A man’s voice answered on the third ring. “This is Ezra Wu.”
“Hello, Mr. Wu,” I replied, using my most pleasant voice. “My name is Bellamy, and I just saw your ad in the paper for a summer babysitter. I was wondering if the position was still open.”
“It is,” he replied, his voice sharp and clear. “If you are interested in coming for an interview, I can see you tomorrow morning at ten.”
“I’d be glad to come.”
“Great,” Ezra replied. “Let me give you the address.”
I quickly reached for a pen, yanking and tearing off a bit of receipt paper from the register. While writing down the address, I furrowed my brow. This couldn’t be right. Yet, when I read it back to Ezra, he assured me it was correct.
Baldwin House.
The mansion on the hill overlooking Wellhollow Springs, where the wealthy and mysterious Baldwin family lived. Why these people needed a babysitter was beyond me. I always assumed rich people had live-in nannies.
“I’ll see you in the morning, Bellamy,” Ezra said before ending the call.
Hanging up the phone, I stared down at the address and pursed my lips. The Baldwins were practically royalty, being the richest family in town. Their property development company owned, and had built, most of the town and its surrounding housing developments.
Baldwin House had been shrouded in mystery ever since the family’s eldest son, Tate, had vanished. He’d been a student at my school back then—popular, smart, athletic, handsome. No one knew why he’d gone missing, and the rumors had grown more outrageous in the two years since. Around the same time that he disappeared, his parents had gated off the property and stopped accepting visitors. Their annual Halloween masquerade party had faded into obscurity, and only family, staff, and a close circle of friends were ever allowed to step foot over the threshold.
It seemed odd to me that the Baldwins would want to hire a babysitter, given how reclusive they’d all become. Despite the fact that I was usually pretty levelheaded, I couldn’t help letting my imagination run away with me.
A lot of people said Tate had gotten sick, and many even whispered he’d been disfigured in some sort of accident. Some claimed the house was haunted, others that the entire family were a bunch of psycho ax murderers.
“As long as they pay me and don’t try to murder and eat me, I don’t care what their secrets are,” I muttered out loud, laughing at myself for entertaining the rumors for even a second.
I had just dropped spaghetti noodles into a pot of boiling water when Dad came stomping in, his heavy tread echoing against the floorboards.
“Spaghetti’s almost done,” I called out, bending over to check on the garlic bread baking in the oven.
Without responding, he continued back to his room, the sound of him walking eventually fading away. With a frown, I lowered the heat on my sauce and left the kitchen, peering down the hall after him. The door to his bedroom hung open, the light casting a yellowish square against the opposite wall.
He’d stayed behind after closing to finish the books and balance out the register, urging me to go home ahead of him. Because we lived in the housing area closest to town, he often chose to walk to save on gas, and today had been one of those days. I usually worried about him walking home alone at night, because I never knew what might happen.
Edging slowly down the hall, I held my breath, listening for any sound. He murmured under his breath, and it sounded as if he were rifling through a drawer in search of something. My hands began to shake, and I clenched them into fists to still them as I reached the doorway.
He sat hunched over his desk, the pencil in his hand moving rapidly over a sheet of paper. The muttering had stopped, but he didn’t lift his head… not even when I called out to him.
“Dad?”
He continued his task, tremors causing his shoulders to spasm and jerk as if he were being shaken from the inside.
I could hear the worry in my own voice when I tried again. “Dad, are you okay?”
Still no answer. Glancing at the wall behind his desk, I found a familiar sight. Several sheets of paper lined the white space, held up by thumbtacks. They were drawings of people—but these people didn’t look human.
Ghosts, he called them. They looked half-mangled—some of them sporting gaping wounds in their faces or holes through their midsections. One looked as if an animal of some kind had ripped a huge chunk of flesh out of her face, showing her teeth through the hole in a grotesque display. Also tacked on the wall were newspaper clippings—obituaries. More sheets of paper with his messy handwriting had been attached, some with names and dates, others with causes of death.
Strangled. 10/25/12. Jennifer Davis.
Drowned. 6/05/10. Name unknown.
Lead poisoning. 1/19/11. Troy Bennett.
Some of the photos had pieces of colorful yarn connecting them. I once asked him why, and he told me it was because he believed their deaths to be connected in some way.
He was at it again, which meant he believed he had seen another ghost. When he got like this, I’d found it was best to leave him alone. After a sighting, he always wanted to document it while the memory was still fresh. I wouldn’t be able to pry him from that desk if I tried.
Retreating to the kitchen, I finished cooking dinner and made two plates. Putting Dad’s in the oven to keep it warm, I sat at the table alone with my book, happy to read in silence for the time being.
After I’d eaten two helpings of spaghetti, I remained at the table reading for at least another hour because the book had gripped me so thoroughly. There were only three chapters left by the time he finally emerged from his room.
His face was haggard and drawn, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than usual.
“Your dinner’s in the oven,” I said, giving him a quick glance before going back to my book.
He retrieved his plate and sat across from me, eating in silence. After a while, I couldn’t take the quiet any longer.
“Where did you spot this one?” I asked, dog-earing my spot and closing the book.
Pausing with the fork halfway to his mouth, he met my gaze. “Not far from the house, actually. That’s the third one in the neighborhood this month… I can’t figure out why.”
Frowning, I watched him go back to his food, head lowered. A lot of people judged my dad for what they assumed was some sort of mental disorder. However, he functioned normally in every other aspect of life, and had never given me reason to doubt his sanity. It was only when night came that he claimed to be visited by ghosts. He believed they wanted something from him, yet was never able to figure out what, exactly. So, he documented them, often going so far as to research the manners of their death, hoping for some sort of clue.
The phenomenon had begun not long after Mom died, and, at first, I figured it was just his way of coping. Over time, it had only gotten worse, becoming exhausting—wondering if he truly saw the things he said he did, worrying he might actually have something wrong with him, being angry with the people in town who whispered about him behind his back and called him crazy. Whatever was happening, my father genuinely believed he saw these ghosts.
There is so much about the world we don’t understand, my mother often said. Who are we to tell others what is true, or what they ought to believe?
I always thought she referred to things like religion, but maybe she meant convictions like my dad’s as well. She would have trusted him, so I tried my hardest to believe, too.
“I have an interview tomorrow morning,” I said, breaking the silence that had fallen between us. “It’s for a babysitting job.”
“Babysitting, huh?” he asked. “You always were good with your little cousins. What family is it?”
Hesitating for a moment, I watched his face for a reaction when I replied. “The Baldwins.”
Raising his eyebrows, he gave me a quizzical look. “I’d think a family that wealthy would have a nanny.”
I laughed. “That
’s what I thought, but when I called, they still hadn’t filled the position. Maybe they lost their nanny or something. I don’t know, but it’s for the whole summer, and all I’d have to do is keep them busy during the day while the parents are at work.”
His mouth worked as he seemed to mull that over for a moment. “I suppose it sounds like a good job, but I would still prefer you spend your summer swimming, relaxing, and going to the movies… you know, kid stuff.”
Pointing toward the little basket holding our mail—mostly bills—I raised my eyebrows. “No can do, old man.”
Nodding, he took a sip of his iced tea. “I won’t argue with you. When your mind is made up about something, you prove just how much like your mother you are.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I quipped.
Reaching out to cover my hand with his, he became serious. “I meant it as one. She would be so proud of you, stepping up to take care of me even though you shouldn’t have to. It’s not your job, but you help me keep the bookstore running and the house in shape without complaint. You’re a beautiful young woman, inside and out… I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”
Smiling and choking back tears, I placed my free hand on top of his. “I love you, Dad.”
He kissed my hand, and then stood and collected our dirty dishes. “You cooked, so I’ll clean up. Go relax and rest up for your interview tomorrow. You’ll need the car, so make sure you get some gas money from my wallet.”
“Check,” I replied, taking up my book and retreating to my room.
Once alone inside, I sank onto the bed and kicked off my sneakers before falling back onto the pillows. Curling up beneath one of my favorite blankets, I dove back into the story. Once I had finished the final chapters, the sounds of Dad washing and drying the dishes had ceased. The house was quiet, and I knew he had either gone back to his room to continue his sketching or went to sleep.
Kneeling beside the bed, I pulled out the large trunk where I stashed my books and put the finished one inside. There were a few I hadn’t started yet, so I grabbed two and climbed back into bed. After selecting one and opening it to the first page, I found my thoughts wandering, making it hard to focus. Once I realized I had read the first paragraph eight times, I gave up and left the bed.
Creeping back out into the hall, I listened at my dad’s door for a moment.
Silence.
No light spilled out from beneath the crack, so it seemed safe to assume he had fallen asleep. Tiptoeing back to my room, I closed the door, and then made quick work of putting my shoes back on. I opened the only window, threw one leg over the sill, and stepped out into the night, careful to close it behind me. My room faced the backyard, but there were no other houses beyond ours… just an open field leading to a walking trail that wound around and through town. After retrieving my bike from the shed, I wheeled it through the gate, and then began the short ride to the cemetery.
My dad would have a fit if he knew I was out on my bike this late, but I did it often. Night was the only time I could be alone with Mom, and, for some reason, I needed that today.
Luckily, the path was well lit, iron fixtures illuminating the route past the park and local swimming pool, toward the cemetery where my mother had been buried for almost two years. The wrought-iron gate hung open at the entrance, so I slowed and entered, riding my bike along the paved walkway. I located her headstone with very little effort, near the northwest corner of the yard. The flowers Dad had brought her last week were wilted and slumped in their vase. Making a mental note to bring her fresh ones next week, I lowered myself to the grass, sitting cross-legged in front of the stone.
I sat there for a long while, simply staring at the words carved into the cement.
Moriah McGuire. Wife. Daughter. Sister. Mother. 1969-2014.
After a while, the letters began to blur, and I couldn’t hold the tears in any longer. Lowering my head, I cried in silence, shoulders shaking with the effort it took not to sob out loud. I didn’t want to alert anyone who might be walking nearby to my presence here.
Swiping at my eyes, I glanced back at the stone.
“I miss you,” I whispered. “And I don’t know how to do things without you. Dad is… he makes me worry, and I wish you were here. You would know what to do. I’m graduating next year, and I always wanted to go to Spellman like you, but… I’m so afraid to leave him alone.”
As always, there was no answer. No advice. No comfort. Yet, I still felt better having come here to lay my burdens on her grave. Now that she wasn’t suffering anymore, it didn’t seem so selfish for me to come to her with my problems. Even when she’d been sick, Mom had wanted me to come to her with everything. It was the kind of person she had been—the sort who put others before herself, no matter what. The world seemed a darker place without her.
After my tears had dried, I lay there in the grass for a long while, feeling closer to her despite knowing her soul had long left the remains buried beneath me. Finally, I peeled myself off the ground and went back to my bike. Just as I threw one leg over the seat, a shiver slid down my spine, despite the fact that it was still hot and humid outside. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up, and I began to feel as if I were being watched.
A lump rose up in my throat, choking me with terror as I turned around, scanning my surroundings. Spotting nothing but trees and rows upon rows of grave markers, I breathed a sigh of relief. The sigh broke off on a gasp when movement from behind one of the trees caught my eye. The form of a person stood several yards away. It was no more than a shadow, yet for some reason, I knew it was looking at me from beneath a black hood pulled up over its head.
I stood, one leg on the bike, frozen in that stare for what felt like forever. Finally, the apparition turned away. In the blink of an eye, it disappeared from sight. Realizing I had begun to tremble, I gripped my handlebars and held tight, forcing myself to breathe. I searched for movement to see where the person might have gone, but there was nothing.
Forcing my limbs into motion, I jumped on my bike and pedaled back home as fast as I could. Maybe this whole seeing ghosts thing was genetic. Would they start following me around like they did my dad? And if that were the case, did that make me insane, or incredibly special?
Get your copy of BELLAMY AND THE BRUTE today!
Ready for your next adventure? Read The Viking’s Chosen by Quinn Loftis.
Get your copy today!
The Grown Ups' Crusade Page 29
