The Ghost of Ben Hargrove Read Free Page B

incredibly familiar to me. I strain my memory, but cannot recall having ever encountered him before. I swallow, my throat parched from surprise. I don’t want to scare him away, so I keep my voice as calm as I can possibly manage, even though his presence unnerves me.
    â€œHello.”
    He lifts the dirty teddy bear and cradles it against his cheek, as if it brings him peace. I understand the impulse.
    I say, “How did you get in here?”
    When he doesn’t respond, I begin to wonder if maybe he can’t hear me. Maybe he’s deaf. Maybe, like the Hand, he simply will not or cannot respond.
    I say, “Who are you? Where are we? You can tell me. I won’t hurt you, I promise.”
    But he doesn’t answer. He just nuzzles that damn teddy bear against his cheek, staring at me the entire time. The bear’s left eye has a long scratch across its surface.
    I get the strangest feeling that I just lied to him, though I can’t explain why.
    He doesn’t trust me. Clearly he’s not being as well cared for here as I am, judging by his filthy appearance. I take a deep breath and blow it out in an effort to calm myself. Shouting questions at the boy won’t get me any closer to the answers that I so desperately yearn for. As friendly as I can manage, I force a smile and say, “How did you get in here?”
    Nothing. Only more staring. More silence. The urge to slap him is undeniable, but I resist. I just promised him I wouldn’t hurt him and now I’m fighting the urge to do exactly that. What is wrong with me?
    Hesitantly I turn from him and lift up the thin mattress, retrieving the note. I half expect him to be gone when I turn back, but he’s still there, clutching his bear, watching me with a hint of curiosity.
    I say, “Did you write this note? Did you send this to me?”
    Slowly, as if waking from a dream, he shakes his head.
    I’m so grateful for that small movement, that tiny acknowledgment that he can hear me, that I have to resist the urge to pick him up and spin him around. It’s strange to me how wildly my emotions fluctuate inside these four gray walls. One moment I am on the verge of attacking a kid. The next I have to fight the urge to hug him. Was I always so emotional? Something tells me that I wasn’t.
    Something in my gut also tells me that this kid has the answers I’m seeking, and I should demand them right now, but I don’t want to scare him away. He got in here somehow. He might be able to get out too. And with any luck, he might be able to take me with him. I want him on my side, but I want information as well. Treading carefully, I look him in the eye, ignoring whatever is on the bear’s ear.
    â€œWho wrote it? Do you know?”
    His eyes shimmer slightly, and I realize he’s about to cry. Maybe I pushed him too far. Or maybe he’s just scared of what will happen if he’s found here in my room, telling me answers that someone doesn’t want me to know. He lifts his left arm slowly and points his finger at the wall behind me. Instinctively, I turn, but nothing’s there. Just the wall. When I turn back, the boy is gone.
    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