The Babysitter’s Third Rule

Section 1: The Job

It was supposed to be easy.

Twenty bucks an hour. A quiet neighborhood. One sleeping kid.
For Maya, it sounded like the perfect Friday night gig.

The house stood at the end of a tree-lined cul-de-sac, tall and pale against the fading dusk. As Maya walked up the brick path, she noted the silence—no barking dogs, no humming TVs, just the faint rustle of leaves in the evening breeze.

Mr. and Mrs. Elwood were dressed in black formalwear when they opened the door. They looked like they’d stepped out of an old movie. Polished. Polite. Cold.

“The sitter,” Mr. Elwood said.

Mrs. Elwood smiled thinly. “Right on time.”

The house was warm, its wallpaper faded with age. The scent of lavender clung to everything, beneath which lingered something dusty and metallic. Maya tried not to wrinkle her nose.

“Liam’s already asleep,” Mrs. Elwood said, handing Maya a small slip of paper. “You’ll just need to stay downstairs. Help yourself to snacks.”

Maya nodded. Easy enough.

The note had three short rules, written in elegant cursive:

1. Do not go upstairs.


2. Do not open the basement door.


3. Do not look inside the antique mirror after 10:30 p.m.



Maya raised an eyebrow. “Is this serious?”

Mr. Elwood didn’t blink. “Very.”

Then they left.

And silence returned.


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Section 2: The Mirror

Time crawled. Maya scrolled through her phone, half-watching a grainy horror movie on the Elwoods’ ancient television. She nibbled on chips and tried to ignore how the ticking clock echoed a little too loudly.

It was 9:58 p.m. when she first noticed the mirror above the fireplace.

It was massive, its frame gilded with swirling vines and cherubs, the kind of mirror you’d expect to find in a castle. She was sure it hadn’t felt so… present earlier. Like it had slowly grown more noticeable as the night wore on.

10:17 p.m.

She looked again. Her reflection was there—but off. Her movements seemed to lag behind. Her hand twitched, and her reflection followed a half-second later.

She rubbed her eyes and shook her head. “Get a grip, Maya.”

10:28 p.m.

The house creaked. The wind howled faintly outside, rattling a window somewhere.

She glanced at the clock. Almost time.

She didn’t believe in curses or haunted objects. She’d watched horror movies since she was ten. She knew how this worked. Still, her stomach fluttered with unease.

10:30 p.m.
She avoided looking.

10:31 p.m.
She looked.


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Section 3: The Third Rule

At first, the mirror looked normal.

Then her reflection blinked. She didn’t.

Her chest tightened.

She stepped back, nearly tripping over the rug. Her reflection didn’t follow. It leaned forward instead.

Its lips moved soundlessly. Then, clear as a whisper, came the word:
“Thank you.”

The lights flickered.
A thump echoed from upstairs.

Maya’s breath hitched. The rule. Do not go upstairs.

Another thump. Heavier this time. Like something dragging across the floor.

She fumbled for her phone. No bars. No Wi-Fi.

She turned toward the stairwell just as a shadow flitted past it. Quick. Wrong.

Panic rose in her throat.

She remembered the kid. Liam.

Was he in danger?


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Section 4: Upstairs

She shouldn’t have gone.

She knew that. Every step up the stairs screamed at her to stop. But what if Liam needed help? What if that thing went to him?

The staircase groaned under her feet. The hallway above was cold, lit only by the sliver of light spilling from under Liam’s door.

She reached out.

The door creaked open on its own.

Inside, the room was empty.

The bed was made. The crib splintered. The window open to the cold night. Wind rustled the curtains like breath.

She stepped inside, her voice cracking. “Liam?”

Nothing.

Then she saw the wall.

Scrawled in black, jagged strokes, like ash smeared by fingers:

> “You broke the third rule. Now I break the first.”



Her heart lurched.

A cold breath slid across her neck.

She turned and ran.


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Section 5: The Basement

She bounded down the stairs, nearly slipping. She bolted for the front door. The lock clicked, but the knob refused to turn. Stuck. Sealed.

“No, no, no—” She pounded on the door. “Help! Somebody!”

Behind her, the basement door creaked.

It swung open slowly. Deliberately.

She hadn’t touched it.

Blackness bled from the doorway. It felt wrong. Heavy. Like it was watching her.

Then came the song.

A lullaby, slow and off-key. The voice that sang it was deep—far too deep—and deliberate, like each note took effort to force into this world.

Then came the footsteps.

Tiny. Barefoot. Climbing up.


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Section 6: The Babysitter

Maya stepped back, heart hammering, fists clenched. She grabbed the fireplace poker and faced the basement.

The mirror still reflected the room, but not the basement. The stairs behind her were empty in the glass.

That’s when she saw it—crawling into view.

A pale hand reached out. Then another.

Small. Like a child’s.

“Liam?” she whispered.

Then it pulled itself into the room.

It resembled a child—but it wasn’t. Its limbs bent wrong. Its face grinned too wide. Its eyes glowed faintly, like coals under ash.

“You looked,” it whispered.

Maya screamed and swung the poker. It hit nothing.

The thing vanished.

The mirror exploded.


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Section 7: The Return

At midnight, the Elwoods returned to a silent house.

Maya sat curled in a corner, eyes wide, murmuring under her breath.

The mirror was whole again, not a single crack. The room was tidy.

Liam slept peacefully in his crib upstairs, unharmed. As if he’d never left it.

The basement door was closed. Locked.

No sign of forced entry. No evidence of struggle.

No one ever figured out what happened. Maya never spoke again.

The Elwoods burned the mirror.

Or so they said.


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Author's Note

Some jobs come with fine print.
Some houses come with rules.
And some rules are meant to protect you from things that wear your face… but aren’t you.

Don’t look.