I have no life, and the entire town knows it. Every year, I sit home the night of the big Halloween Dance at the community center. Everyone has a date for the dance, even old Mr. Ellis from up the street. He’s ninety-four and hasn’t had teeth since he was forty-two. I have teeth and still can’t get a date.
The upside is that everyone needs a babysitter and you don’t need a degree in economics to figure out I can make a fortune. I charge twenty-five dollars an hour and don’t change diapers. This year I am booked to babysit for Mrs. Westenraugh. She and her family are new to the area and I have been recommended by a neighbour of hers.
Drizzle hangs in the air, finding its way up coat sleeves and down rubber boots. To say I’m cold is an understatement. Orange auras, floating on light posts, hum in the misty gloom, singing me down the dead-end street to my newest employer’s home.
Stone pillars flank an eight-foot-high wrought iron gate that bars the path of would-be intruders. A rusty screech and the subterranean whir of motors and the gates creak open. Silently, they shut behind me. Slick with rain, a cobbled driveway disappears under hunched willow trees. Their feathered branches sway back and forth, reaching to stroke my cheeks. Long-fingered leaves trail over my face, their moribund digits kneading and slithering, pawing. I whip them away with the sweep of an arm.
Through the mist, looms a moldering Gothic mansion. Eavestroughs swinging loose, hang by long rain silvered spikes, screech in the gloom. Shutters, rusty hinges oiled by the vile elements, tap an eerie tempo against brick walls. My steps slow. I should have checked this woman out before agreeing to sit for her. I shake my head and square my shoulders. For twenty-five dollars an hour, I can tough it out.
Crumbling stone steps lead up to the front door. I lift the brass lion head shaped doorknocker by its chin and let it fall. There is no friendly clack as it hits the strike plate. A dolorous moan echoes through the gloom. No footsteps approach, no tapping of heels crossing floors, just a groan as the wooden door opens.
A witch stands before me. More precisely, a woman dressed as a witch stands before me. Mrs. Westenraugh with her jet-black hair, peeked hat and broom in hand, is dressed to party.
“The babysitter is here,” she calls over her shoulder.
My knees knock as I step over the threshold and follow her into the depths of the house. I really should have checked this place out beforehand. Suits of armour wielding polished poleaxes stand guard while old bespeckled men scowl from portraits lining the hallway’s walls.
“The television is in the den through there,” the witch says pointing down the hall. “And there are snacks in the kitchen. Help yourself.”
I nod my head. I can do this. Remember, twenty-five tax-free dollars.
“We’ll be back just after midnight. Dr”—a thunderclap shakes the house—“won’t give you any trouble. He’s in his bed. Do not under any circumstance disturb him. Do not check on him. Leave him be.” Each ‘do not’ weighted with a glare.
My employer disappears into the shadows, leaving me alone. This should be an easy hundred bucks. Sounds like the kid, Drew, Drake or whatever his name is, is down for the night.
A spider stands guard over the remote sitting on the coffee table in the den. I flick him away and turn the television on. It’s not long before my stomach starts to rumble.
Mrs. Westenraugh deserves props for embracing the whole Halloween thing. In the kitchen, an enormous cauldron hangs over the open fireplace, a foul-smelling stew lazily bubbling away. As I give the green mess a stir, black blobs rise to the surface and break free, hovering above me, bumping against the ceiling. The fire’s snake-eyed reflection glistens in each orb.
Going by the jars of dried herbs and odd-looking vegetables in the cupboards, the Westenraughs must be health nuts. Each jar is labelled in Latin. Make that educated health nuts. There are no chips or cake in sight, and no soda. I don’t trust the tea. Tap water and a lint-covered mint, hiding beneath a used tissue in the pocket of my raincoat will have to do.
Back in the den, I surf the channels. It’s the usual Halloween fare. Every horror movie ever made is on television tonight. The opening credits to “Dracula Visits America” scrolls across the screen. I’m sitting all alone in a creepy house; I’m not going to watch anything scary. I leave the TV on the local community cable station, its elevator music playing as I read the announcements. I should have brought a book.
It doesn’t take long for boredom to set in. I start to wander. First around the den, opening drawers and looking into urns, before moving out into the hall. This house would be a great place for a game of Sardines. There are so many great hiding places. Cupboards under stairs, deep deep closets, and nooks and crannies galore. The Westenraughs should rent the place out, it’d make an incredible haunted house. I take the staircase to the next floor and enter what can only be a torture chamber. A bed of nails, a guillotine, a rack, and even a coffin. I reverse and step back out of the room. Mrs. Westenraugh let her imagination take her a bit too far.
Ten o’clock sounds. Two hours to go.
From a bedroom window, I can see the east wing of the house, where a four-storied tower rises from its roofline. A light blinks on in the top window. Drake, Drew or whoever is awake and pacing. His dark figure moves back and forth across the lit window.
He stops, raises a hand, pressing his palm to the window pane. I step back, ducking behind the drapes, not sure if he saw me. He moves away from the window. Seconds later he’s back, only to disappear again. The lights go off but not for long. On and off they go, again and again. The boy is playing with the lights.
There are no electric light switches anywhere near the bottom of the tower’s staircase. The space above a bituminous void, too dangerous to attempt without illumination. A candelabra and box of wooden matches are the only source of light. Slowly, one hand clamped to the railing and the other holding the lit candelabra out in front of me. My foot too long for each ancient rung, I tiptoe, circling my way up the twisted staircase. Each tread creaking under my weight. The wind picks up, keening in the dark, drafty fingers of cold working through the brick. The candles flicker, burn bright, before almost sputtering out, inviting ghostly shadows.
“Please don’t go out,” I mutter. My breath fanning the flames, once again lighting my way.
Drew/Drake’s door is shut. I should have asked the witch to repeat her child’s name. It puts me at a disadvantage. Across the door’s wooden face is a faded golden inscription. My fingers trace the Latin words.
“Pray-ee-monty-us pram-unit-us,” I sound out, having no idea what Praemonitus pramunitus meant. Hesitatingly, I push the door open. Traces of incense wafts past me. The hairs on the back of my neck rise. A man, not a child, stands in the center of the room, his hand rests on the side of an open coffin. His ruby lips turn up, the smile not reaching his eyes. His long blue-tinged fingers push a satin-lined black cloak off his shoulders.
“Good evening.” His white canines glow in the candlelight. Their points glisten red.
I am out the door, down the stairs, shoving my feet into my rainboots, grabbing my raincoat and pushing out the front door in seconds. Dashing out into the rain, I pinch myself. I must be dreaming. There is no way that woman said Dracula. Willow branches grab for me as I race down the driveway, throw my coat over the gate, clambering after it with simian speed. I am home in no time.
The front door slams behind me. Leaning against it, I try to catch my breath. I am home. My warm modern, lovely normal home.
“Hey?” my mother pops her head out of the family room. “You’re early?”
I sink to the floor.
“What’s wrong?”
If I tell her, she’ll have me committed.
“Neighbour’s dog.”
