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PROLOGUE
Carl Brimley was not a man who liked his job. But he liked his job even less when it was eighty-somethin’ degrees out, and there wasn’t A.C. or a drop of filtered water in sight. Though, he supposed the water bit mighta been a little his fault. He was the plumber, after all, but he was bettin’ a house as crappy as this wasn’t lookin’ to install Brita filters and new faucets anytime soon. Man, what a dump.
The neighborhood kids had a lot of names for the old Randall place, including Monster Mansion and Murder Shack. Ripper Randall was quite the famous character around these parts, which was why Carl had been so shocked someone had bought the darn place. He was doubly surprised when that same someone called him to come take a look at the rusted pipes. That meant someone wanted the Murder Shack to be liveable. He figured it woulda been more of a museum or a spot on one of them ghost tours the Main Street district had been puttin’ on. Ohio didn’t have a lot goin’ for it sometimes, but it was considered one of the more haunted states, and their little town milked it for all it was worth. Carl figured with all the true crime stuff he saw all the time, the town of Delaney might wanna cash in on their famous boogeyman.
But nope, his newest client wanted pipes in perfect working order, as well as a quick bathroom remodel and touch-up that spared every expense. This guy was aiming for the landlord special—a coat of paint and a few quickly rigged finishing touches to make the place seem good enough, like a Band-Aid on the Titanic’s hull.
“Godd—” Carl began to swear under his breath just as the click of expensive shoes filled his ears nearby. He mentally prepared himself for whatever conversation might be coming up.
“Well, how is it going?” Lionel Evans said with a huff as he crossed his arms and leaned in the doorway. “Pipes alright?”
Carl gave the man a quick sideways glance as he twisted the fitting, then nodded. “Yup.” He made sure to pop the p on the single syllable. Men like Evans were a real pain in his ass.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Evans sniffed imperiously. “You’re wondering why I even bought the place, aren’t you?”
Carl sighed and slid out from under the sink all the way. “All due respect, sir, but it ain’t exactly the kind of house people would buy or live in. I know you’re from Cleveland and all, but down this way—”
“Hunting Valley,” Evans corrected. “It’s the nicest part of Cleveland, actually. And I don’t intend to live here. Do you know there are four universities within a thirty-minute drive of this little podunk town? Kent… Akron… Walsh… Malone… yadda yadda… and all those kids need lodging. I’ll squeeze the younger population for all their worth if I can. It’s good for them. You know, a place like this has character.”
“I’ll say,” Carl whispered under his breath.
Lionel Evans gave the plumber a sharp look. “If you’re referring to the home’s colorful history, that’s exactly why I bought it. Kids these days eat that crap up with a spoon.” He narrowed his eyes. “But it’s all nonsense, anyway, isn’t it? You aren’t the sort of man who believes in all that ghost stuff, are you?”
He said the word ghost like he’d just found a nice wad of dog shit on the bottom of his shiny shoe.
“All due respect, sir,” Carl repeated as he sat up fully, then mopped at his red, sweat-slicked face with his sleeve. “All that ghost stuff means a lot to some folks ‘round here.” He caught Lionel’s unhappy expression, then rushed to explain. He still wanted to be paid, after all. “I-I just mean, sir, that if you’re visiting Delaney, you might wanna be careful about what you say. Wouldn’t want to make people not want to rent, right? Even those students got some parents ‘round this way.”
Lionel scratched his jaw, then shrugged. “I suppose if you people insist on keeping the incident as a town… tradition, I can be diplomatic. But there’s murder all over, Mr. Brimley. I don’t see why any other crime in any other small town is such a big deal. A few murders don’t make Delaney special.”
Carl winced as he began to sort through his tools. “Not sure I’d call it just a few murders, sir.”
Carl wasn’t sure how to impress upon Mr. Evans just how important it was he not be flippant about the murders. There were still relatives all around Delaney who remembered those girls, as well as the monster that took them. If he said the wrong thing at the One Stop or at any of the bars, Mr. Evans might not just be missing out on some money but some of his teeth as well.
Lionel flapped his hand toward Carl. “Yes, well, they caught the guy, right? Back in what… 1959? 1962? I mean, what does it matter?”
“1957,” Carl said stiffly, moving his hands quicker so he could be done with the job and with the conversation. “And my father was one of the men who brought him in.”
Lionel arched a brow. “Oooh, they rustled up a posse, did they?” He smirked. “I love these little small towns. So Americana.”
The slick man gave a shark’s grin Carl’s way, then looked at his cuticles for a moment. Carl had been a blue-collar man all his life, but he’d never before felt so clearly like the lowly hired help.
Finally, after a beat of awkward silence—one where Carl wasn’t sure how to proceed without wringing his new employer’s neck and where the aforementioned employer looked both simpering and bored—Lionel tapped his fancy watch and impatiently met Carl’s gaze.
“Time is money, Brimley, and we have a tenant coming tomorrow to view the place,” he said crisply. “Send me an invoice when you’re done.”
“The new tenant, s-sir, is it a woman?” Carl said, pulling out a well-worn handkerchief to mop at the sweat on his forehead.
Lionel sneered. “I’m not sure you can ask a question like that in this day and age. Why, Brimley, you wouldn’t want to be canceled.” He snickered, then turned on his heel before speaking at Carl over his shoulder. “And why would it matter, anyway? Old ghost stories, right? Just a bunch of hocus pocus.”
Carl sighed, then swallowed with a dry click. There was nothing he could say. He just hoped to whatever higher power there was that it wasn’t a girl. This house was bad luck for girls. If it was a girl, she had to be from out of town. If she was from here…
What sort of girl would willingly move into the murder house?
1
MARNIE
“Thank you, Mister Evans,” I said, beaming my most affable and friendly smile. I was doing just about whatever I could to project the whole “happy housewife” thing, even if I was less a housewife and more a diner waitress. Oh, and I guess I wasn’t exactly happy, either.
