The Sitter

by R. L. Stine

  I admit it. He was only four years old, and I was growing to hate him.

  I parked the car at the curb in front of the Whaling Museum. It was a white, Colonial-style building behind a closely trimmed lawn and a white picket fence. I glanced around. We were on a residential block of sprawling old houses, well-maintained treasures that people probably kept in their family for generations.

  I grabbed Brandon’s hand. Ducking our heads, we ran through the rain. I pulled open the door to the museum, and we darted inside.

  I expected something out of the 1850s, dark and mildewy, with fishermens’ nets strung along the walls or over the ceiling. But the museum was bright and dry. We checked our rain ponchos. I paid the admission, and we began to wander around.

  The building clearly had once been someone’s house. I tried to imagine what it would be like to live in such big rooms with the grand, high ceilings, the majestic staircase winding up to even more wonderful space.

  To my surprise, Brandon seemed interested in the displays. He tugged me into the first room. Large black-and-white drawings of whaling ships on the walls. An enormous blowup of an old engraving of a whaler leaning over the side of his boat to heave a harpoon at a fleeing, monstrous whale.

  And in the center of the room, a small wooden boat that appeared hand-carved. A sign explained that once the whale was spotted, whalers used this small, sleek boat for fast pursuit.

  Brandon slid his hand along the side of the boat. Then he turned and ran into the next display room without waiting for me. I found him admiring a long harpoon mounted on the wall. He studied the sharp metal point. Then he reached up to grab the handle.

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said. “Do you know how much that harpoon must weigh? A lot more than you do!”

  He gazed at it for another long moment. Again, he tried to reach it, this time on tiptoe.

  “No way, Brandon. What is your problem?” I pulled him away from the harpoon.

  We discovered a movie about whales running in the next room, a dark room with rows of benches for viewing. Two little boys sat in the back watching intently as a whale lifted itself over the ocean surface. Brandon immediately took a seat at the front.

  I had a sudden inspiration. “Do you want to stay and watch?” I asked from the doorway.

  He nodded.

  “Then I’ll be back in ten minutes,” I said. “Don’t go anywhere. Just watch.”

  He nodded again, eyes on the leaping whale.

  I walked back to the front desk and asked if the museum had a reference room. The woman pointed to the stairs. “Room 203. I think Gladys is up there, if she isn’t on her break. She’ll help you find things.”

  Gladys turned out to be a trim, smartly dressed older woman with bobbed white hair and tight, smooth cheeks that suggested more than one face-lift. I told her I wanted to find information about a house built in the 1850s.

  She tried to frown, but her face was too tight. “That would be hard,” she said. “We’ve just started to computerize. Everything’s just in card files and old scrapbooks. Maybe if you had a name? The owner of the house? I might be able to look up a name.”

  I shut my eyes, trying to remember the name of the captain in Mrs. Bricker’s story. Halsey? No. Halley? “The name was Halley,” I said. “A whaling captain.” I spelled it for her.

  “Are those Guess jeans?” she asked, staring at my legs. “Do Guess jeans fit that well?”

  “Uh, actually, these are Old Navy,” I said.

  She sniffed, no longer interested. “Halley,” she muttered. “Let me see.”

  A few minutes later, she pulled some frayed, yellowed cards from a cabinet. She waved them triumphantly. “Thomas Halley?”

  “Maybe. I—I don’t really know his first name.”

  Gladys walked to a shelf at the back of the room, bent, and pulled out two bulging scrapbooks. “I think there might be some old clippings. Let’s check in these, dear.”

  She spread the scrapbooks out on a long library table and, checking back at the little cards, sifted quickly through the pages. “Hmmm . . . Halley. That’s close to Halsey, isn’t it. Halsey is a big family name out here. Half the roads in the Hamptons are named Halsey this and Halsey that.”

  I wondered how Brandon was doing downstairs. Was I leaving him alone for too long?

  “Oh, my goodness!” Gladys declared. “There appears to be a scandal, dear.” She spun the old book around so I could see it.

  The newspaper clippings were torn and brown with age. But the headline—YOUNG VILLAGE MAN MURDERED IN WATERMILL COTTAGE—was easy to read.

  My heart started to pound. I suddenly felt light-headed. I pulled a metal chair out from the table and slumped into it. Then I let my eyes scan the old story.

  Yes. Yes. It was all true.

  Capt. Thomas Halley . . . His son Jeremiah . . . Jeremiah murdered the young man. . . . Heaved a whaling harpoon through his heart . . . Police find it mysterious. . . . How did the little boy lift such a heavy object? The father is a more likely suspect—but he wasn’t home at the time of the murder. . . . The nanny ran to the police constables. . . . The nanny and the deceased were rumored to be courting. . . .

  My eyes stopped at the bottom of the clipping. My eyes scanned the words, and my mouth opened in a startled gasp:

  The boy, Jeremiah Halley, has gone silent and will not answer questions.

  Mrs. Bricker, your story was true.

  “Is something wrong, dear?” Gladys stared at me from the other side of the table. “You’ve suddenly gone so pale.”

  “No. I’m okay,” I said, shoving the book away. “Thank you so much. Thank you for your help. I—have a little boy downstairs. I’d better get back.”

  I have a little, SILENT boy downstairs.

  A boy who was fascinated by the big harpoon on the wall.

  The museum was hot, but I suddenly felt so cold. A frightening cold, a chill from the distant past . . .

  No!

  I still don’t believe in ghosts, Mrs. Bricker.

  Well . . .

  . . . maybe just a little.

  I found Brandon sitting like an angel, hands clasped in his lap, watching whales spout and leap on the little movie screen. He was scrunched down on the seat and had the sweetest smile on his face. He seemed so tiny and frail and harmless.

  I wanted to run my hand through that curly black hair and tell him I was sorry about all the angry thoughts I’d had about him.

  What’s troubling you, Brandon? What is it? Why don’t you tell me?

  I’m sure it has nothing to do with Jeremiah Halley. It can’t have anything to do with Jeremiah Halley because he died over a hundred years ago. And we don’t believe in ghosts, right?

  The Whaling Museum is about two blocks from the town of Sag Harbor. We drove into town. The sky was starting to brighten, the rain having stopped, leaving the trees and houses glittery and dripping and shiny as new.

  Abby asked me to pick up some things at the little IGA in town. Sag Harbor was crowded for a weekday, but I found a parking space in front of the old-fashioned looking five-and-dime, and pulled in.

  I turned to Brandon. “Would you like to explore this old store before we pick up the groceries? It looks kinda cool.”

  He thought about it for a long while, then nodded.

  I turned off the ignition, tucked the car key into my bag, raised my eyes to the windshield—and saw Will walk out of the dime store.

  33

  The first time I made love to Will was after the fall Homecoming dance. We did it in the backseat of his car, and it lasted only a minute or two, and I wondered what all the fuss was about. I think I would have enjoyed it more if I hadn’t been so worried about staining my dress.

  Will and I had been going together for such a short time. I guess I made love to him that night because Dawn Fregosi and Amy Kruschek—my two best pals and confidantes—said they planned to get laid after the Homecoming. In fact, they were double-dating, and the plan was
for the four of them to do it at Dawn’s house because her parents were in Florida—in the same bed side by side.

  I was surprised about Amy because she said she’d never really done it, not even with Johnny Harmon, whom she was crazy about. She said she only gave blow jobs because that wasn’t really sex.

  So I don’t know if it ever happened. I had a feeling maybe Amy had wimped out. But I didn’t get the whole story because Dawn and Amy never talked about it, and I felt kinda weird bringing it up, even though I thought about it a lot.

  I wasn’t competitive with Amy and Dawn. I liked them and even trusted them, which is a hard thing in high school. But I always wondered why they wanted to be my friend. I never really accepted the fact that I was part of their crowd. I always felt as if I were some kind of an impostor, that I was just passing for cool, and someday they would find me out and expose me, humiliate me in some way, and then never talk to me again.

  Typical high school bullshit, right?

  Of course, we went to the Homecoming dance as a goof. Everyone I knew did. We were way cool and above such things as school dances, above everything. There was nothing we couldn’t sneer at.

  Except boys. We took them seriously, God knows.

  Before the prom, Amy, Dawn, and I met at Dawn’s house, and we put on our makeup in the dark. That’s right. In the dark. Because, you see, we knew it would be dark at the dance. So we put on our makeup with the lights off to make sure we looked good in the dark.

  We didn’t think it was crazy. We thought it was totally necessary.

  Will was a fabulous dancer. He had a natural grace. He moved so well, and it looked so easy for him. The same kind of grace he had on the basketball court when he’d stop and seem to fly back through the air as he sent up his jump shots.

  He was very funny all night, dancing crazy, being silly, being a parody of a Homecoming dance date. But during the one slow dance, where we held each other and danced so close, I could feel him pressing against me, pressing against me. And I knew how the night would end.

  Yes, I was excited. Because it was Will. Blond, graceful Will, who was so funny, who had picked me.

  If only we’d had a place to go. If only it had lasted longer.

  After that night, Will acted as if he owned me. And that’s when it started—and when my feelings started to change. I didn’t know it then. I didn’t figure it out till much later.

  But those two uncomfortable, sloppy minutes in the car changed everything.

  Of course I still cared about Will. Of course I was still so thrilled and amazed that he had picked me. But did I really want to be owned? No. Did I want to be a possession, like one of those silly chrome basketball trophies he kept on his dresser?

  Not really.

  I didn’t like the way he slid his arm around me when he came up to me in school. I’d be talking to someone, and there would be Will, grabbing me, wrapping his arm around my neck, roping me in like a runaway calf.

  Yes, suddenly there were things I didn’t like. Even while he was kissing me, his hands under my sweater so gentle but needy, even with the excitement of being so special to someone, there were things I didn’t like.

  Why were his lips so mushy and wet? Did he really think it was sexy to slobber all over me?

  Later, I felt guilty about every complaint.

  Our whole time together was so short, so damned short, like the two minutes in the backseat of his car. I should have had more. More of Will. More time.

  And now, there he was in front of my car in Sag Harbor, stepping out of the dime store.

  I shoved the car door open—slamming the car parked next to me. “Will—! Hey!”

  He turned. Did he see me?

  He had a white plastic bag in his hand. He tucked it under his arm and started to jog down the sidewalk.

  “Will—wait!”

  I lurched out the door. Forgot about the seat belt. It jerked me back. I fumbled to unfasten myself.

  “Will? Hey—Will?”

  I saw his blond hair. Saw him dodge two bent old men with canes. The sidewalk was crowded. People moved slowly, window-shopping, chatting casually.

  I saw the blond hair, saw the white bag in his arms.

  Was he running from me? Why was he running away?

  I leaped from the car and took off, my sneakers thudding the pavement. Forgetting about Brandon. Leaving the car door open.

  “Will—?”

  “Look out!” a voice shouted, and a lanky teenager in an open Hawaiian shirt roared past my feet on a skateboard.

  I stumbled back, into a display sign in front of a clothing store.

  “Will, please!”

  People were staring now.

  I stopped. He had vanished again.

  I grabbed the back of a bench. Gripped it with both hands, leaning all my weight on it, and waited for my heart to stop pounding against my chest, waited for the sidewalk to stop tilting and swaying.

  Will vanished again.

  But it couldn’t be Will, I told myself, still sucking in air, still searching the crowded sidewalk.

  Will vanished seven years ago.

  Will died, Ellie. He’s dead. So you’ve got to stop seeing him.

  You. Have. To. Stop.

  My shrink back in Madison told me I’d stop thinking about Will someday. He said one day I’d stop seeing him. One day I’d put my ghosts to rest.

  I believed him then. I really did. But I didn’t believe him anymore.

  My ghost was back.

  I stood up. Pushed back the hair that had fallen over my face. Took a deep breath and started back to the car.

  I saw Brandon still sitting in the passenger seat. He was fooling with the dials on the dashboard. The driver’s door still hung open. I shut the door and made my way over to Brandon’s side to let him out.

  A horn honked. Someone shouted my name.

  I turned and saw Clay, his head sticking out of his black SUV, waving to me. “Hey, Ellie. Hi!”

  I wanted to scream, but I held it back. I balled my hands into tight fists and stormed up to Clay.

  “You—you shit!” I shrieked. “How could you call to me? How could you face me?”

  He froze for a second. Then his face reddened as his smile faded. He blinked at me, acting confused, acting as if he didn’t understand. “Whoa, Ellie. Please—”

  “You tried to kill me!” I cried. I slammed my fist on his car door.

  Bad idea. Pain shot up my arm.

  “Kill you?” He kept the confused look on his face. “Hey, I’m sorry. I came on a little strong last night. I was a little ripped, I guess. I didn’t mean to give that guy a hard time.”

  “Clay, you shit! You liar!” I banged my fists against his car again.

  People were staring. I didn’t care.

  “You crazy shit! You bumped us off the road. You could have killed us.”

  I glimpsed Brandon in the car. He had his hands pressed over his ears.

  “I what?” Clay gave me the innocent, wide-eyed, baby boy look. “I bumped you? Have you fucking lost it, Ellie?”

  “I’m calling the police. I’m going to file a complaint, Clay. You used your car as a weapon. You followed us. You crashed into us again and again. You tried to kill us.”

  “You’re fucking crazy. I mean it. I didn’t follow you. Why would I follow you? I drove back to the house I’m staying at. I never followed you.”

  “You liar!” I screamed. “Of course you deny it now. You tried to kill me. Of course you deny it.”

  I jumped back as he shoved open the door and slid out of the car. “You think I would dent up my new SUV? Huh? You think you’re so hot, I’d dent up my new car for you? Is that what you think? Here. Take a look.”

  He grabbed my arm roughly and pulled me to the front of the car.

  “Take a look. Check it out. You see any dents anywhere? Go ahead. Look. You say I bumped you again and again? You want to accuse me? Take a good look, Ellie. You see any scratches? You see any mark
s on the car?”

  I leaned down and examined the front of the car.

  No.

  No marks on the bumper. No scratches or dents on the fenders. The headlights okay, not cracked. No marks anywhere. The chrome shiny and new. The bumper spotless.

  “You want to call the police on me again? You really think I’m a fucking murderer? You gonna call the police again? Look at the car, Ellie. Look at the fucking car. I didn’t follow you. You’re crazy.”

  He bumped me out of the way and climbed back behind the wheel.

  And then it hit me: I’m crazy.

  He’s right. I’m crazy.

  The car was spotless. Not the tiniest speck on it.

  I stood up straight and took a deep breath. “You could have gotten it fixed,” I muttered.

  “When? At two on a Saturday night? Yeah. Lots of garages are open then.”

  “Just stay away from me, Clay.” My voice broke. “Just stay away from me, get it?”

  “No problem,” he said. He didn’t say it angrily. He said it wearily, defeated. “No problem, El. I’m real sorry. I was crazy about you, you know. You want to turn me in to the police for that? Go ahead.”

  He rolled up his window. Then he squealed away. I saw the policewoman at the crosswalk turn angrily and watch the SUV roar down Main Street.

  I stood there at the curb, feeling dazed.

  It had to be Clay in the black SUV last night. It had to be Clay crashing into us, hitting us, bumping us until we slid into the woods.

  But the car would have scratches. Even a tall SUV would have marks on the bumpers, some sign of the impacts.

  And if it wasn’t Clay . . .

  If it wasn’t Clay . . .

  Who?

  I climbed back into the car. I started the engine. I was halfway out of the parking space when I realized I’d forgotten to pick up the groceries for Abby.

  I pulled back into the space. I turned and saw Brandon staring at me.

  “I’m sorry I was screaming back there,” I said. “I—had a misunderstanding with someone I know. You know. An argument? It was no big deal.”

  His dark eyes were so wide. His slender face was so pale.

  “Brandon, are you okay?” I asked.