The Imaginary Friend’s Obsession (Monster Research Facility #3)

Chapter Six

I wake up in the middle of the night to the sound of music. A half-familiar melody drifts into my cracked door from the hallway. It seems to fill the emptiness of the house, creeping into every open space. It’s a cheerful song, and by the time it reaches the chorus, it’s easy to remember the name. “Run, Rabbit, Run!”

It’s jaunty and playful…and I’m paralyzed in bed, my heart thumping almost painfully hard. The terror is bone-deep and inexplicable, and I stay there, clutching my sheets to my chest, until the music fades and I drift into sleep again.

By the time morning arrives, I’m certain it was just a dream. But when I walk downstairs, I find that the vase of flowers I bought the other day—which were perfectly fine until last night—have blackened and withered.

When I find a third dead magpie waiting on my porch, I’m barely even surprised.

* * *

It’s a little easier to walk into the MRF the next morning, knowing that they let me walk out once. Although Dorian didn’t react to the story I told yesterday, Ezra seemed optimistic and encouraged me to come in again as soon as I was able. It isn’t like I have much to do in Ash Valley, so today I’m back bright and early to try again.

But when I see Ezra waiting for me in the lobby, his face is drawn and his eyebrows knotted.

I stop short, fear jolting through me. “What happened?”

“Well…” He grimaces. “We asked for a sign yesterday, and we got one.”

“That’s good, right?” I ask, unsure why he seems so tense. “That’s what we wanted?”

“I’m not so sure. Come and see.”

Ezra leads me back into the observation room. We stand in front of the viewing window as he opens the metal shutters and shows me Dorian’s cell.

My breath catches in my throat.

DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY

DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY

DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY

My name is written all over the white walls. A hundred silent screams. More. What remains of his crayons are tiny, broken nubs scattered on the tile.

I turn slowly, taking it all in. My lips pull into a trembling smile because this is a sign that Dorian is here. That he’s real in a way nobody can deny. But when I turn to Ezra, he’s staring at me instead of the room, his expression troubled.

“Doesn’t this frighten you?”

I blink, surprised by the question. “Why would it? This is what we wanted.”

Ezra bites his thumbnail, glancing through the window again. “Like I said, sometimes spirits lose themselves. They can warp into something…malevolent. The longer they stay, the worse it becomes. That’s why I usually aid them in passing on.” He looks back at me. “Is there any chance that Dorian could be holding a grudge?”

I open my mouth, shut it again. Look back at the room and all those etchings of my name. A grudge? It doesn’t feel right to me. I spoke honestly yesterday when I said I’ve never been afraid of Dorian.

But it’s been seven years. Years I’ve abandoned him, denied his existence. I’ve spent so much time telling myself he isn’t real that even now, with this evidence in front of me, I am afraid to believe otherwise.

“I need to see him,” I say, both to myself and to Ezra. “If you would just let me go in there…” Yet I already know what Ezra’s answer will be. Any chance I had of seeing Dorian went out the window with this incident. Why ? I plead silently, staring into the cell.

“I think it’s important, before we continue, to have a full understanding of what we’re dealing with here.” Dread unfurls in my stomach at his words. I already know what’s coming, the words I’ve been anticipating ever since I arrived here. “We need to talk about what happened that night.”

That night. My mind recoils. My breath quickens.

“I need more time,” I say. “Please. Look, I understand your concern. I won’t ask to enter the room again until I tell you everything, but—” I swallow hard, shake my head. “I’m not ready to talk about what happened to my parents yet.”

Ezra is silent for a few long moments. His eyes and his judgment weigh on me even as I stare down at my shoes. Anxious energy hisses under my skin. My hands form fists at my sides, fingernails digging into the tender skin of my palms as I try to steady myself.

Finally, he sighs. “I understand it must be a sensitive subject,” he says. “We need to talk about it eventually, because I suspect that our files don’t tell the full truth. But for now, let’s proceed as we did yesterday. Carefully .”

I can see his confidence faltering. But that’s okay, because he’s giving me—giving Dorian—a chance. I’m certain there’s still a way to earn Ezra’s trust and make this work. “Thank you,” I whisper, and take a seat at the table.

Ezra sits too, after a last, lingering glance through the viewing window. He sets up the tape recorder and hits the button that will allow our conversation to play over the intercom into the cell.

“This is Ezra Bradford, session two with Subject X-15 and visitor Daisy Dumont,” he says, shuffling his papers on the desk. “Welcome back, Daisy. And hello, X-15; I can see you’ve tried communicating with us.”

“Hi, Dorian,” I say softly, my eyes flicking to the window.

We both pause, but there’s no sign of a response. Dorian still doesn’t appear. I swallow my disappointment. I suspected it wouldn’t be that easy, but still, I’m desperate to see him.

“Before we jump in today, I wanted to ask if you had any suggestions for ways we could help X-15 talk to us,” Ezra says. “He’s trying to reach out. I’d like to do anything we can to make that easier for him.”

I chew my lip, considering. My mind wanders to that dream—was it a dream?—I had last night, and the half-familiar song drifting through the halls of my old house. “He’s always liked music.”

Ezra nods. “I could see if I can get approval to bring in something for him.”

“Maybe a record player. We used to listen to one in the house.”

I can clearly see that old record player spinning, the scratchy sound of a very old tune. What was that song, again? It’s right on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t seem to recall. I shiver and push the thought away when I realize Ezra is giving me an odd look.

I force a smile. “I’m excited to try.”

“Now, tell me about your childhood with Dorian. He stayed in your room after that first contact?”

I nod. “He wouldn’t come out from under the bed, though. He said he didn’t want me to see his face… I thought he was just shy.”

“And your parents?”

I go rigid in my chair. “What about them?”

“Did you tell them about Dorian?”

“Yes. Well, I tried.”

“And what did they say?”

“That I was too old to have an imaginary friend.” My fingers curl into fists in my lap, my shoulders bracing. “I don’t want to talk about my parents.”

“Okay. Talk about whatever you want, then.”

I tell him the first few things that come to mind. Talking to Dorian every night as I fell asleep, putting my stuffed animals under the bed so he wouldn’t be alone when I was out of the house. The more I talk, the more memories come to mind. Small everyday moments that I haven’t thought about in years.

A wet warmth on my face surprises me. When I lift my hand to my mouth, I realize it’s blood trickling from my nose.

“Oh,” I say. “Sorry. It must be the dry air.”

“Hang on, I’ll go grab you something for that.” Ezra pushes out his chair and heads for the door.

As soon as he leaves me alone in the observation room, I beeline for the window. “Dorian,” I whisper, looking into his cell. I bring my fingertips to the window and touch it, straining to see some sign of him in the emptiness. “Are you really here? Talk to me.”

Movement flickers in the corner. But before I can focus on it, the door behind me opens again. I turn to face Ezra, and as I pull my hand away from the window, it leaves behind a streak of red.

* * *

Sharing my memories of Dorian doesn’t seem to do anything but heighten my grief. My chest and throat are tight by the time we call it a day. And even after I wash the blood off my face, the taste of copper lingers on the back of my tongue.

And the more I remember, the more aware I am that I’ve been shoving all of this into a corner of my brain for the last seven years. How could I have forgotten so much? How could I have ever left Dorian behind?

When I get home, the house feels emptier than ever. The memory of the record player lingers. Where was it, again? I wander from room to room, searching, until I see the pull string for the attic in the upstairs hallway.

Unease ripples over my skin. Something urges me not to reach for it, not to go up there.

I shake it off and yank the string. A dusty ladder unfolds before me, providing stairs up into darkness. I force myself to put one foot up, and then another. There’s nothing to be scared of in this house, I tell myself. Not anymore.

The attic is small enough that I have to hunch when I stand, dustier than the rest of the house, and bitterly cold. Stacks of old boxes line the walls. But as I glance around, familiarity flickers within my mind. A faint memory of passing afternoons up here, lit only by the single small window, listening to music. I must have been up here a million times as a child. It’s strange my mind didn’t immediately go here when I thought of the record player.

And there it is, sitting in a corner, waiting for me. I blow off a layer of dust and gently lower the tonearm onto the waiting record. A brief pause, and a song begins to play: “Daisy Bell.”

I smile at the familiar lyrics, listening to the rich sound of the record. A memory stirs somewhere in my mind, but it slips away before I can grasp it. Instead, I just stand and listen, my eyes shut and my heart at peace, for once.