Stay Buried
Buy the Book: Amazon, Apple Books, Audible, Barnes & Noble, BookshopPublished by: Gallery Books
Release Date: August 11, 2026
Pages: 400
ISBN13: 978-1668069455
Overview
From the New York Times bestselling author of Children on the Hill comes a queer folk horror in which a woman must confront decades of secrecy and superstition to learn the truth about her mother’s death.
Some towns stay isolated for a reason.
1919: Frankie O’Massey has always been the black sheep of isolated Boone’s Ferry, Vermont. Her uncle, Dr. Thomas Endicott, has been training her in the science of medicine, something the townspeople are wary of. When a mysterious illness strikes the town, and the community suspects supernatural forces, the two desperately search for a logical explanation. Patient zero seems to be the town’s knackerman—a recluse who collects dead and dying farm animals to make use of their parts.
2016: Siblings Ashley and Malcolm lost their mother two years ago. When their grandmother dies, they inherit a property in Boone’s Ferry—a place they’ve heard of but their grandmother has always refused to talk about—and embark on a trip to their ancestral home. The idyllic town is full of autumnal décor, picturesque farmland, and small-town charm. But some of the townspeople aren’t very welcoming—and they have some unsettling traditions, like leaving offerings to a vengeful spirit four times a year.
Praise
"Stay Buried is Jennifer McMahon at her very best—every page creeps with tension and is suffused with superstitious fear. It's destined to be a folk horror classic. Trust me, you will have nightmares about the knackerman."
—Simone St. James, New York Times bestselling author of A Box Full of Darkness
“In her best novel to date, Jennifer McMahon conducts a symphony of fear. Weaving timelines and folk-horror mysteries that slither under your skin, this is a masterclass in narrative structure and suspense. A must-read!”
—Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling author of ROAD OF BONES and CARRY ME TO MY GRAVE
"Jennifer McMahon is a powerful and elegant writer. In Stay Buried she’s at the top of her game with a folk horror tale that is as smart and layered as it is terrifying and engrossing. Family secrets, hidden love, small town superstitions, and the very real danger lurking in the woods wove together to keep me up past my bedtime and thinking about this stellar novel long after the book was closed.”
—Lisa Unger, New York Times bestselling author of Served Him Right
“Brooding and profoundly melancholic, Jennifer McMahon’s Stay Buried is a gripping, chillingly atmospheric exploration of folklore and how myth takes root, how it spreads and grows deep inside the blighted charnel pit of a person’s heart. There’s a perfect escalation of dread that saturates the pages of this rotted, poisoned tale until the crescendo is nearly unbearable. Certainly one of the most unsettling and terrifying books I’ll read this year.”
—Eric LaRocca, author of Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke
"In Stay Buried, dual timelines twist together seamlessly to tell a story of a small town of deep, dark secrets. Anchored with characters you will take to your heart, McMahon delivers a completely original take on the zombie story. Bravo!"
—Alma Katsu, author of Fiend
"A creeping journey through a graveyard of old bones and older curses. Mysterious and unsettling." —Hailey Piper, Bram Stoker Award-winning author of A Game in Yellow
“The vibrant cast and McMahon’s bold, gutsy prose easily draw readers in. It’s a satisfying page-turner.”
—Publishers Weekly
“The latest supernatural thriller from McMahon evokes classic folk horror, like Shirley Jackson’s ‘The Lottery,’ while also exploring a tragic queer romance...Will likely haunt fans of McMahon’s previous works as well as fans of T. Kingfisher and Catriona Ward.”
—Booklist
Excerpt
The Knackerman
October 12, 2014
Just after midnight and he moves through the woods, steps sure and quiet, breathing as still as he can make it. A thick early season snow has begun to fall. The woods are soundless. The owls and mice and creatures of the night scatter when they sense his approach.
Even the wind stops for him.
He’s dressed in a long leather coat, crudely stitched together in a patchwork of scraps: dark, greasy leather, some pieces still covered in fur. He wears a mask made of bone that glows white in the darkness. He stinks of musky animal hide, rusted metal, something vaguely rotten.
He steps lightly, eyes forward, looking through the holes of the mask, knife clutched in his gloved hand. The old carbon steel blade, oiled and honed, the wood stained with centuries-old blood; blood from other times, other continents even. Animal and human. No difference really. Blood is blood. Suffering is suffering. It’s all sacrifice. It’s all for him.
He is the knackerman. He is the resurrection and the life. He is the beginning and the end.
And now he walks with the purpose of a man fulfilling his destiny.
He steps out of the dark confines of the woods and into the road, the soles of his boots make a hollow clomping sound, not unlike horse’s hooves, through the snow, down onto the pavement. He could have ridden his horse tonight, but he chose to come on foot, to stretch his legs, to take the long walk from the hill into town on his own.
In the past, the long ago past, they would know the knackerman was coming by the galloping of his horse, the rumble of wagon wheels, the metal on metal clatter and clank of his knives, saws and cleavers. They would know he was coming by the tangy stench of blood and rotten meat.
He crosses the desolate road, and approaches the dark motel. No traffic out tonight. No lights on anywhere. Not even the soft blue glow of a television. They all sleep while he rules the night time world.
His boots hit the snow-covered gravel of the driveway as he passes under the dark sign: DEER RUN MOTEL, VACANCY.
Run deer, run, he thinks as he makes his way to the door of Room 1. He knows she’s in there, sleeping, blissfully unaware of his presence. A doe in her den. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide.
“Foolish doe,” he says out loud because he likes the sound of the words, the feel of them on his tongue.
Her car is parked out front, the only one in the lot. A beat to shit silver Subaru.
He reaches into the leather bag he wears strapped to his body under his coat, takes out the little bottle of red paint and the brush. Then, he paints the mark on the door of her motel room; his mark: a rough outline of a horse’s head with a flowing mane and one wild, staring eye, the red paint wet and thick as coagulated blood. He tucks away the paint and brush, takes hold of the knife once more, and raps on the door with the handle. Two sharp, hard knocks. Loud enough to wake the dead, he thinks, smiling.
He hears her get up, stumble out of bed. The light flickers on.
“Who’s there?” she calls.
She’s right behind the door now, he can almost feel the heat of her pressed against it, can almost feel her heart beating, quick and fearful.
Come on, he wills her, gripping the knife tighter. Open the door, little doe. I dare you.