Fanon:Spectral: Part Two

Note ~
These are the next chapters of Spectral after 1 - 8 readable on this page. I will begin this page on chapter 9 :)


 * Chapters will be delayed, sorry guys! My desktop computer is busted and so I can't access my files :( -

Characters

 * Embry 'Bry' Alder (Protagonist, Narrator)
 * Adrienne 'Dri' Levine
 * Royce 'Roy' Vale
 * Henry Alder
 * Catharine Martinez
 * Nicholas 'Nick' Brooks
 * Jonathon 'Jon' Blake
 * Dr Hilroy
 * Ophelia Nigmos
 * Who knows, maybe some other RELATED *hint* sims will show up...perhaps someone close to Ophelia? The endless twists in this story have yet to come.. :)

Chapter IX - Awake
“Embry!”

My eyes open lazily. I blink but someone’s jabbing me in the side.

“Wake up!”

Adrienne’s voice. My vision focuses. I force my mind to concentrate and not drift back into unconsciousness.

I push myself up. I feel dampness between my fingers and recoil from the ground and shake my arm, which is soaked. I look around frantically. I can hardly see her, only the blazing beam from her cell phone.

“What the hell!” I exclaim, standing upright. Adrienne gazes at me, eyes wide.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know! Where the hell are we?!”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Adrienne locks her fingers behind her head, weaving them through her knotted hair. She exhales slowly. “Gilded Hills,”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">It’s the first time I’ve heard her call it by its actual name. She turns and we stare at each other. Even her eyes are afraid.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">It is pitch black out. Crickets drone in the distance, and the scent of moss and woodsmoke is heavy in the air.

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

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Shivering and rubbing my elbows, I follow the light of her phone illuminating headstones and the worn, overgrown paths. We’re far beyond the pretty face for tourists. This is the hidden boneyard.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">That’s a bit of an overstatement. Adrienne says she woke up lying across a flat gravestone, while I had been sprawled over a grave. We walk silently through the quiet lot.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“The grass was black all around you,” She shudders. “Like it was charred. Before I saw you, I thought I was dreaming. I was literally clutching the tombstone, my fingernails digging into the ground around it.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She looks sickly. Her pallor is practically transparent, her face hollow and her dark eyes sunken. I realize this is one of few moments where I have seen Adrienne completely terrified, the first being the fire…

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“I…thought you were dead, Bry. You looked so pale, I can’t…I wouldn’t have seen you if it weren’t for this distant light I saw…You were nearly fifty feet away from me…I had to drag you off the burnt grass…”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Suddenly, I’m overcome with a sense of emptiness. Adrienne screams and I feel my body strike the ground.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“A…dri…enne…” I hear, as though over some great distance, my own voice.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Bright white light burns my eyes: and then, powerful darkness.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">In the dim light, I make out stone arches stretching dozens of feet over my head. Candlelight flickers in a single corner, where I see a young woman’s back turned to me.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She turns around, grinning at me over her shoulder. Long blond hair cascades down her back, contrasting against her dark skin. She holds a matchbook. Her hands are shaking, but her voice is steady and calm.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Embry. I thought I might see you.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Ophelia.” I say, staring into her green eyes.

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I snap awake. My head spins and thoughts and sights and sounds can’t connect in my mind for a few moments. Adrienne is hysterical. I hear her voice, sobbing in my ear. Bright red, like flames, spatters over my vision, and my confusion blasts through my head, like a numb headache.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Dri…” I mumble, blinking over and over, trying to see, but something is stinging my eyes and I squeeze them shut, trying to expel the dryness. My arms aches, my shoulder being pulled at. My body is being drug across the wet grass.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Bry! Bry!” Adrienne is coughing and gasping, shaking me profusely. “Help!” I hear her scream. “Gilded Hills Cemetery! Fire! Hurry!”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A cell phone beeps as someone disconnects a call.

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

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Bry! We have to run!”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Flames are dancing across my eyelids.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A single earth-shattering, bone crushing ''CRACK! ''explodes throughout the universe. Bits of sand brush my eyelashes.

<h2 style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Chapter X - Memoir
 * “O-pheeeeliaaa!” trills a feminine voice, weary and exhausted. I shiver. I can hear the voices, but blackness clouds my eyes.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Sorry, Momma,” says a soft, child’s voice.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">My senses come alive. Not only can I hear, but see and smell and hear. Vanilla candles assault my nose, and I peer through an archway to see a tiny honey-blond girl with deep, smooth chocolate skin. Her mother is crouched in front of her, twining the little girl’s hair around a long finger.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Ophelia looks up at her mother, her chin down, and their matching emerald eyes meet. The mother smiles sadly. “Come on honey, your daddy is waiting,”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The girl nods. “Okay Momma. Can we stop in Flaxen?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The mother rises and brushes off her skirt, and the pair swishes past me. My fingers dig into the wood grain. They’ll see me, I think, but I stay still as they pass.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Ophelia’s eyes flitter to mine. She cocks her head, but her mother pulls her along before her open lips can speak.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The scene fades and clears, changing into a lush, overgrown garden. A woman’s head appears above the towering plants, wiping her brow in the hot air. The sun beats down and glares my vision. I guess it is about noon. The woman, past middle-aged, places a straw hat over her graying brunette bun. She wipes her brow, hiking up her black skirt.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The little girl strains against her mother’s hand, which is bound tightly around her slim wrist. “Auntie Ollie!” she calls excitedly, frowning up at her mother.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Hello, my dear Ophelia.” The older woman smiles, straightening. “Good afternoon, Willow.” She says, noticeably less pleasant.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Olive.” Says the mother, her long red hair blowing in her eyes as she jerks her daughter to a halt. Ophelia is still smiling, but she remains still, swinging her arms. Willow smiles at her daughter, and so does Olive, who has her hands folded in front of her.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Ophelia,” Willow says softly, pulling the eager girl closer. “I’m sorry, Olive. Creon’s waiting in the car, - we were just visiting Mother and Father.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Yes, yes. You’re extremely busy. I understand. I’ll see you…when? Once I’ve grown old and Ophelia is nearly twenty years old?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Willow screws up her face. “What do you want me to do, Olive? You can’t have everything, just because you want it. Which reminds me, what exactly happened with Hugh?” Willow’s face reddens in anger, her pitch climbing as the words tumble from her lips.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Olive’s eyes dart about the garden anxiously.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Have you buried him here, too?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Shut your mouth!” Olive roars, slamming her hat to the ground. “Get out of here, Willow. And take your daughter too; wouldn’t want to forget a piece of your perfect life!”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">My head throbs. Again, the girl, Ophelia, with tears in her eyes, looks over to me, standing in the garden behind Olive. A man runs over, with cropped onyx hair and a pressed dress shirt. “Willow,” he calls with a hint of warning in his voice.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Thief!” cries Olive.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Olive’s lips curl and her cheeks flush bright crimson.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Murderer!” shrieks Willow, as Creon tries to pull the frantic woman away.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Olive snarls, sounding almost feral.

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

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The school, the funeral, the…

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A snap, like a photo being taken.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Olive, her face glowing, smiles softly, gazing across the men and women dresses in black. Ophelia, now a young woman, plaits her loose blond hair, head low, nervous green eyes darting from face to face.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Olive survey’s the other rooms of the funeral parlor, wandering from face to face. Her gaze frequently travels to her distraught niece, who sits in an armchair in the foyer and says not a word to anyone.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">My vision flashes, and Ophelia stands above two fresh graves, in the center of a decaying garden. Olive is next to her, and amid the long-deceased plants, two glinting new headstones are placed in the center of the graveyard.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The two are alone. Dust blows in the breeze and I’m watching them through a wrought-iron fence enclosing the old garden. Twenty graves dot the landscape.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Ophelia swipes at tears and pulls a piece of crinkled paper from the pocket of her long trench coat.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She begins reading, her voice choked and dry. Only Olive can hear, but the absence of an audience seems to strengthen Ophelia.

<span style="border-style: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; font-family: 'Arial Narrow', sans-serif; "> 

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“The break is the bay of briefest breath, 

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in">''<span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Though dark is the day of decaying death. ''

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">To bear a bought-en brine long broken, 

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">For a tear of no thought is a thoughtless token.” 

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in">I feel as though I am being pushed backward by some gale of immense force. My scars burn in an all-encompassing pain, so drastic and unexpected I cry out in terror. Pitching into darkness, the breath flies from my lungs and smoke replaces my oxygen.