The Ghost of Ben Hargrove Read Free

questions. Who are you? Where am I? What is on the other side of the door? But I don’t want to scare the speaker away.
    I turn my head slightly, rolling my skull against the surface of the door until my ear is pressed against it. I listen. There are no more whispers. I speak again, this time in a full, unmuted voice.
    â€œAre you there?”
    My fingers close tightly around the piece of paper. Heat rises in my neck, my cheeks, my forehead. I am angry now, but I’m uncertain why.
    â€œDon’t open it.”
    I pull back from the door, stunned. This time, the whisper is definitely coming from the open space behind me. The speaker is in my room.
    I turn around slowly, not knowing how someone could have gotten inside my cell without my noticing. There are no windows. Just the chipped, gray door. I search the room, and as I do, I become only more confused. The room is empty.
    My lips feel suddenly dry. Licking them, I speak once again. This time, my voice shakes.
    â€œWho said that?”
    No one answers.
    I stand there, staring at the room for what seems like hours. Was I hearing things? I must have been. Maybe I am finally going crazy.
    Crazy or not, I still have the note.
    â€œDon’t open it.”
    A boy’s voice. This time louder. Loud enough to startle me. I drop the paper. It flutters to the concrete floor below. I whip my head around, but again, nothing, no one is there. I am still alone. I wonder if I was crazy before the cell, or if in fact the cell has caused it.
    Pushing the voice out of my mind for the time being, I retrieve the note from where it fell on the concrete floor. I pull apart one fold, then the next. The paper itself has clearly been ripped from a pad of pristine white, with no header to indicate who might have sent it, no distinguishing features whatsoever. I scan my treasured find—the black, inky swoops of handwritten letters across the small piece of paper. Relief fills me. It’s not a receipt for grapes.
    I take my time reading the words, just in case this is the only chance I will ever get. The note contains three lines, and I read them over several times, letting each one sink into my memory, a permanent fixture. I’m not sure I understand what’s written here.
    There is no freedom.
    There are no walls.
    The boy is real.
    The last sentence certainly gives me pause. What boy? Is the note referring to the boy whose voice I thought I heard, just moments ago? Or is there someone else? A fellow prisoner, maybe?
    After reading the note a fourth time, I fold it back into a square and slide it under my mattress. As always, the sheets are crisp and clean—my captors must change them while I am sleeping, but I still haven’t figured out how. I am also clean, as are the scrubs that I wear. If I go to sleep with a food stain on my shirt, I wake up to find it clean, pristine. I have no idea how my captors are doing these things without my notice, but they are. I sit back, resting on my heels, and stare at the mattress that now covers the note. Will the note be there when I awake next cycle? Or will they collect it while I sleep? It’s a question I let stew in my brain for a good, long while, simmering there with my questions of what this place is, how I got here, and why I’m having such a difficult time remembering things.
    Hours later, footsteps in the hall again, right on time for second meal. I half expect (half hope) to find a second note tucked carefully beneath my turkey sandwich, but there is nothing. A deep emptiness fills me, but I push it away. One note does not mean that there will be many notes. One instance of communication does not mean that there will be more. I should be grateful for what I’ve received, but I’m not. Mostly I’m just confused. And angry.
    It surprises me how irritated I am with the sender of the note. I feel entitled. If they wanted to help, why not open the damn door? Why not hide a key instead of a