Straight Arrow. By Charles Matinock.
In my last column, I talked about my wife preparing for her trip to her hometown for the wedding of a friend.
Left to my own devices, I ordered a pizza and watched the news before I set down to write my latest collum, which was supposed to be the one you're reading now. But, as I began to type the first paragraph, I had a visitor.
It was the ghost boy we all know as "Inviso-bill, who has made headlines with each of his appearances, leaving behind wrecked buildings, burst pipes, and thousands of dollars in damage.
At first, I was understandably stunned, but he seemed to understand this, and said nothing.
But I was only stunned for a moment, and I asked him what he wanted.
"I want to set the record straight, Mr. Matinock," he told me. "I want to tell my side of the story."
"But why me?" I asked. "I'm a columnist, not a reporter."
"You used to be a reporter for the Tribune down in Chicago," he says and I realize that he's nervous, so I offer him a seat. He sits down in the chair by my desk and I study him. He looks like he's fifteen, with white hair. He wears a black coverall, with white gloves and boots. His hair is also white, and short. A parent's haircut, not a choice of self-expression. "You're pretty well known and I'd rather not go to the TV station."
I nod my acceptance and reach for my notepad and tape recorder, but he shakes his head. "No tape," he tells me and his eyes draw my attention. They're green, with a slight glow to them. "I don't want my voice on tape. Please." I nod and set the tape recorder aside.
"So, Bill," I begin and he shakes his head.
"No," he says. "Not Bill or Inviso-Bill. Or See through Sam, or Transparent Tim, or anything like that. My name is Danny Phantom. Danny with two N's and a Y, P-H-A- . . . um." He trails off, struggling. "Uh, N-T-O-M."
"All right, Danny. May I call you Danny?" He nods. "Where are you from?"
"Here, in Amity Park. I've lived here all my life. I'm . . . not a ghost, well I am, but I'm not. I'm like, half ghost, half human." I must have looked perplexed, because he tried to explain. "See, my folks are into the supernatural, and there was an accident, and I wound up like this." He gestures at himself, looking morose.
I decided to move on. "You said you wanted to tell your side of the story, Danny, so tell me why you . . . do what you do."
"I fight ghosts," he says, and it's obvious he's serious. "That's what its all about. That's what happened. I fight ghosts, and stuff gets damaged. I don't like it, but . . ." He trails off and rubs his face with his hands and then tries again. "I'm just a kid, Mr. Matinock. A fifteen year old kid. Six months ago, my biggest worries were whether or not I'd be stuffed into a locker and homework. Then the accident, and now I have to fight ghosts because if I don't, people could get hurt. Hurt bad."
"So where do the ghosts come from, Danny? Is there something in Amity Park that they want?"
His face hardens into a mask of nuetrality, anger and fear flashing across his face, and the glow of his eyes brighten. "Plasimus," he says, speaking the name in a hiss. "They come from Plasimus."
"Plasimus?"
"Another halfling, like me, but he's . . . he's not very nice."
"So this is a war between you and Plasimus?"
"Yes! I mean, no! IGod!" He stands up and paces. "He and my dad were at college together and he's got a thing for my mom. He hates Dad, and Dad doesn't even know it. Thinks they're friends." He looks at me, pleading. "Plasimus is sending the ghosts, I'm just trying to protect people, Mr. Matinock, I swear! Plasimus is crazy and I'd be perfectly happy if I never saw another ghost again. But that won't happen . . . no matter what I want." He rests his head in his hands, staring down at the carpet. "It's all Dad's fault," he says in a whisper. "All his fault."
I decide the time has come to learn more about Danny himself. We speak of school, and homework and favorite movies. He talks of his friends, though he doesn't mention them by name and a girl he thinks he likes, but isn't sure. He asks me questions about reporting and I ask him about schools these days.
And then, in the middle of it all, he looks startled as a puff of blue smoke rises from his mouth. From the street, I hear the sound of a motorcycle and a maniacal cackle.
"A ghost?" I ask, and he nods.
"Yeah. Thanks for your time," he says and then he rises into the hair and flies off through the wall.
That was almost six hours ago and I have yet to leave this chair.
As a young man in college, I was taught that journalists are impartial observers. It is our role and our duty to report the facts as they happen, no more, no less.
In that light, I have done so here. The conversation is as it happened, and I let you be the judge.
But as a man, as someone with my own opinions, I look out at Amity and think that somewhere out there, there is a man. I don't know this man, but what is happening in our city could be seen as his fault. Is he an arrogant man? Or just blind to the world around him? I don't know.
But I do know that this man has raised a son who is unable to turn his back on his fellow humans. A son who despite the risks and dangers, is trying his best to cope with the task he has taken up.
And so to him, I say thank you. Thank you for your son, and his courage. Thank you for whatever lessons you taught him that have led him to take up the role of a protector.
Thank you for Danny Phantom.