In the Dead of the Night 🏚️ Chapter One
In which Nell arrives at Corwin Lake...
It’s time to kick off the serialization for In the Dead of the Night, with Chapters 1-5 dropping right now! Check out the cover winner at the Table of Contents, and read on to see which name won in the poll for Nell’s ex-best friend. (The next poll can be found at the end of Chapter Five.)
For those who would like them before reading, content warnings can be found here.
Copyright © 2024 by Erin Bowman
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I arrive at the lake house shortly after two a.m., cold and exhausted and dripping with rainwater.
I slip inside and silence the alarm. Drop my backpack and duffel unceremoniously in the entryway. It’s dark—pitch black—but I don’t reach for the lights. It’s better this way. Helps me avoid the family portraits that line the walls, hanging happily in their frames, each one a lie.
I can picture the photo to my right, just beside the light switch. Eight-year-old me, springy and small and as buoyant as a red helium balloon. Mom and Dad are standing behind me, him with his hand on my shoulder. In the photo, he’s smiling like he means it.
He’s good at that, it turns out. Pretending.
I shed my water-logged shoes and lightweight raincoat, and step deeper into the house, moving by memory. In the living room, with the threat of pictures behind me, I finally turn on the lights, cringing in the sudden brightness.
Exposed beams stretch overhead, spanning the width of the a-frame ceiling. The great fireplace is empty, unused since the last time I was here—a weekend visit over the winter with Mom. A flatscreen is mounted above the chunky, cedar mantel. It’s currently disguised as a piece of art—an aerial photo of Corwin Lake. It will stay that way for my entire visit. I have no intention of turning on the news.
I pull my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. Service is non-existent here, but I use the wifi calling to phone Mom, ignoring the dozens of new text, email, and DM alerts that ping and chime in my ear once I’m connected to the internet. Mom picks up on the second ring.
“Eleanor, where are you?”
“I couldn’t be there any longer. I came up to Corwin early. I’m staying at Bradley House until camp starts.”
“Jesus. You could have at least told me before you left. I’ve been worried sick.”
“I’m sorry. I just wanted to be alone, and I was due to come Saturday anyway. I figured one extra day wouldn’t make a big difference.”
She makes a tiny noise, a hmph of annoyance.
I collapse onto the couch, put my feet on a coffee table Mom found at an estate sale a couple years back. Across the way is a wall of windows. It’s too dark to see the lake beyond them, or even the deck that wraps around the house. Instead, only my reflection looks back at me. I’m wide-eyed, pale—like I’ve seen a ghost.
“I’ll be back in August,” I tell her. “Call the office if you need me? There’s never cell service at the camp.” I don’t ask if she’s coming to Bradley House the first week of July, when our family typically arrives each summer. She’ll be preoccupied for awhile. Dad made sure of that.
“How did you even get up there?” Mom’s voice switches from curious to annoyed. “You didn’t take the car, did you?”
“No, Kylie drove me.” It’s easier than the truth, which is that I took the C to Penn Station and then a bus to Albany, where I hitchhiked the rest of the way. Camp Durant has a shuttle that transports staff from that bus stop to the camp, but it won’t run until five p.m. Saturday. It’s currently the wee hours of Saturday morning, and when I left the city late Friday, even that short wait felt impossible. I just wanted to be alone—away from the public, my own friends, social media—as soon as humanly possible.
“Kylie drove you?” she repeats.
“Yeah.”
She’s too busy to confirm it with Kylie’s parents. Even now, I picture her obsessively watching the news. Or maybe standing at the window of our eighth-floor apartment. That’s where she’d been when I left. Staring down at the waterlogged sidewalks of East 75th and waiting for him to come home. As if returning could fix things.
It won’t. That’s why he ran.
“Okay. Well, I’m glad you’re safe,” she says. “Maybe I’ll swing by in a few days. If things calm down a little.”
I can hear the hope in her voice, but she was holding a mug of coffee when the feds showed up at the apartment this morning, and she was still holding it when I left, the drink cold and untouched. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still holding it now.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Just don’t wait on him too long. He doesn’t deserve it.”
“We said vows, Eleanor. For better or worse. This is the worse. I can’t bail just because it got hard.”
But that’s exactly what he did, I feel like reminding her. “Right,” I say instead. “Okay. Love you, Mom.”
“Love you, too.”
I hang up, disconnect from the wifi, and toss my phone on the coffee table. Then I lean back on the couch, wet clothes and all, and sleep like the dead.
Chapters 2-5 are live now, but I published them direct to the web/app because I didn’t want to clog your inboxes with five separate emails all on the same day!
Damn, that chapter definitely hooked me. I’m amazed at how well you avoided giving up what Dad did without it feeling like you were holding back.
Holy FRACK I love this already. An A Frame. Oh, perfection. I adore them. This is already haunting and foreboding. Him touching her shoulder. Something there is creepy.