He had one final option—one he’d refused to consider until now: What if he wasn’t going crazy? What if Ben was exactly what he claimed to be—a young man from the nineteenth century who’d somehow found himself trapped in a snow globe? It was impossible, yes. Crazy, even. And yet . . .
It was the option he suddenly wanted to believe.
He googled “snow globe.”
Most sources speculated that snow globes had been invented in France, seemingly in the early nineteenth century as a sort of spin-off of the popular glass paperweights used at the time. Most agreed that the first documented sales of the trinkets had been in 1878 at the Paris Universal Expo, and that by 1879, several companies were producing them and selling them throughout Europe. But the truth was, nobody knew for sure when the first ones had been created.
It didn’t exactly confirm Ben’s story, but it didn’t disprove it, either.
Finally, he googled, “Can a person be trapped in a snow globe?” although he felt silly even typing the words. “I sure hope nobody’s checking my browser history,” he mumbled as he hit Enter.
The search engine returned several listings, but every one of them had more to do with entertainment than with hauntings or real-life experiences. There were movies, novels, and short stories, but nothing that hinted at the paranormal.
Nothing that explained Ben.
He set his laptop aside and went to the window, staring thoughtfully up at the second-story loft. After finally conceding that Ben might be real, it was disappointing not to find him staring down from the guesthouse.
He grabbed the keys off the hook by the door and returned to the garage. The door at the top of the stairs was still closed, and Jason opened it cautiously, feeling like an intruder.
“Ben?”
But he found the room empty. The snow globe sat on the desk, exactly where he’d left it before storming out the previous day. He lifted it and peered inside, but saw only the cheesy little fake cottage with its tiny snow-capped trees. He shook the globe gently, causing little flurries of fake snow. “Ben? Can you hear me? Are you in there?”
Still nothing.
He set the globe back down, feeling as if he’d been rudely awoken from a rather pleasant dream. After spending the entire morning convincing himself the incident had been real, he felt cheated at not being able to face Ben again now.
Maybe he’d imagined it, after all. And yet . . .
He hefted the globe again and weighed it in his hand, considering.
Believe Ben, or discount his own sanity and start searching for a doctor? Those were the choices, and it seemed as if his entire life hinged on his decision.
“To hell with it,” he muttered. “I’m beginning to think sanity is overrated anyway.”
Ben didn’t appear that day. Jason kept the globe next to him in the living room while he watched TV and checked his email. He took it into the kitchen with him while he made dinner and ate. Occasionally, he called Ben’s name, but as the day wore on, he felt more and more ridiculous. His only consolation was that Ben hadn’t yet appeared in the guest room window, either. Eventually, Jason gave up on Ben—and on late-night television—and dragged himself off to bed, leaving the globe on the dining room table.
He dreamed of Dylan. They were on the set of Summer Camp Nightmare 4, trying to shoot a scene together. Jason was sure they’d decided to cast Dylan opposite him as the love interest, and he was anxious to get to their big kiss, but every time he read a line, Dylan scowled and told him it was wrong. And no matter how hard Jason tried to read the script in his hands, he couldn’t do it. The words kept jumping around the page, the letters rearranging themselves right before his eyes, and he began to panic. Tryss, the extra who was still paying for her boob job, stood off-scene, waiting to take his place if he couldn’t get his shit together.
“Come on, Jason,” Dylan said to him at last. “Even you couldn’t pass that up.”
He woke shortly after ten. He lay there for a minute, thinking about Dylan, and about the script downstairs, shut up in the drawer of the writing desk in the corner of the living room. He didn’t need a dream analyst to tell him he was worrying about both, but he thought his subconscious had played a bit dirty.
He pulled on a pair of sweats and wandered downstairs, still rubbing his eyes. He rounded the corner into the dining room and stopped short. He’d nearly forgotten about the snow globe and its ghost occupant, but now here they both were, the former sitting on the table where he’d left it, the latter standing at the window, looking out. Sunshine poured through the glass, and straight through Ben as well, making the upper half of his body nearly invisible, although his lower half looked relatively solid. It was a disconcerting sight.
“You’re here,” Jason said.
Ben whirled around to face him, and Jason was reminded of the first time he’d ever laid eyes on Ben—the expression of shock and surprise on Ben’s face, his full lips forming a perfect O—but this time, the surprise quickly gave way to pleasure. Ben started talking, gesturing out the window at the garage, at Jason, at the room around them. His pale, slender hands flew around his head like frantic little birds as he talked, and his face was bright with excitement. Jason was almost glad he couldn’t hear him. He wasn’t awake enough yet to deal with the rush of words that was obviously pouring from Ben’s mouth.
Jason held up his hand. “Hang on. Let me get some coffee.”
Ben put the fingers of both hands over his lips, but Jason was sure even that couldn’t stop Ben from talking for long.
He went past Ben into the kitchen. Ben followed him as far as the doorway, then stood there, bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet, watching.
“It’s a Keurig,” Jason said, “so it’ll only take a minute.”
He felt silly as soon as he said it. Would Ben know what a Keurig was?
“I tried to find you yesterday,” he said to Ben as his cup began to fill. “Where were you?”
Ben frowned, then put his hands together as if praying and laid them next to his cheek.
“Sleeping?”
Ben nodded.
“All day?”
Ben frowned and shook his head. He said a single word. Rusting? Jason laughed, realizing his mistake. Resting.
Ben pointed toward the window and the garage, then at Jason, his eyes begging the question.
“I thought maybe you’d like a change of scenery.”
Ben smiled broadly and nodded.
Jason pulled his full coffee mug out of the brewer. Ben stepped aside to allow him to pass, and Jason couldn’t help but wonder if it was necessary. He suspected he could have stepped right through his new guest, although he wasn’t anxious to test his theory.
He took his coffee through the dining room, across the entryway and into the living room. The old-fashioned foursquare floor plan meant each room was distinctly separate from the others, unlike newer homes with their large open spaces and wide doorways.
“So,” Jason said as he set his coffee down on the end table, “how often has this—” But when he turned to face Ben, he was surprised to find nobody there. “Ben?” he called.
Stupid, of course. Ben couldn’t answer him. Or, more accurately, he might be able to answer, but Jason wouldn’t be able to hear him.
“Ben?”
He backtracked to the door of the living room. Ben stood directly across the hall from him just inside the door of the dining room, looking anxious.
“Aren’t you coming?” Jason asked.
Ben shook his head, turning to point at the globe, then at the door. He was talking again too, but there were too many words for Jason to try to lip-read. Ben gestured to the globe, then the room around him, finally put both hands up as if to touch the doorframe, although his hands seemed to sink half an inch into the wood. Jason thought back to when they’d met, and how Ben had stayed inside the guest room.
“Only the room the globe is in?” Jason guessed.
Ben nodded.
“Wow.”
Ben nodded again.
“How long were you in that room over the garage?”
This time, he was able to read the answer on Ben’s lips. I’m not sure. He said something else. Jason had to have him repeat it before he was able to figure out Ben’s question. What year is it now?
It hadn’t even occurred to Jason that Ben wouldn’t know what year it was. Ben’s image flickered when Jason told him, his shoulders slumping a bit. He frowned toward the garage, then held up fingers. Three. Four. He wobbled his hand back and forth uncertainly. Jason lip-read, Maybe five.
“Months? Or years?”
Years.
“Five years in the guesthouse?”
Ben nodded.
Had he been alone all that time? Jason wanted to ask, but the enormity of it stopped him. It was a heavy question. It led into Ben’s past, and although Jason was dying to know more, he was painfully aware of how stilted their communication was.
There had to be a better way to converse.
Once again, Ben moved aside to allow Jason into the dining room. Jason picked up the globe, noting the excitement on Ben’s face. The minute he passed through the doorway into the hallway, Ben disappeared. When Jason reached the living room, Ben flickered back into existence. Jason frowned, suddenly doubting. He stared down at the snow globe, wondering. Could it be some kind of hoax after all? Was the globe somehow creating Ben’s image? But no. If that were the case—if the globe worked like a movie projector—Ben’s image would be thrown across the room to splash into existence against the closest solid object. He wouldn’t be simply standing in the middle of the room.
Ben spun around, trying to take in the entire room in all its pink-flowered glory at once. He stopped on his second turn, his wide eyes staring at Jason’s 52-inch flat-screen television. Ben approached it, his hands held out in front of him as if in awe. He turned to Jason. His lips formed the question, TV?
“You know about television?”
Ben nodded, bouncing on his toes in excitement. He leaned forward and used his hands to shape a square about knee-high, then stood up to indicate the big screen in front of him.
“Yeah, they’ve gotten bigger.”
Ben began talking again, his hands flying, his eyes bright. He talked and talked, occasionally indicating the television, seemingly telling a story, and Jason moved closer. He found himself transfixed by Ben’s energy. By his fluttering hands. By his full lips. By the utter joy that seemed to pour off of him, almost more tangible than Ben himself. He seemed full of happiness and enthusiasm, and Jason could have used healthy doses of both.
“I wish I could hear you,” he said, interrupting Ben’s flow of words.
Ben stopped, all his wild movements coming to a halt, all of him settling into a sudden stillness, his hands clasped in front of him, looking like a lost little boy. He was a couple of inches shorter than Jason, and he met Jason’s gaze with such solemn sincerity, it took Jason’s breath away. His answer was easy to predict.
Me too.
“The sheriff couldn’t see you.”
Ben shook his head. Said a word that might have been, Nobody.
Jason hoped he’d read that word wrong. “How many have been able to see you? Before me, I mean?”
Ben held his hand up in a circle. Zero. But then he seemed to reconsider. He held up one finger.
“Only one person besides me?”
Ben frowned, shaking his head, waving his hands in a futile, dismissive gesture, clearly frustrated by his inability to say more.
“Never mind. We’ll figure this out eventually.” Jason pointed to the TV. “You want me to turn it on?”
Ben’s eyes lit up, and he nodded with the same enthusiasm a kid might show if asked whether he wanted to spend the day at Disneyland.
Jason shook his head, laughing. All this worry about a ghost, and all the ghost wanted to do was watch TV.
“Okay.” He picked up the remote and brought the television to life. “What do you want to watch?”
He pulled up the on-screen guide, and Ben’s eyes went wide. Jason began scrolling through the lists, watching in amusement as Ben traced his translucent finger down the screen, reading the options. But by the sixth page of choices, his smile had turned into a scowl.
“You don’t know any of these shows?”
Ben shook his head.
“What show did you have in mind? I can probably find it On Demand or something.”
Ben tilted his head, thinking. Finally, he smiled. He spread his hands in a wide sweeping gesture, then pointed to himself, then held a hand down at knee height.
“Okay. I haven’t played charades in a while, but I can do this. How many words?”
Three fingers.
“All right. Do it again.”
Ben did, and Jason began to guess. The first word was easy. The second took only two tries. The third . . .
“All My . . . All My Short People? All My Small Things? All My . . . Little . . . Little People? Kids? Children?”
Ben bounced, clapping his hands.
“Oh my God, you’re kidding! All My Children?”
Ben nodded.
“I don’t even know if it’s still on. A lot of the soaps got cancelled a few years ago.” Ben slumped, and Jason sympathized. It’d happened right at the time when he’d started to consider taking a role on one. “Don’t worry. We have about a hundred and fifty channels to choose from. We’ll find something.”
There were more soaps left on air than he’d realized. Ben settled on the opposite end of the couch—although this time, he floated about half an inch above it, instead of sinking into it—and Jason flipped to The Young and the Restless.
His stomach rumbled, and he spent a moment debating the appropriateness of offering Ben some lunch. Common courtesy dictated that he shouldn’t eat in front of his guest. Then again, Ben couldn’t even pick up the television remote. How exactly would he go about eating a ham sandwich?
“Will you be okay here while I go shower and grab something to eat? I’ll leave the TV on.”
Ben hesitated, clearly embarrassed. He asked a question, pointing to the couch to help make himself clear. You’re coming back?
“I promise.”
Ben smiled, nodding. I’ll be fine.
“Do you need anything?” Jason asked. He knew it was a silly question—what exactly could he possibly bring Ben?—but he felt he had to ask. “Food or something to drink or . . .”
The look Ben gave him was enough to silence him. Not exactly derision, but something that bordered on exasperation and yet with a hint of sadness. Ben shook his head no.
“Okay. Well, I won’t be long.”
And he wasn’t. He made it back to the couch as The Young and the Restless was ending. After that, Ben watched General Hospital, and then Days of Our Lives. And while Ben watched TV, Jason watched Ben.
He was so animated, every feeling he had easily read upon his young face. He talked a lot, sometimes seemingly at characters on the television, sometimes to Jason, although he was usually too excited for Jason to lip-read more than a word or two. A few times, Jason suspected Ben was trying to explain which characters he remembered, or some piece of backstory. He grew somber during the dramatic sequences, his image sometimes flickering fitfully, and he fidgeted nervously through the intimate scenes, like a little kid with his parents in the room. He loved the commercials too, although the many pharmaceutical ads left him frowning, and one promising to treat erectile dysfunction flustered him so much he winked right out of existence for half a minute.
“When was the last time you got to watch TV?” Jason asked after Ben had reappeared.
Ben tilted his head, thinking, then went through the number routine again, holding up his fingers. One. Nine. Nine. Zero. Another little wobble of his hand and a shrug, indicating it was more an estimate than anything.
A couple of years after Jason had been born. Jason couldn’t help but wonder how it must have been for Ben, be
ing so alone for all those years, with nobody to see him or hear him. No wonder Ben loved television so much.
Jason picked up the globe, pondering. He turned it upside down, glancing sideways at Ben as he shook it, but Ben didn’t seem to feel anything or to notice at all.
Jason studied the snow globe, searching for something that might indicate where it had come from—a company name or city, or maybe a production date. Anything. He found two words engraved into the bottom. Scratches nearly obscured the first two letters, but Jason was able to figure it out based on context: SHAKE GLOBE. He also found a small silver turnkey.
The globe was a music box.
Jason turned the key three times and let it go.
No music emerged as the key turned slowly backward. Jason held the base of the globe closer to his ear, straining to hear over the voices from the TV, but he caught only a faint mechanical click-whirr-click-whir from inside. Some piece of clockwork still functioned, but not the part that played a tune.
“Dot com again!” Ben suddenly exclaimed, his voice loud and clear. “What in the world does it mean?”
“What?” Jason was too surprised to manage anything more coherent than that.
“What?” Ben echoed.
“I can hear you.”
A look of sheer delight spread quickly across Ben’s expressive face. “Can you really?”
“Yes!”
And in the blink of an eye, Ben disappeared.
“Jesus, where’d you go?” Jason grumbled to the empty room. “We finally start to make progress and you up and leave.”
Three or four seconds later, Ben popped back into view, his mouth already moving, but once again, no sound emerged. Jason glanced down at the globe—at the turnkey on the bottom that had stopped rotating—and understood.
He held a hand up to Ben. “Wait! I think I can only hear you when the music box is going.”
Ben bounced a bit above the couch cushion, his lips forming two words over and over. Wind it. Wind it. Wind it.
And Jason obliged, turning the key a few turns to test his theory.
“Your name’s Ben?”