over-the-top. Connor had seen his mother lose her mind to Alzheimer’s and knew it was a scary and terrifying thing. At first, when her forgetting and delusions had begun, it had been his instinct to believe her. Until he learned her mind was playing tricks on her and there wasn’t any way for her to be able to distinguish between what her brain was telling her and what was actually happening.
Of course, he wondered if he, of all people, could doubt what anyone said.
He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting there on the bench and talking to Ken. They spoke about more down-to-earth stuff and he was glad he had come to the park. It would probably be the last time he saw Ken now that Gethsemane was “poisoned.” Although, if Ken really thought he had seen ghosts then his mind would probably not be capable of guiding him back to Gethsemane in the future.
He tried to get Ken to come back to the house. There, Connor thought maybe he could get some information about the guy’s family and maybe have somebody come and get him. Hell, he would even offer to take Ken wherever he needed to go if he would only tell him but there was something about the guy that was just so . . . guarded .
Ken’s impending senility sat in the back of Connor’s mind during their entire conversation.
It was only after parting ways around four that Connor realized the thing about the ghosts and the town being poisoned had been the only thing resembling a crazy statement Ken had made the entire time. And that made Connor wonder if the statement was crazy at all.
Gethsemane poisoned? Maybe it was possible.
Ghosts in the water tower? He didn’t know. It wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye out, though. It was a fun idea. He loved a good ghost story as much as the next person and he had seen, or thought he had seen, a ghost himself.
Before he left he bummed a cigarette from Ken. Not so he could smoke it but so he could put it somewhere at home and have something to remember Ken by just in case he never happened through Gethsemane again.
Six
Name
Steven had learned the art of being quiet and inoffensive. At school, he was a ghost. Continually receiving good grades, he was somewhere at the top of his class. He had never raised his hand. There seemed to be a silent agreement between him and the teachers. He didn’t raise his hand, remaining quiet and nondisruptive, and they didn’t call on him. He didn’t have any exaggerated physical flaws, the cause of ridicule for so many other students. This allowed him to pass down the halls virtually unnoticed.
All of this used to bother him. Sometimes, he wished he was noticed. Sometimes he thought it would have been better to be some kind of mutant so people would make fun of him. At least that way he could have been reminded he was there. But now, as he began his silent scoping of the mysterious redheaded girl, he found his invisibility an asset.
That morning at school, while his father stayed home and stared around the house in a stupor, he felt like he was on the heels of a mystery. Sure, maybe it wasn’t any great kind of mystery but every mystery had to have a solution, an answer. The first answer he sought was the girl’s name. That was what kept him awake the first part of the day, this obsessing on her name, thinking he had to know it. It had to be in the back of his head somewhere. He could put a name to virtually every face in the school.
At lunch, he decided to stay in the cafeteria rather than go out to his truck and smoke a cigarette. This was probably his best chance to learn the identity of the girl. Her name could just be the first thing. So many other things could follow. The sound of her voice. Maybe he could get close enough to smell her. Once he retrieved all of these things, then his mind would be free to do with this construct whatever it pleased. He was pretty sure the whole ordeal would end there—in his mind. If no one else had ever noticed him, he didn’t think
Of course, he wondered if he, of all people, could doubt what anyone said.
He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting there on the bench and talking to Ken. They spoke about more down-to-earth stuff and he was glad he had come to the park. It would probably be the last time he saw Ken now that Gethsemane was “poisoned.” Although, if Ken really thought he had seen ghosts then his mind would probably not be capable of guiding him back to Gethsemane in the future.
He tried to get Ken to come back to the house. There, Connor thought maybe he could get some information about the guy’s family and maybe have somebody come and get him. Hell, he would even offer to take Ken wherever he needed to go if he would only tell him but there was something about the guy that was just so . . . guarded .
Ken’s impending senility sat in the back of Connor’s mind during their entire conversation.
It was only after parting ways around four that Connor realized the thing about the ghosts and the town being poisoned had been the only thing resembling a crazy statement Ken had made the entire time. And that made Connor wonder if the statement was crazy at all.
Gethsemane poisoned? Maybe it was possible.
Ghosts in the water tower? He didn’t know. It wouldn’t hurt to keep an eye out, though. It was a fun idea. He loved a good ghost story as much as the next person and he had seen, or thought he had seen, a ghost himself.
Before he left he bummed a cigarette from Ken. Not so he could smoke it but so he could put it somewhere at home and have something to remember Ken by just in case he never happened through Gethsemane again.
Six
Name
Steven had learned the art of being quiet and inoffensive. At school, he was a ghost. Continually receiving good grades, he was somewhere at the top of his class. He had never raised his hand. There seemed to be a silent agreement between him and the teachers. He didn’t raise his hand, remaining quiet and nondisruptive, and they didn’t call on him. He didn’t have any exaggerated physical flaws, the cause of ridicule for so many other students. This allowed him to pass down the halls virtually unnoticed.
All of this used to bother him. Sometimes, he wished he was noticed. Sometimes he thought it would have been better to be some kind of mutant so people would make fun of him. At least that way he could have been reminded he was there. But now, as he began his silent scoping of the mysterious redheaded girl, he found his invisibility an asset.
That morning at school, while his father stayed home and stared around the house in a stupor, he felt like he was on the heels of a mystery. Sure, maybe it wasn’t any great kind of mystery but every mystery had to have a solution, an answer. The first answer he sought was the girl’s name. That was what kept him awake the first part of the day, this obsessing on her name, thinking he had to know it. It had to be in the back of his head somewhere. He could put a name to virtually every face in the school.
At lunch, he decided to stay in the cafeteria rather than go out to his truck and smoke a cigarette. This was probably his best chance to learn the identity of the girl. Her name could just be the first thing. So many other things could follow. The sound of her voice. Maybe he could get close enough to smell her. Once he retrieved all of these things, then his mind would be free to do with this construct whatever it pleased. He was pretty sure the whole ordeal would end there—in his mind. If no one else had ever noticed him, he didn’t think
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