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

Chapter Eighteen

O ver the next couple of weeks, I slowly gain control of my abilities during my sessions with Ezra. It becomes easier to call upon them, until all it takes is a flicker of intent for me to lift an object above my hand.

I’m still not able to control anything larger than a few wooden blocks on command, even though I know I’m capable of lifting the entire table. Ezra is patient, but I’m irritated with myself.

More reassuring, however, is the fact that Dorian seems stronger as well. The more I use my powers, the more solid, more real, he seems to become. When we’re practicing in the observation room, he spends more time visible than not, wandering restlessly in his cell while we do our tests. Sometimes he picks up the objects in his room in imitation of me, juggling wooden blocks when I lift them up, bouncing his ball against the glass while I levitate mine. I sense him watching through the window.

But whenever I try to speak with him, he disappears again.

It’s becoming clear that Dorian is intentionally avoiding me, and it’s driving me mad. It should be easy to get the truth about what happened from him. I wouldn’t begrudge him if he managed to spin a convincing lie for Ezra and the MRF, but he doesn’t do either of those things. It’s like he doesn’t want to be free.

Every morning, I arrive at the MRF with the hope that I’ll have a breakthrough—with controlling my powers, remembering the truth, proving Dorian’s innocence. But every evening, I leave disappointed and return to my empty house.

I find solace in the fact that progress continues there, too. Every evening, I continue practicing my powers until I’m too mentally exhausted to continue. And my memories are continuing to trickle in, as well. Just small things, moments and flashes of feelings around the house, but it’s encouraging.

I’m leaning over the kitchen counter, reaching for a mug, when a memory hits me like a truck. A flash of me bending over the counter with Dorian behind me. His hard body pressed against my back, four hands gripping my hips, his mouth hot against my neck. I gasp at the vivid recollection, heat rushing to my face as I fumble with the mug. It slips from my hands—but with a flick of my wrist, I catch it mentally so it hovers a foot above the floor.

I bend down to pick it up and set it on the counter. I suck in a shaky breath and lean against the edge, trying to recall the sensation of that memory again. Even now, it leaves a lingering heat in my body. An ache between my thighs that I haven’t felt in a long time.

I raise my fingers to my lips, remembering kissing Dorian in his cell. The sense that it had happened before. Clearly, much more than that happened between us.

Romance has never particularly interested me. Especially since I was always too scared to let anyone close. But maybe subconsciously I knew that it would be a betrayal to Dorian. Because he was more than just a friend back then, wasn’t he? He was my lover, too. He’s the only one who has ever touched me like that. I didn’t even realize how much I missed it.

I bite my lip and shut my eyes, reaching for that memory, or others like it. I want to remember what it felt like to be held and caressed. I recall the sensation of invisible fingers sliding through my hair, tugging lightly at the roots, and my head tilts back almost like I can really feel it now. A leg nudging my knees apart. More hands ghosting over my shoulders, down over my hips. Four hands, all for me…

“Made for you,” Dorian’s staticky voice whispers in my memory, before he licks a hot stripe up the side of my neck.

I grip the edge of the countertop with both hands as my legs wobble beneath me. A soft moan escapes me as I imagine a hand sliding under my nightdress from behind, pushing my panties to the side. I can almost feel it…

Suddenly, I’m bent over the counter, hips jerked back, and I do feel it. The sensation of my hands sliding over my skin even as they grip the counter. Fingers pushing inside of me, making me gasp and arch my back under an invisible weight. It feels too good for me to question what’s happening. I’m helpless to do anything but whimper and grind my hips back, seeking it harder, deeper, more . I can only imagine what a desperate little thing I look like, bent over and rutting against nothing in my kitchen, but somehow the thought only stokes the flames inside of me. I’m already so wet and sensitive that all it takes is a few seconds for me to cry out, shaking and clutching at the counter as pleasure crests over me.

Then, just as quickly, it’s gone. I’m left panting and weak, holding on to the kitchen counter to stay upright.

Alone.

Blinking, I press myself up straight again and reach down to readjust my panties and pull down my nightgown. Did I just…masturbate with my powers? My already flushed face goes hotter still at the thought, and I press the back of my hand to my mouth to stifle an embarrassed laugh.

I guess relearning to control them does have some benefits. And not all of the memories this house holds are bad…

But many of them are. The house changes as the sun sets. The shadows grow longer, darker. I turn on every light in every room, but it never seems to reach the corners. The temperature drops, too. The dry cold of the desert in winter creeps through the walls and settles into my bones. Even wrapped in a blanket and armed with a mug of tea, I find it impossible to warm up.

As I climb the creaking stairs to my bedroom, I hear a sound behind me, almost like a crackle of static, or a whisper. When I turn to look over my shoulder, a memory hits me like a fist. I lurch off-balance as I recall a body lying at the bottom of the steps. I see limbs splayed, long hair in a halo on the floor, blood slowing pooling— my mother?— and myself, standing here …

I gasp, grabbing the railing to steady myself. A splash of red on the top stair gives me the disorienting sense that the memory has bled into the present. But then I blink and refocus and realize it’s my own nose that’s bleeding. I rush to the bathroom. As I wash my bloody hands in the sink, that, too, gives me a queasy, alarming sense of déjà vu.

I crawl into bed, but I find no escape in my dreams.

“Daisy.” My mother’s voice is a harsh, painful wheeze, barely recognizable. Dread churns my stomach as I turn to face her. A part of me already knows what I’ll see, but that doesn’t stop it from being a gut punch. She stands a foot away from the bed with her back bent at a horrible angle and blood running from the corners of her eyes, which are fixed on me. “Daisy, what have you done?”

I whimper, crawling across the bed away from her. “I didn’t… I don’t…”

She takes a step closer, reaching for me. But when she grabs my arm, the flesh melts from her fingers, leaving only skeletal claws digging into my skin. “Why, Daisy? Why?”

I yank free from her grip, shaking my head, and back away into something solid. I shriek and whip around, and there’s my father at the foot of the bed, his face twisted in fury. He grabs my ankle and yanks me toward him. When he opens his mouth, I expect him to shout, but instead, only a horrible gurgle and a rush of blood comes out. It drips down his chin and over his shirt, puddling at his feet. His face splits down the middle into an awful, gaping wound.

“No,” I groan. “Please…”

“Daisy, why?” my mother asks again.

I yank my foot free and retreat from both of them. “Please, leave me alone, I…” But when I raise my hands to cover my ears to block out their accusations and horrible sounds, they stick to my skin, damp and tacky. I jerk in surprise and then stare down at my own hands in horror.

They’re covered in blood.

* * *

I wake with a gasp, and it takes me a disoriented moment to realize why the room looks different. It’s because I’m floating in the air. My bed is suspended beneath me, along with the nightstand, and the lamp. Everything in the room is levitating lazily, as if gravity has been turned off. But as soon as I realize it, panic grips me, and everything falls. Including me.

The bed hits the floorboards with a thump , and I hit it half a second later, bouncing off the mattress. The nightstand topples over, sending my glass of water to the floor; it shatters. The lamp hits the floor and flickers out, bathing the room in darkness.

I catch a glimpse of movement in the shadows. A pair of eyes, watching me. But I blink and they’re gone, and the scream dies in my throat.

I sit stunned, clutching my bedsheets and trying to breathe normally. Cold sweat clings to my skin. I swallow thickly, release my grip on my blanket, and push my hair out of my face. Just a nightmare , I tell myself, but I’m not sure I believe it. It isn’t just a nightmare when it might be a glimpse into my lost memories, or a side effect of my developing abilities.

It’s impossible to know if I should be afraid when I can’t even trust my own mind anymore.