Page 51 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

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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 wherethat nightmust 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 bloodyaltar.

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… DidIdo 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 thatmusthave 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 ismymind,” 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 aclick.

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 againstmyself? DidIlock 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.

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Tick, tick, tick.

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