Haussitter
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"...let's just say if I wind up on the news, these are the people who ate me." But Brian can handle it, duh. He may be flat broke...his best friend may call him 'high empathy, no boundaries'...but he's still from the Main Line, those über-wealthy suburbs of Philadelphia where old-money campuses lurk behind iron gates and half-acre estates line every street. Just smile and nod, Bri. Fawn and grovel. And Mallory Bain-Dahlhaus needs a housesitter. The poodle's in diapers. The cat pisses in the potted plants. And there's...something on the far side, always on the far side of her gorgeous Tudor ma...
"...let's just say if I wind up on the news, these are the people who ate me." But Brian can handle it, duh. He may be flat broke...his best friend may call him 'high empathy, no boundaries'...but he's still from the Main Line, those über-wealthy suburbs of Philadelphia where old-money campuses lurk behind iron gates and half-acre estates line every street. Just smile and nod, Bri. Fawn and grovel. And Mallory Bain-Dahlhaus needs a housesitter. The poodle's in diapers. The cat pisses in the potted plants. And there's...something on the far side, always on the far side of her gorgeous Tudor mansion. "It'll be wherever you're not." The ritual's simple, if strange. A nice, fat check. A binding spell to give Brian dominion. The closed second floor is off limits - stick to the first or third. But as summer stay leads to autumn visitation, with a winter gig bleeding into the new year, the laws of attraction take root. Step a little closer, Bri. Open the door. Shed that skin. From debut novelist Brendan Norton comes a queer cosmic horror bacchanal that leaves no luxury unattained and no soul unscathed. Her home is your home.
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