The Ghost of Ben Hargrove

by Heather Brewer

  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 cryptic message? Why not give me a clue as to where I am and why I am trapped here against my will? I am grateful for the note, but bitter over being here. I’ve tasted something different, and I want more, more, more.

  Frustrated tears escape my eyes. Such thoughts make me angry with myself. I’m behaving like a child.

  Stop behaving like a child.

  Don’t be such a child, Ben.

  A child. It was a child’s voice that whispered into my room, I’m sure of it now. And not just any child. My little brother.

  Dad kissed my brother on the head as he entered the kitchen. “Going outside to play today, bud? That sunshine won’t last all afternoon, y’know.”

  “Ben’s taking me to the park today.”

  I opened the fridge, mentally kicking myself for having forgotten my promise to him. In my defense, he’d always be my brother. But Samantha might not always be my girlfriend if I didn’t go to the lake with her today like I said I would.

  “Is he now?” My dad sounded doubtful. Of course. Because I couldn’t do anything right.

  I grabbed a soda and shut the fridge door. “Can’t today. But we’ll go tomorrow. I promise.”

  I couldn’t take the shimmer of tears in my little brother’s eyes, so I looked away from him as I cracked the can open and took a drink. The faster I got out of this house, the better.

  When Dad spoke, it sounded like it was taking every ounce of his restraint to keep from screaming at me. “Ben, did you say you’d take your brother to the park today?”

  “I did, but something came up. Next time, kiddo. I promise.” I ruffled his hair on my way out the door. There would be time for that later. Dad just didn’t understand.

  He didn’t understand anything about me.

  I have to strain to remember his name. But then I see it, written in blue thread on his little green backpack: John. I have a little brother. His name is John—was John. In my life outside this cell. Of course. How could I have forgotten? It makes me wonder what else I have forgotten about my life before I came to this place. Did I have a girlfriend too? Friends? Where did I live? Why did I leave? Why is my memory so foggy? Is the voice I think I hear simply my mind playing tricks on me?

  I finish eating second meal, staring at my mattress the whole time, and the note that’s buried underneath it.

  There is no freedom.

  There are no walls.

  The boy is real.

  The Hand returns to collect my tray, and then I am alone again in my cell. Alone with my new memories. Out of boredom, curiosity, something—I don’t know what—I step closer to the bed and reach for the corner of the mattress. I just want to check on the note, make sure it’s still there. If it’s gone, then maybe I have lost my mind, after all. Maybe there never was a note, or a little brother, or a life before this cell. Maybe I imagined it all.

  “Hello.”

  The voice startles me this time, makes me jump. I whip around to face the source of it, and my mouth falls open in confusion. A boy, maybe eight or nine years old, is standing at the far end of my room. He too is dressed in scrubs, only his are dirty and stained. It looks like they were white at one time, but they’re gray now, not blue like mine. Maybe his cell is blue, the way mine is white-turned-gray. Clutched in his hand is a teddy bear. Its ear is crusted with something brownish burgundy in color. It’s soiled, maybe even rotten. Something tells me that if I were standing any closer, I’d smell its foul stench. I can’t stand to look at it, so I look at the boy instead. His eyes are sunk in, as if he’s malnourished. His skin is pale. His fingernails filthy. I don’t know what the dark stains around his fingernail beds and beneath his nails are, I just know that I don’t want to look at them, either. The air about him seems heavy, lost, sad. He also seems 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.

  “Hello.”

  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.

  “Who 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 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 realiz
e 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 . . .