The Ghost of Kale Henson

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Find showtimes, watch trailers, browse photos, track your Watchlist and rate your favorite movies and TV shows on your phone or tablet! Keep track of everything you watch; tell your friends. Full Cast and Crew. Tucker invites his beautiful, but Wait, Is Mary Poppins a Witch? See more production information about this title on IMDbPro.

Zoe Angelina N Fox Tucker's brother as a child A. Young Tucker Chad C. Deputy Roger Young Jessica Morgan Edit Storyline On the 20th anniversary of the discovery of a gruesome and bloody murder scene, four friends take a trip deep into the backwoods of Southern Illinois. Edit Details Official Sites: Edit Did You Know? When they bring the mother up to the stand, the new DA asks her what her name is.

She closes her eyes, shakes her head, rocks back and forth in her chair. She begins to sing a song softly under her breath, not in English, the syllables rolling out of her mouth like smoke. The DA looks to the judge for help, but he is staring at the witness, his eyes distant as if he is lost inside of his own head. A disoriented, naked, pregnant woman is discovered wandering around Midtown. She is arrested for indecent exposure.

Stabler never told Benson about his little brother. Father Jones has never touched a child, but when he closes his eyes at night, he still remembers his high school girlfriend: Convinced that her teenaged daughter is in danger from cyber predators, a father takes a crowbar to the family computer. He throws the remaining pieces into the fireplace, strikes a match. His daughter complains of a light head, a burning in her chest.

She dies on a Saturday. Stabler discovers that his wife believes she saw a UFO, back when she was in her early twenties. He lies awake all night, wondering if this explains the memory loss, the PTSD, the night terrors. His wife wakes up weeping and screaming, on cue. Misspent that gift card.

Hit that guy harder than I meant to. Will probably not tell her tomorrow. The ghost of one of the murdered, misburied underage models begins to haunt Benson. She has bells for eyes, tiny brass ones dangling from the top of each socket, the hammer not quite touching the cheekbone. The ghost does not know her own name. This happens for four nights in a row, at 2: Benson starts sleeping with a crucifix and pungent ropes of garlic because she does not understand the difference between vampires and murdered teenagers.

Benson wakes up in the middle of the night. She is not in her bed. She is in her pajamas, in the dark. Her hand is on a handle.

A door is open. A confused-looking panda is watching her with dewy eyes. Benson shuts the door. She passes two llamas chewing thoughtfully on the sign for a hot dog stand. In the parking lot of the zoo, her car is idling against a cement post. She changes into the spare set of clothes she keeps in the trunk. She calls it in. He nods, jots down something in his notebook. When Stabler wakes up, he decides to tell his wife this story. Stabler has never been to a Renaissance Faire. Stabler thinks about this. Benson keeps the condoms in her nightstand drawer refreshed, and throws the expired ones away.

She dutifully takes her pill at the same time every morning. She makes dates and always keeps them. The girl-with-bells-for-eyes tells Benson to go to Brooklyn. They can communicate, now, with the bells. Benson taught herself Morse code. Benson never goes to Brooklyn, but she agrees. She rides the train late at night, so late that there is only one man in her car, and he is sleeping on a duffel bag. As they shoot through the tunnels, the man looks blearily at Benson, then unzips his duffel bag and vomits into it, almost politely.

The vomit is white, like cream of wheat. He re-zips the bag. Benson gets off two stops too early, and ends up walking through Crown Heights for a very long time. Stabler works out every morning at the precinct. He does tricep curls. He jogs on a treadmill. Startled, he trips on the treadmill and his whole body slams against the cinderblock wall. The path rolls toward him in endless loops.

Well, not really raining. It was misting and the light from the streetlamps was all pooled and golden, and thick, even, like it was a solid. And I was breathing deeply and it felt healthy, healthy and right to be walking through that night. It shakes the water glass on the nightstand. She gets out of bed and tries to push them away, but her hands and upper body go through both of them as if they are nothing. They taste like mildew in her mouth.

She remembers being eight and kneeling before the humidifier in her room, taking in the steam like it was the only way she could drink. Stabler looks up from his raw knees. Benson unfolds the tiny square alcohol wipe and hands it to him. He hisses pain through his teeth. Are these from the treadmill? The lines crowd the page. Allowed her to assist me. Not sure who I was thinking about when I had sex with my wife tonight. The girl-with-bells-for-eyes tells Benson to go to Yonkers.

Benson refuses and begins to burn sage in her apartment. Her date is an investment banker, a boring and stupid man with a fat, piss-mean tabby who tries to suffocate Benson with her bulk. Benson hates him, but what else can she do? He is trying to learn. He is trying to figure it out. I walked past them and ran my fingers over their loops and whorls, and then my fingers smelled like metal.

The serial killer promises that there is a bomb hidden under a bench in Central Park. They send policemen to Central Park to chase people off benches like they are pigeons, or the homeless. The girl-with-bells-for-eyes sends Benson into every borough. Benson rides the train.

Eventually, she has seen every stop at least once. She is beginning to memorize the murals, the water stains, the smells. Cortelyou smells, unnervingly, like lilacs. For the first time in a while, Benson thinks about Stabler. Back in her apartment, the girl-with-bells-for-eyes tries to tell Benson a story. I was a virgin. When he took me, I popped. This is a tricky one, though. The boy is the son of a political heavyweight with deep pockets. He golfs with the mayor. Benson, are you listening? Stabler has determined that he is not even a little bit gay. He swallows his disappointment.

His mouth tastes like orange peel. Sweetie, the kids have lice. I need your help. The oldest daughter rolls her eyes. Her mother helps her scrub her scalp, and the youngest whines that the shampoo burns. Stabler feels serene for the first time in months. She might have come from another country. She was only fourteen. The thumbtack pops into the cork and Benson jumps in her chair. Stabler hears it again. The sound, the drumming. It seems to come from the break room.

When he goes there, it sounds like it is coming from the interrogation room. Inside the interrogation room, he hears it again. He bangs his hands on the two-way mirror, imitating the sound, hoping to lure it, hoping to see it, but all is quiet. In the middle of a sermon, Father Jones begins screaming. His parishioners look on in fear as he clings to the pulpit, wailing a name over and over. Convinced that this is an admission of guilt of some kind or another, the diocese calls Benson and Stabler. In his office, Benson knocks a pen off his desk, and Father Jones dives after it, howling.

Benson reaches up from her bed, like a baby. The girl-with-bells-for-eyes stands over her, like a mother. The next day, a lighter. Stabler wants to stop, but he has long since learned to choose his battles. She lived in that building with her mother. I lost myself in her body. We lay a blanket over the gravel. I fed her orange slices. She told me that she was a prophet, and that she had a vision that one day, I would take an innocent life. I said no, no. She climbed up onto the cement wall that bordered the roof. She stood there and declared her vision again. She said she was sorry.

She simply knelt into the air. Stabler finds Benson sleeping in the back room at the precinct on a sagging cot. She wakes up when the door opens. Benson accidentally catches a rapist when she Google-stalks her newest OKCupid date. Benson leaves her handsome date at the table, in the restaurant, waiting for the drinks. She walks down an empty side street.

She takes off her shoes and walks down the center of the road. It is too hot for April. She can feel her feet darkening from the blacktop. She should be afraid of broken glass but she is not. In front of a vacant lot, she stops. She reaches down and touches the pavement. Its two-toned heartbeat makes her clavicle vibrate. She can feel it. She is suddenly, irrevocably certain that the earth is breathing. She knows that New York is riding the back of a giant monster.

She knows this more clearly than she has ever known anything before. He presses the muscles at the hinge of his jaw and cracks it. Run the crack let. Benson does her twice-monthly grocery trip. She drives her car to a grocery store in Queens and buys three hundred dollars worth of produce. It will make her fridge look like the garden of Eden. She will not eat it while she gnaws on chewy French toast in the Styrofoam container from the diner.

The produce will, predictably, rot. Her fridge will smell overwhelmingly like dirt. She will collect it in garbage bags and throw it in the public trashcan near the station before her next trip. Stabler wakes up one night to find his wife staring at the ceiling, tears soaking the pillow next to her head. I was so scared. Benson crosses the street without looking. When she looks through the windshield, she sees a teenage boy in the passenger seat, eyes closed.

When he opens then, the sun glints off the curves of the bells. The taxi driver screams at Benson as she stares. She has fallen to the ground and is clutching her ankle, crying. There are dark curves under his eyes, sacs the color of bruised apples. What do you know about ghosts? In the car, they are both quiet.

They question everyone they can think of: The girls she bullied, the boys who loved her and hated her, the parents who thought she was wonderful and the parents who thought she was bad news. Benson stumbles into the precinct late, bleary-eyed. She is certain that she can hear it all the time now, deep and low. The girls-with-bells-for-eyes have taken to knocking before coming in. She can hear it everywhere. The drumming, echoing, echoing in the deep. Benson can translate the bells well, now. She pulls her pillow over her head until she can barely breathe.

Benson gets a pack of small children. Their bells are especially tiny, the ring higher than most. She holds her bed, which feels like an amusement park ride, pitching and rolling. We will never ride the Tilt-a-Whirl again, ever. She puts her head on her cell phone and uses speed-dial. When Stabler comes over and lets himself in with the spare key, he finds Benson bent over the toilet, heaving, crying. She imagines Stabler in the seat next to her. I just have a feeling. Stabler and Benson respond to a report of a rape in Central Park.

A confused junior cop is busy rolling yellow crime scene tape from tree to tree. Benson and Stabler grab beers at a pub down the street from the station. They hold the frosted mugs in their hands, leave handprints on the glass that look like angels. Abler and Henson respond to a report of a rape in Central Park. They examine the mutilated body. Henson sleeps through every night. She eats a bagel with cream cheese for breakfast, and with it a mug of green tea.

Abler tucks in his kids and spoons his wife, who laughs in her sleep. When she wakes, she relates to him the very funny joke from her dream, and he laughs, too. The children make pancakes. The hardwood floors are flooded with pools of light. For three days in a row, there is not a single victim in the entire precinct. No child pornography made, bought, or sold. Not even an unwanted dirty phone call. Then, in the gloaming of a Wednesday, a man wolf-whistles at a woman on her way to an AA meeting.

The whole city releases its held breath, and everything returns to normal. Abler and Henson are sleeping together, but no one knows. Benson looks at Stabler, and Stabler at Benson, and they turn, confused, back to her. She slams the door so hard a flowerpot jumps off the porch railing and lands in the lawn. He shakes his head. Inside, a Mills Brothers record starts up with pops and scratches. Shine little glow-worm, glimmer, glimmer. Faster, faster, go faster. We never get to sleep. We tirelessly pursue justice at all hours. When the two-tone beat sounds, the chips and shavings tremble on her carpet and nightstand.

We are monsters and victims at the same time, and only experience will tip the scale one way or the other. This is the world we live in, Stabler. Benson watches a lot of TV on her days off. She gets an idea. She spreads a line of salt along her threshold, on the windowsills. That night, for the first time in months, the bell-children stay away. Stabler kisses her hair. Abler and Henson solve their ninth case in a row, and their captain takes them out for celebratory steaks and cocktails. Abler gnaws down hunks of steak too big for his gullet, Henson polishes off one dirty martini after another.

A man on the opposite side of the restaurant, who has been nibbling bird-like on a Caesar salad, begins to choke. A stranger delivers the Heimlich, and a half-chewed wad of meat lands on the table of a lifelong teetotaler who is starting to feel a little strange. Henson drives Abler home, and they laugh. Thirteen blocks from the restaurant, they grope at each other, kissing as they stumble out of the car. Some crazy person keeps leaving sacks of perfectly good produce in a trashcan. Henson frequently finds herself pulling it out, taking it home, scrubbing the beets good and hard.

What a weird thing to go to waste. Benson is lonely without the bells. Her apartment is so quiet. She stands in her doorway, staring down at the white line. She takes her big toe and probes it. She remembers being at the beach with her mother when she was a child and burning her feet on the hot, smooth sand. The children come rushing at her like a flash flood rolling through a narrow gorge. Their bells ring chaotic, gleeful and rapturous and angry, like a swarm of euphoric bees. They tickle her skin with their desperation. She has never felt so loved.

You are the only one we trust , the bell-children say to Benson. Not that other one. Benson assumes they mean Stabler. Abler and Henson notice the bullet casing buried in the dirt. They notice the smear of blood near the doorframe, the orientation of the street. By the time they get inside, they know to arrest the wife. Why are they so much better at everything than me and Stabler? Benson sees Henson coming out of the precinct. The same face, but prettier. The same hair, but bouncier, somehow. She must find out what kind of product she uses.

Before she kills her. Benson leaves Stabler another message. Pretending to be us. Stabler pulls out his cell phone as the ringtone dies. The phone buzzes in his hand like an insect. He turns it off.

Abler comes for Henson. Of course he does. Benson watches as he gently unties the ropes, unwraps the chains, unlocks the handcuffs, and lets her stand up from the chair on her own. Benson is holding her gun in her hand. She unloads three bullets into each of them, not expecting much. They keep moving as if nothing is happening except the funny foxtrot of their feet.

What are you listening to? Miles away from the precinct, a teenage boy and his seven-year-old sister drop dead in the middle of their walk home from school. When they are autopsied, bullets are pulled from the purple meat of their organs, though there are no entrance wounds on either of their bodies. The medical examiner is baffled. The bullets clink clink clink clink clink clink in the metal dish. The DA laughs and laughs. She laughs so hard she coughs. She laughs so hard she pees a little.

She falls down onto the floor and does a little half-roll, still laughing. There is a knock on the bathroom door, and Benson pushes open the door uncertainly. The jury has come back. Are you…are you okay? He looks over at the mother of his children, the hollow at the base of her throat, the fine fringe of her eyelashes, the fat zit on her chin that she is probably minutes from popping. I loved her more than I have loved everything.

But she was sad, so sad. She saw too much. Father Jones shows Benson how to pray. He talks about opening her mind. She pulls her knees up to her chest. Benson looks up from her yellow legal pad. I certainly made it up from start to finish. Outside of the courtroom, protesters shove and shout, the wooden dowels of their signs knocking noisily against one another. It sounds like percussion. Benson and Stabler use their bodies to shield the woman, who sobs and shuffles. Benson looks left, looks right. Her blood runs down a storm drain, and she dies with her eyes half-open, an interrupted eclipse.

Benson and Stabler feel the beat at the same time, down beneath the pavement, beneath the screaming and the panicked crowd and the signs and the woman dead, dead, there it is, the one-two , and they look at each other. Her sign falls facedown in the blood. The DA rolls down the hill in her dreams, stumbling, tumbling, rumbling down, down in the deep.

In her dream, there is thunder, but the thunder is the color of rhubarb and it comes in twin booms. Every time the thunder sounds, the grass blades change shape. Then, beneath her body, the DA sees Benson, lying on her back, touching herself, laughing. The DA comes, and wakes. Or maybe wakes, then comes.

In the afterburn of the dream, she is alone in her bed, and the window is open, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. All I wanted was to bury it. I want it to be hidden. Why did you do it? She pummels her fists into a giant, overstuffed throw pillow. She begins to walk from one end of the room to the other, holding her arms so tightly to her torso that Stabler is reminded of a man who once came to the precinct, covered in blood.

He held his arms like this, too, and when he let them drop, his wounded abdomen opened up and his stomach and intestines peeked out, like they were ready to be born. The girl staggers into the precinct with nothing on her body but a burlap sack. She tries to talk, but the words that come out are nonsense. Stabler gives her a cup of water. She drinks it in a single gulp, and then vomits onto his desk.

Words tumble out, but in an order that makes no sense. The words are long, and real, Stabler discovers, flipping through a dictionary. But the sentences make no sense. Stabler only ever wanted daughters when he first married his wife. Now, he is paralyzed with fear for them. He wishes they were never born. He wishes they were still floating safely in the unborn space, which he imagines to be grayish-blue, like the Atlantic, studded with star-like points of light, and thick, like corn syrup. She chops vegetables with a large knife, and he would rather she stick it in his gut than continue the sparking silence.

She puts clean slits in the stippled plastic cutting board. She lops off the heads of carrots. She undoes the cucumbers. Benson goes to a New Age shop in the Village. Stabler invites Benson over to his house for Thanksgiving. Benson offers to help pull the guts from the turkey, something she always wanted to do as a child. She sighs, shakes her head.

Her fingers push through gristle and meat and bones and close around something. Out of the turkey comes a string of entrails, on which are suspended tiny bells, slick with blood. The meal is a great success. Everyone is having a very nice time. Benson knows that she is lying. She follows the librarian to the break room and shoves her up against a vending machine. Inside, bags of chips and pretzels rustle.

I Don't Believe In Ghosts

The woman bites her lip, then takes Benson and Stabler down to the basement. She pushes open a metal door to an old boiler room, from which hangs a broken padlock. A cot stands against a far wall, stacks and stacks of books make a tiny metropolis all over the floor. Benson flips open a cover, then another. All of them have a red stamp: Benson turns around just in time for a fine red mist to paint her skin.

The captain takes the last photo down from the bulletin board. He wants a drink more than he has in many years. This is how it went. The girl was sick with prophecy. She touched the arm of young Ben Jones, later to be Father Jones, before she knelt herself to death off a Brooklyn rooftop. He carried it inside of his body for decades. Stabler was the one to restrain him when he freaked out during Mass, and now had it, too. He sees his daughters, projected into their terrifying futures. He sees his wife, living long and always remembering.

He cannot see Benson, though. Something shades his vision. She is smoke, elusive. Stabler is grocery shopping with his oldest daughter when he sees a man picking up apples, examining them closely, and setting them back down on the pile. The man looks up.

He recognizes Stabler, too. Stabler grabs her arm and pulls her into the next aisle. A man in a ski-mask robs a bank with a plastic gun and gets fifty-seven dollars. The teller saves the day by slicing off his face with the machete that he keeps under his counter. Benson decides to try the spell. She combines the ingredients like the man had shown her. She crushes the beans and the bone. She uncorks the bottle.

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She stumbles blindly backwards and knocks over the mortar and pestle. She falls to the floor and trembles, shakes. When it finally passes, she sees the girl-with-bells-for-eyes staring back at her. Ringing back at her. The first of many times , she says. All night, Benson dreams, dreams, dreams. One afternoon, at her desk, Benson feels the telltale tickling. She shifts in her chair. She crosses and uncrosses her legs. On the way home, she stops at the drugstore on the corner. In her bathroom, she squats.

She walks carefully to her bed and gets horizontal. She feels the bullet melting inside of her, making her better. The girl-with-bells-for-eyes comes to the side of her bed, bells swinging wildly like she is a church caught in a stiff wind. The girl-with-bells-for-eyes gets as close to the bed as she can without walking through it.

She begins to glow. Across the street, a man with a telescope lifts his head from the eyepiece, gasps. They are wet and thick and fit together like pieces of a puzzle. She looks behind her. She looks back at him. When Stabler gets home, the oldest daughter has an ice pack on her forehead and the youngest is kicking her feet above the tiled kitchen floor.

Stabler goes into the bedroom, where his wife is lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. She throws a ripe vegetable in every garbage can in a twenty-block radius. It feels good to spread it out like this, the wasting. After the body is removed, Benson and Stabler stand around the dried pool of blood.

A policewoman comes into the bedroom. Only after the sixth small black girl goes missing does the police commissioner finally make a statement, interrupting the season finale of a popular soap opera. The enraged letters start coming soon after. Another person sends anthrax. Stabler considers that it is his conscience making that horrible, horrible sound. Father Jones prepares to deliver the Eucharist. The first people in line look like Stabler and Benson, except different.

Father Jones feels forgiveness melting down the back of his own throat. The woman, then, too, takes it, smiles. Father Jones almost chokes this time. In the bathroom, he rocks back and forth on his feet clutching the counter and weeping. Stabler works out three times a day, now. He insists on jogging to crime scenes instead of using the squad car.

Whenever he takes off from the station, his button-down and tie tucked into bright red running shorts, Benson goes and gets herself a coffee from the bodega, reads a newspaper, and then drives to the crime scene. Stabler always arrives a few minutes later, his fingers pressed against his pulse, shoes striking the pavement in an even rhythm. He jogs in place while they interview witnesses. On the subway, Benson thinks she sees Henson and Abler on a train running the opposite direction. They blast past each other in a blaze of butter yellow light, the windows flashing by like frames on a filmstrip , and Henson and Abler appear to be in every one, moving jerkily like they are rotating through a phenakistoscope.

Benson stays home with swine flu. She reaches over to the opposite pillow, years empty, and feels for her own face. The girls-with-bells-for-eyes try to make her soup, but their hands pass through the cupboard handles.

Stabler offers to take the girls out for Halloween. He goes as Batman, buys a hard plastic mask. The girls roll their eyes. Before they go out, his wife faces him. She reaches up and snatches the mask off his face. He seizes it back from her and slides it back on. She pulls it off again, so hard the band snaps and catches his face.

The man takes out his rifle, braces it against his good shoulder, and squeezes the trigger with all the seductive force of a beckoning. The man lets out another sobbing woman. He takes a few steps toward the tree line, and she joins her sister. She is murdered, anyway. She walks into the bed. Benson does not wake up.

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