The Cold House E-Book

A.G. Slatter

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 170

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

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…

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Leave us a Review

Copyright

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Author’s Note

About the Author

Praise for

THE COLD HOUSE

“A wonderfully gripping modern gothic tale of haunting, grief, secrets and lies. A remote community, an unreliable narrator, and twisty reveals that keep on coming—I read it in one sitting! Highly recommended!”

SARAH PINBOROUGH, the #1 international bestselling author of We Live Here Now and Netflix’s Behind Her Eyes

“The Cold House is a unique blend of folk and grief horror—emotionally raw, captivating, and a twisting, winding descent into darkness. No one does it like Slatter. I’m a fan for life!”

SADIE HARTMANN ‘Mother Horror’, Bram Stoker Award®-winning author of 101 Horror Books to Read Before You’re Murdered

“Old magic and fresh grief twist together, weaving a growing dread that builds to an explosive conclusion.”

KELLEY ARMSTRONG, #1 bestselling author of the Rip Through Time series and Every Step She Takes

“Claustrophobic and elegantly plotted, The Cold House is full of grief, mystery, and the pain of family secrets. Slatter just keeps getting better!”

CHRISTOPHER GOLDEN, New York Times bestselling author of The Night Birds and The House of Last Resort

“A luscious little labyrinth of a book, drenched in ambiance and dripping with delicious prose, full of twists, turns, terror, torment, and triumph.”

DELILAH S. DAWSON, New York Times bestselling author of Bloom and Guillotine

“A gorgeous and unsettling entry into the horror genre. Slatter melds grief and folk horror with a master’s touch. There’s a tender brutality in her turns of phrase and a humanity in her characters that will move even the hardest soul. If I dared, I’d beg a final request to keep reading and reading and reading.”

KRISTI DEMEESTER, author of Dark Sisters and Such a Pretty Smile

“A masterclass in storytelling. Slatter rolls out her devastating revelations smoothly and with perfect timing, drawing us into this sad, terrifying novella with ease, and chilling us to the bone.”

KAARON WARREN, author of The Underhistory

“Starting with the classic set up to a psychological thriller, The Cold House quickly morphs into something darker and stranger. Reminiscent of folk horror classics The Wicker Man and Robin Redbreast, this slice of rural noir is punchy, pacy and atmospheric.”

OLIVIA ISAAC-HENRY author of The Verdict and Sorrow Spring

ALSO BY A.G. SLATTERAND AVAILABLE FROM TITAN BOOKS

All the Murmuring Bones

The Path of Thorns

The Briar Book of the Dead

The Crimson Road

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The Cold House

Print edition ISBN: 9781835412541

E-book edition ISBN: 9781835412558

Published by Titan Books

A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP

www.titanbooks.com

First edition: October 2025

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.

© Angela Slatter 2025

Angela Slatter asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

EU RP (for authorities only)eucomply OÜ, Pärnu mnt. 139b--14, 11317 Tallinn, [email protected], [phone]

Designed and typeset in ITC Berkeley Oldstyle by Richard Mason.

There are Dark Ladies, and evendevils bow down before them.

ST CRISPIN OF ANGLESEY,Observations and Terrors, 1139 AD

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.

‘You have a good evening,’ she says brightly, but I can already see her interest 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.

Out in the car park heat still radiates up from the tarmac, I parked close by the entrance, under the buzzing lights. It doesn’t take long to load everything, haphazard, in the back of the rental. I’m in the driver’s seat, sliding the key into the ignition when something hits the window beside me.

A hand, that leaves a bloody print. A face, red at the left temple, staring eyes. Not angry, but bewildered. Swaying as if there’s a strong breeze or he’s in a tank of water. He hits the window again and I hesitate. He reels back. I make a decision, open the door, get out. He trembles and drops to sit on the ground, head in hands and moaning, ‘Why’d you do that?’

I crouch, slide two fingers under his chin, pry his hand away from the wound. ‘You shouldn’t have sworn at me. It’s very rude. You don’t know what people are going through.’

‘Fuck.’

‘See? You did it again. Have you learned nothing?’ I can’t quite figure out if his pupils are dilated from shock, concussion or the weed I can smell on him this close up. He really needed that ice cream, I guess. ‘Are you dizzy?’

He nods, stops quickly.

‘OK.’ I rise, move behind him, put my hands under his arms – bad choice, in the twin caves of his sweaty pits – and heave him upwards. No padding; I can feel his ribs. ‘C’mon.’

‘Are you abducting me, lady?’

‘You should be so lucky. Hospital. Just in case.’ I walk him around to the passenger’s side, strap him in. ‘Don’t make me regret this.’

2

And I’d got home, back to the flat that doesn’t feel right anymore because I’m the only one in it. And I filled the fridge and cupboard with all the things I’d bought, including the cheese and milk that sat in the car for too long while I took that idiot into A&E and waited with him the whole time. When they asked what happened, I said, ‘He fell’ and he didn’t contradict me, because maybe he figured no one would have much sympathy for him being, quite frankly, a cunt. Or maybe he figured he might score some good painkillers for a bit. Or just maybe it was the closest thing to human kindness he’d experienced in a very long while. I don’t know.

We hardly talked except for me asking if he wanted anything from the café, and him saying a Coke, and I bought him that and a sandwich because he looked too thin. Then when he’d been seen to – only three hours, some sort of a record – I asked for his address. In the car my victim – ‘Ike’ he insisted, but I’m willing to bet it’s ‘Ian’ – swore he’d learned his lesson about being rude in supermarkets, but I’m not sure he’s smart enough to extend that to other shopping venues or areas of life. I’ve no doubt he’ll be punched in the head in some pub or fast-food joint. Possibly even a Boots. Maybe church. But I told him I was glad to hear it as I drove him home, and dropped him off, and he said ‘Thanks’ as if I’d done him a favour, and maybe I had, and I thought that perhaps...

And I thought, after the evening’s events, that perhaps I needed to get out of the flat because it had been too easy to do something mean just because he annoyed me. Because if I stayed there any longer on my own, it would be too easy to become a much worse person. Because if I stayed in the place where they should be but weren’t and would never be again, I would just turn to stone and there was a tiny part of me that didn’t want that. A tiny fluttering thing of hope locked in the Pandora’s Box of me that said Don’t stay here.

Maybe all I needed to do was get away from the Notting Hill flat with its echoes and emptiness. Maybe I wouldn’t have hated it so much if I’d never had anything to compare it to. If there’d never been a before and an after. Before they left and after.

So, when I’d finishing putting everything away, I looked for the business card with its embossed gold lettering and, for better or worse, I called Albert Lowen.

*   *   *

Nick went shopping because I was trying to write a new novel (uncontracted).

Not even trying to finish, just trying to write, start, find a thread, a beginning, a middle, a story, whatever. And not even trying to write a line that didn’t make me want to throw up when I read it over – just getting anything down. I was not succeeding, a thirty-five-day streak of not succeeding at the very same task, which I suppose is a sort of success. Or at least consistency.

He went to do the groceries, as simple as that, because I was trying to get some words down and it’s hard to do so with a four-year-old pulling at your shirt and having a howl every five minutes about a different thing. I’d hit the point of hunching at the desk in the study nook like Gollum over his precious, trying to concentrate while a whining pierced my thin shell of calm.

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ I’d muttered at last.

‘If those are her next words, you’re in big trouble.’ Nick, from his position on the sofa in front of the TV where a football match was taking places in between a variety of faked injuries and Oscar-worthy performances, pointed a finger at me and scowled.

‘How about you do something helpful? How about you go and get some food? The cupboard is bare because I’m a shit wife who forgets to shop.’

‘That’s true.’

‘Shit wife,’ echoed our child sagely.

‘Maybe,’ I said through gritted teeth, ‘you could take our daughter with you. Have the joy of saying no to every lolly she reaches for, and then dealing with the fallout that will have you wishing to go back in time and have a vasectomy.’

‘You’ll regret those words, you know.’ But he heaved himself upwards, ambled over to kiss my forehead, then gathered up the sticky-pawed fussing little girl. ‘C’mon, moppet. Let’s go shopping.’

‘Don’t forget the bags,’ I said, waving vaguely towards the pantry, head back in my non-starter of a novel. Mumbling as an afterthought: ‘Drive carefully.’

I didn’t notice how long they were gone. Got caught up because the moment the door closed behind them, and blessed silence descended? The words arrived. Sentences and paragraphs, pages and chapters. Not beautiful, but functional – something I could polish later. As long as there was something there, on page, on screen, on cocktail napkin or Post-it, I could work with it. I didn’t sit back and take stock until there were three messy chapters in existence, Tokyo-drifted onto the screen, and by then the sun was getting low. By then I thought they must have been elsewhere in the flat, keeping quiet so Mummy could get something done and keep her temper. Thought I’d find them in the main bedroom, on our bed, snuggled under the duvet, watching Frozen for the umpteenth time, and giggling together. But as I took a step to go and look, the doorbell rang, didn’t it?

Two coppers, both far too young to be doing their job. They gave their names, but I cannot for the life of me recall what they were.

‘Mrs Mitchell?’

‘No, Dr Bainbridge. Nick Mitchell is my husband.’

They paused, obviously confused by this feminist modernity; one cleared his throat. ‘Mrs – Doctor Bainbridge, there’s been an accident.’

*   *   *

Some people might have clung to the place, closed up the doors and windows and locked themselves in with nothing but the keepsakes and recollections, watched wedding and childbirth videos ad infinitum. Buried themselves in what had once been a happy home. Practiced self-mummification. Sought a dulling of the pain with booze and pills.

Believe me, I tried.

But it was like living in an echo chamber. Every day, the vibrations of what-had-been would shudder through me, as if a train ran up and down the track of my spine sending a tremor out to each extremity. Anything I touched rang with a memory, gave me a shock like I’d grabbed a live wire. Everything hurt too much, was too intense. And we didn’t have any wedding or childbirth videos anyway, and the dreams on the booze and pills were worse than anything.

By then the solicitor I didn’t know Nick had, had contacted me. Details of the will. All those assets I also didn’t know he had, all that money in bank accounts I never suspected. All of it mine now, or as soon as probate was granted. None of it could replace what was gone. But I could buy a house far away from the sunny Notting Hill flat. I could buy all new furniture that had never been sat on or slept in and white goods that hadn’t been leaned into to look for late-night snacks or used to wash clothes and bedding. I could sell all that or put it into storage. I could move into a hotel if it all got too much and wait it out. Could have gone shopping for new clothes. You name it, I could have bought it. Replaced it. Put all the old stuff into tidy bags and dropped it off at Oxfam, even the tiny dresses and shoes and shirts and rompers that still smelled like my little girl. The hairbrush still heavy with bright strands of strawberry red curls.

But I couldn’t do that any more than I could seal up the house with myself inside it. So I was stuck in this limbo between what I was doing and what I could have done, and maybe what I should do which was probably a different thing altogether. So I stayed in the house and didn’t write; deleted the file I’d been working on that day, burned the printouts of that stillborn book in the fireplace. Stayed inside and failed to see people. Left only to go shopping late at night when no one else was around and bought comfort food like a teenager with a credit card. Stayed inside and thought about how I’d not said goodbye to my daughter, not kissed her cheek one last time. Stayed in the flat and did all the stuff Albert Lowen later warned me against doing. Too little too late.

I slept downstairs in the lounge, on the sofa with a blanket over me, a pillow that smelled like Nick under my head. I bundled up Nick’s clothes and toiletries and shoes but couldn’t touch Ruby’s; couldn’t make myself get my husband’s stuff actually out of the house, so the bags just sat in the master bedroom, spread across the floor and the mattress. I closed the door to it and the one to Ruby’s room. Closed them the day after the funeral and didn’t go back in.

The only things I kept on me were the wedding and engagement bands on my finger, and a locket with a curl of Ruby’s hair in it on a chain around my neck. Only those items. Keepsakes. Only those things because they were so tiny that their echoes, their pulses, their tremors were small like a low-setting flick from a tens machine trying to loosen a muscle. Manageable. Always there.

*   *   *

HOW I MET YOUR FATHER