The Babysitter Who Came at Midnight: True or Not?

I was eleven the night I first met her. Or thought I did.

My mom had a shift at the hospital, overnight and Dad was still in that unpredictable stage of his grief where he’d disappear for “a drive” and not come back until dawn. So I was alone, officially, even though Mom swore someone would “drop in to check” around midnight. I didn’t know then that what came to the house that night wasn’t someone. It wasn’t... normal.

I remember the house being too quiet. The kind of quiet that made your ears ring. No TV. No dishes clinking. Just the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old wood. Our house was ancient, full of stories it never told. And that night, it felt like it was holding its breath.

I was curled up on the couch, a pillow squashed under my chin, watching reruns of Boy Meets World even though I’d seen every episode. I just needed noise. Comfort. Something predictable. The clock on the wall ticked toward 11:58 p.m., and I remember thinking, No one’s coming. But then I heard the knock.

Not at the door.

At the window.

Our front window sat five feet off the ground, above the porch. No one knocked on that window unless they were climbing or floating. My heart froze before I could. I remember every hair on my arms standing at full attention, like they knew before I did.

I didn’t want to look. But I did.

There was a face.

A woman. Pale, dark-haired, wide eyes. Not smiling, not frowning. Just staring in.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.

She knocked again. Three times, slow and spaced. Then she mouthed something. I couldn’t make it out. I didn’t want to.

I backed away, hands trembling, my whole body on autopilot. I grabbed Dad’s old baseball bat from behind the door, not that it would’ve helped. I considered calling 911, but something in me whispered don’t.

And then the knocking stopped.

When I got the courage to peek again, she was gone.

Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang. A woman, normal looking, ordinary even stood there, holding a small overnight bag and a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Your mom said I’d be coming around midnight,” she said cheerfully.

I didn’t speak.

She walked in like she owned the place. She smelled like lavender and cigarettes. Her eyes flicked toward the window before she sat down across from me and said, “Let’s put on something fun to watch, yeah?”

I asked her name. She said “Helen.” That was my grandmother’s name. My dead grandmother’s name.

She never looked at me for too long.

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay in bed while she paced the living room. I heard her humming something soft and broken, like an old lullaby. She never turned on the lights. Just moved in the dark like she knew every inch.

At 6:04 a.m., I heard the front door shut.

When Mom came home, I asked her about the babysitter. She blinked at me like I’d just asked her how many moons Earth had.

“What babysitter?”

She swore she hadn’t called anyone.

I tried to explain, but I sounded crazy, even to myself. We checked the security camera. The battery had died at 11:53 p.m.

I still wonder if I made it up. Maybe it was trauma, or the isolation, or that lonely kind of grief that makes ghosts out of people you never knew.

But here’s the part I’ve never told anyone: two months ago, I was going through an old box in our basement, digging for photo albums. I found a picture.

It was my grandmother, Helen.

Young, maybe in her twenties. Pale. Dark-haired. Wide-eyed.

Wearing the same grey sweater the woman at the window wore.

I don’t know if I believe in ghosts. But I believe in what I saw. And sometimes, late at night, I hear slow, spaced knocking in my dreams. Three taps.

And I wake up wondering if maybe I wasn’t alone that night. Not really.

I’ve never told my mom. I don’t want her to think I’m broken.

But I know what I saw.

Even if no one ever believes me.

Even if I’m not sure I do.