let out a delighted laugh once again.
Vickie barely managed to hang up the phone. She spun around. There was nothing there.
Nothing.
No one.
She almost picked up the phone to call her mom and ask her to come over. Or maybe she could call Roxanne back. Nope. She had assured Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine she did nothing but babysit. She didn’t have friends over.
Including male friends?
Not to worry—she especially didn’t have male friends over!
She took a deep breath and headed back into the parlor.
There, on the footstool in front of one of the antique rockers, sat the remote control.
And her cell phone.
She hadn’t put them there!
This time, fear shot through her with electric sparks. She set Noah down quickly in his play area, afraid she would startle, scare or hurt him.
She made herself breathe—and breathe again.
“Okay, I just didn’t see it before,” she murmured to herself. “Right there—right on the footstool, but somehow, I’ve gone blind. What do you think, Noah? I didn’t set the phone down upstairs, I did that down here. And I just didn’t really look for the remote control. I’m too into you!”
He was such a delightful baby. He looked at her and clapped his hands together. She forced a smile and looked at her watch.
Six o’clock. Full dark on a wintry Boston night. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine wouldn’t come home for hours.
And now, because she’d seen too many horror movies, she was allowing herself to let her imagination run wild.
George and Chrissy Ballantine had been there when she arrived. There was no one else in the house.
“Breathe, kid, breathe,” she told herself. “Ah! Well, it’s here.” She grabbed the remote control as if it were a lifeline. “Why didn’t your parents get one of those remotes that just lets you talk to the TV and turn it on, huh? You know, like, ‘TV! Go on. Bring me to a really cute little kids’ show!’”
Noah clapped and made a few oohing noises.
Vickie turned on the television. From the corner of her eye, she felt as if someone passed by her. She spun around, looking everywhere; there was no one there.
“Crazy. Your Bick-bick is going crazy, Noah!” she said.
She didn’t know why, but she found herself looking at the family portraits that flanked the massive granite mantle.
Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine to the right.
Dylan and Noah to the left.
She swallowed hard and turned her attention to the flat-screen television.
It was tuned to a news channel. A reporter stood before a huge building in Suffolk County, warning listeners that two prisoners had escaped that morning from the South Bay House of Correction.
They had feigned illness in a planned escape; they had taken the guns used in their escape from guards they had left critically wounded.
One, Reginald Mason, had already been captured after a shootout with police at a convenience store. Two civilians had been wounded in the gunfire.
Residents of the Greater Boston area were warned to be extremely careful. Mug shots of the men were shown, with the footage then zooming in on the face of one Bertram Aldridge. Six years ago, he’d terrorized the area, becoming known as the Southside Slasher for the horrible way he’d murdered his seven known victims. He’d liked to tease law enforcement with letters to the newspapers, telling them FBI stood for Fat-Butt Intelligence and BPD stood for Billie-Prick-Dicks.
Police were out in force, and they expected to find the second man quickly, since he was local and had ties to the area. Past associates of the man were under investigation.
She realized she and the baby were staring at the screen as the reporter continued to numerate the violent crimes committed by the men. Bertram Aldridge, still on the loose, was known for butchering his victims with a knife, but he was familiar with firearms and had shot several officers during his original arrest.
“No, no!” she said aloud, and she began to flick the button to change the channel.
There were tons of news channels. Every one of them seemed to be covering the escape.
At last, she found a Disney cartoon, one that she loved herself—The Little Mermaid.
Singing crustaceans—yep. They were good for now.
Then the air in the room seemed changed, and again she felt as though someone else was there. Right there with her in the room.
The baby was clapping and laughing.
That was good, of course. Because, inwardly, she was freaking out.
The door was locked; she’d checked.
But it hadn’t been before. She’d heard a bump. And her phone...
She could remember—at least she thought she could remember—putting it down upstairs.
“It’s because I’m scared silly, little one—freaking here. I’m about to call my mommy!” she said to Noah, trying to smile all the time.
He laughed at her.
And then turned and laughed and clapped again, seemingly seeing someone else there.
“Okay, I’ve had it!” she said. “Kid, we’re going to head into the kitchen. Nice and cozy there, and we have a door—”
Her words broke off. She heard something. For sure this time. From upstairs.
Then suddenly she screamed. There was something right in front of her. What—she didn’t know. At first, it just seemed like clouds forming in air. Then there seemed to be a face, and then a form, and a full figure. Her mouth opened; she felt like fire and ice in one. Terror ripped through her with a painful vengeance.
And she heard the sound again. Something up the stairs. As if someone was moving, as if they were close to the stairs, perhaps to come down them...
And in front of her...
The figure and face had formed. Her gaze jerked up to the pictures above the mantle. She looked at the portrait of Dylan Ballantine.
And she looked at the strange thing that had formed out of the air before her.
“Go!” she heard. It was a rustle; it might have been leaves.
It might have been the terror that ruled her brain.
And it might have been the ghostly image of Dylan Ballantine standing before her now.
