Fanon:Spectral

Summary
My name is Embry Alder. I am nineteen years old and have recently finished recovering from a near death experience two years ago. The accident caused myself, my boyfriend Royce Vale, my close friend Adrienne Levine, and two other students to be burned to the degree where we have more scars than flesh, though our facial structures have remained. Now we are being haunted by the ancestors of our town, and their spectral apparitions appear at any time or any place, whenever we are alone.

Character's
For the next upcoming chapter... Those characters that no one likes, but need to be mentioned, even without a fanon page:
 * Embry 'Bry' Alder (Protagonist, Narrator)
 * Adrienne 'Dri' Levine
 * Royce 'Roy' Vale
 * Henry Alder
 * Catharine Martinez
 * Nicholas 'Nick' Brooks
 * Jonathon 'Jon' Blake
 * Ms Brittany Hale
 * More to come, believe me..

Other (Don't even bother reading this)
Some Sims and places will be a strange mix of The Sims 2 and The Sims 3. Yes, it's weird. Ex, Bry mentions living a couple hours away from Bridgeport, while she is going to Sim State University the next year. Please forgive the intensely confusing timeline I've created between the games :)

Also, Flaxen County and all of its lots are all part of a totally random town I made up, and have not actually created in CAW (though it would be pretty sweet, yet also creepy). So if anything sounds familiar, it may be because my characters for this story do not exist, so I use other pre-created info to fill in some blanks (if that makes any sense whatsoever).

And yes, most of these events could and would never happen in a Sims game, but this was inpired by some crazy Sims idea I got one sunny day while my power was out this summer, and never actually did in-game. Soo..yep. Read onward.

Chapter I - Gilded Hills
Flaxen County is not a large community. The name, horrifying as it is, pertains to the fields of lush golden wheat and dwindling mineral deposits that once produced gold and palladium.

Just residential lots near a small, unadorned mountain and, distantly the sprawling industrial city of Brideport.

The only thing that makes this place interesting is the multiple cemeteries dotting between houses and parks. Nine in total, all containing at least a hundred graves.

But the masses of these graves are hundreds of years old. The Gilded Hills Cemetery in the east of the town contains graves dating back to the sixteenth century. So old are these ancient tombstones and mausoleums that most remain undated.

I wander now through the Gilded Hills, listening to my history teacher lecture on the past that has been drilled into our heads since preschool, when our grandparents would warn us of the walking dead before we went to bed. Mrs. Knox, a fluttery middle-aged woman, guides us along the stone paths that wind irregularly through the rows of graves. We all know that death clearly disturbs the woman, and a couple boys joke about dead people innocently to her. She looks flustered and her manicured hand flies to her throat.

I’m trying to ignore here. I don’t want to be here either, though not because I’m squeamish.

“Some believe there was a bruta

l war here, centuries ago…” trailed the uneasy professor.

I sigh in annoyance and Royce glances over at me. I smile and he tightens his hand in mine. Great, he probably thinks I’m a flighty redhead, too. I run my hand through my long, reddish brown hair.

Knox’s auburn bob swishes as she looks around to place our location. Several other students are hiding behind mausoleums and family tombs, chatting and eating junk food.

I roll my eyes when she trips in her high heeled boots and nearly tumbles over.

“Welcome to Flaxen,” crows James Barnet, “we have corpses for the entire family!”

Our teacher scolds him, but he just grins and earns a glare.

I will be glad when the torture of these kids ends. This should have ended two years ago.

Maybe maturity is more importa

nt to me than brains or brawn.

Both Royce and I would have graduated two years ago, but us and a few others were in a major accident in twelfth grade, and were in and out of the hospital for two years. I shudder and scratch the scars on my arm through my turtleneck.

“Bry” he says the nickname like “Bree”. “Are you feeling okay?” Royce asks, nodding at my rolled sleeve with a concerned expression on his face. “Yeah,” I mutter. “Just irritated.”

“Do you need to go to the hospital?”

“No. I was just…”

“Embry,” calls Adrienne Levine, falling into step beside me.

Adrienne is the only person who knows me better than my father and Royce. We already plan on going to university together.

Adrienne rests her elbow on my shoulder, sipping from a pop bottle. “Hello my friend,” she says, enunciating a fake French accent she saves for when addr

essing me.

“Hey, Adrienne,” I smile, shoving her elbow off me. Royce artfully exits to join the group trailing Mrs. Knox, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets.

She lowers her voice. “Are you okay? Being here?”

I snort.

She relaxes, zipping up her jacket and shivering. “It’s freezing out here,” she declares. “How are you still warm?”

“I can’t feel my fingers,”

“Ah,” she says wisely. I stuff my hands into my pockets, mostly from the cold and partially to stop myself from absentmindedly touching my scars. We laugh and weave our way through the well-tended paths of the Barren Hills, as Adrienne calls it.

Adrienne looks over at me. It’s hard for anyone not to notice the threading scars traveling up her left cheekbone and disappearing under her thick hair.

“Finally, we’re leaving.” She says, making an atrocious sound. Her voice softens, brows furrowing in disgust. “I hate this place.”

Chapter II - Conversational
When I get home from school, my father is in the kitchen cooking. I smell baked chicken and seasoning.

“Hey, Embry, did you have a good day at school?” My dad asks as I step into the kitchen.

“Yeah. We visited the Gilded Hills: best field trip ever.”

He laughs, gray eyes pinching at the corners. “Glad you had a good time.” He sighs, chopping some carrots. “It’s Catharine and Peter’s anniversary today. I’ll be staying in Bridgeport with them, and I have to go back to the restaurant soon. I’ll be back around six, and I’m leaving at seven,”

I’ll be alone tonight. He’s wondering if I’ll be okay.

“Okay. Chicken and potatoes?”

“Your favorite,” he grins as he slides the pan of chicken and vegetables into the oven. “Think Cat’ll mind if I show up without you?”

In my room, my cat, Celia, stares at me uncomfortably. I roll my eyes at the cat and she slinks away. I sit down at my laptop. The minutes pass but I only sit and think.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I talk to Adrienne, who hasn’t been sleeping well. She tells me she has to take sleeping pills to get any rest at night. I worry that she might get sick. She was the worst of us after the accident, and she seems to be taking it the hardest. She says goodbye as her little sister Isabelle begins to cry in the background. I’m beginning a history paper when my phone rings again.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I smell dinner broiling when Catharine phones.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Hey,” she says, and I can tell by her joyous tone we’ll be settling in for a long chat.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“What’s up? I must be popular tonight. Dad’s just getting us some dinner,”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Bry, are you coming tonight?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A wave of guilt and longing hits me square in the chest. “I’m sorry, Cat. I have school tomorrow.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She hears the distaste in my words before they even register. “Tomorrow’s Saturday!” she exclaims belatedly. “Did you get in trouble?” she sounds disapproving, but I can imagine her grinning. She adores Adrienne and swore that one day I would be just as rebellious and headstrong as she.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Uh, no.” I laugh, “I have school on Saturday’s. It’s the only way we’ll graduate early.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“That sucks,” she says, and sighs after a pause. “Embry, are you feeling okay?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Yes,” I lie, my fingertips tracing the scars on my forearm. “So are you guys throwing a party for your anniversary or what?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">That stops the worry in its tracks. She excitedly gives me all the details about her and Peter’s first anniversary.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“First dinner with the family,” she begins. I add appropriate agreements and toss in my opinions and even make a couple jokes, but I’m still at my scars and eventually I lie and tell her dinner’s ready. It felt so good to talk to my sister, but I’m too anxious to be very conversational. I don’t mention anything that could possibly upset her. She says goodbye and I pick the phone back up, clamping my hands around my pen to stop myself from scratching.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I call my doctor, who works at the hospital in Bridgeport, the closest big city, where Catharine and Peter live. I tell her my scarring is bothering me, and that I need more cream for the extensive blemishes.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Royce calls while I answer all of Dr. Hilroy’s questions about my health. After I hang up, I call him back.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Bry?” he guesses.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Roy?” I ask softly. He pauses. When he answers, his voice is anxious. I must sound miserable.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“What’s wrong?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Well, it’s just…my dad is staying in Bridgeport tonight and…”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“It’s okay to be afraid, Embry.” My heart jumps. He almost never calls me Embry. He’s always called me Bry.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Tears sting my eyes. I control the hitch in my voice. “Yeah.” is all I can manage.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Would your father let me come over?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I laugh uneasily. Even at nineteen years old, neither of us is used to the idea of being grown up.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Sorry.” He amends. “Old habits die hard.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I smile, even though he can’t see it. “It’s fine. You can drop by later, but I need to try being alone.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“It’s okay to be afraid,” he says again, voice calming, reassuring.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“I’ll see you later?” I blurt, trying to dodge the pathetic reply I would have said.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">His voice sounds a little less worried. “Of course,”

<h2 style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Chapter III - Spectral

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in">Later that night, I’m wrapped up in a quilt when a rustling makes my pulse race. Royce left two hours ago, at around midnight. I was dozing off on the couch, listening to the ticking of the kitchen clock.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Royce had arrived shortly after our phone call, surprising both me and my father and bringing desert. Dad smiled the whole meal, slyly complementing Royce when the opportunity arose. True, they get along well, but I know where I’m going to school, and I don’t know how we’ll work it out after Christmas, after our ‘graduation’. Adrienne and I have already been accepted into Sim State University, which is the largest university in Sim Nation. Royce has been accepted with full scholarship into La Fiesta Tech, to per sue a science career. He immediately wanted to turn down the offer, as LFT is far south, but he’s been talking about a scholarship transfer.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I kick the blanket away, planning to lock myself in my room.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A creak echoes from the staircase, just before I take the first step.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A tiny scream escapes my lips. I’m stumbling backwards when Celia appears at the foot of the stairs. She looks up at me before trotting across the room to lounge on the carpet.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I mutter about stupid animals before jogging up two flights of stairs to my room. I twist the lock and jump onto my bed, scrambling under the covers. I feel like a child, but fear holds me in place.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A whisper breathes against my cheek. I shudder and bite back another scream.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I bury myself in the soft pillows and cool sheets.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Blue light presses against my closed eyelids.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I tell myself not to open them.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A breeze wafts through the room. Chills crawl up my spine.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">My eyes open, two pale blue pools in the dark room.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I gasp and shout, confused as to what I should do.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I’m shaking violently. A haunting voice drowns me out; musical, childish laughter sings in the background. I begin to sweat. I blink and suddenly the room is dead.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Crimson shadows float amongst the walls, some with long, waving hair and kind eyes while others have burned clothes and angry expressions.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I scream.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The seven ghosts levitate around my bedside. They are all an angry red, orange fog rising from their spectral bodies.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I’m panting and my vision is blurring. I’m consumed with terror.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A girl a few years younger than me is sitting on my window seat, staring out the curtains when a little girl around five years old plays with her hair.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The fiery little girl looks at me, and her translucent body glows bright. Her eyes, like the others, are just white lights. The outline of her long flowing dress moves as if under water.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She opens her mouth to speak and a raspy whisper envelopes my ears. I’m staring at the child so intensely I feel tears spring to my eyes.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">More hissed words.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I imagine her real voice, soft and sweet, laughing in my ear.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Her hand reaches out to me. I recoil, hurrying away and backing through another apparition. A flash of heat passes through me and I inhale smoke. I cough and see a young man gazing angrily over his shoulder at me.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“I – I’m – “

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I trip over my bed and fall onto it, the coolness making me shiver. The voices halt and I cough as the scent of smoke and burning flesh thickens. I see the annoyed ghost snarling at me, smoke pouring from his outstretched palm.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I press the heels of my hands to my eyes. I don’t want to see them. I don’t want to hear them.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I shove a pillow over my face so I can’t smell the fumes. I hear glass shatter and my nightstand turns over, knocking into my closet door.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I’m rocking and shivering and sweating, and finally all is still.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I cry for an hour before suddenly falling unconscious at nearly four am.

<h2 style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Chapter IV - Coming Very Soon