Read the Excerpt: Night Watcher by Daphne Woolsoncroft
1. HIM
The creak, the squeak, from in the night, Is quite enough to cause a fright.
But when you see his wielding knife, It’s far too late, he’ll take your life.
He lurks from deep beyond the gray, He thrives as loose among the prey. Like a fox, to his hen,
This “He” is called the Hiding Man.
His first victim’s stifled scream echoes in his ears as he composes each line, acting as background noise to his typing. Mere hours ago, while he drew his blade across her throat, her lips pressed against his gloved hand, the woman wrestled for mercy. Mercy, compassion, pity that would never come. It now forms as an unforgettable memory in his mind, one he has been replaying repeatedly since its recent genesis.
In clean gloves, he tugs the poem from his aged typewriter and settles it delicately into a manila document mailer.
His breath is heavy against the mask, with only thin slivers of air available through the mouth slit he cut out himself. But wearing it completes his transition like new skin, letting him embody the man of his choosing—his making. He’s finding it loathsome to remove the newly created mask from his head, nearly wishing it would melt into his flesh and become his authentic face.
With his nondominant hand, he scribbles the Portland Police Department’s address on the front of the mailer and thinks still of the screams, and the sirens approaching the dead woman’s house, and the pigs finding his slaughtered hen. A tight smile forms beneath the fabric.
He knows this is only the beginning. He’s just getting started.
2. NOLA
Twenty Years Later
I play with the silver rings on my right hand while a raspy-voiced woman from Massachusetts spews a horror story she claims occurred just yesterday. Sliding them on and off my index and middle fingers, I let my mind wander to a different place. I don’t know where it takes me, but I follow for half a minute or so. When I realize I’ve faded, I adjust in my seat and undertake my usual role of Attentive Radio Show Host.
During certain stories, I slip away into my own head, often wondering how many of the tales I’m told are elaborately crafted in hopes of fooling me on live radio. To my knowledge, this has happened several times, leaving me to scramble for a clever response. Most stories we’re told feel authentic, the person’s tone showcasing fear and realism. But I guess it depends on your beliefs.
Having heard stories like these my whole life, I automatically believe in it all. Spirits, aliens, even the boogeyman. It’s hard enough to accept that we’re all alive with skeletons and feelings and problems, spinning faster than we can comprehend on a giant sphere. Seeing doesn’t have to be believing.
So far, the woman on the line—Maggie—has told me that she visited a lake outside of Boston with her granddaughter and decided to cut their rowing trip short after the previously sunny skies turned silver and considerably wet.
As they were rowing back to shore, her eleven-year-old granddaughter turned around and saw what appeared to be a woman on the other side of the lake, standing at the shore, very still. And for some ungodly reason, the caller then decided to paddle closer to the unknown figure. She noticed that the woman hadn’t moved an inch as she approached, but worse, that her mouth was gaped open and black, just like her eyes.
Some phrases of warning she should consider moving forward: “curiosity killed the cat” and the ever-simple “mind your business.” I don’t tell her this.
As the caller hurriedly plunged her paddle into the frigid water below, the creature woman, clad in a long white dress, dropped to the ground and scratched at the dirt like a wild animal.
The caller’s fear is visceral, almost tangible; her story is somehow leaning away from hokey, especially when she explains that she wants to send us the photos her granddaughter took.
“We’ve heard stories about women in white, but this one is definitely unique,” I tell the microphone.
“Neither of us can stop thinking about her eyes. They were the blackest I’ve ever seen,” the caller says. “I’m telling you. She wasn’t human.”
I share a look with Harvey through the big window that divides the studio from the control room. He takes over, saying, “Well, let us know if anything else happens, Maggie. And for anyone out there listening, we’d love to know if you’ve seen something similar in the Boston area. Thanks for dialing in with this one.”
He ends the call, and we go back and forth on air, discussing her story along with the terrifyingly real creature-woman we can see in the photos Maggie just sent us via email—which are better than most images we receive. After a night of supposed UFO sightings in the Midwest and a short ghost story from an unknown woman, I welcome this lady-on-the-lake tale.
“All right, Night Watchers. I’m Nola Strate, and this has been Night Watch. Until tomorrow night, from Telegraph One and KXOR, stay safe out there.”
I pull my headphones off and massage the tips of my ears.
I’d think my ears would be used to these things after four nights a week, three hours per show, and five years of hosting. Instead, my body lightly rejects the technological advancement that is padded headphones.
“That was a great show,” Harvey calls from the control room, his voice muffled by the glass barrier between us. I can see the iridescent sheen of his teeth from here as a smile crosses his mouth, his lightly stubbled jawline tightening.
I stare into his blue, sunken eyes a little too long before responding. “I still can’t get over the photos Maggie sent. I’m just going to be imagining her following me down to the bar. All by myself,” I say with a hint of sarcasm, pulling the door open and snatching my bag from a cubby.
“If you wait a few minutes, I’ll walk down with you. That, or face the wrath of Lake Lady.” He pulls off his headphones and runs his hand through ear-length, chocolate hair, sweeping a tousled lock off his forehead.
“She can face the wrath of my need for some fresh air. If she dares,” I say, desperate to get out of the studio.
Our routine includes walking to our favorite bar and drinking something that will warm our bodies after hours of chilling stories. Though, sometimes, I walk alone while Harvey wraps up and posts tonight’s show to all the podcasting platforms. Usually that’s my editor Josiah’s job, but he took the night off for his daughter’s dance recital.
Kids. Dancing. Important life stuff.
“I’ll keep your seat warm,” I shout on my way out the door.
I trudge down the dimly lit staircase that snakes to the KXOR building’s main entrance. It’s a quiet spot with many nighttime studio vacancies, as most of the company’s shows spotlight in the daytime hours. That only adds to the unsettling feeling I get whenever I leave this place by myself after recording.
Old, battered brick walls.
A big, creaky door that slams loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood.
A forever-flickering streetlight located just overhead.
I close one eye in anticipation of the door slam, and it still makes me jump, quickening my pace to the bar.
Despite my general fears, I was drawn to paranormal stories like mother’s milk growing up. My father launched the radio show when I was three years old—twenty years before he passed it on to me— and tales of Bigfoot and Bloody Mary replaced those of The Cat in the Hat and Charlotte’s Web. I slept with a stuffed Sasquatch every night until I was fourteen, when he’d become too tattered, like the Yeti doll I received when I was born. The Yeti doll whose teat I’m told I embarrassingly tried to suck as an infant.
Like I said, mother’s milk.
The sound of my feet slipping on the wet cement sidewalk creates a soundtrack for the entire street, with no one else in sight. It’s eerie. Petrichor, creepers hiding in bushes, monsters lurking under potholes. I think I hear the familiar crunch of branches across the street in a crowd of trees. The imagination runs wild. Then, a squirrel skitters out with a massive acorn hanging out of its cheek. A relieved grin cracks across my face, but I quicken my step anyway.
As soon as I turn at the next block, the city of Portland comes to life, putting me even more at ease. Pairs of people stumbling out of bustling establishments; groups, chatter, loud music in their wake. An uncharacteristically lively Thursday autumn evening.
While I stroll on autopilot, I look at my phone to see a text from thirty minutes ago.
Can’t sleep so I tuned in! I love getting to hear your voice when I’m missing you.
I smile to myself and shoot my mom a text back.
Aw. Miss you too. You still awake?
Within seconds, I have an incoming call from her.
“Jeez. What is it? Three a.m. there?” I ask when I press Answer.
“Don’t remind me,” she says with a lighthearted groan. “I can never sleep when Bryan’s gone. But he’ll be back from his fishing trip in Portland tomorrow. Maine, of course.”
I don’t know her husband of two years well, nor his adult children whose residences are sprinkled mostly across upstate New York—where my mom and Bryan also live. Although they’ve come to visit me sparingly since she relocated, I’ve never returned the gesture. Not because I haven’t wanted to. I’ve just found traveling arduous in recent years, being tied to the studio’s physical location much of each week.
“Well, I don’t want to keep you up. I’m just walking to the Noble Fir to wait for Harvey,” I say, the bar being an old favorite of hers. I pass a particularly loud pub, causing me to raise my voice. “But I want to finally come visit you guys soon.”
“You just missed all the fall foliage, but winter will be beautiful.” She suddenly changes her tone to one that’s slightly mischievous. “And speaking of Harvey. You could bring him with you.”
I look around to ensure he’s not within earshot, knowing he isn’t. “And why would I want to bring my producer and coworker to visit my mother?” I ask.
She guffaws. “Is that all he is to you?”
Harvey and I have been buddies since before I started hosting Night Watch, back when he was an assistant producer and my dad was still running the show. I considered him an attractive, slightly-older-than-me thing who worked for my dad. He had a cool job and dressed like Kurt Cobain and was always nice to me when I came into the studio. He’s still all those things, but now, we work together.
I gently scoff. “I can’t date someone I work with.”
“But he’s handsome. And he likes you. A mother knows these things.”
“I think it’s time you get back to bed, you crazy lady.” Realizing that I had stopped walking, I continue the four-block jaunt down to the Noble Fir.
“Okay, okay. Well, hey. How about you come over here in a couple weeks for Thanksgiving? Or are you spending it with your dad and what’s-her-name?”
This is my mom’s way of getting the name of my dad’s current girlfriend out of me, even though he doesn’t have one. I don’t know exactly why my parents divorced when I was fifteen, but I often get the feeling she’s still recovering from it in her own way.
“It would be just Dad,” I reply. “But I’d love to come see you. Let’s talk about it more this weekend when it’s not the middle of the night.”
“Remember, Bryan and I are heading off on our anniversary cabin trip on Saturday, so I won’t have cell service until Monday or Tuesday. I’ll try to check in if I can, but don’t be worried if I don’t pick up. Or if I don’t call you during the witching hour.”
I confirm the exact location of her trip for safety, and we exchange I Love Yous and hang up. As I do, my phone buzzes with a local news notification about a car accident on the highway that’s parallel to where I am now. It’s an update to a developing story from a few hours ago.
It reads:
FIERY CAR CRASH ON I-5 NEAR DOWNTOWN PORTLAND, FATAL INJURIES
Always keeping up-to-date on local news, I scan the article for more. “At around 8 p.m., a vehicle carrying two people from Southeast Portland collided with a semitruck heading northbound as they swerved lanes, according to the Oregon State Police. Jolene Moor, 39, and her son, 12, died at the scene of the crash.”
Those poor people.
While I’m lost in thought in the middle of the sidewalk, someone suddenly grabs me from behind. I let out a yelp that sounds more like it would come out of a Chihuahua than a woman. Before I even have time to turn my head and protest, I hear Harvey laughing, putting his hands up to surrender.
“You ass,” I say through gritted teeth, feeling a bit embarrassed. “That was fast.”
“Someone’s a little on edge,” Harvey remarks. “You saw Lake Lady, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. She looks exactly like you.”
…
The Noble Fir is slow tonight, even for a Thursday. The bulbous, midcentury modern lights above create a soothing ambiance, as does the rest of the futuristic log cabin–inspired design. The wooden walls and ceiling make it cozy, and the panel of windows facing the busy street keep it feeling communal.
Harvey and I sit at the glossy cedar bar, him enjoying a beer and me a dirty martini.
“How would your dad feel—” He pauses. “—about making a return for the twenty-five-year-anniversary episode next month?” Harvey finishes slowly before taking another sip.
“I think he’ll take any excuse to talk about his writing career and market whatever book he’s announcing this weekend.”
I don’t bury my feelings.
“Well, I think it would be good for download numbers.”
“You told me last month that download numbers have been going up a ton lately,” I say matter-of-factly.
“Well, yeah, it’s still ‘spooky season,’ ” he says with air quotes.
The tinge of snark comes from my relationship with my dad. He’s always been the buried-with-work, I’m-too-busy-and-important-for-you type. Even for his one and only child: me. I grew up listening to him on Night Watch, using that time to get to know him. I would pretend he was telling me stories in my room, and it was just us two as he lulled me to sleep. Maybe that was why I grew so comfortable with the uncomfortable. Or maybe it’s because I’ve lived through a horror movie.
I shake that last thought from my head quicker than it arrived. “What’s he been working on lately anyway?” Harvey asks. “Should I drive up the hill and get him so you can hang out with him instead?” I chuckle.
“Whatever,” he says, lightly swatting his hand. “It’s not my fault you have the coolest dad in the world.”
I’m used to people doting on my dad, and part of me understands it. When he asked me to take over the show as he prepared to retire early, I realized how amazing his work was once I was sitting in his seat—even though he could be crass on air, often poking fun of people’s stories if they gave him information that sounded fake. But that was part of why so many people loved him. I didn’t get it before, as his attempts at being the funny lead translated into egomaniacal babble to me. Though it also gave him a stark realness that people seemed to find exciting.
On air, he was everyone’s favorite. But at home, he was absent. And I haven’t fully let it go, despite his attempts at making up for it in recent years.
“He’s been writing another book, but he hasn’t told me what it’s about yet,” I tell Harvey.
I tip the rest of the martini in my mouth and flag our bartender Alejandro for another, then anxiously chew on the toothpick that hosted two bleu cheese olives minutes ago. Before I can get his attention, a young woman leans on the bar and asks Alejandro for a Lonely Island Lost in the Middle of a Foggy Sea. It’s not often that you hear a cocktail with ten words in its name. By the look on his face, Alejandro is just as mystified as I am.
The girl follows his bewildered look up with, “You can just leave out the cold brew if you guys don’t have that. I hear coffee liqueur works, too.”
Now I really want to know what this drink is.
Harvey interrupts my eavesdropping. “I’m getting a deep inkling that you want to change the subject, so I’ll change it for you,” he says. “Let’s do karaoke.”
I let out a laugh and turn around to see the empty stage. Thursdays are open-mic nights. Since we’ve been here tonight, only one man has graced the stage with a sad tune about his dead dog. And now that it’s close to one, the bar is beginning to shut down the festivities and prepare for closing about an hour from now.
“What?” I say, popping a smoked almond in my mouth. “It’s open-mic night, not karaoke night.”
Harvey grabs Alejandro’s attention as he attempts to make the long-named cocktail. “If I grab a karaoke version of a song from YouTube, can I plug my phone in?”
Alejandro sighs so deep he gives himself an underbite. “I want to say no so bad, dude,” he says with a straight face. “But I guess you can.”
Harvey looks at me with pleasure. “It’s you, me, and Oasis, baby.” He says that as if it’s our weekly tradition, when in reality, we have never done karaoke together. I don’t think I’ve ever done it, period.
But the bar is near empty, so I consider it.
I can’t say no to this man. “Fine. But I want a shot first.”
“Yes!” Harvey says with satisfaction. “What of?”
“Gin? Is that weird?”
“Uh, extremely,” Harvey says. “Alejandro! A shot of gin for my friend, the psycho.”
Alejandro pauses and stares. “God, you guys are weird.”
Harvey joins me, and we both shake our heads in disgust as the clear liquor slips down our throats. He lets out a whooping cheer before taking my hand and pulling me to the stage behind him.
His fingers are soft and nice to hold. But his grip is confident. I don’t want to let go.
Before I know it, we’re side by side onstage, and I have about ten seconds to guess from the drums alone that he picked “Live Forever.” I end up missing the first few words and get a handful of cheers for messing up. But with so few people in-house, it’s a humorously disappointing display of appreciation.
There’s not a chance my face isn’t tomato red from shame, but I give it my all, belting notes and singing to the ceiling, laughing between verses. Harvey does almost too well at mimicking Liam Gallagher’s beloved nasality.
As the outro approaches, I meet eyes with Harvey and we repeat “Gonna live forever” into each other with all the heart in the room, and everything feels beautiful and like it’s moving in slow motion. For now.
3. JACK
Chick Strate returns to the billiards table holding two freshly opened bottles of beer, the liquid so cold against the humid air of the dive bar that water vapor is lightly wafting out of them.
“Come on, Chick. I told Tammy I’d be back at a reasonable hour,” Detective Jack De Lacey says, lifting from his pool stance.
Jack’s wife, Tammy, has had years to adjust to Jack’s after-shift billiards games with his longtime friend Chick, a weekly ritual they seldom miss. But tonight’s game is running into family dinner time, something Tammy isn’t quite as understanding about.
“Just have one more with me. We have to finish this game anyway,” Chick says, removing his denim jacket.
Jack sighs, stroking his stubbled chin. “All right, all right. Can you grow out of being a bad influence already?”
“Since when am I a bad influence?” Chick asks playfully, taking a hefty swig of his beer.
“You know, if I’m not mistaken, just a couple weeks ago I agreed to give Ethan some creative writing tips. I’m such an asshole.”
“Well, he’s been getting into football now, anyway. And he’s pretty good. Tammy and I are going to his game at the high school tomorrow night.”
“I’m always around if he changes his mind,” Chick offers, missing his shot on the billiards table. He cradles the sleek cue in his hands, leaning his black-jeaned hip against the table and motioning for Jack to take his turn.
The dimly lit dive is buzzing with conversation and live music offerings from a local folk band. As Jack surveys the remaining two solid balls on the emerald surface, a burly man drops a quarter on the table’s wooden edge.
Chick nods at the man and returns his focus to Jack. “How’s work been?”
Jack leans down and tries his shot, missing the solid ball he was aiming for. “You know.” He shrugs. “Crime’s been going up. City’s getting more dangerous.” He quickly corrects himself. “Well, it has been for a while. I guess it’s just been a different kind of homicide. More shootings, stuff like that.”
As Chick drills a striped ball into a pocket across the table, cheering under his breath, Jack adds, “I don’t understand why you still live in this city now that you aren’t tied to the studio. And with Nola all grown up.”
Chick shrugs. “Where else would I be? Living out in companionless seclusion in some nowhere town doesn’t interest me. Where’s the fun in that?” He banks another shot.
“Sounds nice to me. Safe. Peaceful.”
“Peace doesn’t exist,” Chick says. He pockets his last stripe, eyeing the eight ball.
“You’d think I’d be the one subscribed to complete existentialism with all the shit I’ve seen,” Jack says, drinking down his beer. He sits on the stool behind him.
“Speaking of,” Chick starts, “I’m announcing the book this weekend. Just in case you’d need to know for work. For whatever reason.”
Jack pauses, a frozen stare taking over his face. “We’re really going to talk about that case right now?” He wipes a palm of condensation against his white T-shirt.
“It was just a heads-up,” Chick says, returning his gaze to the table.
This is a subject Jack tries to avoid whenever possible. The two-decade taunt of the worst kind of unfinished business never sits well with him. For more than a decade, the case has been unofficially closed. But every year or so, a victim’s family member will reach out to Jack, asking for any updates, none of which he’s ever able to report. He’s a living, breathing disappointment.
Jack moves the lip of the bottle against his mouth, and a pale stinging emerges in his eyes as they remain locked on the blurred hardwood floor. Returning to life, he asks, “How’d Nola take it?”
“I still haven’t told her what the book is about,” Chick says, head leveled with the table. His eyes remain focused on the desired ball.
“Seriously?”
“It was a long time ago. She’s fine. We moved on from it. Just like you and I did from our—” Chick pauses. “—misunderstanding. It’s in the past.”
“Then how come you haven’t told her yet?” Jack asks, guzzling the rest of his icy drink.
Chick leans down, aims for a corner pocket, and sinks the eight ball. “I win.”
4. NOLA
The muted sun violently streaming through my curtain wakes me up earlier than I prefer. I immediately wince and grab my forehead, and all the gin I drank last night floods into memory. Only one more shift until the weekend, my brain reminds me;
tonight being my last show in the studio until Tuesday evening.
I roll over to get my face out of the direct stream of light from the overcast sky outside and try to fall back to sleep on the cold pillow next to mine. It’s plush and fluffy, begging me to lie into it for hours with my duvet wrapped around me as I slumber diagonally.
This is the side of the bed that—in my despondency—belongs to nobody. Undented, ever empty. Cold, how I like it.
I hug the pillow harder and nearly pop a vein in my temple. My head has a heartbeat and my stomach acts like it hasn’t seen food in weeks.
I roll back over to my side and reach for the little white bottle of ibuprofen, pour a few liquid gels into my mouth, and drink them down with water from my nightstand. Far too exhausted and hurting to crawl out of bed quite yet, I grab my phone from the charger and scroll through it as a distraction.
With one eye open, I search through my notifications. One in particular catches my eye. The Northwest Protect app has an alert from twenty-seven minutes ago that reads: There is a Person at your Front Door.
It’s always eerie to read because of the way it’s worded, but considering it was broad daylight when this Person approached my house, I assume they weren’t here to rob me but, instead, drop off a package or some mail.
I click on the notification to watch the recorded video and am surprised to see that it’s Harvey, walking down the stone pathway to my front door with a large, pink box. Without ringing the doorbell—surely assuming I was still asleep—he opened the box to showcase an array of colorful donuts to the camera, closed it, set it on my doormat, and sent me a wave before promptly turning around and leaving.
Despite feeling soul-sucked from the liquor, I can’t help but grin at this gesture.
The app also informs me that at 3:15 a.m., my side door camera went out and didn’t come back on until 3:37 a.m.
My neighborhood is the safest in the city, but we still get porch pirates and houseless people wandering around every so often. Those aren’t the sole reasons that I have security cameras. It’s mostly because of the paranoia my job instills in me, as if I believe shadow men or aliens are going to come to my house in the night. I don’t, but I prefer being safe and informed.
I lock my phone, slide into the slippers at my bedside, and clomp down the stairs to the front door. It’s a pathetic, steady movement with squinted eyes to avoid the blazing lights from the curtainless windows in my house’s stairwell. I reach the door and drag the box inside while crouched on the floor like a goblin.
A note is scrawled on top of the box that reads Happy Hangover! See you tonight in Sharpie.
I snap a photo of the box and text it to Harvey along with the word “Lifesaver” before heading into the kitchen with my unexpected breakfast.
Pulling myself to the French press, I somehow find the strength to grind coffee beans and boil water. The house is quiet, filled with nothing but the sounds of a sloshing kettle and the rumbling water in its belly.
In the last two minutes, any remaining sun has escaped behind the gloom, painting a foggy scene over Portland. The view is rich with near-black clouds and dark green Douglas fir trees, wrapping around the city like I live in a snow globe. The existing rainfall outside makes for a barren street, hosting only an Amazon delivery truck and parked cars. From the window, I glimpse scenes of neighbors in their houses below: a crew of teenagers scarfing breakfast before school, a man chain-smoking at his desk, people walking past windows, others talking to a hidden person across the room. It’s a perspective I’ve enjoyed for more than a year now, living in the solitude of my pretend castle on the sloping hillside looking down at the city, the gaping river, and the famed mountains, not yet forming even basic relationships with my neighbors. It’s part of my ever-difficult quest to find like-minded creatives in a neighborhood of generational wealth.
While the kettle begins to whistle, I head for the balcony to ensure my side outdoor camera is in working order after its middle-of-the-night failure. But as I cross the room, my mind is instantly filled with dread when I spot something strange, distracting me from my mission.
As I approach the balcony door, my eyes catch a glimmer on the floor. The daylight seeping through the door’s glass pane reflects off a spot of water on the hardwood, just in front of the indoor floor mat. It’s a single left boot print, as if someone began to step into my house before realizing they had water on their shoes, and then stepped back to wipe them off on the grippy mat.
My heart drops when I shift my gaze up and notice the balcony door behind it is unlocked. I think about last night, seeking a memory that will explain this away. I remember parking in the garage and walking up to the balcony through the side gate—as I often do in the rain when I don’t want my car to sit out on the street by my front door. It was most definitely pouring when I got home, creating a logical conclusion for the boot print: It’s my own.
I was exhausted and drunk when I stumbled in, stunting much of my memory.
But as much as I try to make sense of it, fear lingers. The kettle is now screaming—like a warning. All my senses tell me that I should turn around, like someone must be standing behind me. I rotate on my heel as my vision blurs from the movement. When I steady myself and peer around the rest of the room, I don’t see anyone. The room is empty.
I hustle to the kettle and shut off the burner as I try to make sense of the print.
When I return to it, I see that it’s mostly dry—as though it’s been there for hours. Could it be, say, seven hours old, when I was last on the deck as the rain came down? It’s so foreign for me to forget to lock the door. My paranoia ensures I’m meticulous about it. It makes the whole situation that much more unsettling.
I stand on the mat barefoot and align my left foot with the print. It certainly looks bigger than my foot, but is it bigger than my boot print? I can’t be sure right now. Unease stops me from ascending to my bedroom for the pair I wore last night.
I don’t see any other footprints or indication that someone was in my home. And if there was, I’m sure I’d recognize it.
As I creep around my house looking for the boogeyman, the space feels like a vicious maze. I don’t find anyone under my bed, nor in my guest room, the office, or the creepy electrical room that I try never to go into.
And although I’m put at ease that no one’s hiding away, I can’t help but wonder if someone had been here.
After a heavy afternoon of emails and thinking about the now fully dried boot print, I sit in my open-concept dining room for a dinner break, looking forward to getting out of the house and into the studio tonight.
The rain lets up for the first time all day as the sun says its final goodbyes beyond Mount Hood, penetrating the nearby clouds as it does and creating a beautifully monochrome twilight. I salute its departure from my wooden dining table and shovel spaghetti into my mouth, licking remnants of marinara from the edges of my lips. I sprinkle more parmesan atop what’s left and take another bite as I watch the sky darken and streetlamps pop on in rapid succession across the city below. There are only two that populate my street, and they cast a friendly glow on the asphalt.
I push my chair back and walk over to my kitchen sink, painting the white porcelain pink with tomato sauce as I rinse the bowl. My mind is blank, my eyes still fixed outside as I return to the table to finish drinking my apple kombucha.
And then something moves in my peripherals. I cast my gaze at one of the streetlamps, expecting to see a familiar neighbor cross under the radiance and head into their house.
Next to a white utility van, silhouetted from the light above, is a figure, but they’re not heading anywhere. Because it’s so dark, I can’t tell which direction they’re facing, or what they’re looking at; they’re just standing still a few feet in front of the streetlamp. On any other day, though consistently aware of my surroundings, I probably wouldn’t be giving this visual a second thought. But with the unresolved boot print still lingering in my mind, I can’t be too cautious.
Since my house sits on a hillside, the ground floor is technically on the second floor. From up here, in the shadows of my own home, I don’t immediately think I’m catching the person’s eye. I wonder for a moment if it’s my best friend Amoli, who should be stopping by for tea any minute now.
But I don’t know why Amoli would be standing there, not moving, not on her phone, not doing anything at all. The person below doesn’t appear to be talking to anyone, or stretching before walking up the sloping street that wraps around my house. They’re completely still. Maybe their dog is up in the bush doing its business, and they’re simply waiting for it to finish up while they stare into space and think back on their day.
I stride out to my balcony to assess the situation from the edge of my deck. Neighborhood watch: party of one. I lean against the cold iron railing and take a deep breath, then coolly look around and land my eyes on the streetlamp as I exhale, covering the figure in frosty air. They’re still standing there, in the very same position.
The wind sweeps the hair from my neck, causing goosebumps to rise on my collarbone. Trying to act casual, like I’m not out here to spy, I look at the bridge that connects one side of Portland to the other, reflecting on how every tiny car I can see holds people—going somewhere, doing something. I feel much less alone thinking of all the little humans down there, feeling every emotion there is to feel, all at once. There are lights of every color scattered as far as I can see, until the only thing I can make out is silhouetted mountains—black against a darker shade of black.
I look back to my left, hoping to catch the sound of a big dog rustling against some leaves, marking its territory and finally returning to its owner by the van. But I don’t. And when I look back at the person, they seem to have gotten closer to me, disguised in even more darkness than before, still totally unrecognizable. I play the Non-Final Girl in a Horror Movie, putting on my strongest voice to say, “Excuse me, can I help you?”
For a few seconds, they don’t move, as if they didn’t hear me. Like my words bounced off the frigid air in front of me and flew right back into my mouth. I wait a few more beats before deciding to speak again, but as I’m about to say “Hello?” and only get out the “H—,” the person slowly picks up their hand and waves. It’s a painfully unhurried motion—almost robotic. I wouldn’t be surprised if their joints made pitchy, squeaking sounds as though they were corroded. Based on the curve of their palm, I can now determine that they are facing me, motioning at me.
Normal people don’t stand on the street, camouflaged by nightfall, and stare at other people—whether they know them or not. Especially once they’ve been caught. When you’re caught, you’re supposed to awkwardly chuckle and move on, knowing you were doing something off-putting. But this person isn’t doing that.
They’re taking ownership of the fact that they’ve been seen watching me.
Against such a regular week, this occurrence combined with the boot print is enough to send me into a mini spiral. My life is fairly uneventful; never have I felt particularly unsafe in my home. But suddenly, I regret living alone in the large house looming behind me. Amoli can’t get here soon enough.
What is going on today? I ask myself.
Purely because I don’t know what else to do, I lightly wave back, wanting so badly to make this a common neighborhood confrontation. But as soon as I do, they lower their own hand swiftly and cock their head in a way that makes all the spaghetti I just ate frantically churn in my stomach. Then, slowly but with purpose, they start walking up the hilly street toward me.
“Hello!” I hear behind me at the same time the balcony door clicks shut. It’s Amoli, my beautiful friend, pinning jet-black curls behind her ear with a smile.
I let out a yelp and grip my own chest. Before I greet her, I whip my head back to see if the person is still stalking up the hill. But they’ve vanished.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Amoli says with a laugh as she pulls me in for a hug. “Didn’t you hear me ringing the doorbell like ten times? I called you, too.” She shakes her phone.
I pull my phone out of my pocket to see numerous front door notifications and two missed calls.
“No. Sorry.” I quickly change the subject. “Were you just down on the street?” I ask, knowing it couldn’t have been her unless she suddenly gained the power of teleportation. “Down there?” I emphasize, pointing to where I spotted the person seconds ago.
“No, I parked up top by the front door.” She pauses in concern. “Is everything okay?”
I lean over the railing to look under the balcony at the garage, and then move to the left side of the house to check the sloping road. But no one is on the street.
“Should I be worried right now?” Amoli continues, halfway between unsettled and sarcastic.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I mean no.” Clearing my throat, I add, “I’ve just been freaking myself out today. Thanks for coming by.” I squeeze her shoulder. “It’s freezing out here. I’ll put on the kettle.”
Amoli joins me inside, where I promptly lock the balcony door before skittering over to the front door to do the same.
Getting more concerned looks from Amoli now, I act like nothing is bothering me. If I rant about the person outside, or the boot print, it’ll all become real. I opt out of letting these silly—albeit strange—occurrences take over my night, prepared instead to have a friendly chat with my closest friend before I need to leave for work.
I snatch two Earl Grey sachets from the cupboard above the stove and boil some water, asking Amoli about her day and making affable conversation like everything is fine. Like I’m not secretly worried that someone has been stalking my house.
Discover the Book
After an encounter with a notorious serial killer in the Pacific Northwest as a child, Nola has grown up and tried her best to forget her traumatizing night with the Hiding Man. She installed security cameras outside her Oregon home, never spoke of her experience, and now hosts Night Watch, a popular radio call-in show her semi‑famous father used to run. When coincidences lead Nola to believe that she is being stalked, and a caller on Night Watch has a live incident with an intruder in the caller’s home—the description of whom is chillingly familiar—Nola is convinced that the Hiding Man has resurfaced and is coming for her.
With a mysterious next‑door neighbor lurking in the shadows, more people getting hurt, the police not taking her concerns seriously, and evidence pointing towards her own father, Nola decides to become, like her listeners, a Night Watcher herself, and uncover the monster behind the Hiding Man’s mask.
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