Page 106 of Their Little Ghost

“Hold on,” Eli says.

With Aiden supporting my weight from beneath, Eli hauls me into the ceiling. With one last heave, I collapse on top of him.

“Have you missed me?” Eli asks, grinning as I roll off him.

The cramped vent only leaves a few inches above Eli’s head when sitting.

“Follow me,” he instructs, flicking on the flashlight strapped to his head and crawling on all fours into the unknown.

I have no choice but to follow as Lex and Aiden join us, pulling the tile back into place behind them and condemning us to total darkness.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

My question echoes, but no one responds.

“Quiet,” Aiden says. “Conserve your oxygen.”

We settle into a rhythm and crawl for what seems like hours. We navigate tight bends and increasingly cramped vents that cover the length of the asylum. The faint noise of people talking below us grows louder the farther we go. Although I can’t discern what they’re saying, I recognize one voice.

Dad.

We make our way toward him. From his tone, he’s annoyed about something. The vent widens, opening up to allow us enough space to sit upright.

Eli halts.

We’ve reached our destination.

“What did you say to her?” Dad rages beneath us.

Suddenly, the guys switch off their lights.

“Wha—”

Eli smothers my mouth with his hand, then pulls away to put a finger to my lips. Message received.

He shuffles to reveal a tiny shred of light coming from a gap where two pieces of steel don’t quite meet. He wants me to look down. Gingerly, I lower myself, trying to stay quiet as I lie on my side. The metal chills my cheek as I peer through the hole at the scene unfurling below.

While I can’t see the full room, I can tell we’re in the secret part of Sunnycrest, where Dad conducts his vile experiments. I gaze into a white cell, watching Dad pace. Beside him, I see the heads of three other doctors who circle a chair in my direct line of sight where a patient is strapped down.

My stomach lurches as the patient struggles, bound by restraints on his hands and wrists. The victim’s features are hard to make out. Strange lumps and pustules cover his face, like he’s been attacked by a hive of angry bees. His only discernible feature is a mop of straggly, yellow hair.

I squeak in horror. It’s Alfred. The boy I cornered for answers.

“Don’t make me ask you a third time,” Dad says. “What did you say to her?”

“I didn’t tell her anything,” Alfred whimpers, coughing up blood. “I swear, I didn’t!”

Dad tsks. “It’s a shame we’ve come to this, especially after making such good progress the last time you were in this chair.”

He attaches electrodes to the sides of Alfred’s head. Alfred wriggles around, making his restraints bite into his skin and draw blood, trapping him in place.

Dad walks out of my vision, presumably to a machine linked to the wires attached to Alfred.

“Stop!” Alfred croaks. His eyes wide with sheer terror. “Okay, I’ll tell you! Just not that again. Please!”

Dad saunters back, wearing a twisted smile that shows the true psychopath he really is.

“Tell me,” Dad probes. “What did you say?”