Daisy sees dead people—something impossible to forget in bustling, ghost-packed Toronto.
We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from Delicious Monsters by Liselle Sambury, out from Margaret K. McElderry Books on February 28.
Daisy sees dead people—something impossible to forget in bustling, ghost-packed Toronto. She usually manages to deal with her unwanted ability, but she’s completely unprepared to be dumped by her boyfriend. So when her mother inherits a secluded mansion in northern Ontario where she spent her childhood summers, Daisy jumps at the chance to escape. But the house is nothing like Daisy expects, and she begins to realize that her experience with the supernatural might be no match for her mother’s secrets, nor what lurks within these walls…
A decade later, Brittney is desperate to get out from under the thumb of her abusive mother, a bestselling author who claims her stay at “Miracle Mansion” allowed her to see the error of her ways. But Brittney knows that’s nothing but a sham. She decides the new season of her popular Haunted web series will uncover what happened to a young Black girl in the mansion ten years prior and finally expose her mother’s lies. But as she gets more wrapped up in the investigation, she’ll have to decide: if she can only bring one story to light, which one matters most—Daisy’s or her own?
As Brittney investigates the mansion in the present, Daisy’s story runs parallel in the past, both timelines propelling the girls to face the most dangerous monsters of all: those that hide in plain sight.
Chapter One
Daisy
There were two stories of how I was named. One was what Mom told people. Never casually. Only if they asked.
It was a dream of a drive long enough that you strain not to doze off, mingled with the extra-sweet tang of wild blueberries.
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Delicious Monsters
All of Ontario seemed to be built along rough gray roads stretching seemingly forever into the distance, where rolling down your window meant breathing in the sharp smell of burned rubber and stinging asphalt. The sort of tar-black road that scorched your feet with its heat and left the scent on your heels, smoky and stained, lingering in the air.
In this dream, Mom pulled onto the shoulder, bright emergency blinkers flashing on an empty highway. When I was little, growing up in a city, it was hard to picture a place I knew to be packed and busy, suddenly devoid. Like a ghost town. Abandoned. With Mom as its only inhabitant.
She stepped over the squat metal barrier between expressway and earth, careful with the swollen bump of her belly. She walked into the wreckage of fallen trees, burnt branches crumbling to white ash that stuck to her fingers and still smelled of fire. That’s where she found the blueberries. They grew in patches, short, small, and wild, alive in a field of death.
You could find the best blueberries after a burn, she’d say. And there, in the midst of gathering the sweet fruit into the hem of her car-sweaty T-shirt, her tongue stained purple with juice, she found something else.
A daisy.
Inexplicably. In a place where only one plant seemed to grow was this other thing that shouldn’t have survived.
That was where my name came from. Now, the second story.
The one where Grandma whispered that of course a sixteen-year-old would name her kid after a flower. Which meant that the second story wasn’t a story at all. Because that was the point, that there wasn’t one.
That my name was nothing more than a pretty tattoo: permanent and meaningless.
Chapter Two
Seeing dead people was the worst.
They shuffled from one place to another, mouths gaping wide even though most of them didn’t talk. Meaning they couldn’t tell me anything useful like what Noah was doing when he wasn’t texting me. Mostly, they were distracting and annoying. And I seemed to be the only one cursed to notice them. I had seen them walk through people who didn’t even give the tiniest shiver of subconscious recognition.
There must have been someone suffering inside the breakfast place across the street because they were clustering around it. Pressing their translucent cheeks against the window, desperate to be close to someone’s tragedy. The only reason they weren’t going inside was to avoid the rest of the customers, who I assumed were overjoyed to stuff homemade pancakes down their throats.
Happiness was not something the dead appreciated.
They would wait there, like the vultures they were, until the person they wanted came out, then follow them around all day while their subject was none the wiser. That was how the dead were.
They weren’t even sad. They were pathetic.
And during the three hours I’d spent sitting here and scrolling through my phone to look busy, they’d been one of the few sights to look at. I had a cold coffee I didn’t want and a flaky croissant I ate piece by piece to stretch out how long the server let me stay. The pastry was about half-done and now it was the early afternoon.
When I’d first gotten to the café, it was morning. The coffee aroma that had, at that time, been rich and rejuvenating now made me feel just on the edge of puking in my mouth. I was on the patio in an uncomfortable lawn-style chair, and the server had basically forgotten about me as better-paying adults made their way in. But thankfully, there weren’t enough people for her to kick me out.
Which was good because I was still waiting.
The sun was on the edge of too warm—that in-between moment that at any time could switch from comfortable to an overbearing heat that left you exhausted and sweaty. And the street was flooded with weekend crowds strolling leisurely down the sidewalks. Every one of them unhindered by the translucent dead that moved among them. Eventually, those clinging leeches would fade and disappear— it was just a matter of being around long enough. Unless they were trying hard to stay. Then someone would have to make them leave.
My fingers trembled, and I curled them into fists to stop it. I didn’t like to think about those resistant ones.
I shifted on the metal chair and contemplated taking a sip of cold coffee. “Daisy” was scrawled across the side so messily that it looked like “Dazy.”
Noah called me “Daze.” It was equal parts cute pet name and a poke at how “in the clouds” people thought I was. He knew I spent time in my head because there were thoughts there deeper than other kids my age had. “Daze” was to mock people who didn’t get that.
Across the street, at the breakfast place too cool to have their name displayed, the dead remained glued to the huge glass windows—likely designed that way so living people could peer at you as they walked by and mentally salivate over whatever you were eating. On Instagram, the restaurant had hundreds of photos of stacked pancakes with thick blueberry sauce and house-made whipped cream. The sort of thing Noah would hate. He didn’t want to go to places everyone else went.
I liked that. Always going somewhere brand-new that no one had heard of. No social media likes to tell us whether it would be good or shit. We were deciding our tastes for ourselves and sharing an unfiltered and uninfluenced account. That was his favorite part— giving the full review to his friends.
I pulled a bobby pin out of my pocket and used it to scratch my head, trying to think of the last time I washed my hair. I used to be on top of it. Notes in my phone to remind me of when to get my hair relaxed. “Creamy crack,” Mom called it. Not that I needed the reminders. The instant I saw a curl peep out, I wanted to snuff the life out of it. Once every two months like clockwork. I would do it more often, but Mom didn’t want me to. So I had to settle for using the flat iron to stretch out the style between relaxers.
Now I had curls growing out an inch from my head that gave way to straight ends. The straight bits were lank and lifeless in comparison. A memory of when I cared more. I’d stuffed my hair under a hat before I’d gone out. I guess that was part of being in a committed relationship for a while—you got lazy.
Noah hadn’t seemed to care until now.
The door to the breakfast place swung open, and I tugged my body to attention. I went from a state of limp ivy to a snake plant, my leaves shoved up high and rigid.
The couple who walked out were so mismatched it was ridiculous. He towered over her, dressed in a faded band T-shirt, his oak-brown hair tousled in just the right way, wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, pale for a white guy but not pasty. The girl was small, like a kid, her head barely reaching his shoulder. She was in a patterned body-con dress that clung to her tiny frame and made her look even smaller.
She was white too. But I already knew that. I’d done my research. All I wanted to do last weekend was check in on Noah. See if I could get him to talk to me. Then she appeared, and obviously I had to know more. I preferred not to think about the amount of effort said research had taken given Noah’s stance against an online presence. But internet stalking wasn’t much different from what I was doing now, so it was too late to feel ashamed.
Probably it didn’t matter. That she was white. But it stuck in my head and prodded me like a toddler discovering a dead thing for the first time. Poked, and poked, and poked. I had done that too. Pushed my fingers against a cold, stiff body. A squirrel, if you want to get specific. I’d been bewildered and excited all at once. Dead things used to have more novelty. I hadn’t known to be afraid early on.
How old was she?
Noah’s voice, smooth and low, reverberated in my head: Why is everyone so obsessed with age?
She looked younger than me, anyway. Maybe sixteen to my seventeen, or younger?
I couldn’t believe he went to this Instagram place with her. He hated this shit. We hated this shit.
He tugged her close to his side and laughed at something. They both did. That was me just the other day. That was my spot. He held me there while we walked, and I lay there whenever I hung out at his place. I couldn’t sleep over because my mom would worry. His words. He didn’t know that Mom wouldn’t. The memory of being the one pulled against his body was fresh enough that I could smell the mint of his deodorant and the spicy clove scent of the gel he carefully raked through his hair.
The metal legs of my chair scraped against the ground as I pushed it aside, craning my neck, eyes following them as they walked.
Mom wouldn’t have liked Noah. She thought people should date within their age zones. High schoolers with high schoolers. University-aged with university-aged. Professional working people with professional working people. And never should any mix. She was strict about the differences between girls and women, and boys and men. Girls with boys and women with men. Or girls with girls, and boys with boys, etc., she had added after a pause. How she decided when a girl was a girl and when she was a woman wasn’t something she shared with me.
Noah wouldn’t date a girl.
Girls were immature, no matter their age. Women were different. But still. The idea of mentioning him to Mom in any capacity made a chill hang over my shoulders. It happened to me every so often. A shiver would work through my body, twitches and muscle spasms, without so much as a cold breeze. And after, I would feel like I was walking on the edge of something for the rest of the day.
It usually meant that one of them had gotten too close.
Normal people had no idea how lucky they were to never feel it. To never hunch their shoulders and have the hair on their arms ripped to attention.
Searching.
Shaking.
And then seeing someone who shouldn’t exist but did. Staring right at you.
That was what it would be like to mention Noah to Mom.
And now after catching him like this, I was glad I hadn’t said anything to her.
I scratched at my head with the bobby pin so hard that I winced. My tender scalp crying out from the metal abuse, stinging long after I stopped.
They were getting too far. I stood and shuffled away from my chair. For a moment they turned, seemingly in my direction. I curled in on myself and dropped back into my seat, ducking under the shade of the bistro table umbrella like I had delicate leaves prone to scorching in the sunlight.
I could still see them.
Watching the girl made me hyperaware of the baggy shorts and oversized sleeveless hoodie I was in. When Noah and I started dating, I was like her. Clothes that fit tight to my body, makeup done to perfection, and bone-straight hair just past my shoulders.
Noah would finger the strands and smile. He never outright said he preferred women with long hair, but I picked up on it. I was good at that with him. I noticed that the celebrities he liked had hair down to their butts. I borrowed one of Mom’s wigs to get the effect.
But he didn’t seem to like that much.
That girl, Stephanie—no point in acting like I didn’t know her name, where she went to school, her Starbucks order, and her closest friends. Research. Besides, her Instagram was public. Her hair, blond from a professional stylist’s bottle, hit right above her butt. I guess it was all hers.
They made their way to the corner and turned where I couldn’t see them anymore. I should have gotten up and followed. That was the plan.
I watched the dead move out of their path. Sneering soundlessly. Translucent noses wrinkled. Pressing themselves away.
That was how fucking happy a couple they were.
I stayed sitting.
I picked at my croissant. Shoved big pieces into my mouth without wiping away the flakes that stuck to my lips, savored the way the pieces almost melted and flowed down my throat.
My bobby pin found its way to my scalp again. I fingered the curled roots of my hair. I’d let it go too long. That was comfort. That was feeling secure with Noah.
I was going to lose sight of them soon. I gnawed on my lip.
The last time Noah and I hung out, we’d gone to his place first. We always did. He liked to “spend time together” before we went anywhere. It was just code for sex. Which was fine. Before or after, it was all the same. It was good. I didn’t have anything to compare it to, but I figured I could tell good from bad.
It was going to be a fun, chill night. Until we got to the party. Until I fucked up.
He was mad. I knew he was. But couples fought. I didn’t think it would end up like this.
There was no conversation. No working through it. Not even a formal breakup. Just silence.
Now he was out here with this white girl. It didn’t really matter that she was white. I needed to stop thinking about that.
I shoved the last piece of croissant into my mouth and chugged my coffee. The liquid was cold, and the milk felt thick and gunky as it hit my tongue. I gagged and spat back into the cup. Over my shoulder, someone cringed, watching me.
They weren’t important, I knew that. And no one else had seen. Or cared. But my face still burned as my eyes tracked the path where Noah and Stephanie had disappeared around the corner.
This had gone on too long. Me watching them, and the person who cringed watching me. Maybe that person was no one. Probably they were alive. But I didn’t have the luxury of assuming.
For me, none of the dead were harmless, but some were worse than others.
Some were dangerous.
They blended in with the living, solid and opaque, and cast none of the warning cool breezes.
They did not want to fade.
And noticing what they were too late was not something you wanted to do. Especially once they’d noticed that you’d noticed them.
I had already learned that the hard way.
Dazy. Dazy. Dazy.
I stood abruptly from my chair. My scalp stung.
I needed to wash my hair.
And my tongue tasted like stomach bile and sour milk.
Chapter Three
Brittney
10 years later…
The thing about having a name like Brittney is that it creates a certain image. An impression. People have thoughts about a name like Brittney.
Picture a Brittney. Right now. Think of who that might be. I bet you’re not imagining me.
That’s the best part about my name. People never see me coming. I stride through the office, towering over the other interns at my full 5’11” height, taking up space with a Yeah, I’m fat, get over it attitude, black-and-lilac-colored braids swinging above my shoulders, and my laptop tucked under my arm. The thing about confidence is that it doesn’t matter if you really have it or not, so long as you pretend well enough. And at Torte, presenting anything less than what I’m bringing would get me eaten alive.
Torte used to be the sort of media company synonymous with those videos you saw on Facebook where disembodied hands showed you how to make quick meals on a hot plate as if they didn’t have an entire studio kitchen. Like you didn’t have an entire kitchen too. “Brownies 5 Ways,” “Six 5-Ingredient Chicken Dinners You Won’t Believe,” shit like that. One day, someone had the bright idea to film interns trying some of the more outlandish recipes. Literally called “Interns Try Our Most-Hated Recipes,” and it blew the lid off the internet as far as food-niche videos were concerned. That was only a few years ago, and I’m really fucking glad that I wasn’t an intern then.
Today it’s a company filled with talented young people making viral videos for its various affiliated YouTube channels and also people like Kevin, relics of early marketing who got their management jobs via distant uncles who themselves got to be important by being born into the right families.
From across the room, Kevin shrinks in his seat, trying to pretend like he doesn’t know I’m coming for him.
That’s the thing about implementing a work policy like “no closed doors” in an effort to make the workplace seem more fun and liberal than it is. It means people like Kevin, my manager and an altogether-mediocre white man who makes more than triple the basic intern wage they give my Black ass, doesn’t have anywhere to hide.
We literally work in a giant warehouse that exists on a single floor where the only privacy comes from either the bathroom or the meeting and filming rooms that border the entire perimeter of the space.
Part of me knows I shouldn’t bitch. Most of the other students in my film production program struggled to find internships during the summer, and of those who did, precisely all had duties that included coffee runs. A chore I have been spared from. I’m a rare case in that I not only get to make content, I also get paid in more than “experience.” Except it’s still barely above minimum wage. And I continue to be rejected for every government grant and loan for students because my mom’s income is too high.
Once again, she’s made my life more difficult than it needed to be. I stop in front of Kevin’s desk. He has three screens arranged in a semicircle around him, presumably to hide how little work he actually does. It’s also completely bare. Kevin is generally uninspired. He came from a huge tech company that some family member founded and is about forty in a company where everyone is either in their early twenties, or like me, late teens, which got him a position of authority that he has yet to prove he deserves.
“Ready for our meeting?” I say, forcing my voice to adopt a chipper “Brittney” tone.
He nods and jerks to his feet, sloppily unhooking his laptop from its desk setup. “Yup, we’re in the Ocean Room. Did I not put that in the invite?”
“I saw, but I looked over and noticed you here and figured we could make our way there together.” I grin at him, and he forces a smile back. No way am I gonna let him catch me sitting in that room twiddling my fucking thumbs while he plays his weak-ass power move and comes in late. Nah.
On our way to the Ocean Room, we pass the communal bookshelf, which I purposely look away from. It was one of those ideas proposed by a committee of people who take bonding with everyone at work too seriously. Somewhere on there is a book featuring a black dust jacket with a photo of my mom smiling proudly. Meanwhile, within the pages, she details every time she let me go hungry, every boyfriend she let shout abuse at me just for existing, and the multiple instances in which she explained what a burden I had put on her. All in the name of transparency so that she can say how she was “saved” and how much she’s “grown.” Every bit of my business now available for anyone to read. A New York Times bestseller for eight years alongside the four self-help books she published, the massively successful annual speaking tour, and the soon-to-be-greenlit film adaptation of her life.
People love the trauma. They adore a chance to tell a Black woman how strong she is. More than that, she represents an out. A way for people to cleanse themselves of their past and come out shiny and new. People fall over themselves chasing the same experience she claims to have had and come back with their own reports of how much they’ve developed.
Once the do-gooders in the office realized who I was, they set a fifteen-minute meeting to ask me if it was all right for them to have the book on the shelf because “even though we know you have a better relationship with your mom these days, it does contain painful memories.” I wasn’t about to say no and have them send sad-puppy-dog glances my way. What did it matter? They would read it anyway.
And how could I say a bad word about the reformed woman who I needed as cosigner for my bank loan for school and my rental lease? I realized pretty quickly that when you’re eighteen, people don’t want to give you much without a real adult to vouch for you. Turning nineteen didn’t change anything either. I didn’t want her help. But what was the alternative? Housing in Toronto is competitive. Other kids showed up with their parents, a credit check, multiple cosigners, and the cash on hand for first and last month’s rent. I had spent so long suffering, it felt like this bit of freedom being away from her was worth it, even if I needed her to get it.
But it also makes it feel like I haven’t left at all. I’m still in her suffocating embrace.
Until I have the stability to carry myself, she’s the only thing keeping me afloat. And she’s made it very clear that my expressing to anyone that our relationship is less than ideal would mean that well running dry.
I force myself not to think of it as we enter the Ocean Room. Jayden is already inside with his laptop open, scrolling through his phone. It makes me think immediately of us in our first year at Toronto Film School. We both got the texts from our other group project teammates bailing at the same time. I was in the doorway, and he was inside our meeting room. I would have left. I’d planned to. I’d had these grand ideas of reinventing myself in college. I wouldn’t be the quiet, wounded girl in the corner that I was in elementary school, too shy and scared to talk to anyone. But I also wouldn’t be the completely hostile bitch that I was in high school, too furious and jaded to let anyone in. There would be a balance. I would be personable. I would make friends. And Mom wouldn’t be around to ruin it just because she could.
But in that moment, staring at my first chance to reach out, I froze. My head was crowded with all the reasons I had to hate myself. The ones Mom had said outright and the ones she’d said without speaking a word. How was I supposed to ask someone to like me when I was only just starting to like me?
I couldn’t do it.
So Jayden did it for me.
He grinned and said, “Hey, do you believe in ghosts?”
I didn’t. Still don’t. But I love to pick apart what people think is supernatural. We spent hours going back and forth with our theories. And Haunted was born. Our little YouTube show that we poured months into. Jayden’s strength was the research and, despite his spiritual beliefs, a commitment to objective fact. Mine was crafting an emotional connection to the people involved and making the audience care about them.
We launched the first season and hit a million views in a month. The week after, Torte came to us with a deal. We would sell them the rights and then get to intern there in the summer after our first year of college, working on the second season. Another smash hit.
At the time, I don’t think either of us had really understood what giving over our series meant beyond a check. Or even what working at Torte would actually be like. Sure, we got amazing equipment, always-accessible studio space, all the stock photos and video we could want, and an actual budget.
But we also got Kevin.
He takes a seat in a chair with an aggressively vibrant tropical-fish print. Right beside the door, as if he needs to be close to an exit. I let him settle in before I sit down. Even seated, I tower over him. This guy in his ridiculous plain black T-shirt and too-loose chinos would be the one assessing the monetary success of Haunted, and if it failed to outperform both its previous seasons, he would be the one to make an extra-sad face at us while he suggested bringing in some help. Which would mean having full-time producers effectively colonize what we started. Contractually they couldn’t push us out, but they could make sure that none of our contributions were approved until we got frustrated enough to leave.
Back to being two ordinary college students, fighting for prospects as graduation looms. Our show, gone.
I grit my teeth, and Jayden gives me a warning look. “New laptop sticker?” he says in a friendly voice, pointing to Kevin’s MacBook decorated with, I shit you not, the branding decals we get from sponsors. Most of the other managers leave their laptops clean, but of course Kevin has to “fit in” with us and somehow thought logos was the way to do it.
Kevin beams. “Yeah, just had a meeting with Airbnb. We’re trying to work something out with them.”
Fuck, I hate office small talk. “For Haunted?”
“Not right now, but we could consider that. Speaking of,” Kevin says in the world’s worst transition, “I wanted to chat with you two about your proposal.”
Jayden throws me a sidelong glance as if to say, Told you. I purposely don’t look back at him. “What about it?” “Unfortunately, it was turned down.”
“Oh?” I ask, my voice going so high-pitched that it’s somehow on the edge of aggressive.
Kevin squirms. “The stakeholders feel that ‘Forgotten Black Girls’ as a theme is a bit isolating and niche. And they wonder if we’ll have enough material by sticking to ghost stories with such specific parameters. It’s a really important topic, but it feels like one part of something bigger. They would love to see you open it up wider. Everyone believes that you two can really push the limits with this season.”
Push the limits? That’s exactly what that theme is doing. But apparently, we have very different understandings of what that means. It’s just a bunch of corporate runaround to say that no one cares about forgotten Black girls.
I think of sitting in our apartment when I was seven. Picking at the carpet. Mom had gone across the border to shop with a boyfriend. She hadn’t told me, though.
No one checked in on me.
“What would you like us to do for next steps?” Jayden says without missing a beat. He adapts smoothly while I twist myself into every sort of shape to avoid being told what to do.
Kevin gives him an indulgent smile that makes me want to slap it off his face. “You’ll need to redo the proposal by the end of the day. If you have trouble coming up with a concept, the stakeholders have agreed that it would be a great option to open up the floor. There are a ton of people who have let me know they have some ideas for the show, and if there’s one that works, they can join you two on the project. It may be better, even. I know you guys take the summer semester off school for this. It could give you more time to better balance your work here and your schoolwork.”
I bet there have been people whispering in his ear trying to get involved in our shit. What he means is, if we can’t come up with something perfect by the end of the day, they’ll let all the rodents have a turn picking at our meat. He couldn’t care less about our coursework.
I throw Kevin the same shit-eating smile he gave us and say, “I don’t think that will be necessary. We’ll have something ready for the end of the day. You can forward their ideas to us to consider for future seasons if you like. We’re always open to suggestions.”
“Okay, well, I look forward to reading it.” He gets up from his chair, itching to flee. “There’s another twenty minutes on the room, so feel free to stay here and brainstorm.”
“Thanks.”
He leaves and speed-walks back to his desk. “I hate him,” I say with a glower.
Jayden sighs and runs a hand through his short, curled hair. It’s dyed gold. He uses a bunch of temporary dyes. The product colors and styles his hair at the same time. “Obviously. But we knew they would turn it down.”
“We have their highest-viewed show. Highest-viewed!”
“Yes, and what were our other seasons? First one, ‘Vengeful Spirits,’ and the second one was ‘Love Gone Wrong.’ Super-general themes. Now straight to ‘Forgotten Black Girls’? Have you seen how many Black people work here? It was never going to happen.”
Precisely four Black employees work at Torte. All interns. And of us, Jayden is the only openly gay person.
He’s right, though I wish he wasn’t. “So, what next?” “What about that email we got?”
“No.”
“Britt, come on. We’ll have an inside source.” “An anonymous source.”
“They said they would tell us who they were later. That doesn’t even matter. The contacts they gave us check out.”
My eyebrows climb. “Oh, so you checked them?”
Jayden has enough shame to look sheepish. “Just doing my due diligence.” He continues, “But think about it. We could pump this up big. Do our usual research and stuff but even more than that. Organize interviews with the people involved. Get on location. Do a real investigation.” From the way he’s talking faster, I can tell that Jayden is getting excited. This isn’t something he thought of on the fly—he’s been thinking about it, even though he agreed to go with my idea of “Forgotten Black Girls.”
Our usual show on Haunted involves us doing a huge amount of research—his always more thorough and less biased than mine— and then we both chat about the theories, pull together existing interview and podcast clips, get a liberal use of Getty images to show on-screen, and have a playful banter about what could have happened. We both agreed from the start that touring haunted locations at night was the shit we did not want to participate in, but even going during the day was out of the question because we didn’t have the budget. Now the success of our last two seasons has significantly increased the amount of spending we could do. Traveling on-site isn’t unrealistic anymore.
“Britt?” Jayden says, voice softer now. “Look, I would love to do this, but I know that house is personal for you. If you really don’t want to, we won’t. We’ll think of something else. But this story embodies ‘Forgotten Black Girls’ without saying it.”
“Personal.” It’s a good word.
It feels like that. Me. Her. And her house.
I swallow.
The email we got was about the mystery in a house that spawned hundreds of fan theories when the story first broke. It captivated people. Though lately all that had been overshadowed by the narrative my mom had started.
A haunted house turned Miracle Mansion. The one that she says changed her for the better. In the years since her memoir hit the bestseller lists, people have booked stays at that mansion feverishly, each of them hoping to have their problems solved by the supposed power within its walls. A cult of them forming around my mom: her, their messiah, and that fucking book, their Bible.
And the house. The house is salvation.
Except the email heavily suggested that many people missed the full story. That there was something more sinister there. And they had contacts who would tell us things they hadn’t shared with others. We could re-expose the house’s dark history that had been conveniently forgotten. Relegated to true crime forums that were eventually overrun by believers who wanted to tell their stories of positive change.
If we did this right, we could bring to light the sort of pain that my mom excelled at covering up and rebranding. We could break open the walls of her house and show what it really represents.
But that would also mean digging into it. Even if it isn’t my story, I would have to be reminded of that connection every step of the way. Of that house whose story, her story, keeps us tethered together. That house made me need her.
“Trust me on this,” Jayden says as if sensing my indecision. “You know that you can, right? Trust me? We’re a team. I’ve said that from jump. This is our show. No matter what rights bullshit exists. Haunted belongs to us.”
I clench my hands into fists on my lap. We’ve only known each other for a couple of years, but Jayden’s become a constant in my life. We talk every single day. For all intents and purposes, he’s my best friend. If I can’t trust him, then she’s won.
“If I say no, you’ll drop it?” I ask. He nods. “Yes.”
At the end of the day, we hand in our proposal for the third season of Haunted: “Houses That Kill.” We’ll go on location to a series of known haunted homes, do our own interviews with the people involved, tour the spots (during the day, thank you), and catalog our experiences. Our first stop will be the Miracle Mansion and the mystery of Grace and Daisy Odlin—including how the house racked up a body count. The very same place that my mom, in her bestselling book, claims changed her from an abusive and neglectful parent to a completely reformed woman.
Kevin basically creams his pants reading over it.
If we succeed with this, if this third season blows up even bigger, not only will we get to keep our show, but I can negotiate for the sort of pay that will let me be truly independent. A real salary during summers and a guaranteed job after graduation. No more of this intern bullshit.
I can say goodbye to my mom forever.
And I can show that her beloved house of miracles is a thin cover-up for a house of horrors.
A sham, just like her.
Excerpted from Delicious Monsters, copyright © 2023 by Liselle Sambury.
