Are you looking for a gothic romantic horror that’s perfect for fans of Silvia Moreno‑Garcia, Simone St. James, Darcy Coates, and Riley Sager? Come check out an excerpt of Among Her Bones by Kate SeRine, then grab your copy.
When single mother Zellie Dupont loses her last source of stability and is left with nothing but grief, debt, and a sick child she’s terrified of failing, desperation drives her to accept a stranger’s offer of refuge in a crumbling Savannah mansion.
But Dawes House is no ordinary home.
Once a grand estate, now faded grandeur shrouded in moss and mystery, the mansion is cold in ways it shouldn’t be, disquieting in ways Zellie can’t ignore. Yet her new neighbors welcome her like kin, offering the warmth and belonging she’s always yearned for. And her enigmatic benefactor possesses a quiet, wounded tenderness that draws her nearer with every stolen moment, kindling a desire she feels down to her bones—intense and undeniable.
But with every passing day in the house, the shadows creep closer. Footsteps echo in empty rooms. Ghostly whispers brush her ear. Visions of women cry out with silent mouths—women who loved, who suffered, and who failed to escape the house that claimed them.
As the mansion’s past unravels, Zellie is pulled into a dark history of misery, longing, and ghostly vengeance…and toward a truth that could devour her exactly like it did the women before her.
Because in Dawes House, nothing stays buried.
Not love.
Not betrayal.
And not the dead.
I peered at Henry as he slept, his fever lower now that he’d had two days of antibiotics. Missing two shifts to stay home with him meant my paycheck would be a joke. But I’d had no choice. Ms. Reba next door couldn’t risk catching anything at her age.
I kissed Henry’s forehead and brushed his hair back from his face, then took a seat at the little kitchen table a few feet away. Whit Proffitt would be calling soon for my answer. Too bad I still didn’t know what I was going to tell him. There was really only one option I hadn’t already explored, and just the thought of it made me queasy as painful memories bombarded me. But I needed to be sure I’d looked into every possibility before accepting an offer from a complete stranger.
The devil you know…
I held my phone in both hands, staring at the number on the screen for several minutes, indecision making my heart pound. Finally, I exhaled hard and hit the call button.
“Screw it.”
The phone rang. Once. Twice. No answer. I wasn’t surprised—and was actually a little relieved.
I was about to hang up when a voice like sandpaper on concrete said, “Hello?”
My stomach dropped.
The last time I’d heard my mother’s voice, she’d called me a whore and told me to get the fuck out. Hearing it again cracked open an old, festering wound that I’d told myself had scarred over when I’d cut her out of my life.
I swallowed hard. “Hi, Vivian. It’s Zellie.”
A long, heavy pause. “Well, you’ve got some nerve calling after all these years.”
“You didn’t want to talk to me,” I reminded her, bristling. “You told me I was a sinner, that I was going to burn in hell. I didn’t think you’d really welcome a call.”
“And what makes you think I want to talk to you now?” A hacking cough erupted from her, choking the last word to little more than a gasp.
“You sound like shit,” I said. “Are you still smoking?”
Another grating cough that ended on a rattle. “What the hell do you care?”
I repressed a sigh. I didn’t. At least, I didn’t want to.
“I didn’t call to fight, Vivian,” I said, trying to keep a lifetime of anger and bitterness out of my voice. “I just…”
“What?” she asked, her laugh a raspy, eerie cackle. “You in trouble again? Crawling back with your tail tucked ’tween your legs, begging for help?”
I should’ve known calling was pointless. For a moment, I’d wondered if maybe Vivian Dupont had changed, if perhaps she regretted how she’d driven me away and had missed out on her grandson, if maybe she’d take us in, just until I found something else. But I should’ve known how it would go. The woman who considered herself a “good Christian” because she went to church every Sunday didn’t do kindness. Vivian Dupont only did scripture, punishment, and shame.
“I’m not begging,” I told her, no longer the little girl pleading for scraps of affection. “And I’m sure as hell not asking you for anything ever again.”
“Well, that’s a switch.” I could hear my mother flicking her Bic, lighting up another cigarette, and easily pictured her sucking in her first drag, her already sunken cheeks hollowing further, her eyes narrowed in habitual contempt.
“You know, all I ever wanted was for you to be my mother,” I said, the words bitter on my tongue. “Apparently, that was just too much to ask.”
Her derisive snort was loud in my ear. “I never wanted to be a mother. But God had other plans for me. ‘I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us.’ That’s Romans 8:18. You’d know that if you’d ever listened to a damned word I said.”
“For fuck’s sake,” I muttered, a familiar anger clawing at my gut. I made my decision. “Save your sanctimonious bullshit, Vivian. I’m just letting you know I’m leaving. Henry and I are moving to Savannah.”
“Well, guess you’d better get to packing,” she said flatly.
“Guess so.” I laughed in a short, humorless burst. “And don’t worry. You won’t be hearing from me again.”
Vivian started to say something, but whatever hateful comment she’d planned was cut off by another harsh cough.
I hung up.
Frowning, I replayed the conversation in my head, the familiar sting of rejection warring with resigned indifference.
I turned slowly, taking inventory of the contents of the tiny house. Not much to pack—Henry’s toys, some clothes, a few boxes of books, the thrift-store art on the wall…
Just as well. The sooner I got the hell out of there, the better.
Still, the idea of starting over—leaving behind everything I’d managed to build, the meager support I’d gathered, the few friends I’d made—sent a wave of anxiety crashing over me.
I rushed to the kitchen sink and leaned against it, squeezing my eyes shut to fight the sudden urge to throw up. I didn’t normally feel stress in my stomach. But it wasn’t like anything was normal at the moment, so why should my body’s reaction to my world falling apart be any different?
When the nausea subsided, I took a few deep breaths and opened my eyes. Through the tiny window, night settled over my little world like a shroud, the darkness pressing close, heavy with silence. The kind of silence that felt…ominous.
My mouth suddenly dry, I exhaled a shaky breath and grabbed a glass from the cabinet.
When I turned back toward the window, the glass slipped from my hand and shattered in the sink, shards skittering like tiny bones across the porcelain.
For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. I could only stare as two glowing silver eyes glared back at me through the reflection: a woman’s face, pale and blurred at the edges, like an old photo negative. And those eyes locked on mine. Furious. Vengeful.
Her mouth opened in a silent scream, jaw unhinging wider than it should, and she rushed toward me, her fingers curled into claws.
Instinct snapped me free of my paralysis. I spun, bracing for her to be just inches behind me, to grab me, tear into me.
But the kitchen was empty.
No movement. No sound except for the hammering of my heart.
The window air conditioner clicked on, wheezing from its efforts to combat the spring heat, the suddenness of it shattering the silence and spurring me into action.
I lurched to the window, yanking the blinds down with shaking hands, the slats clattering into place, then stumbled across the room, checking other windows, locks, anything that could keep something out—even though I knew nothing truly could.
I flipped every light switch within reach. Warm light banished the darkness but still didn’t seem bright enough when I pressed into a corner so I could see every inch of the room. Shaking, I slid to the floor and pulled my knees to my chest, arms wrapped tight, watching.
When nothing else appeared after several minutes, I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my forehead to my knees.
The intruders.
They’d found me again.
They’d haunted me since childhood, no matter where my mother had dragged me. I called them intruders because they forced themselves into my awareness, but I didn’t know if they were ghosts, portends, or something else entirely. Vivian had called them demons and punished me whenever I mentioned them, convinced that it was my wickedness that drew them.
So many hungry nights, my grumbling stomach keeping me awake because Vivian believed fasting would “starve out” the demons. So many ice baths that left me gasping and crying because she insisted that making my little body inhospitable would send the demons away. So many prayer circles and “healings” from religious charlatans that were supposed to cleanse my soul…
So, I had closed myself to the intruders, forced them away, ignored the whispers, the messages, the shadows in the corner of my eye—until they no longer came.
Until now.
God. Damn. It.
A soft voice broke through my panic.
“Mama?”
Henry stood near the couch, eyes wide and scared, curls mussed from sleep.
“It’s okay, baby,” I assured him. “I just thought I saw something scary. That’s all.”
I leaned my head back against the wall, closing my eyes once more and taking a deep, calming breath. And then another.
His bare feet padded closer. Even though I expected him, I still flinched when he touched my arm.
“You’ll be okay,” he said, as if our roles had reversed. “Don’t be scared, Mama.”
I forced a smile and smoothed his curls from his eyes.
He sat down beside me, taking my hand in his. “I’ll hold your hand,” he whispered. “That will make it better.”
My laugh came out trembly, edged with tears. “Thanks, baby.” I pulled him into my lap. “That does make it better. How about if we snuggle for a little while until you go back to sleep?”
He nodded and curled against me, warm and solid, pushing the fear back into the familiar little box where I kept it buried.
When his breathing went soft and deep, I carried him to his bed and kissed his forehead.
As I exited his room, the kitchen light flickered—just once—and my stomach tightened. But nothing else stirred.
I found my phone where it had fallen earlier and dialed a number. It rang only once before a deep voice answered.
“Ms. Dupont?”
I swallowed hard, scanning the room, searching for anything that shouldn’t be there.
“I accept your offer, Mr. Proffitt.” My voice came out hollow, flat as I fought to keep it even. “How quickly can we move in?”
Kate lives in a smallish, quintessentially Midwestern town with her husband and two sons, who share her love of storytelling. She never tires of creating new worlds to share and is even now working on her next project — probably while consuming way too much coffee.
