Author's note: This was written as a project for school. I finished the book a while before the report was assigned, so I'm sorry if anything is incorrect. I would never have thought to do part of TKAM in Boo's POV if I had not already read the amazing story The Radley Curse by LizistheShiz. So credit for that idea goes to that author.

Disclaimer: Do you recognize it? Not mine. To Kill a Mockingbird, and direct quotes and characters belong to the amazing Harper Lee.

I am old now—so old. I know that I will die soon. That is why I have written this, so that maybe someday, some one will find this and read it. Perhaps then people will think of Arthur, the one who saved the Finch children, not Boo, the one who stabbed his father in the leg and ate cats.

I sat in a chair by the window—the one that looked out at the street. I knew Jem and Scout would be passing by soon. My brother had told me that all the children in town were going to be in a pageant this evening at the high school. I think he told me this in a attempt to get me to go out of the house, but I had just given my usual excuse—I'm too weak, and I won't be able to stand the bright lights for that long. He had shaken his head and gone to the kitchen for some dinner.

I glanced at my brother, sitting on the couch reading. He must have felt my stare, for he looked up, pity and disgust evident on his face. He had been giving me that look for a while now, but it was no surprise. My brother had never liked me, had been glad to get away from me at the first chance he got. I remember seeing his response to the letter father had sent him before he had died, telling Nathan he would need to take over the responsibility of taking care of me; Nathan had been annoyed, and come with a lot of reluctance.

I turned back to the window, wanting to forget about Nathan, and his disapproval of me. I smiled as Jem and Scout finally came past. Jem was carrying a ridiculous contraption, which appeared to be a ham. It must have been Scout's costume for the pageant. All too soon, they passed from my line of sight. I sighed, and picked a book up from the mantelpiece beside me. I looked at the title, The Gray Ghost by Robert Schulkers. I smiled; this was my favorite, and only, book.

I looked up several hours later, startled out of my book by the loud chiming of the clock. I looked at the time, and nearly jumped. It was already 8:30! I had been so caught up in my reading, I had lost track of time. "Goodness," I thought to myself, "I'm becoming my brother."

I smiled at this thought, though I did not quite know why it amused me. My smile faded though, as I realized that Jem and Scout had probably already gone home. I decided to wait by the window, though, just in case. It must have been not a half hour later when I heard it, a scream, as familiar as my own footsteps. I had heard it several times before; the night Scout, Jem, and Dill had crept into our yard, that day Scout had rolled into the front yard in the tire. I had no time for thought; my children were in danger. I leapt from my chair and ran out the door. I don't know how, but I got to the schoolyard within moments, when usually it would have taken a short forever.

I stopped when I saw what was happening. Someone had his arms 'round Scout, and Jem was lying on the floor. Again, I didn't think. I dashed forward—where was this speed coming from— and grabbed the man. The moment I started trying to pull him off Scout, I knew I would not be able to fight this man. He was drunk, that was for sure, but he was strong all the same. I managed to tug him free from Scout, and there it was, my only chance, a knife. I pushed him, hard as I could, and by some miracle he fell, landing slightly on his side. Looking back, I realize it was sheer luck Bob Ewell fell the way he did, the knife barely made it into his ribcage.

I slumped over to Jem and slowly, carefully picked him up. The adrenaline was wearing off now; my children were safe. It was difficult to carry him, but I did. I staggered to the Finch's house. Mr. Finch must have seen me coming, for he met me at the front door, and helped me bring Jem inside. We set Jem down on the bed, and I heard Mr. Finch call out to a woman who looked remarkably like him, telling her to call Dr. Reynolds. He also asked where Scout was. The woman answered, telling him she had just come down the hall.

Distantly, I heard Mr. Finch call up Heck Tate, telling him someone 'd been after his children; asking if he'd go see if the man was still there. I heard Scout ask if Jem was dead, and I glanced over at him, on instinct. I knew Jem wasn't dead, but I couldn't help but worry. I heard Mr. Finch respond "No, Scout. Look after her, sister," the last bit I heard a little better, as he walked into Jem's room. He nodded at me, and then went to Jem's side.

Sister. That must have been the woman. A moment later, Scout's aunt came in. She glanced at me briefly, but hurried over to Jem. I guess she didn't think it was worth the trouble—raising a fuss over me—while Jem and Scout still needed tending to. A few minutes later, Dr. Reynolds came in. He nodded briefly to me, and then went over to Jem. After what seemed like forever, but was probably only a couple of minutes, he straightened up and turned to Mr. Finch. "He's fine. He has a broken arm, and I can't do much about that right now, but he's alive."

The woman's shoulders slumped in what I can only assume was relief. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. Dr. Reynolds left the room, and I heard Scout ask if Jem was dead. As Dr. Reynolds relayed the news to her, I thought about how much Scout cared for her brother. Not once, since she had gotten home had she cried, or demanded attention, except to make sure her brother was OK.

Faintly, I heard the door open. A moment later, Scout came in. I drew back into the shadows, suddenly afraid. What would Scout think of me? For years I had been: The Malevolent Phantom, the bad guy, the one who stabbed his father and ate cats. I didn't know if I could take it if Scout—my child—shied away from me.

However, I needn't have worried, she gave me no more than a glance, before hurrying to Jem's side. Mr. Tate came in, and Mr. Finch offered him the chair. He took it, and Mr. Finch went to get another chair. When he came back, Mr. Tate began to tell what he had found. "Mr. Finch, tell you what I found. I found a little girl's dress— it's out there in my car. That your dress Scout?"

"Yes sir, if it's a pink one with smockin'," she answered.

"I found some funny-looking pieces of muddy-colored cloth—"

"That's m'costume, Mr. Tate," Scout informed him.

Mr. Tate ran his hands along his thighs, looking nervous. "What is it, Heck?" Mr. Finch asked.

"Bob Ewell's lyin' on the ground under the tree down yonder with a kitchen knife stuck up under his ribs. He's dead, Mr. Finch."

I think I stopped breathing right 'bout then. The man— Bob Ewell— was dead. The man who had had the guts to try and kill my children was dead. I had killed him, hadn't I. Yet, couldn't feel anything but relief. Vaguely, in the back of my mind, I thought it was a good thing my father was already dead, for the shame this would have brought him would surely have killed him.

On Mr. Tate's request, Scout began to tell her story. She and Jem had started across the schoolyard, when Scout realized she'd forgotten her shoes. They had turned to go back, but the lights had shut off, so they continued on home. They had been just a bit away from the schoolhouse when Jem had heard Mr. Ewell. They thought it was Cecil, and tried to make him come out. It wasn't till they got to the tree that Ewell attacked them. He threw Jem to the ground, and grabbed Scout. That must've been about the time I came. Mr. Tate asked a few questions through out her story, though I don't remember what they were. I was still in shock from hearing I had murdered Bob Ewell. There was no beating around the bush. I had seen the knife, known it was there, pushed him, so that he fell on the knife.

I was dimly aware of Mr. Tate asking Scout what happened after Mr. Ewell was pulled off her. I heard—as though from a distance— Scout's reply. "Somebody was staggerin' around and pantin' and—coughing fit to die. I thought it was Jem first, but it didn't sound like him, so I went lookin' for Jem on the ground. I thought Atticus had come to help us and had got worn out—"

"Who was it?"

"Why there he is, , he can tell you his name."

Scout was half pointing at me. I pressed my palms against the wall, and they left greasy streaks from my sweat. I was afraid that at any moment her look of mild curiosity would turn to one of horror. Scout lowered her arm, and her eyes teared up. "Hey, Boo."

Her voice was filled with-with, well I can't place a word on it. It was as though all the excitement from the last three years was being released. I was relieved. She ran over to Jem's bed, and I smiled. I could see that Scout was pretty much over her fear of me, but some habits—such as fearing me—die hard. Dr. Reynolds came back in. He told us to scat, and Mr. Finch and Mr. Tate left the room. Scout walked up to me, and took my hand. She led me through the house, to the porch. She asked if I wanted the rocking chair, so I sat.

I heard Mr. Finch going on about how Jem would have to go to trial for killing Mr. Ewell. I tried to say that no, it hadn't been Jem, I was to blame, but all that came out was a croak, and no one seemed to notice. Mr. Tate told Mr. Finch it was impossible for Jem to have killed Bob. Mr. Ewell fell on his knife; that was half-truth, I thought. Mr. Finch continued to argue, though. Eventually Mr. Tate lost his patience. "I'm not a very good man, sir, but I'm sheriff of Maycomb County. Lived in this town all my life an' I'm goin' on forty-three years old. Know everything that's happened here since before I was born. There's a black man dead for no reason, and the man responsible for it's dead. Let the dead bury the dead this time, Mr. Finch. Let the dead bury the dead." He got up. "I never heard tell that it's against the law for a citizen to prevent a crime from being committed, which is exactly what he did, —" it was then I realized, they knew, that it had been me who killed Bob Ewell.

"—But maybe you'll say it's my duty to tell the whole town all about it and not hush it up. Know what would happen then? All the ladies in Maycomb includin' my wife'd be knocking on his door bringing angel food cakes. To my way of thinkin', Mr. Finch, taking the one man who's done you and this town a great service an' draggin' him with his shy ways into the limelight—to me, that's a sin. It's a sin and I'm not about to have it on my head. If it was any other man it'd be different. But not this man, Mr. Finch."

He said something else, though I'm not sure what. I was lost in my own thoughts. They knew it was me that killed Mr. Ewell, but they weren't gonna tell the town. I would die the malevolent phantom. I had never given that much thought before, though if asked about it I probably would have told you it upset me. Now, however, I didn't mind. Scout, and eventually Jem—my children—would know the truth, and for me, that was enough.

Mr. Finch got up and went over to Scout. "Scout, Mr. Ewell fell on his knife. Can you possibly understand?"

""Yes sir, I understand. Mr. Tate was right."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, it'd be sort of like shootin' a mockingbird, wouldn't it?"

Mr. Finch buried his face in Scout's hair for a moment, and then stood up. Just before he entered his house, he stopped in front of me. "Thank you for my children, Arthur." He did not need to elaborate, I knew what he meant.

I got up, coughed, and had to sit down again. After my coughing fit was over, I got up once more, and nodded to the house. I didn't say anything, but Scout seemed to know what it was I wanted. She led me into Jem's room, where I stood at a distance, just looking at him. Scout sensed my hesitation and took my hand, leading me over to him. "You can pet him, Mr. Arthur, he's asleep. You couldn't if he was awake, though, he wouldn't let you. Go ahead." My hand hovered over Jem's hair, and Scout urged me on, "Go ahead, sir, he's asleep."

My hand came down lightly on Jem's head. I tightened my grip on Scout's hand, and she understood what I wanted. She led me back to the porch. I halted, not wanting to let go of Scout's hand. "Will you take me home?' I croaked, sounding, even to myself, like a child. Right then, though, I didn't care, I just did not want to leave Scout's side.

Much to my surprise, and delight, she responded, saying, "Mr. Arthur, bend your arm down here, like that. That's right, sir."

She slipped her hand into the crook of my arm. I had to stoop, but I did not care. We reached the street light on the corner, then my front gate, and finally, my porch. I released Scout's hand, and opened my door. I went inside, and closed the door, collapsing into my chair by the window. It was then that I realized that this was my first time being outdoors in more years than I could count. It was also, I knew, the last time. Saving Jem, meeting Scout, was the last thing I ever really did—really lived. I continued on my short life making collages—a habit I had never out-grown—and re-reading The Gray Ghost.

That is my tale, the tale of Arthur "Boo" Radley. I was Maycomb's haint, phantom, whatever you want to call it. However, to two children—Jem and Jean Louis "Scout" Finch— I was the man who saved their lives. And that is all that matters. Maybe someday that is what I will be to the rest of Maycomb. But perhaps not.