Page 33 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

“When?”

“I…” I’m about to say “I don’t remember” when a memory jolts through my brain.I’m pinning Dorian down in bed, grinning in triumph as I hold his wrists at his sides. But his eyes turn sly behind the mask, and suddenly two more hands sprout from his torso and grab me. He twists so he’s on top and leans down to—

I blink away the memory, heat rising to my face. A trickle of wetness at my nose alerts me to more bleeding, and I wipe at it hastily before Ezra can see. “I-I… Is that important?”

“I suppose not,” Ezra says, staring at Dorian instead of me. “I’m just trying to understand.” He glances down at his notebook and shakes his head. “But you’re right. We should focus. He’s here now, so maybe he can answer our questions?”

“Right,” I say quietly. Did my contact with Dorian crack the dam holding back my memories? Something to explore later, but for now, Ezra is right. I can justaskDorian about that night instead of trying to drag the truth from my fractured mind. I should’ve suggested it myself…or maybe some part of me was—is—afraid of what his answer might be.

But I have to ask. I have to know. I suppress my nerves as I reach over to press the intercom button. “Dorian?”

Dorian flickers out of existence. The rubber ball drops to the floor, bounces a couple of times, and stops. Then all of a sudden he is back, standing just in front of the viewing window, his head tilted to one side and his mask practically pressed against the glass.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He spreads his gloved arms, hands out, as if to say “Be my guest.”

Now that the opportunity to ask him has finally arrived, my mouth is dry. Dorian spoke to me when I was in the cell—maybe he will again. This is an opportunity to face the truth… But am I going to like what I find out? I’m all too aware of Ezra listening and taking notes beside me.

I swallow hard, and my voice shakes as I ask, “Could you tell me about what happened? The night…the night my parents died?”

Dorian is still and silent on the other side of the glass. Then his neck twitches and he steps back, clasping both sets of hands behind his back. It’s impossible to read his emotions behind that smiling mask.

The radio on the table flickers to life and begins to flicker through stations.

An official-sounding broadcast: “This is an emergency alert.” A crackle of the station changing, now a singer crooning sadly. “Oh, my darling—” Crackle, shift to an upbeat advertisement. “—running out of time! Act now or—” Crackle. “Hello darkness…”

My brow furrows as the radio fades into static. “I don’t understand,” I whisper. “I’m running out of time to…save you? I know that. That’s why I’m here.”

Dorian shakes his head. I can sense his frustration mirroring my own. Once, it was so easy for us to understand each other, but now there’s a gap that feels impossible to overcome.

As I’m trying to think of other ways to communicate with him, the radio buzzes to life again. A familiar, jaunty tune. “Run, Rabbit, Run!” starts to play. I glance toward it, an odd prickling sensation spreading across my skin as my memory strains for something—and when I look back toward Dorian, he’s gone.

“Wait,” I say, pressing myself against the glass. “Dorian, don’t go—”

The music cuts off and I hear the faint sound of scratching.

A tug of memory. That scratching. That was the sound that made me first notice Dorian, the one that happened under my bed every night at—

I glance at the clock.

Midnight.

Dorian emerges from under the bed, but something’s wrong. He twists and writhes across the floor like he’s being dragged by someone I can’t see. His fingertips scrabble against the floor, making that awful scratching sound. His mouth is open in a silent scream.

“Wh-what’s happening?” I ask. “Something’s wrong. Ezra—” I turn to him as he steps up beside me. “We have to do something!”

His expression is grim as he surveys the cell. “I wish we could.”

“What do you mean?” I cry out as Dorian’s mouth moves in an inaudible plea. He cowers on the floor, raising his hand against an invisible attacker. A blow sends him sprawling on his back. He tries to get up, but a weight presses him down again. His ribs compress as though under a crushing weight.

Ezra places a hand on my shoulder, but I wrench away. I don’t understand how he can be so calm about this, why he isn’t rushing into the cell to help Dorian right now.

“He’s reliving his death,” Ezra says. “It happens with ghosts. I know it’s awful, I’m sorry, but he’ll be okay afterward—”

I ignore him and slam my fist against the window. I can’t stand here and watch this. Irefuse. “Dorian,” I cry. “Dorian!”

The desk beside us shudders as I scream, papers falling to the floor. The furniture inside of Dorian’s cell shifts, too, as if blown back by a powerful force.

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