No One's Home Read online

  PRAISE FOR NO ONE’S HOME

  “A door creaks open. A footstep thumps on an empty floor above. A light turns on in a room left dark. In every silent room and black corner of No One’s Home, D. M. Pulley weaves threads of hypnotic suspense with the sad strands of a family lost to one another. With an elegantly restrained hand that stops mercifully shy of showcasing the unbearable, Pulley has created a contemporary intelligent thriller that can stand with the canon of the legendary Shirley Jackson.”

  —Amber Cowie, bestselling author of Rapid Falls

  “Disturbing and creepy. D. M. Pulley does a masterful job of introducing the reader to families who, at different points in time, are forced to experience life in the same menacing house. Reminds me of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, and I loved every second of it!”

  —Matthew Farrell, bestselling author of What Have You Done

  “HGTV meets Stephen King—creepy, spooky fun!”

  —Mary Doria Russell, author of The Sparrow and The Women of the Copper Country

  ALSO BY D. M. PULLEY

  The Unclaimed Victim

  The Buried Book

  The Dead Key

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2019 by D. M. Pulley

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781542041546

  ISBN-10: 1542041546

  Cover design by M. S. Corley

  For Jo and Brac

  CONTENTS

  START READING

  RAWLINGSWOOD

  FIRST FLOOR PLAN

  SECOND FLOOR PLAN

  THIRD FLOOR PLAN

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  RENOVATED FIRST FLOOR PLAN

  RENOVATED SECOND FLOOR PLAN

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This story was inspired by the century homes of

  Shaker Heights, two real murders, and a rumor . . .

  RAWLINGSWOOD

  Rawlings family: 1922–1931

  Bell family: 1936–1972

  Klussman family: 1972–1990

  Martin family: 1994–2016

  FIRST FLOOR PLAN

  SECOND FLOOR PLAN

  THIRD FLOOR PLAN

  1

  House for Sale

  April 7, 2018

  From the outside, no one would suspect a thing.

  The three-story colonial stood on a half-acre lot shaded by gnarled oaks and silver maples old enough to remember farmland, stone mills, and the prayer songs of the Shakers. A vision of English character and charm, it lured prospective buyers in with promises of grand fireplaces, custom millwork, crystal chandeliers, and servants’ quarters hidden beneath the slate roof. The builders had spared no expense back in the gilded optimism of 1922.

  A middle-aged man stood at the edge of the property in a slim sport coat and Italian shoes. The stubble on his squarish jaw and the wire-rimmed glasses on his nose drew an image of an intellectual. Not short but not tall, he had wavy salt-and-pepper hair that fell strategically over his middling brow. He glanced over his shoulder at the four-lane road on the other side of the thick hedge. Downtown Cleveland lay seven miles behind it.

  The pretty woman next to him gazed up at the stately brick facade, counting the leaded glass windows, imagining the view from inside. Thin and petite with deep brown eyes, she might have been mistaken for a girl if it weren’t for the high-heeled boots and sharpened angles of her face. Designer sunglasses perched at the top of her head, holding back salon-blonde hair. A silk scarf draped artfully over her shoulders. Gold jewelry hung from her tiny ears and wrists. The trappings of wealth didn’t quite match her uneasy gait or the apprehension on her face as the real estate agent led the couple up the winding flagstone path to the front door.

  On closer inspection, the lawn was a bit overgrown, and the flower beds needed mulching. The edging needed tidying up. The paint along the eaves had begun to peel. Easy things to fix, the sales agent explained hurriedly.

  A white cat darted across the entryway, stopping in front of the nearest tree to study the intruders. Its cool, appraising gaze turned the blonde woman’s head. The cat wasn’t wearing a collar. It cocked its head at her before sauntering around the side of the house like it owned the place.

  Unnerved, the woman continued up the steps of the grand portico. A wrinkled piece of white paper had been taped to one of the windows flanking the mahogany door. It read:

  NOTICE:

  This property has been determined to be vacant and/or abandoned. This information will be reported to the mortgage servicer responsible for maintaining this property. It is likely this property will have its locks changed and its plumbing winterized within the next seven business days. If this property is NOT VACANT, please call the number provided below. Date: January 3, 2016

  The ink had faded under the glare of the sun. The paper had curled up at the corners. Two years had passed since its posting. Behind them, the rusted chains of the For Sale sign creaked with a shift of the wind as the plastic shingle swayed back and forth in the yard.

  “When we go in, try to reserve judgment. True, this place needs a lot of work, but for the right buyer it’s an unbelievable opportunity.” The sales agent fumbled with the lockbox affixed to the scrolled brass door handle and retrieved the key. “You just can’t get a house like this at this price point anymore.”

  “I’m a little concerned about that busy road,” the man said.

  “You can barely hear the cars from inside,” she reassured him. “You get so much more house this way. And you’re within walking distance of the grocery store and the library. Besides, with the old-growth trees . . .”

  The husband’s pensive smile dropped when he glimpsed beyond the door.

  His wife let out a startled gasp as the smell hit her.

  The stench of rotting garbage and mildew hung heavily in the foyer as the man stepped over the threshold.
Cigarette butts and fast food wrappers lay scattered across the quartersawn oak floors. A pile of dirty clothes and torn rags sat in the center of the formal dining room to their right. The iron radiator was missing from the foyer. Graffiti of all colors slashed the walls and custom oak paneling, shrieking warnings and epitaphs as the man wandered from the foyer to the living room.

  Welcome to Hell House!

  Get Out! Run!

  The Evil Dead Live!

  “Jesus,” the husband whispered and covered his nose with a handkerchief.

  The wife stayed in the doorway for several moments, her face half-buried in her scarf. She finally braved a step into the foyer to take stock. The custom features of the house competed with the smell as she surveyed the original floorboards, the huge leaded glass window over the front door, the heights of the ceilings, the custom fixtures, and the enormous fireplaces in the rooms to her left and right.

  “Obviously, you will need to do an extensive remodel.” The real estate agent did her best to project optimism into the two-story foyer. “But at this price, you can afford to customize every detail and really make this place your own. The bones of the house really are quite good.”

  A teenage boy trailed up the front walkway behind them, scanning the empty windows of the house, wary and disgruntled. Hating it already. Pockmarked and sprouting with unwanted hair and oversize bones, his body had clearly betrayed him. The baby blue eyes under his furry brow looked to be about twelve years old, but the rest of him looked twenty. Neither of his parents noticed as he stopped in the doorway, dumbstruck by the violence that had been done to the place. His mouth hung open as his gaze traveled up the monumental staircase to the second floor.

  As his parents moved from the living room to the center hall to the library to the breakfast room, more insults and vandalism greeted them. With each blemish, the price fell in their minds until the house was practically free. The real estate agent held her tongue, waiting for the damage to scare them off as it had all the others.

  The first floor powder room contained a cracked porcelain sink and a toilet crusted over in shades of brown. The acrid smell of sewer gas wafted up through the dry pipes from the ground below.

  The agent cleared her throat of the taste and said cheerily, “The plumbing will need to be updated, of course.” The house made her shift uncomfortably in her sensible shoes, and she preferred to stay close to the open front door. “I’ll let you two wander around a bit. Just holler if you have questions.”

  The couple proceeded up the back staircase to the first enormous bedroom. A tiled fireplace sat charred and empty to the right. The walls were institutional blue, and the windows looked out over the street outside. “I think this might be the master bedroom,” the husband speculated, cracking open a door leading to an attached bathroom. Dead flies and mouse droppings littered the tiny white floor tiles.

  A bare mattress sat on the floor in one of the smaller bedrooms farther down the hall. A dark brown stain smeared across the center of the makeshift bed and onto the floor. The wife crinkled her nose at it. Blood? Crumpled tinfoil and a syringe lay next to it. “Myron,” she whispered and threw her husband a look of revulsion.

  “I know. Just give it a chance,” he whispered back and kept walking.

  The woman stopped outside a third bedroom and drew in a breath. The walls had been painted a pale pink decades earlier. Torn drapes hung raggedly from the windows, and the afternoon sun filtered in through faded linen flowers. Hand-painted butterflies flitted over the plaster between more crudely drawn satanic symbols and lewd messages.

  Who’s a pretty girl?

  Tears swelled in the woman’s eyes as they drifted from the flowers to the butterflies and back again. Who’s a pretty girl?

  The man came up behind her, his gaze darting uncomfortably between the marred pink walls and the back of his wife’s head. He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but she stiffened. He opened his mouth to say something, but she turned on her heel and continued down the hall before the words came to him.

  Bedrooms, bathrooms, linen closets—it went on and on down the central hallway and then another winding corridor that led to a wing over the garage. “Will you look at this place? It never ends!” the husband said, hoping to brighten the mood.

  “It’s enormous,” she agreed almost under her breath. There were seven bedrooms and three full bathrooms. Big enough to get lost in. “I could have a studio here . . .”

  One of the doors opened to a narrow staircase that led up to the third floor. The extra space sealed it for the man. Standing in the cavernous attic, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Paul? This is Myron. Say, how much cash can we free up in the next thirty days?”

  His wife turned a slow circle, stopping to look out one of the dormer windows down to the sidewalk below where she’d stood ten minutes earlier, on the outside looking in. Along the opposite wall, someone had scrawled in light pencil: and we shall plant four trees, one at each corner for each Angel that speaks. She puzzled at it.

  “This place is a steal. You wouldn’t believe the finishes. The millwork alone would cost a mint in Boston . . . I know, but Margot’s got her heart set.”

  His wife turned her head. I do?

  “Yeah. For the right price . . . Of course. I’ll let you know.” Myron hung up the phone and turned to his wife. “You have to admit it’s a great bargain, hon.”

  “But . . . are you sure we need all this?”

  “Are you kidding? This place is a gold mine! They only want a hundred and eighty thousand? It would cost three or four million back in Boston, easy. We’ve been looking for days and haven’t seen anything close to this. Admit it.”

  Her frown deepened to a plea. “I know, but . . . do we really have to do this? I’m not sold, Myron. Not on the house. Not on the move . . . What about Hunter? I’m not sure I feel comfortable making him leave all his friends, his school. It’s his senior year. He has such a hard time fitting in.”

  “I know you’re worried, but this could be good for him. We talked about this.” Myron sighed, and his shoulders slumped with impatience and looming defeat. “We both agreed that it’s our best option after everything that’s happened.”

  Margot bit her painted lip. After everything that’s happened.

  “I can’t go back, Margot. I quit. The Cleveland Clinic is the dream job I’ve been waiting for. You know that. We have a chance to start over here. Let’s just make the best of it. Okay? We could all use a fresh start.” He picked up her hand and gave it a squeeze. “This could be great for us.”

  Margot forced a nod, holding a brave face until he turned his attention elsewhere. Somewhere in the yawning space behind her, a floorboard shifted with a muffled creak. She turned toward the sound only to see the bathroom light glowing yellow at the end of the long empty room. She scanned the closed doors of the servants’ quarters and the crawl spaces. They stared blankly back.

  The taunts spray-painted on the walls below her seemed to whisper in the corners of the attic.

  Welcome to Hell House!

  2

  The couple returned to the front foyer five minutes later. The sales agent put away her phone and flashed them a broad smile. “Well? What did you think?”

  “I think we’ve seen enough. Can we come back tomorrow? I’d like to bring in a contractor.” Myron pretended not to see his wife’s distressed reaction to this.

  “Really?” The woman blinked in disbelief. “That’s wonderful. But. Um. If you two are serious about an offer, I suppose there’s something you should know.”

  Margot stopped surveying the house as though she’d lost something and shot her husband another look. “I’m sorry. What?”

  “This is a little awkward, but my firm has implemented a strict policy to fully disclose any potential . . . stigma associated with a property.” She cleared her throat. “This house has a bit of a history. There’s been talk about it anyway.”

  Myron took a step closer to his wif
e and narrowed his eyes. “What history exactly?”

  “Well.” The woman straightened her poorly tailored suit. Moments before this latest couple had arrived, she’d been on the phone complaining, This damn house is never going to sell, Howard! Even for a foreclosure, it’s hopeless. You can tell the bank to get another agent. “There’s been talk. Keep in mind Shaker Heights is really a small town at heart—that’s why folks love it the way they do—but like in any small town, rumors can take on a life of their own.”

  Myron’s expression brightened ever so slightly at the words small town. He had explained their situation to the woman well. They were looking for a good investment. A fixer-upper that they could make their own. Something with character. A small town with good schools. A bit of land. A real home for themselves and their teenage son, who had wandered into the room with the bloodstained mattress above them.

  “None of the rumors are substantiated, mind you,” she went on, with a false laugh, “but some buyers . . . they’re so easily spooked.”

  The words Not you two, though were left unsaid. Myron nodded in agreement, but Margot’s worry lines deepened. “What sort of rumors?”

  “All kinds of urban legends have sprung up about this house. Some say the original owner, Mr. Rawlings, was murdered. Some say his wife went mad. Some claim a high school girl died here a few years back from a drug overdose.” The woman waved the horrible theories away with her hand.

  The couple stared at her a moment and then lifted their gaze up the carved wood staircase winding from the foyer to the second floor. The house stood perfectly still as though listening. The sound of a woman screaming threatened to break out from somewhere inside the walls above the dusty chandelier, but the house held its breath.

  “That’s awful,” Margot whispered and silently pleaded with her husband, We can’t buy this place!

  “But none of the rumors have proven to be true. Is that right?” Myron asked, ignoring his wife for the moment.

  “I haven’t seen one shred of proof. But that doesn’t stop the talk that the house might be . . . well, haunted.”