Zoom. Welcome to chapter 3! If you don't know who the ghost is yet, well, you don't know me very well. But I don't expect you to, since I'm pretty new to the fandom.

Speaking of that, is it customary to reply to reviews within the fic? I seem to be seeing a lot of that in the DP section. I usually don't like writing too many author's notes or cluttering this area with a ton of text, especially in middle chapters of fics, so I'm not sure if I should follow the crowd in this case or not...but there aren't many of you, so I guess I may as well do a few shout-outs.

katiesparks - Don't worry, he will be. ;)

Kagome M.K. - Well, here you are I guess! Thanks for your support!

Fanficaholic - You know she is! Who could be a better listener than a guy who hasn't had anyone to talk to in years?

Crossover Fiend - Kudos to you for recognizing Penelope; I think it may have slipped by some people. XD

chocolatemercury - Thanks so much for the comments on my writing. I don't hear that very much, so it's encouraging. And I will certainly come to you if I need anymore Portuguese!

Galateagirl - Thank you! Hope you stayed tuned for chapters 2 and 3!

Cool. Now that that's handled...

Estrelas

Chapter 3

by Shimegami-chan

Stumbling in the near-darkness, Sam guided her steps by the tiny amount of light coming from the hexagonal window, heading for the corner opposite that of the Box Ghost's crate, the area where Grandma Manson kept old furniture. The kitchen tables and old armchairs up here had obviously seen better days, tattered under the claws of various pets, and probably constructed well over forty years previous. One matching set of loveseat and chair were covered with protective plastic, but Sam ignored them and flopped onto a vintage sofa, causing plumes of grey to fly up into her face. She coughed violently, her eyes refilling with moisture as her allergies kicked in.

"Damn it," Sam swore around a mouthful of dust. "What the heck is wrong with me?"

Great job, Sam. Mom's probably told everyone in her little network about how pitiful you are already. Any other ways you can think of to make your life miserable?

Even as she thought it, though, another part of her protested that she shouldn't care what others thought of her. That wasn't the way her personality worked. But the things Penelope said...they were all true. I don't have any friends, no future, people think I'm a violent freak...why hide it? It probably can't get any worse than this, anyway.

Fresh sobs leapt to her throat, overpowering the allergy tears with unrestrained emotion. God, I should just take off now and put my parents out of their misery. Maybe they can have another kid that isn't such a failure next.

Closing her eyes, Sam drew in her legs and wrapped her arms around them, resting her forehead against her knees. This was crazy, this was wrong, why was she thinking like this all of a sudden? Penelope's words had had an impact Sam never could have imagined herself experiencing. She simply could not stop crying, her body shaking so hard from the force of her sobs that the rickety legs of the sofa were rattling on the wooden floor.

And it was so damned cold up here, even this far from the air conditioner vent, the chill seeped through her long-sleeved black shirt and clung to her skin like a fog. She breathed out, and imagined she could see the exhalation in the freezing air. It was abnormal.

It's that ghost, she realized suddenly, noticing as the temperature dropped drastically again. He's closeby. "No, stay away!" she choked out, the words torn apart by heavy breaths. "Don't come any closer--!"

"Hey, uh…Samantha…" It was the voice from before.

"Don't call me that!"

"I'm sorry." It paused. "I thought...well, never mind. You're...crying."

"Thank you, Captain Obvious!" Her words lacked malice, no matter how much she tried to put into them, and it frightened her nearly as much as her reaction to Penelope's accusations.

"I was just trying to help."

Somehow, the fact that it felt sorry for her just made things worse. Sam threw out a hand in front of her as if to bodily push the spectre away, even though she had no way of knowing how close it was or even where it was in relation to her. The coldness had drawn back slightly, and she fervently hoped it had backed off. "I don't want any help from some creepy ghost."

"Ouch."

"What, did I hurt your feelings?" she spat, opening her eyes and tilting her chin back to look at the ceiling. She refused to look anywhere ahead of her as long as she couldn't see where the thing was - it was unsettling, and made her angry that she might be talking to it with her eyes front when it was off to the side. It was bizarre.

The ghost didn't answer.

A little of the venom drained out of Sam. The spirit had withdrawn further, she knew, because it was no longer so chilly that she shivered, though her cheeks still felt as if they were coated in ice. The tears had also thankfully stopped, drying onto her face in the patterns they had fallen in. She was momentarily thankful that she hadn't worn eyeliner today after all.

After the creature stayed silent for another few moments, Sam lowered her head and looked around, not entirely certain what she expected to see. It had to still be here; the attic was its haunt after all, and the cold had not entirely disappeared. She wished she could tell how far away it was. Worse, she was starting to feel guilty about what she'd said.

"I can't believe I'd be apologizing to a ghost," she said slowly, drawing her knees closer to her chest. "But I guess it's better than admitting I'm as terrible a person as everyone seems to think."

"Don't worry about it," the voice said quietly in return. It was far enough away that she had to strain slightly to hear it speak.

"Thanks."

"Do you...want to talk about it?"

Sam laughed bitterly. "Why not? At least you won't go off and get me committed to a psych ward."

"I'd hope not."

"Heh." She mopped up the remaining moisture from her face using the sleeve of her shirt. "I guess I'm just your typical angsty teenager, as much as I hate to say it. My parents...don't really like me. They'd rather I be exact copies of them, I guess."

The ghost made a hmm sound. "I understand."

"One of my mom's friends came to visit, to 'check up' on me. My mother had told her all these things about me, that I fought with my classmates, got suspended, that I was violent and unfriendly...I guess it hurt a lot because it's the truth. It hurt that she'd tell these things to someone I don't even know and expect them to straighten me out or whatever."

"I don't think that was right of her," the voice declared. Sam almost had to hold back a snort of bemusement that this ghost would go and make that kind of judgment call about a human. Sure, even ghosts had been alive and human once, but wasn't most of the reason they were dangerous was because they were malicious and unthinking? Their human sides had left them to mindlessly haunt some place or object they'd left behind? At least, no ghost she'd ever heard of had professed to be as "friendly" as this one acted, except for in kids' cartoons and books. The people writing those stories had obviously never experienced an Amity Park haunting.

"I guess. She says she does things in my best interest."

"She's probably only looking out for you," the voice agreed, to Sam's surprise. "Listen...do you mind if I come a little closer so I can hear you better?"

"Yeah. Not too close, though," she cautioned. Even though the spectre didn't seem dangerous, she wasn't about to let herself trust it. She sensed it approach, raising goosebumps on the skin of her neck and hands. Even under her long-sleeved shirt and black jeans, the chill cut her to the bone.

It noticed her discomfort, too. "Hang on. I'll get you a blanket."

"Wait. You don't have to--" she broke off as the cold feeling withdrew completely, jumping as a sound on the other side of the attic alerted Sam to movement. A box was being rummaged through. A moment later, a quilt was borne to her on the air and settled about her shoulders. It was mercifully dust-free and smelled sweet, as though it had been packed alongside potpourri.

"Your grandmother's," it told her simply. "Used to hang on the living room wall."

"Oh--yes," she sputtered, somewhat surprised that the ghost knew about anything outside the world of the attic. "I remember it."

Sam sensed the creature move away once it had settled the blanket around her, and when it spoke again she still couldn't tell where it was, just that it was closer than before. "Go on, then."

"Wait," she told it, shaking her head. "I need to know where you are. I hate not knowing which direction to talk in."

"Right in front of you," the spirit responded. "I'm on the armchair."

She stared hard, but of course Sam could not see so much as a ripple in the air, or a shadow on the plastic that covered the chair. It probably isn't 'on' the chair, idiot, it's floating above it, or in it, or something. The thought made her shiver. "Okay. Well...my mom's always been a bit of a fruitcake, I guess. She wanted me to go to her alma mater, and probably be just like her, a preppie know-it-all with just enough good looks and money to make her popular. You probably know the type."

"I do," the ghost replied dryly.

"My grandparents on Mom's side had a lot of money, too, that my mother inherited when they died, so she really could afford to give me everything she wanted for me. My dad...well, I get the feeling that he started off with a little more personality, but he was really smart and pretty obnoxious when he was my age, and still is, I guess. He pretty much agrees with whatever Mom thinks the social circles want from us, and he's embarrassed because of the way I dress."

"You wear a lot of black."

"Yeah. Guess you wouldn't know what's going on out there nowadays, but we call my style 'goth', and it's usually decorated with a lot more accessories than I've got on right now. I dressed down for the occasion of catching the Box Ghost."

"Right." The voice said this last word with some hesitation, and Sam blinked, waiting for it to continue. "I...don't see why your father hates the way you dress. I think it's kind of pretty."

Sam's heart rate jumped. Had the ghost just complimented her?

"So," it continued hurriedly, as if to change the subject, "is that why you're here in Amity? To get away from your parents for a while?"

"Kind of," she replied, still trying to calm herself down from the incredibly strange experience of being complimented by a ghost. By a dead man, or maybe just a boy; it was hard to tell from the pitch of his voice. He spoke in a soft alto, which was a boyish range, but it was echoed slightly - and who knew about how close someone's voice would be to their original after they'd died? Maybe this ghost had been an old man when he passed away, and chose to remember himself in his younger days. Maybe it was even someone she knew, like a relative. Now that was disturbing. Was that even possible, or were ghosts stuck in the age they died at? She'd never been close enough to one to find out before. So intent was Sam on this line of thought that she stopped in the middle of her reply, and only recalled it when the spook made a noise like it was clearing its throat.

Creeeeeepy.

"Um. Kind of, that is, I'm also recovering from a sickness. I had something called mono a few months back, which is really exhausting, and they thought I'd recover better if I was away from the city. My parents live in Whipstaff, which is about sixty miles east of here."

"Oh, I see. I guess that's why they sent someone to talk to you instead of coming out here themselves."

"That, or they're too afraid to ask me questions," Sam replied bitterly. "My parents can't even pretend to understand what I'm thinking most of the time. Sending a surrogate is just another example of them taking the easy way out."

"It seems to have gotten the opposite result of what they wanted."

"No kidding." Sam laughed, but the sound was empty of any humour. "Now that my head's clear, though...I'm still mad, but I've calmed down a bit. The things she said were pretty harsh."

"Like what? If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"Like there's any point in holding back now, after I just spilled my life story to you? She said that I was 'abrasive'. She insinuated that I would never have any friends, because I can't seem to find anyone intelligent enough to understand me that my parents would actually permit in the house. I'm violent, apparently, and probably stupid too, because after I got sick I fell so far behind in school that I wasn't able to graduate with the rest of my class. Seems like all signs my parents gave her point to 'screwup.'"

The creature's voice was quiet, subdued. "Do you think that about yourself?"

"I didn't."

"Do you now?"

"I don't know. A bit, I guess." Sam frowned and pulled the quilt more tightly around herself.

After a moment, the ghost spoke again, its voice still very quiet. Sam had to lean a little forward to hear it over its own echo. "Listen...I'm probably not very good at giving advice. But the things that woman said were out of line, and I don't think you should be too hard on yourself about them. If those flaws are real in you, I don't see them. And as for your parents, they probably think that if you grow up to be like them, you'll turn out right, so they're trying to point you in a direction that they know will work, even if it isn't one that you want to go in. Every parent fears that something will go wrong for their child and they'll feel responsible."

"Were you ever a parent?" Sam asked, her mouth dry.

"No." The ghost laughed slightly. "I never ended up being old enough to do such a thing. But I can say that I think I understand people pretty well, if I look at them objectively."

"I..." she paused, trying to reorient her thoughts, licking her lips. "I guess I never thought about it that way, but you might be right."

His voice sounded almost...sad. "I've had a lot of time to think up here. I could probably outwit any psychologist."

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough. You lose track of the years after a while, but I guess it's been about fifty or sixty. You know, you're the first person I've talked to in that entire time, other than the Box Ghost. And I keep him sealed up most of the time, obviously, for the good of both my eardrums and the other inhabitants of this house."

"Do you just...float here? Is that how it works?"

"Usually, I guess, yeah." It made a humming noise before continuing. "That, or sometimes I kind of blank out; I did it this morning when we talked, too...I start to think about something, and then when I come back to myself, a lot of time has gone by. Usually just minutes, but it can be hours or even weeks. It helps pass the time. I can leave the house as well, but I haven't in a long while now."

Sam paused thoughtfully, leaning her chin on the hand poking out of the quilt's warmth. She wondered if the ghost was still (or had ever been) sitting on the armchair in front of her. "That's terrible."

"What is?"

"That you've been up here this long." Her voice trembled a little, and she tried to force it down. Instead of being angry at the ghost for occupying her grandmother's house uninvited, she felt kind of sorry for it. There was something in its voice that invited trust, though she still wasn't sure how much she was willing to give. "That you didn't have anyone to talk to. Listen, this may be kind of a personal question, so you don't have to answer...but how did you...die?"

"You've told me enough about you that I'd be happy to answer, but in this case...I really don't remember."

"Don't remember?" It might have been a violent death, she supposed, or maybe there was some complication when you died that prevented you from remembering anything. Sam didn't know if she wanted to pry into it any further. "Sorry...forget I asked, then."

"It's fine."

They sat in silence for another few moments while Sam considered her next words. "Well then. Hey...thanks for talking to me."

The ghost sounded surprised to hear the sentiment. "You're welcome?"

"No...really. I feel a lot better now." It was true, she felt strangely refreshed, as though the outpouring of emotion had cleansed her somewhat. I guess that's what they say about a heart-to-heart and a good cry. Never really got much of either before. "And I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier. I was angry, I wasn't thinking...and I guess I didn't really see you as much more than an intruder in my space." She found that even knowing the spirit was young and probably male, she couldn't help thinking of it as an 'it' and not as a 'he'.

"That's all right. For a few minutes there, I was almost thinking of you the same way."

"I guess I can understand that," she said, recognizing the irony. "Now that we've talked, I guess I'm a little more convinced that you're not like the Box Ghost. You act like a human."

"I was human once," it reminded her gently.

"I know." She hesitated. "Sorry."

"Listen," the ghost said quietly, its - no, his - voice absolutely sincere, "if you need someone to listen, I'm not going anywhere. Any time of day, seriously."

"Thank you." Sam frowned, focusing her eyes on the empty chair. "It's pretty weird talking to thin air, though. I'm not sure if I like not knowing where you are or if you're moving around."

"Rebuttal," the voice declared. "You told me not to call you by your name. I thought that was pretty weird."

"I hate my full name. That's different."

"Then...?"

She tipped her head to one side. "I always wanted to be called 'Sam.' If I had friends, I think that's what I'd expect from them."

"Sam. It suits you." The ghost paused. "Fair's fair, then, I guess I need to come out."

Her breath caught in her throat as he materialized in front of her, just where he'd said, seated in the armchair, somehow without disturbing the piece of furniture or the plastic that covered it. Ethereal and just slightly transparent, the ghost had shocking white hair that fell messily in his eyes, a rounded face, and long limbs clad in a black jumpsuit. Sam realized with surprise that he really was just a boy, probably no older than she herself was.

He was leaned forward in the chair with chin propped up in the palm of his hand, eyes closed, as though reluctant to meet hers for the first time. When they opened, though, they were a brilliant shade of emerald green, and seemed to glow in and of themselves. He wore a slight, nervous smile. "Nice to finally meet you. I'm Daniel, but my friends call me Danny."

-to be continued...

A/N: I hope their dialogue sounded as powerful through text as it did in my head. Comments are greatly appreciated!