robert mccammon i travel by night

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I Travel By Night and Last Train From Perdition

Robert mccammon.

Dust jacket by Michael Whelan I Travel by Night marks Robert McCammon’s triumphant return to the sort of flamboyant, go-for-broke horror fiction that has earned him an international reputation and a legion of devoted fans. The terrors of the Dark Society, the gothic sensibilities of old New Orleans, and the tortured existence of the unforgettable vampire adventurer Trevor Lawson all combine into a heady brew that will thrill McCammon’s loyal readers and earn him new ones as well. For Lawson, the horrors that stalked the Civil War battlefield at Shiloh were more than just those of war. After being forcibly given the gift of undeath by the mysterious vampire queen LaRouge, Lawson chose to cling to what remained of his humanity and fought his way free of the Dark Society’s clutches. In the decades since, he has roamed late nineteenth century America, doing what good he can as he travels by night, combating evils mundane and supernatural, and always seeking the key to regaining a mortal life. That key lies with his maker, and now Lawson hopes to find LaRouge at the heart of a Louisiana swamp with the aid of a haunted priest and an unexpected ally. In the tornado-wracked ghost town of Nocturne, Lawson must face down monstrous enemies, the rising sun, and his own nature. Readers will not want to miss this thrilling new dark novella from a master storyteller.

Last Train From Perdition - I Travel By Night, Book Two

Dust jacket and limited edition illustration by Michael Whelan

In I Travel by Night, master of horror Robert McCammon introduced the tortured and instantly unforgettable vampire adventurer Trevor Lawson—All Matters Handled—as he searched for his maker, LaRouge, in hope of becoming human once more. It wove a tale about the terrors of the Dark Society, featuring the gothic sensibilities of old New Orleans, and the unforgiving violence of the untamed frontier of 1886. Now McCammon returns to Lawson’s gripping journey and sends him West, in the chilling sequel novella Last Train from Perdition.

Ever on the hunt for LaRouge, Lawson still travels by night, but no longer alone. Crack-shot, whip-smart Ann has become his companion, on her own search for her vampire-taken father and sister. Lawson has been summoned from New Orleans and the Hotel Sanctuaire to Omaha by a wealthy man who needs his son retrieved from a band of outlaws. Lawson and Ann agree to take the case and travel to the town of Perdition where they find their prey—but things get complicated fast when a saloon shootout leaves an innocent girl badly injured.

On a night train from Perdition to Helena to find medical help, it soon becomes clear that Lawson and Ann’s enemies may also be looking to prey upon them. As they struggle against those forces of darkness with a trainload of their most unlikely allies yet, Lawson also wages battle with the darkness LaRouge left within him. This latest installment in Trevor Lawson’s battle for redemption finds bestselling McCammon at his thrilling best.

Trade : Fully cloth bound hardcover edition and sold out at the publisher

Limited: 474 signed numbered copies, housed in a custom slipcase and sold out at the publisher

Lettered: limited to 26 signed, lettered and traycased copies

Both trades, limiteds and lettereds are available with Book 2 Last Train from Perdidtion, in the case of the limited and lettered, the two books have matching numbers/letters, we also have a PC set of lettered books.  A "PC" copy which is identical in every way to a lettered copy but has the letters "PC" in the limitation line, the "PC" denotes "Publisher's Copy" and is one of a very few copies produced for use by the Publisher, usually for contributors.          

For information regarding Last Train From Perdition follow this link.

Review: I Travel By Night

If you don’t know by now, let me be clear: I love Subterranean Press . Simply put, the quality of the books they put out are nothing short of amazing. From the art to the actual materials used to make the book, the production quality never fails to impress. Additionally, Subterranean Press is the publisher for all of Robert McCammon ‘s novels these days. Every McCammon story I have read thus far has been terrific, and he has easily become one of my favorite authors. So when Subterranean Press announced new novella from McCammon, I begged and pleaded for an ARC of it. I TRAVEL BY NIGHT ( Amazon ) is a vampire story. I’m tired of vampires. They don’t hold much interest for me these days. I blame it on the over-saturation of the market with the sexy, glittery variety. But if there is one author I trust with the classic Horror monster archetypes, it is Robert McCammon.

The short version is that I TRAVEL BY NIGHT is classic McCammon, and absolutely incredible.

The story begins with an introduction to the character Trevor Lawson. He was given the curse of vampirism on a battlefield during the Civil War, and ever since has been trying to track down the vampire queen that turned him. If he can find her, he may be able to reverse his affliction and become mortal again. Until then, Lawson takes whatever jobs he can to help the less fortunate.

The first thing I noticed was how the beginning of the novel has a rambling cadence to the narrative. It felt like I was lounging comfortably in front of a blazing fireplace while McCammon sat across from me relating the story. That narration style continues until Lawson accepts a job that could potentially put him back on the trail of the vampire that turned him. Then the story is a pure Horror and Adventure thrill-ride.

Since this novella is on the short side, I hesitate to describe the other characters Lawson encounters in I TRAVEL BY NIGHT. You would be better served discovering them without any preconceived impressions acquired from me. I will say that each side character has a brief back-story that, while quick and direct, made me instantly like them. Lawson himself is a sympathetic character that is the classic good-guy holding back the monster within himself. If you have read any of McCammon’s other works, you know how effortlessly he writers those types of characters, and Trevor Lawson is no exception.

Very quickly into the story, McCammon shows us how vampires should be. They are monsters, plain and simple. The older they are, the more monstrous they become. This is why I know I can always trust McCammon to write any kind of monster. He just gets it.

The best part of I TRAVEL BY NIGHT, for me, was the ending. This is Horror, and as such should have some hopelessness to end the story. There is a small measure of success, but it is mixed with an equal share of failure and worry for the future. The instant I finished the novel, I immediately contacted McCammon begging for more.

I TRAVEL BY NIGHT showcases McCammon's skill at bringing Historical Horror to life. It's an effortless read crafted with an expert storyteller's touch

I TRAVEL BY NIGHT is short. For some, too short. It is the type of story that you will want to read in one sitting. So the question is, should you spend Hardcover money on a story that spans 150 pages? I did. In fact, I bought a regular Hardcover of the novel than also purchased a signed and numbered edition as well. Why? Because I loved I TRAVEL BY NIGHT. Because I hope that if we all support this novella, McCammon will either turn this into a huge novel or write more novellas featuring the vampire Trevor Lawson.

I TRAVEL BY NIGHT showcases Robert McCammon’s skill at bringing Historical Horror to life. It is an effortless read crafted with an expert storyteller’s touch. If you are a fan of McCammon’s work specifically, or just a fan of Horror, you should buy a copy of I TRAVEL BY NIGHT.

• Recommended Age: 16+
• Language: You know, I don't recall any. I'm sure there was some, because there always is in McCammon's work. We'll say it is on the same level as his Matthew Corbett series.
• Violence: It's a vampire hunting vampires. Though the length of the story somewhat prohibits the number of violent scenes that could be included, it still gets pretty awesomely bloody.
• I Travel By Night — Amazon

Author Links:

• Robert McCammon — Website — EBR Reviews

I personally advocate buying directly from Subterranean Press as their shipping methods are some of the best anywhere, and I just think they are a group of awesome people. I TRAVEL BY NIGHT: Subterranean Press

Also, now is a great time to get McCammon’s latest Matthew Corbett novel, THE PROVIDENCE RIDER. It is absolutely terrific, and an amazing price: ( Amazon ) ( Subterranean Press )

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I Travel by Night

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Dust jacket by Michael Whelan

I Travel by Night marks Robert McCammon’s triumphant return to the sort of flamboyant, go-for-broke horror fiction that has earned him an international reputation and a legion of devoted fans. The terrors of the Dark Society, the gothic sensibilities of old New Orleans, and the tortured existence of the unforgettable vampire adventurer Trevor Lawson all combine into a heady brew that will thrill McCammon’s loyal readers and earn him new ones as well.

For Lawson, the horrors that stalked the Civil War battlefield at Shiloh were more than just those of war. After being forcibly given the gift of undeath by the mysterious vampire queen LaRouge, Lawson chose to cling to what remained of his humanity and fought his way free of the Dark Society’s clutches. In the decades since, he has roamed late nineteenth century America, doing what good he can as he travels by night, combating evils mundane and supernatural, and always seeking the key to regaining a mortal life.

That key lies with his maker, and now Lawson hopes to find LaRouge at the heart of a Louisiana swamp with the aid of a haunted priest and an unexpected ally. In the tornado-wracked ghost town of Nocturne, Lawson must face down monstrous enemies, the rising sun, and his own nature. Readers will not want to miss this thrilling new dark novella from a master storyteller.

Lettered: 26 signed leatherbound copies, housed in a custom traycase Limited: 474 signed numbered copies, housed in a custom slipcase Trade: Fully cloth bound hardcover edition

From Publishers Weekly: “Southern gothicist and paranormal historian McCammon ( Gone South ; The Wolf’s Hour ) combines the two genres in this fun, fast novella… An explosive confrontation with the Dark Society in a bayou ghost town opens the door to more stories of Lawson and his companions, deftly sketching the wider world’s parameters without shortchanging personal conflicts.”

From The Agony Column: "In the 1980’s, McCammon turned a lot of heads with a string of novels that, in many ways, perfectly refined the best elements of American horror fiction. His vampire novel, They Thirst unleashed vampires in Los Angeles; his werewolf novel, The Wolf’s Hour , pitted an allied spy who was a werewolf against the Nazis. To these and other novels, he brought a rich, atmospheric imagination, vivid characters and an expertly paced plot. McCammon’s novels were unabashedly commercial, generally available first as mass-market paperbacks and one hundred percent fun. He took his work seriously enough to make it real, and the resulting books were the very essence of the eighties horror ripping yarn.

"That sensibility is all over his latest book from Subterranean Press, I Travel By Night . In a tight, smartly-written novella, readers get the Trevor Lawson’s back story, his quest, the limits of his abilities and lots of glimpses into the larger world that McCammon is building. Lawson is a vampire for hire, a night-haunting gunslinger who solves the sort of problems that most folks don’t survive—many of which are the result of his decision to try to avert the fate that awaits him. McCammonn does a great job of crafting a character we love who is flawed as hell."

From SciFi Bulletin: “You wouldn’t expect the author of They Thirst to provide a standard take on the vampire myth, and I Travel By Night has its surprises up its sleeve, quite a few of which drive the plot. Lawson himself is a man doing the best with the cards he has been dealt: his quest is driven by personal motives but that doesn’t mean that he won’t do his best for others along the way.”

From SFRevu: "McCammon creates a fast paced and entertaining tale with this novella, constructing the world Lawson inhabits with an admirable specificity. The feel of being in 19th century New Orleans is palpable. With his credo and calling card, which reads simply ‘I travel by night’, Lawson is a worthy protagonist who evokes the old television series Have Gun Will Travel with his forthright manner and direct approach to solving problems. He is less a detective than a force of justice and vengeance, going after a singular target."

I Travel by Night (excerpt)

The man who had come to New Orleans on the afternoon train from Shreveport walked across the lobby of the Hotel Sanctuaire with a slow gait. He was carrying a heavy burden. From his high-backed chair in the shadowed corner Trevor Lawson smoked a thin black cheroot and watched him with slightly narrowed blue eyes, and he thought Here is the man who needs me.

David Kingsley, his name was. Of the Kingsley lumber family in Shreveport. Very wealthy, very powerful in Louisiana politics. But right now, at this moment in the evening of July 15th, 1886, David Kingsley had the slumped shoulders and bleary unfocused eyes of a weak pauper.

Lawson was surprised that the man had come alone. A quick glance around told him that indeed Kingsley—a slim man wearing a black suit, a white shirt with a bow tie and a black derby hat—had entered the red-carpeted lobby in a state of solitary submission to the power that bade him arrive here upon the hour of nine o’clock. It was time for the introduction. Lawson tapped ash from his Marsh-Wheeling cigar into the green glass ashtray on the table beside him and then rose to his full height of three inches over six feet.

“Mr. Kingsley,” said Lawson, in a voice of gray gunsmoke and amber whiskey with a trace of Alabama wilderness, “I am here.”

“Thank God!” the man said, upon seeing what he hoped was a light in the darkness. And Lawson just smiled slightly at this painful statement of thanks, and motioned for Kingsley to take the red-cushioned chair at his side.

In the rainwashed city of New Orleans the gas lamps hissed, the barkeeps offered exotic drinks from potion bottles of many colors, the restaurants served Creole and Cajun fare that put heat into the stomach, blood and loins, sweet ladies paraded and posed before young gentlemen seeking an evening of delight, laughter rose up from shadows and then fell back into darkness again, horse-drawn carriages moved here and there in no particular hurry as if the night had no beginning nor end, guitar and piano music spilled into the puddled streets from rooms made golden by candlelight, the timeless river washed against the piers and pilings of exquisite decay, and the brick walls that had stood in the reign of the Ibervilles still stood in defiance of sun, wind, the dampness of the swamp and the hands of modern men. It was a magic and mystical city, wild in its freedoms and sacred in its charms. Yet for David Kingsley and the man named Lawson, it was a place for an urgent and hushed conversation, because a young woman’s life hung in the balance.

Kingsley removed his derby. His hair was dark brown and going gray on the sides, and gray flecked his mustache. He took his seat, looked nervously around the lobby at the few other people there engaged in quiet talk, and he cleared his throat as if to speak but did not speak. Lawson sat down and waited. He calmly smoked his cheroot. If Lawson had learned anything in the past number of years, it was how to remain still and silent. His blue eyes were intense and clear. His steady gaze conveyed both self-control and the keenest edge of danger. He was lean and rawboned and appeared to be about thirty, but age mattered nothing to him now. He had blonde hair combed back from the high forehead and left shaggy at the neck. He was clean-shaven; one interesting effect of his condition was that he no longer had to shave. Another was that he could throw his Eye into a human head to read the secrets there, though often they were only shadows of things that used to be, and misshapen moments that lived in the soul like deformed dreams, difficult to decipher.

He wore black trousers, a cream-colored jacket, a pale blue shirt, a darker blue cravat and a waistcoat decorated in a pattern of blue and gray paisleys. On his feet were ordinary black boots, scuffed by hard circumstances. To his left, hanging on a hook beneath a painting of an ivy-covered Vieux Carré wall, was his black felt Stetson hat with a cattleman’s crease. It sported a thin band made from rattlesnake scales. This night he wasn’t wearing his gunbelt, but close at hand on the left side beneath his jacket was a double-barrelled Remington Model 95 derringer with a mother-of-pearl grip, just in case of particular difficulty.

“Tell me,” said Lawson, as he exhaled a plume of smoke. Through the haze his eyes were watchful. He had received a letter from David Kingsley two weeks ago, had digested that as best he could, and sent back his business card. On the plain white card, beneath his name and the address of the Hotel Sanctuaire, was the line All Matters Handled . And below that: I Travel By Night .

Kingsley nodded. He looked dazed, in need of more than just a listener. “I’d like a whiskey,” he managed to say.

Lawson raised his hand to get the attention of Tolliver, one of the Negro waiters who tended to the lobby. Kingsley ordered a straight shot of whiskey and Lawson asked for his usual drink of rye, simple syrup and orange bitters. Tolliver went off to the bar, and Lawson continued to smoke his cigar and wait for the story.

Kingsley shifted in his chair. There was no need for Lawson to send his Eye out; the man was ready to talk. “As I said in my letter…I received a…certain message after my daughter was taken. Here it is.” He reached into his coat and brought out a folded piece of paper, dark-stained and mottled. It appeared to be more lizard skin than paper. Lawson accepted it from Kingley’s hand, opened it, and read what was written there in elegant penmanship:

Your daughter is very beautiful, Mr. Kingsley. Very charming indeed. And worth money to you, I’m sure. She is being well-looked after. To return her to you, I require gold pieces in the amount of six hundred and sixty-six dollars. She is being held in the town of Nocturne, which is reached from the hamlet of St. Benadicta. It will not be on the map. If you try to bring authorities into this matter, I fear your lovely Eva will come to some harm. Therefore my instructions to you are these: Inform only one man of this, and send him to me with the gold. His name is Trevor Lawson and he resides in the Hotel Sanctuaire on Conti Street in New Orleans. He is what you might call an ‘adventurer’. Send him to me, Mr. Kingsley, and your daughter shall be released unharmed but perhaps wiser to the ways of the world. I shall expect to welcome Mr. Lawson before July has ended.

The letter was signed, with a flourish: Yours Truly, Christian Melchoir .

“I see,” said Lawson. He refolded the paper and ran his fingers across the texture. The stains had been made by dirty water. Swamp water, most likely. He was sure he would find on the map of Louisiana that St. Benadicta was a small town whose fishing wharves fell off to the muddy unknown. And Nocturne? Oh yes…the music of the night.

Tolliver brought their drinks on a black lacquered tray. Lawson tipped him a silver dollar. When Tolliver left them, Lawson took a small red bottle from the inside of his coat, uncorked it and poured a spool of thick, crimson liquid into his drink. “My extra ingredient,” he said to Kingley’s curious appraisal, but he said no more. He recorked the bottle, put it away and clinked his glass against the other man’s. “To the business at hand,” Lawson offered, “and to a successful conclusion.”

“God help my daughter,” said Kingsley, as he downed the shot.

“God may not be in this lobby tonight,” Lawson answered, after he had taken a sip of his elixir. “But I hope I will do.” He swirled the drink around in the glass and watched the crimson form sinuous shapes. “Do you know the name Christian Melchoir?”

“No. Do you?”

“I do not. However, he seems to know me.” Of course they had spies everywhere. They knew where he was, that was no stretch of the imagination. “You said in your letter that your daughter was taken on her way to the theater? She was alone in her carriage, I believe you said?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“And the abduction was after dusk?”

“Yes, the sheriff thinks it happened around eight o’clock. Eva was running late. She was supposed to meet two friends in front of the Armitage. ”

“The sheriff doesn’t know about your communication from Christian Melchoir?”

“No. From what it said…I didn’t dare.”

“Hm.” Lawson took another drink of his ruddy fortification. “For the best, I think. I have no doubt Miss Eva might be…shall we say…in grave circumstances if these instructions aren’t obeyed.”

“I don’t fathom this.” Kingsley stared at the floor for a moment, and Lawson could guess what the man was going to say when he spoke again. “You know…I would think it very peculiar, my daughter being taken by this bastard—whoever he is—and then writing me to request you bring the ransom money. And why six hundred and sixty-six dollars in gold? I am presuming you require a not insubstantial fee?”

“My fee will be two thousand dollars,” Lawson replied.

“Ah. So you might understand how…excuse me for thinking this…you might be involved somewhat more in this situation?”

“I do understand.” Lawson let that sit for a few seconds, while he sipped his drink and then drew again on his cigar. He blew smoke toward the gas-lit chandelier at the ceiling. “I can tell you, sir,” he continued with a calm stare into Kingsley’s eyes, “that I know nothing of your daughter’s kidnapping…except to say that this Christian Melchoir wants me , and is using your Eva as a device. Now…I could say I wouldn’t go to Nocturne—wherever that is—and deliver this ransom for you, and I would be free not to deliver myself to whatever is waiting. I would think that might be the safest decision for myself. I suspect you would never see your daughter again. But,” he shrugged, “I am perhaps what this letter suggests. An adventurer. Also I have a great curiosity, and like all of us I have bills to pay. I will tell you also…that I will go and deliver this ransom for you, and I will do my best to return your daughter in a whole state.” It occurred to Lawson that one could never fully return to a whole state after exposure to the Dark Society, but he couldn’t yet present that to Kingsley. “I’m presuming you have the portrait of Eva I asked you to bring?” He waited for Kingsley to nod. “Then if you’ll also bring the gold pieces and leave them at the desk in the morning, I’ll pick them up and be on my way tomorrow at nightfall.”

“Very well.” Kingsley still looked stunned, as was his right for a man whose nineteen-year-old daughter, the younger of his two, had been stolen away en route to a Shreveport theater. “I have to ask, though…what do you mean, this man wants you ? And you say you don’t know him ?”

“I know his kind,” was the reply.

“What would that be?”

“Evil to the bone,” said Lawson. “Go back to your hotel and rest. You look as if you need it. Bring the items I’ve asked for. Then catch the train for home. You can pay me when I’ve returned Eva to you.”

“Don’t you want at least half your payment?”

“No.” It was not worth saying that if he didn’t return from Nocturne, the money would be useless to him. He stood up, took his Stetson hat from the wallpeg and put it on. He finished his drink with a final swallow. “I’ll walk you out, sir.”

On Conti Street, the wet night air smelled of sassafras and coffee. Across the way, Sam Bordine’s coffee shop was in full operation, roasting beans on the premises. Carriages trundled back and forth. Candles showed in windows above the street, and figures stood on balconies watching what was to be seen. Lawson stood with Kingsley under the red awning over the Sanctuaire’s entrance, surveying the passage of people, horses and carriages.

“Thank you,” said Kingsley, reaching out to shake Lawson’s hand. Lawson took the offered hand and saw Kingsley wince just a little. The night was warm, but Lawson’s hand was cold. Lawson released the grip as fast as he could without being rude. “Maybe I shouldn’t agree to this,” Kingsley added, as he stood unconsciously rubbing the hand that had just been affected with a chill. “But do I have a choice?”

“You do not,” Lawson said, which was the truth.

Kingsley nodded. Lawson drew on his cheroot once more, blew a smoke ring into the air and surveyed the street. He caught the quickest glimpse of a figure on the right, pulling itself back around the corner of Conti and Royal streets; he had registered a tall, thin man in a black tophat and long black duster, the man’s face indistinct.

“Tell me this,” Kingsley ventured, his expression a mix of personal pain and professional puzzlement. “About your business card. Why does it say, ‘I Travel By Night’?”

“My habit,” was the measured response. Lawson’s gaze swept past the corner and again caught the merest shape of a face under a tophat, leaning forward and now quickly pulling back once more. “I have a skin condition that prevents me from enjoying sunlight. It’s been many years since I’ve been afflicted.” He smiled faintly behind his veil of smoke, aware that he was extraordinarily pale for a rugged-looking man and that a tracery of blue veins showed at his temples. “Unfortunately,” he said, “the cure is…somewhat distant.”

“I’m sorry,” the other man offered, and now it was clear he had decided he must be on his way, either because he had to trust his daughter’s life to a man he hardly knew or that the cold touch of Trevor Lawson’s hand was slowly moving up his forearm. “Well then…I’ll say goodnight, sir. What you require will be brought to the front desk in the morning.” He paused on the edge of walking away. “I don’t understand this business with Christian Melchoir or why it involves you and my Eva, but…I thank you for helping me.”

“My pleasure,” Lawson answered, and thought 
 My fate .

David Kingsley walked on. He turned to the left, going to the northeast on Royal. Lawson spent a moment striking a friction match and relighting a cheroot that had never gone out, the better to watch from behind a cupped hand as the tall thin man in the black tophat and duster left his place of concealment and strode after the departing Kingsley, firing a single quick glance at Lawson before he moved out of sight.

So , Lawson thought as he smoked, their spy is in pursuit. Then I shall also go in pursuit , he decided, and I will see what this spy is made of .

He walked to the corner of Conti and Royal and turned left, walking neither too fast nor too slowly, just ambling along. He passed beneath the yellow glow of a gas lamp, which revealed upon his pallid face the thin-lipped smile of a predator.

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• I Travel by Night

A novella. Dust jacket by Michael Whelan.

I Travel by Nigh t marks Robert McCammon’s triumphant return to the sort of flamboyant, go-for-broke horror fiction that has earned him an international reputation and a legion of devoted fans. The terrors of the Dark Society, the gothic sensibilities of old New Orleans, and the tortured existence of the unforgettable vampire adventurer Trevor Lawson all combine into a heady brew that will thrill McCammon’s loyal readers and earn him new ones as well.

For Lawson, the horrors that stalked the Civil War battlefield at Shiloh were more than just those of war. After being forcibly given the gift of undeath by the mysterious vampire queen LaRouge, Lawson chose to cling to what remained of his humanity and fought his way free of the Dark Society’s clutches. In the decades since, he has roamed late nineteenth century America, doing what good he can as he travels by night, combating evils mundane and supernatural, and always seeking the key to regaining a mortal life.

That key lies with his maker, and now Lawson hopes to find LaRouge at the heart of a Louisiana swamp with the aid of a haunted priest and an unexpected ally. In the tornado-wracked ghost town of Nocturne, Lawson must face down monstrous enemies, the rising sun, and his own nature. Readers will not want to miss this thrilling new dark novella from a master storyteller.

• Robert R. McCammon

Robert R. McCammon (born 1952) is an American novelist from Birmingham, Alabama. His parents are Jack, a musician, and Barbara Bundy McCammon. After his parents' divorce, McCammon lived with his grandparents in Birmingham. He received a B.A. in Journalism from the University of Alabama in 1974. McCammon currently resides in Birmingham, and is married to Sally Sanders. The two have a daughter, Skye. McCammon retired from publishing in the late 1990s, but returned to publish Speaks the Nightbird , the first book in the Matthew Corbett series. As of 2008 [update] , his plans are to continue with the series.

Read more ...

Robert R. McCammon now refuses to let his first four novels be republished because while he does not dislike the books, he does not feel that they are up to the standards of his later works. He wrote that he feels he was allowed to learn how to write in public, and therefore has decided to officially retire his earlier works.

I Travel by Night consists of two books. The current recommended reading order for the series is provided below.

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I Travel by Night

Robert mccammon. subterranean (www.subterraneanpress.com), $35 (152p) isbn 978-1-59606-537-6.

Reviewed on: 12/03/2012

Genre: Fiction

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I Travel by Night

I Travel by Night marks Robert McCammon's triumphant return to the sort of flamboyant, go-for-broke horror fiction that has earned him an international reputation and a legion of devoted fans. The terrors of the Dark Society, the gothic sensibilities of old New Orleans, and the tortured existence of the unforgettable vampire adventurer Trevor Lawson all combine into a heady brew that will thrill McCammon s loyal readers and earn him new ones as well.

For Lawson, the horrors that stalked the Civil War battlefield at Shiloh were more than just those of war. After being forcibly given the gift of undeath by the mysterious vampire queen LaRouge, Lawson chose to cling to what remained of his humanity and fought his way free of the Dark Society's clutches. In the decades since, he has roamed late nineteenth century America, doing what good he can as he travels by night, combating evils mundane and supernatural, and always seeking the key to regaining a mortal life.

That key lies with his maker, and now Lawson hopes to find LaRouge at the heart of a Louisiana swamp with the aid of a haunted priest and an unexpected ally. In the tornado-wracked ghost town of Nocturne, Lawson must face down monstrous enemies, the rising sun, and his own nature. Readers will not want to miss this thrilling new dark novella from a master storyteller.

The man who had come to New Orleans on the afternoon train from Shreveport walked across the lobby of the Hotel Sanctuaire with a slow gait. He was carrying a heavy burden. From his high-backed chair in the shadowed corner Trevor Lawson smoked a thin black cheroot and watched him with slightly narrowed blue eyes, and he thought Here is the man who needs me.

David Kingsley, his name was. Of the Kingsley lumber family in Shreveport. Very wealthy, very powerful in Louisiana politics. But right now, at this moment in the evening of July 15th, 1886, David Kingsley had the slumped shoulders and bleary unfocused eyes of a weak pauper.

Lawson was surprised that the man had come alone. A quick glance around told him that indeed Kingsley--a slim man wearing a black suit, a white shirt with a bow tie and a black derby hat--had entered the red-carpeted lobby in a state of solitary submission to the power that bade him arrive here upon the hour of nine o'clock. It was time for the introduction. Lawson tapped ash from his Marsh-Wheeling cigar into the green glass ashtray on the table beside him and then rose to his full height of three inches over six feet.

"Mr. Kingsley," said Lawson, in a voice of gray gunsmoke and amber whiskey with a trace of Alabama wilderness, "I am here."

"Thank God!" the man said, upon seeing what he hoped was a light in the darkness. And Lawson just smiled slightly at this painful statement of thanks, and motioned for Kingsley to take the red-cushioned chair at his side.

In the rainwashed city of New Orleans the gas lamps hissed, the barkeeps offered exotic drinks from potion bottles of many colors, the restaurants served Creole and Cajun fare that put heat into the stomach, blood and loins, sweet ladies paraded and posed before young gentlemen seeking an evening of delight, laughter rose up from shadows and then fell back into darkness again, horse-drawn carriages moved here and there in no particular hurry as if the night had no beginning nor end, guitar and piano music spilled into the puddled streets from rooms made golden by candlelight, the timeless river washed against the piers and pilings of exquisite decay, and the brick walls that had stood in the reign of the Ibervilles still stood in defiance of sun, wind, the dampness of the swamp and the hands of modern men. It was a magic and mystical city, wild in its freedoms and sacred in its charms. Yet for David Kingsley and the man named Lawson, it was a place for an urgent and hushed conversation, because a young woman's life hung in the balance.

Kingsley removed his derby. His hair was dark brown and going gray on the sides, and gray flecked his mustache. He took his seat, looked nervously around the lobby at the few other people there engaged in quiet talk, and he cleared his throat as if to speak but did not speak. Lawson sat down and waited. He calmly smoked his cheroot. If Lawson had learned anything in the past number of years, it was how to remain still and silent. His blue eyes were intense and clear. His steady gaze conveyed both self-control and the keenest edge of danger. He was lean and rawboned and appeared to be about thirty, but age mattered nothing to him now. He had blonde hair combed back from the high forehead and left shaggy at the neck. He was clean-shaven; one interesting effect of his condition was that he no longer had to shave. Another was that he could throw his Eye into a human head to read the secrets there, though often they were only shadows of things that used to be, and misshapen moments that lived in the soul like deformed dreams, difficult to decipher.

He wore black trousers, a cream-colored jacket, a pale blue shirt, a darker blue cravat and a waistcoat decorated in a pattern of blue and gray paisleys. On his feet were ordinary black boots, scuffed by hard circumstances. To his left, hanging on a hook beneath a painting of an ivy-covered Vieux Carré wall, was his black felt Stetson hat with a cattleman's crease. It sported a thin band made from rattlesnake scales. This night he wasn't wearing his gunbelt, but close at hand on the left side beneath his jacket was a double-barrelled Remington Model 95 derringer with a mother-of-pearl grip, just in case of particular difficulty.

"Tell me," said Lawson, as he exhaled a plume of smoke. Through the haze his eyes were watchful. He had received a letter from David Kingsley two weeks ago, had digested that as best he could, and sent back his business card. On the plain white card, beneath his name and the address of the Hotel Sanctuaire, was the line All Matters Handled . And below that: I Travel By Night .

Kingsley nodded. He looked dazed, in need of more than just a listener. "I'd like a whiskey," he managed to say.

Lawson raised his hand to get the attention of Tolliver, one of the Negro waiters who tended to the lobby. Kingsley ordered a straight shot of whiskey and Lawson asked for his usual drink of rye, simple syrup and orange bitters. Tolliver went off to the bar, and Lawson continued to smoke his cigar and wait for the story.

Kingsley shifted in his chair. There was no need for Lawson to send his Eye out; the man was ready to talk. "As I said in my letter... I received a... certain message after my daughter was taken. Here it is." He reached into his coat and brought out a folded piece of paper, dark-stained and mottled. It appeared to be more lizard skin than paper. Lawson accepted it from Kingley's hand, opened it, and read what was written there in elegant penmanship:

Your daughter is very beautiful, Mr. Kingsley. Very charming indeed. And worth money to you, I'm sure. She is being well-looked after. To return her to you, I require gold pieces in the amount of six hundred and sixty-six dollars. She is being held in the town of Nocturne, which is reached from the hamlet of St. Benadicta. It will not be on the map. If you try to bring authorities into this matter, I fear your lovely Eva will come to some harm. Therefore my instructions to you are these: Inform only one man of this, and send him to me with the gold. His name is Trevor Lawson and he resides in the Hotel Sanctuaire on Conti Street in New Orleans. He is what you might call an 'adventurer'. Send him to me, Mr. Kingsley, and your daughter shall be released unharmed but perhaps wiser to the ways of the world. I shall expect to welcome Mr. Lawson before July has ended.

The letter was signed, with a flourish: Yours Truly, Christian Melchoir .

"I see," said Lawson. He refolded the paper and ran his fingers across the texture. The stains had been made by dirty water. Swamp water, most likely. He was sure he would find on the map of Louisiana that St. Benadicta was a small town whose fishing wharves fell off to the muddy unknown. And Nocturne? Oh yes... the music of the night.

Tolliver brought their drinks on a black lacquered tray. Lawson tipped him a silver dollar. When Tolliver left them, Lawson took a small red bottle from the inside of his coat, uncorked it and poured a spool of thick, crimson liquid into his drink. "My extra ingredient," he said to Kingley's curious appraisal, but he said no more. He recorked the bottle, put it away and clinked his glass against the other man's. "To the business at hand," Lawson offered, "and to a successful conclusion."

"God help my daughter," said Kingsley, as he downed the shot.

"God may not be in this lobby tonight," Lawson answered, after he had taken a sip of his elixir. "But I hope I will do." He swirled the drink around in the glass and watched the crimson form sinuous shapes. "Do you know the name Christian Melchoir?"

"No. Do you?"

"I do not. However, he seems to know me." Of course they had spies everywhere. They knew where he was, that was no stretch of the imagination. "You said in your letter that your daughter was taken on her way to the theater? She was alone in her carriage, I believe you said?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"And the abduction was after dusk?"

"Yes, the sheriff thinks it happened around eight o'clock. Eva was running late. She was supposed to meet two friends in front of the Armitage. "

"The sheriff doesn't know about your communication from Christian Melchoir?"

"No. From what it said... I didn't dare."

"Hm." Lawson took another drink of his ruddy fortification. "For the best, I think. I have no doubt Miss Eva might be... shall we say... in grave circumstances if these instructions aren't obeyed."

"I don't fathom this." Kingsley stared at the floor for a moment, and Lawson could guess what the man was going to say when he spoke again. "You know... I would think it very peculiar, my daughter being taken by this bastard--whoever he is--and then writing me to request you bring the ransom money. And why six hundred and sixty-six dollars in gold? I am presuming you require a not insubstantial fee?"

"My fee will be two thousand dollars," Lawson replied.

"Ah. So you might understand how... excuse me for thinking this... you might be involved somewhat more in this situation?"

"I do understand." Lawson let that sit for a few seconds, while he sipped his drink and then drew again on his cigar. He blew smoke toward the gas-lit chandelier at the ceiling. "I can tell you, sir," he continued with a calm stare into Kingsley's eyes, "that I know nothing of your daughter's kidnapping... except to say that this Christian Melchoir wants me , and is using your Eva as a device. Now... I could say I wouldn't go to Nocturne--wherever that is--and deliver this ransom for you, and I would be free not to deliver myself to whatever is waiting. I would think that might be the safest decision for myself. I suspect you would never see your daughter again. But," he shrugged, "I am perhaps what this letter suggests. An adventurer. Also I have a great curiosity, and like all of us I have bills to pay. I will tell you also... that I will go and deliver this ransom for you, and I will do my best to return your daughter in a whole state." It occurred to Lawson that one could never fully return to a whole state after exposure to the Dark Society, but he couldn't yet present that to Kingsley. "I'm presuming you have the portrait of Eva I asked you to bring?" He waited for Kingsley to nod. "Then if you'll also bring the gold pieces and leave them at the desk in the morning, I'll pick them up and be on my way tomorrow at nightfall."

"Very well." Kingsley still looked stunned, as was his right for a man whose nineteen-year-old daughter, the younger of his two, had been stolen away en route to a Shreveport theater. "I have to ask, though... what do you mean, this man wants you ? And you say you don't know him ?"

"I know his kind," was the reply.

"What would that be?"

"Evil to the bone," said Lawson. "Go back to your hotel and rest. You look as if you need it. Bring the items I've asked for. Then catch the train for home. You can pay me when I've returned Eva to you."

"Don't you want at least half your payment?"

"No." It was not worth saying that if he didn't return from Nocturne, the money would be useless to him. He stood up, took his Stetson hat from the wallpeg and put it on. He finished his drink with a final swallow. "I'll walk you out, sir."

On Conti Street, the wet night air smelled of sassafras and coffee. Across the way, Sam Bordine's coffee shop was in full operation, roasting beans on the premises. Carriages trundled back and forth. Candles showed in windows above the street, and figures stood on balconies watching what was to be seen. Lawson stood with Kingsley under the red awning over the Sanctuaire's entrance, surveying the passage of people, horses and carriages.

"Thank you," said Kingsley, reaching out to shake Lawson's hand. Lawson took the offered hand and saw Kingsley wince just a little. The night was warm, but Lawson's hand was cold. Lawson released the grip as fast as he could without being rude. "Maybe I shouldn't agree to this," Kingsley added, as he stood unconsciously rubbing the hand that had just been affected with a chill. "But do I have a choice?"

"You do not," Lawson said, which was the truth.

Kingsley nodded. Lawson drew on his cheroot once more, blew a smoke ring into the air and surveyed the street. He caught the quickest glimpse of a figure on the right, pulling itself back around the corner of Conti and Royal streets; he had registered a tall, thin man in a black tophat and long black duster, the man's face indistinct.

"Tell me this," Kingsley ventured, his expression a mix of personal pain and professional puzzlement. "About your business card. Why does it say, 'I Travel By Night'?"

"My habit," was the measured response. Lawson's gaze swept past the corner and again caught the merest shape of a face under a tophat, leaning forward and now quickly pulling back once more. "I have a skin condition that prevents me from enjoying sunlight. It's been many years since I've been afflicted." He smiled faintly behind his veil of smoke, aware that he was extraordinarily pale for a rugged-looking man and that a tracery of blue veins showed at his temples. "Unfortunately," he said, "the cure is... somewhat distant."

"I'm sorry," the other man offered, and now it was clear he had decided he must be on his way, either because he had to trust his daughter's life to a man he hardly knew or that the cold touch of Trevor Lawson's hand was slowly moving up his forearm. "Well then... I'll say goodnight, sir. What you require will be brought to the front desk in the morning." He paused on the edge of walking away. "I don't understand this business with Christian Melchoir or why it involves you and my Eva, but... I thank you for helping me."

"My pleasure," Lawson answered, and thought ? My fate .

David Kingsley walked on. He turned to the left, going to the northeast on Royal. Lawson spent a moment striking a friction match and relighting a cheroot that had never gone out, the better to watch from behind a cupped hand as the tall thin man in the black tophat and duster left his place of concealment and strode after the departing Kingsley, firing a single quick glance at Lawson before he moved out of sight.

So , Lawson thought as he smoked, their spy is in pursuit. Then I shall also go in pursuit , he decided, and I will see what this spy is made of .

He walked to the corner of Conti and Royal and turned left, walking neither too fast nor too slowly, just ambling along. He passed beneath the yellow glow of a gas lamp, which revealed upon his pallid face the thin-lipped smile of a predator.

Copyright © 2013 by Robert R. McCammon

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Adapted, Dramatized

Trevor Lawson

Robert McCammon

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03 June 2020

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Publication order of matthew corbett books, publication order of i travel by night books, publication order of michael gallatin books, publication order of standalone novels, publication order of short stories/novellas, publication order of short story collections, publication order of night visions books, publication order of anthologies.

Robert McCammon is arguably the most accomplished writer of historical fiction and modern horror. He is the author of fourteen horror and fantasy novels and short stories- and nearly all of them were published in the period between 1978 and 1998.

Robert McCammon was born on the 17th of July, 1952, in Birmingham, Jefferson County, to Jack and Barbara Bundy McCammon. Most of his early years were spent in Birmingham’s East Lake Community. He began the art of writing when he was only ten years old. His childhood stories focused on aliens, cowboys and fantastic monsters. He wasn’t athletic and had very few friends, so, he decided to write stories where he portrayed himself as popular and excellent in sports.

Upon graduating from Banks High School, McCammon intended to be a journalist. He enrolled in the University of Alabama to study journalism. He graduated in 1974.

Soon after graduation, the course of his life veered off from the field of journalism. He spent the early post-college years as an advertiser. He once worked in the back room of a department store.

Writing Career

As already indicated, after his graduation, McCammon wrote advertising copy for Birmingham newspapers and businesses. He began writing short stories. He couldn’t get the short stories into print. This failure prompted him to write his first novel, Baal. Baal is Revelation-inspired. It talks of a conflict between limitless evil and limited good. In the 1988 edition of Baal afterword, McCammon states that the book, Baal, is about power, and that it was written when he had none. He also reveals that since editors always advise budding writers to write about what they know, he chose to write about what he didn’t know; therefore, he set Baal in faraway locations that he didn’t know to give his stories a global flavor.

The book Baal begins in New York City. A character called Mary Kate Raines is raped by an entity that leaves burns wherever it touches her. She conceives and delivers a baby called Jeffrey Harper. Jeffrey Harpers destroys the lives of Raines. Mary Kaite kills her husband and the bou, Jeffrey, is sent off to an orphanage where she grows unusually fast. He develops unusual powers and he calls himself Baal.

He has a slew of followers in the orphanage. He flees with is followers to Kuwait where he encounters a theology professor called Professor James Virga. This theology professor, who is a resident of Boston, is here in Kuwait to know the whereabouts and fate of his younger colleague, Donald Naughton, who had come to Kuwait to study Baal’s sect.

The theology professor realizes quite uncanny and unsettling: that though Baal is human in form and shape, he is very evil in intent and is bent on dominating and destroying the world. Virga doesn’t have the wherewithal to stop Baal. He is helpless and powerless. Thankfully, another laconic stranger by the name Michael wades into the situation. The laconic stranger has unusual powers of his own.

Michael, together with Virga, follow Baal around across the wastes of Greenland. A vicious fight ensues. Baal and Michael vanish. Virga is left alone, but he is about to be rescued. But who are rescuing him? Are they genuine or they are Baal’s disciples?

The book, Baal, was published by Avon Books.

McCammon continued to write horror fiction and in the 1980, he published two novels- The Night Boat and Bethany’s Sin. After the successful publication of the two novels, McCammn decided to write horror full-time. It is thought that his penchant for horror stories was instigated by his desire to escape from his own uncommon reality.

Also, during this time, McCammon came up with another splendid idea: forming the Horror Writers Association (HWA). This is an organization of published writers who offer support and mentorship to aspiring writers. The association also connects with other writers in the horror genre, thus, creating a horror writer’s community. He collaborated with other writers such as Dean Koontz to establish the group as a non-profit organization in 1987. Dean Koontz was elected as the group’s first president. As of 2016, the Horror Writers Association boasts of 426 members, and each year, it rewards deserving horror writers with a Bram Stoker Award.

McCammon continued to grow as a writing, especially in the horror genre, after plunging into full-time horror fiction writing. He went on to be feted with the 1985 Alabama Library Associations coveted Alabama Author Award for his novel, Usher’s Passing. His nest novel was the Swan Song. This is a post-apocalyptic story that is inspired by Stephen King’s novel, The Stand. Both the Swan Song and King’s novel, Misery, tied for the 1988 Bram Stoker Award in the genre of Horror and Dark Fiction. In 1987, Swan Song became a New York Times bestseller.

His short story, The Deep End, his novels, Mine and Boy’s Life, also won him the Bram Stoker award. Boy’s Life is essentially a return to McCammon’s southern roots. It is set in the fictional small town of Zephyr, Alabama. It chronicles the fictitious and horrific events of a southern boy’s childhood in the 1960s. McCammon wrote some more fiction set in the south. In 1992 he wrote Gone South. Gone South is set in Louisiana and tells of dark exploits of Arden Halliday, who is a Vietnam Veteran.

Break From Writing

After authoring Gone South, McCammon took a long break from writing to concentrate his energies on being a good father to his daughter, Skye, and his wife, Sally. When he resumed writing, he had a penchant for historical fiction. The debut novel upon resumption is Speaks the Nightbird. The novel is set in the Carolina Colony in 1699. The novel is about a woman called Racheal who is accused of witchcraft in a new and struggling town called Fount Royal. The Magistrate’s assistant, one Mathew, doubts the charges of witchcraft. The magistrate’s assistant defies the magistrates’ wishes and does an investigation of his own. He learns unnerving truths. McCammon spent over a year researching for the book.

His next novel, Queen of Bedlam, is a sequel to his previous novel, speaks the nightbird. McCammon was feted in 2009 with the Phoenix award. It is undeniable he was a great writer.

4 Responses to “Robert McCammon”

So many Dark niches, corners rounded in R.R.M stories of darkest turns.A delight in every tale, spilling out its lives in unknown amounts wich always leaves A thirst for more.And more again( second reads…)Its A mysterious world he creates. A dangerous one.Thrilling is bareley worthy of these tales. Just A word to describe A depth of entertainment. But it’s all I may convey in so small an opinion.These stories last,and remind me personally to keep my wits about me. One never knows….

Am a avid reader of your books thanks for the time to lose myself in them

Read a lot of your books in the 80s. Now I’m starting over again and looking forward to reading your other works.

Love your work. You have a unique mind and the gift of sharing it. Thank you.

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Last Train from Perdition Hardcover – October 31, 2016

• Print length 184 pages
• Language English
• Publisher Subterranean
• Publication date October 31, 2016
• Dimensions 5.75 x 1 x 8.25 inches
• ISBN-10 1596067381
• ISBN-13 978-1596067387
• See all details

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• Publisher ‏ : ‎ Subterranean; Deluxe Hardcover edition (October 31, 2016)
• Language ‏ : ‎ English
• Hardcover ‏ : ‎ 184 pages
• ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 1596067381
• ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-1596067387
• Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 13.6 ounces
• Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 5.75 x 1 x 8.25 inches
• #1,343 in Vampire Horror
• #119,326 in American Literature (Books)
• #136,025 in Historical Fiction (Books)

About the authors

Robert r. mccammon.

Robert McCammon is the New York Times bestselling author of nineteen novels, including the award-winning BOY'S LIFE and SPEAKS THE NIGHTBIRD. There are more than four million copies of his books in print. His 2018 novel, THE LISTENER, is set in the 1930s and is available now from Cemetery Dance Publications.

His newest novel, CARDINAL BLACK, was published by Cemetery Dance in 2019. It is the seventh novel in the Matthew Corbett series, which started with SPEAKS THE NIGHTBIRD.

Mr. McCammon is currently writing THE KING OF SHADOWS, the eighth novel in the Matthew Corbett series.

Visit his websites: www.robertmccammon.com and www.matthewcorbettsworld.com

Robert McCammon

Robert McCammon is the New York Times bestselling author of nineteen novels, including the award-winning BOY'S LIFE and SPEAKS THE NIGHTBIRD. There are more than four million copies of his books in print. His latest novel, THE KING OF SHADOWS, is the eighth book in the Matthew Corbett series.

He recently completed the ninth book, SEVEN SHADES OF EVIL, which is expected to be published in 2023.

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