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Maddie is not entirely unconvinced that Phantom isn’t mocking them. It’s almost eerie, really, how much the hazmat suit resembles one of the heavy duty ones she and Jack wore when building the portal in the first place. If it weren’t for the fact it was black with that strange symbol on the chest, she’d think it was a match. It wasn’t like they made their own hazmat— at least, not the heaviest duty ones. She knew there were plenty of ways Phantom could have died, plenty of places he could have gotten that damn suit from and almost none of them likely have anything to do with Jack and herself. Phantom isn’t mocking them.
Or maybe it is. She doesn’t know. With the thick mask hiding its face, it is hard to tell what the damn thing is planning to do at any given time, let alone if it is trying to mock them. Ghosts don’t feel, she knows that, knows most of it is mimicry and attempts to solicit reactions. Still.
Still.
She doesn’t know how to feel about it— Phantom wearing a hazmat, that is. Whatever its death, that damn suit hadn’t protected it, that much was clear, or otherwise it attached to the concept of being in the suit. If the latter, she could probably wipe the board clear of concerns, but if it were the former—
Her husband wore a level of hazmat almost constantly. She didn’t like the feeling in her gut that twisted and curled at the thought of anything happening to him. She didn’t like the thought of losing him to something in their work by a freak accident, like what had happened to Vlad. She didn’t like to think of the 80s very much at all, really.
She sinks back in her chair, watching the monitors around the outside of the house. All showed exactly what she expected— not much of anything. She hoped they lasted longer than a few days this time. At this rate, she’s tempted to set up anti-ghost technology underneath them, see if the vandals are ectoplasmic in nature. If it happens again, maybe. Maybe.
“Get it together,” she murmurs to herself, trying to drag her wild thoughts into something more logical, more orderly, but that damn ghost keeps dragging itself into her head, settling into creaking bones and haunting her veins. “Catch the bastard, get Amity safe, and figure it out from there.”
She wonders how old Phantom was when it died. Likely at least mid twenties. There weren’t a lot of places that allowed children or untrained civilians to access dangerous materials and it was almost certainly both American and fairly fresh based on the design. It spoke relatively immaturely, but perhaps that was to be expected. Not every ghost was the most eloquent, even ones with a likely scientific background. No, she expected Phantom to be in its late twenties. If only she could just see its face she knows she could figure out just who it used to be, once upon a time. Maybe then she would have an idea how to defeat it, once and for all.
Sinking back in her chair, she rubbed her face and hoped they could get it worked out sooner than later. She just wanted her family safe.