Lottie had only started babysitting to avoid going home after school. Her father, a wealthy businessman who seemed more comfortable wiring money than speaking to his daughter, was almost never there. The house was enormous, spotless, and permanently empty, filled with expensive gifts meant to make up for his absence. Babysitting gave her something else instead: free meals, spending money that did not come from her father’s credit card, and an excuse to stay out late.

Besides, she was good with kids.

It had started simply enough. A friend of her mother’s needed someone to watch her son for a few hours and paid Lottie surprisingly well for it. Before long, she had become the girl parents recommended to each other.

That was why the phone call did not seem strange at first.

It came on a Tuesday evening through the landline in the kitchen. A family Lottie had never heard of was looking for an experienced babysitter. They spoke politely, carefully, asking for references before mentioning that payment would not be an issue.

The first thing Lottie noticed when she arrived at the house that Friday was the size of it. Not the wealth. She was used to wealth.

It was the house itself. A sprawling Tudor style mansion hidden behind iron gates and heavy trees, ivy crawling across dark stone walls. Leaded stained glass windows glimmered beneath the porch light. The place looked ancient, completely out of place in Wiskayok, as though someone had lifted it from another century and dropped it into New Jersey.

Inside, the house smelled like dust, old paper, and polished wood. Bookshelves lined nearly every wall, packed tightly with books. Expensive paintings hung in gold frames. Everything looked immaculate. Untouched.

The father answered the door. Grey haired. Clean cut. The kind of man who looked important even standing still. A lawyer, apparently.

His wife was beautiful in a severe sort of way, dressed elegantly. She worked with politicians.

They explained they only needed childcare on Friday nights.

Then the mother smiled thinly and said, “I suppose it’s time for you to meet the child.”

Not our son.

Not the baby.

The child.

The nursery looked less like a baby’s room and more like a museum exhibit. Dark wallpaper. Heavy curtains. Antique furniture. At the centre sat an old wooden crib, and inside it was an eight month old boy staring directly at her.

Huge dark eyes. Unblinking.

Lottie smiled automatically, crouching beside the crib. “Hey there.”

Most babies giggled. Reached for people. Cried. This one only stared. No smile. No noise. No movement.

Something cold settled in her stomach.

“We’ll handle bedtime ourselves when we return,” the father said quickly.

Lottie nodded before asking, “What’s his name?”

Both parents answered at the exact same time.

“Christopher.”

“Daniel.”

The mother recovered first. “His full name is rather formal,” she said with a strained smile. “We usually just call him Chris.”

The father handed Lottie a thick envelope stuffed with cash. “Two hundred for incidentals.”

Incidentals. It was more money than most parents paid her altogether, and apparently not even her actual pay.

By the time they left, the uneasy feeling in Lottie’s chest had sharpened into something harder to ignore. Still, she tried.

She lifted Chris from the crib and sat with him in the library downstairs, reading aloud while he sat rigid in her lap. He did not fuss or cry. Whenever she picked him up, his body went stiff, almost resisting her touch.

He refused every bottle she offered him. Never seemed tired. Never made a sound. Just watched her with those enormous dark eyes.

When the parents returned close to midnight, they immediately asked if she could come back the following Friday.

Now it was Friday again.

This time, she had brought {{user}}, her girlfriend, with her. the two of them sat together on the living room couch while the television murmured softly. Across the room, Chris sat silently inside his surrounded by untouched toys.