An apocalyptic pandemic. A religious doomsday cult. A naïve heroine with the key to earth’s salvation. Lee hits all the right buttons in this breakneck page-turner.
Wynter Roth is seven years old when her mom, fleeing her abusive husband, brings Wynter and her sister Jackie to the isolated New Earth compound. The cult is led by the handsome, charismatic, and shady ex-entrepreneur, Magnus Theisen. Despite being the New Adam to his flock and preaching of end times, he maintains his worldly business influences and illicit desires.
Initially, Wynter and her family find safety and acceptance in the community—at the expense of their freedom of thought and individuality. Things deteriorate when Magnus takes Jackie as his new wife and plans to add Wynter as a second. Wynter is disgusted with Magnus’ hypocrisy and loses faith in his divine vision. At twenty-two, Wynter is cast out and taken in by an old friend of her mom’s.
The world is hard to navigate. Information is overwhelming, and Magnus’s dire prophecies and condemnation echo in Wynter’s head.
But it’s more than that. People are going crazy. Forgetting things. Killing themselves and others in graphic, violent ways. The CDC calls it early onset dementia—and it’s contagious and spreading like wildfire. The U.S. descends into chaos. Gas and supplies run out. Power grids go down.
Wynter is the only hope. Jackie escapes New Earth, bringing Wynter a case of medical samples acquired by Magnus that may hold the key for a vaccine—but not a cure. Wynter must race the specimens across the ravaged Midwest and deliver them to a researcher in Colorado.
The Line Between keeps tensions high, alternating between Wynter’s gripping memories of emotional abuse in the cult, and the mounting present-day horrors as society disintegrates around her. Everything is distressingly, immediately believable: from the nature of the disease laying waste to humanity, to the country’s nosedive into anarchy.
The thriller aspect alone makes this a standout novel, but Lee elevates the story further with layered, convincing characters, both good and bad. Wynter is beautifully drawn: she wrestles with self-doubt and her ignorance of the modern world but nurses a spark of independence and determination that even Magnus can’t destroy. On her quest, Wynter experiences tragedy and cruelty and selfishness, but also kindness, generosity, and…potential romance. The ending resolves major plot threads and sets us up nicely for a sequel. Which I want immediately, please.
Mark is the new kid in the tiny, tight-knit town of Summitville in the remote Colorado Rockies. He’s slightly chubby. Has low-self esteem. No surprise that he becomes the whipping boy of the local high school bullies. A bloody beating in the woods sets disturbing events in motion that will change Mark’s life forever. And may cost him his soul.
Remarkably, after Mark is physically scarred for life from his thrashing, things get better for him. He tentatively finds a girlfriend. Gets a job with the local bookstore owner who is also a popular horror writer. Makes a few friends in town. And makes friends with those odd little creatures in the forest. The people who bother him start to disappear. Get dismembered. Have the marrow sucked out of their bones.
Unbeknownst even to Mark himself, those strange little beings – that look a lot less cute to anyone else who lives long enough to see them – are changing him into something unnatural and very, very evil.
By the time the infamous Mr. Crowley comes to town, things are rapidly deteriorating in Summitville. Crowley is a reoccurring character in some of Moore’s novels: a not-very-nice, feral-smiling fighter of malicious forces. He is a treat of an antihero. It is up to Crowley to see if he can bring things back to normal. Or at least perform a little damage control.
Moore is a masterful writer. He spends time developing his place and his people. His characterization is subtle and nuanced, resulting in a wholly believable cast. The folks in Summitville could be your neighbors; you feel as if you know them and care about them – dark secrets, raw emotions and all. Similarly, Summitville, with its beautiful forest, small town main street, crisp mornings and fall trails through the woods could just as easily be your own little hometown.
Under the Overtree is a longer book with a slow build, which may turn off readers who want a quick fix of jump scares or a rapid series of bloodbaths. Moore’s gradual increase in tension, however, makes the horror all the more shocking when it does occur because you have become so invested in the world of the book. Moore combines dry humor, a honed sense of the grotesque, and a dose of compassion for the human condition to make a crackerjack horror story.
Want more Mr. Crowley? I always do. Check out Moore’s brilliant Serenity Falls series which begins with Writ in Blood.
Cheesman Park. Spacious. Green. Relaxing. Former cemetery.
Probably still a cemetery.
You read that correctly. The history of Denver’s Cheesman Park is unsettling. Potentially thousands of bodies remain buried below the park’s pretty lawns.
We visited on a warm-for-winter late afternoon and found a pastoral setting. A stunning white marble pavilion graced the hill above the park, framing wide expanses of gently rolling green grass, people jogging or sunning themselves, a view to die for…
And stories of ghosts.
View of Denver from the pavilion in Cheesman Park
The land that became Cheesman Park originally belonged to the Arapahoe Indians and was possibly a sacred burial ground.
General William Larimer didn’t care much about that when he jumped a claim and founded the city of Denver. In 1858 he created the 320-acre Mount Prospect Cemetery. This would later become Congress Park, Cheesman Park, and the Denver Botanic Gardens.
There is some debate about who had the dubious honor of being buried first in Mount Prospect.
One story claims that a gentleman named Abraham Kay, who died from a sudden lung infection in 1859, was the first buried in Mount Prospect.
Another, more colorful story, declares that the first person interred in the new cemetery was Hungarian immigrant John Stoefel. He was accused of murdering his brother-in-law and was hanged at the crossroads of 10th and Cherry Street (or Wazee Street, depending on source you read). Both he and his victim were buried in the same grave. Not an auspicious start for a new cemetery.
This second version, being a little more gruesome, has become the popular story and really did set the stage for Mount Prospect’s sketchy reputation.
Handsome gambler Jack O’ Neal (alternately found spelled “O’Neil”) is buried there as well. Some sources say he was Stoefel’s victim, others say O’Neal got into a gambling dispute with a man named Rooker who later ambushed O’Neal and shot him to death. Regardless, O’Neal was buried in Mount Prospect and the cemetery earned the infamous nickname “Jack O’Neal’s Ranch.”
Looking west from inside the pavilion
The cemetery was segregated by religion and ethnicity. Paupers and criminals took up the southwest corner. There was a section for Chinese immigrants, Catholics and Jewish people. The wealthy were interred up on top of the hill.
Unfortunately, the increasing number of criminals, undesirables, and paupers being buried in Mount Prospect helped it earn some other nicknames as well such as “Old Boneyard” and “Boot Hill.”
The U.S. Government discovered that the cemetery was actually on federal land based on an 1860 treaty with the Arapahoe Indians, and sold the land back to the City of Denver for $200 in 1872. Mount Prospect changed its name to City Cemetery.
By this time, the cemetery was in disrepair: headstones were toppled in places and cattle grazed among the graves. Some families and groups maintained their sections of the cemetery, but other parts became increasingly dilapidated.
Headstones in disarray at the former cemetery in Cheesman Park. Photo courtesy of the Denver Public Library, Western History Photographic Collections.
In 1881, a hospital for small pox victims – nicknamed the “Pest House” – went up where the community gardens section of the Denver Botanic Gardens now stands. This hospital also housed elderly and handicapped people who essentially went there to die. A section of the graveyard behind the building held mass graves for these unfortunates.
By 1890 the City Cemetery was an eyesore and Denver received permission from Congress to use land as a park. City Cemetery was promptly renamed Congress Park. Families had just 90 days to move their loved one’s remains to another cemetery; usually Riverside (see my Riverside post) or Fairmount. There were so many Roman Catholic folks buried in the Catholic section, however, that the mayor sold that land to the Denver Diocese. It became Mt. Calvary Cemetery, and later the Denver Botanic Gardens.
Former Mount Calvary Cemetery. Photo courtesy of the Denver Public Library, Western History Photographic Collections.
Because so many bodies were left unclaimed in City Cemetery – probably due to the fact that many were criminals, vagrants, and unknowns – Denver hired an undertaker to start digging them up and moving them to Riverside. E.P McGovern would earn $1.90 for each body he boxed. In 1893 McGovern started removing the corpses. And tales of hauntings began. People living in the palatial houses nearby reported seeing ghostly figures that would knock on their windows and doors and then vanish. Moaning sounds rose up from the excavated cemetery at night. One gravedigger, who was also allegedly looting the graves, felt a hand touch him on the shoulder while he was working. He ran away in fright and never came back to the job.
The pavilion in Cheesman Park
The worst was yet to come. McGovern realized he could make a bigger profit by using child-sized caskets instead of full-sized adult ones. He hacked up the bodies, often mixing the bones of multiple bodies together and using as many as three caskets for one body. Onlookers watching the exhumation swooped in for a little discreet – or not so discreet – grave robbing. Body parts lay everywhere.
Mount Calvary Cemetery. Photo courtesy of the Denver Public Library, Western History Photographic Collections.
Fortunately, a local newspaper, the Denver Republican, got wind of the story and its headline of March 19, 1893 ran “The Work of Ghouls!” An excerpt from the story reads:
“The line of desecrated graves at the southern boundary of the cemetery sickened and horrified everybody … Around their edges were piled broken coffins, rent and tattered shrouds and fragments of clothing that had been torn from the dead bodies … All were trampled into the ground by the footsteps of the gravediggers like rejected junk.”
Denver Mayor Rogers quickly terminated McGovern’s contract after the Health Commissioner investigated the debacle, and the city put up a wooden fence around the cemetery. In 1894, grading started for the park even though the rest of the bodies hadn’t been removed and some graves still stood open; left that way from McGovern’s hack job. The park was finally finished in 1907, leaving as many as 2,000 corpses still buried beneath its grounds.
Cheesman Park’s rolling lawns. What lies beneath?
And how did Cheesman Park get its name? In 1909 Mrs. Cheesman and her daughter offered to donate funds for a show-stopping marble pavilion if the city agreed to rename part of the park after her late husband. Walter Cheesman had been prominent in Denver’s history as a railroad entrepreneur and a water baron. The city agreed, and the pavilion, designed by Willis A. Marean and Albert Julius Norton, was finished in 1910.
In the meantime, the Roman Catholic cemetery, Mount Cavalry, was sold back to the city and its bodies moved to Mount Olivet Cemetery in nearby Wheat Ridge.
Despite its gruesome history, on our sunny afternoon visit it was hard to believe that Cheesman Park is haunted. But unclaimed graves and spooky stories abound.
Within the pavilion
I personally only felt a sense of calm at Cheesman Park, but some visitors report feeling either a sense of terrible sadness or anxiety there. Small wonder, given the desecration of so many graves and displacement of so many bodies.
Others claim that when they lay down on the park-like grounds, they feel as if they are being held down by an unseen force, and are almost unable to get up.
At night, apparitions of a singing woman and those of small children playing are said to wander the park, vanishing on approach. The outlines of old gravestones eerily appear to frighten other nighttime visitors. Some people say they heard a terrifying susurration of ghostly voices coming from the fields where graves once stood open.
Cheesman Park was apparently also the inspiration of the 1980 movie The Changeling. (Great film!) Writer Russell Hunter lived in a haunted house at the northern end of Cheesman Park in the 1960’s. There he claims he experienced bizarre paranormal phenomena including doors opening and closing by themselves, pictures falling off walls, and contact from the spirit of a little boy. Whether his story is true or not, the home in the movie is in fact called the Cheesman House.
If any place meets criteria for being haunted, Cheesman Park certainly does. Native American land. A cemetery filled with many who died alone and unknown. Bodies disrespectfully disinterred helter-skelter. Graves desecrated. It is no wonder that shadowy figures are reported walking the grassy fields after dark.
And the story doesn’t quite end there. As recently as November 2010, irrigation work around the pavilion in the park unearthed four skeletons (actually five skeletons; the bones had been mixed together) that were over 100 years old.
In 2008, construction on a new, below-ground parking structure across the street from the Botanic gardens came to an abrupt halt when bones were discovered, to no one’s surprise.
Cheesman Park during the day is an expansive park with a sobering background. It is a beautiful place to walk and reflect. Take a seat on the pavilion steps. Relax and look at the mountains soaring up miles away and contemplate the history – haunted or not – that still remains beneath your feet.
“Don’t call her Molly,” the tour guide admonished our group before we were even allowed off the front porch.
She was never called Molly. Maybe Maggie, as a stretch, when she was little. But never Molly. She preferred Margaret. Our rather tense docent actually carried the equivalent of a cussing jar: forcing herself to put a nickel in every time she misspoke and said Molly.
So began our tour of Denver’s famous – and allegedly haunted – Molly Brown house. Oops. I just wrote Molly. I owe myself a nickel.
The late, watery afternoon sun was slipping to the west when we arrived at Riverside Cemetery. The oldest operating cemetery in Denver, Riverside takes up a massive seventy-seven acres between Brighton Boulevard and the South Platte River.
Created in 1876 as an alternative to the quickly deteriorating City Cemetery – now Cheesman Park, more on that location another time – Riverside was a cemetery of choice for wealthy Denverites who wanted a beautiful, park-like, secluded burial place. It was so popular, many exhumed and moved their already dead and buried to Riverside! While the addition of the BNSF railroad track in 1890 dissuaded a few families and the dying-off of the grounds due to a loss of water rights turned away others, Riverside was still the burial location for over 67,000 people including over 1,200 Civil War veterans. It was designated a National Historic District in 1994.
Although I have not found documentation of any ghostly encounters at the cemetery, given the breadth of time and historical events represented within its gates, it would seem unlikely not to have a spirit or two lingering around!
We started in the north section at the Old Stone House. Made of limestone, the Stone House was used as an office and holding tomb, and possibly also a chapel. Is the sloping concrete ramp where the bodies were moved in and out?
Walking through the winter-brown landscape we were struck by the disquieting juxtaposition of time suspended and time having moved on: modern smokestacks and industrial complexes surround the neighborhood around memorials that go back nearly 140 years.