“Did you have any imaginary friends when you were a kid?” Michael asked.

     Crissy smiled. “Uh… I guess so…but it’s a weird question to ask right now,” she replied, laughing. “What’s wrong with you?”

     They were lying close in his bed, sheets tangled around their feet. A cool, wet breeze blew in through the open window.

     “Actually, I think it’s a perfect time to ask. When would be better? When is the appropriate time to ask about imaginary friends?”

     She looked at him for a moment. There was something strange in his voice; his usual whimsy seemed forced. “Okay,” she said. “Yeah. Mickey Mouse. He lived in my wall. What about you?”

     “In your wall? That’s funny.” He rolled onto his back and sighed. “I…well. I had a bunch, you know, those old movie monsters—Dracula…Frankenstein…the Wolfman.”
     “Those were your imaginary friends?” She smiled, finding the idea charming.

     “Uh huh…except—” There was a look in his eye, embarrassed, nervous. “They weren’t…well…” He hid his face in his hands.

     She slapped at him. “They weren’t what? Tell me!”

     He uncovered his face, grinning sheepishly. “They weren’t imaginary.”

     “Ha-ha! You make the stupidest jokes I’ve ever heard.”

     “Yeah, but you had sex with me anyway!”

     She hit him with a pillow, and he rolled off the bed, laughing. A moment later, his head reappeared over the edge of the mattress. “But, seriously, I mean it. They were real…like Drop Dead Fred or something.”

     “Shut up, Retard!” she shouted, and hit him with the pillow again. Then she stopped. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

     “I’m telling you this because I think things are going really well, and you’re probably going to stay the rest of the night, and…well…they’re mostly gone, but they still come out when I’m sleeping. I see them when I wake up…for like a second. But they’re friendly. I want you to know that.”

     They were both silent. She leaned back against the headboard, her arms crossed over the pillow. They looked at each other for what seemed like a long time.

     “Asshole,” she said, finally. “Asshole…Asshole! ASSHOLE!” And then they were wrestling and laughing again.

     Later, in the dark, while Michael slept, she lay stock-still, hardly able to breathe. She saw faces: black-and-white nightmare faces, pale makeup and dark, hollow eyes. They were crowding around the bed. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to stay quiet. 

The End

Ty Bannerman, tydban@gmail.com, author of “Staying the Night,” is a 31-year old writer living in Albuquerque, New Mexico, with his wife and two dogs. He is currently conducting health and nutrition research in rural communities throughout the state for the University of New Mexico.