Page 92 of Their Little Ghost

“Tell me what you see,” Doctor Warner commands. “Speak to me.”

Say nothing,a voice in my head whispers.He can’t know what you’re seeing, or you’ll be trapped here forever.

“I’m in math class,” I lie. A bead of sweat drips down my brow. “I’m trying to get the hang of algebra, and I drop my pencil. The guy I have a crush on picks it up.”

“That’s enough for today.” Doctor Warner sighs, sounding almost disappointed. “I want you to follow my voice as I count you out of the trance. Five, four, three, two… one. Open your eyes.”

I sit up slowly, wiping my clammy palms on my pants.

“Are you okay?” Doctor Warner asks.

I nod. “I’m fine.”

I mentally shake myself. I remember learning in psychology about unreliable memories. Eyewitness accounts are one of the least reliable forms of evidence in a court. People see what they want to. Whatever I thought I saw under hypnosis can’t be real.

“Very good,” Doctor Warner says, pushing a paper cup of pills toward me. “Here’s your medication.”

“What are they?” I ask, suspiciously eyeing the red and purple capsules.

“They help with stress and anxiety,” he says with a nonchalant wave of his hand. “They’re very similar to the medication you’re already taking. Your father prescribed them himself.”

I swallow them without question and open my mouth for him to check under my tongue.

“Very good,” he says, satisfied. “You’ve had a busy morning. After lunch, I’ll make sure your schoolwork from Stonybridge Academy gets delivered to your room.”

I rise from the sofa. “Thanks.”

“We’ve made progress today,” he says. “You should be proud. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I smile meekly, unsure what we’ve really achieved, aside from making me question my sanity.

As I exit, a boy, who is leaving an adjacent treatment room, crashes into me. We’re around the same age. He’s painfully thin with tufty yellow hair, sunken eyes, and weeping scabs from skin picking.

“Sorry,” I say. “I didn’t see you.”

“Sure you didn’t, Sarah,” he mutters.

“Excuse me?” He has my full attention now. “What did you call me?”

His shoulders tense, and his eyes widen like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

“N-nothing,” he stammers. “I didn’t call you anything.”

“You called me Sarah.”

“Did not,” he says, then scampers away.

“Wait!” I call after him. “Don’t go!”

It’s too late. He zips around the next corner, moving as fast as his scrawny legs can carry him, desperate to get away.

Doctor Warner appears behind me, placing a firm hand on my shoulder to stop me from following.

“Your room is that way,” the doctor says.Where did he come from?I didn’t hear him approach. “Hurry along.”

Doctor Warner’s stare burns into my back as I walk away.

Aiden said I’d find answers in Sunnycrest, and this is my first clue.