The Cold House

by A.G. Slatter

Genres: Ghost; Occult & Supernatural; General Fiction; Horror

Synopsis

When Everly’s husband and young daughter die in a car crash she finds out nothing is quite what she thought… Secrets, lies and grief collide in this funny, tragic, intimate and utterly compelling horror novella. 

Written by the acclaimed author of the Sourdough Universe novels and winner of multiple awards including the Shirley Jackson and World Fantasy, this searing tale is perfect for fans of Rachel Harrison, Delilah S. Dawson and Sarah-Maria Griffin.

Writer Everly Bainbridge's life is left in ruins when her husband takes their child to the supermarket one day and a lorry collides with their car. After the accident, a lawyer appears on her doorstep and tells her her husband was not who he said he was and she is a very rich widow. She retreats to a lonely house in the countryside to recover. But there’s a well in the cellar, a spectacularly cold room, and one night, Everly wakes up with a foot hanging over the emptiness of the well and the echo of her daughter’s voice in her ears…

A short, sharp, emotionally layered story of horrific secrets and dangerous lies, this dark, fierce gem of a novella will keep you turning the pages late into the night…

Release date: October 7, 2025

Publisher: Titan Books

Print pages: 160

Sample

1

Outta the feckin way.’

I don’t know how long I’ve been standing in front of the ice cream section of the supermarket freezer, but it’s clearly long enough to piss someone off. These fugues are becoming more and more frequent, but I haven’t mentioned them to anyone. It’s four months since. Besides, who would I tell? What would be the point? It’s a problem for another day, because today’s is the tall, scrawny teenager next to me who can’t get to the Chunky Monkey. I step aside.

‘Very sorry,’ I say in a tone that implies Fuck you very much. I’m getting good at that one, in fact it seems to be my default. A couple of feet down the aisle, I hear him mutter ‘Stupid cunt’; then footsteps. Count to three, kick my foot out to the right, angle the trolley so that when he goes down he grazes his face on the shiny metal cage of its body.

‘So very sorry,’ I say as I leave him behind and continue shopping, an act which consists largely of tossing random things into the trolley until there looks like there might be enough to make some variety of meals if only I can focus. My jeans are hanging low, just the jut of my hip bones between me and indecency. The T-shirt, I’ve realised, is redolent of several days’ wear, which is a nice way of saying almost-reeks-but-not-quite. It’s not like I’ve given up on showering, but I can’t recall the last time I brushed my hair. Birds will nest in it and cats will start coming to my house, meowing to get in.

I really do need to get my shit together.

It’s late, almost nine, and the registers are empty of all but dull-eyed cashiers, standing around, looking stoned. Could be that, could just be life. Could be exhaustion after spending their days at uni or other jobs, their nights here trying to get enough money to keep body and soul together. The girl with shockingly red hair and equally shocking pale skin jerks to life as I thump the bottle of milk onto the conveyor belt, like a sensor light reacting to movement.

‘Oh, hey,’ she squeaks, and reaches for the items I’m stacking up in brisk order. The scanner bloops, sounding wet and happy at the same time, like a gum bubble bursting. I watch the stream of groceries: for the most part it looks like a five-year-old did the choosing, but there’s some pasta, some meat, a few fresh vegetables, some apples and lemons. Fighting off scurvy for another week, pretending I’ll cook something. The total keeps climbing and the girl – her badge says KAIT – shoots looks at me as if awaiting a complaint, a wince at least. I hold her gaze, gunfighter-style. It doesn’t matter, there’s more money than I can spend in a lifetime just waiting. Insurance policy, pension; payouts after the accident. Plus the money I didn’t even know he had. A property portfolio, another of shares. So I spend like there’s no tomorrow on food I don’t generally eat – no ice cream, obviously, not today. Occasionally some booze, but who wants to be a cliché, and nowadays I don’t handle hangovers well enough to take to drinking like it’s a full-time job.

The last packet of crisps goes into the bags. Kait swallows hard and stammers out the total. Unblinking, I swipe the credit card like I’ve done every week for the past month. There’s always a different cashier, it seems, or I just haven’t paid attention. A distinct possibility.

fading.

‘Thanks, Kait. Hope you can get home soon.’

‘Oh, another couple of hours.’ She grins at the use of her name, interest returning.

‘Then I hope you get to sleep in.’

‘Early classes.’

Oh. ‘Bummer.’

‘Yeah.’

I push the trolley towards the automatic doors, give Kait a wave and what might pass for a smile. Maybe the most interaction I’ve had with a human – the ferret in the cold goods aisle notwithstanding – in months. A bright flare of contact warmth, but even now grief’s sharp nails are tightening on my back, digging in, reminding me it’s still there. The loss. The emptiness. The hollow inside me with that shrivelled heart rolling around – shake me like a maraca and you’d hear the rattle. ...