WARNING WARNING WARNING!!! - contains violence, gore, and death

Happy Birthday Invader Johnny. You asked and so you shall receive. :) One chapter of Fentonless, just for you.

Fentonless
A Danny Phantom Fanfiction by Cordria

Tyler's Deli and Pan Bakery, 1976

Monday morning was still a ways from breaking bright and clear when the employees of Tyler's Deli and Pan Bakery (since 1881) gathered, ready to start their day. There were donuts to make, bread to kneed, ingredients to measure, and cases of cheeses and meats to inventory. Laughing and joking with each other as they entered the store, the half-dozen employees clocked in and headed to the back to start their day.

It was a young man by the name of Maurice Foley who first discovered what had happened after the store had closed on Sunday night. He stood in the storeroom, scratching his head in confusion. The storeroom was normally carefully organized; deli stuff on one side, bakery stuff on the other. Only today…

Every box had been moved. They were now in order from largest to smallest, perfectly stacked along one wall.

The employees of Tyler's Deli and Pan Bakery (since 1881) thought it was a funny hoax. Chuckling and teasing each other to try and figure out who was behind the 'mysterious' movement of the boxes, they quickly restored order to the storeroom. By the time the store opened an hour later, the incident had already been pushed from their minds.

Tuesday morning was a bit different. When the morning employees stepped into the store, flickering on the lights, their expressions were less than happy. The store front was a disaster. Bags of flour, pounds of sugar, stacks of trays, napkins, gloves, and other goods were scattered along the counter and floor. Hundreds of dollars worth of inventory had been destroyed. And back in the storeroom?

Every box had been emptied of its contents. The empty containers were neatly stacked, in order from largest to smallest, along one wall of the room.

Scowling at each other, muttering dark threats about what would happen when the 'prankster' was caught, the employees quickly cleaned up the store, salvaging what they could. The store had to open late, and the boss – Mr. Tyler Donough himself – personally gave a speech carefully detailing what would happen should this ever happen again.

That night, every employee went home, satisfied that the store would be in good order when they arrived at work on Wednesday.

Mr. Tyler was present the next morning to unlock the store. The employees gathered together, trying to see into the darkened windows. He pushed open the door, listening the tiny bell tinkle happily, flicked on the lights… and everybody stopped, stunned.

The nearly 100-year-old stained-glass counter had been smashed into tiny fragments that littered the floor. Super-sharp deli knives had been driven into the wooden walls. Bags of flour and sugar had been torn open and their snowy contents scattered along every surface. The bakery kitchen and deli area were in no better shape – racks overturned, bowls and pans dented and tossed haphazardly around the store, expensive and extremely heavy appliances turned into their sides.

Only one room in the entire store was in some semblance of order: the storeroom.

Every box – once again emptied – was stacked, from largest to smallest, along one wall. All the boxes that had been broken down and set aside to recycle yesterday had been carefully restored to their original form and had been added back into the stacks.

Having to close Tyler's Deli and Pan Bakery (since 1881) for the first time in nearly twenty years, Mr. Tyler was incensed. He called the police, who set about scratching their heads in confusion. There was no sign of forced entry, no plausible cause for the destruction. Many of the knives had been driven through inches of thick wood and their tips lodged into the cement stucco of the outside walls… an almost inhuman feat. Stoves and meat slicers that were too heavy for people to lift had been flipped casually without waking the family that lived next door.

With a seemingly insolvable mystery on their hands, the Amity Park police force called in a pair of detectives from Chicago – the same pair that had failed to solve the Lancer/Carlisle murder nearly two years earlier. They would be in Amity Park first thing in the morning. The store wasn't to be touched until they arrived.

But, as Mr. Tyler explained to his wife on that fateful Wednesday, he was not going to let any future culprits go without any sort of punishment. After an afternoon of whirlwind shopping, Tyler's Deli and Pan Bakery (since 1881) had the honor of becoming the first store in Amity Park to possess video cameras. One camera was fixed into the corner of the store front, the other positioned so that it would capture most of the bakery kitchen and the entry to the storeroom.

He carefully set a television on the floor of his store, hooking up the two cameras to record for the night. Then, just to make sure that nothing catastrophic happened to his store overnight, Mr. Tyler made a quick trip home to grab a sleeping bag, a flashlight, his Ruger Blackhawk 6-shot revolver, and a few bags of chips. Returning to his store, he locked the door behind him just as the sun was setting. As the small bell attached to the door softly filled the destroyed store with its happy sounds, his eyes carefully scanned the store. He was alone.

About two hours later, just as the darkest part of the night was settling into its reign, Mr. Tyler was pacing through his store, surveying the damage in the darkness. The bits of glass from the shattered front counter crunched under his feet as he walked slowly though the remains of his treasured store. His eyes burned when his flashlight illuminated the broken picture of his great-grandfather, standing before the store on opening day.

He carefully scooped it out of the rubble before brushing off bits of glass and setting the picture on a shelf. A broken light over his head fizzled as he stared down at it and a small clatter made him jerk around.

"Who's there?" he called out, shining the flashlight in the direction of the noise. A blank wall, covered in a snowy layer of flour and scattered with knives, was all that met his search. He struggled to listen, but no other sounds floated through the nearly deserted store. Shaking his head, he muttered darkly to himself and continued his prowl, annoyed that he was so jumpy and paranoid. A quick glance at his revolver – fully loaded, cleaned, and setting out ready to go – gave him all the reassurance he needed.

The back of the store was just as much of a disaster as the front. He sidestepped one of the large ovens and skirted a pile of twisted baking sheets. A grimace slid across his face when the flashlight's beam moved over the ancient furnace that had been used to bake the store's bread nearly a century before. The bricks were cracked and chipped, sharp shards littering the floor.

For a moment he just stood there, staring at the mutilated brick furnace, the true weight of the damage dropping onto his shoulders. Tens of thousands of dollars worth of damage had been done. Many of the appliances would have to be replaced. Some things – like the front counter – were irreplaceable. He kicked a loose pile of bread pans in a fit of impotent rage. They skittered across the floor, banging and ringing in the darkness.

"Damn it," he swore, turning around and feeling his blood boil as he stormed past one piece of broken equipment after another. "Whoever did this is going to…"

He trailed off as the door leading to the small storeroom caught his eye. The door had been shut, hiding the contents, but he knew what was in there. Boxes. Row after row of empty boxes. His fist clenched tightly around his flashlight, making the beam wobble and the doorknob glint. An idea had sprung into his head.

Carefully picking his way through the destroyed bakery kitchen, Mr. Donough stepped up to the door and pushed it open. Cool air rushed out of the dark room. He flicked the light switch, but this light was broken as well. The flashlight sputtered, illuminating the rows of neatly stacked boxes. After the disaster of the store he had just come from, the clean and organized room was mind-blowing.

He set the flashlight down on one of the stacks of boxed near the door so that it shone into the room. Picking up one of the smaller boxes, he held it in his hands, weighting it. "All this trouble, all this money," he whispered to the box, "and it's got something to do with you. I don't know what, but the idiot who did this has some kind of freaky fetish with you boxes."

The box sat silently in his hand, its corners digging into his palms.

"Four generations. Four!" he complained to the room and to the box in his hands. "And now it's gone. All our hard work." Anger was rushing through him as the thoughts coursed through his head. "Completely ruined." Snarling, he crushed the empty box between his hands. A drop-kick later, and the remains of the small box slammed into the far wall and toppled to the ground.

He grabbed the next box down the pile, throwing it roughly into another stack. The boxes tumbled to the floor in disarray. Mr. Donough let out a strangled scream, tossing boxes left and right, completely destroying the small room.

"Damn boxes," he cursed when the last one was flattened beneath his boot. Feeling much better, he surveyed the chaos. There was probably a whole truckload of cardboard scattered on the floor. Boxes had been squished, ripped, muddied, and trampled, and the store owner was left standing in the middle.

"Damn boxes." He picked his way back over to the door and grabbed his flashlight from where it had fallen. With one last glance around the storeroom, Mr. Donough stepped back into the hallway and shut the door behind him.

He was in the deli part of the store when a soft jingling sound filled the room. He straightened, holding still. That had been the sound of his grandfather's bells – the ones attached to the front door to welcome customers. He was about to call out, but stifled his sounds at the last moment. Perhaps this was the perpetrator.

Narrowing his eyes and covering the beam of his flashlight with his hand, Mr. Donough slid quietly through the wreck of his deli to peer around the corner. He felt like James Rockford, PI, investigating a crime, and a thrill of adrenaline flooded through him. Glancing around the door frame, Mr. Donough studied the front of his store. It was, to all appearances, empty.

But the bells had rung. Having lived and worked in this store all his life, he knew very well that those bells wouldn't ring because of a breeze. They wouldn't ring if someone had just rattled the locked door. The only way they went off was if someone had actually swung the door open. There was no doubt in his mind that someone was in the store with him. Besides, the store had lost its 'empty' feeling and all the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end.

A light flickered in the corner of his eye. He twitched towards it, surprised that it came from the bakery kitchen. How had he missed someone walk past? They had to have walked on the broken glass surrounding the front counter and he would have heard that. The glow, however, was definitely coming from the kitchen. It was a soft bluish glow that looked a lot like moonlight.

Forgetting about his revolver, Mr. Donough carefully stepped forwards, his eyes trained on the faint light. It wavered and sparkled just beyond his view. Steps before reaching the corner to see the kitchen, the light vanished like it had never existed.

He stood perfectly still in the darkness, his own flashlight muffled by his palm over the bulb. He didn't dare uncover the light. For the first time, his mind settled on questions about who this was, and what they could do. Suppose the person – or people – had a gun?

Suddenly, he shivered. A freezing wave of air had just blown down his back, sending goose bumps racing along his skin. "What was that?" he mouthed, not willing to speak out loud. The door behind him, the one that lead to the storeroom, creaked softly.

He spun around, his wide eyes searching for a figure in the darkness of the store. His idea to stay and protect his deli and bakery was beginning to sound like an extremely bad idea. His gut was clenching and his brain was screaming at him to get out of the store. Whatever it was, it really couldn't do much more damage than had already been done.

The door, shrouded in shadows, was firmly closed – just like he had left it. A foot slid forward, almost of its own accord, inching Mr. Donough towards the door. Another few inches and he paused, listening carefully. He hadn't seen anybody. What if it was just a squirrel or something? He wasn't going to get chased from his own store by a rodent with a tail fetish.

Three more slow steps and he flipped his flashlight off, raising his hand to touch the doorknob. The metal was so cold his fingertips were sticking to it. A light coating of ice was actually covering the outside of the door. Whatever was inside was extremely cold. He swallowed roughly, debating whether or not to open the door.

A scream filled the store, a horrified wail that shook windows and sent Mr. Donough to his knees, clutching at his ears in pain. The sound had come from inside the storeroom. Pulling his shattered wits back together, Mr. Donough scrambled to his feet and fumbled with his flashlight. Hell with questions and what happened to his store, he was getting out of here as fast as he could. He was half convinced the Devil himself was standing on the other side of that door. There could be anything back there. A snippet of the flick he had just seen, The Omen­, slipped unbidden into his mind.

With one last glance at the door, now noting the slight light that slipped from the crack around the door, Mr. Donough turned and made his way towards the front door. His shoes crunched loudly on the shattered glass that littered the hallway and he winced, looking around to make sure he wasn't being followed. He slid around the front counter, his eyes finally catching sight of the streetlight shining through the glass of the door.

"No," whispered a voice off to his right. Mr. Donough spun around, eyes wide. There, standing next to the wall with a crushed box in his hands, stood a slightly paunchy man in coveralls and a pillbox hat. The shadows gave his skin an almost bluish tinge and he seemed to glow. It was like the moonlight was shining straight through the ceiling and only alighting on the man.

"All my hard work," the man sobbed as he cradled the cardboard like a precious child. "Ruined. Completely ruined. All gone. All that hard work." Carefully, gingerly, the man straightened the box and attempted to restore its cubical shape while Mr. Donough watched silently. Mr. Donough didn't dare to move – the odd box man didn't seem to have noticed his presence yet.

"It's gone," the man hissed, looking up to meet Mr. Donough's eyes. The man's eyes caught the moonlit glow and reflected it like a cat's eyes in the dark, making them seem to glow an impossible blue. "And it's all your fault."

Mr. Donough backed away, trembling, using his hand to guide him around the counter and towards the door. His fingers caught on remnants of glass still clinging to the wooden frame and left small drops of blood behind. "Stay away from me," he said, unaware that his voice was shaking and his feet were barely moving.

"My beautiful boxes," the man cried softly, gently setting the nearly reformed box on the floor and kneeling as if in prayer. "All my hard work, all gone."

"W-who are you?"

The man looked up from his crouch, tears mixed with fury sparkling on his moonlit face. "I am the Box Ghost," he said, his voice a raspy whisper. "And I will have my revenge." He seemed to almost float for a second as he regained his feet with the smoothness of a world-class ballet dancer. "Run, human." He took one step forwards, his eyes glittering with death. "Run from the Box Ghost."

Then he vanished. There was no sound, no flash of light, no gentle mist or blur; he was merely gone.

Mr. Donough, terrified to the point of barely being able to think, raced away from the counter, his hands grasping for the doorknob. The chill metal was silky in his bloody fingers as he clawed at the knob, twisting and turning it, taking huge, sobbing breaths. When the door refused to open, Mr. Donough screamed and slammed at the glass with his fist. In his fear, he couldn't remember the door needed to be unlocked to open. The key, resting in his pocket, was completely forgotten.

He stared out the plate glass window of the door, begging for it to break. He preyed for a neighbor to wake up, for someone to walk by, for a car to drive up. But the darkness beyond the store held nothing for him but a few distant, cold stars and the dead grass illuminated by the lone street light. "Please…" he moaned. He didn't know who he was asking for or even what he was asking for anymore.

His soft reflection suddenly changed, twisting for a heartbeat into a rounded face with murderous blue eyes. Mr. Donough screamed and backed away, running through the store. He slipped and fell on the glass, slicing small cuts all over his palms and knees.

"My boxes," a voice whispered in his ear. The small hairs on the back of his neck stirred in a ghostly breeze and the temperature plummeted. Mr. Donough froze, the shards of glass digging deeper into his hands as he crouched on the floor. Behind him, a small light was glowing. He couldn't move his head to look.

"Please, I'm sorry," Mr. Donough sobbed, "Let me go."

"No one escapes the Box Ghost," the man hissed as his boots came into view, stepping onto the glass but somehow not making a sound. "I will make you pay for what you did, you damn human. How dare you defy the power of the Box Ghost?"

"I… I didn't… I'm sorry… p-please…"

"NO!" A broken chair, thrown roughly through the air, slammed into Mr. Donough and sent him crashing against the far wall. He coughed and clutched at his ribs, struggling to breathe. His head came up and stared at the enraged man in desperation, but he couldn't get enough breath in his lungs to say anything.

Behind the brightly-glowing moonlit man, the knives jerked themselves out of the walls and hovered in midair, their finely honed edges and carefully maintained blades gleaming in the dull streetlight. Just a few feet from Mr. Donough's feet, the revolver lay untouched, but practically impossible to get to. He took a deep, shuddering breath, a scream building in his chest and blocking off any words he wanted to say.

He couldn't even beg for his life.

When the two Chicago detectives arrived early the next morning, Mr. Tyler Donough, owner of Tyler's Deli and Pan Bakery (since 1881), was nowhere to be seen. After several hours of phone calls to try and locate him, the detectives finally had to force their way into the store. Lying in a neat pile on the floor, the sleeping bad looked unslept-in, the revolver lay untouched, the bags of chips unopened.

Other than the blood on the doorknob, small drops of blood around the countertop, and a tiny trail of blood leading down the hallway, there were the few other signs that anything had happened last night. The flashlight lay in the hallway, its glass top cracked. The crushed glass littering the floor was dotted with blood and brushed into odd patterns. The knives the police had reported stuck into the walls were missing. But the only real clue they had as to the whereabouts of the missing man was the videotape stuck in the recorder.

While the town's police bagged evidence and scouted for fingerprints, the two detectives squatted down, rewound the tape, and glanced at each other. Their instincts were screaming that something had gone on last night. This place couldn't be nearly as 'clean' as it appeared. One detective grabbed a small pad of paper to take notes as the other pushed 'play'. For a few moments, static filled the screen before it cleared, revealing the faint shape of Mr. Donough prowling his store.

They watched in silence, fast-forwarding through over two hours of pacing. On the screen, the man stormed into the storeroom off the hallway and disappeared off the tape for a few moments. A few minutes later he reappeared, still wandering disconsolately around the store. Then, suddenly, the screen went blank. Static invaded the small television set.

"What's wrong?" the taller detective asked sourly, banging on the box, thinking it would help the signal.

The other just shrugged and clicked fast-forwards, zipping through a few minutes of static. For just brief moments, they saw images on the tape before it dissolved back into static: Mr. Donough, banging on the front door and trying to get out of the seemingly empty store; the man kneeling on the ground behind the counter; another of him apparently being dragged into the storeroom. In each of the short bits of tape, only Mr. Donough was ever seen, never the attacker.

After about fifteen more minutes of static, the tape suddenly began working again – showing an unchanging image of the storefront for the rest of the night. The two detectives watched themselves bang on the door and continued to watch in silence until they saw themselves enter the store about thirty minutes earlier.

"What do you think, Carl?" the short one asked, sitting back on his heels and straightening his new, white overcoat.

"I think Mr. Donough might still be in the storeroom." He raised one eyebrow, tipping his head in the direction of the hallway and the closed door. "Shall we see?"

The small room, however, opened to reveal the most bizarre sight. Every box had been neatly stacked, in order from largest to smallest, along one wall of the room. The detectives traded glances. The room was clean and neat – bizarre after the chaos of the rest of the store.

"What happened?" the taller detective, Carl Kennerman, asked softly, stepping farther into the room and wrinkling his nose. The whole room stunk of raw meat. The air had the same iron tang that surrounded a well-used and bloody butcher's block. He looked carefully at the boxes, thinking that a body had been stashed behind them, but nothing appeared out of the ordinary.

"Not a clue. Maybe he got away?"

"Unlikely," the detective trailed off and walked over to the stacks of boxes. "He would have called someone, Jones." He picked up one of the smallest boxes and blinked down at it. The bottom of the box was slightly soggy, leaving an imprint of wetness on the box below it. The contents of the small box rolled unsteadily as he tipped it over to see the bottom.

The carefully closed box top opened a bit, letting a wave of sickening stench out into the room. After setting the box down, the tall detective slowly opened the top and studied what was inside. For a quiet moment, the man's face grew pale. Then he stood up and walked out of the room, followed closely by his partner.

"What was in the box?" Jones asked after a minute, watching his friend regain his composure.

"Mr. Donough, I think."

"Awful small box to hold a man."

Kennerman stepped back into the room and leaned against the doorframe, his bright eyes staring at the stacks of cardboard boxes, thinking. "It wasn't all of him – just a bit. Looked kind of like a liver."

Grimacing, Jones caught up on his partner's train of thought. "Guess that explains where all the knives went, huh?"

"Yup."

"Think they're in a box too?"

"Possibly." Kennerman sighed, his mind already starting to think of ways this could have happened. Mr. Tyler Donough had been, no doubt, neatly sliced into pieces and placed into the boxes so perfectly arranged in the small storeroom. He thought about checking his theory by opening up a few more boxes, but his stomach railed against the idea and he contented himself with just staring at the cardboard cubes, his brain churning through different ways it could have been done. He hated a mystery. He knew, however, that if he stood here long enough he could figure anything out.

He was still there half an hour later when they finished unpacking Mr. Donough – who had ended up in fifty-seven pieces. He was still there when the forensic team finished taking their photographs and left the bloody mess of cardboard piled in one corner, to be cleaned up later. He was still there when the police finally shooed the last of the interested civilians and newspaper reporters away. It wasn't until the sun was about to set that Kennerman left the building and locked the door behind him. He stormed over to his car, shaking his head angrily.

He hated a mystery.

The next morning, Mrs. Donough parked her car next to the store that had been her husband's life… and death. There was something she needed to know. Slowly, tears prickling her eyes, she walked up to the front door and quietly unlocked the front door. The sad tinkling of the bell attached to the door drifted through the store as the ancient door swung open. The morning sunlight streamed in to reveal the anticipated chaos from a few days earlier.

She swallowed, picking her way carefully through the mess, her eyes fixed on the spot where the store room would come into view. When she reached the smashed remains of the once glorious stained-glass counter, her feet stopped. Unable to move any farther, she leaned over, twisting her head, dreading the sight that she knew would meet her eyes.

Old police tape was still strung across the darkened opening. Mrs. Donough's eyes narrowed, searching the darkness, looking. Finally, she saw them.

Every box – emptied so carefully by the coroners and left in a messy, bloody pile – was stacked, from largest to smallest, along one wall.

For a moment, Mrs. Donough just stood there, staring, tears leaking out of her eyes as she gazed at the mysterious cause of her love's murder. Then she turned around, quickly making her way back to the front door. She pulled the door shut after she stepped outside, carefully locking the front door and silencing the bell's jingle forever.

She turned around and walked away.

Tyler's Deli and Pan Bakery (since 1881) remained untouched and empty for the next several years, a silent memorial to the late Mr. Tyler Donough, before it was finally demolished to make way for the new high school.

"I hate this," Kennerman muttered darkly after thanking the waitress for his slice of pie.

"It's not your fault," his partner said for the eighth time. "The Donough murder is a tough one. You can't solve every crime in twenty-four hours or less, you know. Not even the great Kennerman and do everything."

"It's been three days. I can't even come up with a good theory. There's just no way it could have happened!"

Bobby Jones shrugged and took a big bite of his pie. "You'll figure it out at some point."

"Stupid tape," Kennerman sighed as he picked up his fork. "If only it had worked properly, we might at least have a picture of the suspect."

"I've been thinking about that." Jones gestured with his fork, ignoring the eye roll from his partner. "And no, it's not another alien theory. I talked to some people and they said that a strong electromagnetic field could have damaged the tape."

"Electromagnetic?"

"Yeah. Paranormal scientists study electromagnetic fields, there's some kind of device you can get that measures it." He forked up another bite of his apple pie.

Kennerman narrowed his eyes, studying his alien-obsessed friend. "Paranormal? I thought you said it wasn't a crazy alien abduction theory."

"It's not," Jones swallowed his piece of pie, "I'm talking about the spectral realm, the great beyond, the restless ones." He grinned at Kennerman's confused look. "You know, ghosts and spirits and stuff."

The detective shook his head in disbelief, not quite knowing what to say to that.

It was hours later before the detective finally found his voice. Unfortunately, it was in at a restaurant where he was overhead by one Irene Nevarez, newly engaged to Jose Sanchez (son of one of the most prominent citizens in Amity Park), and the largest gossip in town. The detective only said one word, but it did all the damage in the world: "Ghosts?"

And so the legend of Amity Park continued to grow…

Sorry this took so long to get up – the original format I didn't like (you saw the murder via videotape), so I wanted to rewrite it. Some people are beginning to pick up on the fact that I'm dragging in some of the actual characters… just in odd ways. :) Lots of people figured out that I had a 'Lancer' in the last chapter. Good for you!

I'm TRYING to keep this kind of canon – I know that sounds weird for a story that doesn't have any of the characters in it. :) But note the appearance of the teenaged versions of Tucker's dad (Maurice) and Paulina's mom (Irene). According to canon (so says my reviewers, anywho), the town hadn't actually seen a ghost up until the Fentons opened the portal – so the fact that Amity Park was the most haunted town in the country had to have been based solely on rumor and stories. Thus, the tape malfunctioning.

BTW – the detectives will be back… perhaps you can figure out who they are… or, more precisely, who they will become…

Thanks to the reviewers of the last chapter! I'm so excited about the response to this story. 25 reviews for one chapter (and an intro)? WOW! katiesparks, kdm13, paulinaph, reviewer #xx, The Looking Glass Tale, Hiei's Cute Girl, AFY, Fan-Fic-CC27, Sparky the Wonder Weasle, at-a-glance, mushroomcloudslooklikebroccoli, MoonrockBlink1772, southerstarshadow, ACM Rocks (2 reviews!), Data-Dog, hermie-the-frong, Arabic Blessing, midnightpyro, Punker88, uula, Invader Johnny (2 reviews!), Nonasuki-chan, and Sasia93. These 23 people officially rock. :D

FANART! http:// www. deviantart. com/deviation /55332899/ by Annabelle-Lee (warning: mature content)

Up next? Either Ember or Johnny 13. Haven't decided yet. Preferences? I'm trying to find a ghost that fits into early 80s well. Not sure how Ember will work... might have to push her off 'til the 90s. Maybe YoungBlood. What other ghosts are there? HELP! I don't watch this show so I don't know the ghosts well enough! AH! Desiree?

-Cori