Scary Movie Night

by Miranda Smith

Genres: General Fiction; Horror; Thrillers; Psychological Thrillers; Suspense

Synopsis

In this nail-biting thriller, a horror-themed birthday party turns deadly when guests start disappearing—and the birthday girl realizes that she must face a long-buried secret to make it out alive.

“Buckle up. This clever, sinister, atmospheric thriller had me staying up all night.”—Natalie Barelli, bestselling author of Finders Keepers

Tippi is ready for a fresh start. After breaking off her engagement to an increasingly demanding, controlling, and emotionally unstable man, she is newly inspired to do whatever it takes to put herself first. Plus, her thirty-fifth birthday is coming up: a perfect occasion to ring in this new era. Tippi’s friends see the opportunity, too, and lean into her love of horror films by throwing her a lavish theme party at a secluded mansion, where everyone dresses as characters from iconic scary movies. But Tippi's attempts to enjoy the night are shattered when she starts receiving terrifying messages from her ex, Oliver, to expose a secret she was ready to take to the grave.

At first, Tippi can’t believe her eyes. Oliver moved across the country after they broke up—he can’t have crashed her party. Could one of her friends have found out? But when her guests begin to disappear one by one, it becomes clear that the threats have very real consequences. And the messages make clear one thing: the call is coming from inside the house.

As Tippi is forced to navigate the deception of those closest to her, she realizes that in the end, some things are indeed like in the movies, and she’ll do whatever it takes to just survive the night.

Release date: July 14, 2026

Publisher: Bantam

Print pages: 304

Sample

1

Sunday

A person moves in the shadows beyond my bedroom door.

Maybe it’s in my mind—­a lingering nightmare following me into wakefulness, a memory, a fantasy.

Rustling papers prickle my ears, dull footsteps padding against hardwood. Light shifts as the silhouette drifts from one corner to another. Sight and sound—­two of the five senses ignited. This isn’t a figment of my imagination. Someone is inside my apartment.

I sit upright in bed, peering through the sliver of open doorway where I’d first seen the dark figure appear. Silvery beams of moonlight spill from the bay windows. It’s the middle of the night. Fear starts in my stomach, sprouts through my chest and neck and temples. My mind is a teakettle on the verge of boiling over as I debate what to do.

A baseball bat leans against the wall beside my bed—­Oliver left it behind.

I creep from beneath the sheets, palm the aluminum rod in my hand, and wait, hoping I’ve got this wrong, that an intruder hasn’t invaded my space, and I won’t have to defend myself. Movies and television portray New York City apartments as vulnerable settings ripe for criminal activity, but I’ve never experienced that kind of danger until now. I quiet my grandmother’s voice in my head, warning me the city is a perilous place for a woman on her own—­a hard thing to do when I hear glass breaking beyond the door.

I surge out of the bedroom, adrenaline coursing through me. I flick on the light switch with the point of my elbow, both my hands gripped around the handle of the bat.

There he is, or she, although my mind immediately goes to a male intruder. A balaclava covers his face, matching his dark clothes. He holds an open duffel bag in front of his body. The whites of his eyes gleam in the blackness, little round saucers that appear just as shocked to see me. In that moment, my fear alchemizes into courage. Confidence.

“Aaaarrrgh!!”

I shout. Not a particular word or command, more an animalistic growl, claiming my territory. As long as he doesn’t have a gun—­which is still a moderate chance—­I have the upper hand, the element of surprise, the weapon. I wonder how many burglars anticipate a conflict this late at night. I expect that they’d want to be in and out, catlike.

The man leaps back, slamming into the living room console. A nameless object tumbles to the ground, followed by another, an almost comical collision of toppling dominoes. He sidesteps away from me, in search of an escape.

I swing anyway, my target locked, even though the bat isn’t close enough to make contact. The intruder’s speed increases as he stumbles backward, his momentum continuing until he’s at the front door, twisting the knob.

A tunnel of light invades the dark apartment as he enters the hallway. The intruder falls, his half-­empty duffel falling with him. He manages to get back on his feet and grab the bag just as I deliver another forceful swing, this time closer, the barrel of the bat smashing into the wall.

The intruder turns from me now, running at full speed down the hallway, escaping through the stairwell.

I remain in position, heart pounding, chest wheezing from the sudden exertion of adrenaline and strength.

The door to the apartment beside me opens, and Mr. Swanson pokes a curious head outside.

“Tippi, what the hell is it?” His eyes are crusted with sleep, his mouth outlined in spittle. “It’s after four in the morning.”

“Someone broke into my apartment,” I say. I’m out of breath, my heart still racing as my emotional distress morphs to disbelief. Did that really just happen?

Mr. Swanson seems puzzled. “And you chased him with a bat?”

I lower the weapon in my hand, considering how ridiculous I must look. “Yeah.”

He raises his eyebrows and tilts his head to the side before closing his apartment door.