The Sitter

by R. L. Stine

  “I don’t believe it, either,” I said, my voice breaking. “But it’s all true. And I can’t wait to get away from here. Tomorrow is my last day.”

  We drove in silence for a few minutes. I could see he was thinking hard. “How are you getting back to the city?” he asked. “Can I give you a lift?”

  “Huh? You want to drive me to the city? No, I couldn’t—”

  “There are some friends there I’ve been meaning to visit,” he said, turning into the parking lot behind the restaurant. “This would be a good excuse.”

  I’d stared at him. “Do you mean it? That would be great!”

  Now, he hungrily finished my home fries and half my omelet. He reached across the table and held my hand. “Sorry you’ve been living through such a nightmare, Ellie. I wish there was something I could do.”

  “You already are,” I told him. “You’re taking me away from here.”

  The waitress brought our coffee, and she set down a slice of cheesecake for Jackson. “We can still see each other in the city, right?” he asked. “I mean, I got my orientation materials in the mail from Cardozo today. You know. It’s in the Village. I’ll be in the city full-time, so—”

  I squeezed his hand. “I’m really happy about that,” I whispered.

  He drove me back to the Harpers’. It was only ten o’clock when we pulled up the driveway. Through the front window, I could see Chip pacing back and forth, alone in the living room.

  “I—I don’t want to go in yet,” I said.

  We climbed out of the car. I pulled Jackson up the driveway and around the side of the house. Did Chip see us? I glanced into the window as we passed. He was still pacing, a drink in one hand.

  I tugged Jackson into the deep shadow of the house, and we made our way across the backyard, up the dune that led to the guest house, hidden in a pool of darkness behind the line of pine trees, and to the ocean.

  Clouds covered the moon. No stars in the sky. The air felt heavy and wet. We pulled off our sneakers and walked barefoot along the shore, hand in hand, leaning against one another as frothy, cold water washed over our feet.

  I stopped and leaned against Jackson to pull away a clump of seaweed that had tangled around my ankle. And as I stood up, he pulled me close and kissed me. I didn’t pull away. He tightened his arms around me. The kiss didn’t end—I wouldn’t let it end. I opened my mouth to him, and we pressed against each other and kissed and kissed.

  And I found myself thinking, This is so romantic.

  And that’s all it was. It wasn’t about anything else. It wasn’t about him trying to prove something to me or me trying to find something in him.

  It was just romantic.

  And when I finally ended the kiss, so breathless, so wonderfully fluttery and breathless, and I whispered in his ear, “Let’s make love—right here on the beach,” it was just romantic, not anything else.

  “Yes,” he whispered, and kissed me again. And, still kissing, we were on our knees on the cool, damp sand. He pulled me tight and pressed me against him. I could barely breathe.

  I wanted him. I wanted him so badly. I lowered my hands to his waist.

  And felt a tap on my shoulder.

  And then another. And then a cold, wet tap on my forehead.

  “Rain,” I whispered, gazing up.

  Without warning, it started to pour. Large raindrops pattered the sand.

  Jackson laughed. “Talk about poor timing.” He pulled me up, and holding hands, we started to run.

  Gusts of wind slapped the rain at our backs as we hurried up the dune. We were both drenched by the time we reached the top.

  I pulled Jackson to the guest house door. “It’s dry in there,” I shouted over the roar of rain.

  He squinted at me. “You sure you want to go in there?”

  I didn’t even think about it. I wanted to make love to him so badly. I grabbed the knob, twisted it, and pulled open the door. I put aside the curse and Mrs. Bricker’s ghosts and her stupid warnings, and I pulled Jackson into the guest house.

  Holding on to him, I glanced around, startled, disoriented because I had never been inside. And now here I was, clinging to Jackson, kissing his cheek, kissing his neck, his skin so salty from the ocean winds, gazing over his shoulder around the front room in the ghostly gray light, everything black and gray as if we’d stepped into an old movie.

  I glimpsed a deer’s head mounted on the wall. A low stack of firewood in front of the narrow fireplace. And yes, a long harpoon—the harpoon?—leaning against the mantel.

  I didn’t care about that now. I cared only that I had hold of Jackson, and we were so close, so close, our bodies pressed together, and we were kissing . . . kissing . . . Staggering over the floor together, bumping an armchair, then a couch.

  And in the back room, a bed. An old quilt tossed over it, and even two or three pillows against the headboard. And I pulled Jackson’s T-shirt over his head, still kissing him, kissing his chest now, wanting him so badly.

  My skirt dropped to the floor, and he was tugging off my T-shirt. Kissing my shoulder, my breasts, and I felt I couldn’t breathe. And then, still holding each other, we were on the bed, and I lowered my lips down his body and took him into my mouth, and he let out a soft cry of surprise, and a few moments later, we were making love, rocking up and down so gently on the old, abandoned bed, so gently, but the ancient springs creaked anyway, creaked with each loving move.

  This is the first time I wanted it, I thought.

  The first time it wasn’t because the guy wanted it, the guy needed it.

  The first time . . . the first time . . .

  I pressed my mouth against his neck as he moved above me. He tasted so salty and sweet.

  “Yes . . . oh, please . . .” The first time . . .

  I raised myself to him, raised myself.

  I froze when I heard the cough. Muffled. Across the room.

  “Oh, my god! Jackson—someone’s in here!”

  44

  Jackson slid off me. Our bodies were hot and bathed with sweat, stuck to each other.

  I turned and squinted through the hazy light. “Who’s there?”

  Footsteps. I heard running footsteps. Heard the front door slam.

  “Hey—!”

  Jackson leaped to his feet and ran naked to the front. I saw him push the front door open. I sat up, pulling the quilt around me.

  “Who is it? Can you see?”

  Jackson returned to the room, shaking his head. “I didn’t see anyone. I heard someone running. But I couldn’t see him.”

  He dropped beside me on the bed and slid his arm around me. He pressed his forehead against mine. “Are you okay?”

  I kissed him. Then I whispered, “Let’s get out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”

  I lingered with Jackson behind the house until I saw all the lights go off. Then I guessed Chip had gone to bed, and it was safe to go inside.

  “See you tomorrow night,” I whispered, and then he was gone. And without him, I suddenly felt chilled. As if all the warmth had been taken and I had been dropped back into this cold, frightening place. I hurried inside through the kitchen door and then tiptoed up to my room.

  My last night in this room, I thought. My last day in this house.

  I could still feel Jackson’s salty, warm skin against mine. I could still taste him on my lips.

  I clicked on the light.

  And saw Brandon sitting on my bed.

  I let out a startled cry. “Brandon? It’s so late,” I said, louder than I’d intended.

  He raised his dark eyes to me slowly. Like two black holes, I thought, leading where? To the mysteries of the universe? What did he see with those vacant eyes? What had those eyes seen that made him suddenly stop speaking?

  He wasn’t dressed for bed. He wore a yellow Pokémon T-shirt over baggy gray shorts.

  “Brandon? What are you doing in here? Why aren’t you in your pajamas?”

  Hunched on the edge o
f the bed, he continued to stare at me. The dark eyes glowed. He didn’t blink.

  I started across the room, but stopped halfway to the bed. “Let’s get you tucked in, okay? It’s very late.”

  “I saw you,” he said.

  Yes, he spoke. Brandon spoke, for the first time since I’d arrived.

  The words were accusing, his voice raw and raspy, not a little boy’s tiny, high voice, but an angry, throaty voice, coming from deep inside his chest.

  “I saw you.”

  “Brandon! You—you’re talking!” I cried. “Oh, Jesus. Brandon, I don’t believe it!”

  His expression didn’t change as he climbed to his feet, stood so erect, his eyes still accusing and cold.

  “Don’t call me Brandon,” he rasped. “My name is Jeremiah.”

  45

  Jeremiah?

  Jeremiah Halley?

  How could Brandon know that name?

  Did he hear it from Mrs. Bricker? Is that how he knew it? And was he using it now to frighten me?

  I dropped down beside him on my bed. I started to put a hand on his shoulder. But his eyes were so cold, his stare so ugly, so inhuman, that I drew back.

  “Brandon, talk to me,” I said, keeping my voice low and firm. “Who is Jeremiah? Where did you hear that name?”

  He didn’t answer. He shut his eyes, and I felt as if a chill had been removed from the room. When he opened them, his gaze was softer. The color slowly returned to his cheeks.

  “Brandon? Why did you say you were Jeremiah?” I demanded, leaning over him. “Please, keep talking, honey. Don’t stop. Come on. Please explain. Where did you see me? In the guest house? Were you in the guest house just now? Brandon, please talk!”

  But he had sunk back into silence. I could see from his blank expression that he wouldn’t speak again.

  He yawned. He looked around the room as if surprised to be here.

  “Brandon—?” I tried one more time. “Honey, can you speak again? Do you want to tell me something?”

  He shook his head. His whole body slumped. He suddenly looked like a tired little boy, helpless, confused.

  I picked him up in my arms and carried him to bed.

  I hurried downstairs the next morning to tell Abby that Brandon had spoken. I ran through the kitchen to the deck. No one around.

  Back in the kitchen, I found a handwritten note from Abby on the breakfast table:

  E—Be back soon. Drove Chip to the Jitney. He’ll be in the city all day. Please take kids to beach. —A

  Wow, a break for me, I thought. No Chip today.

  I threw the note in the trash. Then I rounded up the kids for breakfast.

  I stared across the table at Brandon. Did he remember that he spoke the night before? Would he speak again?

  He spooned his Cheerios with his head down and acted as if I wasn’t sitting there.

  Heather, meanwhile, was in a playful mood. She kept sneaking up behind me, tickling my sides really hard, and crying, “Mommy’s bones! Mommy’s bones!”

  “Heather, sweetheart—please—give me a break,” I groaned. She was only playing her silly game, but I wasn’t in the mood. I’d been awake most of the night, thinking about Jackson, thinking about Brandon—unable to turn my mind off. I was exhausted, not at all ready to start the day.

  My last day.

  After breakfast, I dressed the kids for the beach, packed up all the equipment, and we started our trek to the beach. Heather was still in a good mood, having a great old time riding my shoulders, pulling my ponytail, kicking me with her sandals as we walked, and giggling her head off.

  Brandon appeared as glum as ever. He held my hand and kept his eyes straight ahead. But as we started past the guest house, he grabbed the bag of beach toys I had slung over my back and began to tug it ferociously.

  “Brandon—stop! It’s wrapped around my neck! You’re going to pull me over!” I cried.

  I lowered Heather to the ground. I turned to deal with Brandon. But he managed to pull the bag open. He grabbed a plastic shovel and took off, running to a sandy spot behind the guest house.

  He dropped to his knees beside a clump of weeds and began digging. The sand flew. He didn’t raise his eyes. He dug rapidly, intently, pushing the shovel into the sandy ground with all his strength, then heaving the sand to the side.

  “Unh . . . unh . . . unh . . .” He grunted with each hard plunge of the shovel.

  At first, I tried to stop him. What on earth did he think he was doing? But when I saw how intent he was, how driven, I backed off and watched, hands pressed against my face.

  Brandon jumped when he hit something hard.

  And then he furiously began to scrape the sand away, groaning, grunting as he worked. And in a short time, something surfaced. Bones! Bones buried in such a shallow grave—a rib cage, gray-yellow bones poked up from the sand, glowing in the bright sunlight like something unreal, like something in a bad dream.

  “Mommy’s bones! Mommy’s bones!” Heather chanted behind me.

  Did she see them? Or was she just playing her game?

  I didn’t want her to see them. I grabbed Brandon’s hand and pulled him up, pulled him away from the gruesome sight. And I swept Heather up in my arms and began to run.

  Down the beach, I found Maggie with her two little girls. I breathlessly begged her to watch Brandon and Heather for me for just a while.

  “No problem, dear,” Maggie replied. “I brought extra sandwiches just in case you came.”

  I ran to the house, avoiding the back of the guest house, turning my eyes away from the yellow bones curling up from the sand.

  How did Brandon know they were there?

  Why did he suddenly need to dig them up?

  “Abby? Abby?” I burst into the kitchen and raced to the front of the house, shouting her name.

  She wasn’t home. She was still out making arrangements for her escape.

  Now what? Now what? My mind spun.

  I picked up a phone. I called the town police. “I—I found a body. You’d better come quick.”

  Less than ten minutes later, two squad cars and an EMS ambulance pulled up the driveway.

  Too late for the ambulance, I thought. Way too late.

  How long had the body been buried there? Did it have something to do with Mrs. Bricker’s ghost story?

  How did Brandon know?

  Three dark-uniformed officers and two EMS workers in green scrubs hurried up the front stoop. I led them around the house to the back, then showed them the spot behind the guest house.

  “The little boy I take care of—he dug them up,” I said. “I don’t know how he knew.” My words caught in my throat.

  I knew this had to be the scene of a horrible murder. Maybe Brandon had witnessed it. Maybe that’s why he’s been silent. Maybe I would soon learn Brandon’s secret.

  The officers squatted down around the yellowed rib cage. Sweat stained the back of their dark uniform shirts. They muttered to each other. I couldn’t hear what they were saying.

  One of them picked up Brandon’s plastic shovel. He began to dig deeper, scraping sand away from the skeleton as he dug.

  I suddenly felt sick. I turned away, pressing my hand to my mouth. I held my breath, trying to force down my nausea.

  After a few minutes, I felt a hand on my shoulder. “Miss?”

  I turned to the grim-faced officer. A curl of reddish brown hair was matted to his sweat-soaked forehead. His eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot.

  “Miss, the skeleton you found,” he said softly. “I have a surprise for you.”

  46

  A surprise?” I blinked at him, the sun suddenly so bright and blinding.

  The other men had climbed to their feet. They formed a casual line behind the officer.

  He nodded. “Those bones? They’re not human. They’re dog bones.”

  I swallowed. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s a dog skeleton, miss. Someone buried a dog back here. Pretty big one. A Lab or a sh
epherd, something like that.”

  “But—” I squinted at him. The sun burned my eyes.

  “You might want to cover it up. Don’t want to disturb the kids,” he said. He motioned with his hand, and the others began to follow him to the house.

  “Sorry you were upset,” one of the EMS guys said. “Finding a skeleton must have been kinda scary.”

  “Yeah. Kinda,” I replied.

  At dinnertime, Abby still hadn’t returned. I kept glancing to the driveway every minute, hoping to see her car pull up.

  For our last meal together, I made the kids’ favorite—macaroni and cheese out of a box. Did they know I was leaving? I had no idea if Abby had told them, so I didn’t say a word about it.

  Jackson had called from his car. He was on his way. I was nearly packed. I just needed Abby to return so I could make my getaway.

  After dinner, I stuck Heather and Brandon in front of the TV, turned on Nickelodeon for them, and then went to my room to finish packing.

  As the sun lowered, a heavy fog floated off the ocean, blanketing the backyard. Gazing out the bedroom window at the waves of fog floating past the house, I suddenly felt as if I were on an airplane, staring out the window, seeing nothing but thick, gray clouds.

  I could barely see the guest house at the top of the dune. The fog carried a damp chill into the room. And I started to shut the window.

  But I stopped when I saw a figure out on the dune, moving slowly through the fog, almost as if swimming through it. Squinting hard, I struggled to make out who was out there.

  Jackson?

  Why didn’t he come to the front? What on earth was he doing back by the guest house?

  “Hey!” I called down to him. I waved both arms.

  But he continued his slow walk down the gray dune.

  And as he came closer, I saw a dark figure running toward him from the house. A man. In a dark leather jacket. I could see the jacket clearly. Was it the jacket Chip had been showing off to me?