.
.
I'VE NEVER SEEN Sam so murderous. Underneath a lot of that anger is fear. Sam would rather punch and rant than be afraid. As soon as the video upload completes she demands to watch it. She repeats it several times, as if she can't quite believe it.
"This is sick." She's said it over and over. "This is really sick, Danny."
"I'm trying not to jump to conclusions," I say. Afterall, these are my parents we're talking about. I feel afraid and trusting of them, all at the same time. I don't really know how that's possible.
"You're like… one of those frogs."
I'm not sure what to say to that, so I let her keep scrubbing that little progress bar back, looping in on my mother injecting me. It's at the tenth time that I take Tucker's PDA from her and toss it back to him.
"What are you going to do?" She wants action, some kind of way to resolve this, but I don't have it.
"I'm going to start with opening this drawer," I tell her. It's the only thing I can think of doing right now: Scour this entire house for any answers while my parents are away.
Sam's purses her lips into a hairline. She turns to the drawer with grim determination. "Oh, don't worry. I'll open it." She says this with the unwavering confidence that only Sam Manson possesses.
.
.
Sam takes several tries before getting close to cracking the lock. Each time she fails, she unleashes a frustrated growl and tries again. Her face is half shrouded as she works, lips moving back and forth in adorable twitches of concentration. I realize I've been staring and I look up to see Tucker giving me a pointed look. He raises an eyebrow suggestively. I ignore him.
"I think I got it," Sam announces, her fingertips frozen in place as she carefully twists the pin. The lock gives way with a soft pop. She grins triumphantly. "That's right. Bow down."
"Sam, you diabolical thief," Tucker cheers.
"You're amazing." I could kiss her. She blushes for a moment, tossing me a shy smile, before the brief flush of victory drains out of us and we remember why we're opening this drawer in the first place.
"Ready?" Sam asks me. Her hand hovers nervously above the drawer.
"No," I say. "But do it."
She nods and grabs the handle. Tucker and I gather close behind. I'm not sure what to prepare for.
The first thing I see is one of my mother's ectoguns. This one is sleek and new and the ammunition is full. I grab it out of the drawer and disconnect the pod to look closer at the ectoplasm in it. As I tilt the pod back and forth the liquid flows freely, low in viscosity. In fact, the pod weighs nothing. It's glow is constant, unwavering; the greenest of greens. It's purer than any kind of ectoplasm I've seen, besides my own.
"Danny," Sam's saying. "Look at this."
In her hands is a vial full of the same pure ectoplasm; a vial very similar to the one that Maddie had in the video. She spins it around. There's another sticky note on it. I'm starting to really hate these Post-Its. One word, a name, just like on that prescription bottle. It says: Skulker.
Skulker. Skulker, who had told me I couldn't die; who had begged to go inside my Thermos, as if he needed to escape something, or someone. Skulker, who was a ghost. Ghosts were made up of pure ectoplasm. Ectoplasm like what was in that vial. Ectoplasm like what was—
"Something tells me this isn't supposed to be used on Skulker," Tucker's grin is pained.
The room warps. My skin crawls. Is this all that's left of him? Had I unintentionally doomed Skulker by putting him in my room for my mother to find? What happened to all the other ghosts I've caught? And then a worse thought creeps into my mind: Are they all just recycled and shot into my arm while I'm asleep?
"Hey, whoah. Easy. Breathe, Danny." Sam's hand steadies my arm. She hides the vial in her bag so I can't see it, her eyes swimming in front of my face.
"I'm fine," I mumble.
"Tucker, the—"
A chair squeaks from behind me. Sam's hands grasp me roughly by my shoulders. My vision is fading into white dots, circular white light, I'm blind, Sam's voice is blotted out by screaming in my ears, helplessness, the portal—
When the fog clears I feel like I've taken a shower. My shirt sticks to my chest, clinging to the cold sweat. I have no idea how long I've been out of it. I feel like I've just run a marathon. Like I've just sprinted the last mile and I'm in between collapsing or puking.
"—didn't know he'd freak!"
"Of course he freaked! You need to be more sensitive."
Their voices fade back in and begin to make sense. I'm sitting in the desk chair, but I don't remember how I got here. Tucker and Sam are holding onto my shoulders, keeping me leaning back into it.
"Danny?" Sam sees that I'm holding myself up on my own.
"Sorry." I've got enough of my wits back to know I've just fainted over a Post-It, in front of Sam. There's drool on my chin. I might die of embarrassment.
"Why would you be sorry?" she asks.
They both slowly let go of my shoulders. I manage to keep myself steady in the chair. I want to stand up to prove to them that I'm not as unnerved as I look, but Sam shoves me back with a firm press of her palm.
"Stay put for a while."
"You went all zombie on us," Tucker jokes.
Sam shoots him a dirty look and he shuts up, looking properly chastised. "Maybe we should take a break? We can finish going through the drawer later."
"No." It flies out of my mouth. "I need to know. Now."
Sam shifts from foot to foot.
"I'm fine," I stress.
"That's what you said right before you nearly fell on us," Tucker chuckles nervously.
I shove Sam's hand off my chest and stand up. My heart thuds sickly in my chest but I ignore it. Just like I ignore the beginnings of a headache brewing behind my eyes.
"Alright," Sam says. She turns back to the drawer and pulls out a letter and a bunch of loose-leaf readouts. "That's everything."
"What about the pills?" I root around in all the drawers, but can't find the bottle that was there last week. My parents must have moved it. Do they know that I've been snooping? I swallow.
"No pills. Just these." Sam hands me the readouts.
I thumb through the pages, but can't make sense of anything. There's hardly any labelling on them and even when there is they're all jumbled numbers and letters. I pause when I hit an important-looking graph. I don't know what it's a graph of, but there's two tracks. One line graph— which goes through extreme ups and downs— is labelled E1-M. The other line graph— which increases steadily over time— is labelled E2-F.
"Dr. Madeline Fenton, we would be honored for you to present your research at our upcoming Our Next Leap Forward retreat…" Tucker reads aloud from the letter. "The retreat takes place on Saturday March 24th and Sunday March 25th, and will host different seminars on topics ranging from Cloning to Cryogenics…"
"That's today," Sam mumbles.
"Does it say what time they're supposed to talk?" I ask.
Tucker flips the paper over and looks down at the schedule. "1:30."
"What time is it right now?"
Sam glances down at her plastic bat-patterned watch. "1:02."
"Do you think they're broadcasting this anywhere?"
.
.
Tucker's searching away on my computer, scanning the Our Next Leap Forward website. There's photos of lots of people in white science-y coats, posing in front of different inventions.
"Dedicated to advancing the human body through science, technology, and discovery." Tucker reads.
Sam snorts from her position next to me on my bed. "Sounds like a bunch of elitists with too much money desperately trying not to get old."
"Advancing the human body? Like solving male baldness or acne?" I ask hopefully, knowing in my heart that the answer's a no.
"I thought your parents studied ghosts not people?" Tucker spins around in my desk chair, shooting me a look, before going back to the laptop.
Ghosts are people. Right? But… he's got a point. My parents have never shown any interest in living things, so why speak at a retreat on the body? I churn that around in my head, the thought souring and curdling the more I stew on it.
"Ah-ha. Here's a live stream."
A stage unfolds as the video buffers. It's 1:27. A middle-aged woman with too much botox stands at a podium. Her smile looks strained and permanent. That, coupled with her huge hair, makes her seem a little unstable. There's enough zeal in that smile to rule an entire country. She waggles her microphone around, her voice cutting in and out a bit with each nervous tremor.
"Our next speaker has been working quietly in the background for many, many years. She is prepared to share some of her research for the first time with us today. It is my absolute pleasure to invite Dr. Madeline Fenton to the stage."
There's a soft knock on my door and all three of us freeze.
"Danny?" Jazz opens the door a bit. "Have you guys eaten any lunch?"
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from telling her to go away. My hesitation is taken as a no and Jazz barges into my room, sandwiches in hand. She pauses when she sees all of us huddled around my monitor.
"Is that Mom?" she asks.
I'm suddenly hit with the terrible idea that Jazz might be in on all this too and that she's going to turn me in. But she's smiling and plopping herself right in between Sam and I. Sam mutters darkly as Jazz accidentally elbows her. She's completely oblivious to Sam's 'no touching' rule.
I grab half of a sandwich. My hand hitches when I catch sight of my vitamins on a napkin.
Jazz notices my pause. "Mom told me to make sure you take them."
Sam is rigid next to me. She's grinding her teeth so loudly I'm practically drowning in her disapproval.
"Why don't you have to take these?" I ask Jazz. I watch her facial expression for any sign that she knows more than she's letting on.
She shrugs. "Maybe they're a boy thing? I dunno. Just get it over with." She picks up the glass of water from the tray and hands it to me.
I take the water from her and grab the pills. Just as I go to put them in my mouth, I drop them down my sleeve. Sam and Tucker stare at me, thinking I actually took them. They don't need to worry. Ever since finding that prescription bottle in the basement last week I haven't taken my vitamins. I've perfected this sleight of hand, going so far as to keep the pills in my palm and then turn my hand intangible conveniently over the garbage can. I take a gulp of water, swallow, and show my tongue to Jazz like a prison inmate, mouth empty.
On the monitor Mom's finally on stage. She's pristine in a pressed white lab coat, her hair in a bob sharp enough to cut paper. A calm smile flickers across her face; she's unfazed by the size of the audience. There's a single sheet of paper sitting atop the podium, but she doesn't even glance at it.
"When I was fourteen my grandfather died," A pause, a ducked head, as if to mourn. No one moves. No one even sneezes or coughs. She continues, each word slow and deliberate.
"I remember feeling as though he had slipped through some kind of void. He had moved into a place I couldn't follow. Where had he gone? What had happened to him? And then it hit me: If he could die, could I die too? Could I be swallowed by that abyss? The thought terrified me."
This is the first time I've heard my mom talk about this. Sure, she talks about ghosts all the time. But death? I frown and glance over at Jazz. She's twisting her hair around her finger, eyes wide.
"I've since dedicated my life to understanding death and all of its inevitability. So many of us choose to extend life by studying the living. I, on the other hand, believe the secret lies in understanding what happens to us post-mortem."
She has their attention. Sometimes I forget just how genius my mother is. It's scary, how brilliant she is.
"Belief, emotion, logic— all made possible by one mystery: The human consciousness. It is a cornerstone of life that eludes precise definition, yet is absolutely vital to our existence. Fundamental laws of nature decree that energy cannot be created nor destroyed. Is it possible, then, that consciousness, in some form, survives the body?"
A pause. Maddie takes a sip of water from a glass on her podium as she waits for the audience to soak that in. "This brings me to a topic you have all been, undoubtedly, anticipating: Ghosts."
There's a smattering of soft laughter. Obviously my parent's reputation precedes them, although I'm surprised at the lack of snickering and whispered doubts.
"The word 'ghost' is riddled with connotations of paganism and witchcraft. Regardless, they exist." The audience is no longer laughing. "My husband and I have succeeded in obtaining many stable specimens of post-human matter." —her clinical handwriting, a Post-It Note labelled: Skulker— "Matter, because these remnants of consciousness— or echoes of the soul, if you will— sustain themselves through a unique substance I call Ectoplasm."
Maddie's hand darts into her lab coat. She holds up a familiar glowing green vial. The audience is suddenly restless, craning their necks, whispering to one another, jostling to get a closer look.
"Besides being a cleaner and safer energy source than nuclear power, it has the potential to produce absolutely amazing effects on—"
The video freezes.
"Tucker!" I yell. He's already tapping at the video feed, pressing it on and off, refreshing the page, reloading it, clearing the cache, but nothing works. Maddie is frozen holding that vial, once again, on my computer screen.
"Dammit!" I hiss.
"Jeeze. Calm down, Danny." Jazz looks at me funny. "Since when have you cared about what Mom and Dad do for a living anyways?"
"They cut it off on purpose."
Tucker shoots me a warning look.
"Who's 'they'?" Jazz asks tentatively.
I rub my temples in frustration. Although, the idea that my parents could have caused the stream to pause is ridiculous. Instead of answering her, I stuff my face with the rest of my sandwich, chewing without taste to give myself something to do.
Sam comes to my rescue, right on cue. She rolls her eyes. "The NSA must have a thing against ghosts."
"Or maybe against boring science fairs," Tucker tacks on with a peal of fake laughter.
Jazz has the look on her face of someone that wants to be in on the joke, but doesn't get it. "I guess…" She gets up and gathers the plates together. "You guys are kinda weird, you know that?"
"Thanks." Sam grins brightly.
"I'm sure Dad filmed her speech," Jazz says as she moves from the room, "I'll tell them you want to see it when they get back."
"Great," I squeak. "Just great." Then a thought hits me. "Hey, Jazz," I call out.
She pauses, hand still on my bedroom door. "What?"
"Did Mom give you the bottle of my vitamins?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"Can I… Can I see it?"
.
.
"This is like Sherlock," Tucker babbles. "Am I Watson?"
I had shared a similar sentiment, until I'd realized just how real this was and just how devastating all of this could be. Sam opens her mouth angrily, but I beat her to it. "This isn't a TV show, Tucker. This is my life," I snap, more harshly than intended.
Tucker flushes and nods.
"Sorry," I sigh. My anger bleeds away, leaving a pounding in my head. I know Tucker is just trying to lighten the mood. God knows one of us has to. It's part of why Tucker and I are friends. He can laugh at everything I want to cry at; at everything that Sam wants to scream at. Only this time his nervous joking hits a little too close to home.
"This isn't the same bottle." I tell them, changing the subject. The bottle in my hand is white with a blue label that says: One Daily for Men, High Potency Multivitamin Supplement. I pull my phone out and compare it to the photo of the bottle I'd seen before. The one from before is bright orange with a childproof white top.
"My dad takes these," Sam suddenly voices, eyes blazing with inspiration. She takes the bottle from my hand to examine it. "At least, I'm pretty sure it's the same label. We could go compare the vitamins in this to the ones at my house."
She puts it in her bag. As she opens it a faint green glow emits from within and I remember the vial with Skulker's name on it. My mouth goes dry.
"What… what do you think she was about to say right before the video feed cut out?"
Sam and Tucker turn to look at me like they both have an idea, but they don't want to say it aloud. I have an idea too. A horrible idea.
—tbc—
Thank you NoAlias, MsFrizzle, Midnight, and ZoneRobotnik for your reviews!