The Babysitter is a Zombie

Babysitters are supposed to know several important things. They should know where the extra toilet paper is kept, how long frozen pizza stays in the oven, what time children are meant to go to bed, and how to contact the parents when somebody places a marble in an ear.

Babysitters are not supposed to know how freshly dug cemetery soil smells. They are not supposed to recognize people in photographs taken forty years before they were born. They should not make cracking noises when turning their heads, stare longingly at cauliflower, or describe children as "surprisingly full of brains."

Most parents would notice these things.

Our parents did not.

Parents can detect one wet towel hidden beneath a bed from three rooms away, but they can completely overlook the fact that the babysitter has no pulse. They can hear a child open a candy wrapper through two closed doors, yet somehow fail to hear the babysitter groaning in the kitchen at midnight.

This is the story of how my seven-year-old sister and I discovered that Cherry Chick, the same cheerful babysitter who had watched us since the beginning of the universe, was a zombie.

Unfortunately, that was only the beginning.