The perfectly twisted word-of-mouth horror phenomenon that set the internet on fire.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Winterset Hollow by Jonathan Edward Durham, which releases on October 6th 2026.
When Eamon and his two closest friends, Caroline and Mark, journey to Addington Isle, they hope to explore the island that inspired their favorite book, Winterset Hollow—a timeless tale about a tribe of animals preparing for their yearly end-of-summer festival. But when the trio break into the author’s apparently abandoned estate, they discover that much of what the world believes to be fantasy is real, and that the truth behind their beloved story is darker and more dangerous than they ever imagined. In fact, making it through the final chapter might just cost them everything.
How do you celebrate Barley Day? You run, friend. You run.
EXCERPT
But as they drew closer, Eamon could see it wasn’t quite the quaint and cozy place he had always imagined. Addington Isle was a massive piece of earth, and it looked to stretch for miles in every direction. The coastline was cluttered with jagged rocks, and the island’s shoulders were so brawny that it was impossible to tell exactly where the shore began to turn. It was daunting, but the sheer scale of it promised so much wonder that even the very first groan from the rickety dock sent shivers through Eamon’s soles.
“Third floor! Women’s lingerie, homewares, and Addington Isle,” boomed Captain Gene. “The rest of the tour is unguided, and I don’t really have the right insurance for this, so if you happen to get hurt . . . congratulations! You live here now.” He lugged the cooler to the edge of the dock and set it down with a thud. “And let’s try to keep this quicker than a three-hour tour, okay? Weather comes in awful quick out here.”
The landing beyond the dock was hopelessly overgrown, and the rest of the place didn’t look much different from where they stood. There was an old boathouse keeping watch over it all, but it was rotten and ruined and leaning to the east as if it wanted to sip the morning sun. It was a wild place now, but there was some strange beauty in that too. A realignment. Almost as if Edward had taken from it what he needed, and now that he had passed, it was once again free to be what it pleased. And though Addington was gone now, his mark was still there, and there was no darker stain than the fence that surrounded the manor’s grounds.
It was a great iron thing. Easily two stories tall and made of heavy bars that were spaced too tightly for even a slender man to pass through. And though there was a drive that wound all the way back to where the house itself stood, it was blocked by a stately gate emblazoned with the letter A and secured by heavy chains. Eamon strained to see through the bars, but Addington’s home was set too far back, and he could see nothing but the mansion’s great spire stretching just above the canopy.
The leavings of money were everywhere, but it wasn’t all from his book. In fact, Edward Bartholomew Addington was a titan long before he’d even conceived of Winterset Hollow. And before he was even born, the world knew his name.
His family had been textile royalty in England for generations, so he was already wealthier than any man should rightly be when he decided to spread their interests overseas in the early 1900s. And where royalty go, castles surely follow, so it was all rather unsurprising when he commissioned a lavish Victorian manor to be built on his very own island. It was a jewel in its day—sprawling gardens and facilities for every occasion, and more rooms than he could count. And though every bit of it was built for Edward, it was enjoyed by thousands more.
Addington was a socialite born and bred, and his home quickly became the hub of high society in the still-nascent Pacific Northwest. The grounds played host to every party, feast, and ball worth attending for decades after its gates first opened. And politicians, artists, actors, writers, and barons of industry alike all came in droves to be a part of the supposed devilry.
And as the twenties truly began to roar, Winterset Hollow started making waves among the literati, and Addington’s name was on nearly everybody’s lips. A prince in so many ways. And to hear his court tell it, the festivities didn’t stop until the crush of the Great Depression and Addington’s untimely passing emptied the manor forever.
Eamon wrapped his paws around the iron bars, and though he knew he’d never be on the other side of things, he still felt welcome in a strange way. As far as he was concerned, it was an honor just to commune with the ghosts of the place. A privilege just to bear witness to its bones. Everyone who was anyone was a guest on Addington Isle in its day, and now John Eamon Buckley was too.
Once everyone had their fill of puttering around the clearing and throwing gauzy stares through the fence, they all gathered by the gate. Rowan, the other redhead, and his college roommate, Patrick, each lit a candle and tucked them into the links of the chain, as if they had come to say goodbye to some dearly departed friend. Paige and Thomas, a young couple who had come with their friend, Gareth, the one-man welcoming committee from the pier, found a few flowers scattered among the brush, and tied them into little bouquets, which they set at the base of the gate. And the two oldest travelers, Talia and Percy, who seemed a bit more serious than the others, each slipped a handwritten letter through the bars as if Edward himself had been expecting them.
Caroline had been something of an artist in her younger days, so she left a collection of sketches she had drawn as a child. One rabbit, one bear, one fox, and one frog. Eamon himself hadn’t thought to bring anything in the way of an offering at all, so he collected a handful of rocks that had been polished smooth by the tide and simply spelled out thank you on a patch of ground just to the side of the entrance. It was nothing fancy, but he meant it with his whole heart. And though he knew it was foolish to imagine Addington’s work somehow meant more to him than it did to the others, he still couldn’t help but think it.
Winterset Hollow was the story of a community of animals that never saw a sour day until a curious rabbit named Runnymeade poked his nose where it didn’t belong. He spooked a pack of war-weary buffalo who were headed west in search of better land and sweeter food, and what followed was a tale about the Hollow’s first brush with the real world. And the first Barley Day that almost wasn’t. It was a simple story. But to Eamon, it was a salve. And it was proof he wasn’t alone. It was validation and it was encouragement, and it somehow grounded him and took him somewhere else at the same time. And he still believed with every fiber of his being that if it hadn’t been for Addington’s book, he might not be around to appreciate its lessons. Winterset Hollow saved him, and that little pile of rocks, meager as it was, was the sincerest thank you he had ever offered to anybody.
After everybody had said their piece at the gates, they all felt a little more connected, so it wasn’t long before conversations began about favorite characters and important passages and which adaptations everybody loved or hated. To nobody’s surprise, Gareth was quick to profess his love for Flackwell, the theatrical frog who prided himself on his cooking skills. And Thomas, who was a cook at some nothing chain restaurant in some nothing suburb, couldn’t help but agree.
Talia and Percy, who wasted no time in announcing themselves as PhD candidates in English literature, praised the complexity of Phineas Fox. They went on about his searing flaws and generational emotional baggage, and how his tragic turn was nothing more than suppressed self-hatred and fragile masculinity finally bubbling to the surface after so many years. It was all very exhausting, but in the spirit of the day, everybody seemed happy to swallow their exasperation and let their sermon run its course.
Caroline was the first to speak up for Binghamton, the builder bear with the heaviest hammer in the land. She admired his quiet, constructive nature—always there to fix a neighbor’s hut or build a new table when a family welcomed a child, and never one to ask for a reward. Bing loved his craft, and needed nothing more out of life. And Caroline wished she could somehow bottle his quiet confidence. He was a talisman for her, and though Bing was just a figment of some author’s imagination, he always held a special place in her flesh-and-blood heart.
Patrick was the first to bring up Runny, the rabbit. And his roommate, Rowan, seemed happy enough just to nod and smile in agreement as his friend spoke about his penchant for politicking and unquenchable curiosity. Runny was gregarious and impulsive, and Patrick seemed very much the same. But as he spoke about his connection with the character, Eamon, who loved Runny dearly, held his tongue. Because even though he had a deep affection for the rabbit, some things were just for him. He knew how it felt to make a decision that would change everything, and to loathe himself for it. He knew the terror of new things and new faces too. And, of course, he knew all too well the pull of the rye.
