The Ghost of Ben Hargrove (3 page)

I frantically search the room with my eyes, then in a moment of desperation look under my bed. Nothing is there. My room is empty. I have no idea how he managed to move so quietly, so quickly. I don't know how he got out or if I will ever see the boy again. My only comfort is that he took that damn bear with him.

I move to the door and kneel, examining the slot in the door carefully. I press my fingers against it and push, but it refuses to budge, so I try sliding it open, to no avail. There is no escape. Not for me, anyway.

I return to the bed and sit, confounded. The springs squeak slightly beneath my weight. I turn back to face the wall the boy pointed at and stare at it for several minutes, trying to piece together how it could possibly be an answer to my question. Ghost shapes haunt the wall, but they're just stains. There are no notes scribbled on its surface, no drawings left by former residents. Had he been pointing to whoever is in the adjacent room? If he has the ability to get in and out of my room, does he also visit others? How many of us are kept here? Why?

When the Hand returns with third meal that evening, I am lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering when all of this will come to an end. The depression has me now, and I'm anything but hungry. What did I ever do to deserve this? I just want to be free.

There is no freedom.
This much is obvious. I'm trapped here, and the author of the note seems to think that there will never be any chance of escape. Swallowing a lump of utter hopelessness that has formed in my throat, I quickly move on to the next line.

There are no walls.
With a glance around the room, I frown. I reach up with my right hand and place it on the wall next to my bed. What can this mean? It's like a riddle, and I feel completely lost thinking about it. Shaking my head, I move on to the final sentence.

The boy is real.
I lie back on my pillow and close my eyes. The boy is real. Of course he is. I saw him. He was standing in my room. He was as real as me. It's so obvious, so stupid. Why would this be of any importance?

I find neither solace in the note nor answers. Whoever the anonymous author is, they haven't helped me. Not to understand. Not to escape. If anything, I am only more confused. Lost, I stare at the wall for a long time, until finally, I raise my fist and pound on it, hoping that whoever wrote the note will hear me and respond.

But there is only silence.

Before closing my eyes to end the cycle, I fold the note closed again and return it to my hiding spot beneath the mattress. I fall asleep without hearing whether or not the Hand returns to offer me the pill.

I wake up suddenly. Something's changed.

I never wake up unless it is time for a new cycle, but it can't have been a full cycle. I remember everything—the note and the boy.

I notice that something is pressing part of my mattress down with its weight. Something—or someone—is sitting on my bed. I lift my head to see who or what, and I find the boy sitting quietly on the foot end. That bear is tucked under one of his arms, and in his hands, he's holding a folded white square of paper. I sit up slowly, not wanting to make any sudden movements. I have to treat him as carefully as a cloud of smoke, because he could disappear just as easily as that.

I ask, “What's that? Another note?”

He shakes his head slowly. The note he's holding must be the same one I found hidden beneath the grapes. He opens his mouth as if he is about to speak. I hold my breath until he does. “You read it, but you don't understand what it means. That's why I said not to read it. It just causes problems.”

I stare at him for a moment, taking in his features. His gaunt face. His thin limbs. His dark eyes, so familiar. For a moment, I forget about the note. “Do I know you?”

He nods. Says nothing. I hope like hell he hasn't gone silent again.

“What's your name?”

Tilting his head, he looks at me and furrows his brow, as if my questions are confusing to him. When he speaks again, he does so slowly, as if I'm an idiot. “It's me, Ben. It's John.”

Every muscle in my body contracts at the . . .
wrongness
of what he is saying. He can't be John. He can't be my little brother. I try to wrap my head around
why
he can't be, but it slips my grasp. He just can't be. I'd remember that face. Wouldn't I?

I scoot back on the bed, fighting to distance myself from whoever this boy is, this imposter. When I speak, I want my tone to be commanding, forceful, even, but it's not. My voice wavers with every syllable. “You're not my brother. You're not John. Stop lying.”

He shakes his head, as if to indicate that he's telling the truth, that I have it all wrong. But he says nothing. I know he must be lying. I just don't know how I know that.

I glare at him and practically bark my next words. Maybe I can scare the truth out of him. Maybe I can scare the fear out of myself. “Who are you, really? Who wrote that note? What is this place?”

He sets the note on the bed between us, his shoulders slumping some. The bear peers out from its place under his arm, its black eyes looking sinister. He says, “I already told you who wrote it.”

Throwing back my covers, I stand, almost shrieking. I can't control my panic. Blood rushes so quickly to my head that I am dizzy and sound is muffled. “No, you didn't! You pointed at the wall. Who wrote it? Is someone else trapped here too? What's happening to me? To us?”

I know that I'm losing every ounce of my self-control, but there's nothing I can do about it now. It feels as if I'm watching myself through a pane of glass and cannot stop my own actions. The boy holds my gaze, and I stop momentarily, wanting to hear whatever it is he has to say.

“I pointed,” he says carefully, as if speaking to a madman, “at you, Ben.
You
wrote the note.”

My bottom lip quivers as he speaks, but before I can question him again, I notice that the bear is now completely clean. The boy is no longer pale or gaunt. He's no longer filled with sorrow. He's healthy and happy, with brown eyes like our mother's. He's my little brother, John. He's got his green backpack, and he's smiling, just like . . .

Just like he was on the day I drove him to the mall.

For a moment, his laughter fills my ears and we are back in the car again. Buildings are a blur as I navigate my dad's car down the street. I only just earned my license last week, but I am so anxious to drive and be free. I'm not going to go far, just to the mall. And I'm taking John. How could Mom and Dad be mad about that?

From the passenger seat, John squeals with laughter. “Faster, Ben! Go faster!”

And I do. I go faster. Much faster. My foot aches slightly from pressing the pedal so hard. I go faster. Until the laughter stops.

I look at the boy again, now free from my daydream. John. He is John. My little brother. Only something is wrong with the scene before me.

A sudden, sharp, metal-on-metal shrieking fills my ears, doubling me over with pain. When I look back at John, I see blood pouring from his right ear. It runs down his chest, soaking the teddy bear's ear. And somehow I know that this is all my fault.

There is no freedom. There are no walls. The boy is real.

So true.

John is here and real. A ghost. Only there is no sheet to pull away.

Dead John looks at me from over the head of his bloody teddy bear, his eyes once more sunk in, his nails once more covered in filth. I open my mouth to apologize, to tell him that I'm sorry I lost control, I'm sorry his death was my fault, but then John stops me with a small movement. Such a simple thing. He smiles. Only his smile stretches broadly across his face, until the corners of his lips reach back toward his ears. His teeth are stained with what looks like blood and decay. His gums blackening and sickly. His grin grows until it takes up most of his face, and my screams are frozen in my throat.

I cannot move. I cannot breathe. I can only sit and stare at the ghost of my brother and his monstrous grin.

Slowly—but not slowly enough—John stands and drops his teddy bear to the ground. My eyes follow the stained toy, and I wish that he would pick it up again. But I am John's only interest now.

His rotting, enormous grin seems to widen even farther. But how can that be? His hands reach for me, his dirty fingernails looking sharp and unforgiving, and I flinch, but still cannot move. Part of me refuses to believe that John would ever harm me, even as the stench of his foul, dead breath blows into my face. His teeth look as sharp as his fingernails, and the brief wonder of which will touch me first rushes through my mind in icy panic.

Fueled by terror, I jump back, but his claws catch my cheek anyway. Heat rushes through my face, and as I duck and roll away, I realize that I am bleeding. John is coming for me again, and will stop at nothing until I pay for what I did to him.

I rush across the room and throw my body against the door, shrieking. Behind me, I hear John approaching with the pitter-pat of a child's footsteps. But he is no child, even if he was at one time. Now he is a walking nightmare.

Footsteps in the hall again. They are too far, and not moving fast enough. I scream, “Help me! He's going to kill me! You have to let me out!”

The footsteps sound different this time. No more leather loafers. This time the clicking heels of a woman. John is only behind me by a matter of feet. I can smell his dead breath, sense his enormous mouth closing in on me. The footsteps finally reach the door, but the owner of them doesn't slide a key in the lock or turn the knob. The slot slides open and I drop to my knees, sobbing. “Please! Please help me!”

A female hand enters the slot. When it opens, I see two pills lying on her palm. But the pills won't help me, won't save me. I need to get out of here, before John reaches me, before he tears into me with those dirty claws again. Desperate, I grab the hand and scream through the slot. “HELP ME!”

The pills fall to the floor. One rolls under the door. The other disappears from my sight. The hand tries to pull away from me, but I refuse to let it go. It is my only connection to the outside, my only hope of freedom. To my surprise, the hand grabs my wrist firmly, holding me in place. My heart is still rattling inside my chest, but I am stunned for the moment. A small voice in the back of my mind whispers sharp reminders that John is still behind me, still reaching out for me. A second hand enters the slot—it's the woman's other hand, I just know it. The nail polish is the same. The skin is the same. Only . . .

In this hand is something sharp. A syringe. The needle plunges into my wrist and my world shifts violently. John is going to kill me. I know it. I know it.

Dr. Nancy Caraway gasps and steps back from the door, frowning at the now-empty syringe in her hand. Her hands tremble from the shock of Ben's attack. How he managed to grab her so easily through the small slot in the door is beyond her.
Help him?
That was precisely what she'd been trying to do. Why couldn't he see that?

Capping the syringe, she returns it to the pocket of her white doctor's coat before rubbing her wrist. It's only a matter of time before bruises will appear on her skin. Her frown deepens as she glances down the hall toward the waiting room door. Beyond that door are Ben Hargrove's parents, sitting on the edges of plastic chairs and wringing their hands with ever-shrinking hope that this time, they will get some answers. She doesn't have the heart to tell them that their son is a hopeless case. She doesn't have the heart to tell them that as long as he refuses medication, he will never be a productive member of society. More than that, really: they can sneak medicine into his food all they want, but the second they're no longer there to watch him, Ben will once again be a danger to himself and others. Nancy is the third doctor to try to help Ben, but she understands that she won't be the last.

She looks through the small window at her patient and sighs. He lies curled in the fetal position on the floor, clutching a stained teddy bear to his chest. It belonged to his younger brother, John, who died as a result of a careless car accident where Ben had been driving. Strange, what immense guilt can do to a person.

Nancy beckons for an orderly to come and replace Ben's sheets. The few times Ben was released into group therapy, he became so violent he had to be subdued. Now, the only time his room can even be safely cleaned is when he is fully asleep.

On Ben's cheek is a long scratch, and seeing it tugs the corners of Nancy's mouth down in frustration. One of the new orderlies must have mistakenly given him a fork or a knife with one of his meals. She'll have to make sure that never happens again.

With a deep breath, Nancy scribbles a note on Ben's chart, indicating once more that utensils are
not
to be allowed. After a brief pause, she writes one more instruction. “Use of restraints authorized.”

Putting on a falsely hopeful smile, Dr. Nancy Caraway moves down the hall to the waiting room. One thought occupies her mind:
If only he'd take his medication . . .

I open my eyes, and wonder immediately where I am, but more importantly, who I am.

Ben, I tell myself. My name is Ben. I am seventeen. And every day I wake up in this cell. A hand brings me food and pills, but no utensils. I never swallow the pills. But that's all I can remember about who I am and what I am doing here.

My cheek aches. I reach up and run my fingertips along the scratches on my face. I wonder where I got them. But I know that I deserved them.

Somehow, I just know that.

The most important question that writers can ask themselves is “What if?” It's what leads us to create, to explore fictional worlds. It's what grabs us by the hand and drags us through the wilds of our imaginations. “What if ghosts/demons/vampires/man-eating narwhal pig-shark hybrids really existed?” “What if I was the only person who could defeat the evil overlord of the man-eating narwhal pig-shark hybrid kingdom?” “What if the odds were against me because the only tools in my arsenal were a toothpick and several cans of Cheez Whiz?” “What if . . . ?”