A family moves into their dream home—only to discover that it hides an insatiable hunger—in this dread-laced and darkly outrageous domestic horror novel.
“Doty’s devilishly voracious novel ended up devouring me.”—Clay McLeod Chapman, author of Wake Up and Open Your Eyes and Devil Inside
The new house is a fresh start for Claire and her family. It's a move away from the cityscape of a declining San Francisco and towards the quiet suburban life she has craved since her turbulent childhood; a step up the corporate ladder for her husband, Tom; and a safe haven for their two children.
Yet as they unpack their boxes, she senses something is wrong. Fresh flowers dry up, store-bought eggs are inexplicably hollow, and her daughter's favorite toy disappears. Claire soon confronts a series of impossible truths: The house is hungry. It's devouring anything that was once alive. And only Claire and Tom, the owners of the house, will remember that this "food" ever existed.
When Claire exploits the house's power in a moment of weakness, she and the house forge a fragile bond. But as its hunger intensifies and Claire loses control, she fears who else might be drawn to her home—and what sinister appetites they’ll bring.
Release date:
August 18, 2026
Publisher:
Bantam
Print pages:
336
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The first thing I noticed was the flowers. The vase sat on an ornate wooden table right in the entryway. The water looked fresh and clear, probably filled only an hour before Tom and I arrived to view the house, but the flowers were dry and brittle. A lily practically exploded into powder at my touch.
Our realtor, Marissa, carefully guided me away from the vase and over to a bay window, which looked out at a spectacular view of the Santa Clara Valley. Despite the sprawl, enough trees reached up to disguise the houses that the whole tableau looked beautiful if you squinted.
Out past the glossy towers of multitrillion-dollar companies sat the stretch of bay where the water grew marshy and stank of birds. Here, though, we were miles from the smell, up in the fresh foothill air, surrounded by the grand estates of tech moguls and Stanford professors.
“Definitely a million-dollar view,” said Marissa, and Tom nodded.
“Four and a half million,” joked Tom, pointing to the slick flyer in his hands.
“Believe me, that’s a bargain,” said Marissa. “A month ago, it went pending for over five.”
I could tell she regretted the words almost as soon as she spoke them.
“What happened to the sale?” asked Tom. He smiled when he asked the question, but I could tell he’d already gone into full lawyer mode. He wouldn’t let go until he got the real answer now.
“There was an unfortunate situation with the previous buyer,” said Marissa carefully. “Something we couldn’t have known. It came up just before closing. A legal situation.”
Tom did his classic lawyer’s trick. He didn’t ask a follow-up question. Rather, he just stared at Marissa, waiting for her to fill in the vague gap at the center of the answer.
“If you watch the news,” she said after a few seconds, “you may have heard about that gentleman down in Sunnyvale. The one with the woman in his basement.”
A chill ran through me. The man had been at the top of the news cycle for weeks. He’d been keeping an undocumented woman in his cellar for over a year, barely feeding her. Now, as authorities had begun to excavate the property, news was spreading that she’d been only his latest captive.
“Of course,” said Marissa, “all of that has nothing to do with this house. He was just a potential buyer. But the whole incident left the owner a bit skittish. That’s all completely understandable. And the good news is, she really wants to sell to a nice family now. To leave this place in good hands. And that means if you play your cards right, you might just get the deal of a lifetime.”
Tom smiled. “Doesn’t bother me. You okay, Claire?”
“Fine,” I said. Of course, I didn’t like the thought of that Sunnyvale man standing here, looking out at this same view, making his plans. But he’d been here only for a moment, after all. That was a stain that washed off easily.
And the truth was, the house charmed me right away. It was older than any other place I’d seen. It looked almost like the way a child would imagine a home, with a strange turret on one side and a great glass room on the other. Its light-brown shingles could very well have been made of gingerbread.
It wasn’t love at first sight. I’ve never believed in that anyway. But there was intrigue. This place was no wholesome golden boy, carrying your books home after the first day of school. It was the mysterious man at the end of the bar, drinking some obscure cocktail invented a hundred years ago.
“A few details,” said Marissa as she began to guide us through the long hallway to the first-floor bedrooms. “The house is technically a Queen Anne, meaning that it predates the 1906 earthquake by almost a decade. And believe me, if it survived that, plus the 1989 quake, it’s got great bones. Over the whole peninsula, you won’t find more than a dozen homes like this, certainly not in this condition. It’s not just a house. It’s a piece of living history.”
Indeed, the house felt solid, a survivor. Everything back in the city was new and untested. The condos were all relatively recent builds, with promises of earthquake safety and fireproof insulation, but that all seemed like talk. I’d had such promises broken before.
Inside, the house felt warmer than outside, like someone was running the heat despite the summer weather. Yet it was cozy rather than stifling. I was used to the clean lines of our modern condo in the city, a style that emptied your head and immediately made you eager to look at your phone. This house was different, built in an era desperate for entertainment. I spent a solid minute examining the detailed shell inlay of the fireplace, a complex floral pattern of daisies and thorned roses.
The floor plan was all broken up, too, all carved into pieces. A cozy study and a bathroom lined the main hallway across from a small laundry room and a dining room with pocket doors connecting to a kitchen. You could almost imagine servants gliding through the rooms, silver trays in hand.
No part of the house bored you; wherever your eye wandered, another detail popped out like an Easter egg. The light wood of the floors was framed with dark walnut, carefully inlaid by some long-dead hand. There was no wallpaper, thank god, but the walls were wainscoted and tastefully two-toned, white and tan.
As we reached the kitchen, the warm smells of vanilla and chocolate washed over us, and I spotted a tray of chocolate chip cookies cooling on a rack beside the oven. An elderly woman smiled up at us as we entered the room.
Though she may have been seventy or eighty, she stood remarkably erect. The phrase “well-preserved” came immediately to mind: her white hair was artfully arranged in a neat bun, and her lack of laugh lines suggested a life lived with little sunshine and fewer smiles. She wore a finely tailored dress with a black-and-white houndstooth pattern, so clean that it made you want to take her aside and ask her the name of her dry cleaner.
“Mrs. Chung!” Marissa said, clearly surprised. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t aware you were here today.”
“Oh, I know, I know,” said the woman, removing an oven mitt and extending her hand to me. “But I had a good feeling about these two. And I wanted to meet them in person after what happened last time. Please, call me Pamela.”
I reached out and took her hand. It felt soft and fragile, as if I was holding a bird. As we touched, she met my eyes, staring hard into me as if trying to read the whole history of my life, written on my pupils.
“Take a cookie,” she said, and I did. Not wanting to look rude, I took a bite. It was one of the worst chocolate chip cookies I’d ever eaten—hard and stale, as if it had sat out on the counter for a week. It wasn’t even warm. It seemed impossible that it had just come out of the oven.
“Good,” I said. “Amazing.”
“Oh, you don’t have to lie to me,” said Pamela. “I know I’m no baker. But the house doesn’t make it easy. You’ll see.”
“I hope so,” said Tom. “It’s a lovely home. Perfect for our family.”
I met his eyes, trying to read them. Did he really believe that, or was he just performing, trying to win over his audience?
Even as I questioned what he said, I couldn’t help but agree. It was easy to imagine Derek curled up in the nook of the bay window, a textbook on his lap, and Grace at the counter of the kitchen island, colored pens strewn all around in a chaotic rainbow. My heart leaped at the thought of the sheer volume of space, enough distance that Derek’s calculus problem sets would be living in a different time zone from Grace’s Cheerios and paints.
“I actually remember biking by here as a boy,” Tom said. “My family lived a bit farther up the hill. My parents still do, actually. I’d bomb down Moody and El Monte all the way until I hit St. Nicholas. Miracle I lived to adulthood.”
“Indeed,” Pamela said. “So it’s a homecoming for you, then? I understand you’re currently up in San Francisco?”
“Yes,” said Tom. “A homecoming. That’s a good way to put it.”
“And for you?” she asked, her eyes boring into me.
“Not even close,” I said. “I’m a city rat, one hundred percent. Born and raised, mostly. Maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones that escapes.” Like Tom, I, too, was trying to play it cool. I didn’t want any of them to see how much I wanted this.
An awkward silence followed until Marissa cleared her throat and mentioned that we should continue the tour. As we left the room, Pamela took my hand, leaning in toward my ear.
“I hope it’s you,” she whispered, and I smiled back, not quite knowing what to say.
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