A/N: Hasty little Halloween piece with HaiJu. It's hard to make a silly internet mythos serious and horrifying. I hope we pulled it off.

Also: no, I'm not dead - just consumed with college. I'll try to get other stuff up in the near future.

*WARNING*: This is not for the faint of heart, guys. It gets graphic toward the end. Really graphic.

He timidly stepped through the trees, wincing when withered leaves crunched under his feet. Leaning against a tree trunk, he pressed a hand against the wet gash in his side. Warmth trickled through his fingers. He felt sick.

Everything had faded into twilight. Was it that late? Or was he blacking out? He raised his eyes wearily, looking for the sun through the dense, dark trunks. They closed around him like crooked bars. How far had he run? He closed his eyes - maybe, just maybe, he could use this moment as a brief respite-

A twig snapped. His eyes flew open against his will.

There. It was there. Watching him. Off in the distance, just… standing.

His vision blurred for a second - and then it was right there. Danny couldn't move. Air rushed into his burning lungs, but he couldn't seem to get enough of it. The world darkened on the edges. Sounds around him became muted - the distant buzzing and chirping of bugs fell silent; the wind stopped.

Danny forced himself to blink, shaking his head, faltering back so he could run-

Claws slashed across his chest. He staggered back and fell with a cry. Warm wetness blossomed through his shirt, the sight of it making him dizzy. Sharp rocks dug into his palms, but he ignored the pain, instinctively scrabbling backwards-

Talons reached for his throat. He couldn't find the breath to scream.

"Danny!" Sam hissed, looking frantically at his desk. The boy looked down to discover his arms resting halfway through the wood.

Oh. Oh, crap. He yanked them up and surreptitiously glanced around, checking to see if anyone had noticed. Luckily no one was so bored with the lecture that they'd be looking at plain old Danny Fenton.

He glared furiously at his hands, holding them just above the desk's surface, willing the numb tingly feeling to go away. Think solid. Solid, solid, solid…

What did solid feel like? He thought about the way the skin rubbed between his fingers as he pressed them together. The sting of the torn-up skin across the knuckles where he'd tried to punch that ghost the other day, the little itchy spot where his pencil always rested, the rough wood grain of the ancient school desk that he knew was just beneath his fingertips… there.

Danny let out the tiniest sigh of relief as his hands dropped with a soundless thump onto the now very real, very solid desk. He shot Sam a glance of triumph, and she grinned, giving him a thumbs up.

The lecture wasn't any less boring than it had been five minutes ago. It didn't take long for Danny's eyes to start wandering again. He looked out the window for that strange silhouette, but it was gone.

"You sure you're okay, Danny?" The boy started and looked back to Tucker. His friend had put away the PDA for a change and was watching him carefully. "You've been jumpier than usual lately. You look kinda creeped out, actually… and you're a ghost."

Sam rolled her eyes. "Come on, Tuck. That wasn't even funny freshman year. But he's right; you were acting kind of funny today. What's up?"

Danny shifted uncomfortably, fingers twiddling with his fork. He kept his eyes firmly on the plate in front of him and deliberately avoided their gazes. "I'm fine," he rasped. He blinked at how dry his throat was from misuse - or from screaming - and cleared his throat. "Really. Just tired."

Sam stabbed a piece of tofu and jabbed it in his direction.

"No, you're not," she objected, waving the fork for emphasis. "You checked under the table before we sat down like you thought there'd be something in there. You took off running when Mike bumped into you, and he hasn't scared anything bigger than an amoeba in his life." She paused, eying his plate. "And you're eating tofu."

Danny looked down, then swallowed hard. So he was. And he'd thought it was tasteless because he was nervous. He blinked at his own thought. Nervous? About what?

Unbidden, a tall figure flickered into his memory and vanished just as quickly.

"You didn't notice you were eating… that? Dude, this is serious. We have to get you to a doctor."

"Relax, Tuck, it wasn't as if he's eating poison. He just wasn't paying attention. Maybe if you weren't such a wimp, you'd try it too."

A scoff. "The only thing worse than food that's not meat? Food pretending to be meat. How does that even count as food?"

Danny frowned, swirling the fork around in the wreckage on his plate, trying to focus through Tuck's babble.

What was it? A ghost? He didn't know anybody that tall. Or… or that threatening. Chills ran down his spine.

He didn't even remember where he'd seen it, exactly. Recently, right? Or a while ago… but it felt familiar. A disturbing thing he'd known all the time but tried not to think about, like the fact that schizophrenia ran in the Fenton family and it cropped up every few generations. That kind of creepy, uncomfortable knowing.

If only he could remember the face. Danny shut his eyes, blocking out his friends and the cafeteria chatter that surrounded him. It was weird, because he could remember what the guy had been wearing almost perfectly. A dark, neat, tailored suit. A red tie. Hands that were oddly thin, pale and long.

And his face was… There was no hair. He remembered thinking that was weird, seeing a bald man in such a neat suit. You would have thought such a trim guy could afford a hairpiece. But there was nothing, not even the little bit of stubble that showed where a receding hairline had been shaved off. And his eyes were…

No eyes.

The fork dropped from his hand as the realization hit him like a ton of bricks. The man hadn't had a face at all.

"Danny?"

His friends were staring at him, worry and curiosity in their faces. Tucker was smiling a little, as if he expected Danny to make a joke any second and laugh off their concern, and then they'd all go back to lunch.

Danny licked his lips, dry and sour with the flavor of tofu. Maybe he should laugh. It was crazy, right? They wouldn't believe him anyway. Not if it wasn't a ghost. And this… it wasn't. The sick ache in his bones told him otherwise.

A flash of gray on the far side of the cafeteria caught his eye and he whirled, knocking his plate to the floor. At the loud crash the man in the suit looked over, surprise evident in his— eyes. He had eyes; a teacher. Just a teacher.

Danny flushed as he realized the entire cafeteria was staring at him; he crouched down to pick up his plate and fork. As reached for the upended milk carton, Sam beat him to it. She crouched next to him, purple tights stretching thin at the knees as she helped him scoop up his dishes.

"Danny come on, this isn't like you."

What was he going to tell them? He didn't even know what it was he was afraid of. Some man he might have seen once that didn't have— that he couldn't remember the face to? He straightened up and took the carton from her, cracking a small, timid smile. "It's okay, Sam. It's nothing."

Nothing.

The image came back, stronger this time, of dull white skin stretched over hollow sockets, a smooth expanse where the jaw should be that was somehow more terrifying than any number of teeth - but he shook it off. He was fighting ghosts already, he didn't need to be making up more stuff to scare himself.

It wasn't moving.

Danny wasn't sure why that terrified him; it simply stood there in the corner of his room, motionless, quietly watching him, an inkier shadow among the shadows. Danny shivered, frozen in place in his own bed - the childish thought of throwing his covers over his head was tempting.

Ah, screw it. Throwing dignity to the winds Danny snatched up the covers and flung them over his head. The thick, comforting wool dropped around his shoulders. He reveled in the blissful, protective dark.

Something bumped against the wall.

Danny froze stiff, feeling the blood in his veins slow to a crawl. He'd been wrong; this was so much worse than before. He couldn't see the thing standing there… but how did he know it hadn't moved? Gone away? Come closer?

It was hot and stifling under the blankets, the sound magnified by the enclosed space. Danny squeezed his eyes shut and focused on slowing his breath to a trickle, absolute heard… nothing. Not a whisper of cloth, except when he shifted ever so slightly.

The creaked, and Danny started. No. That could just be the house doing ordinary house things and settling. It did that. He usually ignored it, safe in the idea that his ghost sense would go off if there was danger. Danny felt... hot, not cold. There was just this feeling… like scorpions crawling over his shoulders, prickling up through his neck. Like something absolutely deadly was watching him. A presence that weighed on him like a ton of bricks.

He suddenly, desperately, needed to see.

He had to know where it was. Danny couldn't uncurl even a finger from the edges of the blanket. What if it was standing over him? What if it had moved behind him? What if it was just inches away, waiting to…

Something shifted above him, a cool breeze briefly ruffling his hair through the blanket's thick weave. Danny stopped breathing. His limbs were suspended in ice.

No. It was his imagination. It had to be. He was spooked, he was just scaring himself with stupid ideas. Closing his eyes, he shuddered, wishing he had the willpower to just whip the cloth away from his head. He could feel its gaze. Expectant. Waiting. It was standing right over him - maybe even leaning right up to his face. It could be inches from his head right now.

A strangled breath drew into Danny's lungs; the air under his blankets tasted hot and stifling. It was unbearable. He should just throw back his covers, relish the cool air on his face, be greeted by a bony skull—

.A feather-light touch ghosted across the top of his head.

Danny couldn't suppress the whimper that crawled from his throat. He wasn't aware of the tears streaming down his cheeks until they dampened his fingers, wasn't aware of his shaking until a cold, iron hand clamped itself over his shoulder.

The blood oozing in Danny's veins turned to liquid nitrogen. His heart pounded heavily in his ears. He panted for breath. His eyes were wide, unblinking in the darkness that enveloped his being.

Cold. There. Right at his face. He couldn't bear it. With a shriek that was half defensive growl, he flung the covers away, already yanking at his ghost form to take on the—

Danny blinked. The room was empty.

He spun around, tangling himself in the rumpled sheets. Nothing. Not behind him, not in the shadows, not—anywhere. The light from street lamp outside streamed through his window, but the half-light wasn't enough to quell the terror still quivering in his stomach. Danny hastily reached out and flicked on the lamp by his bed.

Bright, yellow, artificial light flooded the room. The shadows melted. His shoulders relaxed, terror flooding from him so quickly it left him numb. Nothing.

Danny chuckled, dropping his head into his hands. Silly, spooking himself like that. He was a ghost - how could he be scared of nothing?

He reached for the lamp, but the hairs prickled on his neck at the thought of plunging the room back into the dark. Maybe he would leave it for a while.

Danny didn't turn it off or close his eyes, not until the morning sun flooded in.

"So… Mr. Fenton."

Danny fidgeted in the uncomfortable plastic chair, stifling a yawn. The vice principal's office had become way too familiar to be intimidating. He stole a glimpse of the clock before he dutifully met his teacher's gaze. It was twenty five minutes until Lancer's next class. This could be a depressingly long lecture.

Lancer picked up a rather crumpled-looking stack of papers and held them up for Danny's inspection. "Do you recognize this?"

Danny saw his own hasty scrawl in the top right corner. English class. Essay test. He cringed - he'd spent the first half of that period stuffing a pack of ghost weasels into the thermos. He'd been lucky to get back in time to write anything at all. "It's my English test?"

The teacher's arched eyebrow nearly reached the crown of his bald head. "You sound unsure. Can't say that I blame you. If you had not considerately put the class title in the top left corner as instructed I would never have been able to tell."

Danny resisted the urge to roll his eyes, knowing it would only prolong the teacher's attempts at sarcasm. He sighed. "So I take it this means my grade's not gonna be good."

"Your grade? I'm afraid that I'm going to have to give you an F."

"You're failing me? Completely? I wrote the stupid essay, all four pages, you can't just—"

"If this," Lancer cut him off, brandishing the sheaf of papers, "is your idea of an essay, Mr. Fenton, then you may be my worst failure yet." He tossed the essay into Danny's lap. Danny looked at the paper with a mixture of resentment and dread. He could barely remember what he'd written, some assignment on Shakespeare's tragedies,

It was ordinary, white notebook paper, the little raggedy fringe from being hastily pulled out of a ring binder making one side lumpy, smudges of dirt and graphite here and there. Every line was closely written in that loopy handwriting that had to be his. That's where the recognition ended.

run run run run run run run rUN RUn

Line after line in a frantic scrawl, almost crushed together in heavy black pen.

"Random phrases, poor capitalization, nonexistent grammar, and stick figures do not constitute an essay. 'It's closer now' has nothing to do with the motivation of Lady Macbeth. Neither does 'has no eyes', though I do appreciate the feeble attempt at using symbolism."

Thick, jagged strokes outlined a crude outline of a man in the margins, a man without a face. Danny's skin crawled as his mind flew back to yesterday in the cafeteria, where he'd come to that sudden, disturbing realization.

The teacher sighed and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "I called you in her to discuss this because I know you're not one to play games. On the rare occasion when you do submit homework I can tell that you, at the very least, tried. This is not trying."

dOn'T lOoK - oR iT TAKES YOU

"Mr. Fenton, are you listening?"

His throat constricted, like it was trying to keep him from breathing. Danny had to clear his throat before he could speak. "Did I… really write this?"

Lancer studied him, then nodded. "You did. I watched you write it in class, and then it went directly into my hands."

"Oh," Danny said dully, though he already knew. He flipped numbly to the last page.

"Mr. Fenton… Danny. Are you in any trouble?"

fOuND yOu

Danny crushed the paper in his fist, standing up abruptly. "I'm sorry, Mr. Lancer. I'll do better on the next one. Can I go now?"

Lancer frowned at the avoidance, then sighed and nodded his consent. "I expect to see a new essay - a proper one - on my desk by Thursday. And Danny?"

Danny stopped, toes shifting on the threshold.

"Get some rest. You look tired."

It called to him in his sleep.

A distant echo that sang over his nightmares, a siren's call too irresistible to ignore. Danny blinked and found himself wandering a wooded trail in the dead of night, aimless. Some part of him recognized the place, as pavement turned to dirt under his sneakers and trees loomed up ahead. The park at the edge of town. A gentle breeze whispered through his hair, softly rustling the tree branches above him. He hugged his arms, shivering. He was alone. Exposed.

A pricking sensation skittered up the back of his neck. He knew the thing was directly behind him. Feet, yards - he didn't know. It made no sound - it was as silent as the ghosts he spent every waking hour trying to fend off. Yet it wasn't a ghost; that much he knew. It was something too dark, too quiet, too horrible to describe.

A knifelike cold shot into his chest, and Danny's legs buckled. He dropped, heavy and stiff, to the ground. His pupils dilated, lungs straining for air, yet his body felt like it was filled with lead. His mind whirled with fear as he realized what it was doing. It was toying with him. It wanted him to suffer.

Don't look at it, he told himself, his hands shaking. Somehow he felt infinitesimally safer by keeping his eyes off of it - yet its presence never relinquished its death grip on his consciousness. Danny managed to crawl to his feet, keeping his eyes firmly on the soft, mowed grass. He tried to focus on anything - anything that would calm his racing heart. The soft chirping of nearby crickets. The faint gurgle of the park's central water fountain.

Something brushed up his back - a fingernail. He couldn't stop the involuntary whimper that escaped him. He stumbled forward, whirling around - shit, no, stop-

It was standing right over him. Inches away.

Danny's knees nearly gave out at the proximity of its eyeless, faceless head. The suit - crisp, neat, probably expensive - offered him an almost polite, prim demeanor, as if the thing were off to a nice job interview - but the long arms and thin, bony fingers that reached out for him with the intent to kill - run, ruN RUN-

It shoved him, knocking him down to the ground a dozen feet away. Instinct and a primal need for survival broke through the frozen fear encasing his body. He seized his ghostly core like an anchor, yanking at it with mental fingers and transforming. Danny leapt into the air and tore through the sky faster than he had ever flown before. He stole a glance over his shoulder - the man simply stood there, tilting his head almost curiously as it watched its prey flee for safety.

And then a cold stone sank into his gut, like someone had thrown a switch. The energy thrumming through him was sucked away so quickly that he hardly had time to notice-

He gasped as he suddenly dropped from the sky like a rock. Tree branches whipped and scratched at his face - he choked out a scream as his shoulder cracked- and then the breath was forced from his lungs as he landed on his back - hard. He coughed hoarsely, rolling over and pressing his cheek into the cool leaves. Oh shit, that had hurt. He wouldn't be surprised if his freaking spine was broken-

Wait. Danny forced his eyes to open - and felt as if he'd plunged into ice water..

It… the man, it stood quietly off in the distance, perhaps fifty feet away. The late night fog obscured its form, leaving a shadowy silhouette that sent Danny's heart into his throat. He curled his fingers, a shudder racking his frame.

He rolled into a crouch, squeezing his eyes shut against the clamor of his body, then shoved himself to his feet and staggered off into the woods. Don't look, he chanted in his head. Don't look… He had to get away.

He'd been running for only a few minutes, but Danny felt like he'd covered miles. The shock had worn off; his shoulder now throbbed with a deep, sick kind of ache, and his fingers tingled painfully. Danny squeezed it tightly below the shoulder, pressing it against his side, but there was no real relief he could get. Dislocated. He needed a hospital, he thought numbly. He needed help. But… he… Danny looked down in confusion at a glove streaked with green.

He was still a ghost.

Why was he still a ghost? He needed— Danny dragged in a ragged breath and leaned against a tree, careful not to look too far away, careful not to close his eyes either. He needed to think. No hospital would help him like this. He had to be human. Once he was with people, once he was out of the park and out where people could see… he would be safe.

But not as a ghost.

Danny pulled together all the concentration he could muster - stop trying to look over your shoulder, don't think too hard, just do it - reached inside for his human half, and pulled.

Nothing. His eyes, which had dropped to half-lidded as he focused, flew open in fear. His heart hammered in his ears. He couldn't….

He couldn't turn human. He was trapped. Even in his own body he was trapped. And there, in the corner of his eye, that dark gry— Danny flinched and lost his balance, crashing to the ground.

His arm bounced off a tree root and for an instant he could only see white, the inside of pain. Tightly cradling his shoulder he curled into a ball, trying to focus on something, anything else — the leaves prickling his side through the jumpsuit, the bruises still swelling on his back and side, the tall man who — no — the silence of the woods except for the rustling trees, the sharp sting of fresh blood in his nose...

Danny blinked, cool relief washing over him. Blood. Blood was good. If he was bleeding, that meant he was human. He was okay. He looked at his hand, expecting to see bare skin. But the white glove was still there - this time smudged with red.

He pushed himself slowly into a sitting position, puzzled. If he was still Phantom, then… how? His hands sank slightly through the damp leaves into soft, squishy muck. He'd stumbled his way into a little hollow, where leaves and rainwater made a not-quite pool. Pulling the glove out of the mud with a slight sucking noise, Danny looked at it in confusion. It should have been brown. It was red. It smelled old, sharp and musky, like hamburger meat just starting to spoil.

Something splashed onto the back of his head, trickling cold and wet through his hair. He jumped, scrabbling to his feet. He whirled around to see— There, snagged in the tall branches. Like a couple of scarecrows caught by the wind. Tucker. Sam.

There were so many crows, flying, roosting, swooping into the sky and dipping back again. Maybe a dozen of them. How Danny hadn't heard them earlier, he didn't know. Their harsh caws rang through the air, knifing through his already aching head. Their wings beat the air as they swooped and circled, taking quick snaps and teasing little pieces of flesh from the...

Sam. Tights rent to shreds, ribs gleaming pink and curved out of a mass of dark seamy red. One boot was gone, her ankle turned a strange direction. She'd painted her toenails purple.

Tucker. Prized hat fallen half to the side, skinny legs exposed and crisscrossed with welts. Something… soft and ropy hung out of the familiar yellow shirt. A crow tugged at it and more coils spilled out, dripping a brownish liquid. It splattered on Danny's face. It smelled of vomit.

Danny cried out and fell back, collapsing into the warm mud. It splashed up to his elbows.

"No... " It came out trembling and weak, not at all what his mind was screaming. That couldn't be… Tuck, Sam... He was wrong. Eyes gouged out, black holes seeping red blood - hair tangled in the branches like a black spiderweb—scratches and bruises littering the scraps of skin that remained— He was dreaming. These weren't his friends, not—

The crows, black as death itself, picking at the exposed flesh. Swallowing each mouthful greedily, black eyes bright and eager, talons tearing. That one at Tucker's shoulder. Those two at his shin. And another, perched on Sam's shoulder, tearing away the lips from beneath those sad, empty, glaring sockets—

"No!" He screamed. The the crows scattered in a frenzy, a tempest of hoarse cries and black feathers. In minutes they'd settled back on his friends like a living shroud.

A flash of light out of the corner his eye caught Danny's attention. Tuck's glasses. A couple of crows were bickering over the shiny eyewear, one hopping awkwardly along a branch with them tangled in its claws. The other trailed behind, making sharp, irritated jabs at the prize. The lenses were riddled with cracks. Tuck wouldn't be able to see a thing, Danny thought blankly. Not that he had eyes to see with.

Those stupid birds were… they had…

The awful, yawning void in Danny's chest coiled into anger. He raised a fist to send hot green fire after them — but still, again, nothing happened. He was as powerless as ever. Scrabbling through the mud and loam, his hand closed over a rock. He flung it at the birds with all his might.

The rock sailed wide and clattered off a distant branch. The crows seemed to mock him with their rough laughter. Danny dropped to his knees and ground his fists in his eyes, wishing he could will away the images. He didn't dare look again. This had to be a dream. This had to be fake.

"It's not real," he mumbled to himself - it's not real it's not real - over and over in his head like a mantra. The bodies weren't there, they weren't real, the blood on his fingers was just his own - he gasped as bone-splitting pain raced down his arm. Real.

He forced himself to look up. Two bodies suspended in bare, grasping branches. Lacerated. Lifeless. Eye sockets gutted. Real.

A black bird locked its claws into Sam's belt and tugged at the silver ring in her navel with its sharp, hard beak. There was a ripping sound. More blood drizzled out to paint the green and black plaid a shade lighter.

Danny retched. He lurched forward and heaved. The harsh taste of bile couldn't distract him from the blood-soaked leaves. He shut his eyes tight and dragged himself forward, away from the trees and their macabre decorations. He couldn't stay in this place.

Pain knifed through his shoulder as his weight dropped onto his injured arm. Danny half-screamed and collapsed on his face. Dry sobs shook his body.

A hand settled on his shoulder, soft and comforting. The slight hardness of fingernails touching his skin told him it couldn't be Tucker. It had to be Sam. It was Sam.

Happiness flooded him at the thought; he could almost see her, crouched next to him, her brows knitted in that way she looked when she thought he might be losing it. Danny sagged, sobbing with relief. "Not funny, Sam. Damnit—that was... not... "

The hand tightened. Then the nails etched deeper and he arched back at the sudden icy fire. It wasn't Sam.

It was Him.

Danny's fingers sank into the soft leaves, snatching for purchase, but the rotten loam crumbled in his grasp. The claws dug, and a scream tore from his throat. He was slipping, being pulled by the skin of his back — back to that place. To join them.

Ectoplasmically-charged power coils, small but near-nuclear in power, let out a shrill whine as they activate. The sound was so familiar it cut through the thick haze of fear and made him look up - right into a glowing barrel. An ecto-gun pointed directly at his face.

Valerie. His mind supplied the name numbly, even though the shape behind the weapon was one mass of red. It was blood. She was cloaked in blood.

Red, red, Valerie's dead… The sing-song voice rang in his ears, and he was startled to realize it was his own. Laughter fizzled on his lips like a burst of acid.

Curling up in a tighter ball, he sheltered his head under his arms and blocked out the sight of his used-to-be classmate. He didn't want to see her dead. The darkness of his arms couldn't shield him from the other one. The not-dead one. The Man. He was there. He'd always be there. Danny knew that.

The gun whined again, powering down. Good. Dead people shouldn't kill other people. It just wasn't fair.

"Phantom... are you okay? You're not... acting right."

It was Valerie's voice, but he didn't like it. It came from the other side, twisted and distorted. It sounded like a dead thing gasping, sucking air into its rotting lungs. Dead, dead, Valerie Red…

Danny cringed and whimpered, shrinking away. He clutched at his ears, but he couldn't make it stop. Ragged breaths drew from his lungs - faster and faster, until he was heaving dry sobs.

"What's your problem, ghost?"

A hand dropped on his shoulder — fingers that clawed and burned like ice, and nails like fangs— Danny screamed and burst away from the tree, making it a half step before his numb legs collapsed under him.

"Why are you here? What's got you so... are you scared?"

He laughed. He couldn't help it. It was just so funny that he couldn't fly. He couldn't even walk. Desperate, insane chuckles stuttered from his throat until they turned into one long, rasping sob. He was useless. He was- God, he was going to die-

He opened his eyes to glance up at the dead Valerie, but she was blocked from his sight by a gray suit coat. He was there. Standing over him. Impossibly tall. Those oddly perfect hands and their fingernails; that face that wasn't a face at all.

Danny forgot how to laugh. He couldn't even breathe.

The Man leaned down, down, down. The blank face was just inches from Danny's. He reached out one long arm. Fingernails raked across Danny's face, lightly, tickling, icicles of sensation melting into his skin. It woke the fire of the scratches on his back, turning them into a web of pain. Again. Not again.

Danny didn't remember beginning to cry but suddenly tears were tracing the frigid tracks of those nails down to his chin. They drifted, almost tenderly, down to his chest. Five points of pressure. Slight at first, but bearing down cruelly. So hard Danny felt his bones creak and groan under the pressure. He couldn't breathe. The nails pierced the skin—

Suddenly he was yanked up by his shoulders—for one terrifying instant his face brushed the Man's—and then up, away, speeding in the air. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't fly, either. Panic laced through his veins, turning his insides to white ice, fueling his blind thrashing. He was going to fall, he—

"Will you stop struggling?" someone snapped. The voice wasn't like earlier, rotting and distorted; now it was sharp and crisp and distinctly irritated. Valerie, his mind supplied. Red, dead— no, what?

He blinked and looked around him, at the treetops shrinking in the distance, at the bright sky overhead, at the fast-approaching buildings of Amity Park. Someone's arms were wrapped firmly around his chest, holding him up. He rolled his head down and caught a glimpse of a brightly colored gravsled. Red.

He tried breathing. It worked okay.

He tried talking. "Valerie?"

The slightest hint of relief crossed her face, but she seemed to remember who she was talking to and frowned.

"I don't remember being on first-name terms with you, ghost," she tried, but lacked in the usual bitter demeanor. She paused and sighed. "I'm gonna figure you out, okay? Even a ghost shouldn't get that messed up. There are people who can fix this. Just wait."

He looked back, over her shoulder, at the last glimpse of the forest. It was a mistake. The Man was still there.

Danny stared at his lap, at the thick black lines crossed with the white tangle of planes that was his gloves, blurring in and out of focus. Were his eyes messed up? Or maybe it was the fact that he couldn't stop shaking. He wasn't cold. Ghosts weren't cold, or they couldn't feel it. He couldn't feel much of anything now.

A second pair of hands appeared in his lap, resting over his own, and he jumped, rattling the kitchen chair they'd put him on. Then he realized those fingers were short, and human, covered in thick black gloves that safely hid away the nails. He went back to shivering.

"How long did you say he was like this?"

The voices were sliding in and out, back and forth, like a broken stereo.

"I don't know, Mrs. F. I just found him there. Like that."

He caught a flash of red — blood — in an impatient gesture out of the corner of his eye. Jump. Rattle.

He had to stop doing that.

"He seems to be exhibiting symptoms of shock. Pupil dilation, lack of muscle coordination, accelerated breathing, loss of cognitive function... In humans that would mean some form of extreme trauma."

"So... you're saying he's scared."

"This is a ghost, Valerie. They aren't capable of that kind of expressive range; you know that."

"How do you explain it, then? You think he's faking — that?"

"I don't know what to think. Jack?"

A shadow fell over him, pinning him between its bulk and the chair. Danny somehow was still able to breathe, but this time it worked too well, air sailing in and out of his lungs at a rate that made him dizzy. He stared upwards, at the face he couldn't quite make out—because of his eyes? Or was nothing really there?

"Easy... take it easy, ghost. I'm just looking at you." The rumbling voice clicked into some deeper part of his memory, something that felt safe. Orange, he realized. Not charcoal gray. He was staring at a mass of orange. He relaxed just a fraction.

Thick, heavy fingers dropped onto his shoulder and he flinched, but made no move to get away. Gentle pressure bent him down, folding at the waist, exposing his back. Danny hissed and clenched his knees as the stretch aggravated the crisscrossing wounds that still felt raw and open.

Heavy silence surrounded them.

A low whistle. Valerie. "Ouch."

"What could have..."

"Some kind of clawed ghost? Maybe a cat, like a mountain lion. Or a bear."

"Phantom? Scared by an animal? I don't think so. It must have been something..."

"Something worse."

Danny dug his hands into his hair and pulled hard enough to squeeze tears from his eyes. The puzzle was shifting into place. He remembered where this was. The familiar patterned tile that stared up at him from the floor confirmed it. Mom. Dad. Valerie. Home.

"What's worse than a ghost?"

With a pained sob that he barely recognized as his own, Danny lunged to his feet and staggered for the door.

He'd led it right to them.