The Sitter

by R. L. Stine

  We said good night to Teresa. She was sitting on some guy’s lap, a drink in one hand, her other arm draped casually around the guy’s neck. Her hair had fallen over her face, and her eyes were heavy-lidded and spacey. I don’t know if she heard me or not.

  Jackson and I made our way through the jumble of people in the house, carefully stepping around couples on the floor. In front, cars had filled the driveway and spilled onto the lawn.

  We walked arm in arm, leaning against each other. “I’m parked on the street,” he said. “By the time I got here, there had to be twenty cars lined up!”

  Parked cars lined both sides of the narrow street. The windows of one car we passed were totally steamed up, and we could see the heads of a couple in the backseat bobbing up and down.

  “That’s my car down there,” Jackson said, pointing to a new white Thunderbird convertible across the road.

  “That’s yours? You’re kidding!” I cried.

  He nodded. “Yes, I’m kidding. I’m driving a bright red Passat I borrowed from my brother.”

  We walked past a curve in the road. “Stop,” I whispered. I held him back and pointed. “Look.”

  A large deer stood in the woods, still as a statue, staring at us through the cars. Its dark eyes sparkled. It lowered its head slowly, watching us warily.

  “Oh—!” I cried out as a bright light swept over us.

  I clamped my eyes shut, blinded by the white light. I heard the squeal of brakes.

  I forced my eyes open. The deer was gone. Vanished into the safety of the woods.

  Jackson pulled me hard, and we stumbled against a black Mercedes. The car behind the headlights slowly came into view—a black SUV.

  Before the car had even stopped, the driver was climbing out. He left the car door open. He came at us, stepping through the twin headlights, a rapidly moving shadow who quickly became real. Too real.

  Clay.

  I stepped away from the Mercedes. My throat tightened with anger. “Clay—what are you doing here?”

  He ignored me. He kept his eyes on Jackson. “Keeping my girl warm for me?”

  He was dressed in city clothes—a long-sleeved white shirt that had come untucked on one side, necktie loosened, pleated khakis. He strode up to Jackson, as if I weren’t there. “That what you’re doing? Getting my girl warmed up for me? Are you the warm-up act for tonight?”

  Jackson turned to me, confused. “Who is this guy?”

  “Clay—get out of here!” I shouted.

  Again, he ignored me. He was breathing hard, short, wheezing breaths. “Why’d you do it, Ellie?”

  “Clay, just leave.”

  Jackson took a step forward. “You heard her.”

  Clay didn’t back off. “Why’d you do it, babe?” Sweat poured down his forehead. His eyes were wild. His eyebrows kept flying up and down. “Why, babe? Why the fuck did you do it?”

  “Clay, please—”

  “Why, Ellie? I’m asking you a simple question. Just tell me why. Did you really think I’d chop up an old lady? Is that why you sicced the fucking cops on me? Why did you tell them it was me?”

  “I didn’t. I—”

  “Oh, wait. I get it. I get it. You were protecting this guy. Is that what it was about?”

  I felt Jackson tense at my side. “I’m warning you,” he said softly.

  “How could you do that to me, babe? I’ve got a job, you know. I’ve got a life. Do you think I’m crazy? Do you think I’m a fucking murderer?”

  “You—you’ve been stalking me,” I said, grabbing on to Jackson’s arm. “What else could I think? First you sent me those disgusting black flowers and—”

  “Huh? Flowers?” Clay wiped sweat off his face with his shirtsleeve. “I never sent you any fucking flowers. I sent you a birthday card. That’s it.”

  “You’re lying,” I said. “You sent those black flowers. I had no choice. When the hand came, I—I had to tell the police about you.”

  “I don’t know shit about any hand or any flowers, Ellie. I sent you a card, that’s all. How come you didn’t answer my phone calls? I called you every day. How come you didn’t answer? Because you were fucking this guy?”

  Jackson lurched forward angrily. I tugged him back. “No, please,” I whispered. “He’s high. He’s totally trashed. He doesn’t know what he’s—”

  “Yeah. I’m high,” Clay broke in. “So what? So fucking what about it?” He strode up to Jackson. “And what are you high on, pretty boy? You high on her ass?”

  Clay bumped Jackson hard with his chest.

  He’s out of his head, I realized. He’s dangerous. I was wrong. He’s much crazier than I thought. He really could be the one. Sure, he had an alibi set up. But he’s crazy enough to attack Mrs. Bricker.

  “You want to do something about it?” he challenged Jackson. “You want to fucking do something?” He bumped Jackson again.

  I still had hold of Jackson’s arm, but he pulled away from me. His face was tight with anger. He let out a low growl and grabbed Clay by the front of his shirt.

  Clay threw a wild punch that sailed over Jackson’s head.

  Jackson pulled Clay up by the shirt, dragged him across the street. Clay thrashed and flailed, trying to land a punch.

  “No, please!” I screamed, my heart pounding, hands pressed against my face. “Please, Jackson—don’t!”

  31

  Clay is stocky, built like a bear. But Jackson pulled him easily, jerked him roughly across the street, then shoved him onto his back on the hood of his SUV.

  “This is between me and her!” Clay shouted. “Hey, punk—this is between me and her.”

  I could hear laughter up at the house. Music floated through the trees. It seemed a long way away.

  “Let’s just end this!” I called. “Please—”

  Jackson grabbed Clay roughly, stood him up, then shoved him to his car door. “Drive away, man. Get in there and drive away. I don’t want to hurt you. Just drive and don’t come back, hear?”

  “This is between me and her,” Clay insisted.

  But when Jackson let go of him, Clay stumbled into the SUV and climbed behind the wheel. Jackson stood beside the car, hands at his waist, breathing hard, until Clay started the engine.

  Then Clay roared past him, nearly knocking Jackson over. Clay’s hand thrust out the window, flipping us the bird as he sped away. The car zigzagged wildly down the narrow street, nearly smashing parked cars on both sides.

  I watched it until it disappeared around a curve. Then I ran to Jackson. “Are you okay? God, he’s such an obnoxious shit.”

  Jackson wiped sweat off his face with his hand. He let out a long whoosh of air.

  I kissed his cheek. “Have you been in a lot of fights or something?”

  He snickered. “Sure I have. I’m a Comp Lit major, remember? We duked it out all the time over who’s tougher—Beowulf or the Golem of Prague.”

  “No, but—”

  “Yeah, sure. Walk across the Wesleyan campus. You wouldn’t believe the fistfights! Major brawls. Blood on the grass. It’s like a war zone. Take no prisoners. Really.”

  He had me laughing. I could see he was upset. I held his arm, and it was trembling—but he was trying hard to make a joke of it.

  We stopped in front of his Passat. “Who is that maniac, anyway?” he asked, his dark eyes probing mine. “You go with him?”

  I sighed. I turned away from his stare. “I used to. I broke up with him over a month ago. But he doesn’t seem to get it.”

  “Maybe he’ll get it now,” Jackson said.

  “He—he used to be nice,” I said. Somehow I felt I had to explain. “I met him when I was temping at his office. He was okay for a while. But then he got into coke . . . and other stuff. I think it was pressure from his job. I don’t know. He changed. He’s not so nice anymore.”

  Jackson opened the car door, and I slid inside. I hugged myself to stop shaking. It felt good to sit down.

  Clay did it. The wor
ds forced their way into my mind: Clay did it. He cut off that poor woman’s hand.

  He’s crazy.

  What is he going to do next?

  But if it was Clay, did the note in the gift box make sense?

  “I’d give my right arm to see you dead. . . .”

  Did Clay really want to see me dead because I had rejected him? Was he that crazy and strung out?

  I slid down in the car seat, feeling more confused than ever. Jackson lowered himself behind the wheel. He squeezed my hand. “Good party, huh?”

  I laughed. “You are Mr. Sunshine, aren’t you? Always look on the bright side.”

  He started the car. “The bright side is that your friend Clay didn’t waste me. I was lucky he was so fucked up. I’m a bleeder, you know.”

  We drove in silence for a few moments. I stared out at the passing trees, waiting for my breathing to return to normal, trying to stop the whirl of ugly thoughts.

  Noyac Road curved and dipped. It was rutted and potholed, and so dark, Jackson clicked on the brights.

  The houses were all dark, and we passed through thick woods, trees overhanging the road, blocking the faint light from the late-night sky so that I felt as if I was being pulled through a deep, winding tunnel.

  “Man, it’s dark,” Jackson said, leaning over the wheel. “At least it isn’t foggy. One night a few weeks ago—” He stopped as bright, yellow light invaded the car. It spread over the windshield, light from behind us, the glass glowing, bright as sunlight.

  Jackson squinted into the mirror. “Whoa. Some dude is on our tail with his brights on.”

  I turned and saw the twin headlights approaching like two fireballs shooting toward us. “He’s going too fast!” I cried.

  “Hey, what’s his problem?” Jackson grabbed the wheel with both hands as we felt a hard bump from behind. “The crazy bastard!”

  Our car jolted off the road. Jackson struggled to hold on to the wheel. Before he could regain control, the car bumped us again—a hard crash of metal against metal that jolted us, tossed me forward and then back, sent us skidding, tires squealing.

  “Whoa! Jesus! What the hell!” Jackson cried.

  I turned and stared out the back. The driver was hidden behind the blazing light. But I could see that the car was tall, high off the road. An SUV.

  The road curved. I bounced hard, my head hitting the low ceiling of the Passat. I turned again and squinted through the back window. I could see our pursuer’s car clearly as it came around the curve. Yes, an SUV. A black SUV.

  “It’s Clay!” I gasped.

  I heard the roar of his engine behind us. The yellow lights swept through our car again. Again, the clash of metal against metal, a hard, jarring thud as he bumped us hard.

  Our car jumped, flew forward.

  I braced myself, slamming both hands over the dashboard, as Jackson’s car skidded again.

  “The bastard! The fucking bastard!” Jackson screamed. “He’s trying to kill us!”

  Yes, he is. He’s a killer.

  At that moment, I knew that Clay was a killer. And the accident flew back into my mind. . . .

  Seven years ago . . .

  I grabbed the wheel, and Will’s car went flying out of control.

  Over the embankment, floating for a few fleeting seconds, floating in midair as if about to take off. And then sending Will and me plunging down . . . down . . . down into a darkness so deep . . .

  For Will, the deepest darkness there is. For Will, darkness forever.

  I started to scream.

  My hands spread over the dashboard, my eyes gazing into the lights that swept over our windshield, my head tossed back, as if pulled by my ugly memories.

  I screamed and screamed.

  And the SUV slammed hard into us, a hard crunch of bumpers.

  Our car leaped and spun off the road, and we went hurtling into the woods, hurtling into the deep, deep darkness, my screams echoing off the trees.

  32

  He—followed us. He tried to kill us!”

  Abby turned in her chair and glanced up in shock as I burst into the living room. She dropped the book she’d been reading and jumped to her feet. “Oh, my God. What’s wrong?”

  I was so frightened, my senses were on super alert. An adrenaline rush, I guess. I could see every detail with such clarity.

  Abby was wearing a pale blue tank top over faded jeans. A necklace of coral beads lay on the low table next to the couch, crumpled beside a glass of red wine. Blinking hard, shaking her head, she hurried over to me. “Ellie, are you okay? Tell me—what happened?”

  I sighed and dropped my bag to the floor. “Jackson and I—we were almost killed. Our car skidded—into the woods. We could have hit a tree. We could have—”

  “Oh, my God. Ellie, you’re trembling.” She put an arm around my shoulder and led me to the couch. “Are you all right? Are you hurt? Sit down. Here. Have some of this.” She handed the glass of red wine to me. “Go ahead. Oh, my God. You’re white as a sheet.”

  I took a long drink.

  Abby sat down beside me. “What happened? You were in an accident?”

  “No. It was Clay. My crazy ex-boyfriend. He—he bumped us off the road. He was trying to kill us! Luckily, our car came to a stop against some soft pine shrubs. Jackson drove me home and—”

  “Jackson? Is that a guy you know?”

  “I met him the other night. At a club. He was driving me home from the party. But then Clay came up behind us. He started bumping us, slamming into us—”

  Abby grabbed the cordless phone off the coffee table. “We should call the police. Right away.”

  “No. I—” I hesitated, my mind spinning. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to make Clay even angrier, even more dangerous. “I don’t really know if it was Clay,” I said.

  Pretty lame, El.

  I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d spent too much time talking to endless police officers. I just wanted Clay and the police—I wanted them all to go away, to disappear.

  I emptied the wineglass. The red wine felt so soothing going down my throat. I felt my heartbeat slow to normal.

  Abby filled my glass and poured another one for herself. “Well, I’m glad you’re okay, Ellie. It’s been one thing after another since you arrived, hasn’t it?” Her eyes were studying me intently.

  I glanced down at my wineglass. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I’ve been such a problem. Maybe I should go.”

  “No. Please.” She squeezed my hand. “We’ll get through all of this. Chip and I don’t want you to leave. It’s nearly July. It would be so hard to find a replacement now. Besides, the kids would be very upset if you left. Brandon, especially.”

  I took a long sip of wine. I pictured the black SUV roaring behind us, slamming us, the clang of bumpers, and I heard my screams, my high, shrill screams as we slid out of control, into the woods, into darkness.

  History repeating itself.

  Again, I pictured Will—fair, blond Will. I’m sorry, Will. I grabbed the wheel, and we went flying.

  Would I always picture Will?

  Abby’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Well, I do have some good news for you, Ellie.”

  Good news? I shook my head, brushing Will away.

  “Your cousin called tonight. She found someone to drop off your cat. He’s going to bring it here tomorrow.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” I said. “I haven’t seen Lucky for so long. I’ve missed him so much.”

  Maybe Lucky will live up to his name.

  I took a final sip of wine. Then I set the glass down and said good night to Abby. I thanked her for being so kind and so understanding.

  “Get some sleep,” she said. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

  The wine had calmed me, but I felt a little dizzy. I held on to the railing as I climbed the stairs to my room. Would I be able to sleep?

  I tossed my clothes on the closet floor and pulled on a long cotton nightshirt. The bedroom windo
w was open, and outside, the crickets were making a racket.

  I crossed the room to the window, peered out into the backyard—and gasped.

  At the top of the dune, a light flickered in the guest-house window. I blinked. Squinted hard through the line of pine trees.

  Yes. I saw it again. A tiny red dot of light, like the tip of a cigarette, moving slowly.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” I murmured, holding on to the curtains, gripping them tightly, holding on to something real—flimsy but real. A chill slid down my back.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts. I’m not going out there again.”

  I pulled the curtains over the window and climbed into bed.

  I awoke to a dark and rainy morning. The curtains flew violently at the window. Rain had puddled on the windowsill and the floor in front of it.

  At breakfast, Abby said, “I’ll take Heather this morning. Why don’t you drive Brandon to the Whaling Museum in Sag Harbor? I think he might like that. I don’t want him sitting home watching TV all day.”

  So Brandon and I drove to the museum, the car splashing through deep puddles of rainwater, the sky dark as night. “The museum is very interesting,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic. “It’s all about the old whaling ships and sailors who used to hunt whales in the ocean here.”

  Brandon’s expression didn’t change. He clicked on the radio and turned the volume up all the way.

  The noise startled me, and I nearly swerved off the road. Music blasted through the car like an explosion. My hand fumbled for the knob. Finally, I clicked the radio off.

  “Stop it, Brandon.” I tried to keep my voice low and calm, but I couldn’t hide my anger. “That wasn’t funny. You scared me.”

  He tilted his head back and laughed.

  To my thinking, he had become more hostile and angry since I had arrived. And I still hadn’t forgiven him for trying to drown his sister. For standing there so calmly and watching Heather sink below the waves.

  Abby said Brandon’s shrink was dealing with it all, but I didn’t see any signs of progress. And I certainly didn’t see any signs that Brandon liked me or was the least bit attached to me, as Abby claimed.