Night Watcher

by Daphne Woolsoncroft

Genres: Female Sleuths; Suspense; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

Nola Strate, a late night call-in radio host in Portland, Oregon, listens to stories of hauntings and cryptic sightings for a living. But one foggy, wet evening, when a caller describes an eerie scene that triggers memories of Nola’s escape from a serial killer years before, she becomes fearfully aware that he’s back to finish what he started.

Nola Strate is being watched, again.
 
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.

Release date: July 8, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

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.

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.”

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 blaz. . .