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Back When the Stars Go Dark Save as PDF
Chapters (83)
  1. Epigraph
  2. Maps
  3. (prologue)
  4. Part 1: Signs and Vapors
  5. (one)
  6. (two)
  7. (three)
  8. (four)
  9. (five)
  10. (six)
  11. (seven)
  12. (eight)
  13. (nine)
  14. (ten)
  15. (eleven)
  16. (twelve)
  17. Part 2: Secret Things
  18. (thirteen)
  19. (fourteen)
  20. (fifteen)
  21. (sixteen)
  22. (seventeen)
  23. (eighteen)
  24. (nineteen)
  25. (twenty)
  26. (twenty-one)
  27. (twenty-two)
  28. (twenty-three)
  29. (twenty-four)
  30. (twenty-five)
  31. (twenty-six)
  32. (twenty-seven)
  33. (twenty-eight)
  34. (twenty-nine)
  35. (thirty)
  36. (thirty-one)
  37. (thirty-two)
  38. (thirty-three)
  39. (thirty-four)
  40. (thirty-five)
  41. (thirty-six)
  42. (thirty-seven)
  43. (thirty-eight)
  44. (thirty-nine)
  45. Part 3: Time and the Maiden
  46. (forty)
  47. (forty-one)
  48. (forty-two)
  49. (forty-three)
  50. (forty-four)
  51. (forty-five)
  52. (forty-six)
  53. (forty-seven)
  54. (forty-eight)
  55. (forty-nine)
  56. (fifty)
  57. (fifty-one)
  58. (fifty-two)
  59. (fifty-three)
  60. Part 4: The Bent Grove
  61. (fifty-four)
  62. (fifty-five)
  63. (fifty-six)
  64. (fifty-seven)
  65. (fifty-eight)
  66. (fifty-nine)
  67. (sixty)
  68. (sixty-one)
  69. (sixty-two)
  70. (sixty-three)
  71. (sixty-four)
  72. (sixty-five)
  73. (sixty-six)
  74. (sixty-seven)
  75. (sixty-eight)
  76. (sixty-nine)
  77. (seventy)
  78. Dedication
  79. (acknowledgments)
  80. (author’s note)
  81. BY PAULA MCLAIN
  82. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  83. What’s next onyour reading list?

It’s dark when Will drops me off at the GoodLife. My legs feel rubbery from being in the car most of the day, and the waistband of my jeans has gouged ridges into the flesh of my still-soft stomach. I decide to walk off my anxiety instead of taking it to a barstool at Patterson’s, and the moment I do, I feel rewarded. The wind picks up as soon as I reach the end of Lansing Street, scrubbing over me with every salt-filled gust, rinsing off the day.

At the edge of the bluff, I look down at Big River Beach and know immediately that it’s the setting of my nightmare, the one with the girl running through kelp and driftwood, being chased or hunted. The night is cloudy and the way is dark, but I can see the first few earthen steps leading down the grooved, sandy bank ahead of me, and start down, ignoring the little flares of warning. I’m isolated here if I fall, or worse.

And yet I don’t stop. I know this path, or my muscles do, remembering how to drop low and feel along the cliffside for handholds, clumps of bunchgrass, like fistfuls of hair. The last few steps have been washed away, but I scramble past the treacherous spots on my butt, pushing off with my hands to drop the last three feet into damp sand. It gives with a soft wet sound, and I catch my balance, feeling triumphant for a moment. Then: How will I get back up again?

As my eyes adjust, I can see the beach is empty. Low tide has left a long ragged string of kelp. I can smell it decaying wetly as I make my way to the water’s edge, the sand seeming almost phosphorescent in the gloom, the feel of it loose and creamy under my boots as I skirt pieces of twisted white driftwood. As a girl, I always thought they looked like human bones, and I have to admit they still do.

Out across the water, the mast light of a night fisherman flashes red. Farther out, another light answers—but that’s just how it looks from here. In truth the boats are at least a mile apart. Neither knows the other, probably. They can’t hear each other either except through their VHF radios, through the static.

“You okay down there?” a deep male voice shouts from the top of the bluff.

I jump, startled. Above, his hulking silhouette is faceless, completely without contour. It’s hard not to feel cornered. I look up and down the beach pointlessly, and then call out, “I’m fine.”

“You look stuck.”

“No, I’m good,” I shout back at the figure.