Chapter 8
The rest of the day passed in a mechanical haze for Danny. He arrived at class on time with the proper materials, sat quietly, and mindlessly did whatever busy work was assigned, then left. Pretended no one was whispering. Pretended Sam and Tuck weren't constantly staring at him. Repeat. Lunch. Repeat, repeat.
"I'm thinking maybe you should check out early, man," Tucker commented almost offhandedly as the second to last class of the day wrapped up.
Going home early sounded like more work to the weary teen. In the event that his parents were home rather than tracking him, he'd have to talk to them, at least briefly. He'd have to sign out at the office, get make up work. Sitting through another class would be, well, not cake, but some sort of mildly palletable bread after the morning he'd had.
"I think he's right," Sam agreed sheepishly, "You're awfully pale."
"Pale," Danny humphed, "That's new."
The bell rang, and everyone in the class stood to rush out. The trio followed the pack out into the hallway, though they took a more roundabout route to their lockers than the rest.
"Really, it wouldn't be hard," Tuck continued, "I'm sure you can slip right out the front door. Or the side door. Pick a wall. Anywhere, really."
"Anywhere at all!" Sam emphasized, "You could phase out right now. Head home, take a nap; you need it. We'll cover for you, everyone knows you're not feeling well."
Danny eyed them speculatively. They'd been quiet and nervous all day, he'd just assumed it was more out of anxiety than pretense. "Do you guys know something I don't?"
Just then, a voice came over the intercom, solemn and strict. "All students shall report to the auditorium now for the scheduled memorial assembly. We begin in five minutes."
A curse slipped through Sam's lips, and a chill fell upon the largely vacant section of hall they occupied. Danny's eyes glowed for several seconds, then died back down to their now normal empty blue.
"That answers that question then," he sighed vacantly. The ghost boy felt as if all the blood in his heart had been replaced by liquid nitrogen, spreading chill numbness from his chest through every vein in his body to every isolated corner. A brief shiver overcame him, and his legs wobbled.
Sam, seeing his sudden physical distress, hurried to explain. "We're sorry, Danny, they announced it after you stepped out this morning, and we just didn't want to worry you!"
"Hey, it's not too late," Tucker chimed, strained, "Just pop out of sight and adios!"
"Misters Foley and Fenton. Miss Manson. I expect you three have a good explanation for why you are dawdling in this manner when there's an assembly to attend."
"Hey, Mr. Lancer!" Tuck exclaimed, "We were just, uh, navigating."
"Really? You've been at this school for four years now and you still don't know where the auditorium is?"
The tech geek shrugged with a flounce. "What can we say? We were never really involved in the theatre much, and hallways are so confusing you know..."
A deep sigh escaped the middle-aged man's mouth as he put a hand on the bridge of his nose. "This way then," he instructed, exhaustion coloring his tone.
"Mr. Lancer," Sam began, "Danny's not really feeling well, so maybe he could be excused…."
"He can have a seat by the door, but all students have to go."
When they reached the auditorium, nearly all the seats were already filled. Thick crimson curtains were drawn around the elevated wooden stage. The matching, dingy seats were divided into three ailses, a left, a right, and a center. Everyone else already knew this was happening, and they were probably excited to participate in the mourning drama.
A pitiful soundtrack of whispers, sniffles, and even one or two bouts of louder weeping filled Danny's ears and grated inside his brain. Did any of these people even know Mr. Baker?
Well, he wasn't one to criticize. He hadn't known him either, really.
Bam. A headache. Just what he needed.
They did get the seats right next to the door on the right side though. Danny was on the very edge of the aisle (in case he needed to flee to the bathroom for vomiting purposes—y'know, with his stomach flu and all that). Lancer sat right next to him, driving a wedge between he and Sam, who got to sit next to Tucker. Other than them, the row was empty. That was a blessing, he supposed. Fewer people to witness his oncoming emotional breakdown.
They hadn't been seated thirty seconds when stirring music burst out from the band area in front of the stage. It was some song he didn't recognize but had come to associate with funerals, slow and melodic, sad and inspired. Not that he'd been to many funerals, which might have been ironic if the entire situation wasn't so messed up.
When did they even learn this song? Danny thought painfully.
Sniffles accompanied the stirring strings, and his stomach burned. His throat restricted, and he thought that maybe he could just quietly choke to death. Easiest way out, perfect plan!
The curtains reeled open and the principal stepped on stage. Danny quickly diverted all of his efforts into ignoring everything he said. He stared at the walls, stared at his lap. Stared at a kid a few rows up who was having a really bad hair day. Stared at the ceiling, stared at the floor. None of these distracted him in the least.
Hadn't he memorized the Gettysburg address once? Maybe if he recited that over and over again in his head with enough focus….nope, that wouldn't help. Periodic table? Something about the moon and a glove from Romeo and Juliet? He had to remember something, right?
Everything in his head was jumbled, but his auditory sensors refused to shut down.
Yes, he knew why he was there.
Yes, he knew what had happened.
Yes he knew it was a tragedy, yes he knew they'd lost a "valued member" of the school community, yes he knew many people were very upset about it.
No, he didn't think he wanted to talk to anybody about it. Apparently they'd had trouble finding a grief counselor to help, or even just a new school counselor on such short notice. No one wants to take a job where the last guy dropped dead from a spectrally dealt head injury just outside his office. So who were his options?
Parents? They'd kill him.
Teachers? They'd hand him to his parents!
Friends. Well...didn't they hate him enough already?
Then a projector flickered to life. His stomach rolled over and the room swayed as the principal introduced a slide show of the man's life, to be accompanied by a special performance from the band.
Initially he closed his eyes. Judging by the resounding "aw"s, they'd started right at the beginning. Baby pictures.
And he just couldn't look.
He just couldn't look!
Just couldn't look….
Couldn't look….
Look?
He knew that he should. He knew that it was only right. It was only just that he should pry open his eyelids and absorb every single picture they showed of that man whose life he had taken. Not out of malice, of sheer carelessness, but taken just the same….
David Baker. Did he have a middle name?
He wondered briefly why his parents had chosen that name. Had they called him Davy when he was little? Dave? Or was it always David?
Lord, his parents. He couldn't think about his parents.
He wondered if they'd had only one child on purpose. Maybe they just wanted one, maybe they couldn't have any more. Maybe he'd had siblings, maybe they'd died too.
Panic rose in his chest and his heart rate sped up. What would it be like to be a parent then to suddenly not be a parent anymore? Call yourself one for years and years then suddenly your identity...gone. Everything you'd worked for, over. He'd seen it happen in a movie once, thought to himself he'd always want more than one, just in case. It seemed callous, regarding kids as eggs in baskets, but people were fragile, eggs were fragile. It made sense.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again.
In middle school they liked to make fun of nursery rhymes. Sometimes it was suggested Humpty was pushed, sometimes people would remind each other that the rhyme never said Humpty was and egg.
He remembered Baker on the floor. He remembered his head, a trickle of blood…
Panic panic panic panic…
"Mr. Fenton," he heard Lancer whisper, "Are you okay? Do you need a toilet?"
Frantically he shook his head. He had to stay, he had to look….
So he opened his eyes. A pre-teen Baker on a bike met his eye, and he'd barely registered the bright red helmet before the picture switched.
First day at middle school. A short blond boy with a toothy grin smiled at the camera with a Star Wars backpack in hand.
Hanging with friends. Maybe marathoning movies or something; these clearly weren't the sport types.
First dance. Light blue suit with a bright white tie, standing two feet from a girl in a pink frilly dress under a baloon arch.
School picture. Braces, glasses, acne. Poor thing.
The images flipped on and on, each one searing itself into Danny's brain until he felt like a hemorrhaging lump of burnt up, rotten flesh.
Ew.
At his thirteenth birthday party tears finally forced their way through Danny's facade. Baker died at 27, this was very nearly the halfway point of his life.
Danny remembered himself at thirteen. Friends and family and hope. His parents were still considered nutty, largely harmless and nutty. He still might've been an astronaut, might've been a positive force in the world. Might've graduated high school, might've done a million good things.
Life felt so long at thirteen, back before ghost invasions, hiding, and exhaustion were his life. He was thirteen, then he was fourteen and everything changed. It was all downhill from there.
Why did all of that feel over now? Life wasn't over. Not for him anyway.
It is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker, it is for David Baker….
In the midst of his mantra, he barely heard the ancient auditorium doors right next to him creak quietly open. A woman he'd never seen before came in, looking around for a seat, clutching her purse like it was a lifeline. Most people were so engrossed with the slideshow they didn't even notice her.
They probably all knew about him now, knew about what he did. How could they think otherwise after all that had happened, even imagine that he could have an excuse after seeing all this?
He felt Lancer give a sharp tug to his sweatshirt sleeve and gathered that he wanted everyone to move to the side a seat. Since he, Lancer, Sam, and Tuck were the only people in the very back row it didn't cause any commotion and let the woman be seated immediately.
He noted her limp brown hair that reached down to her shoulders and her dark attire. She looked too old to be a student; maybe she was a parent or something, he wasn't sure. Gasping quietly when she set eyes on the screen, she pulled a used tissue out of a pocket in her purse.
Great. She was one of the snifflers.
Everything went faster after that. At least, Danny felt like everything went faster after that.
First day of high school. His braces were off.
Prom. Different girl, purple dress this time.
High school graduation. Yellow robes, stupid hat.
First day of college. Group picture, unfamiliar faces.
Someone vaguely familiar in the background tightened his throat even further.
A date with a girl.
He tensed up and drew within himself, holding his arms tightly crossed to his chest.
College graduation.
He began breathing shallowly and quickly, panicking panicking panicking again.
A wedding.
He nearly passed out.
Of all the dumb luck in the world…. Of all the stupid, dumb, hideous luck in this sphere and the next, why? Hadn't fate been cruel enough to him this week? Could it maybe stop making this situation worse and worse and nothing else?
His whole self was on fire. His breathing hitched and he did everything he could to restrict a stomach full of blubbery apologies from spewing out of his mouth like sewage.
Then again, what fitting punishment. It was about time he met Mrs. Baker.
Kiersten , maybe? Christine? He wasn't sure, and that made it worse.
How he wanted to run away, but he was frozen. Frozen in fear and sorrow and self-hatred he sat as the very last pictures skipped too slowly by.
There was this year's Christmas card, featuring a happy man and a happy woman in a cartoonish winter wonderland, then, in white calligraphy on a black background, the screen read, "RIP David Baker," then, "We miss you!"
A pained sob wracked Danny's chest, and clutched his face, wet with tears, in his hands.
Then a gentle hand prodded his shoulder.
He rose his head slowly, judging by the direction who must be doing the nudging. He didn't want to meet her eyes, didn't want to really see her face, once so happy, now grief-stricken. Because of him.
But he did meet her eyes. And he did see her face.
A tissue. She was handing him a tissue. His eyes momentarily flicked down to her other hand, gripping a now empty pocket tissue packet.
And he didn't think he'd ever run that fast in his life, leaving behind a chilled auditorium and a frosty, slippery floor.
He heard Lancer excuse him before he was even out the door. "Sorry, he's been ill..."
Come to think of it, his flight from the auditorium might not have been entirely natural. Or maybe desperate guilt gives a person super speed, he wasn't sure. Either way he was out of there.
All he wanted was to find a hole—dig one if he had to—lie down in it, pull the dirt over himself, and never leave.
Maybe he'd dream in the hole. Maybe he'd dream and in the dream all this would be a nightmare. And he'd dream-know that in that dream-world that Mr. and Mrs. Baker were off having a perfectly happy life, completely unviolated by him.
He pictured a baby, small and chubby and smiling. A happy baby Baker, whose parents assumed he would give them grandchildren. He pictured him at just fourteen, not knowing that he had already experienced half of all he would experience. He pictured Baker as he looked less than 48 hours ago.
As he jogged toward the front door, not wanting to risk excessive use of ghost energy thus activating any sensors, he heard his friends coming up behind him.
"Danny, wait!"
"Dude, stop for a sec!"
And he did stop. Right in front of that fateful locker.
Maybe he'd made his way there subconsciously, maybe he didn't. But he felt that he deserved to see it, was compelled to see it. Subtle dent. Cleaner floor. Empty office.
It was easy to forget that this whole thing had happened just this Sunday night. A Monday and part of a Tuesday were all that separated a man from his life. It had been a Monday and part of a Tuesday since Danny had been able to breathe without aching. Kristina (?) Baker had been a widow for all of Monday and part of Tuesday.
That hole was starting to sound like a good idea.
Yet, he'd forgotten his post-hole digger at home. Darn.
He sprinted out of school before Sam or Tuck could catch up. He couldn't stand to be consoled, he didn't deserve it.
Did he dare phase and fly home? As awful as he felt, he still didn't feel like being zapped to death today, even if he did deserve it. Better to walk.
Too conspicuous. Maybe walk invisibly? Usually that would be a lot of work in his human form, but his powers had been incredibly volatile lately. If he was so super-powered, maybe he could sustain that without crossing over and excessively risking detection.
Crossing over—get it?
He couldn't get to his bed soon enough, and his perception of time aided him in this effort at least. The world felt like it was turning faster, everything was swaying, swirling, and before long he fell right into bed.
…
Two stories below Danny's bedroom, Jack and Maddie were putting the finishing touches on their weapon.
It would have been done already if they hadn't received that distress call from the school. They would have been naive, though, to assume that all ghost attacks would stop for them to handle this disaster. In fact, they considered themselves lucky that the town hadn't descended into mayhem after the incident.
The ghosts could have very easily seen Phantom's actions, the actions of someone who was clearly their superior and in some ways had been their leader/boss/thing, then decided that there must be no rules any more. If there had ever been rules at all, anyway. That was the other side of the coin: they were extremely lucky it had taken even this long for a death to occur. It didn't feel lucky exactly, but still.
"If only we had a name for it…." Jack exclaimed for the fourth time, a pencil scribbling wildly in his meaty hand as Maddie worked on the final calibrations.
Check the sensors.
"Fenton Ghost Annihilator….no…"
Tighten the screws.
"Fenton Ghost De-power-er!"
Get new ecto-batteries out of drawer.
"No, that's stupid…."
Test stability of ecto-batteries.
"Fenton Ghost Deenergizer? Sounds like a sports drink…"
Both Fentons were exhausted. Their eyes rested on purple clouds and it was getting hard to think, but ghosts didn't sleep. And ghosts were the enemy. If the enemy isn't sleeping, if the enemy is as unpredictable as it has just proven itself to be, then the last thing the heroes of the story should do is sleep when there was work to be done.
"It's alright if it doesn't have a name, Jack," Maddie sighed, slipping the ecto-batteries into their designated slots.
"Fenton Ghost Keeler-over-er….Fenton Ghost Eradicator….Fenton Ghost Killer? No, no, they're already dead…."
The gun was mammoth. Shiny, metallic, and silver, it matched their arsenal well, but it was a step beyond their best portable weapon yet. Light enough to lift and carry around in combat, yet big enough to pack enough power to (hopefully) disable Phantom.
"I got it!" Jack shouted, sending his pencil whirling through the air, "The Fenton Finisher!"
"The Fenton Ghost Finisher, sweetie."
"Hmm," the man contemplated, "Hasn't got quite the ring to it, but—" He looked down at the paper, checking over his options before continuing. "But I like it!"
"I just hope it's accurate," his wife breathed, rubbing her eyes sleepily, "Either way, it's ready."
"You want to bring it up to the GAV right now?" he suggested, "We could start patrolling, Phantom looks for other ghosts, if we find any we find him…"
"We need our sleep, I think," she refuted, "Aim is pretty important with these things."
"You're right, who knows what this would do to a person!"
Most of their weapons just spewed harmless goo at human beings, but this...this one worked a bit differently.
"I don't really want to find out, actually. With any luck, we won't need to bring it out of the house after tonight." Maddie wanted this fight done already; Phantom was a powerful opponent, and she did not want to tangle with him. But he had brought his on himself. She had no choice anymore.
Before settling in for a nap, Maddie wanted to see her son. School might've ended early, she thought, what with the assembly and all. She just couldn't see the teachers keeping kids after that debacle. She'd wanted to be their of course, to show some strength, to show that the ghost hunters of the town were active. But being active doesn't mean standing around listening to weepy teenagers or looking cool with a bazooka.
Her little Danny was sound asleep in bed, tucked into a ball under his covers like she'd seen him do so many times. Poor thing still wasn't well. Hopefully she and Jack could spend more time nursing him after they got this whole Phantom thing figured out.
"Good night," Maddie whispered softly, closing the door behind her, "Sweet dreams."
AN: Alright, there you go! Thanks for reading, following, favoriting, and reviewing. Next chapter we should really get into some action. Let me know what you think!