Chapter 31

Chapter 31: "The Intern, the Drone, and the Smoked Parsley"

In which Sam's parents discover the battlefield formerly known as their backyard, and I get demoted to intern.

Sam Manson wasn't the kind of girl who bought into mystery mentors, glowing amulets, or vague explanations like "It might shine when danger is nearby... or not."

But here she was, in her room, sitting cross-legged on her beanbag chair, studying a user manual that looked like it had been photocopied from Ghostbusters Monthly and annotated by a ninja monk with insomnia.

The manual, much like her life lately, made absolutely no sense.

"Page 9: If you feel an intense pulse in your spiritual core, don't panic. It's probably just ambient ghost radiation. Probably."

That wasn't comforting.

Still, Sam had read the whole thing. Twice. Highlighted sections. Took notes. Even folded page corners, which she never did unless something was serious. She still half-expected to find a prank from Danny in the back like "Ha! You've been Fenton'd!" written in invisible ink.

But no such luck. Everything in the book tracked with what they'd seen—Danny growing stronger, Tucker gaining muscle at the speed of plot, and herself… well, not hating early morning workouts for once. Something was definitely changing. The only logical conclusion?

"We're in a Power Ranger situation," she muttered, adjusting her black nail polish. "Which means transformations are due any day now."

The necklace Danny gave her was currently hanging from a lamp, catching the soft light of her room. It looked simple—just a black cord and a strange, green-blue crystal shaped like a teardrop.

It was the kind of thing you'd find at a spooky Etsy shop… except this one came from a ghost ninja mentor and probably had at least one soul trapped inside.

She reached over, holding it gently between her fingers. Sam wasn't sentimental, but this was the first real gift Danny had ever given her. No sarcasm, no banter. Just: "Here. I wanted you to have this."

Cue emotional flutter she would never admit out loud.

And that's when it pulsed.

Just once.

A soft, rhythmic thump, like a heartbeat.

Sam's eyes went wide.

"Nope. Nope nope nope—"

She yanked the necklace off like it had just whispered secrets in Latin and was this close to hurling it out the window.

Then she stopped.

Because despite the cold spike of fear in her chest, another feeling bubbled up right after: trust.

Danny had given this to her. Danny, who used to trip over his own locker and now casually tossed around ghosts like gym bags. Danny, who had saved her life more than once and had never looked more serious than when he handed her this necklace.

"It might or might not shine if there's a ghost nearby," he'd said, all cool and cryptic.

So maybe that pulse meant something. Maybe it was reacting to a ghost.

Or maybe the haunted avocado toast she had for lunch was finally catching up to her.

Either way, she slowly slipped the necklace back on, ignoring the sweat on her palms and the faint "I told you so" her anxiety whispered in the back of her head.

Outside her window, the sky had darkened. A low wind picked up.

Sam stood and walked to the glass, hand subconsciously resting on the pulsing gem at her chest.

Whatever was coming, she wasn't afraid.

Well, maybe a little.

But if this really was the Power Rangers plotline?

She was so calling dibs on the Black Ranger aesthetic.

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Okay, first things first: when your girlfriend calls you late at night and says "Hey, my necklace just pulsed and I almost threw it out the window," there are only two acceptable responses.

One: "Wow, that's creepy. Wanna talk about it over pizza?"

Two: "Hold on. I'm on my way."

Naturally, I picked option two.

Because I'm a responsible boyfriend. And also because I've seen way too many horror movies where the guy says "I'm sure it's nothing," and then BAM—demonic possession, haunted dishwasher, or a ghost that only attacks people who ignore jewelry-based warnings.

So yeah, I was not taking chances.

Naruto, my floating ghost ninja mentor (yes, that's a thing now), popped up the second I grabbed my phone.

"You should take the armor your parents gave you," he said casually, like we weren't discussing suiting up for supernatural warfare.

"Also, bring two rifles. One for Sam. And give Tucker the prototype drone. It's time."

"Time for what?" I asked.

"To stop playing Scooby-Doo and start playing Avengers."

I didn't ask what that meant. I just nodded and suited up.

Let me tell you, the ghost armor is ridiculously cool. It's like Iron Man and Buzz Lightyear had a baby—white plates, green trim, HUD inside the helmet, and enough straps to make even Batman jealous. It didn't fly yet, but I could definitely run, jump, and blast stuff with confidence. Also, my shoulders looked amazing.

I slung two rifles over my back (don't worry, they're ghost energy, not real bullets—this isn't that kind of story), then hopped on my dad's experimental ghost bike. It still made sounds like a haunted lawnmower, but I had to admit, it had flair.

First stop: Tucker's house.

I didn't even knock. I just rolled up in full armor, knocked on his window, and did the whole "Get in, loser. We're going ghost hunting." thing.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

"Bro, are we finally LARPing?"

"No, this is real."

"...Even better."

I tossed him the ghost drone controller—a sleek little tablet with joystick controls and a giant "DO NOT PRESS" button (which Tucker pressed immediately).

"You'll figure it out," I said.

"I was born for this," he replied, like he'd just been drafted into space SWAT.

We cruised over to Sam's house, and as we pulled up, I spotted her on the front porch in full goth battle-mode: black jeans, purple tank top, heavy boots, and that necklace glowing like a traffic light powered by spooky vibes.

She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Took you long enough, Ghost Boy."

"You called. I came. With weapons."

I handed her one of the rifles. She took it like someone who'd been waiting her whole life for this exact moment.

"Okay," she said. "Let's find out what made my jewelry pulse like a haunted Fitbit."

We didn't know what we were walking into—but something told me this was it. The moment.

The moment we stopped being just three weird teens dealing with weird problems...

And officially became a ghost-fighting team.

Team Phantom?

Ghost Force?

Eh. We'll workshop the name.

But right then, in that moonlit yard, with a rifle on my back, a drone buzzing in the air, and Sam glowing like a supernatural lighthouse?

I felt like we were exactly where we were supposed to be.

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So, funny story.

You know how most ghosts are all creepy moaning, floating through walls, and possibly trying to steal your soul? Yeah, that's what I was expecting when Sam's necklace started glowing like it had a tiny rave inside it.

What I did not expect… was angry garden gnomes.

And I mean angry.

Like, "we've been oppressed for too long, now we riot" angry.

We got to Sam's backyard and everything looked normal.

Until the ground shook.

Very slightly. Like a stampede. Of very small, very enraged boots.

"Please don't let it be evil squirrels," I muttered.

Spoiler alert: it was worse.

Dozens—no, hundreds—of garden gnomes surged out from the bushes like a plastic tsunami. They weren't cute. They weren't funny. They had pitchforks. And shovels. And one of them was dual-wielding steak knives.

They screamed in tiny voices that sounded like chipmunks possessed by demonic rage.

Sam blinked.

"Okay. What is this?"

"Possessed gnome ghosts?" I offered.

"I KNEW IT!" Tucker yelled as he launched the drone into the sky. "I've been warning people for years. This is gnome warfare, baby!"

Apparently, the gnomes were mad because Sam's dad had been using them for target practice. Sam defended him with a shrug.

"They were just sitting in the shed. What was he supposed to do, not shoot them with a BB gun?"

The gnomes clearly disagreed.

One leapt up and tried to stab me in the knee. Good thing I had ghost armor on because that little dude had surprising aim and terrifying rage.

Sam started blasting from the porch, wide-eyed and yelling, "I'M SORRY ABOUT THE BB GUNS!" while firing like she was in an '80s action movie. Her aim? Let's just say the fence behind the gnomes is now very dead.

Still, she was learning. And honestly? She looked awesome.

Meanwhile, Tucker was cackling like a mad scientist. He named the drone "Mecha Floof" (don't ask) and set it to full chaos mode.

The drone dove, spun, and sliced through gnome squads with tiny spinning blades while firing ghost-approved mini bullets. It was like a blender and a turret had a beautiful, destructive baby.

"DIE, LAWN DEMONS!" Tucker howled. "NO MERCY!"

I fought my way to the garden hose and yanked it loose. Time for some crowd control. The gnomes hated water—classic ghost move—so I started hosing them down like I was a firefighter in a horror movie.

Sam was reloading.

Tucker was yelling something about building a "Gnome Kill Count" leaderboard.

And me? I was just trying not to trip over gnome corpses. (Yes, ghost gnomes can leave behind plastic corpses. Don't think too hard about it.)

After about fifteen minutes of chaos, spinning drones, wild shots, and tiny screams, it was over.

Sam's backyard looked like a war zone.

Her birdbath was smoking.

One of the gnomes had exploded all over her mom's herb garden.

"So," she panted. "This is our life now?"

"Yup," I said, covered in ghost slime and holding a broken rake like a battle trophy. "And this was just Tuesday."

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I really wish I had a cool action pose ready when Sam's parents stepped into the yard.

Instead, I was knee-deep in crushed gnome parts, my armor had a chunk of plastic stuck to the helmet, and I was holding a rifle in one hand and a half-melted garden gnome in the other like a very confused knight of the round patio table.

Tucker's drone—Mecha Floof—was still lazily circling overhead, dripping with ghost goo and sounding suspiciously like a chainsaw with allergies.

Sam had the worst of it.

She was standing near the crater formerly known as her mother's herb garden, holding the rifle like she was still debating if gnome ghosts could respawn.

Then, cue the dramatic gasp.

"SAMANTHA MANSON!" her mother shrieked.

"Oh no," Sam muttered. "She used the full name."

Her dad was right behind her, hands on his designer cycling shorts like he was about to lecture us on the crime rate among lawn decor.

They looked at their yard, then at the three of us, then at the still-smoking remains of what used to be a tasteful marble birdbath.

"What. Happened." her mom asked, eyes flicking between us and the glowing necklace now hanging innocently from Sam's neck.

Sam cleared her throat, still clutching her weapon.

"Ghosts. Gnome ones. Like, a lot of them. Possibly haunted. Definitely angry."

"They tried to set the house on fire," I added helpfully.

"I have drone footage," Tucker offered, like that was going to help somehow.

Sam's parents blinked in unison. Then they did the most shocking thing of the day:

They panicked about their daughter's safety.

"Sweetheart, what if you'd gotten hurt?! What were you thinking, charging out here like some vigilante?!"

"Exactly!" Sam's dad added, flapping his arms. "You should've told us. We would've called—oh, I don't know—actual professionals."

And then, the ultimate burn.

"Like Danny's parents," her mom said, shooting me a glare. "Not... the intern."

I blinked.

"The what now?"

"The intern," she repeated, like I was supposed to be handing out coffee and updating the ghost blog.

Sam tried not to laugh.

Tucker did not try.

"Intern Danny reporting for ghostly duty, ma'am!" he said in a mock-serious tone, saluting with one hand and pretending to take a Starbucks order with the other.

I was too tired to argue. And honestly? I was starting to miss being invisible.

Sam, to her credit, tried to salvage things.

"Mom, Dad, Danny's the one who gave me the necklace. It saved me. And Tucker got the drone that took out half the ghost army. You should be thanking them."

Her parents turned to me again, looking deeply unconvinced.

"He gave you a haunted necklace?" her mom asked. "This sounds like poor judgment."

"It was enchanted!" I protested. "Possibly haunted. There's a very thin line!"

Eventually, they calmed down enough to listen to the whole story.

They were still extremely not thrilled about the damage, but once they heard about the possessed gnomes and how we handled it, they grudgingly admitted we did okay.

"Next time," her dad said stiffly, "please let the adults handle ghost infestations."

"Right," I muttered under my breath. "Because the adults are doing such a great job detecting cursed lawn ornaments."

As we walked out of the yard, armor scorched and boots covered in garden gnome glitter, I leaned over to Sam.

"So I'm an intern now?"

"Technically, unpaid intern," she smirked.

"Not even a parking pass?"

"Nope. But you get free smoothies."

Fair enough.