We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from She Haunts Me Still, a dark romantasy by De Elizabeth, out from Dutton on August 11th.
After surviving a shadowed childhood marked by ghost stories and loss, Mallory Webb is ready to start fresh as a theater major at her mother’s alma mater, a sanitarium turned liberal arts university in Rhode Island. Landing the lead role in Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet feels like a dream—until the blood-soaked spirit she suspects caused her mother’s death resurfaces after years of quiet. With nothing to go on but cryptic symbols in an old college notebook, Mallory hopes the reason behind her mother’s haunting lies somewhere on campus, and resolves to find answers before she meets the same fate.
She’s surprised to make an unexpected ally in Ezra Pierce, the magnetic fourth year directing the play, and takes solace in their undeniable chemistry. But Ezra is a master secret-keeper, and it’s clear he knows more than he’s letting on about Saskia Garin, Mallory’s elusive understudy whose past eerily mirrors her own.
When an ancient, bloodthirsty evil calls to collect on a bargain that dates back to the New England vampire panic, Mallory, Ezra, and Saskia will have to untangle the tragic ways in which their histories are linked—and face the devastating consequences of their own star-crossed love story.
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She Haunts Me Still
Mallory shoves the phone back into her bag. Tugging off her brown sweater and skirt, she carefully steps into the vintage gown, the zipper’s teeth loud in the thick silence.
As she’s about to turn to the mirror, the door slams.
“Christina?”
When hushed quiet is her only answer, Mallory reaches for the handle. Her breath hitches. It’s locked.
“What—?” Mallory rattles it, hard. “Christina!”
She closes her eyes, trying to calm her nerves. The latch is probably stuck, it’s an old building, it’s—
A creaking groan snags her attention, and she looks toward the mirror. Cobwebs cling to the wooden base, the glass layered in a thin film of dust. And when she spots her reflection, a scream rips from her throat.
Because the dress she’s wearing is covered in blood.
Just like her mother’s ghost.
Just like her mother, the last time Mallory saw her.
Mallory staggers, careening into a rack of clothes, hangers clattering to the floor. She barely registers the sound, eyes glued to the splash of crimson across her breasts, the way it spills down her stomach in rivulets of red.
Hands shaking, she touches the fabric, finding it wet. The blood is fresh. Real. Mallory lunges for the zipper. But her fingers slide over the metal, unable to get a firm grip.
She darts another glance at the mirror, this time focusing on her face. Her terrible, withering corpse of a face. Purple-gray flesh peeling from cheekbones. Sunken onyx eyes.
It’s her. That ghost. Just as she looked in the blue house, hovering in the corner of Mallory’s bedroom in the deepest parts of night.
But the more Mallory stares, the more the woman in the mirror blends with her own reflection, until she’s not sure who she’s seeing at all. The ghost? Her mother? Herself? The question paralyzes her, solidifying the suspicion that’s been growing roots since auditions.
This thing wore her mother down, coaxed her somehow toward death.
And now, it’ll do the same to her.
Before Mallory can process the theory, the woman in the mirror parts her lips, revealing slick, rotten gums. Her mouth forms a silent word. MINE.
Mallory whirls, slamming her fists into the door.
“Please!” Her terror mutates. “Christina! Is anyone there?”
Her hands alternate from working the blood‑soaked dress to working the doorknob, both efforts futile, her fingers slippery with red.
“Someone, please, open the door!” she begs, voice growing raw. “I’m locked in here, please—”
The knob turns, and she jumps out of the way.
“Help me get this dress off,” she spits out, barely registering it’s Ezra and not Christina.
His eyes widen. “What?”
“There’s too much blood—I can’t reach the zipper.”
“Blood?” Concern transforms his face. “What do you mean—?”
She gasps for words. “Please help, I can’t breathe—” “Okay—okay. Turn around.”
Mallory spins, gathering her hair as she tries to suck in as much oxygen as possible. She reaches for the clothing rack to steady herself as Ezra tugs at the zipper.
“It’s—shit,” he mutters. “It’s stuck in the—”
“Rip it,” she whispers, knuckles coiling to white. Opal stars balloon around her eyes, dizzy and faint. “I don’t care, I—”
“Are you sure? I think I almost—”
“Just fucking rip it!”
The words spill out of her, punctuated by the tear of fabric as he splits the dress to her tailbone, the length of her spine fully exposed to the cold.
Relief gathers inside her as her rib cage expands, forehead pressed against the costume rack. It takes her several moments to remember Ezra, the lace bunched in his fists, the fall of his breath at her neck.
“What just happened?”
Mallory dares a glance down, and heat creeps into her cheeks when she finds the dress completely white. No blood at all.
“Nothing,” she says, but her throat constricts around the lie. “It was just—”
“I heard you screaming. From two floors up.” His rough whisper is right at her ear. “It sure as hell didn’t sound like nothing.”
The air at Mallory’s back grows colder as Ezra releases his hold on the dress, sidestepping the clothing rack. She scrambles to gather the fabric before it slips past her bra, but his gaze falters, snagging on her bare shoulders, the swell of cleavage above the torn lace. His jaw knots at the corners like he knows he’s looking at something he’s not supposed to see.
“The door got stuck. I’m claustrophobic, I panicked—”
“I don’t buy that for a second.” Ezra loops a hand around the rack, leaning closer. “What was all that about blood? Tell me the truth.”
She fights the temptation to back up. “Why do you care?”
“Why do I c—?” Ezra’s exhale flares out. “I’ve been watching you all night, losing your place in the script, looking like you’re terrified. I know it’s not stage fright. I saw your audition, the way you seemed at home under those lights. I guess I care enough to find out the real reason. But you know who won’t care? Hendrix. You keep this deer‑in-the‑headlights act up, he’ll kick you right out of this cast. And you belong here. So what happened?”
Her mouth dries up. “I already told you—”
“Yeah. You did.” Ezra’s stare burns into hers. “But you’re not a very good liar, Jules.”
Something fiery crackles inside her at the accusation. She narrows her eyes and leans closer—close enough for her arms to skim the edge of his coat, close enough for him to smell the bambinella pear and bergamot of her perfume. Satisfaction consumes her at the way the muscle in his jaw feathers.
“You don’t know anything about me, other than my name,” Mallory says, “and you can’t even get that right. You don’t know me at all.” Her fingers tighten on the lace. “For the last time. Nothing happened.”
She’s not sure what she expects, but it’s not the way he stares intently in response, gaze locked on hers in a stony challenge. She fights to hold eye contact, but her bravado wavers as she registers how little distance she’s put between them, how she can track all the shades of green beneath his lashes. How his breath lands on her cheekbone, just warm enough that her traitorous brain dares to wonder if that’s how his touch might feel, too.
“I—”
Christina squeals from the doorway. “Oh no!”
They both whirl at once. “I’m sorry,” Mallory blurts. “The zipper, it got stuck, and—”
“This is going to take forever to repair,” she moans, gathering the lace. “Why didn’t you just call for me?”
“She did. I got here first.” Ezra answers for her. “I tried to help, but I ripped it.” He’s talking to Christina but looking only at Mallory when he adds, “It’s my fault.”
“Alright,” Christina says with a resigned sigh. “I can take it from here, Pierce.”
Ezra holds Mallory’s gaze, unanswered questions flickering in his eyes. But the longer she stares, the more it seems he’s not waiting for her to fill in the blanks.
He’s waiting for her to confirm something he already knows.
The realization stings as he pushes past her, leaving her alone with Christina’s delicate fingers and sharp pins, piecing together the dress until it resembles something whole.
Excerpted from She Haunts Me Still, copyright © 2026 by De Elizabeth.
