Yellow Mama E zine

LOCK YOUR DOORS AND WINDOWS

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by Attie Lee

 

        Andrew sat working on a Rubik’s Cube while his babysitter Martha sat in the recliner, knitting a quilt and watching local news on the box TV. Andrew had solved the Cube many times. He was an 11-year-old genius. The handsome suited reporter stood in downtown Baxter below the big house and spoke into his microphone: “Another babysitter was discovered dead today. The body has been identified as Kelly Sanders. Police are certain foul play is involved. This tragedy marks the second babysitter killed in Baxter since last month. Authorities urge all residents, especially babysitters, to keep their doors and windows locked. Please contact your local police department or state authorities if you have any pertinent information.”

        Martha clicked the remote, ignored her arthritic aches. The volume lowered.

       “We should watch something else, honey,” she said.

       Andrew was biting his lower lip and frowning at the screen. “It’s not real is it, Aunt Martha?”

       She resumed knitting her quilt. “No, that’s a movie,” she lied, “a movie for adults.”

       Andrew relaxed. “I want to watch Cartoon Com.”

       “Now, that’s more suitable, Andrew.”

       She turned to Cartoon Com, before rising and locking the living room window behind them. Two eyes hidden in gray black night moved from tree to tree. He stopped, stared at the big Victorian house, an axe pendulating in his hand. She peered out, but saw nothing, and closed the crimson curtains.

        As soon as she returned to the recliner, someone knocked on the front door.

       “I’ll be back, Andrew.”

        He was fixed on the trippy cartoon visuals.

       She walked stealthily through the kitchen to the front door, opened it to the blankness of a night sky crackling thunder and shadowing trees and sandwiching a dirt road dipping down to town.

        “Hello?” she asked nothing.

        Lightning ripped a hole in the canvass above, then struck a distant willow tree blue. Suddenly, wind swooshed, swatting her face. She shut the door. Goosebumps danced across her forearms. She turned on the vintage brown Braun radio setting on the kitchen counter, tuning into the weather station.  

        A lady’s calm but matter-of-fact voice spoke: “A severe thunderstorm warning is issued for Baxter and Knollville. Lock your doors and windows. Avoid electricity and plumbing.”

        Martha flipped off the radio and returned to Andrew, who was lost in Cartoon Com.

       “Nobody was at the door,” she said.

         “Is it storming?”

        “One’s movin’ our way. I think that was wind knockin’.”

       “Oh man.” He made a crying face.

        “What’s wrong, Andrew?”

       “The cable might go out again. It did last week.”

       “Maybe it won’t. The big bad storm might miss us. We can pray for the cable. Close your eyes, Andrew.” He did. “Dear Savior, let the storm miss us so Andrew can watch his show. Amen.” He lifted his head, smiled. “There. All better.”

        He nodded. “I think it’ll work.”

       “Do you?” She rose and checked the windows upstairs and downstairs. Only two were unlocked. Gazing out of the upstairs bedroom window, she saw the mean gray storm marching toward the house. Trees below swayed, and mud spread over the road. She shut the curtains, her gray eyes outsized.

       A thud came from the end of the hall. She walked there and opened the door to the guest bedroom. Again, something thudded…at the window. Martha pulled back the curtains, gazed below. The backyard clearing looked empty: easy to see a person, easier than the front yard’s jungle. She was unsure why Andrew’s parents didn’t trim the overgrowth where snakes and babysitter killers could hide.

       The goosebumps hardened onto her arms. She hated to feel fear and nervousness. She had been babysitting fearlessly for 40 years. And this was her nephew, whom she had vowed to protect.  

       Quickly she returned to the living room. A slumped-over Andrew yawned. The cartoon was ending. “Are you ready for bed, honey?”

       “Can I sleep down here?”

       “You want to watch more of the show, don’t you?”

       He nodded happily.

       “Well, okay. You can stay.”

       He yawned, “Thank you, Aunt Martha.”

       But she was curious about the news, so she got a blanket and tucked him into the sofa and then turned on the TV in the sunroom. The same reporter was in the neighborhood but now wearing a raincoat and using his right arm to break wind. Paramedics rolled a stretcher with a body bag out of an ambulance. The reporter’s voice was louder, solemn: “Another babysitter in Baxter has been brutally murdered. The body of Janis Whitlow was discovered this morning, but the murder is believed to have happened days ago. Please contact your local police department if you have any information pertinent to this case.”

       She pressed the OFF button, frowned. “Good heavens.”

       Suddenly she saw a man lingering behind the shrubs parallel to the sunroom, wielding an axe. Screaming, burning her voice box, she ran faster than most people her age could, running to the phone in the hallway. Panicky wrinkled fingers dialed emergency services.

        A heroine answered, “911 Call Center.”

       “Hello. Hello, ma’am. Somebody—somebody is outside my house! I think it’s the babysitter—the babysitter killer!”

       “Okay, okay. Calm down, please. What’s your location?”

       Martha gave the address, begged her to hurry. The operator asked why she thought the man outside was the babysitter killer and said that the storm would delay response time. Insulted, Martha answered, “Because I live in Baxter and am babysitting as we speak! Just please, please hurry. Please help us.”

       She hung up, suddenly remembering: “Andrew!”

       She dashed into the living room. He was sound asleep. She sighed, then hurried back to the receiver. Someone banged on the front door. Chilled to ice, she dropped the phone. 

       The gruff voice carried a disturbed, psychotic tone, “Let me in. I need in. Now.” He banged harder, harder. Then the axe handle struck harder, harder, crashed through the door’s midsection on the fourth swing.

       Tears trembled out of her eyes.

       “I’ve called the police. Leave us alone!”

       Crying, she darted to the kitchen block, removed a butcher knife, positioned herself behind the door. She readied the blade over her head, firmly. The axe broke the knob. The man cloaked in black busted through. Cold wind spilled in with him. On instinct, she jammed the knife into his stomach. He gasped. She twisted the handle. He started to choke and fell onto his back. Her mouth cupped her hand. Her body jolted. She jumped backward, agape.

       “Timothy? Timothy the Gardener?!”

       There was no doubt.

       “Somebody stabbed me…outside. I came for help.”

       He coughed blood.

       “I thought you were him! Oh, God. No! Oh, Timothy.” She crawled to him, ignoring joint pains. “Hang in there. I’m getting you help.”

       She called 911 again.

       The operator said, “Stay calm. Units are on their way.”

       The house shook.

       Zap!

       Crack!

       Lightning stabbed a tree, knocking it onto the dirt road.

       “The phone’s going to die! Stay put, Andrew!

       She phoned his parents. His mom answered.

       Martha’s voice was like a piston engine broken in dead winter, “Elizabeth, there’s-been-a- terrible-terrible-terrible accident! Your gardener—Timothy! He got st-st-abbed! Someone—someone stabbed him. And I—I mistook him for the babysitter killer and worried about Andrew and—”

       She couldn’t admit what she’d done no matter how much of a mistake.

       There was a pause of puzzlement on Elizabeth’s end, before she replied, “What are you talking about? Is this you, Martha? Why are you at our house?”

       “I was asked to babysit. He told me you had him call on your behalf before you left so he could practice using a phone! When I got here everyone was gone—except for Timothy!”

       “No…Andrew is with Janis Whitlow. He said the babysitters before were mean to him. He kept complaining, but I think he likes Janis. And Janis only lives a mile from our house. I dropped him off before Guy and I left for the Carolinas.” After another pause, “What’s going on, Martha?”

       “Janis Whitlow was just found murdered. I called the police. They need to get here now. Oh, God!”

       Glassware broke in the kitchen. Her gut wanted to burst. He’d walked back from Janis’s house and made the call, but how did he get to the earlier ones? The phone. Martha thought the phone must be the answer…and the lies. 

       Andrew’s little hand pulled out a knife. She gulped heavily. “Elizabeth? Who was his babysitter before Janis?”

       “Kelly. Kelly Sanders. Why?”

       Martha dropped the phone.

       Andrew shuffled into the hall, knife poised.

      .

THE END

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     Attie Lee was born and raised in West Virginia and started writing fiction when she was 10-years-old, long before many journeys, such as MTF transition and deaths of loved ones, helped her expand into various genres. Some of her stories are published in Mystery Tribune, Black Petals Magazine, and other places (under birthname "Paul Lee" and later "Attie Lee"). She's working on a novel and spending time with her cat, Kitty.

 

     J. Elliott is an author and artist living in a small patch of old, rural Florida. Think Spanish moss, live oak trees, snakes, armadillos, mosquitoes. She has published (and illustrated) three collections of ghost stories and three books in a funny, cozy series. She also penned a ghost story novel, Jiko Bukken, set in Kyoto, Japan in the winter of '92-'93. Available in  Paperback and eBook on Amazon.