Speaker 1: A kind and brilliant boy, a strange obsession with dolls,
and a story that still gives me chills to this day.
My name is Edwin, and here is a scary story.
Like with every job I had up until that point,
it started with desperation. The homecoming dance was coming up
and I needed to get enough money to buy a
dress and shoes. And everything I had done up until
that point was get babysitting gigs here and there. Normally,
these would be friends of my family who would ask
me to watch their kids while they went out on
date night or during the day when there was a
work event where their children couldn't go. But this one
was different. Back then, with house phones, we had Mom
be the one who picked up the phone all the time.
But on this particular night, I happened to Anne from
the kitchen. It was for me, not unusual. This is
how our friends or anyone really would get a hold
of us, except for a few who had cell phones already.
It was a woman named Elizabeth who asked for me
by name, saying that she had these appointments every Thursday
evening for a recurring commitment at work, and that until
they got a replacement. They needed a babysitter only until
her and her husband got home, typically around seven pm
on those days. Would eighty bucks be all right? Of
course it would, especially back then this was good money.
I would only have to work a day and be
able to afford most of what I would need and
needed to pay for as a high school kid. There
was one bus that would take me there. It drove
down one of the side streets by the highway and
take me straight to the small valley just over the
hill that the entire town could see from pretty much anywhere.
Rock Hill, we called it, although it had a name
that I only found after getting on that bus, drew
Berry Viewpoint, as a driver announced once I got to
the stop. But still I kept calling it rock Hill.
It sounded better. The house was one of the few
in the area, typical rich person home, two stories, porch
all around the exterior, and acres of land behind it,
trees that created a little forest back there. The inside
was modern open space, and the smell of baked breads
or cookies seemed to be absorbed into the curtains and couches.
When I showed up, the mother was waiting for me
by the porch walking up to me as soon as
you saw me come through the gate at the front
of the property. I hated that awkward walk toward each other,
whether it was a friend of mine coming up to
me down a hallway or a stranger on a sidewalk.
But there we were, trying to decide when to greet
each other until she finally did Are you Emma? She asked, yelling,
had pretended not to hear her, and then followed up
with a oh, yeah, Elizabeth, right, how are you? Both
of us yelling at each other, trying to make small
talk until we weren't anymore. That was early, so I
was surprised that she was ready for me, but I
was glad to be able to get inside right away.
As he walked in, she introduced me to her husband,
who was holding a broom in his hand, sweeping up
some large blocks like legos, but the ones that a
baby couldn't swallow. He set it off to the side
and walked up toward me, smiling. How was the right
over you hopped on the twenty four bus, Elizabeth? I
should have told me to go get you, he said,
not really sure if he meant it, but the bus
wasn't too bad anyway. I smiled and tried to say
something else, but instead found myself being quiet again. They
soon started explaining everything and we got along great. Might
always get there early, and they would always pay me
right when I after house. Elizabeth and her husband David
were kind and very respectful of everything, including giving me
money for food, and often asked what I wanted to
have stocked in the fridge for me, always welcoming me
to bring along a friend if I got bored, and
that they had cable TV, which was huge for me
at the time. Reality TV shows were more like contests
than Mom would never let me watch them, especially the
dating ones. But that house, my god, it was quiet
with the television off. And oh, the child, how could
I forget? The kid was an angel? Well, at least
in the beginning. They thought that this is what I
wanted to do as a career choice. Baby sitting one
oh one, I would joke to myself as I made
up what the lessons would be. His name was Chris,
seven years old and very smart for his age. He
would ask me questions about high school and love talking
about the things that he learned in school, what his
homework was about pretty much everything. She prepared his own
sandwiches and cereal whenever he got hungry. On the weeks,
when I finished my own homework and he finished his,
he would end up watching television in the living room,
the History Channel mostly, But one thing that always bothered
me was just how suddenly he would get up and
without saying a word, it would go up to his room.
The first time, it threw me off. I thought I
had said something or that the show we were watching
upset him. I was warned about this by his father,
that he liked to be alone with his thoughts sometimes.
I'm sure you've met some children like these before, some
that seem like they are adults already in the way
they act or behave. Maybe it's something in their eyes
that give it away. But although I've experienced it several
times after meeting Chris, it has never been in the
exact same way. Chris liked to be alone, except for
when he would come down and flick on the television.
I don't think he liked watching it alone. His comments
on the documentaries, observations on historical figures or theories about
the past, the way he would focus. I don't know
something about it just made him seem much older than seven.
Did you know that the Great Wall of China doesn't
actually cover the entire country's border, and that it's broken
down in certain parts. I acted like I knew what
he was talking about. But the more and more he
told me, the more I thought that maybe I should
have paid more attention in history class. He told me
how the Constitution was drafted, who Benjamin Franklin was, and
how the Second World War ended. Of course, he also
had his childlike obsessions, just like every other kid, and
for Chris, it was drawing. The times I would go
up to his room to get him to come downstairs,
or to let him know that his parents were home,
I would catch glimpses of his drawings up on the walls.
He would often replace them, but there were dozens of them,
making me wonder how many he would make on any
given day. There was one that really caught my eye,
and it was of the building the church La Sagrada Familia,
which I came to learn was an old church in
Spain that took forever to build, along with its many towers.
I don't think it's finished yet. His parents had books,
a ton of them all along the last hallway near
the back of the house. The shelves reached the ceiling,
which some of them turned sideways to ensure they filled
every space available. Most were in English, but I also
remember seeing some in Spanish, Portuguese and French. I often
wondered how they kept the place from smelling like an
old library, you know what I'm talking about, the smell
of old paper and dusty carpets. And all this time
I never questioned how Chris knew all this stuff. I
could usually see what spot he would put the stool
or step ladder he would lean against the bookshelves. He
would almost always go for a book with pictures or illustrates,
and those were usually the bigger ones. Once he was finished,
he would bring them right back to where they had been,
and I would sometimes push in the books a little
bit more into the shelf, just to tidy it up.
One afternoon, I showed up early again and Elizabeth, Chris's mother,
walked up toward me when I was going through the gate.
How are you, she asked, a worried look on her face.
We wanted to stake Chris with us today. I don't
think he's feeling well, but he refused. He wanted to
stay and wait for you. We were coming into the
house by this point, and I was trying to catch
my breath after trying to keep up with Elizabeth on
the walk up to the porch. David met us at
the doorway, greeting me and asking Elizabeth if she had
told me. She nodded, be ready. He asked her. Something
was a little bit different about them that day, and
it wouldn't take very long for me to catch onto
what was going on. But it wasn't a problem with them.
It was Chris and what he wanted to tell me.
The hundreds of drawings all over his room I saw
when I walked up to it, and I can't clearly
remember it too. I heard laughter from his room, the
first time I had heard something like that. So I
did my usual knock aty knock knock on his door,
and he became quiet. I opened the door. He was
sitting on the round rug on the floor, bright green
against the rest of it. His back was turned toward me. Chris.
I asked him, expecting him to turn around with his
usual high and brief smile, but instead he sat still,
frozen in place. I could tell by the direction of
his nose that he was looking towards the window. His
right hand, that held a pencil he was drawing with,
was completely still against the spiral notebook. I started walking
toward him. Chris, he didn't budge. Chris. He set his
pencil down. I looked away from the window. His eyes
slowly turned toward me as the chill of the cold
air outside started drifting in. Okay, they left, he whispered.
I looked around the room and walked toward the window
to shut it. The sun was setting, so the sky
was a darker blue outside. I looked at his drawings
as I always did, but held my breath as I
saw his new ones, dozens of them, dolls on a
window frame in each of the white sheets of paper,
all lined up against his wall. I was standing in
Chris's room, trying to decipher what had just happened, so
I asked the obvious question, who left? Who are they?
He looked at me. I could tell he was already
wondering if I would believe the next words out of
his mouth, and I got a chill down my spine
when I heard him say, with a slight nervousness in
his voice, the dolls. I stared at him in silence.
This kid was far too smart to joke around like that,
enough to know that it would be hard to believe
at least the dolls, I asked, not whispering anymore, as
I looked toward the window again. Yes, he said, a
tear sliding down and around his nose. Can we can
we go watch TV? He asked as he stood up.
I followed him out of the room and down the stairs.
I grabbed the remote and flicked it on. The show
The Amazing Race was on. I had so many questions
zooming around my brain that I honestly can't remember how
long we were watching before he decided to speak up again.
I would recall this lesson of babysitting one O one
as patience, Wait and listen. They have a game, he said.
I lowered the volume on the TV. It's like a secret,
he continued, similar to when he was telling me about
something he watched or read about. The Last time he
sounded like this was when he mentioned the CIA and
some of their secret missions that were in secrets anymore.
They said, I can't tell my mom and dad, and
then he whispered, but they didn't say anything about you. Okay,
I caught myself whispering, who are they? And what are
you talking about? What? Games? I was impatient. I don't
think he had ever seen me like that. Okay, he
started the shaking of his voice. Was gone. Four nights ago.
A thing woke me up, A tapping on my window.
He went on to tell me one of the most
terrifying stories I'd ever heard, although I must admit I
think it was because it was coming from him, the
boy who was so involved in facts and thoughts in
his own little world. He told me he was woken
up by this tapping on the window, but I hadn't
woken him up completely. When he felt the bed sheet
vibrating from the left side, the side closest to the window.
At first he thought it was just his imagination, but
then he felt it tug, similar to when you're fishing.
You ever been fishing, he asked. I nodded, even though
I had no idea what fish felt. At the end
of a line. He sat up, unable to scream, but
wide awake when he saw a small ball of dark
hair leaning over the edge of the bed. Chris always
had a tiny night light on in the shape of
a shell against the wall right next to his bed,
with his eyes wide open in disbelief. He saw it
as it climbed up, a doll, one that would reach
up to his knees if he were standing up. He said,
it was pretty large. It dragged itself up toward his
stomach as he held his breath. It put its hand
up to its mouth and shushed him in a distant whisper.
It blinked its large eyes, and that's all he remembered.
He woke up early the next morning, cold from the
window that had been left open from the night before.
He drowsily stepped over to it. It was a foggy morning, wet,
he said. The window was dirty and with tiny hand
marks from the outside. He stopped talking for a second.
You can probably still find them. I want to see,
he asked, quickly changing his mind, nervous about what he
was telling me, waiting for me to tell him something.
What did you do, I asked him. I was going
to tell mom, he said, But I already knew what
she was going to tell me, so I didn't. I
kind of understood the mom was a kind that was
worried all the time about everything. I later learned that
she had threatened to take away the step ladder from
him so he wouldn't be reaching for books on the
high shelves. Apparently it had all because of the curious
things he would say. I'm using her own words here.
She was trying to get him to stop reading all
those books, and I forgot to mention her interesting list
of instructions about it limiting TV time, not letting him
draw so much, and that if he started acting like
a weird kid, she said to just have him tell
me a story. Weird advice, I guess, and that's actually
how I ended up hearing so many. But this one, well,
this one was different. Let's see them, I told him,
in a tone that I wanted to sound like I
wasn't scared inside, but I messed up and instead sounded
overly happy. We walked upstairs again. The door to his
room had been left open, and he walked in and
over to the bright green rug in the center. I
followed close behind. He stretched his arm out toward the
window and I could see them. Although I can't say
I had ever seen dull hand prints on anything else before,
they looked more like scratches and yes, I hated it,
but it made sense. Plastic Hans probably wouldn't leave anything
other than scratches on glass. Chris, I'm gonna talk to
you like I would to have grown up, all right.
He looked at me with white eyes, which you're telling
me is crazy. But first I want to hear what happened,
the full story. You saw the hand marks, and you
decided not to tell your mom what happened next this
part of babysitting one O one I would call detective
techniques how to get the truth. Chris had stayed up
for part of the night, this time waiting for these
things to come by the window again. The light from
under the window shined perfectly against the wall by his bed,
and he looked at that near perfect square of light
against the wall for two more nights, thinking that he
would see the silhouettes of the dolls climbing over the
window frame. I would have been too scared to stay
in that room. But like I said, this kid was different.
The way he told me about what he did in
this situation with the dolls, it was like hearing it
from a long time writer where an old uncle who
lived out in the woods. But anyway, the kid didn't
see them again, so they're gone, I concluded for him,
but he continued, well, I didn't see them alive, like
here in my room. I saw them in my dreams.
He paused for a moment, sort of like dreams. I
sat down on the floor as he explained what he
went through for those remaining nights. He had woken up
in an old house, a cabin, he said, and his
eye started glazing over everything, as though he was reliving
every second. I sat there on a chair as it
came up to me, twisted my arms and told me
to stay still. One of them in particular, seemed to
be the leader of the group. She put an empty
cup in front of me on the floor and asked
me to drink from it, tilting it up toward my
face so hard that I could feel the ceramic against
my nose, And when I tried to move, she would
yell words I'm not allowed to say, right, Can I
say them? I looked at him, not done, imagining what
he had just told me. Yes, I said. He struggled
to get the words out of his mouth, but to
spare you the details, he was called names, horrible things
and insults, things that had never even heard my mother say,
and that should tell you something. On the second night,
he said, he met other dolls, all of them sitting
with him on the floor, on chairs, and on risky
places like the edge of a table, on shelves. But
in all of them he could hear their voices, come
play with me, come play with me, and then instructions
over and over again for their creepy games, all in
their distant voices like adults, blank pretend tea parties, story time,
and singalongs. And he could tell by the laughter that
would break out in the end, like when an actor
breaks character taunting him. I would cry, he said, But
then I would be here in my room again. The
boy was sad. He looked down with a frown, lost
and nowhere no one to turn to for help. Can
I tell your parents? What about your dad? Let's lock
up your windows? I don't know. Don't stay here, I said,
admitting that I believe him now. When I yelled for
them over there, the doll said that they were my
parents now, and they got angry. They hurt me. I
decided to stop asking questions at this moment, but I
knew that I had to talk to them to at
least let them know of what he had told me.
Listening to a kid, one that had no reason to
lie like this cry real tears of pain at remembering
something was beyond anything I had ever experienced. We both
walked downstairs again and sat in silence, the television on
volume level two until his dad showed up, greeted us
as always, paid me, and walked with me toward the
front gate. And the days that followed, I kept thinking
of how I could tell them such a story, one
that no one would ever believe, dolls that are coming
after Chris, and that he has nowhere to turn to.
And I was just about to gather the courage to
pick up the phone. It took a lot more back then.
When I got a call from Elizabeth and a shaky voice,
She asked me if I knew of any of Chris's
friends hints clues about where he could have gone. David
took the phone over and begged for me to please
tell him if I remembered anything. The police showed up
within half an hour. They were waiting for me outside
along with my mom by the front door. I thought
I was in trouble. I had heard about this before.
If I couldn't help, they would blame me. At least
that's what some of my friends talked about. Chris had
gone missing after dinner. He went upstairs to finish some
of his drawings, and when his parents went up to
check on him a little bit later on, they searched
all over for him and only found his pencils out
of place and the bookmark he was making for himself
out on his little table. It was the last that
was known of him. I went over to visit them
before the year was over. Maybe this time I would
tell them about Chris's dreams. I had held on to
them long enough, maybe something that would at least explain
what the scratches on the window had been, the ones
that the police had found. But David got to the
door and Elizabeth started screaming, crying when she saw me.
She wasn't ready, he said. David started apologizing. I understood.
I walked back out over the front gate in silence,
wondering what the lesson here would be. Scary Story podcast
has written and produced by me Edwin Kobarrubias. Take It
in Touch check out the links in the description of
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Try out scary Plus over on scaryplus dot com. You
can also drop some stars from me in the reviews,
and if you have a true story that you want
me to read, email me Edwin at scarystory dot com
or use a contact form on our website. Let's see
if we can put together a Listener Stories episode. Anyway,
thank you very much for listening. Keep it scary everyone,
See you soon.