Kill Your Darlings

by Yuvashri Harish

Genres: Young Adult; YA Horror; YA Paranormal

Synopsis

A teen girl faces the horrors of misogyny and racism—plus an evil witch and her horde of monsters—in this fun, fast-paced thriller.

“Kill Your Darlings made me laugh, cry, swoon, and hold my breath. It’s gothic and enchanting, unafraid to throw several punches and has twists I didn't see coming. It’ll break your heart again and again and stitch you back together—it’s utter perfection. Yuvashri Harish pulls off this ambitious debut and makes it look easy, and I want more.” —Jamison Shea, author of I Feed Her to the Beast

Thulasi is the perfect daughter: she’s responsible, she never breaks the rules, and she’s always willing to babysit her seven-year-old cousin. Even on Halloween night. 

But the night takes a horrifying turn when a simple playdate leads to accidentally summoning a horde of monsters out of a book of horror tales, along with her small town’s most famous author, Addison Greer—Thulasi’s literary hero. Except Addison has a more sinister scheme planned for her miraculous return: revenge on the family that wronged her.  

Drawn into a bloodthirsty bargain with Addison, Thulasi will have to team up with Sam, the super cute quarterback in her class, and the only other teen stuck with babysitting duty on Halloween. They only have until midnight to foil Addison’s plans—while keeping their seven-year-old charges safe—or her monsters will destroy their town and everyone they love.

Release date: October 6, 2026

Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons Books for Young Readers

Print pages: 352

Sample

When we enter the bookstore, I sneeze into my elbow, sinuses burning from the dust caking the cedar shelves. Flickering pendant lights hang in the passages, their shells cracked. And vanilla is in the air from old books, unsold and wasting away since Mr. Connolly’s grandfather’s era.

But it has its own charm. A nook in the walls you can fold into, hidden delights in every shelf and stack of books, and in the dead of winter, the gas heater is always a source of warmth.

If only it didn’t come with Mr. Connolly.

“I’ve already told you I’m not giving them back!” a thunderous voice echoes from the storeroom at the back.

I freeze in my tracks, gripping Arjun by the shoulder and pulling him close. He tries to squirm his way out of my leaden grip, but I tighten my hold, shushing him.

I’d prefer not to take any chances with anger.

“You listen to me, boy,” the voice continues. “I don’t care what you say. I don’t care what you threaten me with. I got them fair and square, you hear? Next time, why don’t you keep a better eye on what goes out your door?”

With that snide question delivered, he slams the phone into the cradle so hard I can hear it, the loud thunk making me jump. Mr. Connolly emerges from the storeroom, sweating, fists clenched, anger like a streak of fire across his face.

Maybe we should come back in the afternoon.

But it’s not like Mr. Connolly didn’t know we were coming. We’d arranged a time and everything. And I’ve been waiting days for this book. Hell, we already paid for it. I shouldn’t have to postpone because Mr. Connolly can’t control his -temper.

It’s mine.

Fingers hot and trembling, I push Arjun toward the second aisle, where the Choose Your Own Adventure books are. “Why don’t you, uh, look around, huh? I’ll get the book from Mr. Connolly.”

No need to traumatize both of us.

To his credit, Arjun doesn’t think anything of my suggestion, sprinting off with a two​-fingered salute.

I steel myself, pulling the voluminous folds of my puffer jacket around my body as tight as they’ll go, and march forward. Remarkably, when I reach the counter, Mr. Connolly’s no longer sweating; the scowl’s gone, and he doesn’t look like he wants to punch the nearest wall anymore.

No, instead, he’s smiling at me.

Have I mentioned how much I’d like to gag?

“How are you, Thulasi?” Mr. Connolly asks, with that kind-old-man demeanor he uses to his advantage. “You’re here to pick up your book, aren’t you?”

My smile’s like dried paint on my face. “I’m good, and yeah, yes, I am.”

“Yes, yes, it’s ready—​hm, I have it somewhere here,” he mutters to himself, patting his hands across the counter like the book’s developed powers of invisibility since last weekend.

He crouches low, looking underneath the counter. My hopes for a reprieve are dashed when, without missing a beat, he continues the small talk.

“Looking forward to tonight? You have much planned?”

The thing with Mr. Connolly is he says all the right things. He smiles at you. He’s warm and helpful. He’s a beloved, long-standing resident of Applesweet. But it’s hard to be a fan when you’re a young brown girl in a town that is mostly white and Mr. Connolly talks about your lovely dark skin and touches your hair without permission.

“No, we’re staying in tonight,” I reply politely.

My parents raised me to be polite to my elders.

Even if I don’t like them.

Mr. Connolly clucks his tongue, disappointed. “You’re not even trick-or-treating? You know, dressing up was always my favorite part of Halloween. I’m sure you could put something together. Like a belly dancer outfit. You’d have those sorts of clothes at home, wouldn’t you? You certainly have the body for it.”

Thankfully, I don’t have to respond to that fascinating blend of racism and sexism, since his attention is focused on the large shoebox he pulls out from underneath the counter. The lid comes off, and loose and bound papers burst out like a bed of flowers blooming all at once, like the box can’t contain it all. As Mr. Connolly’s fingers delve into the box with all the grace of a kid going through a cereal box, I try my best to peer around those wrinkled fingers for a good look.

If the book is really the book and this is the box it came in, who knows what other delights might be in there? Most of the paper looks old, made of wood pulp—​I recognize it from the displays in the local library.

So, nineteenth century and onward.

Heart thrashing in my throat, I take another step forward. If Mr. Connolly notices, maybe he’ll think I’m antsy to be on my way. A small prayer book—​judging by the cross—​tips over the box’s edge, GREER woven into the wooden brown spine in faded golden thread.

My mouth goes dry.

GREER.

Finally, Mr. Connolly rounds on me with a sound of triumph. “Here you go.” He places the book—​my book—​on top of the counter.

“Let me get Arjun, or we’ll be late for school,” I explain to Mr. Connolly, already facing the stacks, nerves like a horde of insects scurrying through my intestines.

Something prevents me, though, and when I turn, unsure if it’s fight or flight my head’s going with, Mr. Connolly’s smile hasn’t shifted an inch from his face.

“Mr. Connolly,” I croak, my heart bursting somewhere in the vicinity of my throat. “What—”

A wave of discomfort cramps my belly as my eyes slip to his hand. His rough, papery, pale hand wrapped around my wrist. Grip tight but not painful.

Do I say it? Do I just say, Can you please let go of my wrist? Is that an okay thing to do?

But what if he gets angry? He gets angry. I’ve seen that now.

His gaze follows mine, but he doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get that he’s crossed the line into inappropriate territory, that he needs to stop touching me as soon as possible.

I tear my wrist free. I don’t care if it’s rude. His hand drops to his side, a weak gesture.

“What’s the rush?” he asks, light and breezy when it’s anything but. “I was hoping—”

The bell above the door rings.

Oh, thank God. I’m saved.

Sam Safra walks in.

Shit. This might be worse.

Sam’s surprise at seeing me swiftly morphs into good humor, his smile revealing the shine of his teeth, the slightly crooked overlapping ones at the bottom.

There’s a sad little creature inside me, and she sighs. Sam’s face could be on a billboard.

Tall, lean-muscled, with a head of black curls and bronzed skin lighter than my own. Brown eyes, a sharp nose, and a thin pink mouth clearly needing lip balm.

Maybe I should offer him the bubble-gum one in my bag.

Sam and Thulasi sitting in the tree, Celeste-On-My-Shoulder sings in my ear.

God, I hate her.

“Funny running into you here!”

No, not funny. Karmic retribution.

“You too,” I reply, with a flimsy smile of my own.

He strides up to the counter, joining me. I don’t miss Mr. Connolly’s shrewd gaze as it passes between Sam and me, but like hell I’ll acknowledge it. I know what people would think of us together. I have it written on my insides somewhere. I don’t need the confirmation.

Did you see? Dr. Srinivasan’s daughter and Abigail Safra’s son. Together. Although, I suppose it makes sense. He’s Egyptian, and she’s Indian. That’s close enough, right? I don’t know, though. They’re saying he could play for state. He should make better choices, don’t you think?

Small-town judgment is a real killer of interracial dating options.

“Hey, Mr. Connolly. I think my mom called you about this?”

Sam hands a small, worn journal, covered in smooth chestnut leather, to Mr. Connolly, who makes a show of taking off his glasses so he can peer closely at it, particularly the latch cinching the fore edge shut.

“Is that a keyhole?” I blurt out before thinking twice. Instantly, heat creeps up my throat. God, Thulasi, are you incapable of minding your own business? “Sorry, didn’t mean—”

But Sam answers, unbothered. “Yeah, it is. It’s my mom’s. Or, well, my mom inherited it. It’s been locked forever, and we don’t have the key, so she wanted to see if anything could be done.”

“You haven’t tried a locksmith?” Mr. Connolly asks, prodding at the lock with a finger.

“Well—”

“Akka! Can you come here and help me? I can’t reach!”

Sam jumps. He must not have spotted Arjun in the stacks when he walked in.

I tuck my hair behind my ear, self-​conscious. “I should . . . I should help him. And we should probably go.”

“Yes, you should,” Mr. Connolly agrees, adopting a sterner expression, like he’s secretly my grandfather and he cares about my goddamn well-being. It makes me the unreasonable, overreacting, paranoid one, and I hate it. I hate him. “You kids better be heading off to school.”

You could go to jail if you punch him in the face, Thulasi. Plus, you don’t know how to throw a punch.

Sam abruptly turns to me, his eyes bright like the metaphorical light bulb literally went off above his head. “Hey, if you give me a few minutes, I can give you both a ride?”

“Oh, we can walk—”

“You sure about that? I don’t think you’ll get there on time.”

Sam Safra and I, in a car together, after he left a complex, confusing emoji on one of my posts. This is not a good idea.

But walking to school now seems like a worse one.

So, I agree, shamefully. “Yeah, thanks, Sam. If it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Just give me a minute, and we’ll go.”

“Yeah, let me just grab my cousin.”

I find Arjun in the second aisle, a foot poised on the shelf, preparing to scale it like a mountain face.

“Arjun,” I hiss, scurrying closer so I can tug him away.

He has the audacity to scowl when he shrugs me off. “What?”

“Climbing bookshelves is against the rules.”

“Whose rules?” Arjun demands.

Now it’s my turn to scowl. “My rules.”

Arjun huffs. “Well, I wanted the green one at the top.”

“Not now, okay. Maybe another time.”

“But, Akka—”

“No, come on, we need to go.”

Despite his whining, I drag him toward the counter, where Mr. Connolly and Sam are waiting. Arjun remains sullen and long-faced by my side. Affection wins out, and I corral him into an embrace.

“We’ll come back another time,” I soothe.

We don’t exactly have another choice. There’s only one bookstore in Applesweet.

“But while you’re waiting . . .” I let the words hang, purposeful, pointed.

Arjun’s face lights up, misery suddenly forgotten. He rubs his hands, mercenary. “The book.”

“The book,” I agree with equal relish.

Sam leans back against the counter as we approach. “Ready to go?”

“Just need to grab this!”

I reach for the book, my book, hefting its precious weight between my fingers, the way I might Amma’s diamond earrings or the oddiyanam she wore on her wedding day. The spine creaks as I peel back the cover. The pages are a faint yellow. My pulse leaps in my throat; Addison Greer’s signature is all long, looping lines underneath the title. Beautiful, haunting, elegant, like her writing is, like she must’ve been.

“You’re a fan,” Mr. Connolly says.

Like it isn’t part of the unwritten contract you sign when you live here. You’re a good, courteous neighbor; you don’t let your grass grow out of control; you pay your taxes on time; and you keep a set of Addison Greer books in your house.

And while my parents never understood the fervor, it was her book I first picked from the library shelf when I was six.

“I’m a fan,” I agree, sweeping a reverent hand over the cover before tucking it into my bag.

“That’s very good, Thulasi, because that book’s going to change your life.”

“Change my life?”

Mr. Connolly smiles, thin and toothy. “Have a good day, kids. And happy Halloween. I have a feeling it’ll be a night you’ll never forget.”