Vlad's Journal and Descent into Madness
Journal 73 — Entry #4 — Sunday, 10:42 AM
It appears that today marks another entry in the ever-growing (though sporadic) log of Daniel's voluntary visits. I would be lying if I claimed I did not feel a twisted sense of triumph each time he chooses me, even if it's not for the reasons I once envisioned.
He let himself in, phasing through the walls of my mansion without issue, and made himself comfortable in one of the rooms I had decorated and set aside for him. The ones he swore he’d never use. The ones he mocked.
He then curled up on the king-sized bed, and cried.
Not sniffled. Not pouted. Cried. With the quiet desperation of someone who didn’t want to be seen but came to be seen anyway. I watched from the security cameras, but I am unsure what to do about this.
Should I comfort him? Offer tea? A listening ear? Or would that drive him away again?
He didn’t ask for me. Maybe he just needed to get away?
He fell asleep an hour later, still curled up tightly. Like a child.
I’ve since instructed the staff to remain clear of the east wing for the rest of the day.
What an interesting development.
Journal 73 — Entry #6 — Thursday, 8:03 PM
Daniel seems tired at all times.
Not the usual teenage sluggishness or feigned disinterest he wears like armor, no, this is different. It clings to him. A weight I can see in the way he hunches his shoulders and drags his words. A hollowness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.
Fights that should be simple, should be laughable, now stretch far too long. That insufferable Box Ghost (how he continues to exist is beyond me) had Daniel pinned against a dumpster for thirty-eight seconds. I counted. Thirty-eight seconds of sluggish dodging and half-hearted blasts before Daniel finally overpowered him.
He tried to laugh it off afterward. Told a bystander, "Guess I’m off my game today."
He’s been off his game every day this month.
He thinks no one’s noticing. But I notice.
I don’t know if it's school, ghost hunting, or something worse that’s draining him. I have my suspicions. I’ve seen the bags under his eyes, the way he flinches at loud noises, the way his human form looks thinner than I recall.
He's not healing properly either. The wounds last longer.
I offered him a place to rest again; carefully, cautiously, phrased as a joke during our last encounter. He rolled his eyes. Called me a fruitloop. But he didn’t say no.
I've added new medical supplies to the east wing suite. Subtle ones. Just in case.
Journal 73 — Entry #10 — Monday, 3:16 PM
Danielle has visited as well.
Or Ellie, as Daniel insists on calling her. The nickname rolls off his tongue with such natural fondness that even I hesitate to correct it aloud.
She arrived without fanfare, just appeared on my balcony with a backpack slung over one shoulder and a guarded look on her face.
Apparently, Daniel has "vouched" for me.
Those were her exact words. Said he told her I’ve “been better lately,” and that if she ever needed a place to lie low, this mansion was an option. My mansion. Me. He offered me up on silver platter, without my input. And she—perhaps foolishly, perhaps bravely—took him at his word.
She is smaller than I remembered. Louder, too. Fierce in the way only someone desperate to prove they belong can be. But beneath the bravado, she is still very much a child.
And now, after everything, she is willing to give me another chance.
It’s almost laughable. After all the betrayal, the manipulation, the abandonment, she strolled into my home, poked around the east wing like she owned the place, and asked if I had any soda.
I don’t know what Daniel told her.
I don’t know if this is some elaborate trap or test, or simply another piece of evidence that he’s unraveling and trying to stitch together something that resembles a family before it’s too late.
But for now, she’s here. I’ve assigned her a room adjacent to Daniel’s, with reinforced walls and a view of the orchard. She seemed pleased.
She asked if I’d kept any of her old clothes. I had.
Journal 73 — Entry #16 — Wednesday, 9:47 PM
We, Danielle and I, rarely talk.
Not in any meaningful way, at least. She speaks of her travels with sweeping gestures and exaggerated flair. Cities she’s passed through, ghosts she’s talked to, backpackers she’s raced for the last slice of pizza. She’s young and restless and already aching for something more.
When our conversations stray from her stories, they fall to him.
His latest scuffle. His stubborn habits. His strange need to be everything to everyone except himself. She talks like a sister. She complains like a sister. And sometimes her worry slips through. Then she shuts it down again with a scoff or a joke. She is so much like him in that way. It’s painful.
Lately, we've been circling the same refrain: how tired he seems.
She noticed it too. The way his powers flicker. The blank, unfocused way he stares at things he used to care about. Even his transformations are slower, sloppier. Like it hurts him.
I told her what she already knows: something is wrong.
She asked if I’d spoken to him. I asked her the same.
So instead, I encouraged her to reach out to the elder sister, Jasmine. The elder Fenton does not trust him, which is understandable.
But Daniel listens to her, even when he pretends not to. If anyone might be able to pry something out of him, it’s her. Danielle made a face at that suggestion, muttered something about “Jazz being nosy.” But she didn’t say no.
Still, despite the silence between us, I’ve made arrangements.
As of this week, Danielle is officially named as my heir.
In the case of my death—accidental, orchestrated, or otherwise—she will inherit my estate, my assets, my research (edited, of course), and full control of the company. The board won’t like it. But I’ve never cared for their opinions.
I don't believe I'll ever have a child the natural way. Too many enemies. Too many secrets. Too many… flaws. The child or I, I will not find out by trial.
Danielle is… not quite a daughter. Not quite a creation. She is mine, and not mine, in equal measure.
And at least with this, she will be taken care of.
Even if she never thanks me.
Journal 73 — Entry #23 — Saturday, 2:04 AM
Jack and Madeline had learned the truth.
Apparently have known the truth for a while yet.
They found out about Daniel’s… status a couple of months ago. But they didn’t hunt him down. Didn’t tear him apart molecule by molecule the way they so often ranted they would.
No. They did something worse.
Daniel told me himself, between broken sobs and pained, shuddering whimpers. His voice was hoarse. His hands wouldn’t stop shaking. He didn’t need to show me the marks. I could already see them. Burns where the ecto-suppressors had clung too long. Numb fingertips. Old bruises in the shape of restraints.
He said they told him it was for his own good.
That if they studied him enough, picked him apart the right way, they could fix him.
And the most agonizing part? He let them.
He allowed it. Out of some stupid, desperate hope that maybe they’d see past the ghost and recognize their son again.
They mourned him instead. Grieved the loss of their bright-eyed boy while he sat in front of them, begging them to look. And then they convinced themselves that what remained was a ghost. A parasite. A shell.
They weren’t trying to help him. They were trying to exorcise him.
The final straw came when they arranged a transfer.
To the Investigation Ward.
That’s when he ran. I’m not sure how he got here, only that he did. Collapsed in the east wing like a dying ember, and for once, didn’t resist when I carried him to bed.
I tried to ask what he needed. He flinched.
I tried to offer medical care. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
So now I sit here. Watching him breathe.
I, of all people, do not know how to help him.
But, I suppose I can do nothing but try.
Journal 73 — Entry #31 — Monday, 11:56 AM
Daniel has finally left his room.
It has been a month and a half. Forty-five days of silence. Of closed doors. Of untouched food trays and ignored attempts at conversation. The east wing has remained in this constant state of quiet.
Today, there was a breakthrough.
It took the combined effort of Jasmine, the goth friend (Manson, I believe), the tech one (Foley, insufferable as ever), and Danielle to coax him into stepping outside. Like a little ghostly intervention squad. They bundled him in a jacket he didn’t need, dragged him out to the orchard, and settled under the pavilion.
They talked. Laughed, a little. And then, of course, Danielle cried.
It only took twenty minutes.
I heard it from my study window: that first shuddering breath, the quiet sob that broke whatever dam he’d been holding for weeks. And what a gift these children have, because not one of them let him do it alone.
They all started crying seconds later. Every one of them.
There is very little in this world I cannot provide. With money, everything is purchasable. Comfort. Privacy. Safety. Except for the actual feeling of safety.
And Daniel, my brilliant, reckless, maddening Daniel, does not feel safe. Not even here.
This morning, I found a sticky note on my work table.
It wasn’t signed, but the handwriting is unmistakable: narrow strokes, careful slant, a smug little curl on the "y."
“Maybe it’s time for a change of scenery.”
That damned clock ghost. Must he always meddle?
I’ve begun browsing properties. Quiet places. Somewhere further from Wisconsin and further still from the Fentons
This was not because he told me to.
But because I already had that idea in the first place.
Journal 73 — Entry #38 — 7:39 PM
When one thing goes right, twelve other things go wrong. And when they go wrong, they go nuclear.
This is all Daniel’s fault.
Yes, yes, I understand that he is considered the Ghost King of the Infinite Realms, fine, excellent, very regal. I may have a part of that. But, what I do not understand is why he failed to mention that he’s been summoned multiple times by said title.
Summoned. As in: forcibly pulled out of whatever he was doing, with absolutely no regard for time, boundaries, or plans. And the worst part?
He forgot to tell any of us.
According to him: “Well, it’s not like it happens a lot. And I can normally reject it.”
I would very much like to understand what goes through that boy’s head during times like these. What mysterious nonsense occurs in his skull when he decides not to share crucial information with the people who have quite literally been housing, feeding, and medically tending to him since his nervous breakdown.
His friends have already scolded him for it.
Manson still gives him death glares. Foley has been spamming him with memes.
(Danielle doesn’t seem to care either way, excited by the new world to explore.)
But it was Jasmine who finally got through. Her lecture was devastating.
After ten minutes, she was teary-eyed with a face to match the color of her hair. It was only when she ended with: “What if we got hurt because of this.” that Daniel cried. Again.
Honestly, I might cry too. Out of frustration.
Because, thanks to his negligence, we were all summoned with him.
“Ghost King and Entourage” were the exact words used when we were yanked out of our newly-purchased estate and dumped us into an entirely different world.
Yes. Another world. A whole different dimension.
Because when Clockwork said “change of scenery,” apparently he meant cross-universal relocation.
I would like to punch him.
But I will hold back. Because at least I still have the lion’s share of wealth I always keep with me; liquid, diversified, and accessible across most known currencies, thank you very much.
Daniel and Danielle seem to like this world. Something about the saturation of ambient energy and “punching opportunities.” There are superheroes here. There are also supervillains.
Frankly, I find it derivative.
Manson and Foley miss their families.
Manson, more specifically, her grandmother. (She won’t admit it, but she hasn't taken off that ugly cardigan her grandmother made her. I won’t comment. She might bury me in the backyard.)
I am not scared of her. I simply exercise a healthy dose of caution.
Jasmine, interestingly, does not seem to care.
She’s far more upset about the loss of her college credits than the interdimensional kidnapping. She’s already begun badgering Foley about setting up an identity for her so she can re-enroll. In a new dimension.
I am still unclear where this child developed such unrelenting work ethic.
Then I remember Jack and Madeline. Ah. Yes. That would explain it.
Personally, I am… adapting. Reluctantly.
Daniel, for his part, has expressed his confusion.
Apparently, Clockwork usually sends him back right away when summoned. A quick call out, a portal home. But this time? This time, the only thing Clockwork said, verbatim, was:
I don’t care how many timelines he sees. I don’t care how cryptic and omniscient he pretends to be. He could have warned me. I had plans. Meetings.
And now I’m trapped in a city with vigilantes and teenagers with laser eyes.
And through all of it, I swear, swear, Daniel is going to sit down and make a list of everything else he’s forgotten to mention. I will personally provide him with a pen and clipboard.
Or so help me, I will… do something.
I'm unsure what, but it will satisfy my vengeance.
Journal 73 — Entry #42 — Friday, 6:32 PM
Foley, Manson, and Jasmine have powers.
I would very much like to know what I have to do to make up for the villainy I committed in this lifetime. Was it the cloning? The ghost portals? The part where I threatened Wisconsin with annihilation? Surely there’s a limit to the universe’s retribution.
Foley and Manson were having an argument. As they do.
Except this time, it was… different. Clearly something that had been simmering for weeks, maybe longer. I assume Danielle was aware. I assume everyone was aware.
It was dinner. I was being civil. All I wanted, all I wanted, was to know what these gremlins of children desired to eat.
Foley said steak. Medium rare.
Manson said pasta. With some sort of complicated pesto.
Simple enough. Or it should have been.
The next thing I knew, Foley was glowing gold and Manson was glowing a shade of dark green. There were sparks. From the electronics and the plants.
If it weren't for Jasmine tossing them bodily out of the house—with her own eyes glowing bright green—I believe our new residence would have been destroyed. Or, at the very least, heavily damaged and covered in fluorescent pesto rage.
Jasmine didn’t even raise her voice.
She simply sighed, stood, and threw them out the sliding glass door.
Apparently, their ghostly adventures led to Daniel’s friends being possessed.
Foley, by Pharaoh Duulaman.
One ghost king.
One clone.
One god powered chlorokinesis user.
One technopath with the ability to control reality.
One part-time college student turned liminal.
And me.
The only adult in the house.
Perhaps we can go back to when Daniel despised me, and Danielle wanted nothing to do with me.
Back when things were simple.
When my greatest concern was “Will Daniel ever accept my mentorship?” and not “Will the walls survive dinner?”
I find myself sighing more often than not.
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