"I am the boooooox ghoooooost!" white arms billowed like a breeze, floating menacingly in the air above an unsuspecting man's head. "Beware!" The man turned around, gasping. Only to have his face falter and drop, smacking a hand that clawed down his tired and weary face.
"Ha ha, very funny, Clark," Jason, lumberjack extraordinaire, reached his hand out and yanked the cloth off the body of his eccentric coworker. He smirked beneath his rugged stubble. "Next time, lose the sheet. Your face is much scarier out in the open."
The rest of the crew chortled around their coffee mugs, lips being singed as the hot liquid life sloshed off the rims of their respective cups. The seven men hissed and clanked their glasses to the ringed table. Clark put down the table cloth and left it in a heap, hopping over clumsily to his companions. They slapped his back, some snapped at the suspenders holding his one-piece up over his flannel jokingly. He swatted their beefy hands away and glanced up at Jason, his boss and friend.
Smiling, he gave a wink and said, "To my credit, I almost got you." The man's voice lilted at odd intervals and focused on the wrong syllables, common to this part of Ontario, tone thick with something close to a lisping echo.
Jason laughed under his exhale, shaking his head and clapping Clark's shoulder. He gave stern eyes at the rest of the men lounging about the table, feet poised rudely on the mahogany. It was mahogany, for Christ's sakes, muddy boots should not defile the beautiful wood so! It was an outrage and the inspector spoke against it. Shaking their heads, each man hefted his footwear from the surface and heavily rested it against the concrete floor of the warehouse they sat in on that chilled October day. It was break time at the factory, and the men were taking high advantage of it. Clark smiled at his friends, though some disagreed with him at that point. Clark was a hard worker – an enthusiast. And without his even knowing, he was enthusiastically driving most of the men insane with his shenanigans. They had all found it humorous and put up with it the first time, but the 'Box Ghost' charade was getting to be a little too much for their more masculine taste. The only one who still seemed to chuckle and go with it good-heartedly was Jason. But even he was wearing as thin as his plaid flannel. Each head lifted in perfect unison as a bell bellowed its warning call. Groans met the siren's sound.
"You heard 'er, boys – time to get back to makin' those boxes!"
Mild whoops went up in the air. Only Clark seemed to be really energetic and hyped about setting back to the mundane task of box-manufacturing. He hopped to his post and began his packing.
[_]
"'night, Ned."
"See ya in the mornin', Jim."
"Be seein' ya, Tommy."
"Hn."
"BYE TOMMY! BYE JIMMY! BYE NED! BYE GIBSON! BYE MASON! BYE CLARK! Wait, I'm Clark….BYE JOHN! BYE…uh…I don't remember you, but BYE!" Clark cupped his hands around his mouth, amplifying his unreciprocated goodbyes.
The others trudged off to their parked Ford's and Chevy's, scoffing. One man, Ned, said to another – Gibson, "Is he slow? Are people like him even allowed to be near the machinery?"
"I don't know, but if I were Jason – I wouldn't let the creep near it."
Clark grinned, fists on hips. Though no one seemed to pay attention, he was content to continue his unbeknownst nuisance. He felt a hand on his shoulder, the flash of a smile as he looked up, and then saw Jason lumbering away to his vehicle. His grin widened and he hmphed in satisfaction. The large mobile units clunked and zoomed off down the graveled path through the dense forest, darkness eclipsing the red shine of headlights. As soon as Clark set one foot off to plod away to his house, nestled just in the clutch of the wood, a whining whir sounded within the box factory. Gasping, he ran straight into the facility. Looking around for the source frantically, he charged to where his ears picked up the alarm bell. It flashed and clanged and called out for help, but he didn't understand why, giving it large, puppy eyes and silently pleading it to tell him what was the matter. The only reason Jason had told him so long ago that it would go off is that some piece of the equipment had not been bolted right – loose and unhinging; a saw, an ax, it could be anything!
A blood-chilling, grating noise sounded and then an icky splat. Red suddenly filled his vision.
He gurgled, a bubble of blood bursting from his lips. Felled to his knees, Clark bent on all fours to maintain his bulky weight. At the angle he was in, contorted and twisted, he saw that his stomach, where once the faded blue denim of his overalls were, was now covered in thick, viscous blood, spreading around his center and seeping through his tough clothing. He heard a desperate clatter and saw through blinking and bleary eyes a sharp object had pierced him clean through, stuck in his navel. Penetrated in his midsection was a tool he hadn't expected. Sure, it made sense, he was in the shearing section. But to have a saw blade pierced straight through you was a hard image to interpret.
Clark didn't have time to think it through – he wouldn't have given the time regardless. But had he seen that on his speedy entry, Ned had not stopped his machine – in his haste to get away from the box ghost freak – and it whirred and sawed against restraints and bonds, he could have saved himself. But alack, he stood right in the building path of the saw, gaining momentum as the harness so haphazardly placed around it strained it into a near sling. And when it obtained enough power and force to break through layer of metal and steel, it flew clean through Clark. But the poor, naïve man was not bright enough to figure it out, so with shaking, ragged breaths, he exhaled his last in a pool of his own blood – never to know the cause of his untimely demise. The sound of the alarm died with him.
[_]
Eyes blinked blearily, a haze like cataracts popped before his vision. His head felt heavy and ready to explode. He? He who? Where was he? Who was he? The man searched around, head throbbing and pounding out a beat like sticks over the skins of drums. He groaned. He, he, he! He who?
The eyes shot to their widest, enhancing the view of his area. Taking stock of his location, he mentally jotted down what he saw. Purple, green, odd colors and hues swirling about. He must have gotten hit harder on the head than he remembered. Did he get hit on the head? He didn't know. Who was he? Over there were barrels and stacks of…of…were those boxes?
Straining to a standing position, his world tilted as he righted himself, hand braced on his knee in support. He shook his head out like a dog, lips flapping and burring like a whinnying horse. He groaned once more; he could feel his face droop like a sickman's. He glared at the corrugated paper boxes. They were boxes all right. But what was he doing in a box store? Characters floated before him, swirling around him and reverting to an image he could make out. F-A-C-T-O-R-Y the purple-edged green blocks spelled as he spoke the letters aloud.
Why in the world am I in a box factory?
Waddling, he made his way to the opened entryway of the factory. Peering, he saw that this whole place was muggy and swam in colors like violet and fuchsia, magenta with swirls and clouds of green and olive. It was like a child who threw up the contents of a crayon box – consisting only of those primary colors. He yelped and ducked behind a thorned bush of mauve as a school of floating somethings passed right by. Crawling his way on hands and forearms, he wiggled over to the edge and –
-choked back a scream. There was nothing there. Just an enormous downfall to nothing but a cyclone of death and horror and – were his feet dangling in the air? He checked back with a noncommittal glance, double-taking as soon as he saw the lower half of his body floating midair. Shouting out in surprise, he blurted in an incoherent stream of mild consciousness and crushed his eyes together, gripping the crumbling edge of the floating landscape. Pieces of the crust broke apart and fell to the forever-nothing, but did little else to help. He cried out, but no one came to the rescue. Frantic eyes like doe's searched to no avail.
Finally, he screamed, "STOP!" and was dropped painfully to the ground, landing on his chin and stomach.
Thankful once more that he was safe on the ground, he kissed it in appreciation. It grumbled and he yipped and scooted away post-haste. Crying out for the thousandth time, he shielded his eyes as a floating phantom darted and plunged through the murky sky of this new place. Brow quirking with interest, its expression raised in mild-mannered intrigue. It's hair raised like horns form his head, a stripe of gray through it. His skin glowed a ghastly, phantasmal shade of cerulean. But his eyes haunted the tiny creature that trembled in fear before it. They were the color of blood. Something sharp stabbed him behind the eye, not the prick of tears, but the nagging thought of something important. He gawked at the eyes, coming closer as the thing floated nearer. Blood. Again, that feeling so like that of being stabbed in the head. The thought of stabbing brought the same figment.
"Ah, a new ghost," the placid, languid voice of the demon called out, hand wafting in the air flippantly. He glared down intimidating at the frightened being, mouth curled up in a snarl with a sharp fang poking out purposefully. "And who are you?"
Relinquishing his makeshift shield – an uncomfortable position it was in anyway – he gaped at the man like a fish. Before he could answer with an obligatory, "I dunno," something smacked him in the face. It pooled in his lap, white and pristine. Ducking under, the creature rose and with it, the sheet billowed around him. Lightning recognition shot through the being – something familiar about this cloth.
He drew his arms up like a mummy and cried out in a ridiculous drawl, "I AM THE BOOOOX GHOOOOOST!" the words flowed naturally, green eyes glowing like glimfire within the sheet. The other phantom had hence flown away, bored and disinterested already with much more meaningful things to attend to. The next word came out and ended with mad cackling. "BEWAAAAAAAAARE! WA HAHAHAHA!"
A/N: So, I have successfully re-watched and re-finished the Danny Phantom series. I had to add in Vladdie to this story because he is my phantom love. Haha, I found it so utterly hilarious that as I was watching this series, I posted to facebook, "I wish Vlad was my dad. I think it'd be cool to have a hilariously evil father." And then I got to the episode Kindred Spirits and laughed because a) he's a horrible father (still love you, V-man) and b) his 'daughter's' name is Dani. That's my nickname. It's pronounced "Dah-nee" because of the Spanish background, but I just laughed and laughed.
Anyway! This is a new thing I am starting here on fanfiction. Maddie Fenton said that these were self-aware manifestations of past memories. Soooooooooooooo, I was thinking – ghost's come from somewhere, yes? And traditional folklore has us believe they were once human. So my series is about the ghost's we all love and what they were like BEFORE they 'died' or what have you.
If anyone steals this idea, I'll have the story reported. Just a fair warning.
The other ghost's I'm working on are: Walker (his 'background' is my favorite and I'm spending the most time on it :3), Johnny/Kitty (they're tied), Technus, Skulker, Ember, Youngblood, Wulf, GHOST WRITER (another favorite of mine, because the ending has a twist ;D) Desiree, and lastly, Klemper.
Oh and… I promise you the other stories will be A LOT better than this. I just…I don't care much about Box Ghost. So, I spent the least amount of time on him :P Sorry, Boxie lovers ^^'
Anyway, it's 5 in the morning and this phantom – is out!