Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-25170312-20180204184544

I am a victim of paranoia. I still don't know what really happened or why, but I know I'm not responsible for any of it. I can't explain it. I don't even know if I believe it. All I can do is recount the events as I experienced them.

My story begins with a dream as real as waking life. I get a call from Joan, Ben's mother, asking me to stop over. Her voice sounds strange. She stresses how important it is I come by immediately but won't tell me why. After getting into my car, I sort of just arrive at the house. Joan and Robert answer the door side by side as if blocking me from entering. Then they aggressively usher me into the office as I'm trying to say hi to Ben; he's playing video games and doesn't acknowledge anyone.

Robert explains how they set up a camera to monitor my time with their son and want me to explain something they caught on video. I'm a little insulted but I understand their concern. They seem frightened and somewhat threatened by me, and I can tell they're holding back a great deal of anger as well. Robert says he's not sure if they should call the police; I don't know what that means. Then they leave the room, making me watch by myself.

"It's too horrifying," says Joan.

Confused, I sit down at the computer while a slightly low-res video of the family's living room begins playing automatically. Ben's on the carpet going through his trading cards and watching TV. I recognize the show, even the episode. It's Sabrina the Teenage Witch—the one where she meets her evil twin. I've seen it a million times. After a minute or so, someone walks into frame from the lower right. By the body, hair and clothes, I can tell it's me.

I walk right up behind Ben, and for a while I'm just standing there. He doesn't seem to notice me at all as I begin to sway. I have no recollection of doing so but it's almost as if the memories are forming as I watch. At first, there's no audio but then this warbling, high pitched tone fades in until it's all around me. My other self looks right at the camera as if that's the source of the noise. It's like she's looking into my soul, or rather I'm looking into it myself, back and forth through infinity. She—it—knows I'm watching and I can tell that's what she wants.

Her casual grin evolves into a crazed grimace as she methodically reveals an enormous steak knife—the kind which makes me too apprehensive to use. With her arm out perfectly straight, not once averting her eyes from the camera, she raises the blade in slow, agonizing suspense. Then, in a split second, it comes down at an angle between Ben's neck and right shoulder. He convulses before keeling over while my heart sinks to a fathomless depth.

Again and again, she randomly thrusts the blade into Ben's torso without even looking—blood spurting on the side of her face with each violent, jerking motion. He's obviously dead but she keeps going for the sake of pleasure. I'm getting sick and yet I can't stop watching. My eyes... staring into my own eyes, into some other world I can't comprehend—a world which terrifies and fascinates me. The frequency grows to an ear piercing volume as the camera zooms in on that face...that terrible face...my face. I prepare to scream but it doesn't come out until I wake up.

Coming out of that nightmare wasn't like waking up, though. It was more like cutting from one scene in a movie to the next. One second I'm at Ben's house, then suddenly I'm in my bed. I think it was the first time I'd ever pulled the covers over my head and waited for the sun to rise.

Watching Ben that day was brutal. Every time I looked at him, images of the video would flash in front of my eyes. He could tell something was off. I guess I was acting hesitant around mirrors and knives. Every second felt like an hour as I prayed for Joan or Robert to come home early. They both ended up working late so I put Ben to bed and just stared out the window in the dark until one of them showed up. In retrospect, it sounds pretty creepy.

That night, God help me, I had the dream again. It was just as real, as unspeakably disturbing as before, but the after effects were worse—nausea, headaches, panic attacks. I put my head under the bathroom faucet for a while, sobbing. My own reflection shocked the shit out of me. Shock turned to disgust and I started throwing up. Come the morning, I called Joan and told her I had food poisoning; she was less than thrilled.

My parents wondered what I was doing in bed all day. "Leave me alone," I'd mumble. I didn't want to talk about it, or even think about it. Evening came and I found myself pacing around the room, ready for a nervous breakdown. Was I going to have the dream again? Maybe I would have if I'd slept at all but I'm not sure. Despite not getting any rest, I was more relaxed than I'd been in days.

Joan was thrilled to hear I was feeling better. Ben ran up and gave me a big hug. He'd apparently been very worried about me. I remember we played checkers that morning; I kept letting him win. At one point he asked me to slice up an apple. As soon as I picked up a knife I started having flashbacks from the dream again. There was no way I was cutting up anything.

"But I don't like it that way," he whined. I put the knife back in the drawer and slammed it shut.

"Just eat it," I said with disdain. He handed the apple back to me with a sad but obviously forced expression. Stuff like that kept happening all day. I kept picturing what his parents might say if they were watching me on video.

''"She knows he won't eat an apple if you don't cut it up." ''Why do people let their kids boss them around anyway? They're the parents. I'm the babysitter. He should do what we say.

Curious, I tried looking for a hidden camera. The bookcase behind the couch is where it would have been; I checked every book and knickknack.

"What are you looking for?" Ben asked.

"Nothing," I replied.

"Then why are you looking for it?"

Sometimes I couldn't tell if he was being a smartass or just a typical naive kid.

Enough beating around around the bush, though. The previous night was the only break I was going to get because that fucking dream came back. Maybe the only reason I didn't have it was because I didn't watch Ben that day. And if that were true, then the only way to stop it would be to quit. I'd have to get some shit job which wouldn't pay nearly as much; there goes my spending money for next semester. But if I kept having the dream, how the hell was I going to get through the summer with Ben? I tried to wriggle out of the weekends but Joan wasn't having it.

Things just got worse from there. The nightmares never ceased, never changed. They were so real it felt like I hadn't slept weeks. It was killing me. I couldn't walk by a mirror without closing my eyes or turning away for fear of being mesmerized. I must have smashed one in a fit but I don't remember. My mother was furious. She kept asking what the hell was going on, but I couldn't tell her the details of the dream or she'd think I was deranged.

Hanging out with Ben was akin to torture. Every word he spoke just pissed me off. I tried to compose myself but there was always something in my tone of voice that gave me away. Joan and Robert seemed suspicious so I kept conversations to a minimum and attempted to fake my way through. As the summer went on, I could tell they were losing trust in me.

With only a few weeks left before school started, I thought about giving up. I figured I'd have enough money, but it was possible they'd out me for abandoning the job which could hurt my reputation as a sitter. In the end, I resolved that if I let a nightmare control my life then my life would become a nightmare.

Then came the day of the incident. I should have just left when I saw it—that curious teddy bear on the shelf. It wasn't there before and didn't look like something Ben would play with. I picked it up and squeezed it; there was something hard inside. Maybe one of its eyes was spying on me, but instead of dissecting the bear I went and did some spying of my own.

Ben was on the carpet going through some trading cards and watching TV as I snuck down the hall to Robert's office. Quickly, I sat down at the computer and typed in the password. But how did I know it? The dream! I'd seen him type it in dozens of times. For a moment, I had this feeling like I was heading toward some kind of trap, but not one set by Robert and Joan. I'm not sure what I'm trying to say, but maybe if I had ignored the dream instead of walking right into it then none of this would have happened.

The desktop was a mess but I managed to discover a folder titled "nanny cam". Something about the name just set me off. Inside was an executable file which turned out to already be running, minimized on the taskbar. The second I clicked the mouse, I knew I was fucked. It was live feed from the camera that looked exactly like my nightmare—same location, same angle. And there was Ben. Every subtle move he made, every idiosyncrasy—it was all a perfect recreation of the gruesome video.

It had to be a joke, an accident, a hallucination. That thing couldn't really be about to murder Ben! It just couldn't be real! Then she looked at me. She looked right at the camera with that face, that smile. I could never make a face like that, not ever. The thoughts, the intentions one would need to harbor in order to make that kind of face...I could never.

The scene continued to play out to the letter. I still can't believe I didn't notice that same Sabrina episode on the TV, or that I was wearing the exact outfit from the dream. Maybe I deserve all this for being so fucking oblivious. Ben's life was in my hands and I couldn't do a thing to save him. I don't know if I was too scared or something was holding me down, but I just couldn't act. I couldn't even shout to warn him. I just watched it happen. I sat there and I watched her kill him. Through the wall, I heard the muffled sounds of his body being butchered.

The next few moments are all a blur. I must have smashed the computer at some point and hid in the closet. There was no way I was going out there, and it wasn't because of Ben. If that thing was still there, if I came face to face with it, with myself, I would have gone insane. Maybe I already did.

In dead silence, I waited. No footsteps, no doors, no nothing. Had it just left? I couldn't stay there. Joan was going to be home any minute, not to mention my hands were aching from gripping the closet doorknob so tight. Carefully, I removed my shoes. Then, as slow and steady as humanly possible, I crept out and over to the window, expecting any slight noise to alert that thing. I tried to open the window quietly but it kept squeaking so I panicked and just pushed the screen out with my body weight.

Once outside, I ran into the woods, screaming and crying. For hours I just ran. No matter how far away I got, it was like she was always right behind me. How do you get away when you're running from yourself? It's impossible. I'm still running.

People say the simplest explanation is the most likely. A babysitter is acting strange so the parents set up a hidden camera. The sitter finds out, snaps, kills the child and then smashes the computer. How would I even begin to convince anyone of what really happened? There's no point. But maybe if someone reads this, someone who understands that unexplainable things can occur for no real reason, then maybe I can be vindicated in some small way.

It's been a year. I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of wearing a mask. I'm tired of avoiding my own reflection. I let a nightmare control my life and now my life is a nightmare. I might just end it all soon or turn myself in. Maybe I'll throw myself into a fucking volcano. How can I live the rest of my life knowing every time I close my eyes I have to see that face? That horrible, twisted face. That face I could never make.

My face. 