Danny noticed his mom in the living room, but headed upstairs.
His phone was still at his computer desk, blinking to show him that he had a message. Or three. You could never tell.
He hummed, tapping the edge of his phone. Oh? A voicemail from an unknown number. Odd.
Danny opened the voicemail, listening to a harried-sounding mother try to calm her fussy child while reminding him to pick up milk and extra toilet paper. She wished him love, and there was the sound of something splashing in the background before she cursed and hung up.
He slid down into his computer chair, and on a whim typed "Danny Phantom" into the search bar. A few pictures popped up, and some newspaper articles. Of course some sites declared he was a cry for attention from a dying town, but there were also fansites and some...interesting literature.
Somehow it reminded him of Tucker's link. They had seen the black car roll into town, overheard the two questioning someone at a diner. Tucker had immediately become interested, while Danny leaned more toward suspicion. Either way, his friend dove right into research on the two, and sent him a link of his findings with some ominous texts warning to be careful.
A double-click later, and images filled his screen.
The PDF that opened was not one he expected.
Police reports, news articles, photographs, all of them featuring their past guests.
His mind connected the dots as quickly as he could comprehend what he was reading. They had a pattern, an attraction to supernatural rumors. His mom had been in contact for days before they arrived.
It felt like ice was wrapping around his heart, far more venomous than when his frosty core had been overfilled.
He quickly sent it to his printer, readying a highlighter. The machine clicked its displeasure at the sudden work, spitting out the web pages obediently. Danny slunk down the stairs, finding his mother sipping away at a glass of wine in the living room, a book sprawled open on her lap.
His voice was strong, on the edge of commanding. This was serious, he didn't have time to beat around the bush.
"The guys that came over yesterday - the Winchesters. They're dangerous."
As she looked up, he slid the thin stack onto the book's pages. Mug shots stared up from the paper, green ink drawing her eye downward. The glass of wine was lowered to the table beside her chair.
"They're serial killers, and I think they're targeting you."