Thanks for waiting! We've briefly seen Isaac's normal parents before. If you would like to condone my behavior, consider supporting Paranatural on Patreon or making a one-time donation on Ko-fi! That's all for now, thank you for reading!

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[Transcript]

        “Whoa! Slow down there, son!” Isaac’s normal father said. “Scarf that chow down any faster and you just might eat the bowl!”

        “...No I won’t, dad,” Isaac countered. What an absurdly frivolous notion. He didn’t even eat the bowl when they got bread bowls at McMiddling’s, the vaguely Irish sports bar that his parents were obsessed with.

        “I wouldn’t worry, dear,” said Isaac’s normal mother. “He doesn’t even eat the bread bowls at McMiddling’s!”

        Ugh. Isaac chewed his Brand Flakes louder to drown out his parents as they chuckled at a reasonable volume.

        When he had first become a spectral, Isaac thought his life would be just like his favorite shows and manga. Superpowers! A different bad guy every school week! A color-coded team of friends that cheered him on from the sidelines! In some ways, it HAD been like that, but all of it was bogged down by the inescapable slog of normal life. He still had homework every night. There were no cuts or timeskips to fast-forward through monotonous routine. All the drama was the torturously mild kind—the trench warfare of mistrust, misreading smiles as hostility—and every evening he came home to his extraordinarily ordinary parents. Then they’d ask him boring questions about mundane and average things, and all the coolness he’d accrued that day by slinging storms and saving spirit princesses would slough away like makeup in the rain.

        “I’m done,” Isaac said with a squeak of his chair. He didn’t just mean with his cereal—but his parents couldn’t know that, just like they could never truly know him. They could never begin to imagine the storm that raged within his unassuming clouds...

        “What’s the hurry, honey?” asked his mother, taking a fresh-baked apple pie out of the oven. God, she was just so hopelessly American!

        “I’m going to Max’s,” Isaac mumbled.

        His mother and father exchanged a knowing glance.

        “...It sure is nice to have a little shop like that next door,” Isaac’s dad said with a probing lilt. “Do you want a couple bucks to grab a snack or something, son? Your old man’s got some spare change ever since he got that fancy corner cubicle...”

        “What? No. I’m not going there to buy stuff. I just want to talk to Max about something before he gets swarmed by his admirers at school.”

        Isaac’s parents put their arms around each other.

        “We are so proud of you, honey,” Isaac’s mother said.

        “And so accepting of your choices or inherent tastes and preferences,” his father added with a nod.

        “...Okay?” said Isaac, slinging on his backpack. They’d been weird about Max since Isaac had first described him and said that he’d joined the Activity Club (another topic they were weird about—they always told him that they were glad he’d found “community” whenever he was vague about its purpose). “Thanks, I guess?”

        “You’re welcome, honey.”

        “And you’ll always be welcome, son. We love you very much.”

        Isaac didn’t get what they were on about, but he didn’t have time to care. He had to warn Max that his spirit might be dangerous... if Doorman’s judgment could be trusted after all that he’d concealed. Since it had apparently announced itself when they’d crossed paths, Max’s spirit clearly wasn’t scared of Doorman, its old enemy. Maybe that was because Isaac’s pacifistic recluse of a mentor posed no threat... or maybe that was because the spirit had kept Max close as a hostage. Either way, Isaac’s first priority was getting Max away from his haunted baseball bat without alerting the mysterious threat possessing it. Once Isaac could get Max alone, they’d figure out the rest together.

        Isaac balled his fists. Subtle static made his arm’s hair stand on end. Max was counting on him... he just didn’t know it yet!

        Max, meanwhile, was blissfully ignorant of his own blissful ignorance. As far as he was concerned, obtaining a sixth sense for the supernatural and then receiving a prophecy of doom from a mystical sphinx a few days later pretty much precluded you from simple country livin’ and its benefits. Max had yet to mine the depths beneath rock bottom for the magma underneath, the lava lamp that would have cast it in a slightly better light. Yes, Max’s arm was in a cast, and yes, he’d realized that his toothbrush smelled a bit like Hissin’ Pete... but was he being hunted by a Fear Witch? Not just yet! And there was beauty in that simple fact that Max was not appreciating.

        “Oh! Good morning, Max!” chirped PJ. He was floating above the apartment’s living room couch, as cross-legged as one could be as a gaseous human tadpole.

        “Hey. Morning,” Max replied, still rubbing sleep’s detritus from his eyes despite the fact that he was dressed.

        “Good morning,” Zoey answered.

        Elementary school started a whole hour later, so Zoey had plenty of time left to lounge in pajamas. She was watching cartoons, eating oatmeal, and idly flipping through her favorite photo album, all while unaware that she was sharing the room with both a dead boy and a creepy severed hand. Blissful ignorance’s blessing aided every single Puckett—it had been the essence of their father’s joie de vivre his whole life.

        “How are YOU, Max?” PJ asked him, clearly quite cheerful himself.

        Max yawned as he slid semi-crumpled homework in his backpack.

        “I’m fine.”

        “Huh?” Zoey cocked an eyebrow at her brother.

        “...Um. In case you were wondering,” Max quickly added. PJ was lively enough today that he’d forgotten he was speaking to the dead.

        “I am now,” pouted Zoey.

        “It’s a good thing that I clarified preemptively, then, isn’t it? Never say I don’t anticipate your needs.” Max nodded towards the TV, hoping he could change the subject. “What are you watching?”