#dykesville | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

raaorqtpbpdy · 7 months ago

Text

The Noteworthy Career of Operative E

The most experienced operative in the entire Ghost Investigation Ward recalls his history with the organization.

For the prompt: It was easier 15 years ago [from @dykesville]

Read on AO3

[No warnings apply]

The Ghost Investigation Ward had been around for a long time, but interestingly, it had a very short turnover rate for employees. For whatever reason, this job got to people. Especially these days.

Operative E was currently the most experienced active operative in the organization, and he was only on his... fifteenth... sixteenth year? Something like that. He wasn't the oldest. No, that honor belonged to Operative M, but he'd joined up older, and had only been with the agency for about ten years.

Rumor had it that only three agents in G.I.W. history had ever served for twenty years, since the Ward was founded in 1946. Operative E always planned to make it four. But, God help him, he was starting to wonder if he'd make it.

The organization had changed since he first joined up, a fresh-faced young man of twenty-five, fresh out of the U.S. Navy with an honorable discharge and glowing letter of recommendation that his captain assured him would get him into damn near any government agency there was.

E had chosen this one.

The head of the G.I.W. had raised an eyebrow when he read the recommendation and asked E why the hell he wanted the join the G.I.W. when he had a letter that could practically get him into the presidential cabinet. It was an exaggeration, of course. It was a good letter, but not that good.

Operative E had simply shrugged and said this seemed like more fun.

At the time, it had just been a handful of operatives, three or four scientists, and a couple dozen support staff members, including hazmats—all of them working out of a building down the street from the Pentagon that was little more than a shack with a couple of dingy basement levels. They didn't have much to do, but they kept themselves busy anyway, and even though they hardly had any direct oversight, they tried to be as professional and by-the-book as possible.

Operative E had respected them from the beginning because they clearly respected themselves. They took themselves seriously, even if no one else did.

The Ghost Investigation Ward had been a joke back then—even to the Extra-Terrestrial Research Unit (which was not in Area 51 by the way, and hadn't investigated any more legitimate cases than the G.I.W. had, not back then nor since, because aliens weren't real). They were the bottom of the barrel, lower than even the other niche departments that dealt with things no one believed it. The Cryptozoolgical Response Sector used them as the butt of their jokes, and those guys had been fruitlessly searching for Bigfoot since the fifties.

Operative E hadn't minded though. He'd always kept it to himself to avoid judgement from his peers, but he'd believed in ghosts since he was a little boy, and he'd had a fascination with the macabre and paranormal for just as long. Joining the military had been expected of him, family tradition and all, but studying ghosts, investigating spiritual activity, this was his dream job.

Or it had been his dream job... when he started.

A lot had changed since then. Things were different now, more intense, more dangerous, more difficult.

It was easier fifteen years ago.

Operative E could remember his first mission for the G.I.W., all the way back in the eighties. He'd been dispatched to a small town in western New York that he no longer remembered the name of with his partner, who had been Operative K at the time, although there was a new Operative K who was nothing at all like his predecessor. An alleged haunted house owned by one Margaret Porter.

He and his partner had performed a perfectly by-the-book investigation, and int the process, K had shown him the ropes, pointed out what and what not to look for, what to be wary of, what sort of things might look like ghosts but weren't, and how he could avoid letting himself be fooled by them.

In the end, they determined that Margaret Porter's house was not haunted. She'd just had a faulty radiator and a pair of raccoons living in her attic.

Operative K had seen the same thing before. Downtrodden, he'd warned the bright-eyed young Operative E that most of the cases he would investigate with the G.I.W. would turn out to be duds like that one, if not deliberate hoaxes. E had heard him, but chosen not to internalize that warning, to hold out hope that the next case would be a real haunting.

His second case was a woman whose seven-year-old daughter swore up and down that she'd been playing with a ghost in the garden at least once a week since they'd moved into the house. Operative K let E take the lead on that one, sidelining himself to give his trainee some practice. Operative E had thought for sure that it had to be a real haunting this time. It was too compelling not to be.

It had turned out to be one of the neighbor kids playing a trick on the little girl. She'd mistaken him for a ghost since he was albino, and could only go outside at night, or for very brief periods during day, because of the sun. The neighbor boy had thought it was hilariously funny and encouraged her misconception.

Still, the young Operative E refused to let it get him down. The third time was the charm, as the saying went, after all.

The third time was the charm.

Apparently young Operative E hadn't learned yet to be careful what he wished for. Now, he would give anything to go back to those easy days.

Operative K—his original partner, not the young hotshot who had the title now—was a cynic, so when they got their third case, a college student in Wisconsin who had a case of 'ghostly acne', K immediately assumed it was a crank call. Nevertheless, the two of them went to investigate. After all, it wasn't as if there were any more pressing cases that needed to be taken care of. The only active case at the time that the organization thought might have any legitimacy was already being taken care of by Operatives U and I.

At the time, U and I were the G.I.W.'s top operatives, so they got all the best cases, the ones that sounded most like they could be genuine hauntings. Operative E had been so jealous. He'd wanted so badly to be in their position, but he knew that he was green, and new, and he would have to establish himself more before he had that kind of credibility with the higher ups, so he went to investigate the probably fake ghost acne in Wisconsin.

The afflicted was a graduate student at University of Wisconsin in Madison, but it wasn't at the school that the operatives found him. It was in the urgent care ward of Madison General Hospital. He had apparently been hospitalized for the very same bout of acne that the G.I.W. had caught wind of and sent people to look into.

"Excuse me, we're here to visit a Vladimir Masters," Operative K said to the administrator at the visitors desk.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Masters isn't taking visitors, his parents were very insistent that no one be allowed to see him. He's in quite a state."

"We're with the government, ma'am." Operative K flashed his badge and E took the hint that he should do the same. "We need to ask him some questions."

As long as she didn't look to closely at their credentials, they wouldn't be laughed out of the building for being paranormal investigators. Although technically K hadn't been lying when he said they were government, he just knew which parts needed to be left out in order to get the job done. K was clever like that, cunning, not like the young brash Operative K they had now, relying on technology to do his job because he didn't have any common sense.

"Oh... well..."

She hemmed and hawed, no doubt weighing in her mind whether it would be better to piss off Masters' parents or the US government and coming to the right conclusion—or at least the one the benefited them the most. Operative E never found out how the parents had reacted, so he couldn't know for sure how that had turned out for the administrator, not that it was of any importance to his own work.

"Alright, I suppose we can make an exception for the government," she said. Then she handed them both yellow paper tags. "Here are your visitor badges. Just clip 'em to your label, or your pocket, anywhere as long as they're visible. Masters is in room 212 on the second floor."

They did as she said and made their way up to the room, where they found a man around the same age Operative E had been at the time, if not a few years younger, lying on a bed, visibly in pain, despite all the tubes connected to him—no doubt at least one was painkillers. And on his face, his arms, every visible inch of skin and no doubt the ones hidden under his blankets and hospital gown as well... was glowing green spots.

It was like no acne E had ever seen before or since.

In fact, he'd never seen anything like it before, acne or otherwise. And judging by the look on K's face, it was a first for him, too. He regained his composure faster than E did, though, introduced them both and started to ask the routine questions about cold spots and lights flickering.

Masters responded to the questions with a weak, ailing voice, and repeatedly asked why they were even there, in his hospital room, and what they thought they could learn by talking to him. The G.I.W. didn't go places to answer questions, however, they went to ask them, and once K was done with the standard interview, he moved on to the case-specific questions.

Namely: where, when, and how Masters had become inflicted with his condition.

It was an odd mix to hear someone tell a story with such a bitter tone whilst simultaneously moaning and gasping in pain every so often. He recounted his experience of trying to open a portal with his school's paranormal research club, and how things went awry. At the end, he added with a sneer that they hadn't even come to visit him, even though his condition was their fault and he'd thought they were friends.

E and K had looked at each other at that, but neither had said anything. It seemed like something Masters should discuss with his parents, and not two strangers with a job to do. College friendships were not their business. Their business was ghosts.

With his permission, they'd carefully taken some samples of the... stuff... the whatever it was under his skin that gave his pimples that sickly glow. Apparently the doctors were having no luck curing it thus far, and he didn't see the harm in having more people trying to find a solution. Then they'd gotten the names of the two other club members, thanked Masters for his time, and left.

It wasn't the last time they had cause to go to that hospital, but it was the last time they visited Masters directly.

After the hospital, they went to the school to learn more about this paranormal research club that Masters had been working with. They quickly found it. Apparently the club was rather infamous on campus for being freaks and nutjobs. Rumors like that wouldn't deter the G.I.W., of course. Freaks and nutjobs were exactly the kind of people they wanted to hear from.

The other two members of the paranormal research club were a behemoth of a man named Fenton and a lean but sprightly young woman by the name of Winch. They confirmed Masters' story.

When the operatives had asked to look at their portal project, the two students were happy to oblige, but warned that it probably wouldn't be of much value to them. The heap of scorched scrap metal in a cardboard box labeled 'ghost portal' was explanation enough. As expected, examining the remains of the portal project yielded no worthwhile information.

The whole situation was certainly ghost-adjacent, which was good news for the continued existence of the G.I.W., but as there were no actual ghosts to investigate, the operatives had eventually returned to HQ with only copious notes in hand, as well as the names of three people upon which keeping tabs might prove fruitful. The higher-ups had agreed, and activated surveillance on Vladimir Masters, Madeline Winch, and Jack Fenton.

That was the turning point.

First it was evidence of a haunting at the hospital where Masters was. U and I were sent to investigate—despite Operative E's protest that it was his and K's case to begin with and they should be the ones going back there—and they determined that the haunting was legitimate, and furthermore that the ghosts seemed to be drawn to whatever strange energy Masters gave off, probably due to his condition.

E and K had gotten to return after that, to stake out the hospital for continued spectral activity—but only because the organization thought their best operatives would be more useful elsewhere. Just as their fellow operatives had reported, Madison General Hospital had several ghosts hanging around it then, and they were the real deal.

At least, Operative E had thought they were the real deal. He had been so excited, and dutifully logged every single shred of activity they observed before finally cleansing the place of ghosts with their anti-ecto pulse generators—the first time Operative K had ever had need to use his in the field.

A month or so later, however, they were called in to return to that hospital and cleanse it again. Then again. Every month or two for years, Operatives E and K would go to cleanse that hospital of spectral activity, then, when K retired after eleven years with the ward, Operative E took his new partner, Operative J.

It wasn't an especially difficult task, but it was the first consistent and recurring ghostly activity on the record, and E was happy to do it. It was fulfilling work, and he actually got to deal with real ghosts.

He learned years later that those weren't real ghosts. They were barely shades, each one a shadow of a whisper of what a real ghost was like.

Masters wasn't the only one they were keeping tabs on, but, embarrassingly, the G.I.W. sort of lost track of Fenton and Winch shortly after the two of them got married. Someone had been slacking, and when the two of them moved out of Wisconsin, they dropped off the organization's radar entirely.

The slacker was summarily identified and their employment with the G.I.W. terminated. That kind of oversight was unacceptable, especially now that they'd provided actual proof of the existence of ghost and were under review for a funding increase.

The funding increase was eventually approved, and it was enough that they could move into a new headquarters and hire a few more employees. The little ghost activity they'd been able to confirm finally justified their existence, and they were given the means to combat the ghost issue more effectively than ever.

That didn't stop things being weird, though.

It was as if that portal experiment actually had worked to some degree, because after that very first trip to Wisconsin, the number of genuine hauntings the G.I.W. operatives identified skyrocketed. And as time passed, the ghosts they encountered became ever so slightly stronger. They were more visible, some of them could even move things... touch things.

Slowly... slowly... Operative E began to understand the truth about ghosts. Began to learn that the shades he'd first encountered were mere echoes of a true ghost's power.

Then... there was the million dollar ghost.

And suddenly that slow, steady progression sped up exponentially, and the G.I.W. was suddenly faced with ghosts leaps and bounds more powerful and more dangerous than they'd ever encountered before. Their anti-ecto pulse generators were ineffective against the more powerful ecto-entities, and the organization was forced to adapt or become obsolete.

If there was one thing that those who worked at the Ghost Investigation Ward would rather die than become, it was obsolete. This organization had stayed afloat for decades with hardly anything to show for it, and it wasn't about to die because the workload became overwhelming.

Instead, the G.I.W. rose to the occasion. Increased ghost activity meant reasonable cause to request increased funding, increased staffing, better equipment and technology, better training. Within a few months, they had gone from a dedicated, but underappreciated and underutilized sector of the government, to an elite, and highly efficient ghost hunting group.

But it was difficult. Intense. Keeping that up was too much for a lot of people.

The turnaround for employees back when Operative E first started was around ten to fifteen years, now, people who'd only worked there for five or six were handing in their resignations.

The work itself wasn't all that much more difficult than what the CIA or FBI did. But there was something about it that got to people. It wasn't a moral or ethical thing. It wasn't the fact that it made them question their very understanding of reality, of life and death—although that certainly didn't help matters.

It was something else. Something Operative E understood but couldn't identify, like a word on the tip of his tongue that he couldn't quite say.

"Ah, Operative E, I hear congratulations are in order."

E jerked his head up, suddenly pulled from his thoughts by Operative M stopping to talk to him.

"Elaborate?" E requested.

"I was just down in records, and Meg down there saw that today marks your twentieth year in the organization. That makes you the fourth operative ever, right?"

"That is what they say."

"Well, congratulations," M repeated. "I can only hope to survive long enough to be the fifth, although at my age and in this line of work, there's no guarantee of that."

"Well, all you have to do is not die for a while and your set."

Operative M gave him a good natured laugh. "Well, sir, I'll do my darnedest."

"That's all anyone can do," Operative E replied. "Thanks, but if you'll excuse me."

He pardoned himself to the restroom, which was, thankfully, empty, and took a good look at himself in the mirror. He was still tall, his muscles hadn't atrophied, thanks to his stringent fitness routine and his physically demanding work. But he hardly recognized himself.

He looked old. His hair greying at the temples, a deep furrow forming on his forehead, skin starting to sag and wrinkle. His eyes were tired. This job had certainly done a number on him over the years. Twenty of them... apparently, not fifteen, not even close.

But still, things were easier fifteen years ago, when he knew how long he'd actually been working, and he could recognize his own face looking back at him in the mirror.

#dp #danny phantom #fic #things i wrote #guys in white #dp giw #dp oc #phic phight #phic phight 24

18 notes · View notes

mordenandmerry · 1 day ago

Text

Shoutout to my father who just randomly said “dykesville” while in the car with me. I know he just misread a sign we passed but that felt like a pointed attack.

#please don’t get mad at my father he just reads signs out loud sometimes #but like damn

6 notes · View notes

phantomphangphucker · 7 months ago

Text

Phic Phight - Reassembly Required

For: @berry-berry-blu @faeriekit @dykesville @idiot-cheesehead-archenemy ghxstkids @nat-space-obsessed @fan-dot Cake @carelisswriting @redactedgoose @jessaverant

For ghosts organs are optional, bones are optional, skin is optional, limbs are optional, heads are optional. Meaning that: head, shoulders, knees, and toes; all these pieces certainly must go!

Valerie just really hates jigsaw puzzles now.

Okay, Valerie is dealing with some shit right now. Not the normal kind of shit either… well it was still ghost related just not in the way it normally was. Decidedly not. And she’s not entirely sure what to do about that fact alone. Another fact she’s not sure what to do about is the fact that she is currently helping, yes helping, a ghost. Actually helping, not just being battle buddies. Sure it’s Phantom she’s helping and he or it or whatever was… okay… okay-ish. But he’s also why she even does everything.

Good-ish behaviour or not Phantom’s still a ghostly menace.

And here she is.

Helping he/it.

She’d question why but well, it would be pretty messed up of her to not help someone/something, anyone/anything, who had somehow survived -if being still dead but not gone counted as surviving- being fucking dismembered (who does that to someone?!?!?!?) and having its/their parts ‘conveniently’ wrapped/stored into a bunch of garbage bags.

She hadn’t even realized it was Phantom in there. But vaguely squirming black bags plus suspicious looking men -who were not in white suits- was a damn good cause for concern, and for theft of said vaguely squirming bags.

On that note, did you know that apparently disconnected ghostly body parts just squirmed and wiggled on their own? And were more gooey messy stuff than solid matter? Yeah no, probably not. She definitely hadn’t and would have like to have kept it that way. Instead she had committed vehicular break and enter, with maybe a side of arson, all to wind up finding out that fact when she opened the bag.

She expect kittens, or puppies, or something equally horrible. Horrible but both less horrible and more normal than this. Zone, human babies would have been less startling, much more upsetting though.

You win some you lose some right?

Oh god.

She needs fucking therapy. Especially after this bullshit. Grimacing and having to readjust the repurposed laptop bag strap she’s using to hold down what she thinks is a section of a forearm so she can continue sticking it back on to what she’s absolutely sure is definitely an elbow. She really hates the whole squirming on its own fact.

That… or Phantom is being a dick and is actually conscious and is just messing with her. She’ll end Phantom herself if that’s the case. She doubts it though.

At least she’s got one hand back together, why those whackos decided to remove each segment of finger at each and every joint she will never know. Doesn’t want to know even. Phantom will absolutely tell her though, be he thinks body horror is ‘funny’. Asshole.

Even pretends he ‘forgot’ that that kind of body horror usually kills people to do. With Its stupid, “oh yeah”, line.

Zone why is she doing this for this asshole again? She’s probably going to give herself nightmares, and what’s up with how goddamn gooey everything is? She expected some kind of solid matter, or at least a sturdy internal structure perhaps. But this fucking Jello and jet black semi-solid bone chunks mess might be better, because see, she made a plan -kinda maybe- after she opened up the first bag and was met with a goddamn swear-to-the-zone-and-back toxic green eye staring back at her unseeingly and twitching like people’s eyes do when they’re having chaotic dreams. The fucking whole skull, completely de-skinned because people are CRAZY, and loose teeth really added to the nightmare. All the green made it less nightmarish but oof, she hadn’t been okay with that and still wasn’t. But she has a plan at least.

That plan? Stick all the ‘ends’ together and the ‘bits’ back into or onto whatever they were supposed to be in/on, then all that ecto goo ghosts were apparently actually made of would just, you know, stick back together? Zone she’d seen Phantom just ‘pop’ an arm back on before.

But no. Apparently not. Because now she’s sitting in her room, with a bunch of her-damned and Phantom-damned bags of ghostly body parts attempting to put everything back together with a sewing needle and some thread she scrounged up from her closet. It was a little gross and dusty but surely ghosts can’t get infections from dust, right?

Whatever, Phantom should be thankful she’s doing this for Its sorry ass even if he does get some kind of dust infection.

And fine, maybe, maybe, ghost just being pure ecto, and not having a more proper firm structure like living beings, should have obvious but shes not a damn scientist okay?

“Shit!”, Valarie has to jump up, practically scrambling to catch the now run away hand; abandoning the nearly finished elbow and maybe-half-a-forearm. Having to jump on it to pin it to the ground like a cat after a mouse, “do I have to chase you every time we meet?”, and glares at the hand as she picks it up; it spasms a bit. She hopes that wasn’t some kind of ‘response’. Again, she will end Phantom otherwise.

At least the part she was working on is still secure. Small mercies.

Anyway, where was she? Oh yeah her mild mental crisis about helping Phantom/a ghost that she’s mildly using to distract herself from the fact that’s she sewing together a disturbingly close to human body but like it was made of jello. Phantom could never make things easy on her could it? She’s maybe a little rougher than necessary about ripping open another bag to maybe try and find more arm bits; it’s a serious struggle not to gag. Muttering, “you’re doing the right thing. You’re doing the right thing. You’re doing the right thing”, repeatedly to herself all the while.

Would it be messed up of her to demand a burger after this? Yeah. Probably. But she’s making the spook get her a damn burger anyway because fuck him and his/its unending bullshit.

Besides, what kind of super powerful ghostly maybe-hero gets chopped into bits and tossed into trash bags like something out of a B list gangster film? Her life and his afterlife were in the supernatural genre, zone damnit.

What?

Did Phantom agree to it?

Did It lose a bet with oddly high stakes?

Got caught up in a ghost body part trafficking ring?

Take a nap in a trash compactor that was just missing a lot of teeth?

Grimacing to herself… okay he might actually do something like that, and then finds a genuinely completely intact upper arm. What a blessing.

Ugh.

Well at least all she needs now is the rest of the forearm and she can stick the hand on. Hopefully the arm matches the hand, it might not. Does she really care though? If it still works than no. Phantom can rip Itself apart and slap Itself/himself back together again later, without her involvement, if he’s unimpressed with her workmanship.

She physically sits on the hand, so it can’t escape again, as she gets to work stitching the upper arm onto the elbow. Well she would get to work if the damn elbow would stop flailing and bending rapidly or occasionally liquifying, “would you goddamn stop that, I’m trying to help you here”, sighing as it just seems more erratic and wiggly, “why is this my life. I hate you so much”.

She winds up having to strap the elbow top down with some electrical tape she found in her drawer. It’s old and clearly not going to hold for long so she absolutely speeds through trying to stitch on the upper arm; it’s sloppy as hell and she doesn’t care.

The tape does indeed not hold and she gets smacked in the chin by the exposed upper portion of the arm for all her hard work. Zone she just feels so appreciated right now.

…

Now she’s also struck by the fact that she’s going to have to clean up her room after this, after Phantom is just leaking and flinging Its fucking ectoplasm goddamn everywhere. It’s in her hair, on her hands, covering the floor, there’s arches and splatters across the ceiling, her bedsheets are a hundred percent a lost cause, and now there’s also definitely some on her chin. At least what’s still sluggishly leaking out of the mostly rebuilt arm is just doing it very slowly; so it’s just kind of drooling out of the end and squirming in gooey strings. Rather than getting actually splattered around.

Electing to shove the hand in an old candle jar to stop any potential repeat runaway attempts before going about searching for the rest of the forearm.

It’s not fun. It’s really not fun. Pretty shit actually. Having to go bag by bag -was eight separate bags really necessary?- and push around mounds and globs of disconnected and disjointed ecto-flesh and ecto-organ soup (or maybe just organ-like things, she’s pretty sure ghosts do not have organs of any kind at all) hoping to find the particular bit of ecto-flesh that she’s actually looking for. Since spreading everything topour out on the floor was a bad idea for so many reasons, the hands escape attempt being one. Plus, that tactic didn't work with ikea furniture, it wouldn’t work for people… or ghosts in this case.

…

It was in with the, ugh, head bag. Which was the last one she checked. The one she most wanted it to not be in. Seeing a goddamn SKULL and eyes, unseeing or no, was a couple of notches past more disturbing than she’s honestly all that willing to put up with. Even for the maybe-good maybe-hero that is Phantom.

Frowning at the bit of forearm, “but if this was reversed, he’d do this for me without hesitation”, shaking her head, “ugh. Stupid idiot”.

If he wasn’t a ghost… she probably couldn’t bring herself to hate It at all. That had to be hypocritical of her, right? Plus she definitely wouldn’t piece back together someone she actually hated, Zone, she’d find a water bottle full of old piss and dump it on Vlad’s exposed parts before helping him out; maybe shake the piss filled bags around a little. So maybe she didn’t hate Phantom, he was okay, definitely okay enough to not be left as a collection of Bits & Bites™ mixed in with broth to make Campbells Chunky Soup™.

Scowling at herself and then glaring at the forearm to forearm sticking she’s doing, “Zone damn it Phantom, you’re corrupting me”. Morbid humour can’t be healthy, regardless of Phantom’s love for it. He’d never let her live it down if It knew she had referred to It as a snack food that’s just a bag full of a random collection of other snack foods mixed in with soup. You know. Like how he was currently bags full of a random collection of body parts and liquid ectoplasm.

At least the forearm being actually securely tied down, regardless of the upper arm still flailing and wiggly madly, makes the reattachment go smoothly enough.

Okay. So. The hand…

She chooses to just wrap some of the bedsheet around the hand to keep the fingers from flailing and scratching anything before putting hand stump to forearm stump and getting to work. She is very thankful that all Phantom’s parts are currently doing is random movements and not, like, randomly shooting off ecto-beams or making ecto-ice. She’s not foolish or prideful enough to think she’d actually survive being in an enclosed space with Phantom, with any part of It, randomly sending off attacks in random directions. She’d never realized how much he was holding back when she was young, when she first started, but she sure as shit figured that out after seeing the state he left Vlad’s -ugh- lab in.

It is definitely weird that that makes her feel better about the spook though. It could obliterate her and everyone else yet actively made a point to not hurt anyone intentionally or directly. Still did though, because he was a dumbass and also because she was, admittedly, over aggressive.

Right now though, she thinks it’s his hand and arm that are being ‘over aggressive’. Watching the fully reattached thing smacking itself into the floor with audible thumps. “The downstairs neighbours must hate us”. They did. They complained. A lot. Or they used to, until she bitched to Phantom about it during patrolling down time, after said neighbours had stabbed a broom into their roof to ‘make her quiet down’ so hard it punctured through her floor. Apparently Phantom ‘haunted their asses’ for three days and infected their fish tank with ‘signal signs’, she did not ask for an explanation. You know, that whole thing about gift horses and mouths.

Speaking of mouths, that is the last part Phantom’s getting reattached; for obvious reasons. Zone he could just never shut up; and trying to make him shut up just made the ghost more talkative.

She should do the other arm right? She got one figured out so round two should be assuredly easier… hopefully.

And it actually is. Weird. It’s just in two whole halves, an upper and a lower. Left arm? Maybe? It would make sense because if Phantom was defending Itself -which he damn well should have been- It most likely would have used Its right arm more to do that… meaning more damage would be done to the right arm.

…

If that’s the case she definitely attached the wrong hand. Shaking her head and shrugging, “Oh well. Phantom’s problem”. The only real downside to the more intact chunks is they’ve got a little more power, or energy maybe, to thrash around with. Little less ecto leaking though, an alright trade off really. Plus she still has to deal with another hand, which she is not looking forward to at all. Though wait, if the fixed hand was so turbo fucked then it has to be the right hand, because why would a mangled hand be attached to a less mangled arm?

Snaking her forehead, “I’m a dumbass”, sighing, “I can just check which side has the palm and thumb the right way. Ugh”. Getting up and abandoning the mostly stitched back together arm, which starts bouncing around on the ground gurgling out ectoplasm, to check the hand.

…

It’s the wrong fucking hand. Why is her luck such horseshit? Why is Phantom’s luck such horseshit? Why didn’t she have the brain cell required to actually check before attaching the hand?

Whelp, she ain’t fixing her fuck up now. But maybe she won’t attach the other hand to the obviously wrong arm; Phantom can deal with it.

… Unless she needs to put him back together completely for his sorry ass to wake up. That would be just the cream on top, wouldn’t it. Either way she goes back to finishing the other arms stitch work; which thankfully doesn’t go horribly and doesn’t get her smacked in the chin again. Which fine, might because she was on guard for a repeat offence this time.

Standing up after using her desk leg to sort of pin down the arm, putting her hands on her hips and eyeing the bags, “okay, legs; since I’m making the second hand Phantom’s problem”, grimacing, “and because I am deeply disturbed about what I’m going to have to deal with with the torso, and the head is, frankly, too freaky without shotgunning at least one Redbull™”, frowning more, “and maybe cracking open a Monster™ too, for good measure”. She just mildly hates this entire situation.

…

Scratch that, she aggressively hates this ENTIRE situation. She found feet skin. FEET SKIN. Fucking. Hollowed. Out. Floppy. Feet. Skin.

Who does this shit to someone??????? What the fuck???

Sure. Maybe. Phantom’s ’feet skins’ -Zone fucking Hell why- are more… boot? skins? Its feet outer ectoplasmic shell was just white boots after all, but still DISTURBING. What is she even supposed to do with this? Scowling, “Woe to those men. Dishonour on you, dishonour on your cow. Fuck”.

…

Now she has to go garbage bag digging for probably mushy feet innards. Fun. Exactly how she wanted to spend her afternoon. Groaning and looking back into the bag with the… feet skin and hoping it’s at least in the same damn bag.

Glaring down at the actually intact feet innards sludge, “I am currently thankful you are one of the weird ghosts that actually likes to maintain the illusion of bones, holyshit”. The black feet and toe bones ‘appear’ to be holding together the innard ectoplasm of his feet. It’s weird, vaguely solid-ish and needlessly gooey all at once. But regardless she gets up with that nightmare in hand and grimaces at the feet skins, this was gonna suck.

She now has the ‘fun’ task of stuffing wriggling feet ecto-innard goo and ecto-bones inside of pulsating feet/boot ecto-skin, like she’s putting on a seizing persons decidedly gushy and grippy socks. She has to stitch it on some since it’s not just snapping into being attached and, unlike socks, is not made of body hugging elastic.

The feet go in the candle jar immediately.

Wheezing to herself and shaking herself off some, “that might have been the worst thing I’ve ever done”, and shuddering before resuming looking for legs.

…

She doesn’t find legs. Like, at all. No thighs. No hips. No shins. No calves. No knees. Nada. You know what she does find though? A ghost tail. Yup, a full ghost tail. Which makes zero sense. Picking up and making faces at the surprisingly completely limp -though vibrating randomly- noodle-like thing, “how do or did you have both feet and a tail? What the Zone, Phantom?”. Better yet why couldn’t he have just had the tail? So that she wouldn’t have had to go through the crap she just did?!?!?!?!?!?.

… well at least it’s whole and intact. Fuck her life.

This unfortunately means it’s either torso or head time. Neither of which she wants to deal with. Especially not after that bullshit. What if she puts his goddamn face skin back on and the eyes in and everything and he just starts talking to her??? Yeah nope, not dealing with that. Not a chance. Yes if Phantom did do that It might be able to explain shit that she honestly doesn’t actually want explained but morbid curiosity is a thing, or be able to provide some advice on what the heck she’s doing.

Cause frankly?

She doesn’t know if she’s actually doing any of this shit right. Zone she already maybe put on the wrong damn hand!

She refuses to deal with his bantering though. Big ol’ fat no. An even bigger, fatter, ‘No’ if It banters while Its head is still detached from a torso.

So torso reconstruction it is. Meaning organs. Ugh. And considering she knows what bag the head, it’s skin, and the eyes and teeth, are in; she actually can just dump everything else, at this point her floor can go fuck itself. Anything that wiggles or squirms too much goes back in its plastic confines as punishment.

Valerie drops the tail and turns on the rest of the -head free- bags, dumping them in a messy pile unceremoniously. It’s a mess. It’s disgusting. It’s writhing and dripping and squelching. It’s a lot of things. Mostly it’s a mass of maybe-bones, maybe-organs that are maybe whole, and ecto-flesh; ectoplasm leaking and dripping in and out (somehow) of the squishy jello mound.

Her blinking, “… maybe making a fucking flesh mound wasn’t the best way to go about this, dear zone”. Breathing and massaging her temples, “okay. Okay. Let’s see. Uh”, sighing and dropping her hands, “drag out the outer ecto-flesh, hope it’s entirely intact even though I damn well know it ain’t gonna be. If it’s not intact then, fuck, try? to piece it back together like a very disturbing flesh puzzle”.

Not only is the flesh not intact -big surprise there. Not- but it’s also still connected to random bits of innard ectoplasm. Some is still connect to ecto-bone even. Even worse some of the innard ectoplasm and ecto-bone is also connected to other innard bits; making basically strings and webs of semi-solid mangled nightmare mess. She’s has precisely zero chance of figuring out what everything is and where everything goes.

Shoving everything around on the floor and throwing her hands up, “I give up on making sense of any of this”. So here’s the new plan, stitch the skin back together at random with mild attempts to make things straight-ish and aligned-ish; while giving very little fucks about how nice it looks since it will all probably have to be removed and redone.

By Phantom. Not her.

Who knows maybe he has experience stitching Itself back together from head to toe, he gets hurt enough that it’s possible… she pities him sometimes honestly. Like he’s out there doing the whole sorta heroing thing and getting shit kicked beyond shit kicked for it. Sure so was she but she didn’t get de-limbed vaguely regularly, not to mention this whole mess.

Lifting up a very square section of ecto-flesh, watching the stringing connections to what seems like a rib or half a rib, it warbles and makes a groaning noise. Valerie drops it immediately, whisper muttering, “what the fuck, Hell no”, a couple times. She does swallow and keep working on stitching together different pieces though, she’s not letting freaky ghost shit stop her from doing what she’s decided she’s going to do. Being extra freaky or not.

Unfortunately that is not the last time she encounters random moaning… stuff. She drops every single piece that does it and moves onto a different part every time.

And then the apartment door opens, or sounds like it does at least, making her freeze. Okay, alright, two options. Option one: they’re being robbed. Unlikely but possible, very unfortunate for the robber though because she WILL fuck their shit up while actively covered in gore. Option two: her dad’s home. Technically safer but ho boy, not good. He might be… alright more or less with her chosen profession, at this point. But being okay with your daughter kicking ghostly ass and occasionally getting slightly hurt was entirely different than walking in on your daughter reconstructing what’s practically a goo ghost corpse; a ghost corpse of the well-loved, highly respected, and celebrated town hero. Also her room looks like a fucking nightmare, Zone she probably looks like a fucking nightmare.

There’s the sound of keys being hung up, shoes being dropped on the ground before tucked away, the fridge being opened and closed, the coffee machine starting up, and a loud sigh. Yup. It’s her dad. She is so fucked. The vaguely more person-shaped mound seemingly agrees and moans from some part of Itself; the squelching is louder than the moan yet unfortunately less disturbing.

“You home, Sweetie?”.

Valerie swallows, yes or no? He’ll want to check in on her room either way so maybe if she tells him to, ugh, not come in then he’ll listen. Or he’ll make her at least come out and see him so he can see she’s fine. Normally it was just mildly inconvenient but made her feel warm and happy inside, but right now she’s positively covered in ectoplasm and bits of ghost flesh; if she was injured he wouldn’t be able to freaking see it past the ecto.

Which fine, that might have covered her from his worry more than once but Phantom always noticed because apparently blood had a noticeable smell, a thing she chooses not to think about too much.

Ah fuck it, if he comes in that would be worst case scenario here, “I’m home!”.

Apparently the downstairs neighbour has something to say about that, “I KNOW! I HAD TO PUT DOWN A GODDAMN BUCKET TO CATCH ALL THE GODDAMN ECTOPLASM DRIPPING DOWN FROM YOUR GODDAMN FLOOR! SORT YOUR SHIT!”, followed by a, “please don’t get me haunted again!”.

Okay, she can’t help but chuckle nervously at that. Damn it. But… glancing around and right yeah, all she did to fix that ‘hole’ was throw cardboard over it. Cardboard that is fuck soaked in ectoplasm now. Whoops. She’d apologize but that would just make those folks feel more bold to yell up through the floor.

“Valerie…”. Now her dad sounds unimpressed and concerned, more unimpressed than concerned; good.

Her vaguely attempting to squish around the person-ish mound -she thinks she actually managed to get one shoulder looking actually right, go her- so it looks slightly neater and maybe to get it to stop bubbling? and weakly flinging itself around in sections. “I’m fine, dad. I’m just, ugh, patching up Phantom”, muttering, “stupid ass ghost”, under her breath and very specially at the blob. The arm with a hand picks that moment to free itself from the laptop bag strap and spastically bounce wiggle itself into the ceiling with a wet thwack. Valerie glaring, “thanks Phantom, I definitely needed an entire arm and hand print on my goddamn ceiling”.

“Oh? It’s not too bad is it? Do you need help? Him?”, he sounds closer to the door now; she’s seriously praying he does not come in. Let her, and Phantom honestly, have that little ounce of luck.

Hurriedly responding, “no, no, no, no help necessary. But, it is bad, dad”, wincing, “I think he’ll be fine since he hasn’t started fading or anything”, muttering quietly to herself, “I have no clue how though”. Because really? How was this in any shape, way, or form, survivable to any degree? “You don’t have a protective suit or anything so you definitely should not come in”. Please let him listen to her, please let him listen to her, please let him-

“If you’re sure, I don’t like the sounds of that though and you know it. Once you do have him patched up, I want to see both of you just for my own peace of mind; okay?”.

She knows damn well she can’t get out of this one, but Zone does she wish she could. Plus she doesn’t exactly know how possible that will be for Phantom. Even if she had somehow by some miracle actually managed to put the ghost back together again perfectly, which she clearly didn’t, there’s no way It wouldn’t still be hurt and exhausted and whatever else. He’d probably want to go see that doctor he’s said he/It has; that still baffles her some. Ghosts having fucking doctors. Sighing to herself, “okay. Can’t guarantee Phantom will be super up for a chat though”.

…

“Based on him not making some joke I’m guessing he’s unconscious?”.

Valerie winces, over both the comment and the fully intact arm plus hand practically slapping into the torso flesh mound, “yes?”.

Thankfully her dad sighs, “I’ll be in the living room then. I will check in every hour on the hour though, missy. And I will come in there if I don’t get a response”, and sounds like he’s walking away from the door.

… So looks like future her and future Phantom will have that problem to deal with. After dealing with the current, much more dire and insane, one.

Sighing and frowning, she pries the spasming arm hand out of the torso mound, “stop hitting yourself, you idiot. That’s my job”. She gets the hand arm tied back down onto one of her bed legs, at least the other arm -still sans a hand- was still pinned down by her desk. And the-

Shit.

The feet escaped their candle jar jail, Zone damn it.

Standing up abruptly and looking around, “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. Where did you go you stupid bastard”. Getting down on her knees to check under the bed, yup there’s a foot, it’s kicking her wall, flopping over, flailing, and spasming up and down like a goddamn game glitch. “Every single part of you is unnecessarily dramatic, Phantom. Now come here you”. Today was going to give her extremely unique nightmares. Like a mob of mildly sentient feet attacking her from beneath her bed. Hooray for probably eventual insomnia induced creativity.

The foot goes back in the jar, her putting a desk weight on top of it for good measure while she hopefully goes to find the other missing foot.

She spends a good twenty minutes almost ripping her room apart, no foot. Okay so either it A) dissolved, a very bad omen. Or B) it’s successfully hidden itself and Phantom will have to find Its own shit. Or, and this is the really shitty option, C) its escaped the apartment entirely and has begun terrorizing the other tenants or random people on the street with its mere existence; meaning she’ll have to hunt down Phantom’s dismembered foot, which is probably leaving a mild trail of ectoplasm drippings and streaks where ever it is.

As it is she’ll have to deep clean even under her entire bed and the damn wall back there now. Ugh, cleaning everything was going to be a nightmare. Groaning into her hands, “if I get It back together then maybe Phantom can be helpful”, groaning again for good measure before moving back over to the torso mound and blink, titling her head, “I think it’s reconstructed itself? Or rearranged itself?”, well either way it was less horrific to look at. Though watching as some of the stringy connections warble and leak out more ectoplasm from somewhere -how much ectoplasm can one damn ghost have?- before shaping? a bit better; yeah this was still distinctly freaky. Making faces, “are you, er, conscious now? Reforming?”. She gets back the clicks, screeches, warbles, whistles, and static that she knows is ghost speak.

b̶̳͔̝̫̜̖̾̎̿̅͂͒̑͂̕͜ͅà̶͉̠̲̇́̿͑̽͒c̷̘̻̤͍͔̖͍̣̿̔͆̕͠k̶̛̬̤̻̗̄͊̊̔͆͊͑̕ ̸̻̂̃̿̍͗̉̏̕o̶̯̲̙̻̰̳͈̠̣̎f̷̢̰̟̹͝f̶̱̫͌̈́͊͋̇́͝.̷̢̣̥̻̹͚̉̿̈́̊͝ ̴̩̟̙̗̌̈H̷͓̪̳͉̻̄u̶��̬͈͈̔̾͂̐̃̚̕͠ͅr̸̗̓̚t̸̛͍̱̰̰͍̩̏̈́͆͐͛͛͑͝ͅͅ.̷̫̜̭̤̺̖͍́̌̔̋̅͆̚ͅ ̷͎̟̠̖̲͌̋͛̈́͊̒̊́P̵̪͙̰̲͆̾̿̆a̵͍̙̠̼͕̪̪͑͌̏̿̃́̑i̷̺͈̜̯̩̝̓̆̏̐̊̍͜n̵͕̱̠̗͋̀̇̀͝͝.̶̧̢̱͕̦̀̍̋̆͑̆́͠ ̶̧̓̉̎̂͑͘F̴̧͕̙̥̝̭͚̲̓̽̚͠ḯ̵̜̝̊̈́͐̀̀̈́̾͠x̶͇͇͒̈́̉̿̈́͋̂͌.̵̰̀̉̾̓̈́̌͠ͅ ̶̨̥͖̣̱̕Ṣ̷̡͓̗͓̟͈̊̉̓̕ͅt̷̡̪̔͂̌̍̍̀͊̚̚͜ͅạ̸̹̥͕̮̍̓̋̅̐̃̑̔̌y̴͍̭̘̘͒̾ͅ ̴͔͋͗̋̽̂̍ą̴̨̛͚̹̦̜͉̌̓w̴̘̺͓̥̝̩̘̟̓ấ̸̫͕͕̱́̽͒̿͝y̷̙̻͔͚̽.̴̡̀ ̵̖̥̲̦̿̄̎̓͗̾̍͘͠N̶̤̦̝͗̈̒̊̈͗͂͘͘ȍ̸̢̯̤̻̘̥̩͓̒ ̷̜̝̼̗̾̍͜t̸͇͎̩̏̀̀͋o̴̖̓͒̊͗͑ͅǔ̵̘̾͐̿̔̅̇̐̚ͅc̶̡̜̤̼̖̗̲͉̝͂̾ḥ̷͍͉͓̹̗̦̽̊͜ͅ.̷̗̳̝̘̙̦̦̀̊̀̌̀̀ ̴̰̝̣̙͙̟͕́̓̑̀̎Ḙ̷̡̬̗͓̼͚̜̐̃̍̚ͅw̵̥̬̔̂́̕͘

Valerie blinking, glad she’s gotten used to ghosts enough to not instinctually flinch or cover her ears. Not that she can remotely understand what ever was just said or if the mound even actually said actual words and not just random sounds. Phantom would be the type to just make random sounds purely because It could.

Standing up and eyeing the one untouched bag, ugh, “okay if you’re maybe sorting that mess out I guess I have to deal with the… head now”. Maybe she’ll get lucky and he’ll have at least his eyes or skin back where it should be.

Is she that lucky? Of course not! Why would she be?. Closing the bag again and breathing, “yeah okay. Nope”. Walking off to her desk, throwing a glare at the pinned arm before ripping open a drawer and grabbing a RedBull. Promptly stabbing it with a knife, one that isn’t infused with ectoplasm or nano bots or covered in ectoplasm, and shotgunning it; grabbing a Monster right after and cracking it open.

Moving back over to the bag and sitting down, still glaring, putting the Monster to the side and opening the bag up again. It’s still a nightmare but at least it’s a nightmare she’s dealing with while caffeinated now. Officially grabbing out the fucking soft skull and just staring for a beat; there’s squirming squiggly muscles attached to it which is somehow both better and so much worse. It looks like the thing is covered in a mass of writhing green worms and parasites.

“Valerie?”.

Valerie jumps a little, apparently so distracted by Phantoms Zone damned skull that she didn’t hear her dad approach, “I’m still okay and still doing patching up, dad”, eyeing the singular foot in a jar. Naw, it’s better if she doesn’t tell him to search for a dismembered foot; that’ll worry him even more.

��Alright”. It sounds like he’s walking off again.

Shaking herself and looking back to the skull, hopefully this is the only time she’s going to see someone’s skull to any degree. Tilting it and squinting in through an eye socket, the inside of his skull was glowing blue of all things. Is that good? Bad? Related to how Phantom, of all ghosts, wound up dismembered? Sticking a finger in to poke it, which she was actively trying not to think about, and jerking her hand back with a faint hiss; glancing at the ice on her finger. “Alright. Ow. Not doing that again. Point taken, geez”.

Then immediately scrunching up her entire body in a disturbed cringe as the skull vibrates, mouth clicking open and shrieking loudly at her.

She definitely hears her dad rushing over this time, “you okay?”.

Shaking herself off, “yeah, I just pissed Phantom off a little I guess”, cracking her neck and shaking herself off a little more, “dick”.

And then the fucking skull snaps back at her, opening its toothless jaw wide, holy fucking shit. “h̵̙̓ē̶̼ý̸͔ ̷̙͂f̶͎̋u̴͈͊c̴̘̏k̶͎̈́ ̵̳̀y̴̤͂o̶̖̚ủ̸̼ ̷̞̊t̷͎̚o̷̳̊ȍ̵̭ ̷̫̽t̸̮̍h̷̞͂a̵̢̔t̸̫͂ ̴̻̃h̶͙̓ủ̸̼r̸̖̿t̴̪͆.̵̬́ ̸̧̈́W̸̮͋h̵̲̍ǎ̵͉t̴̡̛ ̶̰̽t̶͙͘h̶̬͝ě̷̥ ̷̗̔Ź̶͍ȏ̸̰n̶̮͒ẽ̵̩?̶̺͐”.

She instinctively flings the skull into the ceiling, it falling to the ground, squishing a little, and rolling a bit before she cautiously picks it back up. That… that was vaguely English, she thinks? she understood that. Her dad’s wince is almost audible, “I hope that’s all it was”, before sounding to go back to the living room again.

Then… the skull speaks up again; or Phantom speaks she supposes, “O̷h̶ ̶g̸e̸e̸z̷ ̶w̷h̴y̷ ̴a̴m̸ ̷I̶ ̴a̸ ̸m̷e̵s̴s̵?̷”.

Closer to English, good for him; this is a nightmare. She is having a goddamn conversation with a disembodied skull. “I am deeply disturbed, Phantom”.

Apparently It doesn’t like that response, “W̶h̷y̵ ̵i̸s̸ ̷m̸y̶ ̵h̷a̸n̴d̸ w̶r̴o̶n̴g̵?̸ W̴h̴e̴r̷e̶ ̴t̷h̸e̸ ̶f̴u̷c̶k̷ ̴I̶S̸ ̶m̷y̵ h̵a̵n̵d̸ a̴c̵t̴u̶a̶l̷l̷y̵?̶ W̴h̸y̷ ̵i̵s̸ ̵n̸o̴t̸h̸i̵n̵g̶ at̸t̵a̸c̷h̶e̶d̷?̸ ̴W̸h̷y̸ ̸i̸s̵ ̵m̴y̸ ̸a̵r̶m̵ ̸b̷e̷i̵n̶g̶ ̵s̴t̸a̸b̷b̷e̵d̴ ̷b̴y̵ ̸a̷ ̶f̷u̸c̸k̷i̷n̴g̷ ̶d̴e̸s̷k̴?̵ ̸B̴y̶ ̸t̸h̴e̵ ̵A̶n̴c̷i̷e̷n̷t̸s̷,̵ ̵V̵a̷l̸?̵”. She just stares for a beat, letting Phantom continue, “w̵h̶y̴ ̵d̵o̸e̷s̷ ̴i̷t̸ ̷f̵e̵e̷l̴ ̶l̶i̶k̷e̷ ̸o̶n̷e̴ ̴o̷f̶ ̶m̴y̶ f̸e̸e̷t̴ i̷s̴ ̸b̵e̸i̶n̸g̶ ̴b̵o̸i̴l̸e̵d̸?̵ ̴W̵h̵y̴ ̶d̴o I̷ h̶a̶v̶e̸ ̸f̵o̵u̴r̷ ̶f̵e̷e̴t̸!̵”.

She hopes by ‘four feet’ he means the ghostly tail that’s still laying limp on the floor. ��Excuse you, I’ve spent multiple hours stitching you back together like a nightmarish puzzle. Zone I even rescued your sorry ass from the whack jobs carrying you off in garbage bags”. This conversation should be starting with a thank you as far as she’s concerned; she slapped It back together from something that damn well should have ended the ghost.

While the skull stays silent Valerie pulls out the face skin with as few fingers as possible, she might as well have this conversation with a proper damn face and not a freaking skull. Zone. She feels like she’s being judged as she just kind of tugs the skin down over the skull and prods it to move it where it’s more or less supposed to be.

She’s very glad the skin does actually snap or suck back on this time, as if it had never been off to begin with.

…

Phantom’s mouth opens again, the fact that Its still toothless is not a good look, almost as disturbing as being faceless, when combined with the lack of eyes. “D̷i̷d̴ ̷y̸o̴u̶ ̴j̴u̷s̷t̵ ̵p̴u̸l̶l̷ ̵m̷y̵ ̴s̷k̶i̵n̵ ̵b̵a̵c̸k̵ ̸o̷n̷?̵”.

There’s honestly not much she can say to that, “yup”.

“h̴u̶h̵”.

“Yeah”.

“t̷h̶a̵t̸’̷s̶,̴ ̷u̴h̸,̸ ̸p̷r̸e̸t̴t̶y̷ ̷f̵u̴c̸k̴e̸d̴ u̶p̴ ac̶t̵u̵a̵l̵l̵y̴”.

Valerie rolls her eyes, bleeding sarcasm, “you think?”, leaning over to grab an eye with a grimace, she’s got questions about how the actual fuck it’s actively leaking out ectoplasm. It’s completely covering her fingers and dripping down her arm onto the ground. “You’re getting an eye back too”.

“C̴o̸o̶l̶ ̷b̶e̸a̶n̶s̷”.

Valerie gapes a little at him, what the fuck kind of response is that? Here have back your eye that was removed from its eye socket by probable psychos. Oh that’s neat thanks for the solid, man. Stupid stupid Phantom. She basically rams the eye back in without any degree of precision, “screw you!”.

Phantom makes faces as the eye seems to, ugh, resettle. “f̸i̵r̶s̸t̶ ̵y̶o̴u̵ ̴s̵t̸a̴b̸ ̴m̴y̷ ̵c̶o̸r̷e̵,̴ ̵t̴h̷e̴n̶ ̵y̵o̷u̸ ̵s̵t̴a̸b̵ m̷e̶ w̸i̴t̵h̸ ̴m̸y̴ ̶o̸w̴n̸ ̴e̴y̸e̴!̶”.

“You say that like it’s something that regularly happens to people”.

“D̴o̸e̶s̵n̶’̴t̵ ̸i̶t̸”.

Valerie practically growls at the gaul of It, “no! Things that kill people don’t regularly happen to them, you twat!”. Why did Phantom have to be so damn insufferable sometimes. She grabs Its other eye a bit more aggressively than is necessary. “Do you want your other eye back or not”.

It glares at her with Its one attached eye, “N̴o̵t̴ ̴i̴f̷ ̶y̷o̶u̴’̸r̷e̵ ̵g̸o̸i̷n̴g̷ ̷t̵o̸ as̵s̵a̷u̵l̷t̷ /m̴e̵ ̸w̸i̶t̴h̴ ̴i̸t̷ ̷a̴g̶a̷i̷n̴”.

What kind of person or ghost just says ‘naw I’ll pass on having both eyes’??? She absolutely rams the eye in while Phantom shrieks in annoyance at her. Fuck him and fuck his annoyance too.

They just glare at each other for a while before Valerie huffs, scowling, “why am I still holding you, you suck”. Turning and throwing Phantoms head at the torso mound like she’s trying to slam it down.

It makes a loud squishing noise and indents into the torso mound some. Phantom speaking, muffled, “r̵u̶d̵e̶,̶ ̷b̶u̸t̶ ̶a̷c̸c̵e̴p̷t̵a̴b̵l̸e̵”.

She has no idea what he means by that, until the torso mound fucking squirms and starts globulating and reforming grotesquely like something out of a hard core eldritch body horror flick. There’s strings of almost starry gore scrapping against and snapping on to things, definite organs literally slapping into each other, stomach bile? squelching around black ribs in granules before settling, muscle fibre stretching unendingly and almost crushing in bone and ectoplasm. The ghostly tail slithering across the ground like the snake in the garden of eden itself to reattach to the severed lower section of torso, respawning to Its familiar legs; the normalcy of that particular change is more unsettling than it has any right to be.

She is strongly resisting the urge to vomit, it’s a fucking blessing when It’s suit reforms in perfect condition over the torso and neck. Phantoms back arching backwards in a stretch, head and neck craning back then forward then around with loud cracks. It rolls Its shoulders, with nothing attached to them, before looking over Its shoulder back at her, “I̷ ̴a̵m̴ ̵n̷o̴ ̸l̶o̵n̴g̶e̷r̸ ̷b̸o̶d̸i̸l̴e̶s̵s̴”, tilting Its head, “o̸r̸ ̶n̶o̵ ̶l̶o̶n̷g̶e̴r̸ ̶h̵e̵a̴d̸l̵e̷s̴s̷,̶ ̴d̴e̸p̷e̴n̴d̵i̵n̶g̴ ̸o̸n̸ ̴h̴o̶w̸ ̷y̶o̶u̵ ̵l̸o̵o̴k̸ ̵a̶t̷ ̶i̷t̴”.

She almost squeaks at him, “I didn't want to see that at all”. Scratch out everything she said about all the other horrific horror bullshit she’s seen tonight, that was the most nightmarish thing she’s ever seen and she will be having nightmares tonight, Zone she’ll be having them for the next week.

It levels her with a flat glare, “I̴’̴d̴ ̷s̴a̴y̸ ̶s̵o̵r̷r̸y̸ ̵b̸u̷t̸ ̸y̵o̷u̴ ̷p̷u̸n̷c̵h̶e̷d̴ ̴m̶e̴ ̷w̸i̷t̶h̴ ̴m̴y̴ ̶o̸w̸n̵ ̷e̴y̵e̵,̷ ̵t̸w̷i̷c̴e̷”.

She glares back and wheezes in pure disgust. Phantom nodding its head at the strapped down arm with a hand, clearly expecting her to go get it for the ghost. She is having none of that, “get it your damn self, you utter nightmare fuel”. Their glaring match goes on for a bit before she huffs and gets up, unstrapping the hand arm and giving It over by smacking the ghost over the head with it. Phantom managing to bite onto the wrist and muffle growl at her for hitting It; doesn’t stop glaring though, looking from the arm stump to Its shoulder stump then to her.

…

Is it not just going to reattach like the… torso? Fuck her luck, “do you need me to stitch it back on?”.

It nods happily, almost grinning like a damn puppy.

… Guess she’s doing this again, stupid Phantom for being like this. She huffs but does shuffle over to work on stitching the arm, Phantom holding it up with his mouth all the while; at least now it looks like It’s healing is helping the process along now.

Phantom dropping Its wrist out of Its mouth, “n̸i̸c̶e̴”.

Was that almost a thank you or is she hallucinating?

The ghost raises Its eyebrows at Its hand as it opens and closes, flexing, the wrong goddamn way because it’s on the wrong goddamn arm; before just shoving Its hand into Its head.

…There comes a point where disturbing shit just kind of stops being disturbing, you get to point where it’s just ‘ah okay this shit again. Fantastic’ and at least Phantom shoving Its hands into Itself suddenly wasn’t super new behaviour. It keep that thermos in Its stomach half the time for Zones sake. Phantom pulling a blue orb out of the front of Its face is goddamn new though, her watching as It promptly shoves the orb in Its chest.

Then, because apparently It wasn’t done being a pain, the handless arm and jarred foot go intangible, escaping their confines, and zip over to Phantom to reattach. Followed by Phantom biting off Its hand and sort of maneuvering it onto the left arm, right hard reforming from right arm stump out of thin air; the other foot also reforming from nothing.

Valerie blinks, speaking blandly, “well at least I know why I never found the other hand”. At least that means It did actually damage Its dominate hand more. “And what? Too lazy to go get the run away foot?”.

Phantom rolls Its eyes, “har har, I’m not reattached something that’s been basically boiled to a crisp in what I think is some guys stove top pot. Let the have my ecto blood as a broth additive”. She can only nod in acquiescence. Then It gets that stupid soft gentle ‘I care’ look that pulls at her heartstrings, before outright hugging her.

What?

It pats her back gently, “thanks a lot, really. Thanks so much. I’m fine, I’m whole; it’s okay for you to stop shaking now or for you to throw up if you need to-”.

She was shaking? When? How hadn’t she noticed?

“-I can summon you a shock blanket if you don’t have one. Or a soothing tea maybe?”, mumbling more to himself, “I’m sure Nocturne wouldn’t mind me taking some. They’d probably be happy, since they always say both of use are always too stung out and don’t sleep enough”.

She kinda hates that that would probably actually be a good idea, because all of this was all kinds of fucked up and supremely disturbing in every sense of the word; and the energy drinks were coming back to kick her in the ass. Had she even finished the Monster? Probably not. That was a waste right?

Phantom stops hugging her, leaning back but putting his hands on her shoulders, watching her face and tilting his head curiously, “you better? Better enough at least?”.

She fucking throws up right on his lap. Yeah okay, disturbing stomach churning shit, plus apparent mild possible shock, plus nerves about fixing a horrifically injured battle buddy, plus excessive caffeine, was maybe not the best idea she’s ever had. And Phantom be a gentle asshole rather kills her spite fuelled pride.

Her wheezing and whipping her mouth, while Phantom furrows his eyebrows together and purses his lips, “yeah. Yeah that’s- that’s fair. I definitely deserved that”.

“Fuck you”.

Phantom snorts at that but at least stops holding her shoulders. It leaning back on his hands and staring unseeingly at the wall, “I guess you probably want an explanation for the horror show I dump on you”.

Honestly? No. No she does not. That’s reasonable she thinks. Yet a stupid part of her is filled with that stupid morbid curiosity. Also, yeah, she definitely is shaking and she doesn’t know if that’s shock, adrenaline, or caffeine.

…

There’s also a blanket on her shoulders that definitely wasn’t there before. Stupid Phantom. Stupid stupid Phantom. He puts her through a fucking medical nightmare, then a body horror visual metric ton of nightmare, than has the audacity to be nice and kind and gentle. Zone she hates him… that’s a lie obviously but still…

Her swallowing, “the blue orb?”. That was at least something that won’t be horrifying, hopefully.

He grins and his eye light up, clearly happy to not talk about the shit that happened to him which was probably traumatizing, him turning to look back at her, “ah! yeah I guess you would have no clue what a core looks like, huh?”, shrugging loosely, “I’m sure Maddie and Jack have explained them some. Think heart and brain and lungs and bone marrow and everything”, pointingat his chest then to his head, “I moved my to my head to protect it”.

… All she can really think to say to that is, “well at least you protected yourself for a change”.

“Ouch, cut deep why don’tcha?”, and he grins stupidly, laughing a little.

She’s baffled how It can laugh at all after all this bullshit? She somewhat fixed him but everything she ‘fixed’ was things that were done to him. Scowling without any real feeling, “how are you not freaking out”.

His smile wavers a little but he shrugs anyways, “I’ve been through a lot, Val”.

“Don’t call me that”.

It actually winces, “right, sorry”, rubbing Its neck, “though yeah, getting dismembered by a ghost body part trafficking ring was a new, and very unpleasant, one”.

Zone fuck she was joking when she thought up fucking organ trafficing as a why for all this crap. Glaring, “seriously”.

Phantom smirks, “what can I say? It’s an Ancients be damned weird world. It’s tied to some cultural or religious thing, don’t quote me on that, that thinks wearing or consuming ghostly parts and ‘true ghost ectoplasm’ is healing and empowering. Yeah, it’s fucked up”.

Both of them jump at her dad suddenly interrupting on the other side of the door, “still okay in there?”.

Phantom just looks confused while Valerie shakes herself off some, “yeah dad, Phantom just came back around and is, you know, explaining”.

The man’s relieved sigh is extremely audible, “good. Good. Remember what I said though, you and me and Phantom and tea. Okay?”.

She sighs, “yeah, I know”, and starts pulling off the blanket to fold on her lap. Fuck she’s exhausted and doesn’t want to deal with this, but it’s her dad and she doesn’t want him to fret. Meanwhile Phantom is glancing around and eyeballing the ectoplasmic mess straight out of a slasher flick and wincing; eyeing her up and down and again wincing. She knew she looked a mess alright? No need to be a dick about it. Besides, he looked worse. So much worse, holy fuck.

Her dad humming, “good, will you both be out soon?”.

Phantom clears his throat, “yeah sure, I wouldn’t call myself super presentable quite yet though, so give me a beat, yeah?”.

“Of course! No worries, just sooner rather than later. Please”.

Both of the local town heroes wince at that, giving matching, “okay”’s before her dad walks away again. Her eyeing Phantom as he stands up with a bit of a grunt. Her frowning, “are you good?”.

His laugh is a little bitter and hollow, “I’m one part reformed mangled flesh soup and one part enough stitching to make me a patchwork doll. Not a chance in the entire Zone am I ‘okay’”, him kneeing down by some of the ectoplasmic mess, “but I’ll be okay, eventually. And there’s a gnarly mess to clean up and a worried father to placate”.

She blinks at him, confused, “mess to-?”, and cuts herself off at seeing all the ectoplasm splattered and smeared and coagulated around start pulsing and flowing to and seemingly inside of Phantom. What the actual fuck??? “What the fuck Phantom”.

The ghost shrugs, not looking back to her, “yes I can reabsorb my lost ecto, it’s just really not efficient or worth the effort. I produce and absorb ecto quick enough to replace whatever I’ve lost that it’s redundant to absorb what I’ve lost”.

Valerie shakes her head and forces herself to get up too, “what a technical way to say you’re over powered”. Which results in his cheeks instantly lighting up green, much to her amusement. He’s… actually okay-ish by some fucking stroke of pure luck.

Phantom clears his throat and points at her, making general gestures to her entire body, “well, ah, Amity’s also my lair so that helps”.

She scowls at It, “fuck you, again”, sighing and glancing down at herself, “if you think I’m going down and having tea with my father while covered in your ectoplasm, you’re kidding yourself”. At least he chuckles at that before poking her and seemingly absorbing his ecto. Fucking small mercies she guesses, since she wasn’t sure what to even do about the mess at all. “Some dripped down into Karen and Kevin apartment, they were bitching”.

“Fuck Karen and Kevin”.

She snorts at that which just results in both of them chuckling a little manically. Phantom gesturing to the door, “shall we?”, then shaking his head, “we need therapy”.

Valerie shakes her head to but moves towards the door, “so much therapy”. “Hey I’m supposed to be the issue, stop copying me”; there’s too much genuine sadness in than to make it really passable as a joke. At least the jackass wasn’t floating or anything, that always made him feel a little less inhuman; which was probably the point. That and the ghost was apparently still right shit, as he fucking deserved to be after the crap he just put her through.

Damian smiles and waves at both of them as they enter the living room/kitchen/dining room area (small apartments, am I right?), “so what do you want, I’ve got elderberry, chamomile, lavender berry….”.

As he continues to list on, both smile at him, it’s a little faked and the calm postures are a bit forced, but it’s something. Something tells her that Phantom’s is just a little bit less faked than hers though, which… just makes her pity the ghost more.

End

16 notes · View notes

too-many-rooks · 6 months ago

Text

thanks @dykesville for tagging me, this was fun! (DISREGARD how my first answer seems to suggest otherwise)

When was the last time you cried? Ough. Um, my grandad died, and then I feeling guilty about how much more of an emotional reaction I had when my dog died about six months ago, and then I started thinking about my dead dog, and then I started crying. Anyway this is getting off to a great start, lets roll on to next question babyy!

Do you have kids? Nope, I'm 24, single, live at home and work a part time minimum wage job, and have in no way figured out my life/what I want my life to be. Don't particularly plan to have kids, but the concept of even thinking about having kids is extremely distant rn.

Do you use sarcasm a lot? I think so? like a normal, british amount, I guess?

What sports do you play? None really, I played Hockey when I was at school, and did a lot of swimming, then in my late teens and early 20s I had some physical health issues that prevented me from doing anything like that, but in the past couple of years I've been building back my muscle and stuff, and at the moment I'm really into going on long walks as I live on the edge of my town and get into the countryside quite easily.

Whats the first thing you notice about people? What they're wearing, usually.

What's your eye colour? Blue.

Scary movies or happy endings? I am a big big coward, so can't really do scary movies - if it's like an unnerving psychological horror sure, but if there's some spooky victorian ghost lady lurking about and the threat jump scares, I'm OUT. I like a happy ending.

Any special talents? I'm a really good cook, bc I have a good palatte, I'm really good at tasting a dish and knowing how it needs to be altered for the flavour balance to be right, and I'm good at knowing what flavours will go well together, and freestyling a meal. Also I can roll my eyes back in my head so only the whites are showing, which is kinda freaky and fun.

Where were you born? Pattaya. (Technically the hospital was in Na Kluea, but it says Pattaya on my passport.)

What are your hobbies? Cooking, Hiking, Video games, Writing, and I've been getting increasingly into photo/video editing stuff as I've been learning how to make gifs, and have been making assets for a tabletop thing (basically an alex rider au) I'm planning to run with my friends.

Do you have pets? Ah.. uh, not anymore. 😅

How tall are you? 5'8", I think?

Favourite subject in school? I'm a humanities girlie, through and through, so English, History, Politics, and Classical civ.

Dream job? I've got two history degrees so would love to make those useful. If I lean in to the fantasy of a 'dream' job where it has none of the actual real life shittyness and I'd magically be great at it, I'd love to be able to write? Or, different fantasy element, just a skill I totally don't have, I think doing historical costuming for tv/stage/movies would be an extremely fun blend of historical research and creativity. Though I can barely sew a button IRL, so that dreams probably a little distant.

tagging @countessrivers and @icebluecyanide or whoever else might want to answer :)

#ask game

5 notes · View notes

spouseoftherisingsun · 7 months ago

Text

Tagged by @heathened Helloooooooo ♡ I love that I used the other tags to find new mutuals, we love it

When was the last time you cried? Last night because I have pink eye and miss my cat who died last year

Do you have kids? No, but I'm a kindergarten aide, hence the pink eye

Do you use sarcasm a lot? I mix it up but sometimes I say things in a sarcastic tone when they're actually true. I do this a lot more than I used to rn as I currently work at a Catholic school lmao

What sports do you play? Grew up playing volleyball and then dropped it to do dance, still love doing both, but currently playing a total of like a minute of soccer every recess since I ref for the kids

What’s the first thing you notice about people? Faces, I was born a weird little girl who stares at faces and I still often watch them because I love to draw faces

What’s your eye color? Bluish, always wanted brown eyes growing up bc that's what my mom has

Scary movies or happy endings? Context dependent for sure.

Any special talents? The things I get the most compliments on are my voice, storytelling, and artistic ability

Where were you born? Rural Washington

What are your hobbies? Draw, write, sing, design, occultism, etc. etc.

Do you have pets? My cat died last year, still grieving her hard. Mom and I have another cat I picked up off the street way back in middle school. Mom also has a dog, I love him but he's very much her dog. Dad and Dana (step-mom) have two dogs and a turtle

How tall are you? 5'3" and a half, have been told I look taller

Favorite subject in school? Textual analysis was a contender, but my true passion is my minor, Creative and Cultural Insutries, as well as any creative and/or cultural practice like writing, illustration, etc. The subject I consider the most important is history (specifically historiography), but it's admittedly not my personal favorite

Dream job? Regardless of whether it's as a job or not I aim to eventually do something creative, but I do enjoy teaching

Tagging @zumurruds @kenshiv @saintmarkovia @medievalfawn @dykesville @godsopenwound @evakant and anyone I follow or follows me, no pressure for follow through just know ily all hellooo hi ♡♡♡♡

#mine #about me #my side blog is so lovingly tagged i really should start tagging on my main #this post wouldn't tag anyone so i had to retag but i did it

5 notes · View notes

general-illyrin · 2 years ago

Text

@dykesville. Thank you for the suggestion! I don't want to impose upon people more than I have, but I may edit my post, adding links to more specific polls.

5 notes · View notes

ingrindthe3rd · 1 year ago

Text

No one will ever know I’m lesbian:( *drives Subaru to go on three day hiking trip listening to girl in red on the side roads near dykesville

30K notes · View notes

jonathanrook · 9 months ago

Note

GIRL are you okay 😂

i don't know what this is in reference to but the answer is Definitely Not

#question #dykesville

2 notes · View notes

cleaduvalls · 1 year ago

Text

DYKESVILLE WISCONSIN ‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️

#👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩

0 notes

dykeseinfeld · 2 years ago

Note

i had the exact same reaction to the coachella thing, saw linda lindas and was like who let these kids off school 🤔 you think they’re industry plants though? i haven’t heard about that

omg another linda lindas stan welcome🫡

but yeah i saw them at pitchfork last year and looked them up and the origin story for the band is literally that a couple of music producers were like “wouldn’t it be funny if we taught our daughters instruments and made them into a punk band?” like literally they were opening for bikini kill within one year of their forming and amy poehler who knows their parents saw them in concert and got them a part in her movie i’m obsessed with it

#it’s so absurd that it wraps back around to become punk again (ironically)#answered #dykesville

0 notes

dpauzine · 2 years ago

Photo

👻 CONTRIBUTOR LINE-UP 👻

Introducing REALITY TRIP's amazing contributors! Are you ready to traverse the universes with them? 💚

You can find them @ their socials below! 🔻

🎨 PAGE ARTISTS PT 1. 🎨

🎨 PAGE ARTISTS PT 2. 🎨

🛍️ MERCH ARTISTS 🛍️

@greeneyeswhitehair | @dreamaruu | @kriber | @sarasanddollar | SleepySpacey/twitter

🖊️ WRITERS 🖊️

#danny phantom #danny phantom au

223 notes · View notes

phantom-phoenixx · 3 years ago

Text

Got a super late @phandomholidaytruce gift for @dykesville with a grey ghost confession that never happened. I'm so sorry it's late but i hope you like what i drew!

#danny phantom #danny phantom fanart #dp fanart #danny fenton #valerie gray #red huntress #digital drawing #digital fanart #tw blood #tw mild gore #tw chest wound #phoenix draws #im sorry its so late!#2021 holiday truce

316 notes · View notes

charcoalhawk · 3 years ago

Text

Breaking My Bones, Following Ghosts

Written for Phic Phight 2022!

Prompts by @deuynndoodles and @bibliophilea

“Sam finds true crime fascinating, and likes to pull Tucker on the couch next to her while they learn about how another serial killer got locked up. Today's episode is on Danny Fenton's unsolved disappearance.”

“Wes decides to create a podcast investigating all the strangeness of Amity Park. His first episode centers around Danny Fenton.”

Beta’ed by the amazing @dykesville, thank you again for all the help!

Title taken from Friday Breakfast Club’s “Breaking My Bones”

Summary: Of all the mysteries that haunt Amity Park, Danny Fenton’s disappearance is the one most people remember.

The two of them are camped out in Sam’s nice apartment, sprawled out on the two new couches her parents insisted on getting her and eating a half-meat-lover's-half-vegetarian pizza. It’s the first weekend in months where neither of them has any college or job obligations and they are determined to spend it doing absolutely nothing productive.

It’s Sam who brings it up, going down a list of things they’ve been wanting to do together but haven’t had the time for between the spring semester and part-time jobs. Tucker’s was out of necessity, as his love of tech had left him low on spending money, while Sam had simply wanted to spite her parents, who insisted that she was above “menial labor.”

“So no weekend camping trips?”

“Sam, neither of us even owns a tent. And we would get lost so fast.”

“No amusement parks nearby, no town festivals…”

“We’d get sick of the crowds in an hour. Besides, aren’t we trying to avoid spending our money?”

“Are you going to shoot down all my fun ideas?” she huffs. “Well… how about we listen to this true crime podcast Valerie told me about?”

That… doesn’t sound like a bad idea. Tucker hasn’t talked to Valerie much since graduation, but she and Sam had remained remarkably close considering how prickly their relationship had been in the beginning. Which in itself made sense, considering…well, everything. Sam put a lot of value into life, even the un-life that ghosts existed in, and Valerie didn’t.

“Valerie’s got decent taste,” Tucker concedes, shifting so he can look over Sam’s shoulder to her phone where she’s scrolling for something. “When did she get into true crime, though? She always hated it in high school.”

“Apparently, this one is about good old Amity Park,” Sam reads, fiddling with her phone before reaching to turn on the TV sat across from them, navigating through the dozen or so streaming services her parents were paying for. “You remember Wes Weston?”

Tucker makes what he hopes is an appropriately disbelieving expression. Everyone at Amity High–hell, probably everyone in Amity Park–knew Wes Weston. He had been popular enough to not get picked on by the A-listers, with a wide variety of interests that brought him close to just about everyone…

“Welp, this is his,” Sam continues. “It’s supposed to be about all the freaky shit that started happening in Amity Park while we were in high school. The first episode is on Danny Fenton’s disappearance.”

…but what he’d been best known for had been being best friends with a kid who had gone missing five months before the three of them started high school. Danny Fenton. Wes had been distraught, and insistent that he would get a job as a “paranormal private investigator” and help solve Danny’s disappearance.

Neither Tucker nor Sam had been particularly close with Danny, but from what little Tucker remembered, he’d been a sweet kid. Absolutely loved space, and could somehow turn any discussion around to talking about space exploration or different planets.

The Fentons had come under heavy fire in the beginning for the disappearance of their son. Especially when it was revealed that it had been their supposed “ghost portal” that had led to the fire, and then to Danny’s disappearance.

Danny Fenton is an untold mystery if Tucker’s ever heard one, yet nonetheless, he finds himself skeptical. “Really? Valerie told you about this?” he asks. “I thought she hated all of Wes’s theories on it. Considering her, uh, ‘after-school activities’ over the years.”

And by “after-school activities,” Tucker of course meant fighting ghosts. He still remembered the first time he saw Valerie truly fight a ghost, a knight that had attacked the school on Halloween their freshman year. He and Sam had both been inspired to try and fight as well after that, but Valerie had only had the time to train them on the basics, and both of them had felt reluctant to reach out to the Fentons, even when they started offering to train others.

Valerie had always hated thinking of ghosts as people, and Wes’ insistence on talking to ghosts instead of fighting them had caused the biggest rift in the entire high school. To Tucker’s knowledge Valerie still had reservations about thinking of ghosts as people, especially dead people, but she and Sam had come to a middle ground somewhere in their senior year. Valerie and Wes, on the other hand, still had screaming matches in the hallways all the way up to graduation. Her endorsing anything from him was big.

“She did. She still kinda does. But she said Wes did a good job. Lays out fact and fiction, doesn’t glorify the whole thing like some true crime ‘investigators’ would.”

“Well, at least that’s something. But are you sure you really want to listen to this? I’m sure we could find one of those trashy ones with the two billion sound effects and rip into it easily.”

Sam returns his disbelieving look from earlier. “Yeah I’m sure! Those other ones get boring fast.

“Besides, don’t you want to know what actually happened? The last part of our senior year was weighed down with the revelation that he, that his body had finally been found, but no one ever actually told us what happened or where.”

He shrugs, rubbing his arm before reaching out to take the last slice of meatlover’s. “It’s…weird.”

The pizza is just on the tail end of being warm, not cold-stiff, but the cheese has congealed just a bit. Sam watches him eat, a critical look on her face. “I don’t get it, Tuck,” she says. “We practically lived in a horror movie for four years. We’ve fought ghosts, for crying out loud. What’s got you so rattled?”

“I–It’s nothing!” He protests. It’s unconvincing, but he tries again anyway. “I just–this isn’t some mystery from fifty years ago about someone we’ve never met. We knew this kid. We knew Danny.”

“I know,” Sam says, speaking slowly, her eyes still carefully locked on his. “And you’re acting like Danny is something scary.”

Tucker opened his mouth. Closed it again.

“You know what, I’ll be fine. I don’t know–it was just getting to me. Start it up.”

______________________

Hey, this is Wes Weston and you’re listening to my new podcast, “Phantoms of Amity Park.”

Here I intend to lay out the many mysteries surrounding my own hometown of Amity Park, the most haunted place on earth. Keep in mind that while these are firsthand accounts, I’m not here to debate the logistics of ghosts being real. I've seen them, talked to them— hell, I’ve fought with and against them, as have many other residents. So please, if you're listening to this just to laugh at people getting duped by shitty tourist traps, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place. I’ve got accounts ranging from ghost dogs that follow you home to amulets that made you as angry as a dragon, fire-breathing included.

For this first episode I wanted–no. I needed to focus on a more serious case. I’ll try to sprinkle in some humor here and there, but will remain a bit more grave than my future episodes. The events that I’m about to describe contain some graphic content so please, keep that in mind. I’d also please ask that no one attempt to contact the family I will be talking about today. I reached out to them when I decided to cover this unfortunate event and have their permission to discuss what happened, but please, leave them alone.

With that disclaimer out of the way, I'll give you all some background. Amity Park is a small town located in northern Illinois, surrounded as far as the eye can see by trees, trees, and, oh yeah, more trees. The population sits around five thousand living residents, and our ghostly neighbors can sit anywhere between fifty and five hundred depending on the day.

At approximately 9:00 pm on April 3rd, 2003, a power surge originated from Fenton Works on Main Street, a private ghost research center and home of the Fenton family. The surge cut power to a third of the city and ignited a fire at the same residence. The city’s already-limited police and medical services stretched themselves thin to deal with multiple vehicle incidents caused by loss of power and the now-roaring fire happening at Fenton Works. After a tumultuous three hours, power was finally restored and the fire put out. Three residents of the house had been evacuated early on and were treated for minor burns and smoke inhalation, but the fourth individual who should have been present in the house could not be located.

That individual was fourteen year old Danny Fenton.

After the ruins of Fenton Works had gone cold and firefighters could search the rubble, it was soon discovered that the origin of the power surge, and by consequence the fire, was a large contraption located in the Fentons' basement that they referred to as a “ghost portal.” At the time, Danny Fenton’s disappearance taking precedence, the nature of the “ghost portal” was a relative nonconcern. Well, residents of Amity Park would soon learn exactly what this device could do, but that is a story for another day.

After no evidence of Danny could be found inside the Fenton residence, neighbors were all interviewed to ascertain whether he might have snuck out of the house before the power surge, without his parents’ knowledge. But no one remembered seeing anyone leave the house before the start of the fire. Keep in mind that this was 2003, and most kids did not yet have mobile phones.

As the hours drew on and Danny could not be located, residents were soon swept into a panic. For as great a tragedy as it would have been for a kid to die in a house fire, for there to be nothing, no body at all, was even more terrifying. Surrounding neighborhoods were checked over with a fine toothed comb, and once the wreckage was no longer dangerous, police gathered personal belongings to hopefully find a scent trail.

But none was ever found. It was as if Danny Fenton had just up and vanished.

The Fentons were interviewed extensively, especially the parents, Madeline and Jack, as it came to light that the two had been spending more and more time on their obsession with ghosts, leaving many to wonder whether young Danny might have run away in order to garner his parents' attention.

Theories of what had happened ranged from the benign to the gruesome, but no evidence of Danny’s death in or outside of the Fenton house was ever found.

As the years dragged on the case stayed cold, the town was forced to worry about the more present problem of ghosts lurking about. But because of the nature of our new guests, and the fact that their arrival coincided with Danny Fenton’s departure, his case was never forgotten.

Many people, including myself, wondered if one day we would see a little ghost fly who seemed too familiar, and the less hostile ghosts were asked if they could keep an eye out for a little black haired boy who wanted to be an astronaut.

On April 3rd, 2007, four years to the day after Danny Fenton disappeared from his home the same night as a devastating fire broke out, he was finally found.

Alicia Walker is Madeline Fenton’s older sister, and lives around six hundred miles away from Amity Park in rural Arkansas. While out checking the perimeter of her property that morning she found the body of a young boy, and immediately recognized him as her nephew, Danny Fenton.

It was deduced by the coroner that at the time the body was discovered, Danny had been dead less than twenty-four hours, having passed away due to heart failure caused by an electric shock. His left arm was covered in the spiderweb fractals of Lichtenberg scars, and it was believed the shock entered from there.

The Fentons were called as soon as the body was identified, and later that evening local news reporter Lance Thunder announced to Amity Park at large the finding and identification of Danny’s body.

Now, you eagle eyed viewers may have noticed that this case is still labeled as unsolved even though Danny’s body was found and identified. This is because there remains little to no evidence about the disappearance itself, and still less about where Danny spent his last four years.

This is for a few key reasons, the most striking of which is that the body found was that of fourteen-year-old Danny Fenton, not an eighteen year old one.

This single thing has confounded any theory into what could have happened. Whether Danny died that night or didn’t, he should not still physically have been fourteen years old. There was no wear and tear on his clothing nor his body to suggest decay for any period of time. Rigor mortis having only just set in when the body was found, further confirming that he had only died in the previous twenty four hours.

In the end I cannot offer any single concrete theory into what exactly happened to Danny Fenton. And this fact has…eaten away at me, every night since the night that I’d thought he had died, only to find out four years later that I was wrong. Four years later, and still one day too late to save him.

If you liked this, or at least found it interesting enough to not turn it off within the first five minutes, then stick around for episode 2: the mystery of Amity High’s, well, everything.

#danny phantom #phic phight 22 #team human #brief mention of a dead body

71 notes · View notes