The Ghost of Ben Hargrove by Heather Brewer

prison.
    As I stepped outside, the screen door slapping closed behind me, I readied some choice words. My feet practically flew across the lawn to where the man had been standing, those words and more on my tongue, but there was no one there. The sidewalk was empty. A chill crawled up my spine, sending goose bumps all over my skin even in the oppressive heat of the midwestern summer. Behind me, all around the house, the crickets began to sing again.
    A small, rectangular shadow near the sidewalk drew my attention, and I moved toward it to investigate. Plucking it from its spot in the grass, I realized I was holding a small leather book. Curiosity got the better of me and I tucked it in my back jeans pocket. For now, though, I had more pressing concerns.
    The guy had been right here. Where the hell had he gone?
    I looked up and down the street, and sure enough, the intruder was standing about four blocks up, watching me. Not running away, not looking to engage. Just standing there. Watching. Under the glow of the streetlight, I could see that his hair was white. From this distance, his eyes looked like two coals embedded in pale skin. He raised two fingers to his forehead in a salute before slowly turning and continuing on. My stomach muscles tightened as tension rose inside me. What was with the salute? Did he think we were buds after he’d stalked my window and seen me come after him? I didn’t think so. And I was going to make damn sure he knew otherwise. I knew if I went back to bed, I wouldn’t sleep—not unless I’d confronted this guy directly first. So I moved up the street, ready to teach him a lesson, but suddenly, he ducked in between two houses and disappeared.
    â€œYou need medication, dude. Seriously.” My words were meant for the stranger, even though I knew he couldn’t hear them.
    The blocks were small—only four or five houses long—and there was only about a driveway’s width between each house. As I passed the sixth house down, midway into the next block, a shout reverberated through the walls and windows. Someone was arguing. Not just arguing, but really fighting it out, in that way only family can. And try as I might not to eavesdrop, I found my footsteps slowing until I came to a stop on the sidewalk, wondering who else needed to have their prescription filled tonight.
    â€œNo good will come of fooling with the devil’s instruments! Now hand them to me!”
    I instantly recognized that shrill voice. I doubted there could be two voices in this town that sounded like that one. It could only be Martha. Still acting crazy, even though her audience was much smaller now than it had been in the Lakehouse Grill.
    â€œMom. No.” The moment I realized that it was Cara speaking, my insides flexed. She sounded more than a little annoyed with her mother. What was crazy old Martha demanding that she hand over, anyway? The “devil’s instruments”? Great. The girl I was attracted to was probably sacrificing goats or something.
    â€œWhere do you think you’re going this late? It’s the witching hour! It’s not safe, Cara!”
    The witching hour? Who said stuff like that?
    Suddenly, the front door to the house flung open and Cara burst outside, throwing her hands in the air in absolute frustration. “Just leave me alone!”
    I froze. She hadn’t seen me yet, but when she did, she’d know I’d been eavesdropping. It wasn’t like there was anything else I could have been doing outside their house in the middle of the night.
    Cara lifted her head and I was caught for sure. Only—she didn’t look all that surprised to see a strange boy standing there in the dark. I was starting to think that’s just what people did around here. I was also starting to think that Cara was pissed, and I hoped it wasn’t directed at me. She jabbed a thumb back at her house as she descended the steps. “So you heard all