Page 9 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

By the time morning arrives, I’m certain it was just a dream. But when I walk downstairs, I find that the vase of flowers I bought the other day—which were perfectly fine until last night—have blackened and withered.

When I find a third dead magpie waiting on my porch, I’m barely even surprised.

* * *

It’s a little easier to walk into the MRF the next morning, knowing that they let me walk out once. Although Dorian didn’t react to the story I told yesterday, Ezra seemed optimistic and encouraged me to come in again as soon as I was able. It isn’t like I have much to do in Ash Valley, so today I’m back bright and early to try again.

But when I see Ezra waiting for me in the lobby, his face is drawn and his eyebrows knotted.

I stop short, fear jolting through me. “What happened?”

“Well…” He grimaces. “We asked for a sign yesterday, and we got one.”

“That’s good, right?” I ask, unsure why he seems so tense. “That’s what we wanted?”

“I’m not so sure. Come and see.”

Ezra leads me back into the observation room. We stand in front of the viewing window as he opens the metal shutters and shows me Dorian’s cell.

My breath catches in my throat.

DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY

DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY

DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY DAISY

My name is written all over the white walls. A hundred silent screams. More. What remains of his crayons are tiny, broken nubs scattered on the tile.

I turn slowly, taking it all in. My lips pull into a trembling smile because this is a sign that Dorian is here. That he’srealin a way nobody can deny. But when I turn to Ezra, he’s staring at me instead of the room, his expression troubled.

“Doesn’t this frighten you?”

I blink, surprised by the question. “Why would it? This is what we wanted.”

Ezra bites his thumbnail, glancing through the window again. “Like I said, sometimes spirits lose themselves. They can warp into something…malevolent. The longer they stay, the worse it becomes. That’s why I usually aid them in passing on.” He looks back at me. “Is there any chance that Dorian could be holding a grudge?”

I open my mouth, shut it again. Look back at the room and all those etchings of my name. A grudge? It doesn’t feel right to me. I spoke honestly yesterday when I said I’ve never been afraid of Dorian.

But it’s been seven years. Years I’ve abandoned him, denied his existence. I’ve spent so much time telling myself he isn’t real that even now, with this evidence in front of me, I am afraid to believe otherwise.

“I need to see him,” I say, both to myself and to Ezra. “If you would just let me go in there…” Yet I already know what Ezra’s answer will be. Any chance I had of seeing Dorian went out the window with this incident.Why? I plead silently, staring into the cell.

“I think it’s important, before we continue, to have a full understanding of what we’re dealing with here.” Dread unfurls in my stomach at his words. I already know what’s coming, the words I’ve been anticipating ever since I arrived here. “We need to talk about what happened that night.”

That night.My mind recoils. My breath quickens.

“I need more time,” I say. “Please. Look, I understand your concern. I won’t ask to enter the room again until I tell you everything, but—” I swallow hard, shake my head. “I’m not ready to talk about what happened to my parents yet.”

Ezra is silent for a few long moments. His eyes and his judgment weigh on me even as I stare down at my shoes. Anxious energy hisses under my skin. My hands form fists at my sides, fingernails digging into the tender skin of my palms as I try to steady myself.

Finally, he sighs. “I understand it must be a sensitive subject,” he says. “We need to talk about it eventually, because I suspect that our files don’t tell the full truth. But for now, let’s proceed as we did yesterday.Carefully.”

I can see his confidence faltering. But that’s okay, because he’s giving me—giving Dorian—a chance. I’m certain there’s still a way to earn Ezra’s trust and make this work. “Thank you,” I whisper, and take a seat at the table.

Ezra sits too, after a last, lingering glance through the viewing window. He sets up the tape recorder and hits the button that will allow our conversation to play over the intercom into the cell.

“This is Ezra Bradford, session two with Subject X-15 and visitor Daisy Dumont,” he says, shuffling his papers on the desk. “Welcome back, Daisy. And hello, X-15; I can see you’ve tried communicating with us.”

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