Mr. Splitfoot
Published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
The strange odysseys of two young women animate this “hypnotic and glowing” American gothic novel that blurs the line between the real and the supernatural (Gregory Maguire, The New York Times Book Review).
A New York Times Editors’ Choice
A Paris Review Staff Pick
Ruth and Nat are seventeen. They are orphans living at The Love of Christ! Foster Home in upstate New York. And they may be able to talk to the dead. Enter Mr. Bell, a con man with mystical interests who knows an opportunity when he sees one. Together they embark on an unexpected journey that connects meteor sites, utopian communities, lost mothers, and a scar that maps its way across Ruth’s face.
Decades later, Ruth visits her niece, Cora. But while Ruth used to speak to the dead, she now doesn’t speak at all. Even so, she leads Cora on a mysterious mission that involves crossing the entire state of New York on foot. Where is she taking them? And who—or what—is hidden in the woods at the end of the road?
“[A] gripping novel…The narratives, which twist together into a shocking dénouement, are marked by ghost stories.”—The New Yorker
A New York Times Editors’ Choice
A Paris Review Staff Pick
Ruth and Nat are seventeen. They are orphans living at The Love of Christ! Foster Home in upstate New York. And they may be able to talk to the dead. Enter Mr. Bell, a con man with mystical interests who knows an opportunity when he sees one. Together they embark on an unexpected journey that connects meteor sites, utopian communities, lost mothers, and a scar that maps its way across Ruth’s face.
Decades later, Ruth visits her niece, Cora. But while Ruth used to speak to the dead, she now doesn’t speak at all. Even so, she leads Cora on a mysterious mission that involves crossing the entire state of New York on foot. Where is she taking them? And who—or what—is hidden in the woods at the end of the road?
“[A] gripping novel…The narratives, which twist together into a shocking dénouement, are marked by ghost stories.”—The New Yorker
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