Page 62 of Their Little Ghost

Sunnycrest’s gates open as we arrive. Guards, with rifles in holsters, patrol the yard.

“This way,” Dad says, leading us inside.

Tonight’s event happens in the grand hall, which is separated from the rest of the building by staff quarters and is only usedfor special occasions. The patients have their own cafeteria. They sedate and lock patients away for the night, making it suspiciously quiet. Nothing ruins a party faster than it being crashed by the criminally insane.

The guests are due to arrive in half an hour, so Dad busies himself with the final preparations by shouting orders at anyone he comes across. Mom and I take a seat at our table. A few of the supposedly ‘reformed’ patients have been given roles for the occasion. They wait with trays of drinks, wearing ill-fitting suits. They all have a distinct, glassy stare, like performing bears. Everyone knows the most damaged individuals aren’t safe to be among the public. Not now or, quite frankly, ever.

“You look beautiful, darling,” Mom says. “Although your hair is a little short. I don’t know what possessed you to cut it yourself.”

She drones on, and I let her lecture wash over me while watching the final touches being made to the venue. The event format is the same each year: a mixer with drinks, followed by a presentation from Dad about the asylum’s work with other psychiatrists and doctors chipping in. It’s followed by a three-course meal, and a brief recognition ceremony to reward local businesses for their continued support.

My phone buzzes.

MIA: Enjoy your night in Crazytown.

I smile at the irony. Unbeknownst to her, my home is crazier than this place.

“Oh, look!” Mom stands. “Our guests are arriving.”

Dad beckons me to join him and greet the attendees. I smile politely and shake hands, avoiding conversation as much as possible. Sheriff Brady is accompanied by his wife. I like Mrs. Brady. After Sarah went missing, she sent trays of home-bakedcookies. Of course, Mom threw them in the trash. To her, getting fat is almost as bad as Sarah disappearing. A few other officers and their wives trot in after them. I recognize a few doctors who always attend, some more esteemed than others. I can tell who the most distinguished guests are from Dad’s posture changing and his fake friendly tone.

“I read your most recent journal article, Magnus,” one says. “I’d like to discuss your theory on neuroplasticity. You make a compelling argument, but I disagree with your point on?—”

Dad’s eyes narrow, but he keeps smiling. “We can talk business later. Your table is over here.”

He perks up as soon as he sees Devon Lewis. Devon has been the mayor of Pasturesville for twenty years. During that time, no one else has dared to stand against him. He’s revered and feared in equal measure. His slicked-back blond hair disguises his early balding, and his third wife hangs off his arm. Every divorce brought a new wife younger than the last. As well as being mayor, he’s an investor in the pharmaceutical industry and was key in Sunnycrest’s opening.

“Magnus.” Devon greets him coldly. “We have much to talk about.”

“You’re right,” Dad says. The frosty atmosphere between them is hard to ignore. “It’s been too long.”

After everyone arrives, my parents work the room, giving me some breathing space. I slink off to find a quiet corner, wishing it were time to leave already.

Suddenly, someone coughs beside me. I spin to see a server—a guy around my age. Pockmarks cover his sallow cheeks, and he flushes when our eyes meet.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“I…” His eyes skim the room, a bead of sweat dripping down his brow. “Are you Erin Acacia?”

“Yes,” I reply, crossing my arms. “Did my father send you?”

He turns his back to the room, so no one can see what he’s doing. He passes me a folded piece of card from his inner pocket. “This is for you.”

I eye it suspiciously, knowing better than to trust a patient. “What is it?”

“They said…” he stutters. “They said you’d know who it was from, L-L-L-Little Ghost.”

I snatch it from his fingers.

“Is that all?” I ask.

He nods, shoulders sagging in relief, before hurrying away. Despite their escape, my tormentors must still have connections here. Judging by the look on their poor messenger’s face, they’re feared.

I glance around to make sure I won’t be disturbed. Thankfully, everyone seems too distracted to pay me any attention. I carefully unfold the paper.

9:30 PM.

Take the first left after the kitchens.

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