I’m not really a blurb person, but as short descriptions of A House With Good Bones go — “(a) funny, (b) scary, and (c) charming. You will gulp this book down like sweet tea on a hot day.” (Charlaine Harris) and a “special blend of horror and snarky mundanity, wherein the not-so-dearly departed demand half-frozen ham, terrifying abominations hunger for blood, and the vacuum is full of ladybugs. A creepshow in taupe with extra vultures.” (Travis Baldree) — are pretty darn good ones. Kingfisher sets the tone with the very first sentence: “There was a vulture on the mailbox of my grandmother’s house.” (p. 3) She continues, knowingly —
As omens go, it doesn’t get much more obvious than that. This was a black vulture, not a turkey vulture, but that’s about as much as I could tell you. I have a biology degree, but it’s in bugs, not birds. The only reason that I knew that much was because the identification key for vultures in North America is extremely straightforward. Does it have a black head? It’s a black vulture. Does it have a red head? It’s a turkey vulture. This works unless you’re in the Southwest, where you have to add: Is it the size of the small fighter jet? It’s a California condor.
We have very few condors in North Carolina.
“I bet you have some amazing feather mites,” I told the vulture, opening the car door. The vulture tilted its head and considered this, or me, or my aging Subaru.
I took out my phone and got several glamour shots of the bird. When I tried to upload one to the internet, however, my phone informed me that it had one-tenth of a bar and my GPS had conked out completely.
Ah yes. That, at least, hadn’t changed. (p. 3)
The first-person narrator, Samantha, has an insect-related biology degree. She drives a car that’s deep into its service live. She’s back in a neighborhood that’s very familiar to her. Kingfisher will soon relate that she’s back to visit her mother, who lives in the house that she inherited from her mother eighteen years previously. The subdivision is somewhat isolated off of a rural road and full of slightly peculiar characters. The narrator’s grandmother had been one; there’s nosy neighbors who watches the others with binoculars from barely parted curtains; the vultures, her mother says, belong to a lady down the street.









