Casey gasped for air, her body trembling. Kasey had fallen from the chest as well, lying on the floor now. The room was still again, save for Casey's labored breathing.
She knew, without a doubt, that Barley had been the one trying to hurt her. But why? And what did Kasey's presence mean?
The next morning, Nanny Helen found Casey curled up on the floor, clutching Kasey tightly to her chest. She had refused to let go of the doll, even when Nanny tried to take her downstairs for breakfast. The incident was enough for her parents to finally notice that something was seriously wrong. They'd always been busy with work, leaving Nanny Helen to care for Casey, but now they couldn't ignore the changes in their daughter.
She spoke less, always seemed tired, and was constantly on edge. After another incident where Casey had screamed at Barley for "trying to kill her," her parents decided to take her to double the dose of her meds.
…
Casey sat in the waiting room, now a teenager, flipping through an old magazine. She was taller now, her dark hair tied back neatly. Her parents sat beside her, fidgeting nervously. The doctor had called them in for a follow-up session, one last review before they could declare her "healthy."
"Casey, dear," her mother said softly, "how do you feel about everything now? About the dolls?"
Casey shrugged, her expression calm and measured. "I understand now," she replied. "Kasey wasn't real. She was just an imaginary friend… something I created to protect myself. And Barley? Well, she was just a doll."
Her father nodded, visibly relieved. "The doctor said you've made incredible progress, Casey. We're proud of you."
The door to the doctor's office opened, and Dr. Moore stepped out, smiling warmly at the family. She had been working with Casey for months, guiding her through hypnotherapy sessions to untangle the memories from her childhood. She had reassured the family that Casey's experiences with the dolls were nothing more than manifestations of trauma, combined with a vivid imagination.
As they walked into the office, Casey's eyes caught something—a book on Dr. Moore's desk. It was the same book that used to sit in her childhood room, the one with the faded blue cover and gold lettering. A flicker of unease passed through her, but she pushed it aside.
"Everything looks good," Dr. Moore said, tapping the folder in front of her. "Casey has come a long way. I think we can safely say she's doing very well."
Casey glanced at Dr. Moore's arm as she reached for a pen. Her sleeve slipped slightly, revealing a birthmark—a small, distinct shape that looked all too familiar.
She had seen that mark before on the figure from her dreams.
If only Dr. Moore knew the truth, what would she think?
Down the dimly lit corridor from Casey's room, past the soft glow from the cracked door, you'd make a left turn into her parents' monochrome-themed bedroom—a stark contrast to the warmth of Casey's space. The room was impeccably tidy, devoid of color, as though life itself had been drained from it. The dark wood furniture gleamed under the low light, reflecting the sterile orderliness her mother demanded of the house.
On her mother's side, in the large dresser that stood against the wall like a silent sentinel, lay a hidden drawer—beneath the neatly folded clothes, the stacks of papers, letters, and photographs. Beneath the polished wooden bottom was a false panel, one that had gone untouched for years. Inside, nestled quietly in the darkness, was a small box, worn at the edges from the years it had spent buried beneath the weight of secrets.
The box wasn't anything special to look at—just plain and unadorned, with no indication of the significance of its contents. But what lay inside held more meaning than any object in the house. Inside, tucked carefully away, was a tiny dried blob—a fragment, a remnant, preserved from a time long past. Next to it was an ultrasound, the grainy black-and-white image faded but still discernible. Two embryos, side by side, outlined in the blurry frame. Twins.
The twin that was never born.
The truth had been hidden here for over a decade, locked away in this drawer, buried as deeply as the memories Casey's parents had chosen to forget. Or tried to forget. The twin that never had a name, the one they never spoke about. The loss had been painful, but more than that, it had been confusing—haunting. From the moment they had lost one child in the womb, strange things had happened. As if the missing presence had lingered, refusing to leave.
They'd told themselves it was nothing. It was easier that way. Easier to pretend that the half-dreamed, half-remembered whispers they sometimes heard in the dead of night weren't real. Easier to convince themselves that Casey's "imaginary friend" was just a phase.
But deep down, they knew. They had always known. That part of Casey—the part she thought was her "imaginary twin," Kasey—wasn't a figment of her imagination.
It had been there all along.
And now, as Casey sat in her room, smiling softly at the second controller was a second controller—bedazzled with rhinestones, the name "Kasey" carefully spelled out in small, glittering gems she had placed beside her, the house seemed to exhale, shifting in its silence. The dried blob in the tiny box remained, a tangible reminder of the twin who never left, hidden under layers of secrecy.
If only Dr. Moore knew, maybe she didn't need the certificate to show that she was healthy after all.
But she didn't. And maybe she never would.
Casey would be fine. She was always going to be fine.
After all, she still had Kasey by her side. Always.
"Kasey," she whispered, "I know you're still here."
In the dim light, the room seemed to shift slightly, and the bed creaked, just faintly. But Casey didn't look up.
She didn't need to.
She had never been alone.
And she never would be.