My Daughter's Imaginary Friend Knows Secrets About Me I've Never Told Anyone
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including the new release, Killing Him Once Wasn't Enough. Only available for premium members. That's patreon.com slash drnosleep. I hear the words come from her mouth, but I can't believe what she is saying. A part of me panics. Have I been talking in my sleep? Did I screw up and leave something out for her to find? No, no, neither of those can be true.

I never talk in my sleep, and when would she have heard me anyway? I don't take naps on the couch, and she is asleep well before I am every single night. So, no, she couldn't have heard it from my own lips. And I never leave anything out because there is nothing to leave out. My work doesn't come home with me.

All of my supplies and tools are either locked away in a very large safe in a very large storage unit, or I buy disposable supplies and get rid of them the instant the job is done. My hand moves to my back pocket, where I always keep my flip knife. My brown eyes lock onto her green ones. "Where did you hear that?" I ask my six-year-old daughter as she watches me from across the kitchen table. A spoonful of cereal halfway to her mouth.

"Hear what?" she asks, looking around. "I don't hear anything, Daddy." "What you just said to me," I say, keeping my voice even and calm. "About the short man with the yellow baseball cap. Where did you hear about him?" "Dotty?" she says and shrugs. Then she puts the cereal in her mouth and chews loudly. "Dotty?" I ask, trying to figure out who in the hell she's talking about. The neighbor in the apartment to our left is Carol.

You silly daddy!

Tisha, I need you to tell me the truth. I use all of my resources to stay calm, to stay cool, to keep things easy and breezy. Who is Dottie? Tisha frowns and cocks her head.

Then she takes another bite and chews. Then another bite and chews. Then another bite and... "Tisha!" I shout and smack my hand down on the table. "Who is Daddy?" Tisha's upper lip quivers, and I know I've gone too far. "What's going on in there?" My wife, Elaine, calls out from her office. "Sorry." I apologize to Tisha as fast as possible. "Sorry, sorry, sweetie. Daddy is being silly, okay?"

Tisha's lip slows, slows, then stops quivering, meltdown averted. "Everything alright?" Elaine comes into the kitchen. "I heard banging and shouting. I was telling a story and got excited." I smile at my daughter. "Right, Tisha girl?" Tisha nods and takes another bite of cereal, but she watches me very closely as she does it. I can sense Elaine noting the behavior. I wait for the question and am not surprised when it comes. "Can we talk in the hall?"

"Sure, babe," I say and get up. I give Tisha an exaggerated wink, which would usually get a giggle out of her, but I only see that cautious stare. "What's up?" I ask my wife when we're out of the kitchen and a few feet down the hallway. "You tell me." She crosses her arms and waits. "Not sure what you mean." She studies me and then nods. "She's six, Mark," my wife says, and I brace for the lecture. "She doesn't understand all the grown-up cues that we show."

Yeah, I know. No, I don't think you do. You are a salesman. I am a family therapist. I am trained in this stuff. You are not. I bite back the rage that builds inside me. First, my daughter mentions a person she should have zero knowledge of, and now my wife is condescending to me, like I'm one of her adolescent patients. I'm not an overly emotional man. Some folks even say I can be robotic, but the feeling growing inside me is not good for me or anyone else.

"Yes," I say slowly, keeping everything in check. "But as a salesman, part of my job is to read people. I can read my daughter, and she takes in more than you think. Tisha is pretty fucking smart. I know she is, and you keep your voice down when you curse," Elaine says. "Or better yet, don't curse at all. It's the language of the ignorant." We've been fighting about that since we got married.

How my background is basically one step above being a carny. And her background is just shy of being royalty. I come from the ignorant. She comes from the well-educated. Or she thinks. It's not like the background story I told her when we first met is real. Sorry. I swallow all the words I want to shut about how she's lucky she has my ignorant ass since my income is close to ten times what hers is.

But I don't say those words, because as far as Elaine knows, I only make slightly more than she does. The rest gets stored as bundles of 20s in that very large safe and that very large storage unit. The saris are wearing thin. And not for the first time this week. A lot about me is getting thin, according to her. I'd be waiting for the D word, as in divorce, to get thrown at me. But how would it look if a family therapist gets divorced?

Or what would her friends and family say? Not to mention our accountant, dentist, family doctor, and all the other useless fuckers who suck the life out of me. What would all those fucks think? I'll try harder. Elaine snorts, then turns to go back to her office. I have a telesession in five minutes. Please try to keep it down. Before she can duck into her office, I ask, Who's Dottie? Elaine turns and frowns at me.

"Really?" she asks. And I know I've just dug my already deep hole just a little deeper. But it's not something I can just let go. I have to know. "Yeah, really." I wait. She studies me, then shakes her head with a pitying look on her face. "Dottie is our daughter's imaginary friend," she says. "The one she's had since she was two?" "Right." He comes back to me. "Imaginary? That's why I hadn't clocked who Dottie was."

who gives a shit about imaginary friends. Apparently, considering what my daughter said, I should. I very much should." "Oh, right," Elaine mocks, and then she has gone into her office, the door closing a little too strongly for my taste. Not that my taste matters much in this apartment. No. As far as everyone knows, I'm the mild-mannered, somewhat boring husband to Elaine and father to Tisha.

I'm the guy the doorman sees every single day, yet somehow has to remember I live here. I'm the neighbor no one bothers to make small talk with because why would they waste time on a milk toast like me? I'm a nothing, a gnat that is bothersome then disappears, forgotten even before I'm gone.

And that's just the way I like it. Hard to do what I do when you get noticed. I've cultivated this wallflower, aw shucks, don't mind me, persona. And it has paid off in dividends. Rarely does anyone even glance my way, unless I do something specifically to get them to look in my direction. I'm almost surprised that surveillance equipment even picks me up. But you'd have to be a ghost to not be noticed by security cameras. Or an imaginary friend.

I return to the kitchen. All done? I ask Tisha as she slurps cereal milk from her bowl. Yep. She smacks her lips while milk dribbles down her chin. I take the bowl from her and go to the sink to wash it. So, mommy tells me that Dottie is your friend. I almost say imaginary, but decide to skip that word in case it upsets Tisha. To her, Dottie might not be imaginary. I don't want to break whatever bond they have.

No. Right now, I need that bond intact so I can get some real answers out of my daughter. Yeah, daddy, duh. Tisha says. The does started last week. Elaine says a schoolmate taught her that. I think it's just a natural progression from watching Elaine be a smug shit to me all the time. This man with a yellow baseball cap. I set the clean cereal bowl in the dish rack. How does Dottie know him? She saw him. She saw him? How? Tisha shrugs.

Tisha, sweetie, how could Daddy see him? Tisha shrugs again. I close my eyes and shake my head. Then I open my eyes and give my daughter a huge smile. But I can tell she's not buying it. I screwed up when I lost my temper. My daughter is too smart to be fooled by a fake smile. So I let the smile fall away. That man in the yellow baseball cap is a man from Daddy's work, Tisha, I explain. And no one should have seen him. I don't like to bring my work home with me.

"Why?" my daughter asks. "Because when I get home, it's just Daddy and Tisha time." I reply. "What about Daddy and Mommy time?" "Well, Mommy is very busy and an important person who helps others, so there isn't a lot of time for Daddy and Mommy time." "Daddy says it's because Mommy is an elitist snob." I chuckle despite myself. Gotta keep control, can't let things slip.

Yes, well, snob isn't a nice word, I say. So Dottie shouldn't say those things. Even though the imaginary freak is 100% correct. Dottie also says you are rich and won't share, Tisha says, and any mirth left over from my chuckle is gone in a flash. Why would Dottie say that? Because you have a jillion dollars in a safe. Tisha smiles and gives me a wink. But she said I shouldn't tell anyone about it. Dottie is right, I reply, my skin cold and clammy.

"It's not nice to talk about people's finances." "Findances?" Tisha asks. "Finances." I correct. "Money. How people make a living. It's not nice to talk about that." "Oh." Tisha frowns.

What about all the guns?

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I have to use all of my skills to keep my face neutral and even. I also fight not to cross the kitchen and strangle my daughter to death. Her knowing about the money in the safe is weird, but talking about guns? That's trouble, and I need to know where it stems from. "What guns?" I ask. "Dottie says you have racks of guns on walls in the garage." Tisha looks over at the fridge. "Can I have some orange juice?" "In a second," I say, and slowly walk to the kitchen table.

I sit down and clasp my hands together, resting them on the tabletop. "I want to hear all about these guns." "Guns are bad," Tisha says. "I really want some orange juice." I said in a second. I'm close to snapping. "And yes, guns are bad. But tell me why you think that. Did Dottie tell you guns are bad?" Tisha shakes her head. "Who told you?" "Mommy." My hands squeeze together so hard that my knuckles pop.

Tisha giggles. "Snap, crackle, pop!" She points at the fridge. "Juicy juice!" "Don't talk baby talk," I say. "You can have some juice in a second. We're having a daddy-daughter chat right now." I take a deep breath and glance toward the hallway. "Why were you and mommy talking about guns?" "Because Dottie said I needed to tell mommy about them." Tisha squirms in her seat. "Oh, Dottie did, did she? What else did you tell mommy? What else does Dottie think mommy should know?"

"Dottie tells me to tell Mommy about all the money, but I don't want to. I told about the guns, because guns are scary." "But money isn't." Tisha shakes her head. "Why not?" "Because you and Mommy have jobs and jobs make money and we need money so money isn't bad." She explains in one long breath. I nod. "Yep, that's all true." "But Dottie is mad at me because I didn't tell Mommy about the money." "Well, Dottie can stay mad. It's none of her business."

Tisha shakes her head. "Dottie says it is her business. She says some of the money is hers and that you don't deserve to have it." "The money is hers?" "She says some of it is, yeah." "Why would she say that?" Tisha goes very quiet and looks down at the table. "Tisha, sweetie, why would Dottie think some of the money is hers?" Tisha doesn't respond. She keeps staring at the table.

"Come on, Tishy-Bishy," I say and reach out and take her hands in mine. Tisha yanks her hands away and scoots her chair back, her eyes wide with fear. "What's wrong?" I ask. Tisha shakes her head over and over and over. "Tisha? What is wrong?" I ask more forcefully. "Tell Daddy what's wrong." "Daddy says he'll kill me." Tisha whispers in a terrified voice.

I whisper back, my eyes flitting to the hallway again. "She says that you aren't who you say you are, and that all the things you have done are bad things, and that you will kill me because Dottie told me all about the bad things, and the money, and the guns, and the garage with the sliding door, and the other garages around it, and-" "That's enough!" I snap and slap the table. Again, I look toward the hallway, but I don't hear Elaine's office door open. "Sweetie, I'd never hurt you," I add.

Tisha stares at me, and I can see that she doesn't believe me. Which is fair, I don't believe me either. I mean, I knew the day might come when I had to make a choice between my work and my family. So many dads do, moms too. Being a working parent is hard. You sacrifice a lot to find the right balance. But balance can't last forever, especially when you are dealing with other people.

Other people mess up that balance so fast, they come into your life and screw with the equilibrium. You meet a nice woman that you think you can live with. You woo her, you court her, you ask her to marry you. She says yes and you build a life. A life that is a smoke screen, a cover for your real life.

You go through all the motions: the wedding, the vacations, the never-ending sex, the dinners out, the friends you have to make so you can have dinners out with friends, the in-laws and all of their animosity and derision, the sex that slows, but not before you find out there's a kid on the way. A kid. A responsibility. You think about taking care of that little snag.

You had been careful, so that shouldn't have happened. But you find out that your wife has gone off the pill without telling you, and suddenly there's a baby girl on the way. And yes, you still think of taking care of the problem, except it turns out that your wife waited until it was past the time when things can be taken care of before she told you. You get trapped. A marriage you set up because it was a great story to have. Baby girl on the way.

You think of maybe ending it all, taking the life you've built and burning it to the ground, starting over, starting fresh, finding a new wife and a new city, someone who can't have kids, who can't mess up the plan. Then that little baby girl pops out and you see her for the first time and you feel absolutely nothing, no love, not even a hint of any warmth. But you do see possibility, you do see opportunity.

Everyone coos at the new baby. But they also coo at you. They say how proud you must be and what a wonderful father you'll be. And how this will only change your life for the better. Then someone puts that baby girl in your arms and you look down at her. Then you look around the room at all the huge smiles. You smile too. You are daddy now.

You love your little baby girl with your very soul, even though you have no soul. And if it were up to you, you'd just dump her in the trash can outside the delivery room and call it a day. But she'll make a great addition to the smoke screen. I'd never hurt you, I say to Tisha. Never, ever. Daddy says you killed a boy my age, Tisha says, her head cocked like she's listening to someone right now.

She says, "You strangled him, then put his body by the front door so when the parents came home they would be distracted and you could go." Tisha sniffs loudly, then lifts one hand and makes a finger gun. She aims it at the floor and fires it twice. No pew-pew or pow-pow sounds, just a falling of the thumb once and again. I don't say a word. "Toddy says that you left that family on their front steps," Tisha continues.

Dottie says you also killed an old woman, and a young man, and five college girls, and a waiter, and six bankers, and a husband that was doing bad things, and a husband who was rich, and a husband with another family, and a wife who liked being a widow more than a wife. Her chest is heaving as she finishes her long list of my work life, and she isn't wrong. Dottie nailed it on the head.

Every single one of those things is a past job. I've killed wives and husbands for various reasons. Money, power, infidelity, convenience, revenge. Sometimes just for kicks so the spouse can watch. There are some sick people out there. Like the man in the yellow baseball cap. He was a real sicko. Turns out he really, really loved his nieces and nephews. Like, really loved them.

When his sister found out, she didn't know what to do. The man had friends in high places in the city, but somehow my number was passed to her and she gave me a call. Three days later, the man with the yellow baseball cap accidentally fell in front of the subway. Even the security cameras said it was an accident. Security cameras can't pick up microfilament looped on the ground like an invisible trap.

He steps in the loop, the microfilament goes tight. He loses his balance after a hard yank and splat, job done. No guns with that job. "Dottie says that you don't care about anyone except for yourself. She says you don't care about the money. She says you like to hurt the people." "Dottie says a lot," I reply. My daughter and I stare at each other for a long while. Then the office door opens and Elaine calls out.

All done for the day. Who wants to go get ice cream? Me! Tisha shouts and jumps up and down, her Dottie trauma instantly forgotten. Oh, the power of ice cream.

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Burlington saves you up to 60% off other retailers' prices every day. Will it be the low prices or the great brands? Burlington. Deals. Brands. Wow. I told you so. Styles and selections vary by store. It's 10 in the morning, I say when Elaine comes into the kitchen and scoops Tisha up in her arms. You don't have any more appointments today? I thought your schedule was booked. I canceled those, she says and nuzzles Tisha's neck, making our daughter giggle and squirm.

"Because I want to spend the day with this little monkey. And daddy?" Tisha asks. "Can daddy get ice cream too?" Elaine looks at me, and I can see the warmness for our daughter turn to coldness for me. "I think this is a mommy Tisha day," Elaine says, her eyes boring into mine, daring me to object, to start a fight that she can easily win because she is the one with the kid in her arms, not me.

"I have a lot of work to do today," I say to Tisha, ignoring Elaine's stare. "In the garage?" Tisha asks. The room goes still. "What garage?" Elaine asks. "Oh, just some place I'm looking at running now that business is growing." I wave my hand like it's no big thing. "Some extra space for samples and overstocks that I pick up from customers." "You need a whole garage for that?" Elaine asks. "It's a small storage unit, not a garage." "Then why did Tisha say garage?"

because that's how I explain to her what a storage unit is. It's like a garage. The lies come so easily, so quickly. This is the first I'm hearing about it. Elaine's voice takes on an edge that tells me my time here is done. We'll talk later, I say. Gotta go shower and then hit the road. I should be home by dinner. Want me to pick something up on the way? No, Elaine replies in a flat voice. I'll handle dinner. Okay, I get up. You two have fun today. I'll see you tonight.

Hello, Mark. Off to work? I am.

She looks me up and down, taking in my jeans and t-shirt. "Gonna be moving some boxes around. Don't wanna ruin my work clothes." She nods and starts to walk away, then pauses. "Oh, tell Elaine that I can for sure watch Tisha later," she says. "It's really no problem. I assume it's because you'll be working late moving all those boxes. Yep, that's it. I appreciate it." "Of course." She walks down the hall to the elevator. I turn the other way and take the stairs.

What's Elaine up to? Why is Carol watching Tisha later? When I get down to the parking garage, I still have no answers to those questions. I find my plain white Honda Civic and drive it slowly, carefully out of the garage. Like a normal husband and father would. Not like a man panicking because secrets that should never have been known are suddenly known. Known by my daughter because her imaginary friend told her.

The drive to the storage unit feels like it takes forever when it's only about 15 minutes. I hurry to the office and talk to the clerk, renting one of their box trucks for the day. Then I drive that box truck to my storage unit and park it right in front. Looking around, I unlock the unit, lift the door, step inside, and slide the door shut. Then I glance at all of my gear.

Guns, blades, rope, crates, a rack of clothes for disguises, a dressing table with a mirror for when I need to change my appearance, the safe. I start there. I have learned over the years to keep everything I need in the unit at all times, including the heavy duty dolly I use to move the safe. It nearly breaks my back, but I get it to the unit door, slide the door up, then roll the safe up into the back of the box truck.

I get it secured and then return to the unit. But I pause and look back at the truck. Something about what Tisha said earlier. About Dottie thinking some of the money was hers. Look around the unit and my eyes fall on a sniper rifle hanging on the wall. The Dorothy Unger job. She wanted her father and uncle gone so she could inherit the family business. Took care of it.

She refused to pay because it turned out there was a second will that she didn't know about and the business was sold off to a competitor. I told her that wasn't my problem. She didn't care. She should have. She really should have. My eyes leave the sniper rifle and I look back toward the safe. Dorothy Unger. You know what a nickname for Dorothy is? Dottie.

I'd laugh at the fact that my daughter's imaginary friend might be a ghost. But that's crazy. Crazy or not, I still have a mess to clean up. I pack everything up in three hours and have the truck loaded and under four. I keep one item and tuck that into my waistband. Then I'm gone.

I drive 30 minutes north to a different storage facility, make all the financial and legal arrangements under an assumed name of course, and have myself a new storage unit in no time. The box truck is unloaded in 40 minutes, then I'm back on the road to drop off the truck and get my car. Before I leave the old storage facility, I make sure that all surveillance is wiped clean. I do the same with the clerk when he's found the next morning. It'll look like a robbery.

In here. Where's Tisha?

"Sit down, Mark," Elaine says, sitting at the kitchen table, her arms crossed over her chest. Being the dumb salesman husband, I do as I'm told. "What's going on?" Elaine slides a slip of paper across the table at me. I look down, and while I'm surprised, considering how the day started, I'm not completely taken aback by what I read. "What's this?" I ask. "Why are there two addresses on this paper?" "Really? That's how you want to play it?"

"Play what? What's going on, Elaine?" She reaches across the table and taps the top address. "That's your old storage unit," she says, then taps the bottom address. "And that's the new storage unit." I don't say a word. "Somehow, our daughter knew the first address," Elaine continues. "She says Dottie told her." Elaine laughs. "But obviously you told her. Why, Mark?"

So I would follow you? So I'd find you not thinking about renting a unit, but actually packing one up that you already rented? I keep silent. Then I'd follow you to a different unit, where you unload everything. Jesus Christ, I'm off my game. This whole Dottie thing must have me more rattled than I realize. How did I not spot a tail? I've lost professionals before, yet I didn't see my own wife following me? Not good.

"What are you up to?" Elaine asks. "What's in the storage unit, Mark?" Dottie didn't tell you. "Dottie!" Elaine says and laughs. "Children cope in so many ways. Our child apparently found out about your lies, and her brain processed it in such a way that she needed her imaginary friend to be the one to reveal the truth." "What truth?" My hand slips down to what I have in my waistband.

"Oh, that you're definitely not a salesman," Elaine says. "Tisha says you had guns in that storage unit, but I know that's not true. You, Mark Ebersole, own a gun? You just shoot yourself in the foot." "So you didn't see what was in the storage unit," I say, more to myself than to her. If she doesn't know about the guns, then I might have a way out of this.

"I saw the huge safe," Elaine admits, "and a rack of clothes, then a whole lot of crates." She leans across the table. "What was in those crates, Mark?" I go back to being silent. "Fine," she leans back. "Doesn't matter. The lawyers will find out eventually." She smiles at the piece of paper. "Especially since they have your new storage unit's address." "What are the lawyers for, Elaine?" My voice is steady, cold.

"What are the lawyers for?" Elaine responds and laughs hard. "What do you think, Mark? We're getting a divorce!" Damn, she actually did it. I have underestimated my wife and my daughter. I won't make that mistake again. "Divorce won't work for me," I say. Too much exposure, too many variables.

"Too much exposure? Too many variables?" Elaine exclaims. "What the hell are you talking-" I have the little 22 out, aimed and fired before she can finish her sentence. I don't worry about the noise. I made sure to screw on a small suppressor before leaving the storage unit. It jammed into my groin a little, but the slight discomfort is worth not worrying about alarmed neighbors.

Elaine's head rocks back a bit, and blood spills out of the small hole in her forehead. There's no exit wound, not with a .22, no. That small caliber bullet ricocheted inside Elaine's skull, tearing apart her brain until it lost momentum and settled in a hunk of gray matter. I can describe the process in my sleep, I've done it so many times.

I don't have a go bag. There's nothing in the apartment I need. I'll pick up new supplies after I go and clear out the new storage unit and leave town. But first, a little housekeeping. "Mark?" Carol says when she opens her apartment door. She leans out and looks around the hall. "I thought Elaine would come get Tisha." "Nope, it's me." She finally looks down at what I hold in my hand.

Before she can cry out, Carol gets the .22 treatment too. The gunshot sounding like a loud cough, a sound that the hallway's thick carpeting swallows up instantly. I catch Carol before she can fall and ease her onto her floor. Then I step in and close the door. "Tisha! Daddy's here!" I call out. "Time for you and Dottie to go!" I lift the gun and wait for Tisha to come running to Daddy.

In reality, having children isn't so bad. It's the damn imaginary friends that ruin things. And that's all Dottie is. An imaginary friend. Because ghosts aren't real. Everyone knows that. Duh, Daddy, duh. Hey, sweetie. I say when Tisha walks into the hallway. Unfortunately, Daddy did have to bring his work home today. I lift the .22 and fire.

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