‘Trad Wife’ Is ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ for the Digital Age — Read an Excerpt! (Exclusive)

Fans of Rosemary’s Baby have a haunting new horror to give them the best kind of nightmares.

Saratoga Schaefer’s new novel, Trad Wife, delves into the life of a tradwife influencer and the steep price she pays to achieve that picture-perfect world. 

The novel follows Camille Deming, a wife who shares her “tradwife lifestyle” cooking, cleaning and homesteading in a “picture-perfect country farmhouse” online. However, it isn’t enough as she’s ultimately pushed to complete her lifestyle with a baby, according to an official synopsis.

“Pressured by her eager followers, Camille fears that without a baby, her relationship with her husband will suffer and her social media will never grow out of its infancy,” the synopsis teases.

Camille eventually finds a way to make this come true after finding a “mysterious, decrepit well” and making a wish for a child. But what follows is an unsettling experience she has as a result that she “convinces herself is angelic in nature” when she’s visited one night by a strange creature prior to becoming pregnant.

“Camille’s life is finally falling into place. Never mind that her pregnancy is developing freakishly rapidly and she’s suddenly craving raw meat. Finally being a real traditional wife is worth it,” a synopsis for the book reads.

Schaefer is also the author of Serial Killer Support Group, which was named one of Goodread’s 2025’s Biggest Mysteries & Thrillers and an Amazon Editor’s Pick. The novel also garnered praise from several authors including New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner.

Read an exclusive excerpt of Trad Wife below:

Before the car accident, my mother and I used to take walks to Mr. Jasper’s yard down the block from our ranch house. He had a little wishing well in the front yard. There was no water at the bottom, no hole — it was for show only, but my mother and I would still toss pennies in there, wishing. 

“What did you wish for?” I would always ask her. 

“If I tell you, it won’t come true,” she would reply, smiling. 

And every night after visiting the wishing well, while she was tucking me into bed, she would whisper in my ear, “I wished for you to be happy.” 

This well doesn’t have the little awning over the top that Mr. Jasper’s well did. Maybe it used to, but it rotted away. The rocky rim comes up to my hips, and the frayed end of a rope drapes against its lip. 

I peer over the edge, looking down. 

It’s pure darkness. The penny is sweaty in my hand. 

The sun’s rays turn red, growing longer and darker as it begins to slip from my sight, offering no light to examine the bottom of the well with. 

I slide my phone from my dress’s pocket and tap on the flashlight app, lifting the light over the lip of the well. The phone’s beam shines into the darkness and immediately disappears. 

I pull my hand back, skin prickling. Is my phone broken? 

I tap the flashlight off and on. Try again. The same thing happens — it’s like the well has consumed the light, chewing off the ends of the beam so it can’t reach the bottom. 

My heart flutters. The quietness in my head dissipates, and I start thinking of the roast in the oven. Of my to-do list, all the things I still need to finish before Graham comes home. What am I doing out here with this musty old well in front of a decrepit forest? 

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The lighting is nice, though. I quickly step back from the well, turning off the flashlight and positioning the phone for a selfie. I hide my hand with the penny. I stare shyly at the camera, as if I’ve just noticed it, admiring the golden hour glow on my flawless skin. The well is visible in the background. It gives the photo a charming look — my followers might like to hear about it. This could end up being a marvelous content plan: I can throw the penny in, make my wish and when it comes true, I’ll post the photo and story. It will definitely go viral. 

After snapping several dozen photos with slightly different angles and facial expressions, I put the phone back in my pocket and hesitate, staring at the well. 

I came here for this, to do this, but now that I’m staring at the yawning opening that eats up light, I am apprehensive. 

The pork roast, I remind myself. 

Yes. I have things to do. 

I step forward again, gazing down into the inkiness of the hole. I press the penny against my lips, kissing it, feeling the hot metal ridge against my mouth. 

“I wish for a baby,” I whisper, and before I can second-guess myself, I release the penny, letting it fall into the darkness. 

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I lean forward, hands resting against the rough ring of rocks around the edge of the well, listening for a splash. Or even a clink if the well is dry. But there is nothing. A cool breeze caresses my face, but it doesn’t come from the woods or the field — it comes up from the well, and it carries a mildewy, earthy scent. The breeze is accompanied by a whooshing sigh. My mouth goes dry, and my hands begin to tremble, gripping on to the lip of the well so hard that they begin to cramp. 

The darkness below begins to shift. There’s no other way to describe it — the hole is becoming even murkier, swirling, moving around within itself. A scraping noise comes from far below me, soft at first, then more insistent. Like a bird rubbing its beak against the metal bars of a cage. 

My breath comes short and fast, and I want to pull my hands away, turn back to the house, but I can’t seem to move. My feet are rooted down, a tree that has fused itself to the stones of the well. I can only blink, rolling my eyes back and forth, my brain seeking images within the black hole. The bottom of the well beckons me; the sighing breeze, the rhythmic scraping, the smell of wet soil getting stronger and stronger. 

Goosebumps collect on my arms. I can’t look away. The shadows in the well are like liquid, and there’s something moving underneath the surface of them, pulling itself upward, toward the dying light of the day.

Copyright © 2025 by Saratoga Schaefer.

Trad Wife will hit shelves on Feb. 10, 2026 and is now available for preorder, wherever books are sold.