It was supposed to be a normal Friday.
My 6-year-old son Ben had come down with a slight fever, nothing serious, so I stayed with him in the morning before calling Ruby—our trusted neighborhood babysitter—to come watch him while I went into the office.
Ruby had always been dependable. Kind, attentive, the type of sitter who color-coded snacks and read bedtime stories with funny voices. I never had a reason to doubt her.
Until 2:25 p.m.
My phone rang. No caller ID. I normally don’t answer those—but something told me to pick up.
“Mommy… I’m afraid. Please come home.”
It was Ben. Whispering.
My heart dropped.
“Where’s Ruby?” I asked, trying not to panic.
All he said was: “I don’t know what to do.”
That was it. I grabbed my bag and sprinted out of the office.
I don’t remember the drive—just the way my fingers gripped the wheel and the echo of his tiny voice in my ears.
When I got home, something was… off.
The curtains were closed. The front door was locked.
No sound. No TV, no toys, no Ruby.
I fumbled with my keys, burst inside, and screamed his name.
“Ben?!”
Nothing.
I turned the corner toward the hallway—and froze.
Standing at the edge of the hallway was a man I had never seen before.
Dirty boots. A dark hoodie. His hands in his pockets.
And behind him, I saw Ben—shaking, tears streaming down his face.
What happened next still makes my skin crawl.