Coram House: A Novel

By Bailey Seybolt

Sharp Objects meets The Appeal in this “atmospheric and chilling” (Flynn Berry, New York Times bestselling author) novel—based on a shocking true story—about a crime writer who risks everything as she investigates a decades-old mystery at a crumbling orphanage.

On a blistering summer day in 1968, nine-year-old Tommy vanishes without a trace from Coram House, an orphanage on the shores of Lake Champlain. Fifty years later, the opportunity to investigate his disappearance and the orphanage’s sinister history is just the break that struggling true crime writer Alex Kelley needs.

Arriving in Vermont for research, Alex grows obsessed with Tommy’s disappearance, then her investigation takes a harrowing turn with the discovery of a woman’s body in the lake. Alex is convinced this new death is somehow connected to Coram House’s dark past, even if Officer Russell Parker thinks she’s just desperate for a story. As the body count rises, Alex must prove that the key to finding the killer lies in a decades-old murder—or else she risks becoming the next victim herself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atria Books
• Release date: Apr 15, 2025
• ISBN: 9781668057025

Bailey Seybolt

Bailey Seybolt grew up in New York City. She studied literature at Brown University and Creative writing at Concordia University. She's worked as a travel writer in Hanoi, a tech writer in San Francisco, and many writerly jobs in between. She lives with her family in Vermont, not far from Lake Champlain. Coram House is her debut novel. Find out more at baileyseybolt.com

Book preview

August 1, 1968—Coram House

Sarah Dale

There’s a flock of shadows under the old oak. The one that grows at the edge of the graveyard. But no. My sun-dazzled eyes adjust. Not shadows. The sisters, their black habits hanging limp in the humid air. Sister Marguerite beckons me forward. Beads of sweat dot her hairline, soaking her wimple. It’s like she’s melting inside her robes.

Cook is making lemonade, she says and points up toward the House, as if I didn’t know where to go. Bring it here, child.

The others are playing on the beach, shouting and splashing in the cool water while Sister Ann tries to hush them. But I’m not sorry to leave. A few minutes alone are more precious than even the most perfect summer day. I take the path up the hill through the sumac, which is just starting to put out flowers. They’re still green cones—nothing like the fiery red clusters they’ll be come autumn. The air is thick with growing things. The hum of insects drowns out the sounds from the beach. In here, I’m all alone.

I arrive at the old part of the graveyard. Some headstones go back to 1800, but most of the letters are faded or filled with green moss, so you can’t tell who’s who anymore. Overgrown grass tickles the soft skin behind my knees. The dead here have no one to visit, so Marcus only cuts the grass when Father Foster makes him. Even then, he grumbles about the extra work. But I think it looks nice all covered in feathery scarlet bee balm and purple spires of anise.

I take a roundabout path that leads through the fairy circle of white pines where someone named May Sullivan has a bench just for her. She must have been loved to have such a spot all to herself. On the other side, I follow a line of identical marble squares, each bearing the name of a lieutenant or corporal who died in 1918. The grass here is cut short and the graves usually have flowers or tiny flags on them. There are still living people who care about these poor boys, as the sisters always call them. The dead boys. Not the living ones. We’re never poor boys or girls.

The path curves past a row of mausoleums that look like stone dollhouses, and there, at the top of the hill, is the iron gate leading to the House. A stone angel sits on each gatepost, her face buried in her hands. Why do they weep, I’ve always wondered, if everyone here is in a better place? Unless their tears are not for the dead at all.

Strings of spiderweb stick to my face as I step through the gate. Something crawls down my arm, but when I look there’s nothing there. Today, the yard is quiet. Everyone is down at the lake or playing in the shady woods.

The kitchen door is propped open with a stone, but it’s too dark to see inside. Hello? I call, but the word is all breath. The last part of the path was steep.

Hang on, Cook’s voice grumbles from the darkness. A dragon in her den. So I wait.

From up here, the whole of the lake shines, smooth as mirror. Way down at the other end of the beach, a rowboat bobs in the shallows. Sister Cecile stands beside it, waiting. Even from way up here I can tell it’s her by the way she stands—straight and still as a statue. Someone must be getting a swim lesson. Worse for them.

Well, what do you want, then? says a voice. I jump and turn around.

Cook stands in the doorway, flour up to her elbows like gloves. Hot air billows from the kitchen behind her. Sorry, ma’am, I say.

But she doesn’t look angry. She’s nicer than the last one.

Sister Marguerite sent me up for lemonade?

Oh, she did, did she? Cook’s mouth presses into a thin line. Wait here, she mutters and goes back inside.

I turn to watch Sister Cecile down on the beach. The boat bobs up and down, but she never moves.

Behind me, a crash from the kitchen. Before I can move out of the way, a boy bursts through the door, ramming his metal bucket straight into me. I go down in the dusty yard. The pain is sharp. Skin sliced from skin. My knee throbs, but once I look up into that red, freckled face, I scramble to my feet.

Fred holds his hand up to block the sun’s glare. He leans forward, so I can smell his stale breath even over the bucket of garbage. Watch where you’re going, he hisses.

You’re the one who ran into me. I try to sound hard. He’s worse if you seem afraid.

Fred picks up a stick, thick as my arm. It’s smooth and bleached white as bone. He hefts it in one hand, testing the weight. My body hurts in anticipation of the blow.

But it doesn’t come.

Fred’s eyes catch on something behind me. Then he’s pushing past, knocking me to one side like I no longer exist. I watch as he disappears down the path to the lake, his white shirt blinking in and out of view among the green branches. I count to one hundred to make sure he’s gone. Blood runs from my knee and soaks my white sock.

Should I just stand here all day, then?

I turn back to see Cook framed in the doorway, holding a white ceramic pitcher. Beads of water cling to the outside.

Sorry, I mutter and fumble to wipe the dust from my hands.

Oh, drat. Hold on. They’ll want glasses.

The dark kitchen swallows her again. This time, I stand at attention, waiting for her to reappear. It takes forever. The blood on my leg dries to a crust. She returns with four empty jars.

Had to wash them up. Here, take them.

She thrusts the stack into my arms. But I don’t understand.

Where are the others? I ask.

Cook’s eyebrows knit together. The others?

The glasses, I say. Are we all supposed to share?

But she misunderstands. If Sister Marguerite expects me to send real glasses to the beach where they’ll be smashed to bits, she can come get them herself.

Then she grumbles off into the kitchen.

Of course. Four glasses, four sisters. How stupid to think that the lemonade would be for us. I turn to go, already deciding to go back the long way. I’d rather walk an extra mile than run into Fred alone on the path.

The rowboat is out on the water now, floating right in the middle of the cove.

Sister Cecile sits in the stern and a boy sits in the bow, tall and lanky, his white shirt glowing in the sun. That’s where Fred was going in such a hurry, then. The pitcher is slick in my hands. I try to get a better grip. Down on the water, the rowboat spins, blown by the breeze. Now I can see another boy, small and huddled, but I’m too far away to make out his face. Sister Cecile casts her arm toward the water, as if throwing a stone. In answer, Fred lunges forward. In a blur, the smaller boy goes over the side. His arms and legs thrash the water to foam. Time stretches forever.

A swim lesson. A swim lesson. The words repeat in my head like a prayer.

The frothing water stills to ripples, then goes smooth.

No small head breaks the surface.

I don’t move. I can’t move. The others in the boat are frozen too. Sister Cecile, a black triangle. Fred, a smudge of white shirt. Only two now. Time stretches forever. Then Fred lifts the oars and begins to row.

Cold needles sting my leg. I look down. They’re wet. Shards litter the ground. I must have dropped the pitcher, but I never heard a smash.

When I look up again, Sister Cecile is watching me from the boat, which is almost back to shore. She can’t possibly see my face from all the way down there, but I still want to hide. She’ll send me back to the attic. I know she will.

A sound escapes my lips and I hold a hand to my mouth, stuffing it back in. The pieces of the pitcher lay in the dirt, jagged and white. I feel as if they might leap up and put themselves back together. As if I can turn back time and do things differently. As if I can know what’s coming and hold on tighter.

May 1, 1988—US District Courthouse

Karen Lafayette

Alan Stedsan: Good morning, Ms. Lafayette. Thank you for coming.

Karen Lafayette: Happy to be here if it will help.

AS: All right, let’s get started, then. You lived at the Coram House Orphanage from 1965 to 1970. Can you tell me a little bit about life there?

KL: [Laugh] Every single person who worked there should be in prison. Do you know they called themselves the Sisters of Mercy? Can you believe that? Forget prison, Sister Cecile—every last one of them—should be in hell.

AS: I understand your anger, Ms. Lafayette. But the more details we have—

KL: I know. All right.

AS: Could you tell me more about Sister Cecile? What were her responsibilities at Coram House?

KL: You mean besides torture?

AS: I—

KL: I know—details. She was in charge of the girls’ dormitory. Making sure we said our prayers, made our beds. That kind of shit. Oh, and walks, swim lessons. She was a big believer in the power of the outdoors, Sister Cecile.

AS: How would you characterize her general treatment of the children?

KL: [Laugh] She’s a monster. Unless you were her pet. She always had a pet.

AS: Maybe you could be a little more specific.

KL: Okay, you want details? How about the time Sister Cecile pushed a girl out the window.

AS: Out the window?

KL: She fell from the second story. I saw—she sort of bounced when she hit the ground.

AS: And this child—did she survive the fall?

KL: It was pavement. I’d think not.

AS: Do you know her name—the child?

KL: Amanda, maybe? Melissa? I think she was Seven.

AS: Seven years old?

KL: No. Seven. You know—her number. They called us by our numbers most of the time. So some girls, I never knew their real name.

AS: And why did—you said Sister Cecile—why did she push this girl out the window?

KL: I don’t remember that either. We were cleaning them, I think. Me and Sarah and Seven.

AS: The windows?

KL: Yes, the windows. We were cleaning them and, I don’t know, maybe she wasn’t doing a good-enough job. Maybe that old bitch was just bored that day. Who knows. I heard there was a little girl who burned up. Sister Cecile told her to fetch a ball from the fire and her snowsuit went up in flames. And then there was the boy who drowned. Oh, and there’s Father Foster, of course. But you know all about that. Let me tell you, Father Foster was the only good thing about being a girl in that place.

May 3, 1989—US District Courthouse

Sarah Dale

Alan Stedsan: Thank you for coming, Ms. Dale. I’d like to ask you some questions about life at Coram House. Is that all right?

Sarah Dale: Yes. All right.

AS: To your knowledge, were the children ever punished by the nuns or priests?

SD: Oh, yes. That happened quite often.

AS: What sorts of things would you be punished for?

SD: Speaking during meals. Talking back to the nuns. Not doing our chores well enough.

AS: And how would you be punished?

SD: Hit, you know, with a ruler. Or they’d make you stand in the corner with your arms out for hours, until you felt like they’d break. That sort of thing. If they were really angry, they’d send you to the attic.

AS: The attic?

SD: It was cold. And dark. There was no—what do you call it—insulation, I guess. Just wooden boards and then the roof above. In some places, you could see cracks where the light shone through. There were windows at either end. Huge round ones taller than me, even. But still it was dark all the time. I don’t know why. Maybe because it was so big. And cold. Half the windows were broken so the wind just blew right in. And it was full of ghosts. [Laugh]

AS: You believed it was haunted?

SD: No, the ghosts were real. They were statues—big stone ones. Of the saints, I think. But they were all covered in white sheets. I can’t imagine how they got them up there. They must have weighed hundreds of pounds. When the wind blew in, the sheets would move around. They looked like ghosts. Dancing all together in the dark.

AS: That sounds frightening.

SD: They would take you upstairs. Usually Sister Cecile. And there was this old wardrobe. She made you get inside and then locked the door.

AS: She locked you inside the wardrobe?

SD: Yes.

AS: For how long?

SD: I don’t know. Once they sent Mary up and she stayed the whole night. It was winter and her lips were blue when they brought her down. We thought she was dead.

AS: Ms. Dale, I’d like to ask you about something that Karen Lafayette mentioned.

SD: Fourteen.

AS: Excuse me?

SD: Karen was number Fourteen. I was Eleven and she was Fourteen.

AS: Do you remember an incident that happened when you were washing windows? This would have been sometime in the 1960s.

SD: Oh, you mean with Sister Cecile.

AS: Could you tell me what happened that day?

SD: Nothing much.

AS: Nothing much?

SD: Well, nothing out of the ordinary. I was washing windows up on the second floor, along the back of the building. It must have been one of the classrooms because they had these very tall windows made up of tiny panes of glass. They were a terrible pain to wash because you had to do each one individually with a cloth wrapped around your finger.

AS: It sounds tedious.

SD: It took ages. I was at the House for nearly twenty years, you know. That’s thousands of windowpanes. Maybe tens of thousands. If you added it all up, I wonder how many months of my life I spent washing those windows.

AS: Ms. Dale, the day you were speaking about—

SD: Yes, of course. Anyhow, I was washing windows with Fourteen—Karen—and another girl. Missy, I think her name was. She hadn’t been there long. Sister Cecile came in. She was furious about something. Nothing to do with us, but that’s how it worked. She said something about the windows looking filthy and Missy pointed out that all the dirt was on the outside where we couldn’t reach. She was right, you know, but it was a stupid thing to say. She was new.

AS: What happened next?

SD: Oh, Sister Cecile raged for a while and then told Missy that she better clean the outside then.

AS: The outside of the windows?

SD: The windowsills were very wide. So Sister Cecile told her to stand on the windowsill and we were supposed to hold her ankles from the inside.

AS: Jesus.

SD: Let me tell you, Jesus had nothing to do with it. We held on to that girl tight as anything. My hands ached after.

AS: And Missy—what happened to her?

SD: I’m not sure. Adopted, I think. She was a sweet little thing. Blonde curls like a doll. Those ones went pretty quickly.

AS: She didn’t—I mean, that day—she didn’t fall out the window?

SD: [Laugh] Of course not. I mean, she was frightened. We all were. But it wasn’t—you have to understand—it wasn’t even unusual, that type of thing.

AS: Ms. Dale, I have to tell you. Ms. Lafayette—Karen—she remembers the girl being pushed out the window.

SD: Fourteen always did love a story. But I don’t know what to tell you, Mr. Stedsan. I can promise you no one went out that window who did not come back in. To be honest, I only remember that day because of how upset Karen was after.

AS: She also mentioned the incident of a boy who drowned. [Pause] Ms. Dale?

SD: Yes.

AS: Do you have any recollection of that?

SD: I meant, yes. That happened.

AS: What can you tell me about it?

SD: It was a few years later. Karen wasn’t there that day, so I don’t know why she’s telling you about it.

AS: But you were there?

SD: Not there there. No one was there except Sister Cecile and the boys in the boat.

AS: Then how—

SD: I was up at the House. I’d come back to fetch lemonade for the sisters. It was strange, the timing of it. If I’d been just a few minutes earlier or later. God, that day was hot. I was sweating from the minute I got up. My dress stuck to me like I’d been painted with glue. There was a summersweet growing right outside the kitchen door. It had these big white blossoms hanging off that made the air smell spiced.

AS: [Pause] Ms. Dale?

SD: I was coming out of the kitchen. Down on the lake, there was a rowboat in this little cove. The water there was deeper so Sister Cecile would take us there for swim lessons. But you couldn’t see it from the rest of the beach. That day, Sister Cecile was inside the boat with Tommy and Fred. Tommy was all hunched over like he was sick, maybe. Sister Cecile said something—I don’t know what, she was too far away, but I could see her arms moving. Fred, he grabbed Tommy under his arms and he pushed, so Tommy went right into the water.

AS: And then what happened?

SD: I just stood there. But Tommy, he never came back up. He couldn’t swim.

AS: And Sister Cecile—what did she do?

SD: Nothing. They rowed back to shore.

AS: How did they look?

SD: What do you mean?

AS: Did they seem upset?

SD: I couldn’t see their faces. They were too far away.

AS: Then how did you recognize them?

SD: You’d know Sister Cecile from miles away just by how she stood. Like her spine was a broomstick. And I’d just seen Fred outside the kitchen, on the path down to the water. I’d been scared. He’d had this huge knobby stick through the handle of his bucket. A boy like that doesn’t carry a stick unless he means to hit someone with it. But even without that, I’d have known it was him in the boat. Fred went wherever Sister Cecile did, you see. He was her favorite. And Tommy, well, I didn’t know it was him until later, when he went missing.

AS: So the boat rowed back to shore. What did you do next?

SD: You mean, did I run screaming down the hill—jump in the water to save him?

AS: Ms. Dale, I wasn’t suggesting—

SD: No, it’s all right. That’s what I should have done. What I would do now. You know, I’d dropped the pitcher of lemonade and it smashed on the ground. There was lemonade all over my legs. I was afraid of getting in trouble, for that, of all things. Back then, I was just so afraid. Of both of them. So I did nothing. Said nothing. At least not right away. A few days later I got up the courage, but no one believed me. And then Sister Cecile came to me after dinner. Told me how Tommy was missing. Had run away. And then— [Inaudible]

AS: Can I get you something—a glass of water?

SD: No. Thank you. She took me to the attic. There was a wardrobe there. She told me to climb inside and she latched the door from the outside. It was dark—so dark. And cold. Even though it was summer. I don’t know how long she left me there for. At least through the night. Maybe longer? I don’t know. At the time, I wondered if she’d leave me there forever. Call it an accident.

AS: Because of what you’d seen?

SD: She never said that was why. But I knew it was. I had nightmares about it for years.

AS: About the drowning?

SD: No. About the dark. Being locked in that wardrobe. Is that terrible of me?

AS: It wasn’t your fault.

SD: I should have done something.

AS: You—

SD: No. I know that now. I carry that with me. There are times—well. There are times when it’s hard to live with that. And that’s the thing you have to understand. The years we spent there. You can leave Coram House but you can’t leave it behind. Not all of it. The worst of it you carry with you. It becomes part of you. And sometimes I worry you pass it on.

PART 1

1

I leave Brooklyn before the rest of the city is awake. The day is bitter and damp. No snow. Just wet sidewalks and mounds of slush clogging the storm drains. Usually, I find the brick townhouses cheerful and bright, but today the gray sky drains the color from everything around me. I pull the building’s door shut and hoist my suitcase down the stairs. Patches of confetti glitter on the sidewalk. Soon they’ll be washed into the river along with the slush. It’s unusually quiet this morning. As if, a day later, the city is still sleeping off its New Year’s hangover.

New Year’s Eve was particularly cold and clear, so the sounds of people celebrating carried all the way up to my empty third-floor apartment. A knot of girls passed beneath my window, laughing and drinking tiny bottles of champagne through straws. I’d shivered to see their bare legs glowing white. I’ve always hated New Year’s.

A few days ago, Lola had come over with a bottle of wine to toast my new book. She knew the rough details: the old orphanage, the church, all the usual horror and abuse, the case that had finally broken everything open and then the settlement that had shut it back in the dark.

Sounds like bestseller material was all she said, even after I told her about the fine print: six months in Vermont and someone else’s name on the cover.

Ghostwriter.

After everything that had gone wrong with my last book, the word appealed to me. Like I wasn’t there. And besides, I had a pile of unpaid medical bills in a drawer. Three years since Adam died and they still keep coming. No one tells you about that part.

All right, Lola had said, I’ll help you pack.

And she did try, pulling clothes out of my closet and holding them up. A chunky striped sweater. A long red dress with flowers. I hadn’t worn any of it in years. She refilled my glass, tried to make it fun, but I’d begged off. After she left, I drifted around, finishing the bottle on my own. It seemed impossible to take things off the shelves. Like, over the years, they’d grown roots. Adam’s closet was already empty, at least.

Alone, I’d made a pile of the things I cared about. Photos from our wedding. The cone of a giant sequoia tree, tiny as an acorn, from a trip to California. A perfectly round stone I’d found in a Peruvian temple and smuggled home. It’s an ancient Ping-Pong ball, I’d told Adam. Each object came with a memory that I shoved into the locked cabinet in my mind to be dealt with later—on the advice of a therapist I’d seen a few times after Adam died. I’d never asked her what happened if you just leave the memories in there, the door firmly locked.

My pile had fit inside a single box. The box went into Lola’s basement. Everything else went to the curb. The tiny bottles of vinegar. Brass candlesticks. A set of ugly brown sheets. Objects that had piled up over the years as if washed ashore.

Today, my car is parked right in front of the building—a small miracle I found the spot. I bought the car in some New Jersey suburb the day after I signed the book contract. A used Toyota with seventy thousand miles and two matching dents in the roof where the previous owner drove it into a garage with a bike on the roof. I like that the car comes with its own story. I load my suitcase into the trunk next to the boxes of work stuff. Laptop and reference books. Blank pads of paper, my favorite highlighters, index cards, empty binder. My stomach growls.

It’s just past six in the morning, but the OPEN sign at the deli promises hot coffee. I order my usual bagel with cream cheese and tomato slices, even though I know they will be pale and mealy. While I’m waiting, I drink in the bare branches of the trees in the park across the street, the chipped green paint of the stairs leading down to the subway. Pantone 350. New York green. My stomach tightens.

I’m being maudlin. The book contract is six months for a first draft. Then I can come back. Even here, I hardly leave the apartment in the early stages of a project. Besides, this isn’t even a real ending—that came three years ago. It’s more like tearing off a hangnail. Painful, yes, to sever that thread of flesh. But also a relief.

I take my bagel, diapered in wax paper, back to the car. My phone pings as I slide into the driver’s seat—a text from Lola wishing me luck and telling me it’s supposed to snow and not to end up in a ditch. Also an email from Alan Stedsan, my new coauthor.

Dear Ms. Kelley, it begins, with the same formality as all his previous emails. Maybe lawyers can’t help themselves. He wishes me a safe drive and asks if I’ll come by his office tomorrow to get started. I type back a quick reply, agreeing.

We’ve only spoken once on the phone, but that was enough to paint a picture. Stedsan did most of the talking. He gave a brief overview of the case against the Catholic church and his vision for the book—history for true-crime fans. He needed someone good at both, he said. Like a young Erik Larson. His tone suggested this was the highest compliment.

That conversation was supposed to be an interview, but I got the sense he was searching for something inside my answers, some mysterious quality. Right before we hung up, he asked if I’d like any changes made to the draconian contract, though of course he didn’t call it that. Full editorial control for him. A punishing nondisclosure agreement for me with a six-figure slap on the wrist should I violate it. Plus, a ruthless schedule and a move to Vermont so he could keep tabs on our progress.

I said no. It was fine, all of it.

My agent called an hour later with the offer. So I guess the quality he’d been searching for was compliance. Not so mysterious after all.

I pull up directions to the apartment I’ve rented sight unseen. Burlington, Vermont. Six hours north in an almost-straight line. The engine makes a metallic crunch as it turns over, but soon I’m merging onto Atlantic Avenue. Five blocks later, I realize I never took a last look at the apartment. A white van honks and cuts me off. Any regret is swallowed by the anxiety of trying to get on the highway without dying.

An hour north of the city, the traffic grows sparse. I reach for my bagel and coffee, both cold. Through the bare winter trees, I glimpse miniature towns down in the valley and snowy fields dotted with brown horses or cows. By the time I reach Albany, its office towers and smokestacks seem enormous.

After that, the towns get smaller and farther apart until I stop for gas in a town that consists of a post office and general store nestled in snow-frosted evergreens. I fill up at the gas pump out front, switching hands every ten seconds so I don’t freeze.

Inside, I navigate racks of every imaginable type of potato chip—dill pickle, ketchup, shrimp—until I find the coffee nestled beside a case of sugared donuts. I once read about a man who slipped razor blades into gas station donuts. Someone had to get their tongue sewn back together. I fill up a cup and take a donut out of the case and pay. Outside, the cold winds around me like it missed me. The donut tastes of apples and cinnamon. It’s delicious. No razor blades either.

Adam told me once that I see danger everywhere. He blamed it on my books. His theory was that if I wrote about kittens instead of people who were murdered, the world would feel less threatening.

No one wants to read books about kittens, I’d argued.

Everyone wants to read books about kittens, he’d said.

But I think I got the argument all wrong. Maybe I do see danger everywhere, but that’s because the world is dangerous. Some donuts will slice your tongue off. My books aren’t made up, is what I should have said to him. They’re facts. He’s the one who didn’t see things as they are. He’s the one who believed life would get better, right until the end.

I