The Babysitter and the Man Upstairs
The parents had gone out for dinner.
I sat in the living room with the TV on low.
The house was quiet.
So quiet I could hear the refrigerator humming.
Occasionally, the beds creaked upstairs, but I assumed the kids were just turning in their sleep.
Then the phone rang.
The house phone.
I thought it might be the parents, so I answered.
“Hello?”
No reply.
Only breathing.
Harsh, close—like someone’s mouth pressed against the receiver.
I hung up immediately.
A prank call, I thought.
Minutes later, it rang again.
I didn’t want to answer, but it could be the parents.
With the kids upstairs, I couldn’t ignore it.
“Hello.”
This time, a man spoke.
“Check the children’s room.”
I froze.
“Who are you?”
No answer.
Only a laugh—raspy, like inhaling.
Then he hung up.
I looked at the staircase.
Dark.
The children’s door closed.
I could go up and check.
But something felt wrong.
The caller wanted me upstairs.
That was clear.
I dialed the parents’ number.
No answer.
The phone rang again.
Louder this time.
I called the police.
I said prank calls kept coming.
That a man told me to check the children’s room.
The police told me:
If he calls again, stay on the line.
They would trace it.
I agreed.
Turned on another light in the living room.
The pho