A teen girl’s attempt to make amends with her former friend group takes a sinister turn during a weekend getaway at an ancestral Irish estate in this atmospheric, literary horror from the author of Those We Drown. There’s something in the lake at Wren Hall. At least, that’s what the locals say. Not that Meg cares much about the rumors. When she’s asked to spend Halloween weekend at the Ireland retreat of the wealthy Wren twins, she recognizes the invitation for exactly what it is: her last, and only, chance to save her spot at Greyscott’s, the exclusive British art school she attended on scholarship until last summer. Clever, beautiful, and talented, the twins are the pride of Greyscott’s, and kindhearted Lottie Wren was once Meg’s closest friend. But not anymore. None of Meg’s old friend group have talked to her since she left school—and they especially don’t talk about the incident that resulted in her suspension. Now, Meg is willing to do whatever it takes to earn their forgiveness. But Wren Hall turns out to be far from the idyllic country manor Meg was expecting. The house is damp and drafty, the mirrors are all covered, and the weed-choked lake is at the center of legends that haunt the property to this day—a tainted legacy the estate seems unable to shake. The truth is, people aren’t the only ones who keep secrets. Places can keep them too—and Wren Hall is drowning in them. When the past bleeds into the present and ancient sins rise to the surface, Meg must ask herself how well she really knows her one-time best friends...or whether any of them will survive the weekend. “No one does horror quite like Amy Goldsmith! Our Wicked Histories is an expertly crafted sophomore novel sure to haunt you long after the very last page . Goldsmith paints a chilling scene: a fog-drenched lake, a crumbling manor, and a girl desperate to claw her way back into her estranged friend group. Readers will be left ‘fearing death by water’ and wondering what grisly truth lies hidden in the mist.” —Skyla Arndt, author of Together We Rot   “ Our Wicked Histories lured me into its watery depths and left me gasping for air. A dark, enthralling tale that kept me guessing until the very end.” —Cynthia Murphy, author of Win Lose Kill Die " [A] simmering, tension-filled novel that hinges on twisted secrets....Deftly blends classic gothic style with a contemporary sensibility." — Kirkus Reviews " Goldsmith brings stunning atmosphere to the forefront of this lushly described gothic mystery that features interrogations of class and gender." — Publishers Weekly Amy Goldsmith grew up on the south coast of England, obsessed with obscure 70s horror movies and antiquarian ghost stories. She studied Psychology at the University of Sussex and, after gaining her Postgraduate Certificate in Education, moved to inner London to teach. Now, she lives back on the south coast where she still teaches English and spends her weekends trawling antiques shops for haunted mirrors. She is the author of Those We Drown and Our Wicked Histories . 1 Rain spattered aggressively at the oval window as the plane sped furiously down the runway at Shannon Airport, the sky overhead a flat, foreboding gray. It had been a short flight, shorter than I’d expected, and part of me was disappointed it was already over; that brief buzz of holiday excitement generated at the airport squashed now I’d actually arrived. Ever since the front door of the flat had thunked shut behind me this morning I’d been dogged by a nagging sense of unease; the idea that something would prevent me from getting here--canceled trains, sick pilots--or worse. It was as if the sword of Damocles had swayed precariously above my head as I edged my way over the Irish Sea. After all, I’d waited three long months to be here. I checked the time on my phone. Just after two in the afternoon and already the weak October light was failing, obscured by sullen black clouds. Mum had warned me that the weather in Ireland was notoriously wet. I’d landed a few hours after Seb and Lottie, which meant a long, awkward taxi ride alone, but I didn’t exactly have much choice. There was no way the likes of me was flying British Airways business class like the Wren twins. Out in the taxi queue, I absently thanked my driver, a rotund man in his fifties with a wealth of gray hair and a strained ­checkered shirt, as he put my case in the back, gallantly opening the door for me. He made an impressive effort at small talk at first--clumsy attempts to discover why someone my age was making my way down the west coast of Ireland alone--but finally got the hint after five entire minutes of my monosyllabic answers, leaving me to pull on my headphones guilt-free and sink back into my thoughts. A tight coil of anxiety twisted snakelike in my gut as we sped along narrow, empty roads dotted here and there with cozy-looking bungalows. I’d never traveled abroad before, having to awkwardly bow