Genre: Horror
THE GIG
By Randy Romero
In the fall of 1999, my mom
hooked me up with this babysitting gig. I was sixteen years old and I needed
the money for college. My parents were willing to help with tuition and
expenses, but they told me not to expect a free ride. They expected me to work
and contribute any money I saved. It seemed fair to me, especially since this
was my college education we were talking about. I was desperate for money and
working the register at the local supermarket every day after school. And when
my mom told me the neighbors needed a babysitter on the weekends, I jumped at
the offer.
It was for this young married
couple that lived at the end of the block, last house on the left. They had a
girl and a boy, ages five and seven. Lisa and Billy. They were absolutely
adorable. The girl was so young, but she was the spitting image of her mother.
The job paid six bucks an hour,
which was pretty generous for 1999. And of course, there was the usual
babysitting perks, like free rein of the television. The parents said I could
watch anything I wanted to, even while the kids were awake. And they said I
could help myself to any food in the fridge or use the phone if the calls were
local.
The kids were a pleasure. So
well mannered and well behaved for their age. I made sure they brushed their
teeth and were in their pajamas by eight o’clock. They needed a good brushing
after the ice pops they had after dinner. And I might’ve helped myself to one,
too. You remember those ice pops that used to come in those clear plastic
tubes? You used to have to cut the top off with a scissor just to get it open?
I loved the blue and the purple flavors. But I digress…
I let them watch a little TV and
had them tucked in by nine o’clock. Parents orders. Then I went downstairs and
parked my butt on the couch and grabbed the remote. Around nine-thirty, I used
the landline to call my friend, Jennifer.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Piece of cake,” I said. “They’re
little angels. I’ve already got them tucked away in bed, no fuss at all. But, I
don’t know, something just feels…off. This house is so dark, so quiet. I feel
like this is the set up for a horror movie.”
Jennifer laughed. “You’re so
dramatic, Kat.” Everyone knows how much I hate Katherine. People have been calling
me Kat since I learned how to walk and talk.
“I’m serious. It’s too quiet.
Like eerily quiet.”
“Too quiet?” Jennifer said.
“Sounds like Heaven to me.”
There was a slight break in our
conversation where neither of us said anything for a few moments, and in those
few moments, I heard a ruckus from upstairs, which I assumed was just the kids.
“Jennifer, I’ve got to call you
back.”
I hung up the phone and walked
to the bottom of the stairs. It was pitch black at the top.
“Kids?” I called out. No answer.
“Are you awake?” I asked. No
response.
No more noise, either. No
ruckus. No footsteps. No sounds at all. Quiet again.
“It’s okay if you can’t sleep. I
can’t sleep either, sometimes.”
Still no response. So I started
walking up the stairs. I made it to the landing, and looked to the left and
right of the top of the stairs. The hallway was clear, but a dim light emanated
from the upstairs bathroom. The door was slightly ajar so I tapped on it.
“Hello? Billy? Lisa? Are you in
there?”
I nudged the door open. The
bathroom was empty. But there was a message…
Scrawled on the mirror in black
lipstick were three bloodcurdling words.
You Die Tonight
Billy and Lisa were sound
asleep. And the house appeared to be empty. But I was petrified. I called my
dad up and made him come sit with me until their parents got home. The mom
claimed she didn’t even own a tube of black lipstick. And obviously, the kids
never admitted guilt. But they searched the whole house. Nobody was in there.
There were no signs of a break in.
They even called the cops, just
to be on the safe side. They searched the whole house and didn’t find a thing.
And the mother was adamant about not owning any black lipstick. ‘She didn’t
like it, it wasn’t her style, she only owned a few different shades of lipstick…’
I still refused to babysit for them ever again.
Katherine Martell, or Kat,
sipped her drink and shuddered at the thought of that night.
“That was just north of twenty
years ago,” Kat said, almost wishing she hadn’t remembered that night. But in reality,
she had never really forgotten it.
Paige LaGreca filled Kat’s wine
glass and topped herself off, too.
“That reminds me of this one
babysitting gig I had upstate…” Paige started.
I was in college and I was
living off cheap beer and Ramen noodles. I needed money for real food and textbooks, so I responded to an ad
in the local paper.
The couple claimed to have a
newborn baby that needed to be looked after twice a week.
They seemed nice, but every time
I babysat, they told me the baby was sleeping and not to disturb him. They just
told me to listen in on the baby monitor and to check only if I heard him
making a fuss. Otherwise, I wasn’t to wake him for any reason.
And let me tell you, that baby
never cried. Not once. Not a cry, or a moan, or a gurgle. Nothing. It never
woke up, never made a sound.
Finally, I got so creeped out I
just stopped returning their phone calls and answering their messages.
But an old college roomie of
mine wound up babysitting for them a few months later. She was far braver than
I and decided to go upstairs one night and check on the baby.
“And?” Kat said, waiting in
suspense.
“The room was empty,” Paige told
them. “Just a dusty old crib and a baby monitor in its cradle, turned on. Turns
out the couple lost their first child and never quite recovered. They turned
out to be harmless, just a little batty.”
Angelina Ortiz drained her glass
and refilled it. The bottle was feeling light and she offered Kat and Paige one
last chance before she polished the rest off.
“I’m sorry, ladies, but my story
takes the cake,” Angelina said. “This was the early 2000’s, and I was
babysitting these two adorable angels one night in Eden Harbor.
I kept getting these weird phone
calls all night and nothing was coming up on the caller ID. Half of them were
weird or obscene, just heavy breathing and moaning into the phone. But
eventually, he started talking.
‘I am The Python,’ he
said, his voice all deep and rusty. I hung up. But he kept calling back.
‘I am The Python. I am going
to wrap myself around your throat and squeeze the life out of you.’
It reminded me of those books
from the 90’s, the collection of scary stories to tell in the dark. One of
those stories is about a woman who keeps getting harassing phones calls from
The Viper.”
“Didn’t it turn out to just be a
window washer in that story?” Kat asked.
“Yes,” Angelina chuckled. “I am
the viper, I come to vipe your vindows.” They all laughed before Angelina
resumed her story.
“I thought it was my boyfriend playing
a prank on me at the time. But then I remembered he was in the Hamptons with
his parents, having dinner with some rich friends of theirs. And like I said,
this was early 2000’s, before everyone always had a cell phone in their pocket.
And his parents wouldn’t have excused him to make all those calls on their friend’s
phone.
I called my parents and they
instructed me to lock all doors and windows and call the police. The police
wound up tracing the calls to a nearby payphone. It turned out to be an escaped
mental patient who grew up in the house I was babysitting in. He got the number
right out of the phone book. You know, they never did catch the creep. I always
wondered what happened to the dreaded Python. Did he die? Did he flee to
another state, another country? Is he still out there?”
“I guess we’ll never know,”
Paige shrugged.
“I think we’re better off not
knowing,” Kat said. Ang concurred.
Angelina’s cell phone rang.
Unknown caller. They all froze and exchanged terrified glances.
“Don’t answer it,” Paige said.
But Angelina couldn’t stop herself from reaching for the phone.
“Hello?” Angelina said, a tremor
in her voice.
“I am The Python,” a frighteningly
familiar voice said, gravelly and deep. “I’m coming to squeeze the life out
of you.”
