The Babysitter and the Clown Statue
The house was big.
The living room was wide, the hallway long, and there were too many rooms on the second floor.
Before leaving, the parents had written down everything I needed.
Snacks for the kids.
Emergency numbers.
Their bedtime water routine.
The cartoon to play if they cried.
But they said nothing about that room.
The playroom.
One wall had a shelf full of toys, and blocks were scattered across the floor.
And in the corner sat a clown statue.
It was the size of a person.
To be precise, it was too big to be called a statue.
It sat on a small chair, hands neatly folded on its lap.
A white face.
A red mouth.
A round nose.
A huge ribbon tied around its neck.
When I first saw it, I just assumed the parents had strange taste.
The kids didn’t care at all.
They played with their blocks, running right in front of it.
But I kept watching the clown.
Because of its eyes.
Glass-like eyes that seemed to follow me no matter where I stood.
If I stood by the door, it looked toward the door.
If I sat next to the kids, it seemed to look there instead.
Of course, it could’ve been my imagination.
Clown statues are made to look unsettling.
That’s the whole point.
Around 9 p.m., I put the kids to bed upstairs.
The older one fell