When a Stranger Calls (Penny Rader)

I grew up in the country. Lots of farms around. Very few actual neighborhoods. I attended a really small school. One day a mom asked if I’d consider watching her kids every day after school for a couple hours. I didn’t want to commit to an every day thing until I’d spent time with the kids so I agreed to babysit while the parents went out.

Did I mention I lived out in the country? Well, the B’s lived even farther out in the boonies. In a tall, multi-storied house all by its lonesome. Didn’t know this until Mr. B and I pulled into their driveway.

Everything started out okay. Met the kids. They were cute. Mr. & Mrs. B headed out the door. Before too long I heard a “thwap, thwap, thwap.” I probably didn’t mention that I’ve always been something of a coward. I was never going to be one of those nightgown-clad heroines who foolishly went down into the dungeon to see what the noise was. But…since I was the babysitter I had to suck it up and check it out. I drew a deep breath and forced myself to search for the source.

Thwap. Thwap. I peered around doorways. I had a hard time hearing the noise because my heartbeat was reverberating throughout my entire body. Several rooms later I finally found the culprit – an open window and a banging window shade. Whew! Crisis averted and my heart slowing back to its normal rhythm, I closed the window and headed back downstairs.

You know how they always tell kids to not tell strangers your parents aren’t home? But they don’t really tell you what to do in that situation? What’s up with that anyway? You probably guessed what happened next. Um-hmm. The phone rang.

Me: “Hello?”
Stranger: “May I speak to Mrs. B?”
Me: “Uh…she’s busy.”
Him: “I really need to talk to her.”
Me: “She’s really busy and can’t come to the phone.”
Him: “Okay. Let me talk to Mr. B.”
Me: “He’s busy too.”
Him: sigh
Me: waiting…hoping he’d just leave a message.
Him: “This is Mrs. B’s brother. I’ll just come over.”
Me, inside my head: Aaaaack!!!
Me: “Wait! Please don't come over. I’m the babysitter. Mr. & Mrs. B aren’t here."
Him: “Just tell them I called.”

Did I mention that my imagination sometimes goes into overdrive? That call freaked me out and I was absolutely certain some raving lunatic was on his way over to murder, ravish, and pillage, but I could not show my fear in front of the kids. So, I calmly got them all into their jammies and settled in their beds. Then I planted myself in the corner of the couch, squishing myself down under a quilt until I was as small as I could make myself. To anyone watching I would appear to be watching the TV, but actually, I had one eye on the front door and one eye on the picture window.

There are lots and lots of noises in the country. Spooky noises. Tree limbs smacking windows. Wind shaking just about everything. Howling animals. It’s enough to give a 13 year old girl a heart attack.

Boy, was I relieved when Mr. & Mrs. B got home. (Though there was a moment of extreme panic when that door opened!) The next day I called and told Mrs. B that I wouldn’t be able to take the every day babysitting job. (In my head I added or any other babysitting job!) My excuse: I had too much homework. She believed me. Her kids had tons of homework, too.

Yep, I’m a wimp. And I hate babysitting. And I still don't know what you're supposed to tell people when they call and ask for the parents.

~~

Do you have any scary experiences you'd like to share with us?

Arachnophobia

A true story by Pat Davids.

Here at the WARA blog we are kicking off October with some spooky personal stories. If you are a new visitor to our site you can learn a ton of things about writing by clicking through our archives. If you’ve been here before you know what I mean. We have some great stuff gathered together by talented writers at every stage of the craft. Check us out.

But on to my story.

I love the fall, but one thing I don’t love about this time of year is the way spiders seem to find their way inside when the weather gets cool outside. Did I mention I hate spiders? If I didn’t, let me tell you that spiders inspire fear, loathing, hate and disgust all the way to my very core. I hate spiders. I’m okay with snakes, but I hate spiders.

I am not alone. 55% of females have a fear of spiders. Only 18% of men do. Girls are smarter than boys.

I understand that spiders have a wonderful purpose in life. They eat insects, they create intricate webs that sparkle like diamonds when the early morning sun strikes one bedecked with dew, but I hate them anyway....because....I do.

I grew up in an old farmhouse that we shared with the occasional brown recluse spider. I’m sure I’d die if I actually knew how many lurked in the dank basement, in the attic or beneath all those boxes in the junk room. Happily, I remain in ignorance of the total number but let me tell you about one encounter I did have.

Do you remember when you were finally old enough to stay home alone? I do. I was nine and delighted at the chance to stay home by myself. I felt so grown up. I parked myself in dad’s recliner and watched Gunsmoke on TV…until the old house began to creak and groan as it settled down for the night.

It really isn’t the same without your family in the house. It was...spooky.

I will admit things got spookier the later it got, but I wasn’t going to give in and go to bed when I finally had the house to myself. I got a book and decided to lose myself in the story. I kicked off my shoes, curled up in the chair and began to read.

Quietly, in the still house I turned the pages one by one…and then I heard it.

A faint skit-skitta-skit, skit-skitta-skit.

I looked down and saw a brown spider the size of a dinner plate—okay, well—maybe a saucer—okay, okay, a half-dollar—but a big half-dollar—crossing the hardwood floor straight towards me.

I am not kidding you. I heard that spider walking!

It ran under my recliner and I went straight up and out of that chair like a scalded cat. Barefoot, I turned in panicked circles looking for somewhere, anywhere safe and spotted a kitchen chair a few feet away.

I made the leap with amazing accuracy. I’m sure it was a sight to behold. And there I stayed.

An hour later, when my family finally came home, I was still perched on that chair. I had never taken my eyes off that recliner.

When you tell people (ie, parents and siblings) that you heard a spider walking across the floor they don’t believe you. They don’t. Even if they find you perched on a kitchen chair in the dead of night. My brave dad took one look at me and said, “Why didn’t you kill it?”

I was barefoot. It was fast. It was BIG!
I said, “I don’t know.”
Hey, I was nine.

Dad tipped over the chair and guess what? No spider. Gone! Vanished! Lurking to this day in the dank basement, hidden within the dark corners of the attic, concealed beneath the empty Christmas boxes piled in the junk room. He was Gigantico Arachnosaurus. The biggest darn spider I ever saw. So big you could hear him walking.

I never sat in that recliner again.