Danny turned over the packet in his hands, scanning through the abbreviated catalog. "I didn't think anyone did this anymore, except for like. Girl Scout Cookies, or cookie dough. Does anyone other than parents buy this stuff?"
"I guess it's like a donation to the school," said Sam, leaning over to look at Danny's packet even though hers was exactly the same. "Except they feel like they're getting something for it."
"Wouldn't it be better for the school if they just, I don't know, asked for donations? Doesn't the company take like half of the profits?"
"Yeah," said Sam. "But they might get more people to donate, this way."
"But all of this stuff is so stupid," said Danny. "I mean, keychains? Who is going to pay that much for a keychain? Or back scratchers? Off-brand phone charms?"
"I don't know," said Tucker, "some of these prizes look pretty sweet."
"Yeah, and they're impossible to get," said Sam. She huffed. "Danny's right, though. Turning students into salesmen while holding their education hostage is just another way society has failed us."
"Yeah, yeah, take your boyfriend's side, I see how it is."
"Look, I don't know what you're basing these accusations on, but if it's on the number of agreements or total hangout time, then you're my boyfriend as much as Danny. Maybe even more."
"Hey," said Danny, who had already been blushing.
"Sorry, Danny," said Sam, not at all apologetic, "but Tucker and I have a lot of quality time while you ditch us."
"Um," said Tucker, who was very wide-eyed. "What? That's, but, just– One? You can have one."
"Only if I'm a coward."
"You in the back!" shouted Mr. Lancer, who had been droning on about the fundraiser and why it was important to give it their all because the last ghost fight had put several holes in the science lab roof (not Danny's fault). "Quiet down!"
They rolled their eyes.
"So, are you going to do it?" asked Tucker.
"With what time?" asked Danny with a shrug.
.
The student body, finally free, spilled out into the hallway and made a beeline for the cafeteria. Danny, because his luck was trash and nothing good happened to him, was grabbed by the front of his shirt and pulled out of the stream.
"Hi, Dash," said Danny, already bored.
"Hey, corpse sniffer," said Dash. "Fen-tombstone."
"Huh," said Danny, "that's a new one. Which one of your friends came up with it?"
Dash slammed him against the wall. "I heard you and your little friends are going for the grand prize."
Well, that was blatantly untrue. What even was the grand prize again. "The year pass to Floody Waters?"
"That's the one," said Dash, "and you aren't going to get it."
"Sure," said Danny.
Dash blinked, his whole tirade apparently knocked out from under him. "Wha?"
"I wasn't going to do the fundraiser at all. That prize is all yours." Danny patted Dash's arm. "Can you let go? I don't want to miss lunch."
A scowl swept back onto Dash's face. "Huh? You making fun of me?"
Danny hesitated just a bit too long. Dash shoved him again.
"No, I'm really just not doing it," said Danny.
"What? You think you're too good to help out the school? Too high and mighty, when it's your weirdo parents that keep knocking the doors off the hinges?
Danny ignored the weird nails-on-chalkboard sensation that came with the accusations. "Hey, they paid–"
"And you are, too, Fentoenail! You're gonna do this fundraiser, or else."
Danny stared at him in disbelief. "Isn't that completely the opposite of what you were just threatening me about?"
"I'm civic minded," said Dash, putting his nose in the air.
Stars above, it would be so easy for Danny to punch it.
"Come on, Dash," said Sam, from somewhere Danny couldn't quite see, "you either want him to do well or you want him to give up. You can't have it both ways."
"Do well? Do well? No way is this little shrimp going to do better than me!"
"Sure, keep telling yourself that."
"Sam," hissed Danny, "you're making it worse–"
Dash cut him off by leaning on his chest. "You think you can do better than me, Dash Baxter, king of Casper High? Fine, let's make it a bet, Fen-dork, and see who can make more money. If I win, you've gotta climb up onto the school roof in nothing but your tighty-whities. Got it?"
Dash pushed Danny into the wall one more time and promptly left.
"What was that?" demanded Danny, somewhat breathlessly, recovering from having his lungs compressed by Dash's football player bulk.
"I think Dash just said that if you don't get more fundraiser sales than him, he'll make you climb the school in your underwear," said Tucker.
"I don't think Dash knows how bets work," said Sam. "He didn't say what he'd do if you won."
"That's your takeaway? Gosh, how'm I supposed to get more than him?" Danny slid down the wall and pulled at his hair.
"You're not," said Tucker, "because if you do he'll beat you up."
"I'm okay with being beaten up," said Danny, "but I can't have anyone see me without my shirt on."
"What?" asked Sam, crouching down next to Danny. "Why?"
"The scars, Sam."
It took Sam and Tucker to realize what scars he was talking about, but he saw it on their faces when they did.
"Well," said Tucker. "Heck."
"Look, you can just pretend none of this happened and run away from him, can't you?" asked Sam, her face pinched. "You aren't obligated to deal with Dash's issues."
"Yeah, I guess so. Yeah. I can just ignore it."
"To the cafeteria, then?" asked Tucker.
"To the cafeteria."
They walked in through the doors and started for the line. At the same time Dash (how did he go through the line so fast? He must have cut, the jerk) stood up and pointed at them.
"Hey, necrophiliac! You'd better not forget our bet!"
Danny felt himself flush. "I am not a necrophiliac! That isn't what that word means!" Whispering started throughout the cafeteria, and Danny realized he'd denied the wrong part of Dash's 'greeting.'
"You gonna be eating someone's shorts again, Fenton?" jeered a senior Danny barely knew.
Danny hunched his shoulders and focused on keeping his feet tangible. This would be a bad time to fall through the floor.
Dash snorted. "Nah, I can't let this sucker eat all my good luck charms, you know. Nah, if he doesn't deliver, he's gonna be in nothing but underwear. Right, Fentina?"
"He doesn't have to do anything," said Sam, apparently sensing Danny's imminent meltdown and stepping in-between Danny and the rest of the cafeteria. "You decided on this 'bet' thing all on your own, he never agreed to it."
There were boos. "Don't wimp out, now!" someone shouted.
"Yeah, Fentonio," said Dash. "Don't wimp out! Don't you wanna help out the school with the fundraiser after your parents wreck everything."
If there was one thing Danny was weak to, it was social pressure. "Fine!" he snapped. "But you have to stop calling me names!"
"Sure, Fentertainment."
Sam put a hand on Danny's shoulder and steered him to an empty table. "Oh, he's always better at social engineering than expected."
"Are you just saying that to make me feel better?"
Sam made a face and pushed him to sot down. "I'll get your lunch."
"You hate the school lunch."
"Yeah, that's why this is a favor." She patted his arm awkwardly. "Hey. You can have my sales. That should help, right? When Tuck and I get the food, we'll come up with a real plan."
"'Kay," said Danny. He slowly lowered his head to impact the cafeteria table.
He was almost certainly going to die.
.
"So," said Tucker, the next morning, meeting Danny and Sam next to their lockers. "I got Mom and Dad to by a couple things, but I don't think it's going to push you over whatever Mr. Moneybags Dash has got going for him. What about you guys? Sam, you're our main hope."
Sam sighed heavily and leaned against her locker. "My Mom told me that she didn't want any more of my 'tawdry junk' in the house, and then tried to get me to wear a sundress." She poked the lock nearest her with one finger. "Might have blown up at her. Danny?"
"Dad gave me a forty minute lecture on how door-to-door salesmen are vectors for hauntings and how all non-decontaminated catalogs are therefore suspect. Then he lit my list on fire."
Tucker stared. "There's something wrong with both your parents."
"Trust us," said Sam dryly, "we know."
"I guess this makes us the haunted door-to-door salesmen," said Danny, bitterly, slamming his locker shut.
"Looks like it," said Tucker. He held up his PDA "But don't worry, I already have a route planned out for Saturday!"
.
"Just one more street," said Danny. "I just want to do one more street."
This was not, in fact, true. He actually wanted to do no more streets. Walking around while on patrol was one thing. This? This was something altogether different. Knocking on the doors of complete strangers and trying to get them to buy things was complete, soul-crushing torture.
And since he'd been through the next best thing to literal soul-crushing torture, that was saying something.
"Danny," said Sam, whose slumped shoulders indicated similar feelings, "most of those houses are brand new."
"That means that anyone living there needs stuff," said Danny, optimistically.
"This stuff?" asked Tucker, skeptically.
"And they have money," continued Danny. "Just one more street, promise." He gazed at them, desperately. "Don't leave me here."
"We're not going to leave you," said Sam. "It's just that I think some of those houses are still under construction."
"Well," said Danny, pointing at a blue and white three story with fancy trim, "that one has a bunch of cars in front of…" He trailed off.
"Oh no," groaned Tucker. "Do not tell me that there are dead people in there."
"I'm not sure at this distance," said Danny, cringing.
"Well, then," said Sam. "Let's go check it out."
When they reached the driveway, a fine blue mist spilled from Danny's mouth.
"Oh, good. That means it's just a ghost."
Danny, still feeling rather unsettled, shrugged at Sam. He rubbed his face. "Let's see who," he mumbled, before loping up the drive. He rang the doorbell before he could talk himself out of it.
The last person he'd have expected opened it.
"Mr. Lancer?" said Danny, flabbergasted.
"Er, yes, Mr. Fenton." He peered past Danny, missing his ghost sense go off again. "Mr. Foley, Miss Manson. Whatever are you all doing here?"
"Er," said Danny, weakly. "The fundraiser?"
"Oh, I see. That's very proactive of you three. I'm afraid I've already bought all I wanted from the catalog, however…"
Over Mr. Lancer's shoulder, he spotted Technus - in a human disguise, yes, but still unmistakeable - and stared at him incredulously. Why was he here with Mr. Lancer?
"Oh, um, that's– that's okay, but what…?"
"Ah," said Mr. Lancer, blushing a little. "Please refrain from telling your classmates, but it's my birthday. I'm having a small celebration."
"Oh," said Danny, trying to look at what Technus was doing without being too obvious. "Happy birthday."
Behind him, Sam and Tucker echoed the sentiment.
"Um," he said, watching Technus slip away, deeper into the house, "I'm really sorry to ask, but could we use your bathroom? Only, we've been working on this all morning, and, well…"
Mr. Lancer's expression twitched, but evened out quickly. "Of course," he said. "It's just down there, at the end of the hall." He stepped away from the door and smiled at them. "Tell me what you think before you go, this is a new house."
"Sure," said Danny. The unease he'd felt earlier was much stronger, now. Whatever was going on here, it was more than just Technus. The murmur of voices, a faint song played over the radio, and the repetitive sound effects of a video filled the house. They didn't help.
"You use the bathroom first," said Danny, pushing Tucker forward as soon as Mr. Lancer looked away, saying something to a guest that looked like he'd stepped straight out of the Skulk'n'Lurk. Where did Mr. Lancer find these people? "I need to check something. Cover me?" he asked Sam.
"Don't wreck our teacher's new house, okay? We want him to not be stressed when he grades our essays."
Danny shrugged, choosing not to commit.
He flicked into invisibility as a precaution, no need to run into any guests, and made his way to the second floor, looking for whatever was bothering him by peeking into rooms. The guest list apparently included Mikey, Star, and Kwan. Wow, that was a weird group to be playing video games together. Although, seeing that top of the line console in what looked like a dedicated gaming room in Mr. Lancer's house was equally weird. Still, the bedrooms and office space weren't what was bothering him.
"Phantom," said a quiet voice.
Danny whirled to see Ghost Writer, who raised an eyebrow.
"What are you doing here?"
"That's my line," said Danny.
"I'll have you know I'm friends with William," said Ghost Writer. "I go by Andrew, like this." He gestured at his human disguise. "Now, will you answer my question?"
Danny shrugged. "Something is wrong here. Something…" He trailed off. "Maybe it's just you and Technus, but I need to check."
Ghost Writer surveyed him for a moment longer, then shrugged. "Check away," he said. "But be aware that William is under my protection. And Technus's."
"That's my line," said Danny, who was not whining. "He's my teacher."
"Hmf. Good," said Ghost Writer, before promptly walking away.
Danny stuck out his tongue. Maybe the two of them had never really fought, but man, the guy rubbed him the wrong way.
He went back to the stairs and climbed to the third floor. The third floor wasn't entirely finished. There were still some power tools around, a few paint buckets and tarps lying here and there. Compared to downstairs, it looked weird.
Speaking of weird, this was a big house for a teacher, wasn't it?
Danny walked over to the furthest door and put his hand on the knob. Despite Technus's and Ghost Writer's presence downstairs, here, in front of the door, was what was making him so anxious. He knew what he was going to find.
Bracing himself, he opened the door.
He immediately slammed it shut again, covering his mouth with his hand. Okay. Okay, apparently he didn't brace himself enough. That was fine. This was fine. He could–
"Mr. Lancer?" he called.
Ghost Writer flew up through the floor, an annoyed expression on his face. "What have you done now, you stupid child?"
Danny backed away from the door, not really trusting himself to speak, and raised a shaking finger to point at the door. Ghost Writer rolled his eyes and opened the door.
He froze, going completely still in a way that only ghosts could manage.
Reality shuddered. The light spilling in from the windows at either end of the hall turned green. There was a great deal of shrieking downstairs.
"Oops," said Ghost Writer.
.
"What do you mean there's a body in the third floor bathroom?"
"That's just what I mean, William," said Ghost Writer. "I wouldn't recommend checking on it. It is… rather gruesome, all things considered. But it is there."
"It really is," said Danny. He was sitting on an ottoman in Mr. Lancer's living room, where everyone had gathered after the screaming was over. He… hadn't ever seen a body that… that fresh before, not from someone who died like that, someone who wasn't already in a hospital or something, and, well…
"And how did you find it?" asked Mr. Lancer.
"I don't know," said Danny. "You know that sometimes I find dead stuff."
Mr. Lancer scrubbed his hands over his face. "Who was it?"
"Unfortunately, given the state of the body… I couldn't even say if they were a man or a woman."
The other guests, most of whom Danny hadn't really registered, except peripherally, shifted, muttering. Teachers from the school, some kids, the weird goth dude, the Nasty Burger manager, and Lance Thunder, for some forsaken reason.
"And us being in the Ghost Zone?"
"Ah, an unfortunate side effect of some of my powers," said Ghost Writer, who had shed his disguise. "When circumstances align in such a way as to facilitate a specific genre of story, in this case the so-called cozy mystery or whodunit, my powers apply the rest of the needed circumstances. Especially if I am, ah. Upset, let's say. In this case, the circumstance they have applied is isolation. We are in a pocket dimension, not the true Ghost Zone."
"And how do we get out?" asked Ms. Ishiyama, stepping up behind Kwan.
"By solving the murder, of course!" said Ghost Writer, with a rather forced smile. "That should 'finish' the story, as it were."
"How do you even know it's someone here?" demanded Lance Thunder, angry and loud.
"As I said, circumstances," said Ghost Writer. "If the murderer was not here, we would not be in this pocket dimension. The victim is also almost certainly a guest, so if you were expecting anyone else, or if anyone who was already here is missing…" Ghost Writer waved his hand.
Mr. Lancer frowned. "There's no one missing," he said. "Maybe it was a construction worker? None of them were scheduled today…"
"Oh, dear," said Ghost Writer, "but–"
"Ghosts," interrupted Danny. "Ghosts don't always know they're dead, right away, and high ectoplasm environments make them form faster." He swallowed, still fighting nausea. "At– at least that's what my parents say. We've got to find the murderer, but I think– I think we also need to find the victim."
