No One's Home Page 14

  “Hey, now wait. Hon, he’s a teenager. They’re moody. They’re antisocial. They are addicted to their phones and hate their parents. Don’t you remember? This is normal.”

  “What if he’s on drugs?” Her shrill voice left little cuts all over Myron. “I mean, he never comes down to talk with us. He always looks . . . I don’t know. Stoned. And some things of mine have gone missing. How would we even know, Myron?”

  “No. That’s . . . He’s not on drugs. Where would he even get them? He doesn’t know anybody here.” He rubbed his red eyes not unselfconsciously. A faint tremor of withdrawal vibrated in his fingers, but Margot missed it completely. “Don’t get me wrong. I’ve considered it. I’m keeping my eyes open for the signs. But he’s not losing weight. He’s lucid when we talk. Shoot, even last night he seemed perfectly sober to me. Just a little spooked. Let’s get the security system, okay? That way we’ll know if he’s sneaking out at night or anything else weird.” The shape of a girl slipped through his mind. Had he really seen or heard anything?

  Margot nodded, satisfied, but something still worried itself at the edge of her thoughts. It’s this house, Myron. Something is wrong with this house. She opened her mouth to say it but caught herself.

  Myron took the opportunity to change the subject. “Hey. Have you been feeding that stray cat? The white one? I keep seeing it in the yard.”

  “Cat? No.” She avoided looking at him.

  “You know if you feed it, it will never leave, right?” He sighed, annoyed and exhausted. He’d spent most of the night tossing and turning on the couch in the den.

  “I’m not feeding it, Myron. I know you’re allergic.” She rolled her eyes at his turned back.

  “You going to the club today?” he asked, putting his coffee mug in the sink and picking up his briefcase.

  “Yeah. Maybe. See you there?”

  “Probably around seven. I have a late meeting with the surgeons’ group.” He didn’t face her as he said it, hiding his lie. He was out of pills, and his skin itched.

  “Okay, sweetie. I’ll feed Hunter something and see you later,” Margot called over her shoulder as she headed toward her studio and her internet love interest. She had promised him “hot naked yoga” the day before, and her cheeks were already pink with the idea.

  26

  Hunter woke to the dull thump of a bass line. Music vibrated through the floor joists from his mother’s studio down the hall to his room. A muffled laugh on the other side of the wall jolted him upright. It was followed by the muffled lilt of his mother’s voice. Teaching again. The sound of her online yoga classes filled him with revulsion. The bookcase was still blocking his door, and the bizarre incident the night before came rushing back.

  Are you awake?

  He lurched out of bed. Frodo and Samwise twitched their noses at him as he sank down onto his computer chair and jiggled the mouse to wake up the machine. The two rodents quickly lost interest and continued their quest through the long tube to the tank with fresh water on the other side of the bedroom. Hunter watched them go, feeling more acutely than ever how alone he was in that enormous house without a friend within five hundred miles.

  Once the monitor lit up, he brought up the video from the night before and studied it again in the light of day. The blurry shape moved past the camera over and over.

  “What are you?” he whispered, squinting at it. It couldn’t have been his mother or father. They had been fast asleep.

  With a long, wavering exhale, he closed the video and tapped his thumbs on his desk. He slumped in his computer chair, debating whether to call the police, his father, anyone.

  Caleb was online, chatting about some conspiracy involving the federal government and fluoride. Hunter sent him a DM request. A moment later his computer chimed, and a chubby face appeared on his screen.

  “H-Dog! What up?” Caleb flashed the sign of the devil and grinned.

  “Hey. Shit’s getting weirder.” Hunter relayed what had happened the night before and sent a link to the video.

  Caleb let out a low whistle. “Dude. I told you. You got a ghost in your house. You gotta get out of there.” His sarcastic voice and sneer made it clear that he didn’t believe a word of it.

  “Shut up,” Hunter hissed and threw a glance at the closed door. For all he knew, the ghost was standing outside it. “I’m not kidding. What the fuck did the camera see, man? What is that thing?”

  “Hell if I know. It’s not like it’s a fucking night vision camera, dude. It could be anything. A glitch. Did the AC kick on?”

  Hunter frowned at this. “I dunno. Maybe. Would this thing pick up temperature?”

  “I doubt it. What’d you spend? Like ten bucks on that piece of shit? Let it go. It’s probably nothing.”

  “Yeah. But some weird stuff’s been happening. Doors keep opening and shutting. Lights keep turning on . . . I swear I heard somebody last night. Either I’m nuts, or someone’s in the house.”

  “Someone? Or something?” Nuts or not, Caleb still found the whole idea entertaining. “So what you gonna do? Call the cops?”

  “No . . . I don’t know.” He truly didn’t want to call the cops or talk to his parents. They would all end up blaming him somehow. “What am I supposed to say? I hear footsteps in the night? Someone knocked on my door? It sounds kinda crazy, right? It’s not like I’ve seen anyone. I don’t have any evidence except this shitty video, and my parents already think I’m on drugs.”

  Caleb laughed. “Are you?”

  “Fuck off!”

  “Seriously, how are you staying sane in that place?” As if to prove the point, Caleb grabbed his vaporizer and took a long puff. “Aren’t you bored out of your mind?”

  “Pretty much.” Hunter rubbed his head. “But I’m telling you, it isn’t just me. Here. Look at this shit.”

  He grabbed the portable webcam from the desk, pressed a few buttons, and clicked on his closet light.

  “What the fuck is that?” Caleb’s voice bounced off the closet walls as Hunter scanned the walls with the digital eyeball.

  “I have no idea. Some psycho named Benny used to live in this room? Maybe he killed a girl? Then some other psycho decided to write shitty poetry about it. I’ve been searching all over the web to figure out who the fuck ‘Bad Benny’ is, but I can’t find a thing.” Hunter slapped the webcam back on his desk and fell back into his chair. Just talking to another person seemed to calm his nerves.

  “You do a property search?”

  “Yeah. It didn’t turn up much. Here.” Hunter opened a window to the Cuyahoga County Auditor’s website. He navigated to a page labeled “14895 Lee Road Transfer History” at the top. It was a listing of all previous sales of Rawlingswood along with the property owners’ names and the sales prices dating back to the early 1970s.

  Transfer Date: 05/18/2018: Grantee(s) Spielman, Myron and Margaret;

  Grantor(s): National City Bank

  Transfer Date: 05/01/2016: Grantee(s): National City Bank;

  Grantor(s): Foreclosure

  Transfer Date: 02/01/1994: Grantee(s): Martin, Clyde;

  Grantor(s): Society for Savings Inc.

  Transfer Date: 01/01/1993: Grantee(s): Society for Savings Inc.;

  Grantor(s): Foreclosure

  Transfer Date: 09/01/1972: Grantee(s): Klussman, Henry and Frances;

  Grantor(s): Helen Bell

  “So past owners are Clyde and Maureen Martin and then Frances and Henry Klussman and then a Helen Bell. That goes back to 1972. The county records don’t go back further than that online.” Hunter read through the list again. “Two foreclosures. Man, this place is bad luck.”

  Caleb was busy typing something on his keyboard in Boston. “I just googled Clyde Martin. What a dull fucking life. On the board of the Shaker Country Club. Ran a company called Shaker Family Construction. Not much else. Here.”

  Hunter’s screen dinged as a few links came through. He clicked through several pages of dead ends, thinking. Frodo and
Samwise were halfway across the windowsill over his desk. He studied them a moment, then had an idea.

  Typing quickly, he navigated to the website of the Cuyahoga County Public Library and scrolled through their pages until he found what he was looking for—Plain Dealer e-edition. It was a digital archive of the newspaper. With a few clicks, he opened a search engine and tried typing the name “Clyde Martin” again. This time fifteen articles came up. Hunter scrolled through them one by one until a series of obituaries flashed onto his screen.

  Muttering under his breath, he read, “Martin, Clyde—Shaker Heights. Clyde Martin died yesterday in his home. He is survived by his wife, Maureen. The family asks that all donations be made to the Shaker Historical Society, where Mr. Martin sat on the board of trustees. No services or calling hours.”

  The date of the newspaper was December 6, 2014. Hunter tracked back to the previous screen. The bank had foreclosed on the house eighteen months later. He did the math, then returned to the obituary, reading the names of the survivors again. No children. No Benny.

  “Died yesterday in his home?” Caleb repeated through the speakers. “Jeez. Where do you think he croaked?”

  Hunter pushed his chair away from the computer. “That’s not funny.”

  “I’m not laughin’, asshole. What about the wife?”

  They repeated his searches but this time for Maureen Martin. A newspaper clipping flashed onto Hunter’s screen. “Shaker Heights Widow Arrested, Forced to Vacate Foreclosure.”

  Caleb read out loud, “‘After months of notices and warnings, Shaker Heights widow and Case Western Reserve University professor Dr. Maureen Martin was arrested yesterday morning by the Cuyahoga County Sheriff’s Office for trespassing on a foreclosed property. Martin was reportedly admitted to a local psychiatric hospital for observation later that day.’ Blah, blah, blah. ‘Sheriff will not seek to press formal charges. The university would not comment on the case.’” Caleb paused a moment to let the words sink in.

  “She went crazy,” Hunter said. It didn’t bode well. A poor woman barricaded there in the house, by herself, haunted by . . . what? Benny? His DeAD GiRL?

  Next, Hunter typed “Frances Klussman Shaker Heights” into the search engine. The results were a bizarre smattering of court records and restaurant advertisements, none of which matched the full name. He tried the Plain Dealer search next and came up empty except for the public foreclosure notice that matched the county auditor’s records. He read through it, searching for anything that might help, but the legal notice listed nothing but the barest information—the address, the owner’s name.

  “So Clyde drops dead in 2014, and no children are mentioned in the obituary. I can’t find shit on the Klussmans except a foreclosure in 1993. Before that, who knows?” Hunter shifted uncomfortably in his seat. He needed to use the bathroom, and he was losing patience. “So who the fuck is Benny and this dead girl?”

  “Hmm . . . Benny. That’d be short for Benjamin, right?”

  “I guess.”

  “Let me grab a search from a newspaper aggregator. Maybe something in the criminal database.” Caleb began typing furiously. “You do a search for dead girls in Shaker Heights?”

  Hunter leaned into his screen, wheels turning. “No. Not yet.”

  “Well, it’s like a rich suburb, right? Hoity-toity?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Can’t be too many then, right? I’ll cover the online search, but you might need to hit the library. Call me back?”

  “Yeah. I should get the hell out of here for a while anyway.”

  Hunter disconnected and cleared his browser history, then took an inventory of all the embarrassing details of his life strewn about, looking for items an intruder or ghost might steal. He grabbed his wallet, his phone, his backpack. Shoving the bookcase out of the way, Hunter stepped out into the hall.

  It was empty.

  Down the corridor, loud music thumped through tiny speakers, creating a wall of sound in the yoga room. A hot breath hissed through Margot’s laptop. “Baby. Baby. Baby. That was amazing.”

  Margot lay naked on her side, flushed pink and sweaty, smiling dreamily at Camera 2. Eyes shut, she looked more relaxed than she ever did patrolling the house in her designer shoes. Even sleeping—her eyebrows furrowed together, teeth grinding with the fitful dreams and anxieties simmering under her lids—she wasn’t this peaceful. She stretched like a cat in the warm sun of the three cameras. The eyes behind them watched her every move, caressing her, cradling her. Revering her like art.

  “When can I see you again? In person this time?” His voice came through as heavy pants, his lips too close to the microphone.

  She chuckled and opened her eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “No. I’m serious. We should meet. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

  This brought another laugh and a feral gleam to her eye. “I’m sure you would, but Kevin . . .” She rolled toward Camera 2. “I told you. I’m married.”

  “So what? What’s he gonna do about it?”

  She shook her head at the thought, probably imagining Myron whipped into a rage. Myron—a man who hardly had the nerve to raise his voice to her. “I’m sorry, hon. It just wouldn’t work. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Oh, do I?” He grunted a laugh into his microphone.

  Annoyance crept back into her forehead, the familiar lines creasing the skin. “Kevin, please. Don’t ruin this. I like chatting with you.”

  “I like chatting with you too. Want to see how much?” The face on the computer screen next to her slid up and out of view as his camera panned down.

  Margot let out a small laugh, gratified by his full attention. “Well, that’s very nice.”

  “It’s for you. Let me come over there and give it to you.”

  “Hmm . . .” She batted her eyelashes at him. “I wish you could.”

  “I don’t live that far away. Your husband isn’t home.”

  She shook her head at his persistence. This wasn’t the sort of fun she was after—and then his words sank in. I don’t live that far away.

  “You don’t know where I live,” she said, sitting up.

  “I know more than you think, baby.” His voice sounded menacing now. “I know he leaves you alone all day. I know he lets you broadcast your ass all over the internet and doesn’t do a damn thing about it. So when can I come over?”

  “Will you keep your voice down?” She turned down the volume on her laptop and shot a glance at the door. Did Hunter hear that? The face on her screen had turned mean. The eyes pointed in a glare. Suddenly aware of her nudity, Margot grabbed her silk robe and pulled it on her shoulders. “I think that’s enough play for today, Kev.”

  “Like hell it is! You think you can just tease a man to the breaking point, then walk the fuck away?”

  “Yeah.” She smiled viciously at Camera 1. “Yeah, I do. That’s the whole point, you moron.”

  “What did you call me?”

  “A moron. Look it up, Junior. This session is over.” She reached for her mouse.

  “Bitch, I’m gonna find you and your fucked up husb—”

  The voice stopped with the click of a button.

  Margot pressed her lips together in a hard line while the tremor in her hands made its way up her arms. “Damn it,” she hissed at herself. It was the first time she’d ever gotten into a fight with one of her viewers. Her eyes circled the room as though trapped for a moment, and then she slapped her laptop shut.

  Hunter was halfway down the front stairs when his mother emerged from her studio in her pink bathrobe, flushed. She startled at the sight of him. “Hunter! Hi! I mean, good morning. You, uh, going out?”

  “Yeah. Library.” He hardly looked at her as he made his way down the stairs.

  “Again?” What did he hear? she wondered. “What’ve you been doing over there?”

  If he had heard anything, he didn’t let on. “Research, I guess. Walking around.”

 
; “Research on what exactly?”

  He sighed his impatience. “Dead people.”

  Her eyes widened, and she tightened her grip on her bathrobe. “Dead people? What dead people?”

  “The people that used to live here.” Feeling her worried eyes on him, he decided not to reveal his acute interest in Benny and his dead girl. “Like, a research project on the area. Did you know they buried a bunch of the old Shakers just down Lee Road next to the grocery store? There’s a plaque and everything.”

  “Really? I’ve never seen it.”

  “It’s hidden behind these overgrown hedges. The gravestones are all falling over and hard to read. Some are dated before the Civil War. But they didn’t used to be there. They used to be buried in another place along Shaker Boulevard or something, and the city dug them up.” His eyes wandered up the stairs toward the attic.

  “Wow. That’s . . . pretty interesting.” Dead people?

  He shrugged and trudged out the front door, leaving his mother staring after him.

  27

  The Rawlings Family

  January 19, 1931

  Someone was there.

  Ella felt it before their fist pounded on the front door. She set the teapot back down on the counter and headed into the foyer. No one ever knocked on their front door. Not in weeks.

  She studied the strange man on the front stoop through the side glass and reluctantly unlocked the door. He had the look of a scoundrel—unshaven face, bloodshot eyes, rumpled cheap suit.

  “I am sorry, but Missus Rawlings is not receiving guests today.” Ella kept her grip on the handle, only opening it a crack. Her foot and knee braced against the wood.

  “I ain’t here for Missus Rawlings.” The man’s breath reeked of grain alcohol. He motioned to the laundry bag on his shoulder. “Big Ange sent me with a delivery.”

  The large woman sighed. “Deliveries are to come in the back only. Yes? Go round.” Then she slammed the door in his face, shaking her head. This bad business is out of control, her expression said as she waddled through the foyer into the kitchen and to the side door. The neighbors will begin to suspect.