Author's Notes
Rated T for now. Content will surpass the rating in later chapters and be updated accordingly.
Via the Danny Phantom pitch bible leak, Sam exhibits the following neurodivergent traits:
* not giving a damn about being popular (less responsive to societal pressures to conform)
* hides her good looks behind baggy clothes (prefers comfort over style due to sensory issues)
* she is an encyclopedia of conspiracy theories and paranormal activity (special interests that are considered fringe)
* brooding pessimist (comorbid depression and/or honesty may be construed as cynicism)
Other traits I've noticed in the show:
* recognizes Valerie's voice straightaway in Shades of Gray (sensitive hearing)
* strong sense of justice (moral rigidity through activism)
* occasional flat affect
* may be egocentric at times (unrefined cognitive/affective empathy in youth)
Thank you for reading my self-indulgent headcanon. :P
Did you know
Sometimes it frightens me
When you say my name
And I can't see you?
Will you ever learn to materialize
Before you speak
Impetuous boy
If that's what you really are
How many centuries
Since you've climbed a balcony
Or do you do this every night
With someone else?
~Ghost by Emilie Autumn
One: New Haunt
Sam hopped out of the car, her combat boots scraping on the fresh blacktop of her driveway. Folding her arms over her chest, she craned her neck back to take in the full scope of the mansion before her, a fully restored Gothic Revival Victorian mansion. Turrets sprouted and spiraled from its base, adorned with arched windows and topped with smoky gray shingles. Her lip curled in disgust at the fresh coat of tickle pink on the brick foundation, a mark of her mother's influence. Making a mental note to repaint it, she started up the cobblestone path that wound its way to the wraparound porch, where she unlocked the door and set foot in the foyer.
"Oh," she sighed, looking around, "for the love of all things unholy."
Pamela's touch could be traced everywhere in the furnishings. A pink carpet runner, glaringly bright, lined her hallway leading to the kitchen, Ornate white sideboards were pushed against the walls, topped with colorful vases and abstract sculptures. Sam sneered at one angel statue in particular, a young blond girl with a white robe and cherubic, downturned face.
"I prefer the biblically accurate angels," she commented to no one in particular. "Particularly the ophanim."
Then she jumped when she heard a faint chuckle, looking around in alarm. "Hello?"
No reply. Had she imagined it? Who else would be here? Mr. Lancer, her caretaker, would have ensured that no squatters would be setting up shop, right? Unless someone were particularly sneaky, in which case...
She all but backpedaled out the door. Returning to her Jeep, she grabbed her leather jacket from the passenger seat. Checking its pocket for her trusty , she shrugged it on. Hoping to appear business-as-usual, in case anyone were watching. she opened up the trunk and began hauling a box of her books to the doorstep. Placing it inside, she darted back and forth, balancing stacks of boxes in her arms and dumping them in the foyer. Once she'd stacked about a dozen or so boxes, she took a break and sat on one such box, slightly hunched over while she caught her breath. Her parents would chide her for refusing assistance, but she'd been determined to make this property her own-if not financially, then symbolically. Therefore Sam fully intended to refurbish the property without any hired help, including the tasks which were normally delegated to beefy men, unless it proved impossible.
A minute or so passed. She successfully caught and tamed her breath, straightened her back. Ever so cautious, she swept her gaze around in a full one-eighty, but spied nothing out of the ordinary. Had she truly imagined it? That breathless chuckle tickling her ear, buffeting her dark locks? She sighed after a moment and put her head in her hands, chalking it up to paranoia and stress. After all, Sam rarely coped well with change, especially a life-altering move such as this. Standing from the pile of boxes, she went out to the driveway, intending to carry in the last couple of boxes from her trunk. Popping it open, however, she found it empty.
"Huh." A flat statement of bewilderment. Looking to the front door in panic, Sam fished out her butterfly knife, unfolding its silver blade from the varnished ruby-red handle, before marching back to the house.
Once inside, she prompted again, "Hello?!" Then she looked down, her toes colliding with the missing set of boxes. "What the hell?"
She stepped around her mysteriously relocated boxes, circling the perimeter on high alert. "Anyone here?" With no response forthcoming, she stopped and stared at the cardboard boxes.
"Fucking ADHD..." she muttered after a moment, despite how her skin crawled with doubt. "Fucking concussions, fuck."
Later she would call someone to install an air-tight home security system, just in case.
Sam toured her house, simultaneously performing rotary tricks with her balisong. Partially to stimulate herself, but partially to threaten any intruders who might be lurking around. She dialed Mr. Lancer while she wandered, holding the phone to her ear and scanning the pastel pink premises with utter contempt.
"Good afternoon," she greeted when he picked after a second or so of dial tones. "It's Sam. I'm settling in now. Thanks for keeping this place spick and span."
His voice crackled warmly through the line. "Samantha! Good afternoon to you too."
"'Sam' is fine, Mr. Lancer." She gritted her teeth but kept her tone neutral. "I was just calling to ask if you've noticed any suspicious activity, like squatters maybe?"
"Not at all, Sam. I check the house bi-weekly. No sign of anyone. Why do you ask?"
She refrained from mentioning the incident. Just in case it had, in fact, been a memory black-out. "Simply for the sake of prudence. Wouldn't wanna go through the hassle of squatter's rights, you know?"
"Don't worry, Sam. I assure you I'm thorough. Are you sure you're okay being all alone on your first night?"
"Absolutely," she said. More than okay, she'd be overjoyed. Finally some peace and quiet. Or better yet, Dumpty Humpty on full blast without any neighbors complaining about 'that' infernal racket,' or so they liked to call it.
"If you're sure," he replied, though a tad uncertain. She rolled her eyes, sensing the sexist implications. "Anything else I can assist you with?"
"No, that's-" But then she paused, paranoid ideations sprouting in her mind, inspired by the numerous horror movies she'd watched. Would it be possible for someone to access secret passageways within the walls? "Actually, do you have any old blueprints of the house? I'm planning to remodel a bit." And by a bit, she meant a lot.
"Sure. I'll e-mail it to you."
"Thanks. Mr. Lancer." After bidding him politely goodnight, she hung up and pocketed her phone. "Hmmm..." Looking around, she tapped her lip gently with the blade, picturing how she'd gut and maim this living room until it became an appropriate dying room for a goth.
"Okay, let's see," she talked to herself aloud, contemplating the empty bookshelves on the opposite wall. "Movies and games on the left, books on the right, I'd say." Grimacing at the hot pink floor rug with an argyle pattern, she went on, "Donating that one to Goodwill for sure. Same goes for you." She stabbed her blade in the direction of the nauseatingly pink sofa, and the pointed at the hot pink accent wall. "And all of this will be painted black like a bottomless pit, that's for sure."
She crossed over to the gas-fueled fireplace. But of course, that would also be painted black instead of white. "Well, the TV can stay, at least," she said, referring to the fifty-inch flat-screen hanging above the mantle, its frame a default black. "Guess I'll start simple with unpacking."
Danny grabbed the Box Ghost by his collar, eliciting a sharp yelp. Pulling him through the floor into the underground lab, he released him none too gently.
"Now, what did you go and do that for?" He glowered at him with glowy-green eyes.
"I am the Box Ghost!" He drifted away from him, arms falling back to his side. "How could I not help her with those boxes?"
"You scared her," Danny scolded.
"I did?" He grinned widely. "I mean, I did! BEWARE!"
Danny shushed him, making him shrink back. "Maybe scared's the wrong word," he amended, reflecting back on how she brandished her blade and swung it around jauntily. "More like… she had experience." Concern lined his brow, the Obsession hounding him. Protect protect protect, it roared. Protect at all costs.
"She did an excellent job of cutting those boxes open," the Box Ghost said with a little nod.
Raking a hand through his hair, Danny warned, "Don't interfere anymore. Understand?"
"I'll beware," the Box Ghost conceded. He circled back towards the portal, commenting off-handedly, "I just wanted to see the new resident."
"Well, you've seen her." He unlocked the portal, pressing a big red button that pinged when it scanned his thumbprint. "Now get out before I box your ears."
On command, he swooped into the swirling green portal. Danny released his thumb, the portal doors closing in tandem. Floating slightly upwards, he leaned against the wall. A long-suffering sigh escaped while he rifled through images in his mind of the new tenant. Sam, she called herself. She stood roughly 5"5, lithe and limber, with shiny, shoulder-length black hair; she had purple eyes and a complexion that even paled his in comparison. He wondered if she got enough sunlight. Or did she avoid tanning as part of her goth aesthetic?
Learn more, the Obsession demanded. Learn everything.
But he told himself that wouldn't be necessary to protect her. Would it?
Sam had almost finished packing and stacking her books on the shelves when the doorbell rang. Her hand froze midway, the book falling and jabbing her toe with its corner. Cursing under her breath, Sam pattered to the front door with soundless footsteps. Standing on tip-toe to peer through the peephole , she almost let out another curse.
But of course. Who else would be visiting her besides girl scouts and Mormons?
She swung open the door, greeted her blandly. "Hi Mom."
"Sama—" Pamela's face brightened before she caught her slip. "Sam. I thought I should check in!"
Sam stepped aside, knowing she couldn't turn down her mother's company, especially while on her property. "I've only been here for a couple hours."
"I'm sure it's a little scary," Pamela said, whisking by Sam with a bottle of chardonnay in her hands, a red ribbon tied around its neck. "Being all alone in a big house like this."
Sam refrained from replying, I feel more alone when you're with me.
"I mean, the pinkness is kinda scary," she said instead. "I'm allowed to renovate, right?"
Pamela's lips pursed at the snide remark on her decorating. "Yes. That was the deal. You take all the time you need to… figure out your next move. Until then, it's yours."
"Symbolically speaking," Sam said, shutting the door behind her and keeping her expression neutral. "In title, not so much. I'm also not protected by landlord-tenant laws since I'm not paying you any rent."
Translation: I'm aware of every trap you've set. Squatter's rights and daughter's rights, that's all I've got, and it ain't much.
"Well, you can make yourself at home regardless." Pamela held up the wine bottle, shaking it lightly. "It's a shame your father couldn't join us but he had to fly out to settle a new contract. What do you say we celebrate your first night here?"
Sam almost turned her down. Catching her mother's look, however, she rethought it.
"Yeah. Okay. Should I order pizza?"
He told himself not to watch her, that he would stay in the basement and guard the portal. Not once would he peek into her room or raid her drawers or flip through her diary or breach her privacy in any way because, like he had to keep reminding himself, She is a human being. Not yours. Even this house isn't really yours.
Until he heard the doorbell. Then he shot through the ceiling on instinct. She welcomed in Pamela Manson, who he knew to be the most recent buyer but also, apparently, Sam's mother. Thrown for a loop, Danny followed them to the living room, comparing their features. Despite how they looked nothing alike at first glance, he did notice the close resemblance in Sam's cheekbones, nose and forehead.
"You didn't have to buy me such an expensive wine, Mom," Sam said, decanting the golden wine into her glass. "I could've gotten drunk off a supermarket Dark Horse."
Danny added to his notes: She's frugal, unlike her mother, who splurges haphazardly.
"Of course you'd buy something with 'Dark' in its name." Pamela chuckled. "And something dry too."
Sam waggled her eyebrows. "'Full-bodied and sumptuous,' according to the labels."
Her mother giggled. "Well, I thought I'd treat you to something sweet instead." She lifted her glass, prompting Sam to mirror. "A toast to your new house?"
"Not my house," Sam corrected. "How about, my new haunt?" She clinked their glasses together and took her first sip.
Eventually they settled on a movie to watch. Her mother enjoyed rom-coms while Sam preferred the gory horrors and psychological thrillers, but they compromised with a Scooby-Doo live-action. Several minutes elapsed before it occurred to Danny that he was still watching the girl he had resolved not to watch.
What are you doing? he chided, almost turning away. You don't need to protect her from her mother. Right?
But then he paused. He couldn't shake the feeling that something felt off. Sam didn't talk to her mother like she talked to Mr. Lancer on the phone earlier. Her tone flattened; her expression neutralized. Like she wanted to give nothing away. Why would she be so closed-off around her mother? Pamela gave no indication that anything was wrong, but Sam navigated their interactions like she had been navigating her house with a butterfly knife.
I'll stick around just in case, Danny rationalized to himself, almost like an addict.
Over the course of the evening, Sam loosened up with every swig of sweetened chardonnay. Her guard didn't drop completely but it hung askew; her deadpan delivery softened to a girlish delicacy. Her jokes flowed like honey, garnering teary-eyed laughs from her mother. When Pamela tried to gossip, Sam redirected it with more sugarcoated sarcasm. He added to his ever-accumulating mental notes: Pamela may be a gossip-monger but Sam never took the bait. If anything, a flash of annoyance would pass through Sam's face before she'd coach it back to neutrality.
Pamela laughed indulgently when Daphne, her body overtaken by Fred's soul, cast a look down at her body and smiled roguishly, saying, 'Heyyyy. I can look at my body naked…'
Sam didn't laugh. She poured more wine into her glass and nearly chugged it, lips puckering at the tart aftertaste. "Why does every kid's movie have to sneak in a joke about sexual harassment?" she griped after a moment.
"Oh, lighten up, dear." Pamela dismissed her outright, waving a gloved hand. "It's just a fun joke for the adults."
Sam didn't reply, looking askance at the hot pink accent wall.
Not long after the movie ended, Pamela kissed Sam on the cheek and hugged her goodbye. Her daughter tensed up, reluctantly returning the embrace. Danny eyed the interaction with puzzlement, wondering if Sam was simply touch-averse in general or towards her mother specifically. He couldn't know until she had more visitors… Maybe if he…
No. No, no, no. Don't do that.
Sam shut the door with a soft click. Turning the deadbolt, she leaned her forehead against the door, eyes shutting for a moment.
'What's wrong?' he wanted to ask her. 'You looked like you were enjoying yourself.' Had that just been Oscar-worthy acting? Or did she simply miss her mother already? Did she dread being alone? Was that why her pretty smiles all but collapsed? Or was Danny missing an integral piece of the puzzle?
Peeling away from the door, Sam strode to her living room to clean up the clutter. When she picked up the bottle, she chugged down the last vestiges of wine from it. Suddenly she hurled it at the hot pink wall, the bottle smashing into smithereens on impact. Shards of glass scintillated on the floor, tempting Danny to phase it through the wood, to ensure she wouldn't be cut.
What did you do that for? He wanted to shake her by the shoulders; he wanted to wrap her in a blanket and guide her to the sofa. If only he could help her without scaring her.
"Bitch," Sam spat into the empty air. Abandoning the mess, she spun on her heel and exited the living room without a second glance, unaware of the nonplussed Danny she left behind.
Sam awoke the next day with a slight hangover, plagued with minor aches and lethargy. Prior to making her breakfast, she knelt down by the remains of her broken bottle. Sweeping the shard into a dustpan, she nearly managed to avoid cutting herself until a jagged piece caught on the edge. She tried to nudge it and wound up with a shallow cut on the pad of her finger.
"Damn." She swore she heard a breath, a low hiss by her ear. Struck by a full-body shudder, her gaze darted around and found no one. "Hello?" she murmured to the empty air.
"Hello?" she tried again when no reply had been forthcoming. Crickets. Had she finally lost it? She sucked on the blood beading from her scratch, then rose to her feet and discarded the shards. Stashing the broom in her closet, she noted aloud, "I'm installing a home security system TODAY."
Danny, meanwhile, followed her to the kitchen where she fixed herself a sloppy, but ostensibly edible omelet.
I'm your home security system, he wanted to say, Obsession prickling in annoyance.