This Thursday, Latitude 46 are due to publish The Haunting of Modesto O’Brien, the new novel by Brit Griffin. To mark the occasion, the publisher has provided CR with an excerpt to share! First, here’s the synopsis:
A gothic tale from deep within the boreal forest…
Violence and greed have intruded into a wild and remote land. It’s 1907, and silver fever has drawn thousands of men into a fledgling mining camp in the heart of the wilderness. Modesto O’Brien, fortune-teller and detective, is there too – but he isn’t looking for riches. He’s seeking revenge.
O’Brien soon finds himself entangled with the mysterious Nail sisters, Lucy and Lily. On the run from their past and headed for trouble, Lily turns to O’Brien when Lucy goes missing. But what should have been a straightforward case of kidnapping pulls O’Brien into a world of ancient myths, magic, and male violence.
As he searches for Lucy, O’Brien fears that dark forces are emerging from the ravaged landscape. Mesmerized by a nightmarish creature stalking the wilderness, and haunted by his past, O’Brien struggles to maintain his grip on reality as he faces hard choices about loyalty, sacrifice, and revenge.
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A man called through the door, “O’Brien? There a Mis-ter O’Brien here?”
Modesto was relieved by the distraction, bored with un-packing the few crates he’d brought with him. Books and papers stacked in messy piles, a few already falling back to the floor.
“Yes. Do come in.”
There was a delay, as if the man on the other side of the door was reluctant to enter. Then the door handle creaked and a man came through the door saying, “They told me I’d find you here,
had the only green door on the street. Maybe even in this here entire town of Cobalt. Guess they weren’t lying.”
“Apparently not,” Modesto said, smiling politely. The man was tall enough but scrawny, bit of a slouch to him and scruffy looking, the armpits of his blue shirt already soaked in sweat even though it was still early in the day.
The man was looking back at the door. “Get the paint in town here?”
“Yes, the place up the street. Are you in the market for some paint?”
“Me? No. Didn’t even know there was paint to be had in town, never thought about it I guess. Most folks don’t bother painting much of anything round here, ‘specially not their doors.”
“And why is that?”
“Not sure,” the man said, moving a few steps into the room, eyes darting around, nervous but eager, “guess they don’t think they’ll be here long enough for the paint to dry,” snorting at his own cleverness. “Well, who knows how long I’ll be here,” Modesto said, changing his mind about the interruption, now wanting the man gone, finding his presence too much, standing planted near the door, blocking the exit, gobbling up the room with his jittery eyes, “but I’m here
now. Modesto O’Brien at your service, how may I be of help?”
“Modesto? What kind of name is that?
“Yes, I believe it is an Italian name. Biddy, my Gran, took a fancy to it, think she saw it on a gravestone in Butte, Montana.”
“I ain’t heard that name before, and let me tell you, I heard all kinds of names around here. Fellas from all over the world here, Germany, Finland, and Americans too, lots of ‘em from Montana, but haven’t heard that name.”
“Well,” Modesto said, “now you have. And what is it I can do for you?”
But the man was not to be moved along in the conversation.
“You one of them mining O’Briens?”
“No, I don’t believe so.”
“Must be,” he said, but then added, “or maybe a hockey O’Brien. You own one of them there hockey teams?”
“No, I know nothing of hockey. Or mining for that matter.”
“This here town’s all about mining. All the O’Brien people in this camp are about mining or hockey. You sure?”
“I’m afraid so, but O’Brien it is a well-known Irish name, after Brian Boru, a king of noble house of Munster, eventually became King of all of Ireland. But that’s going back a while.”
“So just some other O’Brien then?”
Modesto smiled, extending his hand towards the man hoping the gesture might dislodge him from his persistent questioning, said, “Yes, just some other O’Brien. And you are?”
The man reached out his own hand awkwardly, Modesto almost recoiling from the dampness of it. The man said, “Name’s Milton Steam. Some fellas just call me Shitty.”
“Ah yes, then you’ve come about the horse.” Shitty scowled a bit, said, “Alright then, we can get down to it. Now Werner said you’d paid him yesterday what you owed him for up and shooting his horse right out of the blue, and stealing the other one away, so that’s the one thing. But now you gotta pay me for hauling the dead one away, pay me fair and square, now if there’s a problem…”
“Of course not, there’s no problem at all,” Modesto said, moving behind the desk, sliding a wooden box out from the top drawer, “I have it ready.”
“You bought that other horse? The grey?”
“I did, so in fact it was hardly stealing. I paid Mr. Werner in full.”
“You a teamster? That thing won’t be able to pull anything for you, ain’t nuthin’ but skin and bone.”
“We’re all skin and bone, the horse, myself. You.”
“I suppose you’re right about that, but it’s a funny way of thinking about things,” Shitty said, then asking, “What you done with the horse? Didn’t see it out front.”
“I have her stabled down at Carr’s livery for now. She’s a lovely creature, just needs some rest, she’ll be fit as a fiddle. I’ll find somewhere with nice pasture for her.”
“Sure won’t be around this town, no sir. There’s not a single scrap of land left. They say this town’s worth a hundred dollars a square inch! ‘Cause of the silver, you see.”
Yes, Modesto had seen what the silver had done, both to the men who chased it and the land that held it. Gnawed a town out of the forest, scraped bare the rock. He’d only been there a week or so and had seen families emerging from the hovels they’d built out of discarded crates, seen too those same hovels torn down from around those very families—nothing but ‘squatters’ the mining men had said. And how the family had howled, clinging to the ground, green with sludge and thick with garbage, but they were dragged nonetheless. That dragging, that breaking of homes and families, Biddy had told him all about that.
“It’s a hard place,” Modesto said.
“Well, maybe for some fellas, but others fella get downright rich. You know that silver vein they just found, well it was almost two feet wide, ran for over three hundred feet. Imagine that! No wonder those fellas are fighting over it. There ain’t no place like Cobalt.”
“You’re correct about that, the noise, the smell. It’s unbelievable.”
“Well, it sure can get ripe, that’s a fact. Just wait till summer.
The Haunting of Modesto O’Brien by Brit Griffin. Copyright 2025.
Excerpt made available by Latitude 46 Publishing.
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Brit Griffin’s The Haunting of Modesto O’Brien is due to be published by Latitude 46 in North America and in the UK, on September 20th.
Civilian Reader 