The guests had come to dinner every Saturday for twenty-six years, and Marcus could not picture a single one of their faces. When he returns to Ashford House after three years in London, everything is as he left it — the beeswax candles, the lamb roast, the table set for six. His mother tense and performing. His father warm and carefully oblivious. And the Harrisons, old family friends, arriving at precisely 7:03 with their pleasant smiles and their wine that is never drunk. But Marcus notices things. The way their fingers bend wrong, just for a moment. The way his mother flinches at sounds only she can hear. The locked room in the east wing where his grandmother has spent thirty years staring at nothing. And the sixth chair — the one that is always set but never occupied, the one that has been waiting since 1693. There are rules in this house. Rules about what you look at, what you ask, and what you never, ever name. Every question has a price, and the women of this family have been paying it for three hundred years. Marcus is the first person in his family who cannot perform not-knowing. That will cost him everything. A gothic domestic horror about the things families agree not to see, and what happens when someone finally looks. For readers of Shirley Jackson, Silvia Moreno-Garcia, and T. Kingfisher. If your favourite horror is the kind that sits across the dinner table and smiles at you, this is the book.