The Ghost of Ben Hargrove Read Online Free PDF Page A

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.

Afterword
    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 . . . ?”
    It’s a beautiful question, and without it, the world wouldn’t have the entertainment of fiction. But it’s also a question that has haunted my thoughts from a very young age.
    â€œWhat if something lies in wait beneath my bed and will grab me and gobble me up the moment I dangle a hand or foot over the edge in the darkness?” “What if something is watching me from my open closet door, waiting for me to look away so that it can devour me whole?” “What if my parents are wrong, and there really is a reason to be afraid of the dark?”
    For most children, such thoughts, such questions, such worries would repel them from the Thing under the Bed. But as frightened of it as I was (as I am), I also felt drawn to understand it. I simultaneously hated the sense of terror that would grip me upon entering a dark room, and found myself drawn to the darkness. I fell in love with my fear at a very young age.
    I thought I was weird (spoiler alert: I was right), but soon trips to the library showed me that I wasn’t alone in my weirdness. At the very young age that I fell in love with fear, I began reading books by Clive Barker, John Saul, Stephen King—weird people who understood my undeniable attraction to terror. I watched movies like Motel Hell and Rosemary’s Baby . And the more I read, the more I watched, the more I longed to understand the Thing under the Bed.
    I wrote stories from a young age as well—disturbing, twisted imaginings that likely would have frightened my parents if I’d shared them with anyone. (One I distinctly remember was about a man who removed his own eyelids for fear of what might come for him in the night.) And though with each story, I felt closer to understanding the Thing under the Bed, I could never get close enough to what I was searching for. I wanted to know