Phantom by Retifer M. (best large ereader .txt) 📕

“So,” I hear Tucker call out warily. “You fell.”

I grumble a noncommittal response as I climb the rest of the way up.

If I had any choice in the matter, Sam and Tucker would not be here. They would’ve gone home a long time ago, never having known I was under the weather. Being sick alone sucks but like, I don’t want them cleaning up my mess. Who wants to clean up vomit? No one.

Also it’s embarrassing to have to sit, throwing up in the bathroom without pants on, while they clean up. I would’ve… I dunno. I guess I would’ve done it by myself after I stopped being sick. If? No, after.

Unless mom, dad, and Jazz came home before then, but I have ‘til Sunday night at least. I think.

I hug the porcelain, panting slightly. I don’t know how I can still have anything in my stomach to throw up, yet here I am, face in the toilet, spitting up thick, cold, green clumps of the physical embodiment of my hatred for everything in the paranormal field of science. Why couldn’t mom and dad have gotten normal jobs? This wouldn’t’ve happened if my parents were like, lawyers or something.

I can feel sweat on my face- no, it’s too cold and thick to be sweat. It’s like the crap I’m throwing up; must be ectoplasm.

I grimace at the fact that ectoplasm is leaking out of my nose and eyes, and heave into the toilet. I brace myself against the seat and try to push myself up so can use the sink, gargle some water, wash my face off. My hands are shaking real bad.

I fall back against the bathtub when my arm refuses to lift my weight and my leg gives out. My shirt at this point is ruined, stained green all over. I have no clue how it got covered with so much ectoplasm. I hope it didn’t sink through too much, but that hope is in vain as I feel the coolness against my back and chest. Great.

I feel it in my hair too, slicked down and sticking to the sides of my head, like hair gel, except really slimy and kind of glowing. I groan into the toilet when I throw up again.

I make sure to flush before leaning against the bathtub again, shivering. I feel my shirt squish and stick to the tub and make a face. Oh, gross. It’s probably permanently stained; farewell, plain white shirt.

I lie against the bathtub, one arm draped over the side and my forehead against the flat edge. It’s cold, which is not helping at all since the ectoplasm seeping through my clothes is freezing. I feel like I’m getting frostbite on my insides, right in the middle of me and it’s competing with the vomiting and crying and sweating for most irritatingly uncomfortable.

I think I hear someone coming upstairs, but I don’t move. I just continue to sit- lean? Lie?

I feel my stomach in my throat again, my esophagus close up. I don’t bother moving to the toilet, just hug the side of the tub and puke into it. I feel more goop come out of my eyes and my vision blurs in a mucky green.

I lean with my head over the bathtub, watching the not-quite-liquid roll down into the drain slowly. It reminds me of that stupid documentary we had to watch in class once about the different types of lava.

I prop my leg underneath me so I don’t fall over and bring my good arm up, pressing the heel of my palm into my eye to clear it. It comes away dripping ectoplasm, not surprising but giving me a heavy sinking feeling in my chest.

I hear the door open through my heavy breathing and the crap in my ears. I don’t turn around, just stare at the green running slowly down my wrist.

                                                                   “Oh my god.”                                     

Tucker is beside me in a second, hands hesitating briefly before slipping his arm around me and sitting me up straighter, away from the tub slightly, just enough to pull my shirt over my head. I make a scandalized noise before he throws a towel over my shoulders.

“Dude, why didn’t you call us?” He says with a slight panic.

He throws my shirt to the side and lets me fall back over the side of the tub, back to him. I reach up and touch the towel lightly, not sure if I should try to wipe the ectoplasm off or not. I’m back in aware but too sick to do much mode.

“Here,” He grabs the towel and starts rubbing the ectoplasm off me. I fold my arms in front of me on the side of the tub. “Jeez, Danny…”

I can feel he wants to say more but doesn’t. It would probably just be along the lines of “we need to get you to the hospital” or something anyways and the thought of that still gives me this bad feeling.

“What the heck- where is all of this coming from?”

Tuck tosses the towel over to join my shirt and grabs another. I realize he’s actually throwing them straight into the little garbage can in the corner. That’s most likely for the best; I don’t know if those can be salvaged or not.

“You should’ve called us up. Danny?”

I attempt to say something sarcastic, but it just comes out garbled and I cough something up about half way through. Tuck waits until I’m done and then turns on the tap to rinse the bathtub. He leaves again and I try to tell him to stay but it only comes out as a moan.

I hear him yelling down the stairs. He’s calling for Sam, pro’lly telling her I’m gonna die or-

The cold feeling in me gets stronger all of a sudden, right inside my ribcage. It’s more than uncomfortable, it’s like I swallowed a freezer full of ice. The pressure upsets my stomach, somehow managing to pull out whatever was even left in there.

I heave, hack up whatever’s leftover and yell something unintelligible over my shoulder to Tucker in the hallway. He rushes back into the room immediately.

“Oh no, wha-”

I don’t get to hear the end of that sentence because I’m falling through the floor again. I get a glimpse of the kitchen from above before I barely miss hitting the countertop, smack against a chair sending it and myself flying against the dinner table’s leg which slides across the tile.

I lie prone, not noticing that since I’d come to a stop I’ve been letting out one prolonged “ow” turned moan into the floor. I turn my head so my face isn’t squished anymore and push myself up- only to crash back down when my hands slide.

Right, covered in slime equals slippery.

“Shit!” I hear Sam curse loudly as she runs into the kitchen, skidding to a stop a foot away from me on her knees.

I try my best not to groan, instead choosing to sigh and just lie on the floor trying to blink ectoplasm out of my eyes. When that deems less than effective I rub my eyes-

Or not. My arms stay where they are this time.

“We need to call his parents, get them to come back!” Tucker says. I didn’t even notice him come into the room. “We’re in way over our heads here-”

“We can’t, remember?” Sam reaches out but only lets her hand hover over me. “But yeah, we need to get some help here.”

“Nnn…” I attempt to say something.

I stare at the underside of the table instead, at the tiny signs of childhood rebellion; the name “Jazz” in black, and underneath in blue, messier handwriting “stinks”.

“You idiot… you said it was fine you dumbass.”

I just want this to be over. I thought it was but… I glance at the clock, just visible from this angle. I have trouble making out the numbers, but I think it might be 9 something. Time flies when you’re dying.

I close my eyes, ordering my body to keep my insides inside for once; I won’t make it to the sink if I throw up now. Plus, I feel hollow, like I haven’t eaten all day. Is there finally nothing left?

 Θ

I blearily open my eyes. I open my eyes.

Never mind, I try to open my eyes, but they’re swollen and there’s too much grossness in them; they’re sealed shut. I have to breathe through my mouth because my nose is plugged up, but it doesn’t make much of a difference since it’s dripping down into my throat, coating it in mucus.

I can feel the ectoplasm in a gooey puddle under me; I’m on the floor of the kitchen and I wouldn’t be surprised if I was stuck, like my eyelids. Soft breaths come from close by. I guess… Sam and Tucker are still here. Asleep?

I drag my arm across the floor, feeling the semi-dried- no, that seems inaccurate- semi-solidified, ectoplasm squish across the floor, and pick at my eyes. I get enough off of my left eye to open it a little, and see my two friends sitting on the other side of the room, leaning against each other, fast asleep.

A pile of dirty, radioactive-looking towels and washcloths sit in the corner, a Nasty Burger bag crumpled beside Tucker, but not empty. Sunlight streams warmly through the window.

I get a grip on the tiled floor under me and push myself up, sadly, with everything I’ve got. I hold my hurt arm over my chest. I’m dirty and sore all over, but the worst of it seems to be done with, like a particularly vicious bout of the stomach flu.

So much for marathoning Dead Teacher, my brain supplies.

I grab a washcloth from the table- it looks like Sam and Tuck had raided the house for them, collecting the stash here in the kitchen- and scrub my face down. Once my eyes are properly cleared I take a look at the clock again.

Oh, it’s 3:35. In the afternoon. When was the last time I checked the clock? Eight… no, nine? That’s…

“Eighteen hours?” I croak. I slept so long.

I look down at myself expecting ectoplasm, but only find that I’m shirtless. I feel a little self-conscious about being near naked, but then remember that I’m also sitting in fluorescent green ghost gunk and shrug it off as unimportant.

Speaking of, I could’ve sworn I was covered head to toe in the stuff, but now it’s only on the floor and the whatever parts of me had touched that. Sickness-induced hallucinations? Jazz said that was ‘typical for adolescents’ once, a couple years ago.

Yeah, that’s… that’s it.

I spread the washcloth out on my hand and run it down one arm, then the other. I go to move on, but the little cloth is fully dirtied so I toss it in the general direction of the pile, not even getting