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Newsletter Exclusive Excerpt

WHAT LIES UNSEEN

by S.E. Howard

Available March 10, 2026

Aethon Books / Wicked House

Pre-Order Here

DeShawn LaCroix’s spirit remained in our house for several days after following my father home from work. At first, he stayed strictly downstairs and kept his distance, although he seemed to follow wherever I went, tracking me from room to room. Eventually though, he grew bolder, his shuffling gait slowly but surely narrowing the spaces between us from yards down to feet, and from there, even less.

I remembered sitting in the living room while Michael watched TV, pretending not to notice as LaCroix, in turn, stood in the doorway, arms hanging laxly at his sides, lips slack and ajar.

“Hey, boy,” he rasped, lifting one hand, beckoning to me with a jerking motion. “C’mere a second.”

I ignored him, scooting closer to my brother.

When we ate supper late that night, a takeout pizza Dad brought home, LaCroix came and stood in the corner of the dining room, directly in my view, watching me.

“What’s the matter, Sammy?” Dad asked, and that was maybe why I hated that fucking nickname so much, because it was what he used to call me. By that point, like Mom, he had a couple drinks in him, which only served to make him more insufferable. “Eat up,” he told me with a sloppy, shit-eating grin. “I got those goddamn green onions you like so much on it.”

“Olives, Dad,” Michael said quietly without looking up from his plate. “Sam likes green olives.”

“Whatever,” Dad said, laughing. “Green olives, green onions, green eggs and ham. They’re on there, goddamn it, now eat.”

After supper, LaCroix shambled along behind me back to the living room. I tried not to look at him, but from the corner of my gaze, I could see him swaying like a willow frond caught in the breeze.

“Hey, boy, c’mere. You got somethin’ for me?”

“Bath time, Sam,” Mom told me, walking right past LaCroix to give me a clumsy, wine-scented kiss. Her cheeks were high with color, her dark eyes glassy and bright. When she said my name, she slurred. “Then off to bed, baby, okay?”

LaCroix followed me up to the second floor. Mom had already filled the tub, but I sat on the seat of the commode, fully dressed, because he came into the bathroom too, appearing as if by magic even though I had closed and locked the door. Trapped inside with him, I kept my back to him, my heart racing with terror as I tried to figure out what to do.

“Boy,” he said, and when I flinched but still didn’t turn around, it must have pissed him off. I heard his feet thump and slide across the bathroom floor, and his voice sounded more guttural and vicious when he said it again. “Boy. I’m talkin’ to you.”

“Go away,” I whispered. “Go away, leave me alone.”

“I just want to touch you,” LaCroix said. “C’mere and let me.”

There was no way in hell that was going happen. Biting back a scream, I sprang from the toilet and rushed past him toward the door. I felt his fingertips grope and fumble against the back of my shirt as he tried to grab me, and when he did, a sudden chill sliced through me. For a second, I felt like I was suddenly slogging through thick mud, my feet hitting nothing solid, and shadows swooped treacherously down in my line of sight, threatening to swallow me whole. I somehow broke free and stumbled forward, crashing into the bathroom door. I pawed desperately for the knob, then threw it open so forcefully it banged into the far wall. My father yelled up the stairs at me to keep it down, goddamn it, but I didn’t pay attention. I ran like hell for my room, slammed the door behind me, then scuttled into bed, throwing my blankets up to completely cover myself.

When I dared to peep out from over the edge of my covers, I could see him there by my nightlight’s glow: LaCroix in his tattered hoodie, his face cast in shadows.

“You got something for me?” he said again.

“Go away!” I ducked again, hiding from him. Every time he moved closer to my bed, I would hear the floorboards creak, his footsteps scuffing against the hardwood. Clutching at my blankets like a pathetic, flimsy shield, I peeked out again, shaking with terror. “Go away,” I whimpered. “Wh-what do you want?”

LaCroix’s bottom lip twitched, and from deep in his belly more so than his throat, I heard a gurgling sound. I realized he was laughing. I felt my bladder give way.

“I want you,” he said.

I uttered a breathless shriek and shoved my blankets aside, bolting out of my bedroom and down the hall. I found Michael, lying awake reading manga. When I raced through his door, he sat up in surprise.

“Help me, Michael,” I cried, bursting into tears. I told him what happened, my voice hitching as I clung to him, and even though I expected him to shove me away in disgust once he realized I peed my pants, he didn’t.

“Come here,” he said instead. “I’ll take care of it for you.”

I dragged my feet the whole way, but he tugged me along, back to my bedroom. When he opened the door, I saw LaCroix was still there, lurking at the end of my bed, and I cowered against Michael.

“Okay, asshole,” Michael called into my room. “Whoever you are, you’ve got to the count of three to get out of Sam’s room and leave him alone. Otherwise, I’m coming in there, and I’m going to kick your ass!”

“Michael …” I hiccupped.

“One,” Michael said. “Two …”

I trust you, I thought, screwing my eyes shut and whispering it to myself like a mantra. I trust you. I trust you.

“Three,” Michael called, and after that, there was nothing but silence.

I opened my eyes, peered out from behind him. To my surprise—my astonishment—my bedroom was empty. LaCroix had vanished.

“How did you do that?” I whispered.

“Big brother magic,” Michael replied with a smile.

He helped me strip the sheets from my bed, then change into fresh pajamas. Because Dad would spank me if he found out I wet the bed, Michael stowed all the dirty linens in his closet, telling me he would take them down to the laundry in the morning and wash it all.

Afterward, he let me stay with him for the night. We lay awake in the dark, facing one another, and he pressed his hand against my cheek, his palm comforting and warm.

“Those things you see,” he told me softly, “they can’t hurt you, Sam. No matter what they look like, no matter how scary. Keep telling yourself that, okay?”

But, of course, he’d been wrong.

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