my summer job, as bait.

 

My Summer Job, as Bait.

I guess I should introduce myself.
My name is Henry.

I had just finished school in the spring and headed tome to northern Maine. The plan was to stay at home through the winter and head west in the springtime. Mom and Dad were over the moon at the idea of me staying.

My old room, the familiar smell of breakfast in the morning was comforting. I’d forgotten how much I’d missed home.

Over breakfast, I asked my dad if he knew of any potential leads for a summer job, something to “keep me busy.” He chuckled.

“Actually, I do. My friend owns a house up in the mountains. Told me he’s been struggling to find a housekeeper. Watching over some big place in the hills sounds right up your alley.”

I really liked the sound of that. With my dad’s friend’s number written down, I finished breakfast and prepared my pitch — though I wouldn’t need it after all.

The guy’s name was Derek, and he was surprisingly easygoing. He practically offered me the job before I even had a chance to ask.

“Oh, Arthur’s son? I heard you just got back from school.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, if you haven’t found any work for the summer, I need a house sitter real bad. Would you be interested?”
“Yes, of course!”

He gave me the address and told me to meet him on Sunday to go over the details.

---

The rest of that week was calm. I helped my mom around the house, went fishing with my dad one afternoon, and caught up with friends Friday night. Everything felt right — grounded — like life had finally slowed down.

---

Sunday came before I knew it, and I headed up the winding mountain road to Derek’s address. The pavement eventually turned to gravel, and the air grew thin and cool beneath the canopy of pines. It never ceases to amaze me how thick and alive the forest feels up here.

When I arrived, I was almost shocked by the size of the home. The garage alone was as big as my parents’ house. One of the bay doors was open, and Derek stepped out to meet me as I pulled in.

He was an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a dark royal-purple jumpsuit trimmed with gold. He extended a firm cold hand, and I shook it, then we started talking right there in the driveway. Derek explained that he came up only two weekends a month. He showed me around the property, listed my responsibilities, and spoke in a faint, oddly romantic europian accent I couldn’t quite place.

I was to look after the property, keep it clean, and make sure it “stayed welcoming.”
When he offered eight hundred dollars a week, I accepted before he could change his mind.

More than pleased with how it went, I rushed home to pack. My mother shared in my excitement — she said it sounded like something out of a movie, getting to live in a mansion all summer. I could tell she was sad I wouldn’t be staying home, but I promised she and Dad could visit one weekend.

“You guys can crash in one of the six guest bedrooms,” I joked.

Over dinner, my dad told me more about Derek — how he owned a few hospitals, and how incredibly wealthy he was.

---

The next morning, I drove back up to the house, following Derek’s handwritten instructions to unlock the gate and enter the security code. I stepped inside and took in the grand entryway — marble floors, dark wood, sunlight catching on every polished surface. I unpacked my things. If I was going to be there for two weeks, I wanted it to feel like home.

Wandering the property, I noticed the neighboring house for the first time. It was strange — like I hadn’t seen it before, as if my eyes had been fixed on Derek’s mansion.

The other house was nearly as large, but ancient and crumbling. Windows shattered and missing, with holes in the steep clay-tiled roof. I felt an odd pull toward it — an attraction I couldn’t explain. I wanted to see inside.

Circling the yard, I caught sight of a car parked behind the house — an old Volkswagen Beetle. Though weathered, it wasn’t abandoned. The tires were firm, the grass freshly trimmed beneath it. Someone lived there, or at least someone was there right now.

With that realization, I snapped out of whatever trance I’d been in. I must’ve looked strange, standing there staring. I hoped no one had seen me.

---

That night after dinner, I sat at my computer. I’m a bit of a night owl, so I stayed up later than I should have.

That’s when I saw him.

As I passed by one of the tall windows, something caught my eye — the faint orange glow of a cigarette burning in the dark. I froze. Out at the edge of the property, a man stood smoking, perfectly still, facing the house.

Fear rose in me, sudden and primal. I felt exposed — lit up like a stage actor behind glass. I couldn’t move. The glow of his cigarette was steady, unwavering, and the moonlight caught the pale of his face just enough to make it worse.

Then, as suddenly as I’d noticed him, he turned and walked away — slow, deliberate — before vanishing into the tree line.

I exhaled, embarrassed at how fast my heart was racing. It was late. The neighbor was just having a smoke outside. Nothing strange about that.

I turned off a few lights so I could see more clearly into the dark.

The neighboring house was pitch black. Then, out of nowhere, headlights from the Volkswagen flickered on, cutting across the yard. The car drifted down the gravel road, smooth as if it were gliding on glass.

I didn’t sleep well that night. Just before dawn, exhaustion finally took me. In my hazy half-dream, I could almost swear I smelled cigarette smoke.

---

Whenn I woke up this morning I tried my best to put on a tough face, and mark up the previous night to paranoia. What would my family think if I bolted back home after only one night. It was going to take more than a creepy neighbor to scare me away.

That night, I barricaded myself in my second-story room. Blinds closed. Only dimly lit with the ornate lamp in the corner. I told myself I wouldn’t look outside again — no matter what.

Around midnight, I noticed a sound. Soft. Rhythmic. Like tapping.

I debated whether it was new, or if I was only just now noticing it. My heart thudded as I traced the noise to the window.

I held my breath and eased my fingers toward the curtain. Through a thin slit in the fabric, I saw it — the faint orange tip of a cigarette floating just beyond the glass. Too close. Too steady. And eye level with me on the second story.

A bolt of fear shot through me. I stumbled back, hit my head hard against the dresser, dancing on the edge of consienceness for a few moments.

When I came to, the tapping was faster, almost frantic — and then, suddenly, it stopped.

It’s been about an hour now. I’m writing all this down because I can smell smoke again. It’s stronger this time. The air feels heavy.

In the distance, I can almost hear a wet pull of breath — slow and hollow, like lungs that haven’t drawn air in centuries.

The smell’s stronger now. smoke drifting from down the hall, up through floor boards, into my brain.

I think I finally understand what Derek meant when he said he needed a house sitter real bad.

He didn’t need someone to watch the house.

He needed bait.