Prologue
The side door was open just a hair, but that little bit brought a hint of wintry air that sent a chill racing down Vickie Preston’s spine. She shivered. She moved closer to the door and found herself looking out at the day through the double-paned window.
It was gray. Turning darker quickly as the day waned into the late afternoon.
Nothing unexpected, since it was winter, and still...
She felt unnerved. The wind seemed to have a keening sound about it—a sound that made her think of her granny O’Malley talking about banshees wailing.
Or maybe it was the fact that the door was open—even though she didn’t know why it would be. But she knew it was all right. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine hadn’t even left for their night out yet. She would just ask him about the door—maybe he’d been taking something out to the car.
Still, oddly trembling, she closed the door and locked it. As she did so, Chrissy Ballantine came sailing into the kitchen, adjusting her gloves.
“Choose any of those little packets of food you’d like,” Mrs. Ballantine said. “You know where they all are. Noah will probably need to eat about 8:30 tonight and there’s a six-ounce bottle he can have after he eats his food. He’ll most likely fall asleep after that. The baby monitor is next to the crib, of course. The diapers are next to the crib...and well, you know the drill. You have my number, and you have George’s number, and...”
“Chrissy, can we go, please!” George Ballantine said, coming up behind his wife, slipping an arm around her waist. “My dear, as we know, Vickie is the most amazing babysitter in the world and if you torture her to death with commonsense details, she’ll leave us!”
Vickie Preston smiled at them both.
God bless the Ballantines!
They were both in their midforties; Noah was, truly, a miracle child for them.
It had never been easy for her, Chrissy had once told Vickie. It seemed like a gift from above that she had finally gotten pregnant again. Fertility drugs before—and now? Just a miracle.
Yes, Noah was a miracle.
And before...
Even though they had little Noah, tears often sprang to Chrissy’s eyes when she referred to an earlier time—and the son they had lost. After all their first efforts twenty years ago, they had finally had a child: Dylan. Dylan had been great, a son any parent could adore. Good in school, good in sports, but more—a great sport himself, happy when he won, able to shrug it off and smile when he or his team lost.
A year shy of his eighteenth birthday, Dylan had been killed by a drunk driver. His death had nearly killed his parents as well; it had devastated a community. George Ballantine had left his high-tech job in New York City—too many memories—and relocated in Boston. And while his wife had still been in mourning, she’d suddenly found out that she would have the second child she had always wanted.
Vickie knew all about the Ballantines because the families knew each other through church. Chrissy Ballantine had called Vickie’s mom, and Vickie had been interviewed. She had been in awe when she’d heard how much she could make, just babysitting a sweet child. And while she was very happy about Noah, she also felt terrible for the couple, and she thought about the young man she saw in pictures about the house—Dylan Ballantine—often enough. She was now just about the age he had been when he died, almost eighteen. She found herself wondering what his life had been like—he’d been popular, certainly. Had he dreamed about college, being on his own, the places he might go, the things he might do in life?
Dylan was gone, but it was just sixteen months and three days ago that Noah Ballantine had made his stunning and miraculous arrival into the world.
For the first six months of his life, Chrissy had refused to leave his side. Her psychiatrist had finally convinced her she would smother her poor child, herself and her marriage if she didn’t learn to trust someone. Vickie was always grateful they had chosen her.
“Yes, yes, of course, we can go,” Chrissy said. “I’ll just look in on the baby one more time, though, I know, of course Vickie will be fine.”
“Vickie will be fine—whether you go stare at Noah again or not!” George said firmly.
Vickie could easily understand how precious the child was to both Chrissy and George. She loved the baby herself, as well as both of the Ballantines—and loved babysitting for them. They had a great old historic house that was one of the few listed on the National Historic Register and still a private residence in the midst of the explosion of Boston as a city. When she babysat in the afternoon, she would walk part of the Freedom Trail and, despite the fact she was a city native, still marvel at the Old South Meeting House, the Granary Burial Ground and other local wonders.
Her own house was old, but not nearly so old—or distinguished—as the Ballantine house. It had been built in 1790, combining the Georgian and Federal styles, and the architecture itself was amazing. The house was on most walking tours of the city. It had hosted Samuel Adams at one time, along with John Hancock and a number of other Revolutionary notables. Her home was nice—mid-1800s—but it had been built as apartments and was an apartment building to this day. Nothing like this.
“Oh, but his clothes!” Chrissy said. “I need to show Vickie where everything he might need can be found.”
“Vickie knows where everything Noah has can be found. Details—you’re going to drive the poor girl crazy!” George said.
“Darling, I don’t get crazy on details,” Chrissy protested. “Okay, I do,” she admitted, looking at Vickie. “But—”
“I’m fine. I don’t mind details,” Vickie assured her.
From his play area in the living room, Noah suddenly let out a demanding cry. Chrissy Ballantine immediately jumped and turned to go to him.
Her husband caught her arm. “Vickie is here now. She’ll get Noah. And we’ll head out to our dinner with my boss, huh?”
“Yes, of course, of course.” Chrissy smiled at Vickie, hugged her impetuously and allowed her husband to steer her to the kitchen door.
A blast of cold air swept in; the house didn’t have a garage, but rather a porte cochere, or covered drive, once a carriage entry. It was small and tight to the house, allowing for one car. But then they didn’t need more than one car where they were in Boston. Public transportation on the T was great.
George Ballantine looked back at Vickie and winked. She smiled and waved and headed to the door to close and lock it behind them.
But Chrissy was suddenly back, rapping on the window. “The alarm!” she said.
“I’ve got it!” Vickie assured her. And she keyed in the alarm.
As she did so, she remembered that she had forgotten to ask George Ballantine why the side door had been open. She rekeyed the alarm to Off and threw open the door.
But their silver Mercedes had already driven into the night.
She heard Noah let out another wail and she quickly locked the door and keyed in the alarm again before hurrying back to the grand parlor.
She wasn’t really sure why any kid would be crying or wanting to leave this play space. His “playpen” was constructed to cover an area that was a good fifteen-by-fifteen feet long and wide. He could crawl onto his scooter, play with his toddler walker—or any number of the amazing toys in the carefully constructed play box in the play area.
Despite being spoiled rotten, Noah Ballantine was a sweet and affectionate baby. He had taken to Vickie right away, which had helped her earn the position. She adored him in turn.
He wasn’t screaming or crying out with his few words when she reached the parlor; he was staring into what appeared to be blank space. And then he began to laugh—the way he did when they watched Little Baby Bum videos and clapped and played.
His interaction with blank space made Vickie curious—and uncomfortable. She told herself that she was just spooked. She silently cursed herself for not asking George Ballantine about the open door—he would have said something to reassure her.
“What ya doing, my little love?” Vickie said, stepping over the playpen gate and hunkering down by the baby. He truly was a sweetheart. He looked at her and gave her a brilliant smile and clapped his hands.
He was blessed with huge hazel eyes and a thatch of rich sandy hair and couldn’t possibly have been a cuter boy.
He clapped his hands again.
“Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker man! Bake me a cake as fast as you can!” she said. “Roll it, and poke it, and mark it with a B, and then put it in the oven for my baby and me!”
He responded with more laughter and smiles, and then looked aside again—as if someone else was there.
“Okay, okay, creeping me out there, kid!” Vickie said. “And, by the way—P.U.! You stink-um, dink-um!” she told him. “You need a diaper change.”
She swept him up, climbed over the playpen gate and headed for the stairs.
She stopped halfway there, hearing a tapping at the window. It seemed that her heart caught in her throat.
Just branches in the wind, branches in the wind...
But if she didn’t check it out, she’d scare herself all night. Cuddling Noah to her, she headed to the window and held her breath as she drew back the drapery.
“As I expected!” she said, keeping her voice filled with fun—she wasn’t about to scare the baby. “Branches! Rude! How rude of them to tap at the window like that.”
Noah thought it was all great.
“Up the stairs we go!”
Noah’s room was a fantasy playland. His crib and dressing table, changing table, floor mat and toy chest were all done up in a jungle motif in pastel blues with an elephant theme. She grabbed a diaper and the wipes and made quick work of the change.
She felt her cell phone buzzing and answered it quickly, balancing Noah in the crook of her left arm. Her mom always called to make sure she was okay. Vickie was always afraid if she didn’t answer quickly, her mom would have cops at the door. But it wasn’t her mom, it was Roxanne Greeley, one of her best friends.
“So, the cats are gone, eh? Party, party?” Roxanne asked her.
“No parties. I’m earning my money for college.”
Roxanne giggled. “I know you—just teasing. If I were to head over for a wild and wicked party, that would be the two of us doing our toenails once the little guy fell asleep. But...”
“But what?” Vickie asked.
“Hank Fremont does think you should spend more time with him. I overheard him talking about his brother getting him some beer and then him heading over to surprise you,” Roxanne said. “Some of the guys he hangs with were egging him on. Telling him he’s the coolest dude in the school and if he’s dating you, well, you should be cool, too.”
“Not to worry. I informed Hank this is serious work for me. College is serious for me.”
“Ah, well, one day maybe you’ll be president of the country! And then I’ll have wild, wicked parties doing my toenails with the president! Anyway, I warned you.”
“I told him not to come. He won’t. So I’ll see you tomorrow? Shopping, right? We’re going to the mall. Sushi at the ridiculously good place in the food court?”
“We’re on.”
Her phone was ringing again as she finished with Roxanne; it was Hank. She shook her head, smiled at the baby, and answered.
“I’m on my way, my love,” Hank said, trying to make his voice husky—deeply, manly rich. Vickie shook her head at the baby with exasperation. He loved it.
“Don’t be. I told you—I won’t let you in,” Vickie said. “Hank, this is serious for me. You need to be more serious. If you don’t hit a few books instead of beer bottles, not even your athletics will get you into college.”
“Hey, we’re only young once! I already have beer and a pizza. Come on, that’s a super-cool house. I’ll be there—”
“Come, and I’ll call the cops,” she threatened.
“Bitch!”
“I mean it, Hank.”
“Well, you know, we could be over.”
“We will be eventually. Maybe now is a good enough time.”
Vickie hung up, aggravated, and set her phone on the baby’s dresser.
They’d been through this before. He’d apologize tomorrow. He’d beg her to stay with him. But everything she had said was true.
“Maybe this is the right time to end it, huh, Noah?”
Noah laughed and clapped.
And then they both heard a thump. Noah’s eyes widened; Vickie jumped.
It had come from the attic—she was certain.
Now she did freeze. For a moment, she couldn’t even remember to shake it off quickly for the baby.
She waited. Nothing more.
Had a branch fallen on the house?
Or had Hank Fremont not taken her refusal seriously? Could he possibly be there already, up in the attic, or outside? Maybe, like in the movies, he’d actually called her from inside the house or right outside the house!
No, he’d been a jerk tonight, but usually he kind of listened to her. But he was a high school senior surrounded by a few guys who were taking a long time to reach anything that resembled maturity.
No. Hank would not be that big a jerk. But the house was closely surrounded by big trees.
“That’s it—a branch,” she managed to say at last, realizing that her hold on Noah was tight—and right when he looked at her, his little face puckered into what might have turned into a cry.
He smiled instead. “Bick-bick!” he said. It was his name for her. He was beginning to talk—sometimes his words made sense. He was good with mama, dada, bye-bye, and kit-kat. The Ballantines didn’t have pets, but Noah had a great stuffed kitten that sang songs and told nursery rhymes and he knew to ask for his kit-kat when he wanted the toy.
“Let’s go back downstairs,” she murmured. “Maybe we’ll look at your food packs and you can point at one and we’ll choose your late-night snack that way!”
Noah clapped his hands. He was, however, looking past Vickie—toward the door. There was something about the way that he was looking that caused her to spin around and stare.
But no one stood in the doorway.
“You know, Noah, Bick-bick is going to have to stop this. There are a lot of horror stories about babysitters. The phone rings, and there’s no one there. Just breathing, or something like that. We, however, have a great alarm on this house!”
Except the door had been ajar. Before the alarm had been set.
She was really doing it: scaring herself. If she went off the deep end, the Ballantines would never ask her back.
“Television! We will turn the television on. It will talk and be...well, it will be fine,” she said.
Once downstairs, she couldn’t find the remote control for the mammoth television screen that was just the right distance from the play area to make certain Noah wasn’t too close.
She looked all over the room—in Noah’s toy box, everywhere.
Shaking her head, she took the baby with her and headed for the kitchen.
The door remained locked. She couldn’t help but check.
The phone rang and she nearly jumped a mile high. It was the house phone.
This was it—where the babysitter answered the home phone and someone just breathed into her ear.
She let it ring. And ring.
She heard the message machine kick in out in the parlor. And then her mother’s voice.
“Victoria? Victoria, are you there, sweetheart?”
She picked the phone up. “Mom?”
“Yes, it’s your mom—remember me?” Her mother asked dryly.
Her muscles were so tense she had to pray the baby didn’t feel her fear.
She forced herself to breathe. “Mom, why didn’t you call my cell?”
“I did. You didn’t answer,” her mother said.
Vickie felt in her pockets. Nope, her phone wasn’t on her. Where the heck had she left it? Oh, yeah, she’d set it down upstairs after talking to Roxanne.
“Sorry. It’s here somewhere. Anyway, what’s up?”
“You were supposed to call and tell me that you got there okay.”
“Mom, I thought you were planning on calling me. Also, I graduate in June. And I’m going to college. You just won’t be able to check on me every minute.”
“I know, I know. But that’s June. I’ll get a grip by then. It’s just...well, when you go to the Ballantine house, I can’t help but think about their son...their older son.”
“Well, I’m here, I’m fine, baby is as well. I haven’t bounced him off the roof yet or anything.”
Her mother laughed softly. “You’re a great babysitter, Vickie. And dog-walker and student and daughter. You’ve worked very hard. You’re going to love going to NYU. Mrs. Ballantine will be almost as heartbroken as me when you head off.”
“Mom, I’ll be in New York. It’s only a four or five hour drive. Look, I promise I’ll bring home lots of laundry and come home for food and the whole bit, okay?”
Noah let out a squeal of delight. He was looking over Vickie’s shoulder again.
“I hear the little darling. Okay, sweetie. Go and take care of him!” her mother said.
“Love you, Mom.”
“Okay, take care of the little one!”
Noah let out a delighted laugh once again.
Vickie barely managed to hang up the phone. She spun around. There was nothing there.
Nothing.
No one.
She almost picked up the phone to call her mom and ask her to come over. Or maybe she could call Roxanne back. Nope. She had assured Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine she did nothing but babysit. She didn’t have friends over.
Including male friends?
Not to worry—she especially didn’t have male friends over!
She took a deep breath and headed back into the parlor.
There, on the footstool in front of one of the antique rockers, sat the remote control.
And her cell phone.
She hadn’t put them there!
This time, fear shot through her with electric sparks. She set Noah down quickly in his play area, afraid she would startle, scare or hurt him.
She made herself breathe—and breathe again.
“Okay, I just didn’t see it before,” she murmured to herself. “Right there—right on the footstool, but somehow, I’ve gone blind. What do you think, Noah? I didn’t set the phone down upstairs, I did that down here. And I just didn’t really look for the remote control. I’m too into you!”
He was such a delightful baby. He looked at her and clapped his hands together. She forced a smile and looked at her watch.
Six o’clock. Full dark on a wintry Boston night. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine wouldn’t come home for hours.
And now, because she’d seen too many horror movies, she was allowing herself to let her imagination run wild.
George and Chrissy Ballantine had been there when she arrived. There was no one else in the house.
“Breathe, kid, breathe,” she told herself. “Ah! Well, it’s here.” She grabbed the remote control as if it were a lifeline. “Why didn’t your parents get one of those remotes that just lets you talk to the TV and turn it on, huh? You know, like, ‘TV! Go on. Bring me to a really cute little kids’ show!’”
Noah clapped and made a few oohing noises.
Vickie turned on the television. From the corner of her eye, she felt as if someone passed by her. She spun around, looking everywhere; there was no one there.
“Crazy. Your Bick-bick is going crazy, Noah!” she said.
She didn’t know why, but she found herself looking at the family portraits that flanked the massive granite mantle.
Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine to the right.
Dylan and Noah to the left.
She swallowed hard and turned her attention to the flat-screen television.
It was tuned to a news channel. A reporter stood before a huge building in Suffolk County, warning listeners that two prisoners had escaped that morning from the South Bay House of Correction.
They had feigned illness in a planned escape; they had taken the guns used in their escape from guards they had left critically wounded.
One, Reginald Mason, had already been captured after a shootout with police at a convenience store. Two civilians had been wounded in the gunfire.
Residents of the Greater Boston area were warned to be extremely careful. Mug shots of the men were shown, with the footage then zooming in on the face of one Bertram Aldridge. Six years ago, he’d terrorized the area, becoming known as the Southside Slasher for the horrible way he’d murdered his seven known victims. He’d liked to tease law enforcement with letters to the newspapers, telling them FBI stood for Fat-Butt Intelligence and BPD stood for Billie-Prick-Dicks.
Police were out in force, and they expected to find the second man quickly, since he was local and had ties to the area. Past associates of the man were under investigation.
She realized she and the baby were staring at the screen as the reporter continued to numerate the violent crimes committed by the men. Bertram Aldridge, still on the loose, was known for butchering his victims with a knife, but he was familiar with firearms and had shot several officers during his original arrest.
“No, no!” she said aloud, and she began to flick the button to change the channel.
There were tons of news channels. Every one of them seemed to be covering the escape.
At last, she found a Disney cartoon, one that she loved herself—The Little Mermaid.
Singing crustaceans—yep. They were good for now.
Then the air in the room seemed changed, and again she felt as though someone else was there. Right there with her in the room.
The baby was clapping and laughing.
That was good, of course. Because, inwardly, she was freaking out.
The door was locked; she’d checked.
But it hadn’t been before. She’d heard a bump. And her phone...
She could remember—at least she thought she could remember—putting it down upstairs.
“It’s because I’m scared silly, little one—freaking here. I’m about to call my mommy!” she said to Noah, trying to smile all the time.
He laughed at her.
And then turned and laughed and clapped again, seemingly seeing someone else there.
“Okay, I’ve had it!” she said. “Kid, we’re going to head into the kitchen. Nice and cozy there, and we have a door—”
Her words broke off. She heard something. For sure this time. From upstairs.
Then suddenly she screamed. There was something right in front of her. What—she didn’t know. At first, it just seemed like clouds forming in air. Then there seemed to be a face, and then a form, and a full figure. Her mouth opened; she felt like fire and ice in one. Terror ripped through her with a painful vengeance.
And she heard the sound again. Something up the stairs. As if someone was moving, as if they were close to the stairs, perhaps to come down them...
And in front of her...
The figure and face had formed. Her gaze jerked up to the pictures above the mantle. She looked at the portrait of Dylan Ballantine.
And she looked at the strange thing that had formed out of the air before her.
“Go!” she heard. It was a rustle; it might have been leaves.
It might have been the terror that ruled her brain.
And it might have been the ghostly image of Dylan Ballantine standing before her now.
And still, she heard that sound...someone moving furtively, taking a step on the staircase, moving in a way she could sense...
And then...
She felt as if she was suddenly slapped hard by an icy hand.
“Get Noah and get out!”
Like a whisper, like a whisper, like a sound that played only in her mind...
“Move! Move—now!”
At that point, she acted. She grabbed the baby. She forgot about his ultrawarm knit hat and his mittens and his outside shoes.
She held him to her chest, raced to the front door, threw it open and raced out into the street.
It was dark and it was cold and no tourists were traveling the Freedom Trail. She heard a pounding behind her.
She was terrified to look back.
She did.
A man was there, behind her, coming after her. A man with a gun.
She turned and ran again—toward the Paul Revere House.
There were still people there! A group milling, talking about where to go to dinner.
“Help, help!” she cried.
Someone heard her! A tall Boston policeman had suddenly appeared on the sidewalk.
“Down, miss, down!” he shouted.
She gripped Noah even more tightly to her and ducked low.
She heard an explosion and a scream at the same time. Turning back, she saw the man with the gun on the ground.
He had fired, but he had apparently tripped over his own two feet. His gun had gone off... But his bullet had aimed into the sky. He was struggling up, taking aim again...
But he’d been shot.
The young policeman had fired at almost the same time.
Standing next to the collapsed man was the image of the boy she had seen in the house. Dylan Ballantine, dead nearly three years, dead before his baby brother had been born.
The policeman rushed by Vickie and the baby, his own weapon aimed at the man—the convict!—who had evidently tripped...
The man on the ground screamed as the cop’s bullet exploded again; his gun went flying from his hand. He was disarmed, bleeding.
But only because he had tripped over the leg of a dead boy! Over Dylan Ballantine.
And as she continued to stare back in terror, the image of Dylan Ballantine began to fade.
And then he was gone.
The icy darkness of the wintry night began to settle in, and Noah began to cry at last.