I’m sure almost everyone has read that story. The one where the babysitter is watching some kids and after putting them to bed, she goes to watch TV and there’s this creepy angel statue at the window of the parent’s bedroom and she calls them to ask if she can cover it with a blanket cuz it’s freaking her the fuck out and they’re all like:
DUN DUN DUN!!! (If you haven’t read it and want to, you can do that here)
I mean, every babysitter has had that moment. Right? RIGHT?
When I was younger, I used to babysit the children across the street on a regular basis. One night I got there around 8:30pm and the kids (2 of them, let’s call them Nancy and Kyle) were getting ready for bed. Nancy was 6 and Kyle was 4. Their parents left within a few minutes of my arrival, so I ensured the kids brushed their teeth, read them a bedtime story and tucked them into bed.
Freedom at last. It was a rough 20 minutes before I was kid free! I decided to celebrate by curling up in a ball on the couch in the family room and watching TV until the adults came back. The layout of this house was like this:
So I mosied through the kitchen door to head to the family room and saw this:
WHAT THE ACTUAL FLAMING FUCK. WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?
Yes. There was an extremely tall person sitting on the couch, hiding themselves with a sheet.
I fought the urge to pee myself, and tried to quietly search the kitchen for a weapon. Unfortunately for me, the parents were responsible ones and did not leave their knives/axes/guns out in the open, so I grabbed the only thing I could:
Yup. I was armed with a spatula. So I ninja’d my way down the stairs, maintaining eye contact with the psycho on the couch, trying to be sure to make little to no noise. Finally, the moment arrived:
I got the corner of the sheet and pulled, raising the spatula up so I could bring it down with the fury of 10,000 angry breakfast joint cooks onto the face of the (extremely stupid and lazy) creep. As the sheet fell, I made eye contact with him:
Yes. Ronald McFuckingDonald. Staring at me with his dead black eyes. One of those creepy ones you see sitting on the benches in the kid’s play areas at the fast food joint. Watching. Lurking. Waiting.
This is where I mention I am terrified as FUCK of clowns, and have been almost my entire life. Being around them literally makes me cry. I would have rather had it be this:
I could have spatulaed the SHIT out of either of them. But no. It was a fucking clown. So what actually happened was this:
Of course, my shrill high pitched girly screams woke up Nancy, who sleepily comes down the stairs and looks at me:
And then Nancy takes my hand into her tiny little ones, gazes up at me and says:
NO! NO THEY ARE DEFINITELY NOT. THEY ARE DEFINITELY NOT PEOPLE. NO.
So I wipe my tears, take Nancy back to bed, and then proceed to spend the next 3 hours like this until the parental units arrive:
Sitting on the stairs maintaining eye contact with Ronald.
**Spoiler alert: He didn’t move.**
Finally the adults arrive home and of course, Mrs.Adult comes up and it goes like this:
Mrs.Adult: Karin, why are you on the stairs?
Me: THERE IS A FREAKING CLOWN ON THE COUCH DOWNSTAIRS
Mrs.Adult: Yes, I know.
Me: I AM SCARED OF CLOWNS.
Mrs.Adult: Yes, I know that too.
Me: … THEN WHY DID THIS HAPPEN?
Mrs.Adult: Well, Mr.Adult did some work at like, 3am for a McDonalds, and the night manager couldn’t pay him, so they gave him Ronald instead, and the kids were so happy!
Me: And then?
Mrs.Adult: And I know you’re scared of clowns, so I hid it!
Me: Under a sheet on the couch in the family room?
Mrs.Adult: … Yes, because then you couldn’t see it!
Me: A 6ft tall seated clown was hidden under a sheet in the room you knew I’d go sit in after putting the kids to bed and you thought that would be less scary?
Mrs.Adult: Well, if he was covered, you wouldn’t know he was a clown.
Me: Ok, but then I came downstairs and thought there was a 6ft tall person hiding under a sheet on the couch, and I tried to kill it, and it was a clown.
Mrs.Adult: … In hindsight, I see the flaws in my original plan.
So I spent the night in my bed, staring out my window, expecting to see this:
A few weeks later, they ask me to come babysit again. I show up and am told:
They sure did. They moved him right the fuck outside, sitting on a bench in the backyard. Watching me. And we’d had some rain over the last week, which had basically made him look to have a melting face. But his eyes were intact. So instead of spending the night waiting on the stairs, I spent the night standing at the back sliding door, staring at Ronald. Even after the sun set, I stood there, staring into the darkness, just in case that fucker came. And I was ready, not only with a spatula but wooden spoon as well. If you grew up before the year 2000, you know how goddamn lethal those are!