Haunted
All houses are haunted. All persons are haunted.
Throngs of spirits follow us everywhere.
We are never alone.
~ Sarecky, Barney
That night, while the streets were saturated in darkness, the Fenton household was asleep when the lock on the front door was picked. Light spilled onto the carpet as the man stepped into the house, his fingers curled around something inside of his coat. He closed the door behind himself and paused, listening closely to the silence— it was an eerie sort of quiet, the sort that's heard just moments after the heart stops beating.
He strode forward, carefully, first through the kitchen and dinning room, then through the living room and up the stairs. He counted the steps, pausing for a brief moment to take a breath and listen.
Jack Fenton and his wife would never know what hit them.
And as for their kids, well, they'd hear it first. Probably leap out of bed and rush into the hall to see what was wrong. He would walk out of their parent's room, gun in hand, and as they stood in the hall, looking terrified, they would see his eyes flash in the light creeping in through the windows. And then—
His fingers tightened around the weapon hidden inside his coat, and he smiled, curling his lips into his mouth, like a child trying to keep a secret. The entire family was at his mercy and they didn't even know it. Such knowledge stirred with him a sinister amusement.
Once he reached the second level, he was met with a new hall that stretched into the darkness and split into three rooms. He knew which rooms belonged to whom; he had studied the house before hand, had broken in while they were out of town just so he could get a feel for the layout. The house was kind of small, really, with white walls and a beige carpet in every room. It smelled vaguely of homemade dinners and scented candles; quite unlike the kind of place one would expect to find a crime scene.
The first room, closest one to the banister, belonged to the Jack's son and the one across was his older sister's. And the door at the very, very end of the hall, the one veiled behind a shadowy curtain— behind that door, Jack and Maddie slept.
With his free hand, he reached for the doorknob, felt it cold under his skin, and twisted…
"Don't go in there!"
With a startled jerk, Samantha Manson woke to the sound of her own voice. Swallowing, she sat up, breathing heavily, and rubbed her eyes until the darkness made sense. "Just a dream, Sam," she whispered, pulling back the covers. "It was just a dream."
Her heart felt like it was doing cartwheels inside her chest. The dream had been so real, so vividly detailed that she could almost feel another presence skulking about the house. She listened for a moment, but all she could hear was her own heavy breathing— which, all things considered, was so not comforting.
Glancing at alarm clock, she discovered that it was ten 'till seven. She sighed, swinging her legs over the bedside. I have to get up in ten minuets anyways, might as well do it now.
Sam flipped on the wall switch, wincing when the light burned her eyes. The hall light was already on, which meant that her mother were awake. And here I was hoping to avoid her morning cheer. She ran a hand through her hair, felt it slick and stringy between her fingers. Ugh. Shower first, then breakfast, she decided.
It'd only been a week since Mansons had moved in and— perhaps due to some rebellious protest against her parent's decision to move— she hadn't even bothered to set up her computer or put up posters over the blank walls. So it took a few minuets to rummage through the towers of boxes crowding her room to find her favorite black shirt and skirt.
Her mother said that Amity Park would grow on her, that she'd make new friends, and come to find this new, foreign house a place to call home. Yeah, right. She hated the house, the yellow walls, the stuttering lights, the creaky floors and the ever present smell of dust and dank wood.
Even school was miserable. She had only been going to Casper High for a week, and she was already known as the-new-girl-who-lives-in-Fenton's-house.
Seriously, all anyone asked was, "Is your house really haunted?" or "You know some kid got his brains blown out there, right?" Sam didn't believe in ghosts, but she did believe in respecting the dead, and the lack of personal privacy was testing her patience. It's not their house anymore, she thought, dragging herself into the bathroom. The door let out a shrill screech as she pulled it open. It's not even my house. It's Mom's. It was her idea to move into this dump.
Her mother, in all her cheery optimism, only saw the best in the new house, despite sitting empty for the last decade (she had only learned about the murder after signing the mortgage papers). And worse? She truly, honestly believed that she could take the tragic ramshackle excuse for a house, and turn it into someplace warm and hospitable. Ever since her father's accident, she had become obsessed with 'flipping' homes. A coping mechanism, Sam decided. Just a weird way for her mother to deal with loss. It's not helping me cope, that's for sure.
Twisting the shower knob, Sam's upper lips lifted in disgust. The water was gushing brown liquid. "Even the water is gross," she mumbled. "I thought they replaced the pipes."
"They did," a voice said so quietly it was hardly a whisper.
Startled, Sam whipped around. She found an unoccupied empty toilet (with yellowed rings in the bowl), a sink, a washer and dryer, and an opaque window…but no one else. She was alone and someone had just spoken to her. Maybe, just for a second, the kids at school were right. Maybe the house was haunted. A sudden thought struck her: I can't take a shower if someone's here.
Yes, you can, a rational voice argued. You don't believe in ghosts, remember? Not since Dad died. Now, get in the shower.
For a moment, her resolve crumbled a little as her eyes swept over the room a second time, feeling for another presence. She would never admit it, not now that she had come to a skeptic's conclusion, but sometimes if she focused hard enough, she could sense otherworldly energies.
The air moved like a sudden sigh, as if it were breathing. She looked at brown water gushing out of the shower head like muddy rain, pretending not to see the blurry haze hovering in the corner of the ceiling, that she wasn't insanely disturbed (and irate) that someone had almost watched her climb into the shower. She beat on the wall to get the water flowing better, but it only sputtered a little. "Forget it," she grumbled, turning it off. "I'll just shower at school. Again."
Four bullets. The man had loaded his gun— its barrel sleek and silver in the light— with four tiny bullets, no larger than his thumb. Four bullets intended to steal four lives.
He pulled back the lock with his thumb and the gun uttered a small, click-click. He slunk through the darkness to the bedside where Jack Fenton, a mass of man, snored loudly, completely unaware. He placed the barrel just inches away from Jack's forehead. He swallowed. And smiled.
A blast like thunder exploded through house.
Her mother was waiting for her at the table, sipping a steaming cup of coffee. "Morning Sam." Sam could tell by the way her mother's eyes narrowed and shifted over her, up and down, that she didn't approve of her outfit. A pencil-thin eyebrow lifted into a perfect arch. "You're wearing that to school?"
Sam rolled her eyes. She was living in a brand new town, in a not-so-new house, going to a new school full of new people. She had already made new friends, too. So if everything was so new, why were the morning conversations always the same? "Yes, mother," she said tartly, going to the fridge.
Mrs. Manson opened her mouth to say something else, but closed it again. The conversation, if you could call it that, lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. After a moment, she said put on a plastic smile and said, "You didn't shower this morning?"
"The shower is piece of a crap," Sam said, pulling out a bottle of soy milk and adding it to her lunch bag. "The water's browner than mud. I am not bathing in that."
Mrs. Manson's smile faltered. She took another sip of her coffee. "Strange, I thought they fixed the plumbing problems."
"Yeah, like a whole decade ago."
"The water hasn't been used in a while," her mother said, sounding optimistic. "If I let it run a bit, the color will probably go away. Do you have a towel?"
"In my locker." She reached for the coat rack and backpack. "Look, I'll see you after school, okay?"
"Aren't you going to eat breakfast?"
"I'll eat at school," Sam called, already half out of the kitchen. Grabbing her coat, she swung her bag over one shoulder, pushed open the screen door, and stepped outside into the morning chill.
He was furious. He had three bullets left, but Maddie was missing from her place in the bloodied sheets. In his rage, he swung his arm wildly through the air, knocking over the table lamp. It shattered against the wall and fell into a graveyard of broken glass.
Ka-thump, Ka-thump.
"Dad?"
He turned, hearing the noise. Good. The kids were up, just as he had planned. At least something was going right. His forefinger flicked over the lock again, pulling the gears back with a sweet click-click. He stared down the barrel, aiming at the closed door with a trained precision, ready for when it opened.
After a shower in the girl's locker room, Sam found herself fully awake and revived (and less likely to bite off someone's head). With her hair still wet, she bought herself one of the little boxes of cereal from the cafeteria and looked for a place to sit. All the other tables were occupied, crowded with the different cliques. Not in the mood for socializing, she chose the least occupied table in the back and sat next to a kid wearing a red hat and glasses.
"Do you care if I sit here?" she asked.
He looked up from whatever he was eating, seeming somewhat surprised by the question, and shrugged. "No, go ahead." Across the cafeteria, roar of laughter rippled across the room from a group of freshmen. Sam recognized a few — among them was the girl who had been asked to show Sam around school, but all she had talked about was where Sam lived. "Ignore them," the boy told her. "That's Dash and his crew. Unless you're filthy rich or a football player, they probably won't give you the time of day."
You got that right. Sam stirred her cereal absently. "Hey," she said after a moment. "Do you know where the library is? I've been trying to find it all week."
"The library?" The boy adjusted his glasses, looking confused. Oh, you're the new girl. Sam, right?" He held out his hand in a friendly gesture. "Tucker Foley, techno-geek extraordinaire, at your service. If you ever need technical support, game cheats, and-or a date, I'm available at locker two-twenty-six."
"I'll keep that in mind," Sam muttered, biting back a snarky comment. "Anyways, where's the library?"
"The library's behind the school in a different building. That's probably why you couldn't find it. Didn't anyone show you around school?"
"Well, that girl was supposed to show me around—" Sam pointed to the girl in the crowd, who was at the top of popularity chain and about as shallow as a kiddy pool— "but she all she talked about how gross my house is."
"You're house? Where do you live?"
"On the corner of Fourth and Gabber Road."
He nodded, stabbing at another brown-pink chunk of meat. Sam's stomach turned. Her nose practically crawled up the front of her face. Meat. Oh, God. She could smell it. "North end or south end?"
"North, in the brick house, the one that looks like it's about to topple over." She winced, bracing herself.
"Sweet, we're practically neighbors," he said, between bites. "I live on the south end. How come I never see you on the way to school?"
"I've been leaving pretty early this week. What are you eating?"
Tucker looked at his fork. "Steak," he said and to her horror, he offered her some.
She folded her arms, repressing the urge to gag. "Ew, no thanks. I'm an ultra-recyclo vegetarian."
"Huh?"
"I don't eat meat."
"Not even a little?"
"Nope."
"Huh." Tucker shrugged. "Alright, suit yourself."
When Pamela Manson purchased the house, she knew that she would have her work cut out for her, but this was unexpected. She stared at the mess in the living room, unsure of what to think. She had been sipping her coffee, flipping absently through the latest issue of Classic Home Living, when she had heard the noise.
It was a low thump and it echoed from the living room. Glancing at the door over the rim of her cup, she frowned. It couldn't have been Sammy, she had already for school. Dismissing the noise, she shrugged, took another sip, and continued reading.
Ka-thump, ka-thump.
"What in the world?" Curious, she slid out of her chair, and went to investigate.
There, she discovered a row of objects lying in the middle of the carpet. A hammer, a rolling paint brush, her husband's Rolex watch, and three screws— they were all lined up perfectly according to size. Again, her first thought was Sam, but her daughter had already left for school. And, aside from the many boxes crowding her living area, the room had remained undisturbed.
Pamela glanced at the toolbox sitting in the corner, seemingly untouched. But perhaps what bothered her most was Jeremy's watch. She had kept it in her jewelry box, on top of her dresser (one of the first things she had unpacked). So what in the Lord's name was it doing in the living room?
"Strange," she muttered, picking up the objects. "I don't like strange things."
Vaguely, she wondered what Sam would say of the situation. A few years ago, she might have mentioned the word 'ghost', when she had once to expressed a keen interest in the occult— she had even claimed to be able to see and talk with them— but ever since Jeremy passed away, Sam hadn't brought up the subject. Not even when the real estate agent had told them about the Fenton tragedy (that crook of a real estate agent had only told them after the papers were signed). It was all Pamela could do but hope that Sammy was slowly growing out of her morbid Gothic stage; Pamela had waited a long time for the change and she prayed that the house wasn't haunted.
Just go away, she said silently. We don't need you here.
The living room walls were blank, with cracks creeping in the corners of the ceiling. The once white paint now yellow with age and dust. The light overhead stuttered weakly, and the carpet was still and cold under her manicured toes. But I need you, the room seemed to whisper back.
The door didn't swing open, like he had expected. On the other side of the wood, he could hear the boy panting, his hand hesitating on the door knob, his feet shifting nervously over the carpet.
"Dad?" The boy's voice was quiet, hesitant, and scared. He was just a teenager, just fourteen and still a child, really. If the man hadn't been so angry, he might have found it amusing.
"Dad," the boy repeated. "Are you okay?"
The answer was echoed in the silence.
"I'm coming in, okay?"
The man took a step forward, glass crunching beneath his shoes, and opened fire.
Author's Note: Before I wrap it up for the day, I want to mention that the large, italicized portions of the story are a part of the 'urban legend' the kids at Casper High tell about Sam's house. While I was writing this piece, I kept imagining a bunch of kids sitting around a campfire telling ghost stories, and that's sort of the tone I wanted this fanfic to echo.
Also, I've written about three versions of this first chapter, which lead me to make a lot of changes to the story. So, if I've contradicted myself or if something doesn't make sense, let me know. Anyways, I do not own Danny Phantom, its characters, setting, themes, plot, and/or other story elements. Happy reading! Review please!