You tell me that you never leave
And I am almost afraid
To believe it
Why is it me
You've chosen to follow?
~Ghost by Emilie Autumn
Two: Boy Next Door
She cut her finger.
She cut her finger, she cut her finger, she cut her finger.
Why didn't he phase the glass through the floor? Maybe she would've been tipsy enough to dismiss it as a black-out again.
Sam. She wrapped the cut in a bandage, made and ate her breakfast without a hitch, utterly unfazed by the cut. Did she not feel any pain from it, he wondered, or did she simply not show it?
Once again, Danny's Obsession reared its ugly head. He briefly checked one of the wall mirrors and sure enough, Danny's irises flared blood-red. This tended to happen when his Obsession was impinged upon somehow, even if the impingement had been a case of self-harm on the tenant's part. Danny inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to supersede the wayward thoughts (protect protect protect, she's injured, slay the enemy) with cold rationality. Simply a shallow cut, she'll be fine. No, you can't slay the enemy, there's no enemy present. Reaching a state of mental clarity, he circled back to Sam.
Following her clean-up, she had called and arranged for a home security install. Danny listened with the hair on the back of his neck bristling, unreasonably insulted. She scheduled it for Wednesday, two days from now. (She would've liked to schedule it for today but apparently no one was available. Danny knew it was partially due to the property's reputation repelling most of the employees.) Then she proceeded to shop online for new decor, Danny peering over her shoulder and studying her taste. That's when he learned that he couldn't even breathe too loudly near her. Apparently Sam had sharp ears poised for danger. When a gust of Danny's breath spurred her hair, she flinched and looked behind her. Her gaze honed in on his chest; Danny remained stock still. Could she hear his heart pounding in his rib cage?
When a few more beats passed, she turned back to her laptop. She mumbled something about her 'fucking ears ringing like a cracked Liberty Bell.'
He almost sighed in relief, until he remembered she could hear it.
Eventually Sam finished shopping. Then she opened a text from her mother, left her on read. A text from her Dad indicated he had landed safely in Israel and would like to call when she got the chance. To Danny's surprise, she ignored that one too.
Was this rebellious streak merely part of the goth phase (which had apparently transcended her adolescence) or was there a better explanation for Sam's avoidance?
With all that finished, Sam donned a lime green sports bra and black bicycle shorts. She went upstairs to her private gym, a moderately sized space with a rack of dumbbells and kettle bells pushed against one wall, an all-in-one weightlifting station with pulleys and dip bars, another wall covered in full-length mirrors to monitor her form, and a selection of cardio machines scattered about. Parking herself on the recumbent bike, she immersed herself in a book while she pedaled. Danny wondered how she could read while pedaling at twelve miles an hour with the highest resistance. Per every two-hundred calorie interval, Sam would disengage from the cardio temporarily to weave through her circuits. After reaching six-hundred, her cardio ceased entirely in favor of a yoga flow. All in all, it took about three hours. By sheer force of habit, Danny periodically checked in while patrolling the perimeter of the house for wandering ghosts or shifty neighbors. Satisfied with a search that turned up nothing and no one, Danny retraced his flight to the kitchen, where a freshly showered Sam had fixed a vegetarian quesadilla for herself. Taking a seat at her kitschy table, Sam smiled satisfactorily when she took a bite.
Don't you feel lonely? he wondered, closely observing the flattening expression.
In all fairness, she didn't look lonely. On the contrary, Sam appeared to relish being alone. Throughout the day, he listened to her singing jubilantly while hand-washing dishes (and beautifully, he might add), laughing and throwing popcorn at the TV, indulging with books and games, but never responding to her texts and calls or reaching out to any human being. Then she cooked one more dinner for herself, where she forgot one of the integral spices and cursed her ADHD for the umpteenth time that day. Danny cracked a smile, endeared by how she struggled yet resolutely powered through her tasks anyway.
When she trudged up the stairs to her bedroom, he considered following her, but ultimately waged against it. Later that night, he would regret his decision.
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoe!"
Sam threw scissors. Megan threw paper.
"…Again?" Megan asked, having lost a third round. Sam nodded, her concentration peaked on Megan's thought process, speed-reading her micro-expressions like one would a chessboard. Only with the added pressure of a time crunch.
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoe!"
Sam knew Megan like the back of her hand, which currently unfolded in the 'paper' gesture. She could pick out every nuance of her facial expressions, predict her reactions and finish her sentences. After all, they were best friends, and they tended to move perfectly in sync.
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoe!"
Another victory. She had locked on her target, entered her flow state, calculating the variables alongside Megan's tells.
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoe!"
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoe!"
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoe!"
Ten times in a row. This is becoming strange. She's starting to feel weird. Could one chalk this up to coincidence? Surely she couldn't reach twenty consecutive wins?
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoe!"
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoe!"
"Rock, paper, scissors, shoe!"
Twenty-one victories in a row. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. At twenty-four, she fumbled on purpose, accepting that she'd keep winning at this rate. With the game concluded, Megan stared at her for several long seconds. Silence fell upon them like a soundless avalanche.
"I've never seen anyone win Rock Paper Scissors that many times before." Megan's mother broke the silence, numb with disbelief as she kept her eyes on the road.
"…" Sam didn't know what to say. She hadn't expected her experiment to work. Nor did she know how to cope with the replication of her results. How long could she have gone on winning if she hadn't surrendered willingly?
She leaned back into her seat, brain whirring enough to ache.
In that moment, Sam felt like a freak. And the look on Megan's face was not helping.
Her memory dissolved. Suddenly the scene shifted to her bathroom, where hands were braced against the porcelain. Hiccuping sobs wracked her body, straining her chest. It took her a while to tame her breath, tears dripping to her chin in heavy streaks. When at last she managed to compose herself, Sam examined her blurry eyes in the mirror. Her pupils were dilated, which was not unusual for someone with ADHD, medicated or not. Given the context, however...
She pulled her phone out. Turning her flashlight on, she waved it across her eye-line. Her pupils didn't so much as twitch, unresponsive to light.
Concussed, she realized. She shut her eyes, lowering to her knees on the cold tiles. Within her vast mindscape, she pictured a polished wooden box with a brass lock on it. Unlocking it with an imaginary key, she stored the secret inside on top of a growing pile. Locking the box once more, she tucked it away into the deepest, darkest recesses of her mind. Only Sam and the perpetrator would know of this incident. Her tears dried up like an emotional drought, numbness taking over.
Sam was struck abruptly with another shift in scenery, her consciousness transferring to her eight-year-old body.
"This is such a waste of time," her mother muttered. Sam wandered around the tourist attraction, a "museum" of limited size and nothing to flaunt but dated photographs, relevant artwork and poster boards with excerpts printed out and tacked on.
"It's not like it's a detour on our way to the Grand Canyon, honey," her father said. "More like a pit stop with slightly more interesting sight-seeing. Besides, aren't you a little curious?"
Sam pretended not to overhear her parents, immersing herself in the low-budget displays.
Pamela gesticulated at the poster boards erected on fold-out tables. "No, not really. Can you even call this a museum? It looks like a science fair."
"Well, there's a lot for Sam to read about the crash, and I'm guessing that's all she cares about," Jeremy said, watching as his daughter drifted to and fro, perusing the scraps and tilting her head at old sepia photographs of blurry dots in the sky. "And besides, she seems to like it here. Haven't you noticed she's quieter?"
"Probably because Roswell is practically a ghost town," Pamela replied, idly scanning the plaque underneath a framed picture of the infamous weather balloon. "Less people to overwhelm her."
"Maybe, I don't know." Jeremy shrugged noncommittally. "She told me the air feels lighter here."
"They have better air quality here than Chicago, I'll admit."
"Do you know, she even asked if she could move here?" Jeremy remarked. "She said her head feels better here."
"What?" Pamela chuckled, shaking her head. "There's no economy here! Absolutely not."
"Hey Dad?" Sam bounded up to him, a thumb-sized smile gracing her lips. "What if it's not aliens at all?"
Jeremy smiled back. "Other countries, you mean?"
She shook her head. "Nah."
"Then what?" he asked.
"Maybe ghosts," she said. "Like spirits from another dimension."
Jeremy stroked his chin. "Ghost with spaceships? That's a fun theory."
Sam giggled. Her mouth opened to expand on her half-baked theory, but a sudden movement in her periphery stalled her. She looked to her father's side, spotting a familiar silhouette approaching from behind. A tall, featureless humanoid gained up on her father, one that eight-year-old Sam had never seen before but sixteen-year-old recognized immediately.
She stepped back. Her soprano screams all but shattered the dreamscape.
Danny heard her screaming wail reverberating in the basement lab below. Startled awake, he leapt from his mattress on the floor and shot through the ceiling at the highest speed. Protect protect protect. Flying up to her bedroom, he found his charge in a tangle of sheets, a sheen of sweat dotting her brow. A nightmare? Sam sat upright, small frame shaking violently, dark hair in disarray from her thrashing. He noticed next that she wore a lavender babydoll dress. Its spaghetti-thin straps hung askew on her bare shoulders; its deep plunging collar revealed her collarbone and cleavage. She hugged her knees to her chest, the hem slipping and barely covering her thighs. That particular motion almost revealed a sliver of undergarments. Blushing profusely, Danny averted his gaze. He hadn't intended to see her in a nightgown but he had a feeling the image would be forever imprinted into his memory.
Sam… Her breaths spilled out haphazardly at first, seemingly on the verge of a panic attack. Then she evened out her exhales, inhaling deeply into her stomach. A minute or so passed before she lifted her head, eyes shimmering dully in the moonlight. No trace of tears. Danny wanted to reach out to her, to brush that straying black tress behind her ear and ask what she dreamed about. How long had it been since he'd touched a girl? How long had it been since anyone touched him?
Stop. Don't.
He should go. Before any more rebellious thoughts surfaced.
"They're not real." Her sobs had subsided into sniffles. She unfurled her legs, wiped at her tears. "They're not real, they're not real, they're not real."
Who's not real? Danny bit his tongue, froze in place.
"Fuck." As if that one simple word empowered her, Sam got up from her bed and headed to the annexed bathroom, presumably to wash her face. That's when Danny finally turned away, diving through the floors and falling back onto his mattress in a de-transformed state. His snowy white hair reverted to jet black, naturally spiky and curling at the nape. His irises, once glowing with an ethereal green light, dimmed to a sky blue. Danny folded his hands behind his head, staring up at the metallic ceiling as he reviewed his notes.
Who's not real? A pang of guilt struck him in the gut. Sam would likely recite the same mantra if faced with Danny in ghost form, wouldn't she? Followed by the realization that he must've been spying on her.
But that won't happen. Never had it been necessary before with any of the tenants, but then again... Sam didn't act anything like the people who had passed through these walls. Not once had anyone resided in this house alone, choosing instead to surround themselves with family or a partner or, in one particularly obnoxious case, a trust fund kid who couldn't go one week without hosting a party that nearly destroyed the house and permitted all kinds of debauchery.
Sam, on the other hand, never filled up her time with company, it seemed. So far her one unexpected guest had been met with begrudging politeness (and an unexplained rage fit upon her departure). Granted, Danny had only seen her for a couple days, but still. She had yet to call back or text anyone, her parents included. So why? Why was she isolating? Why was she having nightmares? Why would she call her mother a bitch? He thought about what she'd said when the Box Ghost had meddled with her moving process. Fucking ADHD, she grumbled. Fucking concussions.
Concussions?
"Is it just me," he murmured, "or is this looking a lot like PTSD?"
Something of which Danny was all too familiar with.
When Danny heard the stairs creaking with her footsteps the next morning, he immediately transformed and flew up to 'greet' her, silent and unseen. Despite the earlier assertions to limit his spying, Sam's behavior was unfortunately stoking his concerns. Sporting her nightgown still, Sam hobbled groggily to her kitchen and started brewing coffee first and foremost. Danny swallowed, noting how the lace-trimmed hem swayed at her mid-thigh, before hesitantly floating after her. Her hair had yet to be combed, shamelessly sticking up in various places. Shadows were stamped underneath her eyes, remnants of her restless sleep. Pity engulfed him, Obsession nipping at his heels like an angry chihuahua.
Slay the enemy who haunts her dreams.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, warding off a headache. Oblivious to the ghost's turmoil, Sam filled her mug with black coffee, no sugar or cream added. Crossing to her living room, Sam settled onto her couch. Then she switched her TV on to Animal Planet, casually sipping her coffee while viewing a dramatized narration of meerkat politics. Conscious of her acute hearing, Danny hung back several feet, practically pressed up against the shelves she had crammed with books and DVDs and games. He couldn't afford to be overheard by her again, especially if she began integrating with the community and heard the rumors of the house being haunted. Then what? Sam may not seem religious, but she certainly exuded a witch-y vibe. Would she cleanse the house with sagebrush or call an exorcist? While both were only a minor incvenience, Danny would hate to start off on the wrong foot. Considering the past residents, he'd like to hold on to one who, aside from blasting Dumpty Humpty and other screamo bands on occasion, was otherwise non-disruptive and respectful of the property. (Unless, of course, she kept throwing glass bottles at the walls. That could be a problem.)
Sam's giggle jolted him out of his reverie. "Adding that to the the bucket list: letting a meerkat perch on my head."
Danny cracked a smile. One more cup of coffee later, Sam went upstairs to shower and change, returning in a decidedly witch-y ensemble. (He didn't spy on the process!) Her bangs were swept out of her face, tied in a lopsided ponytail that sprung up from her crown. She had selected a loose white tee with a Ouija board layout printed on the front, coupled with frayed black shorts. Danny ogled for a second before catching himself.
C'mon, Phantom. Get a grip.
She headed out the door, climbing into her Jeep and driving out of his jurisdiction. Danny tried not to catastrophize while she was gone.
Sam returned later with a full supply of everything she would need to repaint the exterior of the house. Glaring out of the window of her Jeep at the offending sun, she donned a faded baseball cap to hopefully preserve her gothic pallor. Exiting the car, she headed for the shed. From there, she carried over the ladder, which was more cumbersome in height than heavy in weight. She tried lifting it overhead but ended up dragging it along. Though at some points, she could have sworn it felt lighter as if someone were assisting her. Propping it against the lip of her roof, she hauled up a paint can, followed by a drop cloth to catch the wayward drips of paint. With her measly coordination, paint would inevitably splash. Luckily she'd worn sneakers that were bruised, battered and on their last legs. As for her clothes, well, they might look cooler with stains.
She opened the paint can, pouring it into the tin. Sweat beaded on the nape of her neck but she ignored it. Dipping her paintbrush in a pool of violet paint, she proceeded to cover the pinkness with her purple violet. Her bluetooth speaker blasted Dumpty Humpty in the background, egging her on. With no neighbors to overhear, she sang along. Eventually her mind faded into the repetitions, paintbrush soaring across its canvas in smooth, scrupulous lines.
One could say that she's being absurd, given how she could easily afford a handful of laborers that would have completed this in a day or two. That and the fact that it's usually a 'man's job,' something her father would no doubt remind her of, if only to compensate for his glaring insecurities on what it means to be a man. Sam, however, preferred to do this all by herself. Even if her only reward would be to relish the look on her mother's face when she told her so. Yes, that's right. I didn't ask for your help. Nor did I ask for money to hire someone else to do it. Fuck you.
She may be disabled, but she was also hard-headed. Something her mother learned well.
She had almost finished with her second coat on the edifice when a caw resounded. It startled her enough for her brushstrokes to slip into a jagged streak. Sam looked up, her gaze roving the skyline for the source, but she couldn't find it.
"…Where are you, buddy?" She looked behind her then, only for another squawk to echo with eerie closeness. Her brush fell from her grasp and she stumbled back, her heel catching on the gutter.
Fuck, had been her only waking thought. Her arms outstretched to try and regain balance, rotating in a windmill motion as she pitched backwards. She braced herself for impact, eyes shut tight.
Only the impact never came. Sam felt herself landing in someone's arms instead, sturdy enough to not even flinch at her weight.
"Huh?" Her eyes shot open to be met with a pair of round eyes that matched the sky in color. "What."
She stared into the unfamiliar face of a boy around her age, with spiky jet black hair and a gently sloping nose. He wore a white tee trimmed with red and wide blue jeans.
"So, uh," the boy broke the silence. "There's a line in here somewhere, like 'Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?' but..."
"I'm fucking Jewish," she said, still staring at him.
He blushed in embarrassment, drawing Sam's gaze to his cheeks, which were baby-faced but covered in light stubble. "Oh. Uh… sorry?"
She peered at the ground, straining her neck. "Mind putting me down?"
"Uh, yes. I mean no, I don't mind." He set her down gently, letting her brace her hand on a well-defined bicep until she regained her footing.
"Okay, so I suppose first I should thank you," she started, sizing him up and down. "But I'd also like to know what you're doing on my lawn?"
"Oh, I'm a neighbor. I was just passing through to reach the graveyard by your house."
Sam didn't like how his eyes shifted when he said that. Liar.
"What's your name? As in your full God-given name?" She'd look him up later to confirm his identity and run a cursory background check.
"Danny Fenton." He extended his hand for a shake. Sam took it and squeezed hard. Usually people winced, but Danny didn't.
"You've got quite a grip," he said, wringing his hand out like a cloth. "So you're the new tenant here?"
"Name's Sam," she answered. "Technically not a tenant, since I'm staying for free."
"Oh." Danny looked up at the three-story house, rubbing the back of his head. "You're, uh, doing that wrong, by the way. Thought you should know."
Sam followed his gaze. "Fuck you mean?"
"You're painting horizontally, right?" When she nodded, he went on, "You're supposed to paint in an 'M' and 'W' motion, to prevent streaking. Have you done this before?"
"No." She fished out her phone, looking it up to confirm his tip. "I guess you're right," she concluded after skimming the results.
"If you'd like, I can help you?" he offered with a nervous smile.
Sam contemplated, unsmiling but not frowning. "...Alright." She swallowed a lump in her throat, perhaps a build-up of pride. She may loathe accepting help, but she also feared falling off the roof again. At least someone would be around to catch her.
More than that, however, she'd like to keep him around for observation. Danny lied about why he was there, but he did give her his real name. She also didn't sense any ill intent from him, which further confused her. On the surface, Danny appeared like a typical nice guy, with dreamy blue eyes and enticingly dark hair. So why the lying? Without further comment, she ascended the ladder, Danny tagging along.
"By the way," she said when her feet landed on the slope, cleats bracing on the shingles, "did you hear a turkey vulture around here? I could've sworn I heard a turkey vulture."
"Uh." She eyed him carefully as his gaze shifted to the side. "Yeah, I thought I heard something, but I was kinda distracted by the fact this girl was about to fall off her roof. Why are you doing this on your own anyway?"
She stared openly, trying to pattern-spot any more lies. "Just felt like it."
If he didn't wanna give anything away, then fine, she wouldn't either. Grabbing her brush, she handed it off to Danny. "Mind demonstrating your 'M' and 'W' method?"
Danny nodded, proceeding to do just that. "Dumpty Humpty, huh?" He nodded to the speaker, which hadn't ceased blaring her unabashed screamo.
"Yeah. You like?" Sam asked while she studied his brushstrokes.
"Absolutely," he replied, smiling in such a gentle manner that her gut recoiled in fear. How to respond to a smile like that?
"...You didn't hear me singing, did you?" she asked suddenly. Danny's smile turned sheepish. She took that as a yes, blood rushing to her cheeks. "Forget everything you heard."
"Why? You have a nice voice."
"Just wipe it from your memory, please." She couldn't explain it without delving into her childhood traumas.
"Alright," he relented after a moment of staring. Her gut recoiled even more. Why did he have to be cute? And why was he looking at her like... that?
You know why, her mother's haughty reply echoed in her head. Sam nearly scowled but suppressed it for her audience's sake. Picking up her spare brush, she commenced painting like Danny had taught her. Eventually she got the hang of it, though it was more difficult than painstakingly straight lines.
Minutes ticked by like a light drizzle of rain, barely perceptible. Sam would sneak furtive glances over at him as they worked, following the 'M" and 'W' motions he had taught her. Perspiration shimmered on his forehead, spikes dropping over his eye-line like dark petals wilting in the sun.
"What do you say we take a break for refreshments, Danny?" she suggested, checking her phone to see that forty minutes had passed. "You've earned it, don't you think?"
Again with that disarming smile. "Sure," he said, depositing his brush in the tin. "Thanks."
He followed her descent on the ladder. "So is this your step ladder?" he asked, pausing when he reached the ground.
"Uh, yes?" She looked over at him strangely.
"I never met my real ladder."
Her brain loaded for a second before she burst into laughter. "I'm sorry to hear that, but you know..." Her eyes glinted viciously. "I have a thing for boys with daddy issues."
Should she be flirting with him? Maybe not, but it might cause him to drop his guard. Perhaps even with enough gentle coaxing, he would admit to how he conveniently showed up to catch her in the nick of time.
"Oh, really?" He chuckled, gaze never straying from hers.
To her dismay, Sam's stomach fluttered with girly butterflies. Was she getting in over her head? Rarely had she reacted to anyone so strongly.
"I may have an issue or two." He shrugged, jamming his hands in pockets. "Shall we?"
"Hold on." She stepped closer until their sneakers almost kissed. "Mind if I touch you?"
Danny froze, his Adam's apple bobbing. "What for?"
"Security measure."
"Okay?"
Consent granted, Sam patted him down like a security guard at an airport. Danny tensed under her ministrations but allowed it. She pulled back.
"All clear." Sam half-turned, glancing at an area she had specifically avoided touching. "I trust that's not a trusty handgun in your pants."
Danny's effectual blush was all too satisfying.
She snickered, leading the way to her doorstep. "C'mon inside, Boy Next Door."
You don't know who you're fucking with.