by: Kate SeRine
Genre: Paranormal Ghost Romance/Southern Gothic Horror Romance
Release Date: May 5, 2026
From the author of the Transplanted Tales comes a story perfect for fans of Silvia Moreno-Garcia, Simone St. James, Darcy Coates, and Riley Sager
In a house built on the sins of its past, where the walls conceal dark secrets and silence every scream, love may be her only salvation.
When single mother Zellie Dupont loses her last source of stability and is left with nothing but grief, debt, and a sick child she’s terrified of failing, desperation drives her to accept a stranger’s offer of refuge in a crumbling Savannah mansion.
But Dawes House is no ordinary home.
Once a grand estate, now faded grandeur shrouded in moss and mystery, the mansion is cold in ways it shouldn’t be, disquieting in ways Zellie can’t ignore. Yet her new neighbors welcome her like kin, offering the warmth and belonging she’s always yearned for. And her enigmatic benefactor possesses a quiet, wounded tenderness that draws her nearer with every stolen moment, kindling a desire she feels down to her bones—intense and undeniable.
But with every passing day in the house, the shadows creep closer. Footsteps echo in empty rooms. Ghostly whispers brush her ear. Visions of women cry out with silent mouths—women who loved, who suffered, and who failed to escape the house that claimed them.
As the mansion’s past unravels, Zellie is pulled into a dark history of misery, longing, and ghostly vengeance…and toward a truth that could devour her exactly like it did the women before her.
Because in Dawes House, nothing stays buried.
Not love.
Not betrayal.
And not the dead.
Perfect for readers of Southern Gothic fiction, atmospheric ghost stories, paranormal suspense, Gothic romance, and slow-burn supernatural thrillers.
Available in KindleUnlimited and paperback.
Some of my favorite memories from childhood are of the huge family gatherings, of hanging out with my cousins around the table after we’d eaten a ridiculous amount of food, of chatting with my aunts while we worked our way through a mountain of dishes, of laughing at stories I’d probably already heard a dozen times but that never stopped being hilarious.
It was only later, after my grandparents had passed away, that I truly appreciated these times together and understood the role food played in our family. It wasn’t just about the actual eating; it was about community and belonging and shared history. And because previous generations of my family come from Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia, that food was rooted in Southern traditions.
So, it seemed only natural for food to play an important role in Among Her Bones, serving as a reflection of the family and affection the main character has always longed for. For Zellie, having grown up in an unstable environment and now struggling to scrape by and take care of her son, food represents security and stability. But food also becomes a tool for manipulation and control and betrayal. I mean, this is a Southern Gothic horror novel, after all. 😊
Incorporating some of the dishes I grew up with into the story brought back a lot of memories, reminding me of food I haven’t even thought about in years! I wanted to share a family recipe as part of this post, but I couldn’t decide which one, so I reached out to my dad to ask him what his favorite meal was when he was growing up.
After listing off several dishes he hadn’t had in ages like poke salad, pig neck bones, and liver and onions, he finally decided on:
Collard Greens with Ham Hocks
2-3 lbs. of Collard Greens
1-2 Smoked Ham Hocks
1 Onion, chopped
1 c. Chicken Broth
2 Tbs Vinegar
1 tsp Hot Sauce
Salt & Pepper, to taste
Instructions:
Wash the greens thoroughly and remove stems. Chop up the onion. Put onion, chicken broth, ham hocks, and salt & pepper in a pot and bring it to a boil. Add the collard greens and cook it down low and slow (probably about an hour), stirring every now and then. Take out the ham hocks, shred up the meat, and put it back in the pot. Add vinegar and hot sauce and cook for a little while longer. (To quote my dad, “It’ll have a little crunch to it, but you can tell pretty much when it’s done.” So…maybe 20-30 minutes?) Have vinegar and hot sauce on the table so people can add more to suit their tastes. Serve with skillet cornbread or homemade biscuits.
Note: The broth that’s left over, called potlikker, can be used “to cook beans or soup and other stuff.” Dad wanted you all to know that. 😊
From Chapter 2:
“Is that our house?” Henry cried from the back seat when we pulled up to the curb in front of the palatial old home in Savannah two weeks later.
I frowned as I took in the towering four-story mansion then double-checked the address on my maps app and the small metal sign identifying the home as a historic landmark.
Dawes House.
This was the place, but there had to be some mistake. There was no way Whit Proffitt had invited us to move into a house like this and only charge me the same rate I was paying for a tiny, rundown house in a dying neighborhood…right?
Mature trees surrounded the property, draped with Spanish moss that hung low, drooping in the muggy Savannah heat, giving the house an obscured, secretive air. The yellow stucco was chipping and crumbling and needed repair, but the edifice was still stunning.
The bottom level sat half submerged below street level behind a high wrought-iron fence, but I could see the top half of two sets of red double doors that opened onto a patio. The two main levels of the home each boasted balconies supported by thick columns that spanned the entire front of the façade, the peeling white paint giving it the appearance of a once-elegant home now softening into faded grandeur, yet still clinging to what once was even as long-hidden decay began to seep through the carefully curated exterior.
The top floor looked like it should’ve had a balcony too. A large set of doors opened inward, white curtains billowing in the breeze, but the occupant enjoying that breeze would’ve stepped out into nothing but air. I could picture a woman standing there, her back to the door, her hair lifting with the same breeze that rustled the curtains. In the next moment, she spread her arms and fell backward.
I gasped and shook my head, banishing the horrific scene. What the hell had that been? A glimpse of a past tragedy at Dawes House? A vision? Or just my overwrought nerves, inflamed by the stifling heat?
I decided not to explore the thought as none of the options were particularly appealing and surveyed the rest of the property.
Next to the massive house stood another building—a carriage house, if my research at the public library was accurate. Whit had told me there were eleven total apartments on the property, so one or two must’ve been in that building. Whereas the main house was imposing, the carriage house seemed…cold. Dead.
I shuddered from the chilling vibe the carriage house threw off, grateful we weren’t staying there.
“Mama,” Henry said, impatient. “Can we get out yet? Is this our house?”
“Yes, baby,” I said at last, still awed. “Yes, this is it. But let’s go check in before we unload the car, okay?”
My hands were clammy as I opened Henry’s door. The sweat sliding down my spine from the cloying humidity suddenly went cold, as if someone had whispered at the nape of my neck where my hair was pulled into a ponytail. I shivered, then wiped the perspiration from my hairline and tried to tamp down the nerves knotting my stomach.
Henry, unbothered, beamed with excitement, his steps bouncy as we approached the wide veranda. He hopped up each step, turning to me when he reached the top, eager for praise at what a big boy he was to jump up the steps so easily.
My nerves settled at his grin. He saw this move as an adventure—a brand-new place to explore. I just hoped that I’d made the right decision, that his joy signaled the new start I’d longed for, the one Whit had promised.
“Did you see me?” Henry panted. “I jumped up all the steps!”
“You sure did, baby,” I confirmed, forcing a smile. “You’re so big!”
“Big enough to go to school?” Henry asked. “Do I get to ride the bus now?”
“Yes! Won’t that be fun!” I pulled him in for a quick hug, keeping my tone cheerful to hide the fact that sending him to school filled me with dread. “Just a few more months, kiddo.”
I reached for the crimson door’s knob, noting the colorful stained-glass panels, when the porch creaked. My head snapped toward the sound, my heartbeat spiking. An elegant white bentwood chair rocked slowly, the floorboards beneath creaking with the chair’s rhythm.
What the hell…?
The door suddenly swung open, jerking the knob from my grasp…
“Is that our house?” Henry cried from the back seat when we pulled up to the curb in front of the palatial old home in Savannah two weeks later.
I frowned as I took in the towering four-story mansion then double-checked the address on my maps app and the small metal sign identifying the home as a historic landmark.
Dawes House.
This was the place, but there had to be some mistake. There was no way Whit Proffitt had invited us to move into a house like this and only charge me the same rate I was paying for a tiny, rundown house in a dying neighborhood…right?
Mature trees surrounded the property, draped with Spanish moss that hung low, drooping in the muggy Savannah heat, giving the house an obscured, secretive air. The yellow stucco was chipping and crumbling and needed repair, but the edifice was still stunning.
The bottom level sat half submerged below street level behind a high wrought-iron fence, but I could see the top half of two sets of red double doors that opened onto a patio. The two main levels of the home each boasted balconies supported by thick columns that spanned the entire front of the façade, the peeling white paint giving it the appearance of a once-elegant home now softening into faded grandeur, yet still clinging to what once was even as long-hidden decay began to seep through the carefully curated exterior.
The top floor looked like it should’ve had a balcony too. A large set of doors opened inward, white curtains billowing in the breeze, but the occupant enjoying that breeze would’ve stepped out into nothing but air. I could picture a woman standing there, her back to the door, her hair lifting with the same breeze that rustled the curtains. In the next moment, she spread her arms and fell backward.
I gasped and shook my head, banishing the horrific scene. What the hell had that been? A glimpse of a past tragedy at Dawes House? A vision? Or just my overwrought nerves, inflamed by the stifling heat?
I decided not to explore the thought as none of the options were particularly appealing and surveyed the rest of the property.
Next to the massive house stood another building—a carriage house, if my research at the public library was accurate. Whit had told me there were eleven total apartments on the property, so one or two must’ve been in that building. Whereas the main house was imposing, the carriage house seemed…cold. Dead.
I shuddered from the chilling vibe the carriage house threw off, grateful we weren’t staying there.
“Mama,” Henry said, impatient. “Can we get out yet? Is this our house?”
“Yes, baby,” I said at last, still awed. “Yes, this is it. But let’s go check in before we unload the car, okay?”
My hands were clammy as I opened Henry’s door. The sweat sliding down my spine from the cloying humidity suddenly went cold, as if someone had whispered at the nape of my neck where my hair was pulled into a ponytail. I shivered, then wiped the perspiration from my hairline and tried to tamp down the nerves knotting my stomach.
Henry, unbothered, beamed with excitement, his steps bouncy as we approached the wide veranda. He hopped up each step, turning to me when he reached the top, eager for praise at what a big boy he was to jump up the steps so easily.
My nerves settled at his grin. He saw this move as an adventure—a brand-new place to explore. I just hoped that I’d made the right decision, that his joy signaled the new start I’d longed for, the one Whit had promised.
“Did you see me?” Henry panted. “I jumped up all the steps!”
“You sure did, baby,” I confirmed, forcing a smile. “You’re so big!”
“Big enough to go to school?” Henry asked. “Do I get to ride the bus now?”
“Yes! Won’t that be fun!” I pulled him in for a quick hug, keeping my tone cheerful to hide the fact that sending him to school filled me with dread. “Just a few more months, kiddo.”
I reached for the crimson door’s knob, noting the colorful stained-glass panels, when the porch creaked. My head snapped toward the sound, my heartbeat spiking. An elegant white bentwood chair rocked slowly, the floorboards beneath creaking with the chair’s rhythm.
What the hell…?
The door suddenly swung open, jerking the knob from my grasp…
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Kate lives in a smallish, quintessentially Midwestern town with her husband and two sons, who share her love of storytelling. She never tires of creating new worlds to share and is even now working on her next project — probably while consuming way too much coffee.
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