The Amity Park Haunting

The Ghoul and the Game Part 1: Damage Control

I slowly open the front door, hoping that no one is around to scold Dash and I for disappearing, then drag him inside and up the stairs. We stumble down the hall, almost managing to make it to Dash's room when we're stopped by Jazz, who exits from the bathroom just as we are passing by it. I make eye contact with her, her wide-eyed stare matching my own, and give a guilty little grin before continuing down the hall. Dash swings his door open, shoving off of me to flip down face first on the bed, mumbling something through his pillows.

"What?"

"Thanks," he says, rolling his face to the side to look at me. I hesitate for a moment, debating about whether or not I should question him, deciding to close the door to keep out any prying ears. "What are you doing?" Dash's eyes are as wide as saucers as he looks at me, while I lean on the door, recognizing how suspicious this all seems.

"Do you remember anything from earlier?" I ask, ignoring his concerns.

"Huh?" He pauses for a moment, thinking over the events of the last few hours. "I remember bits a pieces," he replies honestly, sitting up to get a better look at me. "Why? Something happen?"

"It's just that you were pretty drunk," I explain, dancing around the issue. "Why were you even out there in the first place?" Dash doesn't respond, turning his gaze away from me, his jaw clenched in frustration. "It's just that I know that you and Kwan drink all the time at parties and you guys could probably get beer if you wanted some, so I'm wondering why you'd have to go out to the worst part of to—"

"Do you ever stop talking?" Dash glares at me, indicating that I crossed a line.

"Sorry..." we sit in awkward silence for a bit waiting to see if the other one will do something.

"Your parents," he starts, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Are they always so... intense?" I chuckle a bit, remembering all of the times that my parents had been too "intense."

"That's an understatement," I laugh. Glancing over at him, I wring my hands nervously, wondering if it's okay to ask him another question. "Hey can I ask you something?" I don't give him time enough to reject my request, and charge forward into a battle field. "Did something happen? Like, with my parents?" He looks at me with furrowed brows, as if he is unsure whether or not he should share his secrets with me.

"I-I don't..." he pauses, scanning me up and down with his eyes. "It was nothing. I just got frustrated with this whole thing and stormed off... I should probably go apologize to them."

"Maybe wait until after you sleep off the hangover that you are definitely going to have." He smiles at me, a genuine smile that I've never seen him wear before, not even when we were little, and it makes me smile too. I turn away from him before he realizes what's happening and gets pissed, glancing at the mostly barren walls with a few signed football posters hanging above his desk. "You haven't unpacked."

"Not much to move in," he replies, flopping down on the bed in exhaustion. "Not much that I'd want anyways. My old room still had decorations up from when I was a kid, so I just left it behind." His admission makes me blush upon remembering my room, which is covered end-to-end in memorabilia from my childhood.

"Don't you have anything from your dad that you want to keep?"

"He wasn't much of a collector," he replies, arm slung over his eyes to block out the light. "The stuff of his that I didn't want I just gave to your parents. I'm sure that Montez'll probably take them to the house sometime soon to look over everything." The cavalier way that he talks about his childhood home makes my heart hurt, but I decide not to press the issue.

"Well, I'm gonna go," I say, awkwardly wrapping up the conversation. "Drink lots of water and get some rest. I'll tell my parents that you aren't feeling well."

"Please don't tell them that I was drinking," he begs, his voice soft and unrecognizable.

"Okay." I turn around and leave the room, shutting it quietly behind me while I try to wrap my brain around our new rapport. As I walk down the hall towards my room, I run into Jazz, who stares at me with a cocked eyebrow, arms folded across her chest.

"What was that all about?"

"Dash got sick, so I helped him home." I don't explain any further, leaving Jazz behind to draw her own conclusions, but she stops me.

"Danny you're bleeding," she says, concern evident in her tone, and when I look down at my shoulder, I am suddenly reminded of my encounter with Skulker and how I got shot. While it is bleeding, the wound actually doesn't look that bad, though it might end up leaving a scar. "Let me clean it." I don't object as she pulls me into the bathroom and takes out the first aid kit from underneath the sink, pulling out alcohol and some gauze pads to wipe it down with. She lightly dabs at the wound, cleaning the blood away from the immediate area and letting me get a better look at it. The part of the skin just beneath the outer layer is singed and blistering, while the deeper parts of the wound are just fleshy and red, a stark contrast to the bright green bodily fluid that I was oozing earlier.

It seems to have healed pretty quickly. I wonder if it has something to do with my ghost powers, or if it stitched itself together when I transformed back. Whatever the case, it's a good thing that it healed or I would've had to go to the hospital.

"Danny..." Jazz interrupts my train of thought. "If you got this from a fight, you'd tell me, right?" My stomach sinks, making me feel almost ill as the lie tumbles out of my mouth.

"Yes." She doesn't say anything more, likely knowing that I am lying, and finishes cleaning my injury, wrapping a bundle of gauze around the area to control the bleeding.

"You're all set."

"Thanks Jazz," I tell her earnestly, hoping that she forgives me for not being truthful. She smiles and nods, clearly worried and upset for me, but doesn't say anything more as she walks away, leaving me alone in the bathroom to clean up the mess she left. After I leave, I head downstairs to report in to Mom and Dad, bumping into Dad in the kitchen.

"Danny!" Dad grabs me by the shoulders and hoists me into the air as soon as I enter the room. "Where have you been all day? You missed that ghost kid again. He was right there in Skulker's hands and he didn't kill him." He clenches his fist in anger while looking off into the distance, as if he is still there.

"Yeah..." I say, waiting for him to put me down. "Um, I was with Dash. He's pretty sick, so I helped him to his room."

"Oh no," Mom butts in from where she's washing dishes at the sink. "Is he alright? Does he need anything?"

"I-I made sure he was okay," I stammer, overwhelmed at her sudden barrage of questions. "He just wants to sleep, doesn't really want to be disturbed, so you should probably leave him be."

"Poor kid," Dad says, taking a seat at the table. I move to sit across from him, wondering what he is going on about. "He seemed to have gotten frustrated with our training today. I might have pushed him too hard, but considering that he's sick, it's no wonder he couldn't manage it all."

"With school and ghost hunting, he's gonna be pretty strapped," Mom explains. "I hope he's not going to stay on the football team."

"Yeah, he won't be able to handle all of that work," Dad sighs and I can't help but feel like I'm missing a part of the conversation.

"The football team?" I ask.

"Dash joined the team over the summer, before Jason passed," Mom tells me, finishing up with the dishes and wiping off her hands with a towel as she moves to sit next to me. "He's taken a small leave of absence, but hasn't quit yet."

"We'll talk to him about it, so don't you worry Danny," Dad says.

"So what happened with Skulker?" I quickly change the subject before things get too solemn.

"We're not sure," Mom says. "Last we heard, he was on the west side hunting that ghost. I doubt he managed to catch him, or else he'd be rubbing it in our faces."

"But if he can't do it, I doubt anyone could," Dad admits. "The only person who stood a chance against Skulker in ghost hunting prowess was Jason." My blood runs cold.

He's as good a hunter as Jason? Ghost Slayer Jason? I gulp loudly, feeling sweat beads at the back of my neck as the stress of being hunted to the death begins to wear on me. How the hell am I supposed to stand a chance against that?