I Was Hired to Babysit. The House Had No Children

When I first saw the job listing, it felt like an answer to my prayers. I was a college student struggling to pay rent, and “babysitting in a quiet neighborhood” sounded like easy money. The ad was simple—“Looking for responsible young woman to babysit evenings, $20/hour. Flexible schedule.”

It came with an address, a phone number, and nothing more. I almost didn’t call. But the thought of paying off even a fraction of my overdue bills made my hesitation vanish.

When Mrs. Crawford answered the phone, her voice was sweet, almost too sweet. She asked no real questions about my experience, only if I could start Friday night. Something in her tone made me feel like she had been waiting for me.

The House on Willow Lane

Friday evening, I took the bus across town to Willow Lane, where large, ivy-draped houses stood like silent guardians of an older era. Mrs. Crawford greeted me at the door with a wide smile. She looked elegant, her silver hair pinned neatly, but her eyes carried something I couldn’t name—something restless.

Inside, the house was immaculate, filled with antique furniture and polished wood floors that creaked under my steps. But what struck me immediately was the silence. No toys. No children’s laughter. No family photos with sticky-fingered toddlers smiling back.

“Where are the children?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

Mrs. Crawford’s smile faltered for a moment. “They’ll be asleep by the time you need to worry about them,” she said softly. “You just need to stay in the house until we return. That’s all.”

The way she said “that’s all” lingered in the air like a shadow.

The Babysitting Shift

She and her husband left around 7 p.m., their expensive car purring down the driveway. I sat on the couch, scrolling through my phone. At first, everything seemed normal. But then, as the house settled into its nighttime stillness, I began to hear faint sounds.

Footsteps upstairs.

I froze. The Crawford had left no mention of anyone else being in the house. Slowly, I stood and crept toward the staircase.

“Hello?” My voice cracked slightly. No answer.

I climbed the stairs one by one, each creak of the wood echoing louder in the silence. At the end of the hallway, a door was slightly ajar. Inside, a dim nightlight glowed.

It was a child’s bedroom.

Toys lined the shelves. A small bed with neatly tucked blankets sat against the wall. And on the dresser, I saw it—a photo of two children, smiling brightly. My stomach tightened. They looked alive, but the picture had the faded sepia tint of something taken decades ago.

That’s when I heard it. A whisper. So soft I thought I imagined it.

“Stay with us…”

The Unseen

I bolted downstairs, heart pounding, but the noises followed. The giggle of a child. The patter of feet. The sound of something dragging across the floor.

My phone slipped from my trembling hand. The screen lit up as it landed, and in the reflection of the darkened window beside me, I saw what I couldn’t bring myself to turn around and face—two small figures standing just behind me.

When the Crawford returned close to midnight, I was pale and shaking. Mrs. Crawford smiled again, as if nothing was wrong. “Did everything go smoothly?” she asked.

I wanted to scream. To accuse them. To demand answers. But all I could do was nod.

She pressed crisp bills into my hand. “Thank you for taking such good care of them.”

Her words cut through me. Them.

But the house had no children.

Final Thoughts

That was my first and last night working for the Crawford's. To this day, I don’t know if what I saw was real, or if the house was haunted by memories of children who once lived there. But sometimes, late at night, I still hear faint laughter when the world grows too quiet.

And I wonder if, in some way, I’m still babysitting.