Jasmine Fenton was all of five years old, and even she could see and understand the disaster unfolding before her eyes. She wasn't the only one. Danny, who was only three, looked somewhat concerned and upset.

Despite the old shirt draped over her as a smock, ectoplasm fizzed against her skin as it soaked into her clothing. More to the point, it squelched and squeaked disgustingly underneath her bare feet as she shifted her weight. The sheets of construction paper she had selected and positioned so carefully were soaked through. So was the newspaper she'd laid down so that she wouldn't get paint or glitter on the floor. So was the carpet.

Clearly, she had underestimated the amount of newspaper she needed, but if asked, she would deny it was her fault.

After all, she had just wanted to finger paint. Daddy was the one who had escalated things.

"Man!" said Daddy, loudly. "The Boo Gun can really go, can't it? I think this is my best yet!" He fired the gun again, this time towards the ceiling. A glob of glittery green ooze squirted out. Most of it stayed on the ceiling, but some of it started to drip down. "Ghosts won't know what hit 'em!"

Danny, sitting on the floor in a probably ruined star-themed onesie made a very small, dubious noise. Jazz, meanwhile, slowly brought her hands around from the sides of her head to the front, covering her mouth. She ignored the hairs caught between her fingers in favor of her developing sense of horror and embarrassment.

The front door opened. Mommy gasped. Jazz cringed. Surely, this presaged a shouting match, the likes of which she had only seen in cartoons.

"Jack!" said Mommy. She didn't sound upset. "You got the Boo Gun working!"

"Sure did!"

"That's amazing!"

Thus, at the ripe old age of five, Jazz reached the conclusion that her parents were crazy.