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

Chapter Seventeen

W alking into the MRF feels extra risky the next morning, knowing what we plan to do right under their noses. Ezra is waiting for me in the lobby with coffee, like he knows I need the boost. My hands tremble as I accept it from him, and he gives me a knowing, encouraging nod.

I’m exhausted after a sleepless night and terrified about potentially revealing my abilities to the MRF. But when I think of Dorian sitting in that cell, I find the courage to step through the door. Ezra and I walk toward the observation room.

“Ezra!”

We both freeze and turn as a smiling, dark-haired young woman approaches us from down the hallway.

“Hey, Mara,” Ezra says. I stay at his side, unsure if I should speak, my eyes darting between the stranger and the observation room just a few steps away.

“Hey.” The woman’s eyes slide to me. “I don’t think we’ve met! Are you new here? I’m Mara Vance.”

I hesitate, clutching my coffee tighter.

“This is Gwen; she’s a consultant on X-15,” Ezra says.

“Ooh. Interesting. So are you a fellow, um, ghost enthusiast?”

“I guess you could say that,” I mumble, fidgeting.

“Cool,” she says. Then she peers at me more closely, and my discomfort grows. “You look familiar, actually. Do I know you from somewhere?”

Panic sparks in my chest and spreads, filling my body with an electric buzz of anxiety. “Oh, n-no, I don’t think…” I glance up and meet her eyes and realize with a fresh wave of dread that I do recognize her. I have a vague memory of a younger version of her, chubby-cheeked with a gap between her teeth. She must be from Ash Valley. I didn’t know her well, but it’s a small town.

Her eyes widen in recognition, too, but she seems to note my frozen panic. She glances from me to Ezra, who gives the smallest shake of his head.

“Oh, my mistake. Never mind then,” Mara says, with a breezy wave of her hand. “Anyway, lots to do, I’m off. But let’s catch up soon, Ezra. I want to hear all the juicy details of what you’ve been up to.” She shoots him a meaningful look, along with a finger gun.

“Sure, sure,” he says, pushing his glasses up and giving her a grateful smile. When she leaves, he blows out a relieved breath. “She’s a friend,” he mutters. “Don’t worry about her.”

I nod, but my nerves are buzzing even more than before. Sometimes it seems like Ezra and I are the only ones in this building, but Mara is a reminder that that’s not true. There are other people, and cameras, and so many ways for this to go wrong…

As I step into the observation room and see the equipment covering the table, I lurch to a stop, taken aback again.

“What is all of this stuff?” I ask, staring. There are strange metal devices heaped on the table and arranged on the floor. Some of them look like medical tools, or something out of a science fiction movie. Others look more like torture devices. It’s uncomfortably close to my memories of being institutionalized—or my nightmares about being locked in a lab and experimented on for the rest of my life.

Ezra smiles sheepishly. “Anything and everything that I thought might be helpful to us. As far as I could find by digging through the files, the MRF has never had access to a real psychic before, so there’s no precedent about how to measure or evoke their abilities, aside from the tests I’ve done on myself over the years. We’ll have to learn through trial and error.”

I glance at the camera in the corner, noting that the blinking light is off as Ezra promised. Then I approach the table, eyeing the various bizarre machines.

But when I look toward the window into Dorian’s cell, I know that I have to do this. He isn’t visible right now, but I can feel him there—and I remember, too, the way I felt when I thought he was gone forever.

If using my abilities can strengthen Dorian, it is worth the risk. Even more so if Ezra is right that it will make it safe to explore my memories again and I can prove his innocence that way.

Or, if this all goes wrong and I need to break Dorian out myself… I suppose I’ll need my abilities then, too.

Anyway, Ezra isn’t some mad scientist who’s going to go poking around in my brain. He’s like me. “I trust you,” I say, taking a seat.

I keep that in mind as I sit still while he attaches electrodes to my head, hooking me up to a machine. I swallow hard, hands fisting on my lap.

“This is just to measure your neural activity when you’re using your powers,” Ezra says. “It’s not going to do anything to you, just take some readings that might be helpful in understanding the nature of your abilities.”

“Okay,” I whisper. “So, what now?”

He takes out a briefcase and sets a few objects out on the table between us: a deck of cards, a rubber ball, a few wooden blocks. Noticing my look, he says with a wry smile, “I’m reusing some of the items I initially gave Dorian to play with.”

I reach out and take the ball, squeezing it in my grip. It reminds me of the one I once rolled under my bed as a child, my first peace offering to Dorian. Part of me wonders if he’s played with this in his cell, if I might be able to feel some of his residual energy or presence on it. But it just seems like a normal ball.

“So what do you want me to do?” I ask.

“Try to use your powers,” he says. “Any way you like.”

He makes it sound so easy, but I’ve never decided to use my powers. It’s just something that happens when my emotions run hot enough.

“I don’t know how,” I admit.

“There’s no rush,” Ezra says. “Just try. See what happens.”

I nod. “Okay.” I slowly unfurl my fingers from around the ball, letting it rest in the palm of my hand, and stare at it. I try to picture it rising into the air, hovering above my skin. When nothing happens, I focus harder, narrowing my eyes. I try to imagine a force coming from inside and pushing outward.

Still nothing.

I hold my breath until my face turns red. I focus so hard, I fear I’m about to burst a blood vessel. I envision the ball levitating a hundred times.

It doesn’t move a centimeter.

After about thirty minutes of struggling, my shoulders slump, and I set the ball on the table.

“I can’t do it,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

Ezra, who has been dutifully scribbling notes, gives me his ever-patient smile. “We both know that’s not true,” he says. “You definitely can. It’s just a question of figuring out how to do it on command.”

He’s so warm and encouraging, but to my horror, tears of frustration and disappointment prick my eyes. I’m letting him down. Letting Dorian down. I wipe them away, embarrassed.

“Hey, none of that,” Ezra says. “There’s no pressure. This is day one.”

“But I can’t do anything, and it’s just a stupid ball,” I mumble.

“You’re still the same girl who levitated a table. You can do this. We just have to figure out how you can activate it without those emotions doing it for you. “

* * *

Despite Ezra’s optimism, the rest of the first day of testing proves useless. When I arrive the next morning, I’m still demoralized.

My first attempts to lift the ball again fail to provide anything of note. Trying not to get frustrated, I close my eyes and breathe. Ezra is quiet on the other side of the table, letting me concentrate. I focus on the air coming in and out of my lungs. The faint rattle of the air conditioning nearby. The sensation of Dorian’s invisible presence in the room next door. When I focus and reach out with my senses, I’m more certain that he’s there. Almost like I could see him if I opened my eyes. But I don’t. Instead, I imagine reaching toward the glass— through the glass—to my old friend.

An invisible force nudges against my consciousness in return. The faintest brush of sensation against my mind, and something inside of me prickles into awareness in response. I remember sitting on my bedroom floor, reaching out and pulling my sketchbook into my hand with invisible force. I remember what it felt like, to access that power.

I slowly let my eyes open and set the ball I’m holding on the table. As I hold out an empty palm, I envision an invisible second hand growing from my arm, grabbing that ball, and pulling it toward me.

The ball flies off the table and straight into my grip.

I gasp in surprise and delight. It’s such a small thing, but I’m grinning ear to ear as I look up at Ezra. “I did it!”

He smiles, pushing his glasses up with one finger. “Excellent,” he says. “I think I got some interesting brain activity readings to look at. The EMF reader went off too.”

Twenty minutes later, I have a ball consistently levitating above my palm. I stare at it as it slowly revolves in the air. It feels good, like stretching a long-neglected muscle. What else could I be capable of, if I learn to control it?

A sudden flash of memory, of the house rattling around me as I scream —

Thump . My concentration shatters as I jump in my chair. The ball drops to the table and rolls to the floor, and the memory slips through my fingers like sand. I turn and glare at the viewing window, where Dorian slams his fist into the window a second time. Thump .

He meets my eyes through the glass before disappearing.

“So much for him helping,” I mutter, bending down to pick up the ball from where it’s fallen.

“Maybe he’s feeling neglected,” Ezra says. “That was good progress for today, anyway.” He glances up from his notebook, and concern etches lines on his forehead. “Your nose is bleeding again.”

“Oh.” I wipe at it and see that he’s right. “That happens.”

“I hope we didn’t push you too hard.”

I wave a hand, unconcerned. “It’s just a nosebleed. I feel fine.”

“You had them when we explored your memories too. It could be a symptom of mental strain. Or your abilities working against you when you’re stressed…”

I give him an exasperated look. “Or it’s just a nosebleed. They’ve been happening all the time lately. Probably the dry air.”

“Hmm.” Ezra, looking unconvinced, scribbles again before shutting his notebook. “Well, regardless, it’s a good place to call it a day. We made some progress.”

“I guess.” Levitating a ball hardly seems like a win, but it’s better than nothing.

Ezra, at least, seems encouraged. “We’ll try again tomorrow. Let me grab a tissue, and we can talk about next steps.”

I nod and thank him, and the moment he’s out of the room, I stand and walk to the viewing window. I stare into the next room, which appears empty once more, though I know Dorian is lurking somewhere.

“Why are you trying to sabotage me?” I whisper. “I’m trying to help us both.”

I’m not sure if I’m talking to him or to myself. But either way, no answer comes.