Crying Wolf

“You’re a very brave young woman,” Mr. Weiss told me. “Babysitting alone under the current circumstances.”

“What circumstances?” I asked.

“Well, you know. I’m sure you’ve heard of the maniac who escaped from the asylum last night.”

My eyes widened, and it felt as if most of the organs in my thorax had suddenly vanished. Many words could be used to describe me, but brave did not fall into that category. I stood motionless in absolute terror until his wife burst out laughing.

“You poor thing,” Mrs. Weiss chuckled. “He’s messing with you of course. There’s no asylum anywhere near Wellington Hills.”

The couple reveled in my panic for what seemed like an eternity, cackling heartily as I made every effort not to lash out at them violently. Good thing their daughter was sitting in the living room with us, forcing me by her presence to watch my language.

“You really got me there,” I said, faking the shadow of a smile. “I do get scared quite easily. My big brother told me too many babysitter legends when I was younger.”

“Big brothers,” sighed Mr. Weiss. “Aren’t they the worst? Caroline’s brother couldn’t even sacrifice his social life for one night to watch over little Sybill.”

“Stop it Peter,” said Mrs. Weiss. “My brother babysat tons of time before, it’s about time we actually pay someone to watch over her. Sybill is at that age where girls can be a tad difficult sometimes, aren’t you darling?”

Little Sybill sat completely still, her face unreadable. She must have been around eight years old, I thought. Something felt off about her. This was my first time in the Weiss residence, and the kid hadn’t said a single word since my arrival, remaining perfectly steady in the living room couch. The family lived in a vast, spacious home – a manor, really – with long halls and a majestic marble staircase that curved and circled the open second floor. In my babysitting experience, eight-year-old children rarely acted difficult. If anything, most would have been running around such a house ecstatically at all times, turning it into one big playground. Had my parents been able to afford a place like this, my babysitter would definitely have found me swinging from the chandelier.

“Alright, time for us to go,” said Mr. Weiss. He got up from his white leather armchair and walked over to his daughter, the orange glow from the fireplace dancing across his face. “Promise me you’ll behave with Lexie, my little darling. Dad is counting on you. Remember what happens to little girls who cry wolf.”

He kissed her on the forehead.

“Goodbye daddy,” said Sybill in a soft voice. I heard a hint of tremor escaping her throat. In no way did she seem difficult, quite the contrary. It was a tremor of anxiety mixed with an otherwise sweet voice.

“What about me?” asked Mrs. Weiss.

“Goodbye,” added Sybill, her voice growing colder. Her mother frowned, prompting her to complete the sentence. “Goodbye mommy.”

Mr. and Mrs. Weiss moved into the atrium. Minutes later, I heard the entrance door closing. Sybill and I were now alone.

“Would you like to play a game?” I asked her with the cheerfulness expected from first-time babysitters. “I brought Monopoly.”

“No.”

I had apparently overestimated the popularity of property transaction games with young kids. At first, I assumed this was the attitude her mother had warned me about, but the more I looked into her eyes, the more I got the impression Sybill just did not trust me.

“How about video games? Your father told me you liked Mario.”

“No.”

“There must be something you’d like to do. What’s your favorite game?”

“I don’t have one.”

“Everybody has one.”

She stopped replying and avoided further eye contact.

“Okay,” I said, increasingly desperate. “We can watch TV for now. Hopefully there are no escapees from the asylum on the news. Let me know if ever you want to talk, we can also just have a chat.”

The reference to my frightful episode did not amuse her. I turned on the TV and resolved to watch it in silence. At the very least, the news anchor’s voice dissipated the tension and gave both of us the opportunity to stop pretending like we had to interact. We waited diligently until the end of the newscast, faking passion for world politics.

“Done,” I said. “Time for bed now. Thankfully, no dangerous prisoners on the loose. Your mom won’t get to laugh at me again tonight.”

“She’s not my mom.”

I muted the TV. The silence had now reached whole new levels of awkwardness.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, your father never mentioned she wasn’t your biological mom. You know, I have a stepmom too, and she never replaced my biological mom in my heart, but we’re a lot closer now. We’ll get there.”

“That’s not what I meant. I did have a mom. Until yesterday.”

Her voice betrayed a tremor again and sent a shiver down my spine.

“I’m not sure I understand. Where did she go?”

“To the basement.”

“And then?”

“Then… she never came back.”

“That’s impossible. Mrs. Weiss…”

“Whoever this woman is, she’s not my mom, I swear. She just showed up this morning, and dad tried to convince it was her, but it’s not!”

Her conviction was such that I almost believed her for a split second before coming back to my senses. It couldn’t me. Mr. and Mrs. Weiss were clearly very familiar with each other, the kind of familiarity that only comes from several years of marriage. I grabbed Sybill’s hand.

“Sybill, I think you might be a little confused.”

“Why don’t you believe me? You said we could talk.”

“We can talk about true things, not about lies. Is this why your father told you not to cry wolf? Do you come up with stories like that often?”

“It’s not a story! Mom went down to the basement last night, I saw her, and she never came back. I think…”

She stopped short. Whatever it was she wanted to say, a part of herself would not let her. The girl’s frail little body quaked, agitated by some horrifying thought that she refused to share. I grabbed her shaking hand and did the best I could to put up a brave front.

“What is it? Is there something you’re afraid of?”

“I… I…”

After many a failed whisper, she took a deep breath and steadied.

“I think my dad killed her.”

My blood ran cold at the words.

“That’s a very serious accusation you’re making,” I replied. “It’s your father we’re talking about. Did you go down to the basement to see if she was still there?”

“Of course not! I was terrified.”

“It’s very inappropriate to invent such stories.”

Her story sounded completely ludicrous of course, but there was only one way to disprove it. For once in my life, I had to be brave and go see for myself.

***

The basement door swung open, creaking with every inch along the way. I shone my flashlight down the sinister wooden stairs and carefully inspected the concrete floor from afar. From my squatting position in the atrium, I could see nothing out of place: no body, no blood, no signs of struggle. A murder could not possibly have taken place down there.

“You see Sybill. Everything is completely ordinary.”

“Maybe he cleaned up after.”

“You don’t just clean up murder scenes overnight, Sybill. Please, I need your help with this. I need you to admit this was just your imagination.”

“I know what I saw.”

“Very well. Let me go down and take a closer look.”

“No, please! What if you don’t come back either.”

“Sweetie, of course I’ll come back. We’re alone in the house. I’m just going to prove to you once and for all the whole ordeal was nothing but a bad dream.”

“I’m begging you, don’t go!”

Before she could even finish, my feet were already making their way downstairs. The steps cracked every time I moved. Cobwebs dangled from the low ceiling, which did cast upon the room a certain eeriness, although this had to be expected from a basement. Mr. Weiss might not have been a murderer, but he was certainly a hoarder. Every corner overflowed with old furniture and rusty appliances. There were enough coffee tables and armchairs to fill up another living room altogether. For a brief moment, it felt as though I had stepped inside a cave of wonders. Until I heard his voice, that is.

“My wife did like to redecorate a lot.”

I spun on the spot. Mr. Weiss stood up from a dusty loveseat in the shadows behind the wooden stairs, a body bag in his arms. A tuft of hair poked out of the topmost opening in the zipper.

“How sad she had to leave us. No more decorating on the horizon.”

“You… I don’t understand, you left an hour ago,” I shakily blurted out, dropping my flashlight under the shock.

“I’m afraid what you heard was the basement door,” said another voice, cold and calculative. This time, Mrs. Weiss emerged from the shadows.

“You already met my new partner of course,” added Mr. Weiss. “As you saw earlier from our little joke, she has a taste for terror. It’s something we have in common. There’s nothing like a good real-life scare. Not all maniacs come from asylums.”

Mrs. Weiss reached down her left stocking and pulled out a small dagger before approaching in a slow, bloodthirsty walk. At the sight, my thorax emptied itself again, this time leaving behind a void so overwhelming I could barely make out the room around me. As I backed up into a washing machine, it took everything I had to keep breathing.

“You can’t do this,” I said, my voice breaking with every word. “Sybill’s upstairs, she expects me.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Mr. Weiss. “My daughter often cries wolf. No one ever believes her.”