Something happened to me tonight while I was babysitting my neighbour’s kids. I think something followed me home, and I’m not sure what to do. Maybe someone here can help me.

I babysit for a family a couple of houses down the street. I’ve looked after their kids for years now, so I’m close with the family. This evening, the parents were going out with some friends, and I was to watch the kids until late that night. The night started like any other: when I arrived at the house, the kids were excited and wanted my full attention. As the parents said goodbye and left, the kids wanted to show me their newest toys, latest fads they were into, and everything new around the house. They wanted to share stories about their trips with their parents, what happened at school, and so on. After a while, the kids calmed down and began to occupy themselves. This gave me an opportunity to slouch on the couch, put something on the TV, and doomscroll on my phone.

I was in the living room while the kids were playing around the kitchen table. As I was preoccupied with my phone, I caught something out of the corner of my eye — the oldest daughter was lurking at the edge of the room, watching me, as if acting as a lookout. As we made eye contact, she fled. That was my cue to get up and check on them — they were clearly up to something.

When I made my way to the kitchen, the kids had papers, pencils, and crayons spread across the table. I glanced at them, and the two oldest daughters refused to meet my eyes, while the youngest was absorbed in her drawings. I asked the girls what they were up to, and the older two reluctantly said, “Nothing,” while the youngest said they had been playing with Charlie — the other two grimaced at her.

I asked who Charlie was, and the youngest said it was their friend. I furrowed my brow and asked where he was. She told me he only appeared when they asked for him. Then it made sense to me — the older kids were embarrassed to be playing with an imaginary friend. I told them it was fine, and they were allowed to play with Charlie if they wanted to. The girls looked at each other with relieved smiles. I asked how they played with him, and all three began to explain it to me simultaneously. All I got out of it was that there were papers, pencils, and questions. I told them to have fun and returned to the comfort of the couch.

As I lay on the couch, I could hear the girls talking and giggling in the other room — it seemed like they were having a blast with their imaginary friend. A few minutes later, the girls’ little feet scurried across the floor, running around the table, laughing. Then what sounded like enormous boots hit the ground, footsteps echoing through the house. The thudding sounded like it was chasing the kids. Laughter turned to yelling.

I bolted from the couch to the kitchen, and when I rounded the corner in a panic, the girls stopped yelling and running, then froze, staring at me. The loud stomping also vanished. Confused, I watched as the older sister hurried to the side of the table with the papers and pencils and muttered something. I asked them what that noise was, and the youngest replied that it was Charlie. I told them to be serious, but they looked at me, expressionless, as if they had nothing else to say. I waited, and the eldest affirmed that her sister was telling the truth — it was Charlie.

For some reason, I believed that they believed they were telling the truth. So, I told them I wanted to play with them and gestured for the girls to sit around the table. I wanted them to explain this imaginary friend to me. The oldest took a piece of paper with “Yes” on one side and “No” on the other. She placed it in front of me, with two pencils balanced on top in a cross, the upper one free to swing like a needle, which she centered on the paper. She told me that first, we needed to call for Charlie, and once he was here, they could start asking questions. Skeptical, I committed to playing the game with them. I asked how to call for Charlie.

The oldest explained that I had to invite Charlie over first, so I said the following phrase: “Charlie, Charlie, do you want to play?” I waited. Nothing happened — then suddenly the pencil pivoted and dropped to “Yes.” I looked at the other girls to see if they were as frightened as I was, but they were shifting in their seats, giggling, waiting for me to ask a question. My skepticism faded, but only a little bit, as it could have been a coincidence or a trick the girls were playing on me. The oldest told me to reset the pencil to the middle and ask a question. My face went hot as I tried to lighten the mood and asked if one of the boys at my school liked me. The girls giggled. Then the pencil once again fell to “Yes.”

Feeling a flush of pleasure about the answer, I still found it unsettling how the girls were getting the pencil to move. I wanted to catch them in the act, so I asked Charlie something different — I told him to prove he was real. The girls’ smiles faded as they looked at each other with worry. The air in the room hung heavy with suspense. Then we all jumped as we heard a knock on the front door.

I let out a sigh of relief as I realized I was holding my breath — of course the timing was coincidental. I got up with a smirk, as the girls followed closely behind me. As I reached the front door, the girls kept their distance, with the concern still looming on their faces. I thought they were being silly, but as I opened the door, no one was there. Taken aback, I popped my head out, looking left, then right to see if anyone was there — the street was empty. Confused, I closed the door and turned around to look at the girls. Now, their faces looked less like concern and more like fear. I asked them what was wrong, and they pointed behind me. Before I could turn to look, I felt hands clutch my shoulders, and a whispering breath touch my ear, saying “Charlie is here.”

I shrugged violently, flailing, and twisted my body to see behind me, but no one was there. I started to panic. I looked back at the girls and asked them what that was, but one stood still while the other two shook their heads. I’d had enough of the games the kids were playing, and I told them it was time to go upstairs and get ready for bed. I marched into the kitchen, grabbed the paper, scrunched it up, and threw it in the garbage. The eldest peered around the corner cautiously and began to talk, but I cut her off and told her to do what I’d said. She began to subtly protest, but I told her there was no negotiation and to go. She did what I asked. I took a seat, head in my hands, as I collected myself.

My racing heart started to slow down, as I got up and peered out the window, scanning the dark — I was clearly still on edge. I made my way upstairs, helped the girls get ready for bed, tucked them in their separate rooms, and shut each door behind me as I left. Normally, I would turn all the lights off as I left the upstairs hallway, but tonight, I left them on. I went back to the couch on the main floor and put some funny videos on the TV, trying to keep my mind off what had happened. However, I wasn’t able to relax, as I was acutely aware of all the noises around me, flinching at most of them. Then, I heard something coming from upstairs — footsteps in the hallway. They were faint, as if trying not to be heard — it had to be one of the girls getting up. Although they were quiet, they were heavier than the girls’, and the strides were too long. I waited in disbelief to see what would happen, as it might have been my imagination.

Then I heard all three of the girls’ bedroom doors creak open all at once. I got off the couch and carefully walked up the stairs. I raised my head while climbing, to glimpse the hallway as soon as I could, without giving myself away, but it was empty, with all the doors open. I walked through the hallway, peering in each of the bedrooms, and the girls were in their beds, wide awake, holding on to their blankets and teddy bears. When I reached the eldest’s room, I asked who opened the doors, and she replied, “Charlie.” Frustrated, I told her the game was over and to tell me the truth. But tears started leaking down her cheeks. I felt bad, as I was being the sternest I’d ever been with them. I sat at the edge of her bed and asked her what the matter was. She told me that I had to believe her, that Charlie was really upset since we didn’t say goodbye. I told her Charlie wasn’t real, that it was just a game, and now it was time for bed, to sleep, and to stop getting up. I kissed her forehead and left, closing her door behind me, and the others’ too.

I started walking down the stairs, but all three doors began shaking and the knobs rattled wildly. I’d had enough, turned around, and yelled at the kids to knock it off and go to bed. As I opened the first door, no one was on the other side — the girl was still in her bed. The other doors continued to rumble, and as I opened them, nothing. I opened the eldest’s door. She lay in bed, and when I looked at her — fear creeping in now — she said Charlie was really angry and we needed to say goodbye.

I decided to collect the girls and bring them downstairs. In the kitchen, we sat around the table with the paper I retrieved from the garbage can, wrinkled and flattened as best I could manage. We placed the pencils in a cross in the middle of the page, and we were ready to say goodbye. The eldest told me I needed to say “Charlie, Charlie, can we stop?” — then wait for the pencil to pivot to “Yes.” As I was ready to say it, I heard the front door lock turning — the parents were home. I panicked as the girls should have been in bed a long time ago. I said the words — but I didn’t wait. Instead of letting the pencil pivot on its own, I twisted it to “Yes” myself, crumpled the paper around the pencils, and threw it in the garbage.

I didn’t want the parents to see us playing a game, and I had to think quickly on what to say. The parents came in and found us all in the kitchen, awake — and gave a look that demanded an explanation. With the kids still frightened, I told the parents we heard something upstairs that woke the kids, and I wasn’t sure what it was, so I brought them downstairs to be together. The father ran upstairs to scan the house, but of course he found nothing. After he reassured the kids that there was nothing to be afraid of, they went upstairs with their mother. The father paid me, and I left in a hurry — he noticed, but probably chalked it up to the noises.

When I finally got home, I grabbed a snack from the kitchen, went up to my bedroom, and settled in. Feeling at ease and safe, I put a movie on my laptop, ate, and tried to sleep. As I was dozing off, a piece of paper fell from my desk to the floor. My windows were closed and I didn’t have a fan on, so I thought it strange. I got up, reached for the paper, and read what was written on it: “Charlie didn’t say we were done playing.” I dropped the paper and flew back onto my bed. I couldn’t understand how that was possible. Then, building up as much courage as I could, I whispered: “Charlie, are you here?” And I heard two loud knocks coming from all four walls.

Terrified, I had a feeling this was how Charlie wanted to talk to me. Shaking uncontrollably, I asked out loud if my name was Emily, and two knocks followed. Then I asked if my name was Sarah; only one knock. My hunch was correct. I didn’t have the paper, but Charlie was still answering my questions. Breathing irregularly, I asked what he wanted, but nothing — he didn’t answer. Then I knew I had to stick with “Yes” or “No” questions. I thought I knew what I had to do: I asked, “Charlie, Charlie, can we stop?” But there was a single knock.

Frustrated, I told him to stop, and another knock echoed through my room. Petrified with fear, I didn’t know what to do. My chest was tight and it was getting harder and harder to breathe. Then I thought of another idea: I took a piece of paper, grabbed two pencils, and set up the game as before and asked: “Charlie, Charlie, can we stop?” The pencil spun instantly to “No.” With tears running down my cheeks and no idea what to do, I heard a new noise start to seep through the walls — a subtle tap coming from every direction, slowly building, as if counting up to something… I don’t know what it means, but I’m petrified. As I write this, it’s grown louder and the cadence is quickening. Please, I need help. How do I get Charlie to stop playing?