These Walls Remember

by Del Sandeen

Genres: General Fiction; African American; African American Historical; Horror; Gothic

Synopsis

When two estranged sisters inherit a home possessed by the horrors of its dark past, they must work together to survive in this viscerally chilling Southern gothic novel from the critically acclaimed author of This Cursed House.

Do not go into the attic, the note warned.

But that’s exactly what sisters Mickie and Delilah do when they inherit a distant relative’s house in Savannah, Georgia. They intend to sell the property, divide the proceeds, and go their separate ways once and for all. 

But 724 Hartford Street has other plans. 

As the sisters learn about this house and its history, past wounds begin to fester and spill into the present: strange visions, memory lapses, unexplained accidents, and surreal echoes of the house’s previous inhabitants—some of whom disappeared after living in the home. The sisters suspect the residents of the sleepy Savannah neighborhood know more than they’re saying about what really happened there. 

And then Delilah, once adamant about selling and never looking back, develops an uncanny attachment to the house, her personality changing in alarming ways. Mickie knows that she’ll have to pull her sister from the home’s clutches or they will both succumb to that which hungers in its walls.

Release date: August 18, 2026

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 352

Sample

1

The house eats.

Mickie stared at the words, scrawled in black crayon on white paper, floor fans threatening to rip it from her hands. The attorney across the desk-Briggs Campbell, read the bronze nameplate-talked over the whirring and the repairmen's banging outside his office, his voice a flat droning above the background. Even with the fans on high and the windows flung wide, sweat trickled in rivulets down both their faces.

When she wasn't meeting his eyes, her gaze strayed to the window behind him. Large oaks with sturdy branches, thick and thin, dressed in moss, lined a path behind the building. The trees provided a shade that appeared unnaturally dark for early afternoon, as if someone could walk beneath their branches and be swallowed up, never to emerge at the other end of the path, which wasn't visible from Mickie's vantage point. The wood-paneled walls in the office added to the claustrophobic feel in the air, although the dimness made the heat slightly more bearable.

Mr. Campbell mopped his oddly smooth forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief while Mickie waved the large envelope-stuffed with more perplexing papers-in front of her face.

The paper was one of a pile in the envelope he'd passed across his desk a few moments ago, right before a small frown flitted across his face as quickly as if it had never been there. Mickie placed the paper back in with the others, careful not to wrinkle any, just as his phone rang.

"Yes?" His eyes flicked up to meet Mickie's. "Right now?" He hung up and apologized, already standing and moving to the door. "I'll be right back."

After the soft click punctuated his departure, old words rushed to fill the silence.

Death comes in threes.

That's what Big Mama had always said. That concept had been borne out in Mickie's life when she was twelve, because, first, Grandpappy had died of a heart attack, followed a month later by a second cousin on his side and two weeks later by Big Mama herself, smothered under a mountain of grief.

It happened again when Mickie was twenty-four. Her best friend from childhood went first, then Daddy a few weeks after that, and finally the coworker who'd occupied the cubicle across from hers.

So when the first whiff of death wafted into Mickie's life these days, she knew its hunger wouldn't be satiated until it had gobbled up two more lives in quick succession. Five years ago, it started with Mama. Mickie had barely begun to swim out of her river of sorrow before her favorite cousin put a gun between his lips and pulled the trigger. Six whole weeks passed, weeks during which Mickie scarcely exhaled, simply floated along with puffed-up lungs, her bottom lip cracked from constant chewing, and when the calendar turned to week seven, she thought Big Mama had been proven wrong. Just as she'd begun to relax, the call came from her husband's job.

Could she hurry to the hospital? his secretary had asked in a trembling whisper. Solomon had collapsed in his office.

Mickie didn't want to think about Solomon right now, but thoughts of death came easily when one was sitting across from an attorney who represented a distant relative's estate-and now one was apparently the last surviving relative of a great-aunt one didn't remember.

She shifted in her seat, wishing the door were open to let the air flow, although it wouldn't do much against the withering June weather. The heat here felt the same as the heat back home in Macon, except that here in Savannah the high humidity added to the misery.

Mickie pulled the funeral program out again. After the usual biographical information (birth date, birthplace . . .), the writer had really gotten into the meat of Haddie Taylor's life:

Ms. Taylor enjoyed stardom in several popular television shows when the medium was still in its infancy. She portrayed the maid Millie on Our Friend George, as well as the housekeeper Ruby on popular '60s sitcom Ted & Teddy.

But her most celebrated claim to fame was how close she came to appearing in Gone with the Wind, in the role of Prissy, ultimately losing out to Butterfly McQueen.

That last tidbit was certainly interesting, but so was the rest of the obituary. Mickie had known almost nothing of Haddie Taylor, a great-aunt on Daddy's side. She'd wondered why Daddy had never mentioned Haddie, but after a moment, earlier recollections arose in her mind, stories first brimming with pride and later stinking of some untold embarrassment. The Taylors must have loved having an actor in the family, so what had happened to make Haddie vanish from all conversation? Mickie strained to remember the last time she'd heard any of her relatives talk about Haddie; it had to have been more than thirty years ago, right before Grandpappy died.

She scanned the obituary, looking for any mention of a husband or children, but there was none.

The only child of Walter and Florence Taylor, Haddie was born on February 16, 1923.

That's why the attorney had called-with no siblings, was Mickie Haddie's only surviving relative?

No. There was Delilah. And Joy.

Mickie's lips twisted, her fingers tucking a damp lock of hair behind one ear. Probably, the attorney couldn't find Delilah, so Mickie wouldn't have to worry about seeing her younger sister's face today. What was one more day added to five years?

Most of all, she wondered who would die next.

The sound of the door opening brought Mickie's head up.

Delilah strolled in ahead of the attorney, who closed the door with a discreet click.

What was she doing here?

The attorney had to have hired a private investigator to find Delilah, because she was as off-the-grid as a person could be in this day and age. Mickie was sure her sister didn't have a job, at least not a regular one. She had no social media accounts. The last time Mickie had talked to her niece, Delilah's only child, was more than two years ago. Joy had admitted that she saw her mother only occasionally, a residual effect of a lifetime of intermittent mothering rising to the surface. Every time Mickie talked to Joy, a bit of guilt settled on her shoulders like light but gnarled hands. She should have been there more for her niece despite Delilah's taking her across the country to half raise. Mickie saw the girl only a handful of times as she grew up. It wasn't easy to get close to someone after years of forgotten birthdays and separate Christmases. Mickie had probably sent her five birthday cards in Joy's twenty-three years.

And the reason behind all of that was now seated next to Mickie.

Mr. Campbell resumed his seat, a twitchy smile creasing his face before his skin settled back into a flat sheet.

Mickie returned her attention to the picture of Haddie Taylor on the front of the program. The black-and-white photo had captured her during her youth. Her full cheeks and sparkling eyes were certainly attractive, but they paled next to her straight white grin. She'd been a lovely woman, Mickie mused, but in the old days of Hollywood, those looks weren't enough to save her from a career of portraying domestic servants.

The attorney cleared his throat, and when Mickie glanced over at her sister, Delilah turned her head to look right at her.

Mickie wore a neutral mask, unwilling to reveal any emotion in response to Delilah's appearance. Her sister's hair was shorn close to her scalp. On another woman, the effect would have been somewhat jarring, perhaps diminishing her femininity, but on Delilah, the cropped hair emphasized her high cheekbones, her deep-set eyes. With no excess hair to distract from her features, her face stood on its own, alone in its sharp elegance.

Unconsciously, Mickie pushed the same lock of hair behind the same ear, smoothing the ends of it and staring at her sister, her lips a wooden line. Delilah raised a hand in a tentative wave, a shadow of a smile seeming to fight its way to the surface before giving up. Mickie didn't return it and instead faced the attorney.

What was she doing here?

"Sorry I'm late," Delilah said, and Mickie didn't know whether her sister was addressing her or the man behind the huge desk.

Mickie held a scoff in with a great deal of effort. She'd heard those same three words from her for nearly their entire lives. Delilah had even had the nerve to say them after walking into Mama's funeral ten minutes after it started. Mickie had been spared the meaningless apology when Delilah didn't show up at Solomon's funeral, because Mickie hadn't told her that her husband was dead.

Her sister crossed one leg over the other, and her front foot immediately began an incessant back-and-forth movement, as if she couldn't bear to be still, even in the wilting heat.

"I'm so grateful you ladies were able to join me today," the attorney said, squaring a pile of papers in the middle of his desk. "And sorry it had to be the day the AC broke down. Goodness. Anyway, it took some doing, but we were able to track Ms. Taylor"-he inclined his head toward Delilah-"down at last. We weren't sure if Haddie Taylor had any remaining family, so this worked out well."

He met both sisters' gazes, as if expecting them to share his feelings. Mickie's face was stone, similar to Delilah's. So, Delilah was going by "Taylor" now, which meant she was divorced. Again.

"Ah. Well, as you both know, Ms. Taylor didn't leave a will. Now that your great-aunt's estate has gone through probate and we've located you both, I can inform you that although Ms. Taylor didn't have any cash assets to pass on, she did have a property that you both are the legal owners of."

"Property?" Delilah asked. She stopped fidgeting for the first time since she'd sat down.

"Yes, a house located at 724 Hartford Street."

His eyes dropped to the big envelope in Mickie's lap before rising to Delilah again. Mickie tensed at the change in his features, from careful neutrality to something bordering on unease.

"I just gave your sister some papers that were in your great-aunt's possession when she died. I have to inform you that although Ms. Taylor left those papers for any relatives that could be located, based on her mental state at the time of her death, you may not want to place a lot of stock in what they contain."

Mickie felt her sister's gaze on the envelope, could almost sense her probing curiosity about what it held, so she gripped it and moved it from her lap to the side farthest from Delilah.

"Mental state?" Delilah asked. "You mean she was mentally ill?"

The attorney cleared his throat. "Your great-aunt died while in the care of a psychiatric hospital. She hadn't been there long before she died."

"What was wrong with her?"

"I really don't know, other than she was taken there after attempting to burn down her house."

"What?" both sisters asked at the same time.

The discomfort that tightened Mr. Campbell's face was probably due just to the sweltering surroundings, Mickie told herself. She had to give him credit for the way he adjusted his expression back to one of moneyed pleasantness. He wasn't a man who appeared to enjoy perspiring. In fact, he seemed offended by the very act as he pressed his handkerchief to his forehead.

"There was minimal damage, to the home's exterior," he said, studying a paper on his desk. "Oh, and there's her personal effects. Not much, I'm afraid, but they might have some sentimental family value for you both."

He brought a small square box out of the bottom drawer of his desk and placed it on top. Before Delilah could grab it, Mickie reached forward, pulled it onto her lap and arranged it evenly atop the envelope.

Then the attorney was talking about necessary signatures and deeds and taxes, before placing two keys and several shiny ballpoint pens on the desk.

"Are you ready to go over the documents and sign?" he asked.


“A whole house . . .” Delilah mused. “Can you believe it, Mickie? A whole house? I wonder what we can get for it. You know what neighborhood it’s in? Maybe it’s run-down. Then we’d have a hard time selling, unless we just give it away. But what if it’s in a good neighborhood and it’s nice? We could probably get something decent.”

Mickie let Delilah's words wash over her like so much fluff in the wind. It didn't surprise her at all that her sister's first thoughts would be about how much they could get for the house.

"Did you hear what I said?"

Mickie looked up from the car door, her unmanicured fingers on the handle. She wanted to get inside and not hear Delilah's voice, and to crank the cool air up high. Her sister stood at the passenger side as if she was about to get in. Mickie scanned the small parking lot, trying to find the car Delilah had arrived in. Not seeing anything that reminded her of her sister, Mickie figured she'd probably taken the bus.

"What? About the house?" Mickie asked.

"You know what neighborhood it's in?"

"I don't know much about Savannah. I only visited here once, with Solomon, and that was years ago. The only reason I'm here is because the attorney contacted me about all this. I didn't even remember Aunt Haddie."

Delilah studied her for a moment, her gaze traveling from Mickie's bob to her sleeveless gray blouse, both of which drooped in the heat.

"I was sorry to hear about Solomon."

Mickie wondered who'd told her.

"I only met him the one time, but I remember he was a real sweetheart. You could've told me, you know." A beat. "And now you're sitting here with the stink face, mad at me for being late."

"When have you ever been on time?"

Delilah looked away for moment, one corner of her mouth upturned. "Are you going to show me what's in the envelope and box? I'm her relative, too. Or are you going to be a selfish asshole about everything?"

Mickie scoffed. "Me? Selfish? That's rich, coming from you."

Not allowing her sister to have the last word, not this time, Mickie climbed into her car and locked the doors. She jabbed the on button and endured several seconds of heat blasting from the vents. After a minute-once Delilah had peeled herself from the passenger-side window and disappeared, and the cool air had kicked in-Mickie exhaled, gripping the steering wheel like a life preserver.

She looked down at the envelope in her lap.