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

Chapter Twenty-Three

I sit in the driver’s seat of my car, gripping the steering wheel as I try to figure out what to do. The house is the last place I want to be right now, with the knowledge that something unseen is lurking in the shadows, but I have nowhere else to go. I have a growing headache and the weight of Dorian’s confession on my shoulders, and I can barely think.

Why ? I wonder again, still trying to wrap my mind around it. Why would Dorian admit to the murders? Why damn himself? Why attack me?

Unless…

I remember, abruptly, the way he flinched when I said he would do anything to protect me. No matter what, I still believe that was the truth. Is the truth. He’d do anything for me…including lying to protect me. Taking credit for a crime I committed. Pushing me away to keep me safe. I always knew that was a possibility.

I don’t know why he would blame himself instead of whatever presence I’ve discovered in the house, but there must be a reason. There must be.

Am I being delusional? I don’t know anymore. I can’t trust myself or my own memories. Everything is such a confusing jumble in my head.

I don’t know if there’s a point anymore, if Dorian will ever be able to be free, but I still need to find out the truth. For myself, if nothing else. I need to know.

And I have one way to find it out.

* * *

The house seems bigger and emptier than ever when I walk in, but I know that’s not true. There is something here. I stand in the foyer listening, feeling , trying to figure out where it is. But there’s nothing but the usual soft creaks of the foundation.

“Are you hiding now?” I ask the darkness. Only silence answers me, but it doesn’t matter. One way or another, I’m getting my answers.

When I explored my memories with Ezra’s help, the attic was the one place that remained closed off to me. I expect that’s where that night must be hiding from me in my own mind. It seems to be where the haunting is centered, too.

So I grab a hand mirror from my bedroom and head to the hatch in the upstairs hallway. There must be some connection, and I hope that being there physically will help me break down the wall sealing off my memory.

I fight back the surge of dread in my stomach as I pull the cord to lower the attic hatch. I climb up to the top of the ladder—and then stop, shocked, at the sight before me.

The last time I was up here, the attic was dusty but nearly empty aside from the record player. Now…

My eyes dart around, taking in the details one at a time. Half-melted candles are arranged in a half-circle. The corpse of a small bird lies bent and broken on the floor. Dried blood is smeared around it in the shape of a pentagram.

And in the middle of it all sits the record player—the centerpiece of some kind of bloody altar .

I remember the other night, when time seemed to skip, and I woke with blood all over my hands. I assumed it was my own, but… Did I do this? Under the influence of whatever presence is in this house? Is the thing that killed Dorian now sinking its claws into me somehow?

My breath is coming hard and fast, creating small clouds in the air in front of me. It’s devastatingly cold in here—which is one of the signs of a haunting Ezra mentioned, long ago.

I was right. Something is here. Something that must have played a part in whatever happened to my parents.

So though all of my instincts tell me to flee this place, I force myself to settle on the floor in a cross-legged position, clutching the mirror.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper.

I know this is a risk. My former journeys through my memories have proven that what happens in my mind can harm my body. I suspect that whatever I’m about to face will be more dangerous than anything else so far. But if this is what it takes to prove Dorian’s innocence and understand what’s happening to my mind and my body, I’ll do it.

I hold the mirror in my lap and reach over to turn on the record player. “Daisy Bell” begins to play its bittersweet, familiar tune.

Without Ezra and the metronome to guide me, I have to find my own path into my mind and out of it. I will have to rely on the familiar sound of the record player to lead me back to safety after I find what I need in my memories.

I stare into the eyes of my reflection.

“This is my mind,” I remind myself. “These are my memories. I am in charge, and nothing is hidden from me that I cannot choose to uncover.”

As I slowly shut my eyes and let my head fall forward, I can almost hear the echo of the metronome in my mind. Tick, tick, tick, tick…

* * *

I open my eyes, and I am in the endless hallway of my memories again. As I walk, doors creak open on either side. I catch a glimpse of Dorian taking off his own head and juggling it for me while the child version of me claps in glee. Behind another door, our young adult selves kiss in the bathtub. In another, I am weeping in my closet while Dorian stands over me, hunched protectively, his gloved hands covering my ears.

I refuse to be distracted by any of them. My eyes stay on the attic hatch. It isn’t rattling today, like the thing on the other side understands that I am coming for it. Like it’s waiting for me.

“I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper, and grab the cord. I pull—

It catches. Resisting.

I shut my eyes, grit my teeth. “This is my mind,” I say. I yank again, and the hatch opens an inch, revealing a sliver of darkness—but it catches on a chain lock. Something is trying to keep me out. “You can’t hide my own memories from me,” I mutter, pushing all of my concentration into opening it again. The chain rattles and slides—slowly but surely—until there’s a click .

The hatch creaks open.

For a second, I wonder what, exactly, is working so hard to keep me away. If this is my own mind, then am I fighting against myself ? Did I lock this away so tightly? But I have only a moment to wonder, because the hatch is open and the ladder is waiting. There’s nothing left to do but climb into the darkness and relive the night I forced myself to forget.

* * *

Tick, tick, tick.

The dinner table is silent enough to hear the clock’s movement and the soft scrape of utensils across plates. I push my food around, my stomach too knotted to eat. When I fumble and accidentally drop my knife, the clang of it against the floorboard rings out like a gunshot.

I flinch. My mother flinches too and then glares. My father does not look up from his meal, but his lips press into a thin line.

I lean over. When I lift the tablecloth, Dorian peers up from beneath it, holding out the fallen knife in one hand. A show of solidarity; he knows how I hate these family dinners. I don’t dare speak to him in front of my parents—I’ve made that error plenty of times when I was younger—but a smile curves the corner of my lips as I sit up again with the utensil in hand.

“Is something funny?” my father asks. His tone is enough to make the bruises on my wrists ache anew.

But they’re hidden beneath my sleeves. Beneath the facade of a perfect daughter and a perfect family.

I glance at him, but he still seems focused on his meal. And emptying his glass of whiskey. “No, Father. May I be excused?”

“You’ve hardly touched your food,” my mother says, tutting under her breath.

“Go on,” my father says.

“But Pat—”

“I’ve made my decision, Nina.” His voice is suddenly loud, cracking like a whip.

My mother and I both tense. She glares at me across the table. She’ll blame me, later, for what happens after he’s had a few more drinks. My heartbeat rises with the realization, and the lights flicker.

My mother looks up at them and back at me. My father continues drinking his whiskey. Nobody says anything; we are all very good at pretending that everything is fine and normal in this house.

I walk to the kitchen, emptying the remnants of my meal into the trash before rinsing my plate. The hiss of voices from the other room is audible above the rush of water.

“—caught her talking to herself in her room again,” my mother says. “It’s getting out of hand.”

“Something wrong with her. Always has been.”

I look up at Dorian, who is sitting on the counter beside the sink, long legs dangling. He shrugs at me, a silent question: are you okay ?

I shrug back, a silent answer: it’s nothing new . But I go still at the next snippet of my father’s words. I pause, water running over my hands, straining to listen without making it obvious.

“…Send her away somewhere…”

“But what will people say?” My mother’s voice grows shriller. “Our daughter in a mental hospital? We’ll be the talk of the town!”

“We already are!” my father thunders. He’s getting loud now, his words slurring, no longer attempting to prevent me from overhearing. “You hear what they say. Crazy Daisy, they call her.”

My stomach plummets. The lights flicker overhead once, twice. The conversation in the other room goes silent.

My power is a livewire beneath my skin, itching for escape. It’s been getting worse lately, harder to control. Sometimes I catch my parents glancing at me with fear in their eyes. Sometimes I think they’re right to be afraid.

I shut off the water and walk toward the stairs before they can start up again, or worse, call me in. The conversation, this time, is an exchange of heated whispers. My heart is pounding. What will happen if they send me away? If I lose Dorian? I can’t imagine it. He’s the only thing that holds me together. And without me, it will just be my parents in the house. Dorian will be stuck with them and—

I pause, bottom step creaking beneath my foot, as music sputters to life above me. My eyes flicker up to the hallway, where I hear the thump of the attic ladder coming down. The song “Run, Rabbit, Run!” spills from the space above, and my blood goes cold.

He’s here. I didn’t even think his name this time. He’s getting stronger.

In a blink, Dorian is in front of me, taking my hand between two of his gloved ones. Another presses over my eyes.

I shut them and let him lead me blindly up the stairwell. When he presses me against the wall in the hallway, I go still, eyes closed. I can hear the song playing and the sound of my parents arguing below, growing progressively louder though the words have become indecipherable. But louder than either is the thump of footsteps in the hallway, just a few feet away from me.

I clutch at Dorian. He’s trembling. We hold each other close as the footsteps approach. They pause beside us—and then continue onward, downward, creaking along the steps I just climbed. Dorian tugs on my hand and we head to my room. I drop to my knees and climb under the bed, and Dorian is close behind. He holds me, two arms wrapped around my waist, the other two covering my ears to block out the growing sound of my parents’ shouting.

“Where are you going?” I hear my mother shriek. “Don’t walk away from me—”

My parents can’t see the thing that lives in the attic, but they feel him, whether they know it or not. Just like he feels their fear, their anger. He stokes the flames and feeds off the ensuing chaos. A vicious cycle. All I can do is block it out as best as I can. Whenever I look at him, give him my attention, even think about him, it only makes him stronger.

And he’s been growing very strong lately. I’ve been trying to find a way out, for both me and for Dorian, but our attempts to get him to cross the property line have proved futile, and I can’t leave him behind.

When Dorian removes his hands from my ears, the house is silent. Weirdly silent. My parents are no longer screaming in the dining room. The record player is no longer playing his song, but skipping, over and over again, the song deep and distorted.

“Run- Run- Run- Run-”

“What—” I start to ask, but Dorian places a finger to my lips. His eyes are wide behind the mask, shifting toward the doorway to my room.

The stairs creak. Then there’s another sound—a dragging, scraping sound of something being pulled across the floorboards. As it gets closer, I hear, too, the sound of footsteps. The heavy thuds of my father’s shoes.

Step, scrape.

Step, scrape.

Step .

Right outside my bedroom door. I hold my breath, my hands fisted in Dorian’s shirt. He is silent, tense beside me.

“Daisy,” my father says. It’s his stern voice, the one that means I’m in trouble.

Step, scrape.

He’s inside my bedroom.

“Daisy, come out now,” my father says. “Stop acting like a child.”

I inch that way out of instinct; punishment is always worse if I disobey. But Dorian grabs me and holds me close, keeping me under the bed. His body trembles against my back. He presses a gloved finger to my lips.

Step. My father’s shoes come into view from my vantage point under the bed. Polished and glossy black.

Scraaape .

He drags an axe across the floor behind him. Its blade is rusty—and dripping with fresh blood.

The song upstairs cuts off abruptly, leaving behind a terrible silence.

Dorian’s hand stifles my gasp. But then he slowly releases me. I reach for him as he pulls away, but he shakes his head and disappears from view.

I stay there, trembling, heart pounding in my ears.

“Little rabbit…” my father whispers, but it doesn’t sound like his voice at all. It’s too deep, too old, too inhuman.

I jump at a sudden thump from behind my closed closet door. But as the thing inside my father moves that way, I realize it must be Dorian causing a distraction for me. I crawl to the edge of the bed and wait one second, two, until I hear the creak of the closet door opening and the sound of my father shuffling around in search of me. Then I roll out from under the bed, lurch to my feet, and race out the door.

My bare feet pound against the floorboards as I head to the stairs.

I lurch to a stop at the top of the staircase, hand flying to my mouth. My mother is facedown at the bottom of the steps, hair spread around her, one hand outstretched. Her back is a mess of gore and gristle where the axe came down. She must have been crawling away—to me, or the front door, I’ll never know.

I swallow my scream as I hear footsteps thumping out of my bedroom behind me. I stumble down the stairs and force myself to step over my mother’s body. Tears blur my vision as I run for the front door. I grab the handle, pull it open—but as I step forward, a hand grabs me by the hair and yanks me back. My feet slip in my mother’s blood, and the thing inside of my father slams the door shut and locks it with his free hand.

“Going somewhere?” he whispers, and I look up into a pair of eyes that burn red as he reaches to pick up the axe again.