The Sitter

by R. L. Stine

  Yes. It had to be. Chip in his leather jacket. Running with his right arm extended.

  I gripped the windowsill with both hands and watched Chip come running at Jackson, as if in a dream, as if in a cloudy nightmare. Chip shot toward Jackson, arm outstretched. And I saw a gleam of soft light from Chip’s hand.

  A low moan escaped my throat as I saw the gleam of the knife and Chip running, running so fast, and he didn’t stop, and the arm stretched out straight, and Jackson fell back, tilted back as the knife cut into his chest.

  He toppled backward and sat on the ground. His hands flew up as he tried to protect himself. They flew up and fluttered above his head like two white birds lost in the fog.

  Leaning out of the window, I let out a scream. “Stop! Stop it!”

  But I saw Chip shove the knife in again. Again.

  I pushed myself away from the window and took off. I had to get there in time—to stop Chip, to save Jackson. I flew down the stairs two at a time, lurched outside. I burst out onto the deck, startled by the chill of the night air. I stumbled down the steps, fighting off my dizziness, my horror, and began to run through the swirls of fog at my ankles.

  “I’m coming, Jackson. I’m coming. Stay alive. Please stay alive!” I screamed as I pulled myself up the wet, grassy dune.

  No sign of Chip. He had vanished into the fog.

  My side ached. My chest felt ready to burst. Slipping on the soft, wet ground, I forced myself up the dune, to the dark line of trees in front of the guest house.

  I dropped down beside Jackson. Sprawled on his back, arms at his sides. So still and lifeless. Streams of blood soaking his shirt, his khaki shorts. So much blood.

  I dropped down beside him, gasping for breath. Leaned over him.

  And I uttered a hoarse cry of shock. “Oh, my god!”

  It wasn’t Jackson.

  47

  Clay?”

  His name caught in my throat. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move.

  “Clay?”

  With his eyes open so wide, so glassy, he really did look like a teddy bear. A teddy bear that had been cut and ripped open.

  I touched his face. I don’t know why. I couldn’t think. It was all I could do to keep from shrieking. How could I let all the horror out?

  “Clay?”

  He didn’t go away. He had come back to say good-bye in person.

  “Good-bye, Clay.” His cheek was still warm. Trembling, I climbed to my feet. Blood soaked the ground all around him. A swarm of flies buzzed around the blood.

  Why would Chip kill Clay? Chip didn’t even know Clay.

  He was out of control. And where was he hiding? Was he watching me now?

  Trembling, I turned to the house. The police. I had to call them for the second time today.

  Only this time, I wouldn’t show them animal bones. This time I had a human corpse to show them, a human who had been stabbed again and again by a sick, twisted bastard.

  Slipping on the wet sand, I took two steps toward the house. I stopped at the sound of a voice—a man’s voice behind me, calling my name.

  Startled, I cried out and turned back to the guest house.

  An orange light flickered in the window. Firelight. Someone had a fire going in the little house. Why hadn’t I noticed it before?

  Fog settled around me. Again I felt as if I were floating, floating in a dreamworld.

  Someone called my name. A soft whisper carried on the fog.

  “Who’s there? Chip? Is that you?”

  My muscles tensed. I prepared to run.

  Yes. Of course it was Chip. Waiting at the side of the guest house with his knife. Waiting to stab me, too. Waiting to cut me and cut me and cut me.

  Isn’t that what he’s wanted all along? Isn’t that why he’s been torturing me?

  Abby’s words ran through my mind: He promised me he’d take his medication.

  Far down the beach, the low drone of a foghorn cut through the air. The sound woke up seagulls all around and sent them flapping and squawking from the trees.

  And then the voice again. More insistent. “Ellie? Come here.”

  The guest house door swung open. Flickering orange light washed over the gray, sandy ground. Someone stepped into the pool of light.

  I raised my eyes and stared into the face of a ghost.

  48

  I recognized Will from the way he stood leaning against the door—one leg crossed casually over the other, his shoulders stooped. The orange light from the fire inside formed a ring around him, like an aura, but his face was hidden in shadow.

  Of course I recognized him immediately. I’d been seeing him, chasing after him, for seven years.

  Staring at him now, it was as if the fog had lifted, and I felt only the tiniest tingle of surprise, not the shock I’d imagined I’d feel at seeing a dream come true—and not the horror of seeing a dead person come to life.

  “It’s you,” I said, keeping my distance, staring at the dark figure inside the halo of orange light. “You’re alive.”

  “No thanks to you,” he said coldly, his voice deeper than I remembered.

  He moved quickly. He eased forward, three or four quick steps, then grabbed my hand, and pulled me roughly into the guest house.

  The fire crackled in the wide fireplace. A beer can rested on the mantel. The glass eyes in the deer head glowed in the light. Glancing to the back, I saw that the bed was unmade. Clothes had been tossed on the floor.

  Will let go of me, shoving my hand away. He turned his face to the fire, blond hair long and unbrushed. He wore a faded denim shirt, torn at the elbows, over straight-legged, black pants.

  “Somehow I knew,” I said. “I had the strongest feeling that you didn’t die . . . back then.”

  Silence for a long moment. And then he turned to me slowly. “I wish I did die,” he whispered. “Here. I’ll show you why, Ellie. Take a look at what you did to me.”

  He turned to me, grabbed my hand again, and tugged me close. I let out a whispered cry as his face came into the light.

  His face was red and raw and scarred. Faded red stitch marks crossed both cheeks. A deep purple scar dug into his chin. And his nose . . . His nostrils didn’t match—one gaping open, the other half-closed. I saw stitch marks down the front of both ears. His left eye kept blinking. He had no eyebrows.

  He held me close, forcing me to study his face—a monster’s face.

  I gasped and took a step back. “I—I don’t understand,” I said, lowering my eyes. “Why are you here? Why did they tell me you were dead?”

  He crossed the room and closed the guest house door. Then he turned, remaining in the shadows.

  “Do you really want to know? Do you really care? Well . . . after the crash, my parents rushed me away. To a hospital in San Diego. My uncle is a surgeon there. He specializes in plastic surgery, Ellie. And I needed a lot of that, years of that. Surgery and rehab therapy.”

  He took a deep breath and continued, the words pouring out as if he couldn’t hold them back. “My parents blamed you, and so did I. They never wanted us to see each other again. So my mother told your mother that I died. I wanted her to. I wanted you to feel bad, as bad as I did. Because you ruined my life. I’ve had seven lost years, Ellie. Seven. And in all that time . . . In all that time, Abby is the only one to care about me.”

  I gasped. “Abby? You and Abby?”

  He nodded. “She’s why I’m here.”

  I suddenly felt weak. I pressed my back against the wall. Too many shocks to take in all at once. Will alive? Abby and Will?

  “What about Chip?” I asked.

  He snickered. “He’s a tool. I’ve been here in the guest house for months, and he’s totally clueless. Abby just stays with him because he’s rich, and she and I really need the money she gets from him. She’s going to leave him. She doesn’t love him. Never has.”

  I realized I was shivering. I moved closer to the fire, my mind spinning. Seven years I’d dreamed of this moment. B
ut it wasn’t anything like what I’d imagined.

  “I . . . never stopped thinking of you, Will,” I blurted out, my voice breaking. “I never stopped—”

  “Shut up!” he screamed, slamming his fist against the door. “Shut the fuck up, Ellie. I don’t want to hear it. I couldn’t believe it when I saw you walking into their house. Seeing you was like a nightmare, my worst nightmare.”

  “You—hate me that much?”

  He nodded. The fire danced, and the red scars and stitches on his face appeared to glow, like a monstrous Halloween mask. “I just never wanted to see you again, Ellie. I thought I was safe here. I thought you were probably still in Madison.”

  My throat closed up. A wave of panic swept over me as I suddenly realized I was alone here, alone with the person who hated me most in the world.

  Clay had been murdered. Clay lay a few yards outside the door. And now here I was, alone.

  “You hate me so much, you’ve been torturing me since I arrived,” I whispered.

  His eyes widened. “Huh? What the hell are you talking about?” The scarred mask twisted into a scowl. “Torture you? You’re not worth my time. I just want to forget about you.”

  “Then why did you murder my cat?” I cried. “Why did you take Chip’s car and try to smash us off the road? Why did you cut off that old woman’s hand and—and—”

  I stopped as the guest house door swung open.

  I heard laughter. Then a soft voice. “Will doesn’t know anything about that, Ellie. You’ll have to blame me for your troubles.”

  Her face cold and hard even in the warm firelight, Abby stepped into the room.

  49

  Abby moved past Will and strode to the center of the room, her hands balled into tight fists. She wore Chip’s brown leather jacket over jeans. Her face glistened with sweat.

  “How are you two lovebirds getting along?” she asked. “Isn’t this a sweet reunion? I may puke.”

  “You!” I cried. “Abby, you killed Clay?”

  Behind her, Will gasped. “What? What did you say?”

  Abby nodded. “Is that who that was? I saw him prowling around back here. I couldn’t let him ruin our happy reunion, could I?”

  “Whoa, wait, Abby.” Will crossed the room and grabbed her arm. “What did you just say? You killed someone?”

  “Shut up, Will,” she snapped. She pushed him away and stormed up to me. “No one is going to ruin this for me.”

  I made a move to the door. But she grabbed me by both shoulders and dragged me in front of the fire. “Why don’t you remember me, Ellie?”

  My mouth dropped open. The flames danced high, leaped out at me. “Remember you?”

  “You stood in that shop in town, and looked into my face, and you didn’t remember me,” Abby said through gritted teeth, squeezing my shoulders. “How could you not remember me? How?”

  “I—”

  Her eyes grew wide with anger, with fury. Her jaw clenched tightly. “Try to remember. Try real hard, Ellie. I want you to remember!”

  I stared at her. I didn’t say a word. Did I know her? Did I? I had no memory.

  “I was in the class ahead of you. Now do you remember? Will and I went together for three years. And then you stole him away from me. How could you forget that, Ellie? How could you forget me?”

  She shook me by the shoulders, eyes blazing. “Was it because I was nothing to you? Was it because I was invisible? I was a bug you could crush under your shoes? Will was the only one in the world I cared about. The only one, Ellie. I loved him so much. And you stole him from me without even looking at me. Without even remembering me!”

  “Abby, please—!” I cried. “You’re hurting me!” Her hands dug into my shoulders.

  She was right. I didn’t remember her. I knew Will had been with somebody. But I didn’t remember who.

  “Look what you did to him,” Abby said, ignoring my cry. “Look at him. Look at his face, Ellie. You ruined him. You ruined him!”

  A sob escaped her throat, but she didn’t loosen her grip. “So now do you understand? When I saw you in that shop, I knew it was for a reason. I knew you were sent to me so I could finally pay you back.”

  “You—you hired me so you could torture me? You did all those things to me?” I said, still unable to believe it all.

  “What’s going on here?” Will demanded. “Abby, what the hell are you talking about? What did you do to her?”

  She ignored him, keeping her eyes on me. “I planned to kill you the night of the storm. I sneaked back from the party in a friend’s car. I wanted to terrify you first, then murder you. But your damned friends showed up and ruined it.”

  “Abby, listen. I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

  She grabbed my head and twisted it. “Don’t look away from Will, Ellie. Keep looking at him, at the face you made. Don’t look away—because this is what your face is going to look like now. You’re going to look just like him!”

  “Abby—let go of her,” Will shouted. He lurched toward her. “I mean it. You’re not doing anything to her. I won’t let you.”

  Abby gave me a hard shove that sent me stumbling into the wall. She picked up the wrought-iron fireplace shovel and, with a furious groan, swung it at Will’s head. It made a sick, cracking sound as it hit the left side of his face.

  Will uttered a startled grunt. His eyes rolled up in his head, he dropped to his knees, and then he collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  Stunned, I started to scramble away. But Abby grabbed me again, grabbed me with such fury and slammed my head hard against the stone fireplace.

  I let out a scream, a high, shrill wail, as she shoved me, shoved me down, shoved my head into the flames.

  50

  I shut my eyes against the bright orange glare. Hot flames licked at my face. I smelled my hair starting to singe and felt the flames on my cheeks, on my forehead, like knife stabs . . . like hot, stabbing knife blades.

  I can’t breathe.

  I twisted my head, struggled to duck away, to wrench out of her grip. But Abby was stronger than me. She held firm, pushing me down, holding my head on the fire.

  Flames wrapped around my face, swept over me, hot pain, stabbing like a hundred knife blades at once.

  I opened my mouth to scream and choked on the smoke. I couldn’t see. Couldn’t breathe. My lungs ached. My chest felt ready to explode.

  With a final burst of energy, I dropped my head hard, swung my body around, and drove my elbow into Abby’s stomach.

  She groaned. Backed up a step. Loosened her grip.

  Dizzy from the burning pain, I edged my head out of the flames—and saw Brandon enter the room.

  Brandon moved quickly. He appeared to float across the floor, to the harpoon leaning against the back wall. How did he know it was there?

  As I wrestled with Abby, my head roaring as if the flames were inside me, I saw Brandon lift the harpoon in one hand above his head. He lifted it high and prepared to toss it.

  How can a little boy raise such a heavy harpoon?

  How is it possible?

  And then, I realized it wasn’t Brandon!

  I was staring at another boy, a red-haired boy in knee breeches. A red-haired boy with glowing green eyes sunk deep in his pale, white face.

  He stared at me with those eyes. He stared for a long, terrifying moment.

  “Nanny die!” he called in a hoarse, raspy voice. “Nanny, die now!”

  Oh, my God. Mrs. Bricker’s story is going to come true.

  It’s about to happen again.

  I’m the nanny.

  Jeremiah is going to kill the nanny.

  I gave Abby a hard shove with my shoulder, sending her sliding against the wall. But I couldn’t move away in time.

  I screamed as he heaved the harpoon at me.

  I shut my eyes and waited for the pain to course through my body. Waited . . . waited for the crushing pain . . .

  “Aaaaiiiiiiii!”

  Behind me—a howl, a
high, shrill animal howl.

  My eyes shot open. I turned to see Abby crumple to the floor, the harpoon stuck through the brown leather jacket, through her shoulder, clear through her body, the rusted tip poking out of her back.

  Abby twisted onto her side, her head thrown back, screaming in agony, thrashing her legs, slapping the floor with her free hand. Blood bubbled from under the jacket, puddling beside her as she thrashed and shrieked.

  Will raised his head from the floor. “Huh?” he groaned. “Huh?” Blinking his eyes, opening and closing his mouth.

  Dazed, my face still burning, the hot flames dancing in my eyes, I turned and saw Jackson at the doorway, his mouth open in shock. “What the hell is going on?” he cried. “I saw a body out there. And—and—”

  “Jackson. Call 911,” I said.

  “Hunnnh,” Will groaned. His arms and legs twitched. He couldn’t seem to form words. “Hunnnnh. Hunnnnh.”

  Jackson had his cell to his ear, calling for the police and an ambulance. I turned to the boy.

  Brandon?

  Brandon sat on a chair against the wall, shaking his head.

  The red-haired boy had vanished.

  Was it Jeremiah Halley? Did he try for his revenge—and fail again? Did he try to murder me, the nanny, and hit Abby instead? Did that mean the curse of the guest house would continue for another generation?

  I ran to Brandon and bent to wrap my arms around him. “Are you okay? Let’s get you out of here.”

  “Where am I?” he asked, blinking at the fire. “Was I asleep? Is Daddy here? Where’s my daddy?”

  He’s talking, I realized. In a little boy’s voice, a voice I hadn’t heard before.

  I pulled him from the chair and lifted him onto my shoulder. He felt so light and frail. His little body was trembling.

  “Where’s my daddy? Where is he?”

  “He’ll be home soon,” I said softly. “Hear those sirens? Help is on the way. Help for your mommy. Your mommy is hurt, see? But she’s going to be okay.”

  Abby uttered a loud groan.