I was seventeen when it happened, babysitting for the Hendersons in their massive house on the outskirts of Manchester. I mean, I’d babysat loads of times before—it was easy money, you know? The kids would be asleep by eight, and I’d have the rest of the night to revise for my A-levels and pocket fifty quid. Simple.
The Hendersons’ place was one of those old Victorian houses that felt too big, honestly. All creaky floorboards and long hallways. Mrs. Henderson gave me the usual instructions—emergency numbers on the fridge, bedtime at half seven, don’t let them have any more biscuits. The children, Sophie and James, were six and four. Sweet kids. They went down without any fuss whilst I read them a story about a friendly dragon.
By nine o’clock, I was curled up on their massive sofa with my biology textbook, basically half-asleep myself. That’s when the landline rang.
I jumped a bit—nobody really uses landlines anymore, do they? I picked it up.
“Hello?”
Silence. Then breathing. Heavy, deliberate breathing.
“Hello?” I said again, louder this time.
“Check on the children.” The voice was low, almost a whisper. Male, I think.
My stomach lurched. “What? Who is this?”
The line went dead.
I stood there holding the phone, my heart pounding in my ears. It was probably just some prank caller, right? Kids from school messing about. I tried to laugh it off, but my hands were shaking as I set the phone back down.
Maybe I was just paranoid. I went upstairs anyway, pushed open the door to the kids’ room. They were both fast asleep, Sophie clutching her stuffed rabbit, James sprawled across his bed like a starfish. Everything looked normal. Obviously, everything was fine.
I went back downstairs, tried to focus on cellular respiration, but the words kept blurring together.
Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again.
I stared at it for three rings before answering. “Hello?”
“Check on the children.” The same voice, a bit more insistent this time.
“Who the hell is this?” My voice came out shaky, nothing like the confident tone I was going for.
Click.
Right, this wasn’t funny anymore. I checked the doors—front door locked, back door locked. All the windows were shut tight. The house suddenly felt enormous and empty, too many dark corners and rooms I couldn’t see into. I climbed the stairs again, my footsteps echoing in that awful Victorian way. Checked on Sophie and James. Still sleeping peacefully.
I should have called the police then. Looking back, I realize that’s what any sensible person would have done. But I didn’t want to seem like some hysterical teenager overreacting to a prank call. What would I even say?
The third call came at half past nine.
“Check on the children.”
“Stop calling here!” I shouted into the phone. “I’m calling the police!”
But I didn’t. Not yet. I checked on the kids again—third time now. They hadn’t moved. Everything looked exactly the same. I stood in their doorway for a full minute, just watching them breathe, making sure they were real and safe and there.
The fourth call came at quarter to ten.
This time I didn’t even say hello. The voice spoke immediately: “Check on the children.” There was something different in the tone now. Urgent. Almost… concerned?
“They’re fine!” I screamed. “Leave me alone!”
I slammed the phone down so hard it cracked against the receiver. My whole body was trembling. I felt my heart drop into my stomach. Something wasn’t right. This wasn’t a prank anymore—if it ever was.
The fifth call came at exactly ten o’clock.
“Check. On. The. Children.”
Each word was deliberate, emphasized. And underneath the voice, I heard something else. Something that made my blood run cold.
I heard the children’s music box. The one in their bedroom. Playing that tinny little lullaby.
But I was downstairs. The phone was downstairs.
My hands went numb. “Where are you?” I whispered.
The line went dead.
That’s when I called the police. I was sobbing, barely coherent, but the operator was brilliant—calm, professional. She kept me on the line whilst officers were dispatched. She asked me to describe what was happening.
“The calls,” I gasped. “Someone keeps calling, telling me to check on the children, and I can hear—I can hear their music box through the phone, but I’m downstairs and—”
“Okay, love, listen to me carefully,” she said. Her voice changed then, became more serious. “We’re tracing the call right now. Stay on the line with me. Don’t hang up.”
There was muffled conversation on her end. Typing. Then silence.
“Love?” Her voice was different now. Frightened. “The calls are coming from inside the house. From the upstairs bedroom extension. You need to get out. Right now. Don’t go upstairs. Don’t check on the children. Just leave.”
I remember dropping the phone. I remember running—not for the stairs, but for the front door, my fingers fumbling with the deadbolt. I remember the sound of a door opening upstairs, footsteps in the hallway above me. Heavy footsteps. Adult footsteps.
I remember bursting out into the cold Manchester night, screaming for help, running barefoot down the street until a neighbor caught me.
The police found him in the wardrobe in the children’s room. He’d been there the whole time, since before the Hendersons even left. Listening. Watching. Making calls from the upstairs extension, trying to make me come up there. I don’t know what he would have done if I’d walked into that room whilst he was waiting. I’ll never forget what the officer told me later: the children never woke up because he’d been giving them something in their bedtime milk for weeks. He’d been planning this.
Sophie and James were fine, thank God. Physically, at least.
To this day, I still can’t hear a phone ring without feeling sick. I moved away from Manchester for university, changed my number three times. Sometimes, late at night, I think about those moments when I stood in their doorway, watching them sleep, completely unaware that someone was watching me from inside that wardrobe. Just meters away. Breathing quietly in the darkness.
I should have trusted my instincts after that first call. But I didn’t want to seem crazy.
I don’t babysit anymore. Obviously.
