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

Chapter Twenty

M y nose bleeds on and off the entire drive back from the MRF. Fractured memories assault my mind, making it hard to focus on the road. Being so close to Dorian must have cracked the dam. Now I see: Dorian pushing his mask up to kiss me in the garden. Dorian holding me from behind while I brew tea in the kitchen, his chin resting on the top of my head. Dorian above me in bed, our breaths mingled, tangled in sweat-slick sheets.

He was my lover. My first and only. How could I have forgotten?

By the time I make it home, I’m lightheaded, my face crusted with blood. I stumble up the steps to the front door, fumble with numb fingers to discard my coat and boots, and head straight to a bath.

Scrubbing the dried blood off me helps. But I can still feel the imprint of Dorian’s fingers on my skin. What happened today was a mistake. A betrayal of Ezra’s trust. And it’s left me more confused than ever.

Another memory flashes through my mind like a burst of lightning—this one from one of our hypnosis sessions. The one of invisible hands holding me underwater in this very bath until it felt like my lungs would burst.

I shiver, suddenly cold despite the steaming water, and pull my knees to my chest. I still can’t make sense of that, or Dorian’s insistence on pushing me away. The more I think about it, the more I try to put together my splintered memories, the more my head aches.

A drop of red falls in the water and slowly disperses. My nose is bleeding again.

Between the blood loss, my headache, and the steam filling the room, I’m too foggy and exhausted to do anything about it. I just watch as blood drips, drips, drips into the bath, turning the water a murky pink. My eyes drift past it, over the edge of the porcelain tub, to the fogged-up mirror beyond. Red flashes in my reflection—not dripping from my nose, but glowing in my eyes.

I blink, scrub a hand over my face, and it’s gone.

God, I’m really losing it.

I sigh and shut my eyes, letting my hand drift down over my mouth. My fingers smear blood over my lips, down my neck. They continue to drift between my breasts, over my stomach. My knees slide apart. As my thoughts blur, my head lolls back against the side of the tub, and my hand moves toward the apex of my thighs, where I’m still sore from my tryst with Dorian.

What am I doing?

I watch my blurred reflection in the mirror through heavily lidded eyes. My own hand strokes over my achingly sensitive core beneath the blood-tinged water. I let my eyes slide shut, my soft whimpers filling the room. I’m already sore, but a little bit of pain only seems to heighten the pleasure.

I come so hard it hurts, clenched around my fingers—and for a heartbeat, I feel hot breath against my ears, a larger hand wrapped around my own, urging my motions. I try to scream, but I can’t move—can’t do anything as I slowly slide into the tub, until my head slips beneath the surface of the water—

Then I sit up, coughing and gasping, suddenly in control of my body again. I rake wet hair out of my face and drag myself out of the tub and over to the mirror. I smear a hand through the foggy condensation and stare into my reflection, but there are only my own wide blue eyes looking back at me. I touch my face, my lips, searching for some sign of anything alien.

But there is only me. Was that a dream? Another memory surfacing? Or…is it possible it was something else entirely?

* * *

A realization is creeping up on me.

The memories I’ve uncovered…the nightmares…the nosebleeds. That piece of paper under the bed. The music I hear sometimes in the middle of the night. The cold in this house, something deeper than a winter chill.

I’ve been writing off these odd coincidences as side effects of my burgeoning abilities. But what if there’s something else at work here?

What if there has been something else in the house with me this entire time?

Ezra mentioned that people with abilities like ours attract attention from spirits. It’s probably what drew Dorian to me in the first place when we were both young. So, then, is it possible he wasn’t the only thing haunting this house? Could there be another spirit? Maybe more than one?

Goose bumps prickle over me. That thought fills me with such cold dread that I have an urge to flee the house and never return. I can think of few things more horrible than looking into a mirror one day and seeing the ghostly visage of my father looming over my shoulder, or my mother’s pale, cruel hands reaching toward me.

But whatever just happened in the bathroom wasn’t one of them. So how do I find out who it is?

Back when I was a child, Dorian reached out to me on his own. But this time, I may have to be the one who makes contact. I know little about the art of dealing with spirits, despite my background and my abilities. I’m certain I could ask Ezra, but I’m not sure I’m ready to invite any follow-up questions from him quite yet. I’ve already asked so much of him, anyway. If I’m certain that a ghost is here, I’ll ask him for assistance in dealing with that—and laying them to rest. But this is a shot in the dark, and there’s no sense in wasting his time and making him question my sanity any more than he surely already has.

So I’m forced to resort to a quick internet search and a trip to a local store.

It’s rather humiliating, buying a Ouija board as a grown woman. The cashier gives me a dry look and comments, “Isn’t it a little late for Halloween?”

It doesn’t feel so childish, though, when I’m alone in my living room with the board set out in front of me. I remember hearing of kids playing with these things back in the day, but of course my parents would never allow such a thing in the house. And it wasn’t as though I had any friends to do it with, anyway, except for Dorian.

I don’t have anyone I trust now, either. So it’s just me, alone in my empty old house, placing two fingers on the planchette.

Foreboding sweeps over me, but I shake it off. This is just a piece of plastic. I doubt there’s anything inherently paranormal about it, but with my powers to assist, it may prove to be a useful tool.

I think of Ezra’s words during our hypnosis sessions: Focus your mind. Shape your intent.

“I want to make contact with the other side,” I whisper, letting my eyes slide shut. And then, more loudly, I say, “Is anyone there? Can you hear me?”

There’s nothing but the soft creaks and groans of the house settling around me. The familiar noises of a place that is very old and very empty. The planchette remains still under my fingers.

I’m not sure if I’m more disappointed or relieved, but I’m not ready to give up quite yet and leave my—fears? hopes?— suspicions to rest.

“It’s Daisy,” I say to the empty house. “I came back. I’m looking for answers. If you’re here, then…please, talk to me.” I pause, swallowing a lump in my throat. “Please, answer. Is there anyone here?”

Silence lingers in the aftermath of the question. But suddenly there’s pressure on my fingers, like another hand on top of mine, guiding it. My eyes fly open with a gasp, tracing the movement of the plastic as it slides around the board and lands on the word YES .

“Hi,” I whisper, uncertainty twinging in my gut. I guess, after all this, I wasn’t really expecting an answer. Dread and relief mingle in my stomach, setting my nerves alight. “Who am I speaking to?”

There’s no response.

“You don’t have to be afraid,” I say. “I want to help you. Please, can you tell me your name?”

Still, there’s nothing.

I don’t know much about ghosts, but it’s possible it doesn’t remember its name. Maybe its presence is weak, like Dorian when I first came back to Ash Valley.

“I lived in this house when I was a child,” I say. “Have you been here since then?”

The planchette circles YES again.

I bite my lip. “I’ve…forgotten some things since then,” I say. “Have we met before?”

Another YES .

“Oh.” I take a breath, try to think back on my recovered memories. Everything is so scattered still; I’m struggling to put the pieces into a coherent picture, or into a timeline. “Do you know Dorian?”

Another YES . But the planchette doesn’t stop there this time; it keeps sliding, spelling out words. The blur of letters is almost too fast to understand. Almost . But as it finishes, my stomach drops like a stone.

I KILLED HIM .

I try to pull my fingers off the planchette, but I physically can’t. The weight on the back of my hand increases until it’s almost painful, until the plastic slides out from under me and it’s just my fingers pressed against the Ouija board. I can feel someone or something holding me in an ironlike grip.

“What do you want?” I cry out, tears forming in my eyes as I try to resist.

This weight, this thing , drags my hand across the board in lieu of the planchette, touching the letters with my own two fingers in an act that is invasive, revolting, a betrayal of my autonomy.

But the message is almost more horrifying than that.

LET ME OUT .

A small, terrified gasp slips out of me as I remember Ezra’s warnings about people like us being especially prone to possession. Does this thing want to use me as a way out of the house?

I refuse to let that happen. I am not some helpless girl, some thing to be used.

Now that I know how to do it, it’s easy to call up my power. I draw it around me like a cloak, imagining a protective barrier that settles over my skin.

“Leave me alone,” I shout, and push the barrier out .

A gust of wind sends the discarded planchette tumbling end over end, making the walls tremble. There’s a pop of pressure, and wet warmth bursts from my nose.

I shriek and cover my face, startled by the force of it, and only then realize that I’m free to move my hand again. The disembodied pressure is gone. I can’t feel the presence here anymore. I cradle my hand to my chest, shivering, and when I look down, red marks in the shape of fingerprints ring my wrist.