AN: Happy New Year for 2020! May your vision be fantastic this year!
Danny smiled to himself as he walked through town, humming a little Christmas carol he could never remember 'ye olde lyrics' to.
The winter had fully come, meaning Amity was blanketed in a layer of snow the children played in and adults trudged through. Plows with flashing yellow lights rumbled through, clearing the streets in a futile effort as more flakes just began falling in its wake.
November had wound down quietly after the fall of The Producer.
Once reconnected, Amity had a wary reacquaintance with technology in wake of the Electronic Prohibition. Some, like Tucker, threw themselves right back into their internet lifestyles while others were a little more reluctant to let their kids anywhere near a screen. Danny had a feeling Santa wouldn't get a lot of electronic gizmos on his list this year.
But the trees were being wreathed and lit as the season started up again seemed to help thaw out the frosty reception. Especially since their new Mayor had a lot of promise.
Yep, Vlad won in a landslide (surprise, surprise).
As his first act as Mayor, he got a photoshoot with Phantom announcing the successful capture of the Producer and a promise to work with the ghostly hero in the future.
After that, the attitude towards Phantom warmed considerably. It would take time, but… they'd get there again.
In the meantime, he was actually breathing easier these days. Ghosts weren't attacking quite as often anymore, considering the Christmas Truce was coming up and ghosts either had plans for a party or didn't feel like getting in a fight and missing a party to recover.
The worst he got was a couple annoying visits from Boxy taking advantage of the holiday rush full of boxes and presents. That might've actually caused a little negative PR for Phantom considering his ectoblasts destroyed, like, 20 gifts. But in his defense, what kind of person boxes up a 15 pound bowling ball that ended up slamming into his gut in a deceptively cutesy, lacey package?
He tugged his jacket closer around his shoulder as he turned the corner to a building just on the edge of downtown.
'Lindermann Funeral Home and Services' read the sign out front.
It was an impressive building, despite its somber purpose. Sam would've approved wholeheartedly. The place was a repurposed three-story Victorian mansion painted a rich navy blue with slate gray and white trimmings. A wrap-around porch elegantly wound its way over the entrance and a turret proudly spired along the side.
Danny had hazy memories of this place being an operational funeral home during his life, though not under Mr. Lindermann.
The memory was a little soured at the thought he might've been… 'prepared' here alongside his family.
…
Pushing that aside, he walked up the steps and entered the foyer. The first floor was all interconnected with open archways, allowing easy access for mourners and visitors. He could see down the hall towards the 'viewing room' towards the back, rows of pew-like seats facing towards the raised platform where the remains would be presented. A side room to the right was stocked with chairs, couches, and tissue boxes while to the left a room was lined with tables holding photographs and memorabilia of somebody who would probably have a service later today.
"Heh-hmm."
Danny turned towards the cleared throat to a man in a formal black suit walking in from the display and memorabilia room, "I'm afraid the service doesn't start until 6. We'd appreciate it if you left while we're still setting up-"
"Oh, I-I'm not here for the funeral, sorry," Danny apologized, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm actually here to see Mr. Lindermann? My name's Danny Fenton, he should be expecting me."
It was true. Earlier in the week, Sally had come knocking at the Specter House and told him her dad wanted to talk. Since he didn't have a real phone number, email, or even a valid mailing address, he was hard to reach.
The man regarded him a second before nodding, "Alright, come on upstairs. He's in a phone call right now, but we'll let you stick around."
He led Danny up a set of stairs going up to the second floor. Danny was intrigued to see the upstairs still had the formal wallpaper and decorative moulding of the original house, but the rooms were repurposed with desks, monitors, filing cabinets, and even a little kitchenette.
"Huh, I've never really been upstairs in places like this before." Danny muttered to himself.
"Yep." The man popped the 'p', "You'll see that in a lot of old places. The first floor is like a sub shop or jewelry store and the upstairs is a prep work and accounting space or leased out to lawyers and small businesses.
"The first floor in this place is the actual funeral home. Upstairs we deal with all the finance, accounting, advertising, everything a normal business has to do. The third floor and attic space are all storage while we have two basement levels for embalming, body prep work, and cold storage."
They stopped in a room with a closed door to an office reading 'Samuel Lindermann' and several desks and chairs. Presently, only one other man was typing away at one of the computers.
"Hey, Brian, he's waiting to talk to the boss, just let him stick around. I'm gonna grab some stuff real quick." The man said to the remaining occupant.
The guy nodded quietly and resumed typing. He was a younger guy in his early 30's with a dark black jacket covering a faded yellow hoodie.
Danny absently made his way towards a seat beside the door. Attention waning, he scanned the room. It felt like a pretty normal office space, a couple desks and computers were neatly set up, each with knickknacks and things to complement their personalities.
One desk in particular was decked out with lots of bits and bobs for shows Tucker called 'anime' and other, relatively childish, things. Mickey Mouse, Bugs Bunny, little action figures, all lined up like a personal army. The only thing out of place on the surface was an open first aid kit and a roll of unwound bandages.
The desk directly beside him, though, was dull in comparison. Computer monitor, coffee thermos, and a couple papers and folders. Outside of that, it was devoid of anything really worth noting.
Which was why the bright orange bottle immediately stood out.
His curiosity compelled him, and he found himself staring at the label.
'Tegretol (Carbamezepine) 200 mg, 1 tablet as needed to prevent-"
He was startled as a hand grabbed the pill bottle suddenly and yanked it back.
The hand belonged to a man in his early 30's with prominent sideburns down his otherwise clean-shaven face. He had a stockier, burly build and wore a dark yellow zip-up jacket over it closed all the way to the turtle-neck. His eyes were narrowed with suspicion and indignation.
Danny began trying to stammer out an apology, but the man just huffed. He smelled potently like an ashtray.
"Anti-seizure meds." He grunted, eyes still boring into Danny's.
"I-I'm so-sorry, I-I-" Danny stammered.
The man brusquely turned to the other guy in the room. "I'm back off my smoke break. You got that file, Brian?"
The other man, Brian, nodded mutely and pulled a manila folder out of a stack towards the smoky man. He sneaked another glare at Danny, pocketing his pill bottle, and tucking the folder under his arm while leaving.
"I'll bring this down to Clara, 'kay?" He called behind him as he thumped down the stairs.
Brian didn't bother to respond as the other was already well out of earshot. Danny shamefully withered in his seat.
"Don't worry too much about Tim."
The halfa was actually a little startled that Brian was the one who'd spoken. His voice was rather soft and low, "He's just a little on-edge around new people, he's usually a pretty alright guy. You just caught him in a bad mood."
"I-I still shouldn't've been snooping around his med bottle." Danny admits.
Brian nods, "Maybe. Probably didn't improve his mood, to be honest. He's a little defensive about his medical history and all that."
The room returned to its quiet state, outside the occasional creaks from the home bracing against the December wind and the click-clack of Brian on his computer.
The door opened as Sam Lindermann walked out. "Ugh, remind me again why we even listen to Pamela Manson's 'suggestions'?"
"Because she has, like, 75% of the PTA in her pocket."
"I'm a funeral home director, I pray I don't have to interact with Parents and Teachers regarding my work." The man bemoaned, seriously.
"What was it this time?" Brian asked, a little bemused, a little exasperated.
"Apparently, she called concerned about our use of 'preservatives'. If it was for an ecological argument, I get that. There are actual people concerned with that," Mr. Lindermann admitted, "But she seemed to think it posed a threat to the 'health and safety' of our clients."
…
"She does realize our 'clients' aren't exactly… 'healthy'?" Brian cautioned.
"That's what I said." The man sagged. "One Forbes article on the dangers of formaldehyde and preservatives in food and she thinks she immediately knows what's best in everything regarding it."
"That's Pam for ya," Brian shrugged. "How'd you get her off of it?"
"I convinced her we use natural plant-based oils and scents in our processes. Organic."
"You mean the embalming oils?" Brian's eyebrow raised, "I didn't realize there was an 'organic' option for those."
"Speaking as someone with a Major in chemistry, it is a carbon-based molecule with accompanying organic functional groups. Ergo, 'organic'." The man pinched his nose, sighing.
"Well… that's technically the truth. Oh, sir! You have a visitor," The younger man pointed out, gesturing to Danny.
"Ah, Danny," Mr. Lindermann said, smiling surprisedly, "I wasn't sure when you'd get in. I hope you weren't here too long."
"No, just got here, honest," Danny replied.
"Well, I see you've met Brian, here. Brian, this is Daniel Fenton, or Danny. Danny, meet my graphic design specialist, Brian Haight."
"Hate?" Danny blinked.
"Haight. H-A-I-G-H-T. Don't ask me where that came from," Brian shrugged good-naturedly.
"Huh, I didn't realize you'd really need graphic design and stuff at this place," Danny asked, curious.
"Yeah, it's a service the home offers. Relatives of the deceased send in photos and videos, and I compile them in slideshows, short memoriam videos, and displays we use downstairs. Outside that, I'm also in charge of the Home's logo and design for things like ads, business cards, and announcement boards," The young man explained.
"Yes, Brian is very good at that and he's rather tech-savvy as well. Just last week, he figured out why my computer wasn't booting up. I'm afraid I'm rather dismal with them." Lindermann admitted.
"Sir, you backed up your chair over the power wire and pulled it out of the socket." Brian deadpanned. "It's not exactly MIT material."
The adult flushed, embarrassedly, "Erm, yes, well, I just meant you are also very good with that video editing program of yours."
He turned back to Danny, "Well, let's step in my office for a minute."
He led the halfa to his desk, closing the door behind him. As he settled in his chair, Danny finally noted that his arm was still in a sling. He had a slight hairline fracture in his shoulder from being thrown out through a door, plus some bruised ribs. Danny was grimly thankful it was only that bad.
"Well, first off, I wanted to thank you for getting my daughter back, safe and sound," Mr. Lindermann began.
"I'm glad she's safe. Has she been okay?"
The adult sighed, "She still has nightmares and the doctors are still curious, considering she was being used as a human-transceiver, but overall she's physically fine and getting much better."
"Glad to hear it."
"Having Ben and Anna to help her has also been a benefit. The other kids in her class are a little… wary of her now."
Danny winced, "Well… I guess she did brainwash them, even if she wasn't totally in control of herself."
"Quite." Mr. Lindermann sighed. "I'm just trying to keep her sprits up for the rest of the holiday season, if I can. Christmas is her favorite season, after all."
"Well, at least we stopped the Producer before then. I'd hate to think of a Christmas Special courtesy of him. Creepy puppets I can smash to splinters happily, but I'm not sure how I'd feel if I had to beat up Santa."
The man chuckled. "Well, I guess that's a good segue into the topic I wanted to talk to you about.
"Seeing as I know your 'extracurriculars', I want to offer my help in any way I can. I'm afraid it might not always be physical, seeing as I'm not much of a fighter," He gestured to his arm sling.
"Hey, don't sell yourself short, that idea to use film to capture the ghost was brilliant!" Danny praised.
"Though accidental," Mr. Lindermann countered.
"So was the ice cream cone. And penicillin!"
"Hmm, I suppose your right," The adult hummed in defeat. "But I still believe I can help you and your friends in other ways. Being in the funeral business and antiques business I have a lot of connections with archivists and historians. I may be useful gathering information on a ghosts' past if that may help."
"Heck yeah!" Danny beamed, "You would not believe what we had to go through to dig up the bare minimum on the Producer."
"And I believe support from an actual adult may be useful. I have a little more sway with the System than teenagers."
"That sounds great, actually. My parents aren't exactly… 'available' for parent-teacher meetings and stuff." Danny confessed.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"I still see them, you know. We 'live' together in the Ghost Zone."
"Ah, I apologize, a bit of a habitual reaction on my part." The man replied. "While I'm not sure I can stand-in as your father, I'm rather known through town as Sally's, I can pose as a family friend should the need come up."
Danny chuckled, "Yeah, I don't see you dressing up as my dad anytime soon, either."
"Is it the height?" Mr. Lindermann asked, wryly.
"Surprisingly, no, he's only a couple inches shorter," The older man's eyebrows raised in surprise. "It's actually that my dad is a lot wider. Like, actual bone structure is as wide as this desk, not just fat."
"That… is a very big man." The adult commented, perplexed.
"No kidding, and here I got my height from my mom's side." Danny sulked.
"Well, that said, I'll also tell my employees. Not the Phantom parts, but just that I'm okay with them contacting me if you ever show up at the Funeral Home. I know you've already met Brian."
"And Tim. Well… not on the best of terms," Danny rubbed his neck awkwardly.
The adult frowned, "Yes, it is rather easy to get on his bad side, but he's a good man, if a little gruff at times. But he's had a troubled past and he's much better now. Still, there will almost always be somebody around who you can turn to if you ever need help."
"Sounds great. Thanks," He replied appreciatively.
Mr. Lindermann smiled, "We owe you much more, Danny. On behalf of myself and the town, in general, I think I can say 'Thank You'."
"Aw, gosh," Danny blushed. "Seriously, I'd be in a watery grave if it weren't for you."
"Hmm, speaking of, for peace of mind, where did you end up taking that film reel?"
"Don't worry," Danny reassured, "It's somewhere nobody will ever get it again."
The soft swell of an oboe rose and fell like a graceful wave as the music floated through the room, before a full, passionate, and mournful soprano broke through.
"Regnava nel silenzio
Alta la note e bruna…"
The man stood in his new office in Amity Park's city hall. The room was now richly adorned with curtains and dark oak furniture he, himself, paid for ('to not take from the taxpayer's coffers for personal gain'). His desk was larger than the one supplied by the previous mayor, but also a little more ornate and, frankly, intimidating. Bookshelves stood resolutely against the paneled walls, filled with only a fraction of the books he'd acquired in his many years… alive.
An old phonograph record player spun in the corner. The source of the antiquated opera recording drifting through the air.
The wide windows were black with the night sky, but beside and beneath the amber glow of streetlamps, he could see the flurries of snow whipping in a chilling wind that rattled the glass panes.
He swirled a glass of red wine in his hand, savoring the smell. Ah, this vintage was a good year, he should know.
His gaze often returned to the flickering, orange flames leaping from the logs in the study's fireplace. A small feature he requested be reintroduced. He had that tacky 'electric fireplace' machine removed at once. Previous mayors were just uninterested in the simple pleasure of watching something burn.
Vladimir Masters took a moment to watch the flames lick and blacken a fresh log, enjoying the subtle smell of woodsmoke and the flickering light it gave off as the only source of illumination.
The building was empty, it was 3 in the morning, after all. The lights were all off and the simple pleasure of a roaring fireplace in a darkened, but stately room was nostalgic in a sense.
He sighed and set his wineglass. It was high time to deal with the… unpleasantness of the evening.
How did he put it all that time ago? 'Trimming off the tag-alongs'?
They would find that he had a rather sharp memory.
Especially of those who crossed him.
His face darkened as he stalked his way to the oak desk. A simple twist of a lion's head engraving and a secret drawer popped open.
He pulled out the dark black reel of film Phantom presented a mere month ago.
The acceptance and acclimation as mayor of this small town took up a great portion of his mental faculties and he'd decided to hold onto this particular artifact until plans settled and things were in place.
He kept his word to Phantom; it would be kept somewhere safe where no one would accidentally watch it, and the Producer would not escape.
He always kept his word.
Just… maybe not as the other intended.
Oh, he could archive it somewhere, alone and forgotten to collect dust until it was lost with hazy memories eroded through the fog of time.
But no. He had a much better idea.
He strode to an antique table from Queen Anne's reign where a well-kept projector sat, the lens pointed at a set-up projection screen.
With practiced ease, he set up the film reel in the correct slots, snaking the reel through the machine's inner workings. He flipped a switch and the bulb glowed as the clickety-clack of machinery weaved the film reel in place.
The screen flickered and a silvery box of light appeared. The ghostly Producer moved silently inside of it, the film type and projector not allowing for sound. It took only a moment for the character to cease its wails and throes of being initially captured before it realized its condition and turned to the screen.
The Jack o' Lantern grin widened joyously and clearly mouthed 'Vladdie!'.
His eye twitched.
The ghost jabbered and chattered on and on, probably empty promises and overinflated ego stretching thinly over a desperate plea to be let out. The words and his mouth silently wound on and on, no intelligent, intelligible meaning from any of it.
The ghost finally stopped, its hands gestured out to Vlad pleadingly with a 'winning smile' and the look of expectations.
Finally, Vlad spoke, confident the ghost could still hear, "My friend, you were admirable out there. You fulfilled your bargain perfectly; I am now the mayor of this town thanks, in part, to the discord you sowed with your performance and I'll have you know, your ghostly pseudonym is… 'trending' as the youth say these days. Your name is on the lips of every household in Amity Park."
The Producer puffed out its chest and preened, thumbs tucked under his suit lapels.
"Which satisfies our agreements."
The ghost faltered.
"All our agreements, I'm afraid."
The imprisoned entity began shaking once again, like he had back when he was a pathetic fool on the run.
"Everything worked out in the end, I suppose."
His hand moved towards the projector's controls. The ghostly showman now on its knees and 'banging' its palms against the 'surface' of the screen.
"Which means I'm afraid this is where the contract is… dissolved."
The focusing lens was pushed forward between the bulb and the film.
A dark spot slowly grew in the screen.
The Producer scrambled on his back into the 'corner' of the screen as the dark spot grew rapidly, bubbling at the edges.
*cltch-hsss*
Vlad stared impassively at the blank white square of light on the screen for a while longer before shutting down the projector as the mechanism clicked listlessly on nothing.
Pulling off the smoking film reel and collecting the melted remains off both holders, he quietly bundled the nitrile film in one hand and strode to the newly re-installed fireplace.
"I can't have this tying back to me." He murmured, watching the film catch.
"You understand," He mockingly added, returning to his wine.
The opera had faded a while ago.
The room was silent save for the rattling of windows, the howl of wind, and quite possibly through the hiss and crackle of flames, the faint ghostly echoes of a scream.
AN: … and now, the Producer's arc is officially… done.
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AN: I modeled Mr. Lindermann's funeral home after the general interior layout of a funeral home in my own hometown. My aunt actually manages funeral homes and was a mortician for a while, so she'll talk about the business while she's over and it's a little surprising how much 'normal' stuff there is to operating a funeral home.
Brian, I pictured as a graphic design artist because that's my own mom's profession though she works for a local chocolate shop. Also, Brian's the 'video recorder' of the Proxies.
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AN: Anyone interested, the opera piece in Vlad's office was 'Regnava nel Silenzio' from the tragic opera 'Lucia di Lammermoor'. Ironically, this section of the piece is about a woman who sees a ghost and is recounting the vision. This piece is featured in the film Beetlejuice; it was Lydia's opera played as she writes her suicide note. "I am alone... I am utterly alone".
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Props to folks who guess whose desk is the decked out one. Give you a hint; think of Sam Lindermann's reference, someone childish, and someone who probably needs loads of bandages all the time…
Danny's eyebrows rose as he heard his mail slot clack shut down in the foyer.
Gliding down invisibly, he waited a moment staring at the crisp envelope neatly resting on the tattered, singed rug. He picked it up and raised a curious eyebrow at the name 'Danny' scrawled on the front.
He tore it open and read it.
…
He couldn't help the smile and stifled snorts.
The envelope had a Christmas card promised what felt like so long ago.
It had two adults, a man and a woman, beaming in matching Mr. and Mrs. Clause costumes fitted to themselves. The man had a Santa hat and a burlap sack of stuffing over his shoulder while his wife held up a charmingly decorated gingerbread man.
And between the two was one more figure.
A pouting, slightly grumpy elf in a perfectly stitched-to-his frame green costume (jingle-bells and all). His face was in the perfect still-shot of 'not amused'. Real pointed ears extending out of the sides of his head drooped in displeasure.
'Merry Christmas; -The Wasser Family'
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AN: Betcha forgot about that conversation back in chapter 22.
Thanks for reading and Happy New Year!
-Crow