Page 6 of The Imaginary Friend's Obsession

My stomach curdles with dread, already anticipating the questions he’s going to ask. One question in particular. I already have the answer ready:I don’t remember.

But instead Ezra says, “First off, let me tell you about me.”

I blink in surprise.

“I work with a variety of subjects here,” he continues. “Generally with those classified as ghosts or spirits. Dorian shares some common traits with them. The invisibility and incorporeality, the fact that he can be confined with salt and iron, that all aligns with what I know about ghosts.”

I used to wonder how they managed to capture and trap Dorian…until I stopped wondering and started telling myself he was never real. My mind is still ping-ponging between the two beliefs. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, trying not to squirm.

“My initial theory was that he was a poltergeist,” Ezra continues. “That checked out when I looked into the history of your house.” He passes a folder over to me, with an old newspaper clipping sitting on top. There’s a faded image of a somber, dark-haired young boy. My stomach flips as I look into his familiar eyes. “That’s Dorian Elwood. His family lived in the house before yours, and he disappeared when he was about ten.”

I can’t take my eyes off the picture. He looks familiar…and yet not. I remember the pencil marks on my doorway, which began at my size as a child and grew so much taller.

“Poltergeists are usually the ghosts of murdered children, their hauntings intense but brief. But Dorian has been around for seven years in our custody alone, and he doesn’t behave like a child.”

I can feel Ezra’s eyes on me, but I keep my gaze firmly on the desk between us. He hasn’t asked any questions yet, so I don’t speak; I haven’t decided how much I’m willing to tell him, anyway. I’m still afraid he’ll suddenly swap from talking about him like this to insisting that Dorian never existed, just like the MRF agents did seven years ago.

“Even with poltergeists, I’ve never seen a spirit that can interact with the physical world as much as he does,” Ezra continues. Then he pauses. “Or at least, as much as he did.”

My stomach drops, and I finally lift my eyes to meet his. “What do you mean?”

“Dorian is fading,” he says. “When I first started working here, he was notably corporeal most of the time. He would interact with objects in the room frequently and react to various stimuli. But now days go by without any activity.” He looks from his notes to me. “It’s natural for ghosts to pass on eventually. Normally, I’d encourage it. But when I read his file, I wanted to make sure you had a chance to see him first.”

I can only stare at him, my face stricken. I’m imagining what would’ve happened if I hadn’t picked up that call or agreed to come here. What if Dorian had faded away into nonexistence before I had a chance to see him? My stomach clenches with dread; the emotion is stronger than that persistent whisper in my head that all of this is a lie. I need to see him. I need to know that hedoesexist, even if it’s only for a chance to say goodbye.

“Please,” I say, my voice trembling. “Can I talk to him?”

Ezra nods. “Yes, but I should warn you, his behavior has been erratic—”

“I’m not afraid of Dorian.” That hasalwaysbeen the truth.

“It’s been years since you last saw him,” Ezra says. “He may not be the same as you remember.”

My instinct is always to nod and agree, to keep my head down, to make myself as small and nonthreatening as possible. But I force myself to speak up now, even though my hands are trembling in my lap. “You promised me I could see him.”

Ezra hesitates. “You can,” he says. “But— I’m sorry, I can’t let you into his holding cell. I wish I could, but we recently had an incident with a subject escaping with a hostage. Security is on edge. And given Dorian’s history…”

He looks at me like he’s expecting me to refute it, but I look away. I breathe in and out, keeping a lid on my emotions. “Then why did you bring me here?” I ask.

“I can’t let you into the room,” Ezra says, “but I can still let you talk to him.”

Chapter Five

My heart beats a wild rhythm as I step into the observation room. My eyes dart around to take in details—the plain metal desk and single chair, the control system with its intercom and various buttons—before stopping on the window into the next room. Ezra hangs back as I approach it, my trembling hands clasped into fists at my sides.

On the other side of the window sits an empty room. Dorian’s cell. It’s a tiny, plain box with white walls and tile. There are no windows other than this one, and only a single door. The only furniture is a cot in one corner and a metal table and chair, all welded to the floor. A coloring book and some crayons are scattered across the table. On the floor, a teddy bear’s head sits facing the viewing window; the rest of its body is nowhere to be found.

Ezra clears his throat from behind me.

“Like I said, I was operating under the assumption he was a poltergeist at first. Thus the toys. I wanted to see if he’d play like a child’s ghost would.”

I stare at the decapitated teddy bear. Its beady black eyes stare back. “I’m guessing he wasn’t pleased.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

I laugh despite my nerves, but it turns into a sob halfway up my throat. I press the back of my hand to my mouth and shut my eyes. Seeing that tiny room makes the gravity of this situation weigh on my shoulders. If it’s true, if he isreal, like Ezra is telling me, it means Dorian has been trapped here for years. Years without a glimpse of the sun, without anything but children’s toys to amuse himself with.

I left Ash Valley and never looked back. And all of this time, he’s been trapped here.

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