Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom.
Author's Note: By popular demand along with my own interest in this story, I bring you chapter two of The Veil. Expect sporadic updates and the chance of past chapters being revised and reuploaded as necessary. I do have plans for this story, but nothing strictly structured unlike most of my multi-chapter stories.
"Oneshot" Twenty-Five
The Veil – Chapter Two
It was a ghost. Actually, several ghosts; I was just focusing on the one that had actually touched me. Yuck, I was touched by a dead person!
. . . That sounds really wrong.
I tensed, staring like a deer in headlights at the ghost. She was still fairly young and would have been considered beautiful in life, with elegant hair and wearing a really old-fashioned dress. The only reason she wasn't beautiful was the way her eyes seemed to see without seeing, and more importantly the gaping wound across her midsection, blood staining the front of her bodice. She then turned around to face the direction of the door, and I gagged as I saw spectral intestines strain up against the lethal injury.
I watched – absolutely transfixed as if attending the showing to the latest hit horror movie – as her eyes widened with terror – over what? – and she fled with surprising fleetness for her choice of wear into the arms of the slightly older looking man, who would have looked quite gentlemanly were it not for the fact that his head was cloven almost completely in half down the middle. Urgh, I did not need to see that. He held the woman close to him, but could not hide the terror in his own features.
"Jonathan! Marianne!" he shouted in an echoing voice to the other two ghosts present, a teenage boy probably a few years older than me who appeared normal at first and a little girl covered in blood and without a head. The children ran over to him as unimpeded as the other two were by their wounds, the boy's revealed to be a nasty gash running down the length of his back. Together the family huddled together from some unperceived threat.
Wincing, my hands snapped up to cover my ears as shrill shrieks were suddenly emitted from all the ghosts but the father, even though his face had as much horror etched onto it as the rest of his family's. He then released his clinging family, and with a loud cry lunged at some unseen enemy with his hands poised to grapple with him over something. There was a struggle with an adversary that wasn't there, and then the father was pushed to the floor. Suddenly his head was driven down even more, and he fell still. The ghost then vanished from view.
My stomach sunk when I realized that this left the other ghosts to the mercy of whatever had cornered them.
Short work was made of the other three, but it was still sickening to see them jerk and collapse one-by-one to something invisible as if they were puppets with their strings cut, only to disappear almost immediately afterward. I wasn't sure if this or the trembling and helpless sobs of those whose time was to come was worse. I remained as rigid as death where I was for several moments longer, but when nothing more happened I allowed myself to relax.
What the hell was that!
A half-forgotten memory of my father's rambling rose to mind.
There are many kinds of ghosts, Danny-boy. One of the most common being imprints, also known as restligeists or residual hauntings if you want to be technical. The fascinating thing about imprints is that they can be found almost anywhere where strong emotions have been discharged; the stronger the emotions, the stronger the imprints. They're the vestiges – usually auditory or visual – of something that happened there. Of course, even then they're not easy to detect. When you go into ghost hunting these are the kind of ghosts I'll take you out to first encounter! Others are very dangerous even for a veteran ghost hunter like your old man!
Was this one of those imprints? My stomach hit rock-bottom as I realized that I had just witnessed a family's last – and utterly terrified – moments. It was one thing seeing the blood and knowing that a murder happened, but actually seeing it . . .
I was so shocked by this realization that the fact that I shouldn't even be able to have seen the imprint of the scene had passed me by completely.
I shook my head, trying to dispel the grisly event that I had witnessed but to no success. The images and sounds remained with me, forcing themselves to the fore of my mind with all the subtlety of a hammer.
Holy shit, Mom and Dad were right – ghosts do exist! My entire world suddenly felt flipped irrevocably upside down, all in the course of a single afternoon. I forced myself to snap my gaze away from the spot where the cowering mother and children had been slaughtered; turning it instead to the metal-and-screen thingamajig that wasn't so stupid as I thought it had been to me at first. A shudder wracked me at the eerie light it let off and the sight of the hazy humanoid figures walking aimlessly in and out of the frame.
I wasn't sure what it was, but I'm pretty sure everything is its fault. That and that electrical shock that I had . . . realizing something, I couldn't help but run a hand down my face. Now I know what happened! Of all the stupid . . . seriously, who else but me would grab what is essentially a lightning rod in the middle of a storm?
I should count my blessings that I'm alive and relatively unharmed. Then again, my brain feels like sputtering and dying on me as I try to reconcile with everything that had happened so recently and rapidly. Unfortunately, reality came calling in the form of my sister.
"Da-nny," she enunciates my name in that annoying tone that is a prelude to a lecture, "you know you're not supposed to be in this part of the house, now come on before . . ." she blanches as she takes in the sight of the blood. I hardly notice it now, finding it overlaid with fresher images of corpses and ghosts, all in the eldritch light emitted from my parents' invention.
"Eek, Danny! Let's get out of here! Being exposed to a place like this will damage the fragile health of your mind! Really, I have no idea what would possess Mom and Dad to making us live in a place like this!" she rambled, wrapping her arms around one of my own – avoiding my hands much to my relief – and dragging me out of the room.
Hey, that comment on my mind was not necessary! I'm sure it is perfectly fine, thank you very much!
Once we were out I wrenched my arm out of her grasp and glared at her.
"Me and my fragile mind will be up in my room, and I don't want to see you for the rest of the night." I stomped away, but quickly stopped as the action sent thick clouds of choking dust up into the air and threatened to break the floorboards. Even though I was doing my best to ignore her protests, I still couldn't help but zero-in on the last comment she made before I turned a corner and disappeared from her sight.
"Why did it sound like your voice was echoing?"
Maybe it's just the house, even though I didn't hear my voice echoing. So maybe it's just Jazz who is the one who needs to evaluate her mental health, rather than getting on everyone else's case about theirs.
LINE BREAK
I enter my room, shutting the door behind me before flinging myself onto my slightly too-small bed, which hardly rocks as my weight hits it unlike usual. I inhale deeply, taking in the smell of my recently washed pillowcase, mixed with that barely detectable scent that was my own along with the overbearing musty smell of my room. Unlike before, I find that my olfaction is not offended by it, and I chuckle humorlessly at that, figuring I must be getting too used to this place already. My life certainly wasn't as interesting as it has been turning out recently before we moved here, that's for sure. I think I understand now why the phrase 'may you live in interesting times' is considered a curse. In an effort to keep myself preoccupied – anything to distract myself from all of this confusing and horrible crap that has been dumped on me so suddenly – I wrack my brain trying to figure out if and when somebody might have said that to me, only to come up empty.
Sighing heavily, I rolled over onto my back and just stared at the ceiling for a while, not really seeing it. Instead, the translucent figures of nondescript ghosts dripping with gore wander over my vision. Screams echo in my ears, and everything seems far off. After a while I groan. Everything is so messed up. I'm so messed up. I glare at my hands. It's their entire fault, I just know it. These stupid painless burns and that stupid contraption and that damn storm. It must have fried my brain.
My life sucks now. Heck, this entire year has sucked. Freshman year, public ridicule and contempt for being my parents' son, The Move, and now all of this. I groan with the realization that Saturday is almost over and that I only have one more day until the weekend is over. I haven't even gotten started on my homework. Soon it'll be back to school, where expectations are heaped on your shoulders, teachers that don't give a damn stare down their noses at you like something unsavory, pretty girls won't give you the time of day, and bullies are intent on turning you into a canvas for bruises.
Why can't it all just go away!
What little of the evening pretty much passes with my wallowing unproductively in misery, and then I prepared for bed. Worst day ever.
LINE BREAK
The next day passed by uneventfully. The first thing I did upon waking up – after a night of little sleep that was unsurprisingly fitful, given what I had gone through – was check my burns. Yep, they were still there, and with no apparent change to them at all. I didn't leave the house at all even though the only other alternative is being bored all day at home (no way was I going to explore the uncharted areas of the house again right after yesterday.) It's just . . . I don't know, the thought of facing the outside world scares me after the accident with the weird invention thing.
For a while I rummaged around, finally finding the aim of my search in one of the spare rooms that my father used for his packrat storage near the master bedroom: gloves. I really don't want anyone to see my burns, and it's fortunate that Jazz missed them in favor of the bloodstains last night. Although worn out, the gloves were still in pretty good condition, even if they looked rough. They were black with short fingers lacking tips, only since these belonged to my dad they're huge, the short fingers of them coming up to the highest joint of my fingers. They were also very baggy, coming a fair distance past my wrist and slipping with every movement, but I solved this issue with some white Velcro strips that I had found near the gloves. Although they still looked awkward on my much smaller hands, the bindings kept them in place which was really all I was asking for right now. If I actually cared about appearance and we had the money, I would actually do something about my hair and wear something that doesn't scream sloppy, misfit teenage boy.
I soon spent time avoiding Jazz, though. The moment I greeted her at breakfast she had fixated on me, giving me a look that made me feel like one of her subjects for some fascinating something-or-other psychological project. She wouldn't stop pestering me. Fortunately, due to an utter lack of response, Jazz seemed to give up on whatever scheme she had on me sooner or later, as she eventually did leave the house.
The rest of the day I mostly lazed around, idly rereading some of the old comic books of Tucker's that had been left in my possession (accidentally, of course; there's no way I'd accept charity even though I can't afford comic books of my own) or tinkering with a couple of the model rockets that I had received for my birthday. There's absolutely nothing to do in this house, unless you're interested in the restoration of old homes or are a ghost hunter. At one point though I heard those same screams of the murdered family from yesterday, and I can only hope that it's not a frequent occurrence. Knowing my luck though, it probably is. Because life frickin' hates me, I swear.
My puttering around like this ended though as the day turned to night and I had to rush through all of the homework that I had put off until then, of course. Because what normal teenage boy actually sets aside time in their schedule – even if said time is wasted being bored – to study and do homework? Those freaky straight-A nerds that are in band and on the chess team and suck up to teachers, that's who. Mom and Dad also came home at this time, but because I was busy and they were exhausted after their mini-vacation and went almost straight to bed after arriving home we didn't see each other.
And that's how my weekend passed. Save for being electrocuted, witnessing a murder scene that happened ages ago, and re-hearing the screams today, the weekend was awfully dull.
LINE BREAK
I greeted Monday morning with a snarled 'go away' at my mom, who had rapped loudly on my bedroom door and shouted at me to wake up and get ready for school. Regardless, I still roll out of bed and make my way in a haze of sleepiness – I'm actually not as tired as I suspected I would be, considering that it had been early into the next day when I finally went to bed – through my morning routine. I stumble my way downstairs and into the kitchen, which is much more brightly lit even on this overcast day than the rest of the house, probably because of the bay windows. They're nice because they let in a lot of sunlight, even though you also have a great view of the wild yard and the dead trees through it. The kitchen is probably my favorite part of the house, Mom having made it a pleasant refuge from the rest of the creepy place.
"Morning." I say and plop myself into a chair at the kitchen table. The smell of eggs and pancake makes my stomach rumble, and only just then do I realize just how ravenous I am. I feel like I can eat a horse.
Mom gives a start, whipping around at the speed of light and brandishing the spatula she held like a sword, her face intense. My eyes widen in surprise, wondering why she reacted so. She had these little starts occasionally, but never because of me. When she saw that it was just me she lowered the makeshift weapon, but her face took a moment to loosen up.
"Morning sweetie." she responded, her tone slightly strained due to whatever it was that had her act like she had, but she smiled at me nonetheless and that eased my concern.
The rest of the morning passed normally, even with Dad's boisterous entrance – albeit his good mood muted somewhat as he laid his eyes upon me, and I saw him eyeing me with something like suspicion. At one point I noticed him reaching toward the salt jar, which is normal for him when eating. Still, the hairs on the back of my neck tingled, seeming to be screaming a warning at me, and I ducked not a moment too soon; the salt he flung at me went sailing over my head and scattered on the floor behind me. Mom glared at Dad for that, and he didn't try it again for the rest of the time I spent in his presence. Breakfast was otherwise spent in relative peace, although I panicked when Mom inquired about my gloves and only managed to distract her by pointing out that the toast was burning.
Unsettled for some reason that I couldn't place a finger on, I scarfed the rest of my breakfast down. I still felt very hungry (I hope this means that I'm hitting a growth spurt; I'm long overdue for one), but I'd already had two servings and I had to get going to school anyway. The bus doesn't come along this way, so I have to walk to school. It's not too far away, but I don't have the luxury of risking being tardy like the star athletes have. Besides, if I don't scurry to class early enough a jock will probably find me and stuff me in a locker or something.
With a hurried farewell to my parents I sling my beaten up backpack onto my back and exit the house. I take a breath of the crisp early spring morning air, having forgotten what it was like after being cooped up in the house for most of the weekend. I started walking at a fast pace down the path that headed out onto the main road, casting a last long look at the crappy place before the trees obscured it from my view.
It's the most inexplicable thing in the world, but I'm feeling as if I'm literally being tugged back to the house. I kind of don't want to leave. It's probably just because of what my destination is, though. The feeling is soon over and forgotten anyway.
On to school, oh joy. I am so brimming with glee at the mere prospect of returning to the educational institution, and no, I am totally not being sarcastic.
In case you didn't get it, I actually was being sarcastic.
LINE BREAK
I turned onto the road heading to Casper High, the sudden change from beaten dirt track to asphalt underfoot jarring me back to reality. Shortly after leaving the house I had been lost in thought, most over lamenting the fact that I would be returning to school far too early than I felt was healthy. Feeling out of sorts, I still really don't want to see anyone; even Sam and Tucker, and they're my best friends.
Pausing to recollect myself, I notice something strange: there are no twigs or scratches decorating me. I have never been able to make it through those woods before without getting some sign of my passing. Come to think of it, I can't even recall the feeling of brushing up against any of the trees or foliage. That's strange, but not an unpleasant revelation.
Heartened that I wouldn't have to pick anything out of my clothes and hair I continued on to school, stopping only once it loomed in sight. I gulped at the two-story brick building and the students milling around it. Right now I'm trying to figure out where I'd rather be: back at the house or at school on a Monday – scratch that, any – morning. Sadly enough, I think the house is winning.
An unexpected slap to my back sends me stumbling forward tripping over my own two feet, and I pinwheel my arms to stop from falling down completely. Glaring, I turned around to see Tucker and Sam, the former grinning like a fox.
"I'm going to get you back for that, you know." I warned.
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, we missed you. Were you confined to that house this entire weekend?" he responded, nonchalantly waving off my threat.
"Remember, you have to bring us over! Is it really haunted? You look as pale as a ghost – did you see one?" Sam interjected, and I flinched.
"Uh, sure. No, of course not – ghosts don't exist after all." I kept my gaze down, picking at the hem of my slightly large shirt. Sam didn't seem convinced, but thankfully changed the topic. Unfortunately, it wasn't to anything much better.
"Trying to make a new fashion for yourself?" she asked with a tease to her voice, pointing at my gloves.
"I guess." after all, I'm going to be wearing these until the burns heal. I ignored the niggling little voice in the back of my head that said 'if'. And even if they did, I was without doubt that obvious scars would be left behind. I'm still not sure exactly what happened, but I don't want to invite any questioning.
"They look sick. And hey, if you wear more black then you'll match your girlfriend!" Tucker chuckled.
The morning bell rang and cut off the protest that Sam and I were just about to launch a rant at him over being called a couple. Still, if looks could kill Tucker would be a pile of ashes.
"Come on, let's–" I start saying as I move to enter the building, only to be interrupted by a loud ripping sound, followed by a sudden ease of weight off of my back. I groan loudly as I see that my backpack has split open (again, ugh) and dumped its unwieldy contents all over the ground.
I start gathering up my stuff in my arms, making a note in the back of my head to get my hands on some duct tape as soon as possible. Sam and Tucker bend down to start helping.
"You guys go on ahead, I'll be done soon and catch up." I insisted, and they left.
I was just snatching up the last of my pencils when a large shadow fell upon me. Noticing the sudden shift of light almost immediately, I looked up and gulped to see a large figure looming over me. I'm starting to think that this day is turning out worse than the one I got electrocuted on! It's none other than Dash Baxter, freshman quarterback in football and my biggest bully.
"Hey Fenton, you know what I got on my test last Friday?" the jock growled. Gulping, I shake my head 'no'. Joy, he's taking out the frustration of his poor achievements on me again. He does this almost every time he has a test. What is worse is that he's probably been stewing on this for a while.
"A 'D'! You know what that stands for?" he warned.
"Err . . . no?"
"Dead meat, as in you!"
I winced as the burns on my hands tingled. Then I responded to my instincts. Ignoring the last miscellaneous small objects I lost, I fled toward and into the school building. Dash, obviously anticipating this react, pursued me a moment later. Albeit I had a short head start Dash would usually have caught me by now, but such was not the case currently. I felt light, like a companion of wind, as I tore down the linoleum-tiled halls of Casper High with Dash close behind.
Then a realization hit me that I couldn't keep this up forever, that he was still stubbornly on my tail and would catch me sooner or later. Skittering around a corner and then picking back up the pace lost from the turn, I fervently wished that he couldn't see me, that I might miraculously make it into the relative safety of the classroom we shared for first period before he could get a beating in.
Dash appeared around the corner. Not hearing his heavy footfalls against the floor a couple moments later I chanced a glance back, to see that the athlete had stopped and was looking around with a befuddled expression. I'm right here in the middle of the hallway, so why isn't he chasing me?
Not one to look a gift horse in the mouth I headed off to class, jumping up into the air and coming surprisingly lightly down in what felt like a longer time than it should have taken as I heard Dash bellow.
"Fen-turd, just wait until after school!"
I slipped after another student into the classroom right before the bell rung and plopped down into my seat, which was in the front row next to Sam's and before Tucker's. Mr. Lancer – the first period English teacher – still wasn't in yet, but the should-have-been rowdy room was hushed. Twisting around in my seat I saw that my friends were staring at me. Or at least, Sam was; Tucker was sharing his attention between me and his PDA.
"What?" I asked.
"When did you get here? We were watching the door the entire time and you never once came in. And now you're suddenly here!" Sam burst. I squirmed, feeling as if I were on the wrong side of interrogation.
"Maybe I just came in when you two blinked?" I offered up lamely. Sam scoffed – clearly not buying it – but dropped the topic as Mr. Lancer entered the classroom, Dash close behind. The latter shot me a glare that had fear coiling in my gut before he sat down at his desk in the back of the classroom with a huff.
Mr. Lancer called for homework and the papers were passed up to the front to be quickly snatched up by the portly teacher and then dropped onto his desk. Then the period passed in its usual way: a boring lecture which I took scant notes to while doodling in the margins. My mind was a mile away, inevitably finding its way back to the dark interior of the house and its unwelcome inhabitants. Not the vermin, I should make clear.
When the period ended I swept my stuff onto my ruined backpack and gathered up the fabric so that the makeshift bundle wouldn't end up dropping everything over the ground again. I sighed, and went off to my next classes with Tucker and Sam beside me. The mood to talk was pretty much defunct, so our passing period was spent with Sam ranting about how inhumane eating meat was, while Tucker was pulled away from his PDA and drawn into an argument with her. I was stuck in the middle of this stupid little personal diets feud of theirs again. Ugh. Thankfully we reached the next class and they had to shut up before the sneer that had suddenly found its way on Sam's face was backed up by what she had to say next.
LINE BREAK
Lunchtime was finally here. Sam, with her bagged lunch, grabbed a table for us as Tucker and I hurried to the lunch line to buy our own lunches.
What they were serving was . . . not expected, to say the least. I stared in shock at the contents on my tray, trying to reconcile it with food only to fail. This was not food! This was grass growing out of a sodden hunk of bread, with mud on the side! I get that our school is cheap, but I think that this is going overboard.
Tucker's reaction was even worse. He had been reduced to a blubbering mess, and I had to escort him back to our table. Once we sat down he started lamenting the loss of his meat. Albeit I agreed with him, even I had to roll my eyes at his histrionics.
"Well I think it's great!" Sam declared in a chipper, smug manner, and I swore I felt one of my eyes twitch.
"You would, wouldn't you? In fact, this seems like something that you would do . . ." I trailed off, allowing my insinuation to hang clear and loud in the air. Tucker, dense as he is, picked up on it. With the manner of a man wronged he pushed himself up into a stand, face hard as he jabbed an accusatory finger at Sam.
"This is all your fault!" he shouted angrily. Sam stood up then, equaling her level with Tucker, but with a more calm expression as she feigned disinterest, pretending to closely scrutinize the nails of one of her hands instead.
"Well, I just happened to mention to some people that our school could make advancements in student health and food costs if they switched to more environmentally-friendly alternatives. Ultra-recyclo-vegetarianism is a very cheap lifestyle, I'll have you know."
I stopped paying attention to their soon-to-escalate argument the moment something hit me heavily on the back of my head and dripped down onto my T-shirt, plastering to my skin and hair unpleasantly. I reluctantly reached a hand back, touching my exposed fingertips to the substance and bringing a smidgeon of it up to my face. Urgh, mud. It's a better alternative to what it could have possibly been, but still. At least, I hope it's mud . . . it's really accessible right now, but anything can happen in a high school.
Snickers at my expense rose from the nearby tables like a mean-spirited laugh track from a sitcom. Doubtful that this was an accident, I turned around, blanching when I saw Dash stomp up to me, a plate of grass and mud – a chunk of the latter conspicuously missing from a part of his tray – held up in one hand.
"Fentoid! This is all your creepy girlfriend's fault!"
"He is not my boyfriend!" Sam objected loudly but was ignored, Dash and his lackeys focused on me instead. It's not a good circumstance, but I'm kind of glad for that – Sam is strong, stronger than me actually, but she's still a girl. I don't think Dash actually would hit a girl, but I would never be able to forgive myself if she got hurt for me.
Lost in that train of thought, I didn't return to reality until a bunch of mud was dropped onto my head, spraying out to cover my shoulders and the floor around me also. Guffawing, Dash and the other jocks left after shooting some bad puns at me. A chill crept over me, and I felt as if my heart was slowing, stopping, turning to ice. Suddenly I wanted to lunge at him and . . . and what?
I hung my head, realizing that I was as helpless as always. There was nothing I could do to get back at Dash: he was significantly bigger and stronger than me, and had the school faculty eating out of his hands. His parents weren't called crazy, a label that could easily be applied to me should I act out as their lackluster son. I wasn't a straight-A, intelligent and well-dressed student; I was just Danny, a scrawny and average boy who hung out with other outcasts.
I ducked out of the cafeteria, doing my best to ignore the jeers of my peers and the concern of my two friends. Entering the bathroom, I make my way over to a sink and stare into the mirror that hung over it. Mud is flattening my unruly hair and streaked down my face, along with staining the upper part of my shirt. I groaned before turning on the faucet. I looked around and, seeing no one else in the bathroom with me, loosened a couple of the Velcro strips on my gloves until I could strip them off and tuck them into a pocket of my jeans. Seeing the still-fresh burns on my hands I winced. Although not in pain, they were gruesome looking.
Wetting my hands I did my best to scrape the mud from myself with them. Once I feel like I have done a decent job I look back up into the mirror, assessing my appearance. I got most of it off save for on the shirt, which is now damp and rather brown and just plain unpleasant looking. Ah well, a go through the wash will probably do it fine. What doesn't look alright is me. Has my skin always been that pale? I lean closer forward. The bathroom lighting is weird; it almost looks like I'm glowing, making my pallid complexion stand out all the more.
How disconcerting. I'm surprised that Mom didn't send me back to my room for sick rest the moment she laid eyes upon me this morning. Sighing, I grab a paper towel and dry off my hands before pulling on my gloves and exiting the bathroom.
That's when things get weird. Well, weirder. I'm starting to see a trend in my life, and it all ties back to my parents.
I was just passing by the faculty-only door leading into the kitchens when I felt a chill descend upon me, seeping into my very being. Something inside me recognizes it as inexplicably familiar, like a half-remembered acquaintance. My curiosity piqued, I backtrack to peek through the window set in the door. I don't see any cause of the cold feeling, as the freezers are all the way on the far side of the kitchen.
Quickly growing bored I turn to leave until I realized something odd. There's a rotund lady dressed like the other kitchen workers in their midst, but she's just standing there and looking about in confusion. Is she senile? No one else seems to notice her either. I gape when I see someone pass through her, still acting as if she isn't there.
My mind brings up an inevitable conclusion, one that I don't want to acknowledge.
Ghost.
Another one! I moan loudly, feeling sick to my stomach. Am I going to start seeing dead people all over the place? Shakily, I move to leave, but am stopped by a firm hand latching itself onto my shoulder. I practically jump out of my skin.
Turning around, my eyes widen when I see that it is none other than the ghost. I crinkle my nose: she smells like freezer burn and slightly of meat recently gone bad.
"Excuse me dearie, but I was hoping that you could clear up a misunderstanding for me?" she asked in a granny voice, taking me aback. I thought that ghosts were supposed to be stupid and evil, if the way Dad goes about them is any indication. This one actually seems sentient, unlike the imprints from the house.
"Err, sure?"
The lunch lady ghost beamed, and I wonder if the fact that no other humans could see frustrated her.
"Excellent! I came back here today – today is meatloaf day, you know – but there's no meat anywhere! Where has it gone?"
"Well, the menu was changed. My friend Sam convinced the school to change to an ultra-recyclo-vegetarianism one." I grumbled at that. Only to feel a painful pressure exerted from the hand on my shoulder. I look back up at the ghost from where my gaze dropped, only to recoil. She is livid. An unnatural wind has picked up; causing her clothes and hair to whip about furiously, and her formerly matronly eyes have become pits of green fire, flaring out to lick at the edges of the sockets. It feels as if ice cubes have been pressed against my burns.
"Changed the menu? Changed the menu! NO MEAT?!" my hands flew to my ears as she screeched, an otherworldly wail echoing in her voice. The stench of expired meat became stronger.
Fortunately she seems to pay me no more heed, releasing her grip on me and flying (yes, flying) low to the ground instead. The wind left in her wake ruffled me. I remained standing stock-still where I was in a daze for several moments until a rumbling sound that was becoming progressively louder broke me out of it. Screams came from the kitchen, signaling that it was time to go. I bolted down the hallway, only for a flurry of meat to burst through the heavy steel kitchen door and fly in a trail down the ghost's path – the same one as mine. The amazing flying food quickly overcame me, and after a sudden pummeling in the back I collapsed and passed out.
LINE BREAK
Author's Note: Yet another chapter that was split up. Anyway, sorry that this took forever to upload; I had this chapter written before, but I scrapped most of what I had, gave up in writer's block, and then typed this up in a total of a few hours when inspiration struck. This is still obviously a rough version, most especially with the tense errors. Golly gee, tenses are the most frustrating things in the world. When and if (albeit it is likely, so don't worry too much about the 'if') I write the third chapter then The Veil shall be made into a story of its own. Please review, especially if you have constructive criticism.