It started with the smell of crayons. You know the smell—that waxy, synthetic scent that screams “elementary school.” It’s usually a smell that makes me smile, reminding me of simpler times, of learning to stay within the lines. But now? Now that smell makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. It smells like dread.
My name is Sarah, and I’m a single mom living in a quiet suburb just outside of Portland, Oregon. It’s the kind of neighborhood where the biggest scandal is usually someone leaving their trash cans out a day too long. My life was terrifyingly normal. I worked a 9-to-5 in HR, drank too much coffee, and spent my evenings trying to convince my six-year-old daughter, Lily, that broccoli was actually “tiny trees” and therefore delicious.
Lily was a bright kid. Bubbling with energy, messy blonde hair, and an imagination that could rival Spielberg. She was always drawing. Our fridge was a mosaic of colorful scribbles—sunflowers, our golden retriever Buster, me with stick-figure arms that reached the ground.
But three weeks ago, the gallery on the fridge changed.
It was a Tuesday afternoon. The rain was hammering against the kitchen window—typical Oregon weather. Lily was sprawled out on the living room rug, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth in deep concentration.
“Whatcha making, Lil?” I asked, carrying a basket of laundry through the hall.
“A picture for you,” she chirped, not looking up.
When she finished, she ran over and handed it to me with that beaming pride only a child possesses. I wiped my hands on my jeans and took the paper.
It was a portrait. But it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Buster.
It was a figure. A tall, oval head with zero hair. The body was just a long, black rectangle, like a monolith. But the face… that was what made me pause. There were no eyes. Just blank, white space where the eyes should be. The mouth was a thin, jagged black line, pressed tight.
“Oh,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. “That’s… interesting, honey. Is this a monster from your iPad games?”
Lily shook her head vigorously, her pigtails bouncing. “No, Mommy. That’s the Night Babysitter.”
I let out a short, breathy laugh. “The Night Babysitter? Do I not pay the day one enough?”
“He comes when you’re asleep,” Lily said matter-of-factly, grabbing the paper back to go add more shading to the dark body. “He watches.”
I didn’t think much of it then. Kids say weird stuff. My nephew once told me he used to be a firefighter in the 1920s who died in a soup explosion. It’s just how their brains wire the world together. I stuck the drawing on the fridge, right next to a permission slip for the zoo, and started dinner.
I should have taken it down. I should have burned it.
Chapter 2: The Repetition
By the end of the first week, there were five of them.
Every day after school, Lily would sit at the kitchen table, bypass the yellow and pink crayons, and go straight for the black and grey.
Wednesday: The figure standing next to a bed. Thursday: The figure standing in a doorway. Friday: A close-up of the face. Still no eyes. Just that blank, fleshy emptiness.
It was becoming a fixation. I tried to steer her toward other subjects.
“Hey, Lil, how about we draw a castle today? Or a unicorn?” I suggested on Saturday morning, laying out a fresh pack of construction paper.
She looked at me with big, innocent blue eyes. “But he’s here, Mommy. I have to draw him so he knows I see him.”
That sentence sent a chill down my spine that felt like an ice cube sliding under my shirt. “So he knows you see him?” I repeated, kneeling down to her level. “Honey, is this… is this someone real? Did someone talk to you outside at school?”
The protective mother bear in me woke up instantly. Stranger danger. That was the real horror.
“No, Mommy,” she sighed, exasperated by my lack of understanding. “He’s only here at night. In my room.”
“In your room?”
“Yes. When you turn off the light and the house goes click-click.”
She meant the settling of the house. The pipes cooling down.
“Does he say anything to you?” I asked, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.
“No. He just stands there. He waits.”
“Waits for what?”
She shrugged, picking up a black marker. “Just waits.”
I tore the drawings off the fridge that night after she went to bed. I told myself I was just decluttering. But the truth was, I couldn’t stand to look at them while I poured my glass of wine. They felt heavy. They felt like they were watching me back, even without eyes.
Chapter 3: The Empty Sockets
Two weeks in, the atmosphere in the house shifted. You know how you can feel when you’re in a fight with your partner, even if no one is speaking? The air feels thick? The house felt like that. Charged.
I stopped sleeping well. I’d wake up at 3:00 a.m., straining my ears against the silence, listening for creaks, for footsteps. I checked the deadbolts on the front door three times a night. I checked the window latches. Everything was secure.
But Lily kept drawing.
The drawings were getting better—or worse, depending on how you looked at it. Her motor skills were improving. The shading was more aggressive. The “Night Babysitter” was becoming more defined. He wore a suit now. A dark, shapeless suit.
One night, I was tucking her in. The room was bathed in the soft pink glow of her princess nightlight. She was clutching her stuffed rabbit, Mr. Hops.
I decided to confront it head-on. Maybe if I used logic, the fear would go away.
“Lil,” I whispered, brushing a stray hair from her forehead. “Can I ask you something about your drawings?”
She nodded sleepily.
“Why doesn’t the babysitter have eyes? Everyone has eyes.”
She shifted, pulling the duvet up to her chin. She looked small. Fragile.
“He doesn’t need them, Mommy.”
“Why not?”
“Because he stands very close.”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Thump. Thump. Thump.
“Close to where, baby?”
She raised a small, trembling hand and pointed to the empty space between her bed and the wall. A space maybe two feet wide. A space I had walked past a thousand times.
“He stands there,” she whispered. “Every night. Right after you close the door. He leans over.”
I looked at the empty space. It was just shadows and carpet. But for a second, I swore the air there looked darker. Denser.
“Does he… does he touch you?” I felt sick asking it.
“No,” she said. “He just breathes.”
I kissed her forehead, my lips trembling, and practically ran out of the room. I didn’t turn off the hallway light that night. I sat in the living room with the TV on mute, staring at the baby monitor I hadn’t used in years. It was audio only, and it was silent.
But “silent” isn’t really silent, is it? There’s static. There’s the hum of the world. And I swore, every now and then, I could hear a rhythm. In. Out. In. Out.
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