The Answering Machine
I was finally relaxing after a long day of babysitting at the O'Neal's house. It was 9:00 pm, the kids were in bed, and I was reading. The phone rang. I didn't pick it up, I never answer when I'm babysitting. Answering machines are a great thing, so much easier than taking a message. This time I would live to regret my like for that gizmo.
"I know where you are," a voice rasped, "and I'll be there in twenty minutes." The line went dead.
That was more than a little disconcerting to me. I ran around the house and locked all the doors, taking extra time to jam a bar into the handles of the cellar storm doors since they didn't have a lock. After running upstairs to check the kids, I came back down and picked up the cordless phone to call the police. It started to ring right there in my hand. I dropped it, scooting back, afraid of who might be calling. The answering machine clicked on; I scooted farther away. It was Mr. O'Neal.
"Hi, we're going to stay out a little later than ori