Ghost Not Forgotten

XVI: Now

"Still," I said, struggling for words. "How could you just–"

"I was sixteen, damn it!" he whirled around, yelling at me. His eyes were still blazing and he had lost some color in his face.

I froze on the spot.

"I was a stupid kid who knew jackshit about what he had gotten himself into," Bennet growled. "And Stanley was actin' crazy. He put a gun to my head, okay? I was lookin' at a man I trusted with my life and seein' a totally different person!"

I think my jaw hit the floor. All of this nonsense he kept lobbing at me almost had me keeling over. "A gun? He held a gun to your head?"

"Yes."

"What!" I cried, convinced I was going crazy. Or he was. Or we both were. Or maybe my hearing was just going, who knows. "No he didn't!"

Bennet's eyes narrowed. "I'm tellin' the truth."

Not Stanley. Not my Stanley. Not the man whose yard I used to spend loads of afternoons chasing Bennet through when we were kids. Not the man who used to kiss me on the nose to stop me from crying when he had to bandage up whatever hurt I had gotten. Not the man who was like a father and grandfather to almost every citizen in town, not to mention Bennet's and my godfather.

"You're lyin'," I shook, barely able to speak.

Bennet stared at me with his burning eyes. "Why would I make somethin' like this up?"

I had to sit down; my legs couldn't hold me up. I sunk into the bed with my back to Bennet. In a split second, he was in front of me, kneeling down on the floor so he could look up at me to see my lowered face.

"Natty, I swear to God I didn't make this up," Bennet whispered. "I know it's hard to hear and believe, but it's the God-honest truth. Stanley Pike is not who we all thought he is. He's a monster, Natty. You have no idea."

I stared down at his blue-green eyes. I could feel him trembling and trying to hide it. His mouth and jaw got really tight.

And that's how I knew he was telling the truth.

I tried to picture it: little round and bald-headed Stanley Pike, all wrinkles and smiles, holding a gun to a boy's head, telling him to skip town just for seeing his cellar. It wouldn't come. I could imagine them both separately and I could imagine someone holding a gun to young Bennet's head, but I could not put Stanley's face on that person no matter how hard I tried.

I shook my head, rubbing it. "I can't . . . I just can't . . ."

"I know, but you have to," he said.

I looked up to meet his eyes again.

"It happened," Bennet whispered. "And, like I said, he was crazy and I was sixteen, scared and stupid. I had to listen to him."

That gave me something else to focus on, to pull me away from trying to imagine Stanley as a gun-toting monster. I pulled away fast and hard, wanting any kind of escape I could get.

"Stupid and sixteen or not, you got away from him, obviously. So you just left?" I said, pushing his hands off my knees where they had been resting the last few seconds. I wanted to be mad and I was going to be. "You just leave everything you knew and loved? Never mind the fact you didn't tell the police–"

"I couldn't tell them. I wasn't supposed to tell anybody, that was part of his rules," Bennet said. "And besides, I didn't know the stuff was illegal 'til now, years later."

"Illegal?" I cried. "What's illegal about a desk and some notes in a bomb shelter?"

He took a breath and put his hands up, trying to calm us both.

"I've been sayin' the whole time that it's complicated, haven't I?" he said, keeping his voice steady though his eyes were flashing a little. "Just hear me out, all right? At the time I didn't know what I know now, I had no idea just what all that stuff meant."

I gave a growl, so frustrated and confused I just wanted to kick something. "But still, you say the man held a gun to your head." I still couldn't call him Stanley or think of him as Stanley. He was just a man, a faceless monster of a man, not my Stanley. "Isn't that illegal enough for you? If what you're sayin' is true, then the man's a psycho – a violent psycho – but what do you do? You just leave him with us! You let us live here completely dumb to what he is? How could you do it? What if he hurt somebody–?"

"He threatened to," Bennet said, his face almost had no emotion as he stared at me. "That night in the cellar he threatened to hurt someone."

I watched him, again unnerved by his behavior. It wasn't like him. It scared me.

"He knew threatenin' Billy or Taylor's life or even mine wouldn't be enough," Bennet said. "There was only one person in town who meant the world to me, one person he knew I'd rather die than to see hurt."

The way he was staring at me . . . Another chill went up my back.

Bennet took a breath. "So he said he'd hurt you in every way imaginable if I didn't leave that night. He said he'd hurt you if I told the cops or anybody what went on and why I was leavin'. He said I had to just disappear forever, never call, never write, never let anybody know where I was or why I left. That was the only way you'd be safe. He said he had no reason to hurt you or anyone else as long as I followed his rules and y'all remained ignorant to what was in the cellar. I had no choice."

I almost laughed then.

I wasn't amused at all either. Besides how crazy this story sounded, I couldn't help but think of how many times I had – in my stupid wishful ways – daydreamed about how Bennet, my prince, afraid for his true love's life, left town without a word. When all the abduction, death, and teenage runaway ideas hurt too much, how many times would I resort to the "he left to save my life" fantasy? Oh, thousands.

And how many times did I have to tell myself I was being an idiot? A hopeless idiot? Oh, thousands.

And here I had been, right all along. It was the stuff of movies, not real life, especially in this town. It was so much to process, my poor brain couldn't handle it.

"He wouldn't hurt me," I whispered, shaking from head to foot. The image of Stanley in Bennet's scenario was coming clearer. Now I could see a fuzzy outline of round Stanley, holding a gun, face covered in shadows.

Bennet grabbed my hand. "Any other time I wouldn't have believed him but, lookin' at his face, it was unreal. Like he was possessed or somethin', like I didn't even know him anymore. He scared the shit out of me, Natty, and I didn't want to risk it. The idea of him hurtin' you had me practically runnin' out of town that second. And now I know he would've hurt you, without a thought, to protect that secret of his. He'd hurt anybody."

I let out my breath slowly, fearing I wouldn't be able to bring it back in. I lifted my head enough so I could see his face. He rubbed my hand and I let him.

"So you know his secret?" I whispered.

His jaw clenched as pain streaked across his expression. Then he nodded. "Now I do."

I struggled for breath. "Is it bad?"

His eyes were a little glassy all of a sudden, but he kept watching me.

"Yeah," he whispered. "It's pretty bad, Natty."

I closed my eyes and tried to steady myself. I felt dizzy. I had to think clearly. There were so many questions spinning through my brain, I wasn't sure where to start.

So I grabbed the first one I could catch and threw it out.

"So why now?" I said, opening my eyes as my hand tensed in his. "Why come back now? Why tell me now? What've you been doin' these last sixteen years? Waitin'?"

He puffed out his cheeks with a big breath, looking to the left before looking at me again. "No, not really waitin'."

I watched him, kneeling in front of me, looking beaten and worn, and I almost reached up to smooth his sideburn down.

But I didn't.

"What were you doin' then?" I said, keeping my hands to myself.

He took another deep breath and looked up at me.