Mr. Splitfoot

by Samantha Hunt

A New York Times Editors' Choice and Indie Next Pick. From the author of The Invention of Everything Else comes a contemporary gothic about Mr. Splitfoot, who tracks two women across multiple decades as they march, each in her own time, toward a mysterious reckoning.

  • Format: Paperback
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780544811812
  • ISBN-10: 054481181X
  • Pages: 352
  • Publication Date: 01/24/2017
  • Carton Quantity: 24

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About the Book
About the Author
  • About the Book
    A New York Times Editors' Choice and Indie Next Pick. From the author of The Invention of Everything Else comes a contemporary gothic about Mr. Splitfoot, who tracks two women across multiple decades as they march, each in her own time, toward a mysterious reckoning.

    Ruth and Nat are orphans, packed into a house full of abandoned children run by a religious fanatic. To entertain their siblings, they channel the dead. Decades later, Ruth’s niece, Cora, finds herself accidentally pregnant. After years of absence, Aunt Ruth appears, mute and full of intention. She is on a mysterious mission, leading Cora on an odyssey across the entire state of New York on foot. Where is Ruth taking them? Where has she been? And who??—??or what??—??has she hidden in the woods at the end of the road?

    In an ingeniously structured dual narrative, two separate timelines move toward the same point of crisis. Their merging will upend and reinvent the whole. A subversive ghost story that is carefully plotted and elegantly constructed, Mr. Splitfoot will set your heart racing and your brain churning. Mysteries abound, criminals roam free, utopian communities show their age, the mundane world intrudes on the supernatural and vice versa.

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  • About the Author
  • Excerpts
    Far from here, there’s a church. Inside the church, there’s a box. Inside the box is Judas’s hand.” Nat is slight and striking as a birch branch. 


    “Who cut it off?” Ruth asks. “How?” 


    But Nat’s a preacher in a fever. His lesson continues with a new topic. “Baby deer have no scent when they are born.” Nat conducts the air. “Keeps those babies safe as long as their stinking mothers stay far away.” This is how Nat loves Ruth. He fills her head with his wisdom. 


    “My mom doesn’t stink.” 


    “You don’t even know who your mom is, Ru.” 


    “Of course I do. She’s a veterinarian. She already had too many animals when I was born.” 


    “I don’t believe you.” 


    Ruth looks left, then right. “OK. She’s a bank robber. When you’re asleep, she brings me money.” 


    “Where’s all the cash, then? Are you hiding it in some big cardboard box?” 


    So Ruth swerves again, returning to the version of a mother she uses most often. “I mean my mom’s a bird, a red cardinal.” 


    “A male? Your mom’s a boy?” 




    “No, she isn’t. She’s a stone. Bones. I spit on her.” Nat steals confidence from thin air. 


    Ruth pulls her long dress tight across bent knees. She doesn’t even know enough about mothers to fabricate a good one. Her idea of a mother is like a non-dead person’s idea of heaven. It must be great. It must be huge. It must be better than what she’s got now. “I’m just saying, wherever she is, she doesn’t stink.” 


    Nat flips the feathers of his hair. “Wherever she is. Exactly.” He holds his hand in a ray of sunlight. “I’m here now.” He lifts the hand that touched light up to her ear, squeezing the lobe, an odd, familiar affection between their bodies. Nat touches the scar on her face, tangled knots of tissue, keloids dots on her nose and cheeks. “Do you know how they deliver mail to the bottom of the Grand Canyon?” 




    “I taught you this before. Please.” Nat is cruel or Nat is gentle. Nat hates/loves Ruth as much as he hates/loves himself. He’ll say, “Sleep on the floor tonight” or “I’m taking your blue coat. I like it” or “Stop crying right now.” But he’ll also say, “Eat this” and “You can dance, girl” and “Stay the fuck away from Ruth, or I’ll slice your ear cartilage off and give it to a dog to chew on.” When the Father raises a switch, Nat gives his back. “Are you just someone who wants to stay stupid?” 


    “No. Tell me.” 




    She wrinkles her nose. 


    “Don’t believe me? You’re welcome to shop elsewhere.” 


    “I believe you. You’re the only shop in town.” 


    They are alone in Love of Christ!’s bright living room. They are happiest when they are alone together. “Tell me what you know about light.” 


    “Not much.” 


    “It’s the fastest thing in the world.” 


    “Faster than Jesus?” 


    “Way faster than Jesus.” 


    Dust turns before her eyes. “OK. I believe you.” 


    Nat looks right at her, smiles. “What killed Uncle Sam?” 


    She imagines a forgotten relative, an inheritance, a home. “Who’s that?” 


    “Samuel Wilson, the meatpacking man once called Uncle Sam. Symbol of our nation? He’s buried just down the road apiece. You didn’t even know Uncle Sam was dead.” 


    “I didn’t know Uncle Sam was a real person. What killed him?” 


    “Stupidity, girl. Stupidity.” 


    His, she wonders, or mine? 




    Nothing is near here, upstate New York. The scope of the galaxy seems reasonable. Light, traveling ten thousand years to reach Earth, makes sense because from here even the city of Troy, three miles away, is as distant as Venus. What difference could ten thousand light years make? Nat and Ruth have never been to Manhattan. 


    The Love of Christ! Foster Home, Farm, and Mission is a brick bear spotted with mange. Handiwork from days past? — ?ledge and brace doors, finger-joint chair rails, and hardwood floors? — ?is being terrorized by state-provided, institutional, indestructible furniture common to dormitories and religious organizations. The house’s wooden floors are smooth as a gun butt. In summer Drosophila melanogaster breed in the compost pile. Each snaggletooth of a homestead constructed during the Civil War pleases Father Arthur, lord of the domain, founder of Love of Christ! “Hand of the creator,” he says. Clapboards that keep out only some of the wind; sills that have slipped off square; splinters as long as fingers. The house is always cold with a useless hearth since the State frowns on foster home fireplaces. “Meddlers!” Father Arthur unleashed his rage against bureaucracy, using a sledge on the innocent, elderly chimney. Now once a day when the sun reaches alignment, a sliver of light shines into the house through the busted-up flue, a precise astronomical calendar if anyone knew how to read it. 


    At Love of Christ! children feel the Lord, and the Lord is often furious and unpredictable, so Father Arthur cowers from corrupting influences. No Walt Disney, soda pop, or women’s slacks pass his threshold. The children milk goats, candle and collect eggs, preserve produce, and make yogurt from cultures they’ve kept alive for years. Blessed be the bacteria. The children remain ignorant of the bountiful mysteries filling the nearby Price Chopper. 


    Boys at Love of Christ! wear black cotton pants and solid tops from a limited palette of white, tan, or brown. The girls wear plain dresses last seen on Little House on the Prairie reruns. Simple fabric, a few pale flowers, a modest length for working. Fingernails are clean and rounded. Teeth are scrubbed with baking soda. The old ways survive, and seasonal orders dictate. 


    But? — ?like the olivine-bronzite chondrite meteor that surprised a Tomhannock Creek farmer back in 1863? — ?corruption has a way of breaking through. New charges arrive with words from the outside: mad cow disease, La-Z-Boy recliner, Barbie doll. 


    “You know what Myst is?” Ruth asks Nat. 


    “M.I.S.T. Yes. A secretive branch of the Marines. Surprised you’ve heard of it.” He works with more confidence than facts. 


    “I thought it was a video game.” 


    “Video game? What’s that?” 




    When they had mothers, Nat’s read him books and fed him vitamins until a bad man bit off the tip of her right breast and told her he’d be back for the left one. She didn’t stop driving unti...

  • Reviews
    “Ethereal . . . The book deftly straddles the slippery line between fantasy and reality in a story that’s both gripping and wonderfully mystifying . . . [I]nterconnected chapters build suspense while keeping readers guessing about what crazy turn might happen next. Hints of what’s in store for readers include a cult of Etherists, a noseless man, a pile of lost money, and a scar-like pattern of meteorite landings. This spellbinder is storytelling at its best.”—Publishers Weekly, starred review 


    “A truly fantastic novel in which the blurring of natural and supernatural creates a stirring, visceral conclusion.”—Kirkus Reviews, starred review 


    “I get the chills. Is it a true story? Is it a sad story? It’s what people want. It has a lot of good energy and people, people will like it. They will keep reading it until they read the end of it. It’s intriguing because a person will know there’s something two-sided. Yeah. It’s a good one.”—Charlotte Brontë, speaking through a medium 


    “Part road trip, part gothic, Mr. Splitfoot belongs on the shelf beside The Haunting of Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle. Samantha Hunt is astonishing. Her every sentence electrifies. Her characters demand our closest attention. Her new book contains everything that I want in a novel. If I could long-distance mesmerize you, dear reader, into picking up this book and buying it and reading it at once, believe me: I would.”—Kelly Link, author of Get in Trouble,Magic for Beginners, and many others 


    “I’m speechless. Mr. Splitfoot is so inventive, so new; I haven’t read anything like it in years. On the surface it's about false spirituality and the most demented road trip across New York State ever attempted, but it's also about the horrible ties that bind us and the small acts of redemption that make life almost okay. On top of that, it’s a thrilling page-turner. I couldn’t stop reading it.”—Gary Shteyngart, author of Little Failure,Super Sad True Love Story, and many others 


    Mr. Splitfoot is lyrical, echoing, deeply strange, with a quality of sustained hallucination. It is the best book on communicating with the dead since William Lindsay Gresham's Nightmare Alley, but it swaps out that novel’s cynicism for a more life-affirming sense of uncertainty.”—Luc Sante, author of Low Life and many others 


    Mr. Splitfoot is an absolutely thrilling book. Filial and maternal love are on display in all their complicated hugeness. But Hunt gives us plenty of humor amid the horror and awe— 

    and then turns on the lights and shows us what was looming above us the whole time. I can’t stop thinking about it.”—Sarah Manguso, author of Ongoingness, Two Kinds of Decay, and others

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