The House Built on Alligator Bones

by Sophia Huneycutt

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

Synopsis

The Greers built their fortune on alligator bones.

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Dartrine Beaumont believes her mother’s sudden death has left her alone in the world—until she learns of long-lost wealthy relatives living in Florida. Confused but delighted by the possibility of extended family, Dart travels to her grandmother’s stately Gilded Age mansion on Amelia Island for answers, just in time to stake a claim on an unusual inheritance: an alligator farming empire.

Her arrival at Greer House isn’t everything she hoped. Without warning, Dart finds herself in fierce competition with her grandmother’s arrogant heir apparent, and tensions rise as threats escalate on one of the farms. More unsettling is her hostile grandmother’s fanatical belief that the danger stems from a curse; according to legend, a larger-than-life alligator hunted down by a bloodthirsty ancestor haunts the family. Yet Dart can’t deny that the farm’s alligators hiss only at Greers, or that a shadowy figure creeps through the mansion’s halls.

As Dart uncovers the truth about her violent birthright, she faces a terrible choice: accept her place in her family’s grim legacy or forge a new path by slaying a different beast entirely.

Release date: October 6, 2026

Publisher: Dutton

Print pages: 384

Sample

Prologue

Nature is consuming Greer House. Waist-high grass shudders against the wraparound porch. Honeysuckle chokes the stained columns. Kudzu claws at the murky green siding. It’s an echo of what it once was—roof sagging, second-floor porch railing cracked, glassless windows dull as a corpse’s eyes. Still beautiful, though.
A crying bird swoops down from the gnarled oak tree and lands on the front walk, craning its head to glare at me. Then it shrieks, like it’s reminding me they’ll notice my absence soon, and I’m in motion, slipping my bag over my shoulder, climbing out of the car into the heat. Too fast. Black dots sprinkle across my vision, and I sag against the door. I can’t rush this.
Wiping sweat from my forehead, I carefully skirt the hood, eyes fixed ahead of me. There’s the dull gray carriage house, the crumbling brick courtyard, the angel statue with one cherubic cheek chipped off. I want to hug the dazed version of me from five years ago who faced that city inspector demanding I either demolish or rebuild, no doubt summoned by the neighbors who couldn’t have cared less that I’d just left the hospital. No wonder I took the coward’s way out, handing him a check that made his breath catch and leaving the house to rot, the memories within to fester.
As I step onto the front walk, those memories ooze forth, covering me in their muck. My instinct is to block them out, but I can’t. Not anymore. They’re what I’m here for. Once I remember what happened that night, I can decide whether this property is worth saving.
I can decide whether this family is damned.
The porch steps sag in the middle, so I walk on their edges, steadying myself against a column at the top. Grooves in the floor mark where the rocking chairs once sat. I hesitate at a window—without panes, it’s practically a door—but pass it by. I want to enter Greer House like I used to.
The front door is riddled with cracking black paint, chunks lying in place of a welcome mat. Alligatoring, they call it—the unique pattern old lead paint makes, like an alligator purse. Fitting. I slip the iron skeleton key, special-made with an alligator skull at its head, into the lock and turn the tarnished brass handle.
The door cracks open to the patter of waterlogged feet, the dragging sound of a long, wet skirt against the floor. I hold my breath but hear nothing else.
Inside, Greer House smells like rotten wood. There’s nothing much left. Aunt Virginia had already moved out by the time I fled, and passersby must have taken their fill shortly after. In the drawing room to my right, a cracked teapot lies by the fireplace, its porcelain alligator lid now tail-less. Before me, several steps of the grand staircase are missing, and I won’t test the others. I wander to my left, into the dining room. Once emerald green, it’s faded to a murky color, black mold blooming in the corners. No paintings remain on the wall; Aunt Virginia must have taken me seriously when I asked her to burn them. A few dining chairs lie on their sides, seats rotten.
From the darkened parlor beyond the dining room comes a light thud. An animal, maybe. My skin crawls. I refuse to look in the far corner, where a limp curtain covers a quarter of the pane-less window; if blood still stains the floor, I don’t want to see it.
Instead, my eyes fall to the fireplace. Her portrait still lies on the floor in front of it, the axe still stuck inside her, blade now dulled. So, Aunt Virginia couldn’t bring herself to destroy this one. A scream echoes in my mind, two voices in one, like some chorus from Hell—
Something thumps the parlor wall. I jump, breath catching.
Not her. Please, not her.
Low to the ground, a gray shape slips out of the shadows, its yellow eyes blinking as my squeak of fear turns into a laugh. Just the old neighborhood cat.
“Hey, kitty,” I say, eyes on the parlor as I extend a finger.
She saunters toward me, bumping her temple against an overturned chair, but stays out of reach. No surprise there. She’s always been polite, but aloof. I admire her as she strides toward a window. Before, no animal could enter Greer House uncaged; the lady of the house wouldn’t allow it.
I settle into a damp seat facing the parlor. Satisfied with my vantage point, I set my bag on the dusty table and reach inside, pulling out my new sketchbook and old leather pen roll. My hand hovers at the mouth of my bag. Do I really need a reminder of what made me get in the car this morning? Yes. Otherwise, I might make a run for it.
The box of pregnancy tests is cool to the touch, impersonal. If Mama were alive, she would have already made me take one. At the sight of two pink lines, she’d have dragged me to the clinic, then back to Greer House with a box of matches and a can of gasoline.
Placing a hand beside the box on the table, I steady myself. I’m not here to imagine what she would do. I’m here, in our ancestral home, our rotting heart, to decide whether we deserve a future. And before I can judge us—before I can judge myself—I have to remember every detail of that night. I’ll draw some of it and write down the rest. Get my thoughts clear, leave a record for whoever’s left when I’m dead. Maybe then someone will know who I really am—what I’ve wanted since I was a little girl confined in Mama’s apartment.
Taking a deep breath of musty air, I set my pen to paper. When did I set that evening’s events in motion? The moment I threw red Georgia dirt on Mama’s coffin? The first time I read the Greers’ names? The last time I slid a knife into an alligator? No.
The letter.
Emotions flood me, fresh as when I first felt them: hope, betrayal, guilt.
It started with the letter.