A “traditional wife” influencer allows a demonic creature to impregnate her in this unnerving horror novel, perfect for fans of Nightbitch and Mary, from the author of Serial Killer Support Group.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Trad Wife by Saratoga Schaefer, which releases on February 10th 2026.
Every #tradwife needs a baby. She’ll get one at any cost.
When Camille Deming isn’t cooking, cleaning, or homesteading in her picture-perfect country farmhouse, she’s posting about her tradwife lifestyle for her online followers. She takes inspiration from other tradwives on social media, aspiring to be like them, but Camille’s missing a key component: a baby. And contrary to what she posts online, things with her husband, Graham, have been strained. Pressured by her eager followers, Camille fears that without a baby, her relationship will suffer and her social media will never grow out of its infancy.
When Camille discovers a mysterious, decrepit well in the wheatfield behind her house, she makes a wish for a baby. Afterward, she has unsettling experiences that she convinces herself are angelic in nature, and when she’s visited one night by a strange creature, her wish comes true.
Camille’s pregnancy announcement gets more engagement than anything she’s ever posted—so what if Graham’s reaction is lukewarm? Camille’s life is finally falling into place. Never mind that her pregnancy is developing freakishly rapidly and she’s suddenly craving raw meat. Being a traditional wife is worth it.
Rosemary’s Baby for the digital age, this disturbing horror novel is one you’ll want to devour in just one bite.
EXCERPT
Everything goes dark for a moment, and then I jolt awake, eyes flying open. Trying to move, I find I’m frozen to the bed, and Graham’s sleeping form has vanished. I am alone, buried in blankets, staring up at the ceiling, which shifts in shadow. Moonlight moves, illuminating a giant, half- lidded eye watching me from the faux rafters.
Everything in my body feels like it’s made of syrup. Slow. Melted. Sedated.
The eye blinks— the wet squelch of white jelly, a click as the eyelashes thread downward as if they’re made of metal and not keratin. There are massive feathered wings reaching from the corners of the eye, tips disappearing into the shadows at the edges of the room.
The wings begin to rotate, spinning around the eye, which doesn’t move, centered on its own axis, unperturbed by the feathered arms around it.
My throat is stuffed with cotton. I want to move, hide my face, but I can’t. I try to smile. Like my mother taught me. My mouth is rigid and laced shut like a corset.
All at once, the wings cease their circles and freeze. The eye opens wide; it has no irises. Only an inkblot of a pupil.
A voice comes from nowhere and everywhere— both in my bones and outside my head; too loud and too soft. I can’t understand it at first. It speaks in a way I can’t fathom. There’s a clicking sound as the eye blinks rapidly and then settles.
The next time the voice speaks, I can follow its words, but only by tracing them on my own skin. It’s as if someone’s mouth is pressing against my body, speaking directly into my being.
Why do you want a baby?
I must be sleeping. This must be a dream. I try to wake myself up, try to jerk out of this nightmare. When that doesn’t work, I imagine licking my lips, freeing my tongue, screaming for help. My mouth doesn’t move. Not even a twitch.
Why do you want a baby?
The voice is starting to hurt; its words are like electric currents that burrow into my marrow. I don’t want it to ask again, and I can’t open my mouth, so I try to answer in my head.
Because I have so much love to give. I want to share my life with a child. I want to start a family with my loving husband.
It’s what I’ve said online, over and over.
WHY DO YOU WANT A BABY?
A whimper trapped against my throat vibrates my uvula as I try to articulate the pain that has suddenly invaded my body, but I still can’t say anything.
WHY DO YOU—
I need something to take care of! I think as loudly as I can, frantic, hoping to cast my inner voice up toward the eye. The other speaker falls silent, and I sense it waiting. Fearing it starting up again, I continue. I’ve always been a caretaker. My father. Now my husband. But something is changing with us. He’s . . . he’s pulling away. I feel it. If we had a baby . . . I could have someone else to take care of. Someone who wouldn’t leave me. I would always have someone to watch over. Someone to love.
A baby is also expected. I have a husband. A home. The natural progression is a child. Then another. That is my job as a wife. A housekeeper, a nurturer, a homemaker, a mother. This is what it means to be a good woman—it was how my mother was, and her mother. It was what my father expected, what Graham loved about me. He said I was a rare breed these days, that he loved my values and femininity. But it isn’t enough, because he’s slipping away. A baby would tether him back to me, but more importantly, a baby would give me purpose again. Not to mention necessary and important content for the burgeoning influencer I’ve become.
You shall have a baby, the voice announces, interrupting my stream of consciousness.
What? I ask in my head, frozen, hope lodged in my lungs.
You shall have a baby, the voice repeats into my skin, and the eye above me tears up, damp, shiny. Forming in the center of the black pupil is a copper coin. A penny.
A drop of liquid, molten and metallic, hisses from the eye and lands squarely on my face, the pain so rampant and intense that everything around me shatters, waking me up instantly.
Gasping, I scramble upright, sweat clinging to my brow and armpits, my blonde hair sticking to my shoulders. The Flesh of Fear falls of my chest and thumps to the floor. Raggedly inhaling, I turn to see Graham, sound asleep. His hairy arm is flung over his face as if to block out the sight of me. His snoring is even louder now— something I couldn’t hear in the dream at all. “Don’t you care?” I whisper. “I had the worst nightmare.” His snores are uninterrupted.
I glance at the ceiling. There’s nothing there, just shifting patterns of moonlight gently dancing from the breeze pushing through the white curtains and the half- open window.
My hands tremble as I reach over to the nightstand and sip from the glass of water I keep there. Warm liquid laps against my lips. It tastes metallic and thick. A dense odor comes from the cup. I look down at the dark fluid.
Dark?
Before I can swallow, I spit it back into the container, gagging, finally recognizing the salty, tangy taste.
Blood.
