Author's note: I love you, my precious. I love you, my son. I'm sorry for all the wrong things that I've done in the past, but it happened so fast. It didn't quite go as I'd planned, and I hope to God one day you'll understand. - Nik Kershaw

I knew how this was going to end since conceiving this plot over half a year ago. It loomed in the back of my mind as I wrote, knowing that I was heading toward it. And yet, even though I was expecting it, it still hit me so hard with such profound depression. Perhaps it won't affect you so deeply as a reader, though. If not, I at least hope this will be thought-provoking.

The End of Danny

.:·:.:·:.:·:.:·:.:·:.:·:.:·

My boy, I think of you when I look at the sad sky. My boy, you're beautiful, but you make me cry.

Hanging and struggling on this cross, this night in the blue.

…

I am looking as good as I ever have since my incarceration. Showered and dressed in my best clothes. I even got a haircut for the occasion.

I must impress. This is my one chance.

Two guards approach my cell. I stand up straight with my back to the door, my legs apart and my arms over my head.

"Assume the position," one orders.

They don't acknowledge that I have already obediently done just that, but I am too nervous to be offended. They grab me and prod me and cuff me and shackle me.

I do my best to be pleasant.

"The weather seems nice today," I say, looking out through the tiny window. "It's a nice day, don't you think?"

They ignore me and talk to each other, talk over me. They push and pull me out and down the hall and through unfamiliar corridors. Or perhaps I have been taken this way before at the very beginning of all this and just can't remember.

There are a lot of things I can't remember, but the events that landed me here in the first place, I remember all of that. Everything. They involved my Danny, after all, and I could never forget anything having to do with him.

Do you still want to know what happened?

Of course you do. You're clearly as sick as I am for reading this far.

…

This swollen face, these listless eyes. I roll my soul under murky skies.

Something stirs in my sleepless mind; his memory becomes a knife.

…

The committee room is nothing special. It's a conference room with one table in the center and comfortable office chairs surrounding it. A stenographer's desk is in one corner, and a sturdy metal chair is at the head of the table. I am of course led to this single metal chair and shackled to it. But I do not complain. I must remain pleasant.

I am made to wait for some time. I rehearse in my head everything I want to say, everything that I hope will get me what I want.

The committee members finally arrive. Two elderly women, one with white hair, one with grey hair. One middle-aged man with no hair at all. I focus on the man. He's the one I'll need to charm. My charms never work on women. Women are only ever jealous of me.

The committee members take their seats and notice me. They look at me for some time, whisper amongst themselves as the secretary sets out coffee and donuts before sitting at the stenographer's desk to type out every word, every breath, every clatter.

I study their eyes. I look for any glimpses of ghostly possession. But as far as I can tell, they are real. They are human. They are free.

For once, perhaps Vlad has decided to leave me alone in this.

If he knows what's good for him, he'll continue to stay away. If he forces me to stay here, I'll have no choice but to accept his offer to go away with him, and then I'll kill him. If I can kill a man I love, I can certainly kill a man I hate.

"Where should we start?" asks the white-haired woman as she sips her coffee.

"Let's just start with her." The grey-haired woman turns to me. "Madeline Fenton. Do you know why you're here?"

I maintain eye contact and nod.

"You've been held in this facility for four years. Is that correct?"

I nod again.

"But you don't like it here. You want to be transferred."

I say nothing.

"How have you been spending your time here?"

"I mostly just think, I suppose. And I exercise out in the yard when I can. And I write."

"You write?" The grey-haired woman looks through some notes. "You receive more mail than anyone else here, but you have not sent any letters out."

"I don't write letters. I write for myself." And then I suddenly wonder why I have been writing this account of what really happened. Is this really just for me? Will anyone else ever read this? Are you actually reading this?

"You also spend a lot of time in therapy," remarks the white-haired woman. "In fact, your therapist has suggested that you should be transferred."

"Yes. Apparently, this facility is no good for your health," says the grey-haired woman. "Have we really failed you so miserably?"

I stare at the only man in the room, but he remains quiet.

"You have been getting visits from only one person, but he visits you quite regularly," says the grey-haired woman. "Vlad Masters."

"The multi-billionaire?" questions the white-haired woman.

"Yes."

The two women exchange girlish smiles. Devious thoughts are likely running through their minds. Vlad has that effect on older women.

But not on me. I breathe deeply to keep my poise and all contents in my stomach.

"Your therapist believes you would do better in a new facility away from Vlad Masters and away from this environment. Do you not get along with the other women here?"

"I just feel sick here. All the time."

"But you do know why you're here in the first place, right? You do know what you did?"

I know exactly what I did.

"And you think you deserve to be somewhere that would make you feel more comfortable?"

"Please," I gasp out. "I just need to be away from Vlad. That's all. I don't care about comfort. I know what I did. I'm not denying any of it. I'm not saying I shouldn't be punished."

"Let's talk about what you did," the middle-aged man finally speaks.

All eyes turn to the secretary. She finishes typing and then lifts a sheet of paper. "Eidolon County case No. 59-475," she reads aloud.

I hold my breath.

"March 2014. Defendant, Madeline Fenton, called 'Maddie,' aged forty-eight, white female, married. No record of previous arrests. Personal file." The secretary begins listing details of my life, my date and place of birth, my parents, my childhood, my education.

"What does any of this matter?" I interrupt. I hate hearing about myself. "What does this have to do with me being transferred?"

I am shushed by the guards on either side of me. The secretary continues with what I studied in college, my unusual fascination with ghosts, especially at a time when they were not yet proven to exist. That was a big part of the prosecution's case, my obsession with ghosts. They have to talk about it. The committee turns to me for just a moment with disapproval. I look only at the secretary. She then discusses my previous employment, my marriage, my children. She takes great care to mention the name of my son. "Daniel Fenton."

"Danny," I say. "It's a mistake. He's not Daniel. Only Danny."

The secretary nods. "Daniel Fenton, called 'Danny.'"

I breathe with relief.

A few more background details, and then the real story begins. "Danny returned to Amity Park from Stonepoint to stay for the Christmas holiday season on December 12, 2011. On December 16, his girlfriend at the time, Samantha Manson, broke off a five-and-a-half-year relationship with him. His father, Jack Fenton, sister, Jasmine Fenton, and close friend, Tucker Foley, report that Danny exhibited extreme depression during this time. His father further states that Danny confined himself to his room beginning the night of December 31, 2011."

Yes, yes, so far, that is true.

"Defendant claimed to take Danny to the airport for his 1:55 flight out of Comity International Airport to Stonepoint on January 7, 2012. Airport records indicate that Danny never boarded that plane. His roommates at the time claim that they never saw him return from Amity Park. They had assumed he was still living in the house with them since his rent payments continued to be on time. However, upon inspection of his room, it looked as if he had not returned from his trip to Amity Park. As discovered later, the defendant had kidnapped Danny and kept him at a private secluded residence in Pearltown belonging to a family friend, Vlad Masters. Defendant kept Danny's location secret from his friends and her family including her husband. Defendant kept Danny at this location against his will from January 7, 2012 until March 29, 2014. During this time—"

"No," I shout. "That's not right. That's not what happened. He chose to stay there on his own."

A guard hisses at me to be silent.

"But it's wrong," I protest. "They have the story all wrong."

"During this time," the secretary continues, "Defendant conducted extensive experiments on Danny all pertaining to her research involving the paranormal, specifically ghosts."

Yes. I told you that already. But I only conducted those tests and experiments in the final year he was there, not the entire time. And he asked me to do that. Remember? I told you that. I already told you.

Over the final year of his life, he begged me to run more tests on him every time I came to visit. He was getting increasingly paranoid, suffering more and more panic attacks, and he always felt so much better when I assured him that he was fine and normal and stable.

"I just need to know for sure," said Danny. "I just want to know the moment my ghost side seems to be getting stronger."

I held back a smile. He had no idea just how thrilled his request made me as a scientist who had been aching to study his ghost side for so long. Or perhaps he did know exactly how much I wanted to run such tests on him. Either way, I wasn't about to tell him.

"Okay, Danny, but you have to eat something first. And you have to take a walk outside with me. I can run the tests afterwards."

A deal, a compromise. I wanted to do whatever I could to keep him healthy, wanted to try different things to keep his ghostly infection from getting any worse, the ghostly infection that I was keeping secret from him because I didn't want to panic him with the truth.

And so he started eating better. He started exercising and working out again with Vlad's home gym system. He actually started to look pretty good as his color and muscle mass returned.

But there was no denying that he was beginning to look more and more like the dark ghost I had seen in Clockwork's looking-glass all those years ago.

But I ignored it. Danny was starting to be physically healthy again, and that was necessary if he was going to be mentally and emotionally healthy again, too.

I had to hold up my end of the bargain, though. Danny did his part by keeping himself physically healthy, so I had to do my part by running the tests and analyzing his blood and ectoplasm and brain waves.

October of twenty-thirteen. He stayed in the lab this time as I analyzed his blood samples. The ghostly antibodies were multiplying at an alarming rate. I had been running various tests of my own to see how they could be targeted and reduced, but they were stronger than anything I could introduce to them.

"You haven't been transforming, right?" I asked him as I looked through the lens of the most powerful microscope Vlad had.

"No," said Danny nervously. "Why?"

"Just need to know for my notes." I had to wonder just how much more quickly this ghostly inflammation would spread if he were to transform. "Everything looks the same. You're fine."

I was lying, yes. His ghostly properties were swarming and increasing. But I had to keep his panic and pain under control, and if lying could do that, then I had to lie. I planned on telling him the truth later once I figured out how to cure him.

And I was determined to cure him. I thought that maybe I could even convince him to let me run more invasive tests. If he felt desperate enough, if I assured him it was necessary, I was confident he'd let me.

"Are you sure?" Danny asked anxiously.

I turned back to him. This was the first time he had questioned me. Usually, he just responded with relief.

"Check again. Please," he begged.

I studied his face, his arms. His inner elbows and triceps and even his hands were dotted and scarred with so many puncture points and petechiae and bruises.

"Yes, Danny. I'm sure." I turned around and looked at all of the samples and results again. The signs of a supernatural attack on his human cells were still so prominent. "Still sure."

He nodded in understanding, but he didn't look relieved at all. He seemed skeptical and doubtful.

The tests continued for some time. He missed the holidays again. I sent gifts and letters on his behalf, doing my best to write in his style. They seemed to fool Jack and Jazz, but they were still worried about him.

"When are we actually going to see Danny again?" asked Jazz.

"Something serious must be going on with Danny," said Jack. "This isn't right. Does he need help?"

I did my best to brush off their questions and to quash their worries. I had a new mission now, a mission to cure Danny's ghostly mutation that was spreading through him like cancer. I was determined to get him into remission. I was sure that would solve everything, that his mind would heal so he could return to the world.

I just had to keep testing and trying new ways to combat his infection.

And I had to do it without alarming him because such stress and pain and panic would only make the cancer progress faster, and I needed all the time I could get.

"Torture. She tortured him for over two years."

I am jolted. I do not know who said this. The grey-haired woman or the white-haired woman?

"Excuse me. Are you paying attention?" asks the white-haired woman.

I blink.

"We've been reviewing the events," says the middle-aged man to remind me.

"But why?" I ask. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"So that we can discuss options. So that we can decide if you really should be transferred," says the grey-haired woman.

"We're just not convinced you deserve it," says the white-haired woman.

"Maybe you just need medication. Or more security," offers the grey-haired woman.

"And how could any woman not want to see Vlad Masters?" sighs the white-haired woman.

"I hate him," I spit. "You have no idea what's he done to me, to Danny. He has you all fooled, overshadowed enough people to absolve himself of any blame."

"I'm afraid I don't understand you," says the white-haired woman. "You are making no sense. It makes no sense to hate Vlad Masters. How can anyone hate him?"

I seethe and fume and burn inside.

"Tell us about Danny," says the middle-aged man.

"Danny?"

"Your son."

"What do you want me to say about him?" I could talk for the rest of my life about him.

"What were your feelings toward him?"

"Pride. Fondness. Love."

"But you tortured him," says the grey-haired lady firmly, accusatorily. Her eyes bore into me. "For over two years. You kidnapped him and imprisoned him and tortured him."

I shake my head and glare at her hatefully. "I saved him."

The days and weeks and months carried on. In that time, I tried concocting a number of solutions and serums to battle his infection. And in the meantime, since he wasn't transforming anyway, I injected him with new strains of my solution that prevented ghostly molecular changes. I never told him because I didn't want him to be alarmed or to start asking questions, but it was easy to give him a quick shot when I was already poking and prodding him anyway.

My hope was that the serum would prevent his ghostly antibodies from multiplying at least while it was in his system. My original strain of the solution only lasted a few hours, so I set to work on trying to make it last longer, perhaps even as long as a week. Or at least a day. A daily injection was feasible if it could prevent this cancer from getting any worse.

But his spectral molecules were getting stronger and stronger. The strains I created would work one day, but then the antibodies would break it down the next.

"You're definitely not transforming at all, right?" I asked him.

"Not at all," assured Danny. "Why do you keep asking that?"

I smiled and dismissed it. But there was no mistake that his ghostly molecules were gaining strength and numbers at an exponentially increasing rate. Injections of the solution were only delaying its spread.

And all the while, Danny was becoming more paranoid and anxious and depressed. I did everything in my power to help him emotionally. Comedy movies and TV shows, uplifting books, spirited music, his favorite food. At night, we would stargaze if it wasn't too cold. I even bought a telescope for him, and we would look through it together. But all of the wonder I used to see in his eyes when he gazed at the constellations and distant planets was noticeably absent.

He leaned against the telescope one night with an expression of melancholy longing and desperation. "I wish I could've had a chance to explore out there more. But at least I got to go out there once."

He had apparently been out in the cosmos before on a ghost-related mission years ago in his adolescence. But he spoke in this moment as if it were all over for him, as if there would never be another opportunity for him to do anything that incredible ever again, as if his life were coming to an end.

And it was coming to an end. I didn't know it yet. But perhaps he did.

All I knew was that I had to fix him. I had to bring my son back somehow. I just wanted to see him smile again. I wanted to see him continue to grow and graduate from college and make his mark on the world.

I had to figure out what chemical mixture would cure him.

This puzzle consumed me. I worked on it whenever I had a chance, both at home in Amity Park and when I was visiting Danny. Jack would often ask what I was working on so feverishly in our home lab. I made up answers, lied to him over and over.

And I continued lying to Danny.

"It happened at the end of March, correct?" asks the grey-haired woman.

March's end. His end.

"Twenty-fourteen," says the white-haired woman.

"But it all started the beginning of January in twenty-twelve," says the middle-aged man.

"It probably started sooner than that. Surely she had been planning this for some time."

"She is a scientist. This was likely a carefully devised scheme."

"And when she was finished with him, she finally put him out of his misery."

"Poor boy. Considering what she did to him, I'm sure he kept hoping she'd kill him sooner."

The end of March.

I drove out to visit him that final weekend. Friday afternoon. Danny was waiting for me in the living room.

"Please test me now," he begged.

"Hang on, sweetie. Let me set these bags down." More food for the week, specific concoctions I had been working on that I wanted to try injecting into him. "And I want you to eat first. I'm going to make something for you right now."

"I'm really not hungry. I don't want to wait. I have to know."

I put a hand to his forehead. He looked quite pale and haggard. "You feeling okay?"

"It's just—it's kind of been a rough week. I would feel better if I could find out if it's just in my head, psychological."

He seemed out of breath and very disturbed. I directed him to one of the sofas in the living room. "Try to relax, okay? You'll feel better after you eat, and then we'll go down to the lab."

I tried to calm myself as I cooked for him. I had to be calm if I wanted him to be calm. But the unease I felt in that moment was strangling.

After dinner, we went down to the lab together. I carried out all the usual tests on his human side, injected him with a concentrated dose of a serum strain that I had determined would prevent his ghostly molecules from changing for at least half a day. I had stopped making him transform several months earlier because I didn't want his ghostly molecules to gain strength at an increased speed. I wanted to give myself as much time as possible to create a strain that would finally work.

The results I gathered were devastating but not surprising. His spectral cancer was still spreading. I recorded the new numbers, made new notes, laid out the notes I had been making at home.

"All right. I have everything I need. I'm going to work for a bit down here, so why don't you go upstairs and watch TV?" I pulled out the newest strains I had been working on, prepared to test them against these new blood samples.

"Am I okay?"

I turned to look back at him. He was whiter than usual.

"You sure there aren't any changes at all?" he asked weakly.

"Everything's fine," I said evenly. "I'm going to run a few more tests just to be sure, but I'll let you know if I find anything."

I should've held him. I should've hugged him close to me.

But instead, I watched him go upstairs.

I worked late into the night. No progress, no success. If anything, I was regressing. I called it a night when my eyes were simply too tired to focus properly. Danny had already gone to bed by the time I retired to my room. I should've said good night to him. I wish I had said good night. But I instead decided not to wake him because I feared that he would ask about what I had been doing in the lab all night, and I was too drowsy to come up with a suitable answer for him. I needed to sleep first so I could have clarity of mind to continue lying to him.

The next morning, I showered and dressed before going to Danny's room to wake him. In the past, I usually had to rouse him out of bed and get him going, and I didn't expect this morning to be any different.

But it was different.

Danny wasn't in his room. I looked around before finally going downstairs. Perhaps he was already up and had actually made himself breakfast this time. Or maybe he was just on the sofa in the living room.

But Danny was still nowhere to be found. Not in the living room, not in the kitchen, not in any of the other rooms. I called out his name, but there was no response.

And then I heard noise coming from the basement lab.

I was frozen for a moment. What was he doing down there?

Reclaiming my breath, I descended into the basement and found Danny looking through all of my notes and samples and solutions. His back was to me, but I could see that he was shivering.

"Danny?" I called out to him tentatively.

Danny slowly turned to me with a pained expression. "I knew it. I knew you were lying to me."

I started walking toward him, but Danny held up a hand to stop me.

"I knew there was no way everything was 'fine.' Not with the way I've been feeling."

"Danny—"

"Why have you been lying to me?"

"I didn't lie. You are going to be fine. I just need to—"

"I'm not fine now. That's what you're saying, right?"

I didn't reply.

Danny looked at my notes again. "What does all this mean? What's happening to me?"

I still had no words.

"It's taking over me, isn't it?" Danny looked down at his hands. "I can feel it. I've been feeling it so much lately. I've been feeling so weak and worse than I ever have, so many horrible feelings despite my attempts to banish all my feelings. And all I can think about is ridding myself of all of these feelings, all of these stupid human emotions." He choked on a gasp and clutched at a counter to steady himself. "I want it so bad. So bad. I don't want to feel any of this anymore." He leaned against the counter, putting most of his weight on his arms as his legs shook. "I'm too weak."

"You're not weak, Danny." I tried to be reassuring and firm, but my voice was breaking.

"Yes, I am. I've always been weak. I've always been so fearful and insecure. And I hated being that way. I hated being so overshadowed by others, Jazz, other guys in my class. I felt like I just wasn't good enough, and no matter how hard I tried, I still wasn't what my teachers or what even you and Dad wanted. And I wanted to be what you all wanted. I hated disappointing everyone." He paused. "But then I was zapped by that portal, and I got this new strength, supernatural strength that made me feel like I could finally be someone worthwhile." He drew in a shuddery breath. "But my inherent weakness never left me. Why do you think Phantom wanted to rip me out of him in that alternate timeline you saw? Because I'm weak. My human emotions make me weak and interfere with his ghostly obsession." His breathing quickened. "I'm holding him back. Phantom wants me gone. He convinced me to separate myself from him in that alternate timeline. He wants me to do it again."

I creased my brow as I stared at him. His words were manic, panicked, nigh nonsensical.

"And I've been trying to keep him back, but he's just so much stronger than me. And honestly, I want it just as bad as he does. Any way I can do it, I want to do it. Vlad's Ghost Gauntlets or your Ghost Catcher. I want this all to go away. I want this to stop." He put his hands in his hair in agitation. "I know I can't give in. I can't let my ghostly obsession take on its own form like that. But I want to so bad. I want to. He wants me to. It's just all I can think about."

"Why are you talking about him as if he's not you?" I demanded. "You don't have some demon living inside you, Danny. It's all you. You're in complete control."

"No. I'm losing control. I'm losing my—ah!" Danny growled and held his head with trembling hands. "It didn't use to be this way. In the beginning, I thought it was just me. I thought I was still the same person and that being half ghost didn't change anything about me. Well, I knew it changed me physically, but psychologically, I thought I was the same. But then I realized that no, I was definitely not the same psychologically, especially when I was transformed. And these past few years, it's just been getting worse and worse, and now there's this voice in my head that won't leave me alone, this voice that keeps telling me I have to leave, have to get out, that I don't belong here."

He started hyperventilating, his speech breathless and frenetic.

"He keeps telling me I was never supposed to be here, that I wasn't supposed to stay, that I should've died when I was shocked by that portal. And yes, I should've. But I didn't. I'm lucky I didn't. We're all lucky I didn't because if I had, this ghostly obsession would've had a full form from the very beginning. But because I survived, he only got half of a form, a form that is held back by my humanity. But he's finally stronger than me now. He's finally strong enough to take full ownership of this body."

Danny gasped and shut his eyes.

"And I just feel so bad all the time. I feel sick. I feel tired. Everything hurts. Everything aches. No matter how hard I try to distance myself, I can't get rid of this guilt and loneliness and despair. And it all hurts so much. I want it gone. He wants it gone." He cried out, vocalized his pain. "I just want this to stop! I want this to end!"

He sobbed over the counter with heaving shoulders. My own tears were trapped in my eyes, my whole body struck with deadening shock. I had to force myself to breathe. I couldn't speak.

Oh, my God.

He was insane.

All I had been trying to do for him. All this time that I had given him to recover. All the therapy and testing. All the assurances and hope. All the patience and love.

All for nothing.

"Danny." I held up my hands in an attempt to calm him down. "It's okay." My voice was shaking, my tears were breaking free. "It's all going to be okay. I'll figure something out. I'll find a hospital. I'll do some research and find a good one, okay?"

"A hospital?" Danny turned from the counter to look at me. "You think I need to be hospitalized? Like institutionalized?"

I was crying, but I managed to nod. "Yes. I do."

His eyes widened as he leaned back in stunned silence.

"It's been two years. We've been trying it your way for over two years now." I gestured to our surroundings. "This isn't working. You need more help than this, more help than what I can give you."

"And just what do you think being hospitalized could do for me? What do you think they could possibly do to help me? To prevent me from becoming him? To keep me from getting out and hurting people? I could just phase out at any time."

"Ghost restraints. Ghost shield," I gasped out as I tried to think. "I could—they could borrow some of our—I could make it work. I promise I could find a way to keep you there so you can get professional treatment."

"Ghost restraints?" Danny scoffed. "Oh, yes, great idea. Keep me locked up, put me in even more pain and misery. That'll help. That'll stop Phantom who's unstoppably obsessed with eliminating his pain."

His volume rose as he spat this at me. I was helplessly at a loss for words.

"There's only one way to stop him," he said at a volume that was suddenly much lower, a pitch that was calmer. "And I can't do it myself. I've tried. I've been trying for weeks now, especially this last week. But Phantom won't let me do it."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, but I was afraid to know.

Danny left the lab. I waited for him, sensing that was what he wanted me to do. When he at last returned, I backed away from what I saw in his hands.

"Could we see the photographs?" the middle-aged man asks.

"I'm not sure I want to see them," the white-haired woman says.

"They document the event."

"So explicitly."

"We must review everything," the grey-haired woman says. "Let's have the photographs."

The secretary holds out a large envelope. "There are two sets."

"The three of us can share one. She can look at the other." The middle-aged man nods in my direction. The secretary hands one of the guards a pile of glossy eight by tens. The guard holds a photo in front of me.

"This is Danny," says the middle-aged man.

I turn away.

"Where did you get that?" I shrieked.

Danny turned over the silver revolver in his hands as he looked down at it. "It's Vlad's. It was in one of his safes."

"That's a real gun." Numb. Cold. Disbelieving. "That's not an ecto-gun. How did you get into his safe?"

"It's not like it had a ghost shield surrounding it," said Danny nonchalantly as he continued to study the gun.

My fear was rising. I had already concluded that he was unsound, unhinged, and now with a gun in his hands, I had no idea what he would do next. "That's—it's not loaded, is it?"

Danny pushed open the cylinder so that I could see the six bullets fully seated inside.

"Why, Danny?"

"Because the only way to stop Phantom is to kill him. And once he's taken over me, he'll be almost impossible to kill, too powerful. So he needs to be killed before he completely possesses me. And the only way to kill him right now is to kill me."

He raised the gun to his head and cocked it. I screamed and cried and begged. Danny, don't, please, I can help you. You can get help. Don't do this. Please put the gun down.

His hand started spasming. He yelled in frustration and finally lowered the gun, slamming it down on the nearest counter. He panted and leaned over the counter, the gun still clutched in his hand. "I can't. I can't do it. I want to. God, I want to. So bad. But I can't. He won't let me."

I put a hand to my chest as I tried to restart my heart.

"I've been trying to. But then my ghostly obsession kicks in. It's strongest when I'm transformed, but I sometimes feel it when I'm in this form, and when I'm faced with mortal danger, it's impossible to resist."

He turned back to me, the gun once again in his hands.

"I can't kill myself. Phantom won't let me."

He walked toward me, held the gun out to me.

"Please help me," he begged in a whisper.

"This is Danny," the middle-aged man says.

Eight by ten. The photographs are shown to me as if they're proof.

I saved him. I hope you can understand that. He was beyond repair.

"This is Danny," the middle-aged man says. "Can we have your attention? Can I ask you to take a look?"

"I know what he looks like," I say.

"What he looked like."

I look. Photographs.

"Please help me," he begged me. "If you do it, I won't try to hurt you. The guilt I'd feel for hurting you would be far greater. And look." He punched a counter as hard as he could, his knuckles breaking and bleeding.

"Danny," I gasped, but I couldn't move.

"See?" He grimaced as he held his bleeding hand. "I normally would've been compelled to turn intangible, but I can't turn intangible right now. I can't transform or do anything. I read it in your notes. You've been injecting me with that solution that prevents my ghostly molecules from changing, right? And you injected me last night. It's still working. This is the perfect time. Before it wears off. This is the only time. It's the only way to combat my ghostly obsession. Please do this for me."

"Do what?" I asked tearfully, feigning ignorance, anything to stall.

He took my hands and pressed the revolver into them. He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

I stared down at the revolver. Silver, sparkling, stunning. Of course Vlad would buy only the most beautiful gun.

I held the gun firmly and raised my eyes. Danny stood apart from me with pained anticipation.

"I can help you," I murmured. "I can find help for you."

"This is how you can help me, Mom."

"No. I'm not doing this."

"You have to. I can't do it. I literally, physically can't."

"And what makes you think I can?"

"You're the only one who can."

I was sweating. I could feel the moisture running down my neck. "Danny, please, you're human now. You said you can reason when you're not in ghost form. Reason through this, Danny."

"But how long until I can't reason anymore?" His breaths were erratic, his voice was rough. "When I get to that point, what then? It will be too late."

His dark persona would never feel guilt or shame, would never care to reason through anything so long as he wasn't in pain.

Danny held out his shaking hands to me, a gesture of surrender, awaiting arrest. "I don't want to get to that point. You have to stop me now."

I didn't want him to get to that point either. I wanted to rescue him, fix him, cure him.

"End my pain." Danny was crying. "I can't take it anymore."

"This is Danny." The guard holds a photograph in front of my eyes.

"I can't do it. I can't do it. I won't do it."

"You don't have to shoot me. You can do it another way."

Another way? What did he mean? Something awful, something terrible.

"Like I said, I can't transform or use any of my ghost powers. You could strap me down and cut me open. You just have to make sure I don't survive it."

I lost my balance and stumbled back into the counter. The loaded gun was still in my hands.

"This table here." Danny walked over to the observation table nearby. "Would that be better? Would that be easier? Could you do it that way?"

"No!" I somehow found my voice, shrieky and disbelieving.

"But you want to, don't you?"

I just wanted this to be over. I wanted this to end.

"I know you want to." He glared, scowled. "Admit it. You want to see exactly what I am."

He was the perfect specimen. The one ghost I wanted under my knife more than any other and yet could never have.

I shook my head.

"Liar."

"This is Danny." A photograph.

"How could she do such a thing?"

"Vile. Evil."

"This is Danny," they say, and another photograph is in front of me.

The end of Danny.

He clutched the sides of the observation table and hyperventilated as he leaned over it.

"Where are you?" he whispered.

His eyes were looking down, then up. I followed his gaze, but I had no idea what he was trying to see.

"I'm afraid. I don't know what else there is besides this. But I know I can't go on like this anymore. And I know I can't inflict myself on the world."

His eyes fell on me, but they were unfocused.

"I'm going to die no matter what. Either my ghost side will completely overtake me or something will kill me that also kills my ghost side. One way results in my ghost obsession taking its own form and terrorizing the world. The other way results in my complete disappearance, but at least the world will be spared."

"This is Danny," the middle-aged man says again and again, and each time, the guard shows me another photograph.

"Tell us what you see," says the white-haired woman.

The constellations we used to gaze at together. Dark sky like his hair. Gleaming stars like his eyes.

"Look again. What do you see?" the grey-haired woman asks.

I slowly shake my head. I refuse to see what they want me to see. What they want me to see is not really there. I saved them all. I saved him. I saved you.

"All I wanted to do was use my powers to fix the mess I made, to stop all the ghosts I had unleashed on our town. And now I have one final ghost to stop. Except he's the one ghost I can't stop on my own." His eyes focused on me. "You have to stop him."

"This is Danny," they say.

I nod. I know Danny. I know all about Danny.

"The end of Danny."

He let go of the observation table and stumbled over to a drawer of various utensils and instruments. He pulled out a knife and held it up, held it out, held it toward me.

"Would this be better? Could you do it with this?"

"I can't do it with anything, Danny."

The gun was still in my hands.

"Either shoot me or cut me," he begged. "Whatever is easiest. But you have to do it. You have to do something. You have to decide. You have to choose. You have to act. You have to help me. You have to help everyone."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You couldn't possibly hurt me anymore than I'm hurting now."

He staggered toward me, the knife held out to me, directed at me, pointed at me.

A clean trajectory, upwards, instant and yet so slow. I remember the direction he fell in, the unnatural position he landed in. Blood from the wound gushed and dripped and filled his open blue eye.

I didn't understand. I had to understand. I held him to me, kissed him, dove into him, plunged into him. Over and over. Again and again.

He was on the table and on the floor and on the counters and on the walls and under my fingernails. Everywhere and nowhere. All over and gone. Spread out. Winked out.

I climbed the stairs. Blood that had not yet dried stained the rail, blood that had caked on my hands scraped off in flakes. Outside, I stared out at the newly blossomed trees in the chilled spring air. I lowered myself, sat on the porch steps.

Minutes passed. Hours.

Vlad's car drove up, parked. I didn't move. He came out of his car and approached me, stared down at me. I still didn't move.

"What did you do?"

I started his life. I was the only one who had any right to end it.

"Maddie. What did you do?"

He entered the house, left the front door open. He howled and cursed.

He leaned over me, grabbed my shoulders, screamed at me. Maddie. Maddie. What did you do? Why did you do this? You've gone too far. What have you done? I can't help you with this. Do you hear me? I can't cover this up for you. I can't hide you from this. This is too much. I could never overshadow enough people. This can't be concealed. This can't be explained. Look at me. Maddie, do you understand me? You weren't supposed to do this, Maddie!

I scream back at him, damn him, cry out and sob. The committee members are startled.

"Are you all right?" asks the white-haired woman.

He's not all right. He wasn't all right. He'll be never be all right again. There was no way for him to be all right ever again.

"Let's get on with it," says the middle-aged man, looking at me carefully, tiredly. "We've spent too much time on this already."

"Go on, then," says the grey-haired woman. "Quick, read the rest."

The secretary reads aloud: March 29, 2014, Pearltown, less than a week before his twenty-fourth birthday, Danny Fenton is found dead in a basement lab in a secluded residence. Cause of death: gunshot wound to the head, entering from the left side of forehead and exiting from the back right side of head. Weapon recovered at scene, .44 Magnum revolver, unregistered. Coroner positively identified .44 caliber bullet found at scene as matching the parameters of wound in victim's head. Fingerprints on weapon match accused and victim. Fingerprints on bullet found at scene and bullets in the revolver's cylinder match victim's suggesting that he loaded the gun. Surgical instruments recovered at scene covered in blood identified as victim's. Fingerprints on surgical instruments match accused. Victim found supine on table with multiple incisions and chop wounds occurring after death. Victim's neck, torso, arms, and legs torn open and exposed. Fragments of skin, muscle, organ tissue, and bones scattered on table, countertops, and floor identified by lab as belonging to victim. Bloody fingerprints on victim's body and lip prints on victim's face and neck match accused. Accused apparently surgically operated on and dissected victim after his death. Victim's blood found on accused's clothing, hair, hands, fingernails, face, ears. Large amounts of substances identified as spectral ectoplasm, antigens, and other ghostly foreign bodies found in victim's blood. Accused, the victim's mother and a renowned paranormal researcher with a focus on ghosts, suspected to have subjected victim to experimentation related to her research for the two years and three months he was held in captivity and possibly even years before beginning in his early adolescence. Accused showed no signs of injury or struggle. Photographs and samples taken. End note: Accused was at the scene when police arrived and was completely silent and acquiescent at time of her arrest.

The end at last. It's finished. That is all that happened. His darkness is gone. That Thermos in Clockwork's lair is empty now.

I did what I had to do. Then I did what I wanted to do.

I have told only you.

They are done with me. I'm taken out and carried away. I am given what I deserve, the sentence I earned, the damnation I won.

He's waiting for me out there. Up there. Somewhere. I know the first thing I'll say to him.

This wasn't what I thought would happen. I'm sorry I couldn't go first. But I'm here for you now. I'll never leave you again.

(Well? Do you believe Maddie's story here? Or do you think she locked Danny away for experimentation that eventually killed him?)

(Thank you for reading! I loved all of the great insight I got from you guys. You made writing this so rewarding.)

(I am considering posting a bonus chapter containing the closing statements from Maddie's trial i.e. what Maddie's defense claimed happened and what the prosecutor claimed happened; essentially outside third-person perspectives. So if that's of interest to you, keep your alert for this story!)