and watch for him. I knew his walk [or his stagger, if he'd been drinking] the moment he turned the corner of our street. That gave me time to climb back down the pipe, find Charyat, and the two of us could find a safe place where we'd go until he'd done what he always did when he, drunk or sober, came home. He'd beat our mother. Sometimes with his bare hands, but as he got older with one of the tools from his workbag, which he always brought home with him. She wouldn't ever scream or cry, which only made him angrier.

I asked her once very quietly why she never made any noise when my father hit her. She looked up at me. She was on her knees at the time trying to get the toilet unclogged and the stink was terrible; the little room full of ecstatic flies. She said: "I would never give him the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt me."

Thirteen words. That was all she had to say on the subject.

But she poured into those words so much hatred and rage that it was a wonder that the walls didn't crack and bring the house down on our heads. But something worse happened. My father heard.

How he sniffed out what we were saying I do not know to this day. I suspect he had buzzing tell-tales amongst the flies. I don't remember much of what he did to us, except for his pushing my head into the unclogged toilet—that I do remember. His face is also inscribed on my memory.