The Sitter

by R. L. Stine

  I thanked her and started across the street. Some people had stopped to admire an old Cadillac convertible. It was bright yellow and enormous, more like a boat than a car, with swooping tail fins.

  A lot of people collected vintage cars here in the Hamptons. I’d even seen an entire car lot where they sold only vintage cars.

  Why didn’t Chip have a normal hobby like that? Why didn’t he collect old cars instead of torturing me?

  The bakery smelled of butter and cinnamon. A young woman wearing a white apron over her T-shirt and tights looked up from her Hamptons magazine as I entered.

  My eyes stopped on the tray of scones on the counter. But I had no appetite. I didn’t really know what to ask. The young woman didn’t get up from her canvas chair. She waited patiently for me to speak.

  “I want to ask you about an order from about two weeks ago,” I started.

  She brushed back her short, streaky blond hair, but her expression didn’t change.

  “Do you remember—? Did anyone come in here and ask for an empty cake box?”

  She tilted her head, as if thinking hard. “An empty box? Mais non. No one orders an empty box.” She had a heavy French accent and spoke with a slight lisp.

  Okay, so maybe there was a cake in the box originally.

  “Do you keep a record of orders?” I asked. “You know. A record of your deliveries.”

  “Oui.” She stood up, closed the magazine, and stepped up to the register. “What kind of a cake was it?”

  “I—I don’t know. I only know where it was delivered.”

  She frowned at me. “You did not like the cake?”

  “Oh, no. No. That’s not the problem.”

  This was harder than I thought.

  “I just want to find out who sent it,” I said. “It was a delicious cake. Really.”

  She continued to stare at me. “It was a delicious cake, but you do not remember what kind it was?”

  Oh, boy. I knew I sounded like a total asshole.

  I sighed. “Could you please just tell me who sent the cake?” I gave her the address on Flying Point Road.

  She stepped over to the computer on a little table against the wall. She sat down and typed for a long while. Finally, she found it.

  “The cake was sent to the Harper residence? On Flying Point Road?”

  “Yes. Yes, that’s it.” My heart started to pound.

  “And let me see . . .” She leaned closer to the monitor and peered closely at the blue screen. “It was purchased by Mr. Chip Harper.”

  38

  Mom, I’m coming home.”

  My bedroom door was shut tight, but I whispered into the cell phone anyway. I’d crept into the house and made sure that Chip wasn’t home. I saw Abby on the deck with the kids, but her husband was nowhere in sight. I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and hurried to my room to call home and plan my escape.

  “You’re what?” My mother reacted with her usual cool. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What are you telling me?”

  “I want to come home. I don’t really have anywhere else to go.”

  I’d called Teresa first, my only friend in New York. When I tried her phone, I just got her voice mail. So I called her apartment, and May Lin, one of her roommates, told me that Teresa was in South Orange, helping her cousin move. May Lin didn’t know if Teresa was coming out to the Hamptons this weekend or not.

  I didn’t want to go back to the Harpers’ house. I didn’t want to see Chip again. But all my stuff was here. I couldn’t just run away.

  Now I knew I really wasn’t safe here. I was living with a maniac. I decided I would be safe in Madison, as far away from Chip as I could get.

  “Mom, I have to come home right away. I’m packing my stuff and—”

  “Ellie, slow down. What’s this about? Why are you whispering? Take a breath, okay, honey? And tell me what’s happening.”

  “I can’t really explain, Mom. It’s just . . . Well . . . the job hasn’t worked out, and—”

  “Oh, my God, Ellie, did something terrible happen? Are the children okay?”

  “Yes. They’re fine, Mom. It’s not about the children.”

  Jesus. Leave it to my mother to imagine the worst kind of tragedy—caused by me.

  “I’m quitting the job,” I continued, my voice trembling. A noise outside my door made me jump.

  Chip?

  “I’m quitting, and I don’t have anywhere to live. I gave up the apartment in the city, and—well—I want to come home for a while. You know. Try to regroup.”

  Silence on the other end.

  Finally, “We don’t really have much room for you, Ellie. Your father is using your room as a study. We didn’t think you’d be coming back so soon.”

  “I’ll sleep on the couch in the den, Mom. Really. It’s just for a little while so—”

  “It’s not that we don’t want you. Of course we do. It’s just that . . . Don’t you think just for once you should stick with something? You quit every job. Even your temp jobs.”

  I started to lose it. “A few days ago, you told me to quit and come home. Now you tell me to stay?” I was shouting into the tiny phone.

  Of course, darling, come home at once and we’ll take care of you. Isn’t that what a mother should say instead of arguing? Did she really think she was arguing with me for my own good?

  “Ellie, don’t lose your temper. I know how much moving to New York meant to you. And now—”

  “I can’t stay here,” I said, lowering my voice again to a whisper. “I just can’t, Mom. It—it’s not good here. I’ll explain when I see you. Bye.”

  I clicked off before she could reply. I sat on the edge of the bed, trembling, my mind spinning.

  I was living in a house with a murderer. A crazed, psycho murderer. Chip had sliced off Mrs. Bricker’s hand, murdered my cat, and tried to kill Jackson and me by battering us off the road.

  I knew I should call the police. But I was so frightened, so totally panicked. I just wanted to escape from this nightmare.

  But what about Abby?

  I have to tell her about Chip, I decided.

  She has to know what she is living with. She and the kids might be in danger, too. I can’t just run away without saying a word. I have to warn her.

  How will she react? Will she believe me? I folded the flower shop receipt in my hand to offer as proof.

  Then I took a deep breath and made my way downstairs. I found Abby on a chaise longue on the deck. She had Heather on her lap and was reading a Dr. Seuss book to her. Brandon crouched on his knees at the other end of the deck, playing with a bunch of action figures.

  She glanced up and read my face instantly. “Ellie? What’s wrong?”

  “Read. Read,” Heather insisted, slapping the book.

  “I have to talk to you,” I said, my heart suddenly pounding. “Right away.”

  Abby closed the picture book. Heather let out an unhappy cry. Brandon didn’t look up from his action figures. “Is everything okay?” Abby asked.

  “No,” I said.

  Her eyes locked on mine.

  My chin trembled. My legs suddenly felt rubbery.

  Keep it together, Ellie. You have no choice. You have to tell her.

  Holding Heather, Abby climbed to her feet. “Wait here,” she told me. “Come with me, kids.”

  Both kids started to whine. They didn’t want to move.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  She pulled Brandon to his feet, then took them both upstairs. A few minutes later, she returned, carrying a bottle of water. Regaining her place on the chaise longue, she tilted the bottle to her mouth, her eyes on me the whole while. “What’s up, Ellie?”

  I cleared my throat. I had my hands jammed in the pockets of my shorts. “This isn’t easy to say.”

  She motioned for me to pull up a chair. “Are you leaving? Is that what you want to tell me? I don’t blame you. It’s been so horrible for you here.”

  “Yes, I h
ave to leave,” I said, sliding a deck chair up close to hers. I dropped onto it and gripped the wooden arms, my hands cold and wet. “But there’s more, Abby.”

  She pulled herself up. “More?”

  “It’s about Chip,” I said, my voice breaking. “He’s the one—the one who’s been torturing me.”

  I expected her to scream or protest or get angry or call me crazy. But she stared back at me, suddenly very still. A fly landed on her forehead. She made no attempt to brush it away.

  “I can prove it,” I said. I shoved the receipt at her. “Those black flowers crawling with cockroaches—he sent them. And Mrs. Bricker’s hand . . . I went to the bakery. It was Chip’s name on the receipt for the cake box. He—”

  Abby let out a long breath.

  Was she going to defend him? Was she going to argue?

  When she didn’t speak, I forced myself to continue. “The black SUV is dented. And I found flakes of red paint on the bumper. It was him. . . . It was Chip who tried to kill Jackson and me. And my cat—”

  She clamped her eyes shut. The water bottle fell to the deck and rolled away. “Not again,” she whispered. “Oh, no. Not again.”

  I swallowed hard. My throat felt dry as sand. What was she saying? Again?

  She leaned forward and grabbed my hand. “He’s doing it again,” she whispered. “He promised me. He promised me he was taking his medication.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked. “You mean he’s done this before?”

  Tears welled in her eyes. “I stuck it out with him last time. He begged me to stay with him. He swore it would never happen again. Of course, he never went this far before. Never like this.”

  For a long, horrible moment, we just stared at each other. When she wiped away the tears, I could see the fear in her eyes. She jumped to her feet and turned to the house. “The kids,” she whispered.

  She grabbed my arm again. “Ellie, I know you want to get away from here as fast as you can. But, please. I’ve got to think of the kids. I’ve got to make some arrangements, find some place for us to go. Some place where he won’t find us.”

  Did she realize how tightly she was gripping my arm? “I really can’t stay,” I said. “I don’t feel safe. He—he—”

  “Just two more days,” she pleaded. “Just till I can make a plan, make sure we will be safe from him.” A sob escaped her throat. “Please, Ellie. Two days, that’s all. I’ll protect you from him. I can. I know how to work him. I know how to keep him down. I’ve—done it before.”

  “Well . . .” I hesitated. This poor woman. I could see she was totally panicked.

  “Just two days,” she said. “I’ll make some phone calls right away. I’ll get the kids away from here. Then I’ll call the hospital from the last time this happened and find some help for Chip. Two days. I’ll keep him away from you, Ellie. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

  “Okay,” I whispered. “Okay. Two days.”

  “Oh, thank you. Thank you. You’re wonderful.” She leaned forward and hugged me. Her hot tears rubbed off on my cheek. “You’ll be safe. Don’t worry. Just act normal, okay? That’s the main thing. Just act normal.”

  A killer in the house.

  Just act normal?

  39

  Saturday night, about nine o’clock, thunder roared over the house; I stood for a while at the kitchen window, watching lightning crackle over the dune. Sheets of rain poured down, battering the windows, driven by a strong, gusting wind off the ocean.

  Heather and Brandon were in bed, but I wondered for how long. I sat in the living room, watching a DVD of Sleepless in Seattle, waiting for the storm to wake up the kids and start them calling for me.

  I turned and saw Abby and Chip in the front entryway. He pulled an umbrella from the front closet, waited for her to arrange her rain poncho over her dress, and then handed it to her.

  Abby had kept her word. I’d had no contact with Chip all day. He had spent the afternoon at his tennis club. When he returned home for dinner, I went upstairs with the kids.

  Abby made a lot of phone calls during the day. When Chip was away, she didn’t hide how tense she was. But as soon as he walked into the house, I saw her force a big smile onto her face and act happy to see him.

  Now, I couldn’t wait for them to leave for their party.

  “Great night for a party on Dune Road,” Abby grumbled. “We’ll probably all float away.”

  “After a few drinks, I’ll be floating anyway. I won’t care about a little rain,” Chip said. He’d already had a few drinks. A pregame warm-up, he said. I saw Abby take the car keys.

  Chip opened the front door in time to let in a deafening burst of thunder. Abby poked her head into the living room. “We’ll be late, Ellie. Hope the storm doesn’t keep the kids up all night.”

  She followed Chip out the door, raising her umbrella. A gust of wind sent the door slamming against the wall. Chip reached in and pulled it shut.

  Lightning crackled overhead. The lights dimmed, then flashed back on.

  Oh, great, I thought. Just what I need tonight—a power failure.

  What I do need is some popcorn, I decided. Or maybe some potato chips.

  Thunder roared. I listened for the kids’ cries. No. So far, they were okay.

  I made myself some microwave popcorn in the kitchen and poured it into a big bowl. Then I settled down in front of the TV to watch my movie.

  “Oh.” I jumped, startled by a tap on the living-room window.

  Just the rain?

  No. Another tap—hard and loud. I jumped to my feet.

  What is that?

  Another tap. Not the rain.

  Tap tap. Like a fist rapping the glass.

  I crossed to the window and tried to peer out, but rainwater had smeared the glass. Nothing but darkness out there—until lightning flashed high in the sky, making the ground bright as day for an instant.

  In the flash of white light, I saw . . . no one.

  No one there.

  A knock on the front door made me jump. A single knock, hard. Then two knocks.

  Not the rain. Definitely not the rain.

  I stepped to the door and called out in a high, shrill voice, “Who’s there?”

  Silence now, except for the steady drumming of rain.

  “Is anyone there?”

  I pulled open the door. A wave of cold water greeted me. My sweatshirt and jeans were drenched. The porch light was on. It sent a dim triangle of light over the front stoop.

  No one there.

  I shut the door and locked it, shivering from the cold rainwater.

  I glanced up the stairs, expecting to see Brandon staring down at me. But no. Somehow both kids were managing to sleep through this.

  Another tap at the window. The side window this time.

  Tap tap. Tap tap tap. A rapid rhythm.

  A boom of thunder shook the house.

  Then two hard taps on the front window. This time a slapping sound, as if someone was pounding on the window with an open hand.

  My heart began to race. My throat felt tight and dry. Someone was out there, running back and forth from the windows to the door. Trying to terrify me? Trying to break in?

  A wave of panic washed over my body. I stood frozen in the middle of the living room, waiting, waiting for the next sound, waiting to see what happened next.

  I stared hard at two blue candlesticks on the coffee table, stared at them until they became a blue blur.

  If I stare hard enough, I can make everything else go away.

  No. Another series of taps on the window. Then a few seconds later, someone pounding on the door.

  Breathing hard, I ran from the door to the window, following the frightening sounds.

  No one. I couldn’t see anyone.

  A hard knock on the door. Then three taps on the window by the dining room.

  I ran to the window and pulled it open. “Who’s there?” I shouted into the roar of the rain. “Is somebody out there? Please answer
me! Who—?” My breath caught in my throat. My whole body tingled with fear.

  Another hard boom of thunder—and the lights flickered and went out.

  “Oh, no.” I stood frozen in darkness. I slammed the dining room window shut.

  I pressed my back against the wall.

  Ellie, don’t panic. Stay calm. It’s just a storm. You’re frightening yourself.

  No. Someone was out there. Someone was frantically trying to break in.

  And now I stood in total darkness.

  Where are the flashlights? I wondered, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. Where do they keep them? Where is the phone? Who can I call for help?

  Lightning flickered across the sky. Was that a face outside the window?

  Yes. It was. I saw a face out there, pressed against the glass.

  Oh, no. A hard pounding on the front door.

  The lights flickered back on, orange at first, then back to normal. I stumbled to the front door and pressed my ear against the wood. “Is anyone there? Who’s out there?”

  The wind howled in reply.

  I was shivering so hard, my knees started to fold. I gripped the door. And heard a voice, a soft voice, carried on the wind, “Elllllie . . . Elllllie . . .”

  I let out a cry. And jumped back from the door. My name? Someone calling my name?

  A crackle of lightning, so close, as if right in the living room. And then another long howl of wind, like a cry, like an angry cry.

  And again, my name, carried in the wind like an angry, bitter threat. “Elllllie . . . Elllllie . . .”

  Panting hard, my dinner rising to my chest, I stumbled to the window and squinted out.

  No one.

  “Ellllllie . . . Elllllllie.”

  A ghostly cry.

  Someone is out there. Someone is torturing me. Someone is breaking in.

  I’m calling 911.

  Will they get here in time? Will they?

  I stumbled into the kitchen, grabbed the phone off the wall.

  And let out a scream of horror as the back door crashed open.