Wicked Reads for Halloween Survive the Night by Danielle Vega


I hope you been enjoying all the posts around the web this week about the Wicked Reads event and all the great spooky stories.

 And don’t forget to join these authors today at 4pm EST with @YAbookscentral and @mashreads, respectively!

Also don’t forget and Join!

#TwitterGhostStory, the week-long event (taking place 10/26-10/31) in which you can write a spooky story in 140 characters or less using #TwitterGhostStory to  enter for the chance to win a prize pack of the featured titles.


We’re all gonna die down here. . . .

Julie lies dead and disemboweled in a dank, black subway tunnel, red-eyed rats nibbling at her fingers. Her friends think she’s just off with some guy—no one could hear her getting torn apart over the sound of pulsing music.

In a tunnel nearby, Casey regrets coming to Survive the Night, the all-night underground rave in the New York City subway. Her best friend Shana talked her into it, even though Casey just got out of rehab. Alone and lost in the dark, creepy tunnels, Casey doesn’t think Survive the Night could get any worse . . .

. . . until she comes across Julie’s body, and the party turns deadly.

Desperate for help, Casey and her friends find themselves running through the putrid subway system, searching for a way out. But every manhole is sealed shut, and every noise echoes eerily in the dark, reminding them they’re not alone.

They’re being hunted.

Trapped underground with someone—or something—out to get them, Casey can’t help but listen to her friend’s terrified refrain: “We’re all gonna die down here. . . .” in this bone-chilling sophmore novel by the acclaimed author of The Merciless.


I’m not an expert. I’ve only seen the one. She was my roommate at Mountainside Gardens Rehabilitation Center. Rachel, only she pronounced her name Rock-el. I used to say it wrong on purpose.
Rachel was a boozehound. I had to dump all my perfume because the nurses said she’d drink it once withdrawal set in. I thought they were full of it, but then Rachel found out this girl down the hall had nail polish remover. She snuck out one night and stole it.
I found her in our bathroom, slumped next to the toilet. Sweat drenched her bleached-blond hair, making it clump around her hollowed-out cheeks and blue-tinted face. Skinny red veins spiderwebbed over the whites of her eyes, and blood and snot dripped from her nose. Dried vomit clung to her chin and her cracked purple lips.
I didn’t tell anyone outside of the clinic about Rachel. Not my parents. Not even Shana.
I also didn’t tell anyone back home about Moira, who ate her own hair, or Cara, who screamed whenever you touched her, or Tori Anne, who begged for drugs even though all her teeth were rotting out of her skull. You can’t tell people stories like that without giving them ideas.
Like, That’s really fucked up.
Or, What were you even doing there?
Or, Maybe you’re just like them.

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