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.

A note from me
Hey guys. Leave a comment if you notice any inconsistancies within the story, and please feel free to provide and constructive critisism :) Madi23 00:50, September 9, 2011 (UTC)

Character's
For the next upcoming chapter... Those characters that no one likes, but get 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
 * Dr Hilroy
 * Ophelia Nigmos
 * Ms Brittany Hale
 * 'Nurse'
 * 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 important 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 addressing 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 - Jon “This school is going to kill me,” Adrienne moans, smacking her head down on her desk.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“If only,” grumbled Nicholas Brooks, using a Sharpie to draw on a desk.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Adrienne’s voice was muffled by her desk, but she proceeded to flip him off, furthermore explaining her unintelligible answer.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">He smiled, still looking down at his graffiti.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Hey guys,” Royce grinned half-heartedly, taking a seat next to me.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Hey, Bry!” Nick called from the back of the room. “You get any sleep last night? You look like shit.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Adrienne muttered more profanity. Royce’s expression dropped to aggravated, and then to an annoyed glare, directed at the blackboard. “Hell.” Adrienne continued. “I think I was up until past four.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">My eyes shifted away from them. “Yeah. Me, too.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Royce glanced at me, and then looked away nonchalantly. “Where’s Jon?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Shrugs from Nick and Adrienne, who has sat up and is beginning to examine her nails.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“I haven’t seen him since Thursday,” I say, checking my watch. “Where’s Hale?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Royce sighs. “Knowing that woman, she probably had to get towed after swerving a leaf lying on the road.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Or OD’ing on her anti-anxiety pills.” Adrienne chuckles.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I notice how her gaze keeps flickering around the room.

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

<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"">Her eyes lock on mine. “Bry?”

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Everybody looks at me. My pulse races, blood hammering in my ears. We almost never directly address the ghost situation. I mentally hit myself. Situation? More like –

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Bry, you’re losing it.” Nick snorts, but he glances pointedly at the door. I look and a second later Hale scurries into the room.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Hello children,” she breathes, unloading a ton of supplies from her book bag. Adrienne snorts and whispers to me: “Children? She’s like four months older than us,” She snickers. That’s an overstatement. Brittany Hale is nearing thirty, and seems to think of us as her personal help assignment. None of us respond.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Hand in your papers,” she says, turning to face us. Her wacky indigo glasses are glittery and the frames are shaped like sideways leaves. I roll my eyes and pull out a two-thousand-word essay on the French Revolution I finished – and started – last night with Royce. Hale opens her glossy lips to begin the days lecture.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Jonathon explodes into the room, his scar-damaged face red from exertion.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“The French nobility–,” Hale begins, gesturing for effect.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Call help!” he shouts. I jump at the furious pitch of his voice.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Jon! “ Royce exclaims. Ms. Hale is confused. She glances at the doorway.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Jon?” Nick questions from the back of the room.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Call help now! Someone’s been murdered! Call the police!”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">He disappears back into the hallway. Chairs crash to the floor. Adrienne is already on her cell phone, hyperventilating as she is put on hold for a brief moment.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I’m racing down the corridor as fast as my heels will take me. Nick is ahead of me while Royce is right at my right.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Jon rounds a tight corner and Nick dashes after him, but his leg gives out and he hits the ground. “Nick!” Adrienne shouts, pushing forward to see if he’s okay. Nick’s leg was badly damaged during the fire, and he’s had to drop all sports. Royce flies by me, catching up with Jon. He’s screaming his name.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Jon! Jon! Where are you going? What happened?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I’m running out of breath. I drop to the ground as if someone shoves me from behind. Smoke curls down my throat and I gag, vomiting on the floor. I search for the source of the putrid air, but find nothing.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Nick and Adrienne are near me. I crawl over to them, and sirens are blasting down the halls. Nick is on his back, gripping his right leg and grunting in what must be extreme pain. Adrienne has her hands over her ears, tears falling from her eyes. She falls to her side, curled tight around her legs. I scream her name, but I’m choking and my vision is failing. Just as my eyes drift closed, I get a clear view of a hundred roiling, pale, contorted shapes converging on Adrienne. An invisible dome seems to surround Nick, where he is still fighting the pain in his leg. Like a force field, the spirits pour around and over it, but the hallway is startlingly overcrowded.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A single red-gold form towers over me, malice glinting in his eyeless sockets.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">It mouths something to me, but all I hear is distorted sirens and the wail of a thousand spirits.

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I open my eyes. The hospital room smells heavy, like too much bleach was used to clean the lush white carpet. I don’t have to wonder where I am, the room is identical to the one I lived in all last summer. And the summer before that.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Screaming startles me out of my drugged daze.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Adrienne!” I call instinctively. I hear doctors rushing past my door and medical carts gliding across the polished flooring in the corridors.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I begin to panic. A single tube is taped into my wrist. Afraid of what may happen, I don’t touch it. A call button, round and red, is lit up on the wall by my bed.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I hit it three times. A nurse glides in, as if in no hurry to check on my health.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Hello, Miss Alder. Are you feeling well?” she looks at the IV, then glances at the flashing call button. “Is there an emergency?” she raises a perfectly sculpted blond eyebrow.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“I was just wondering if I could transfer – “

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Miss Alder, I believe you know that we do not allow patients to choose their rooms.” She gives me a hard stare. “Just imagine the chaos.” She turns on her heel. “That button is for those who need medical attention, Miss Alder.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She disappears into the hallway, closing the door behind her. I blink at the door. Did that really just happen?

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I lie back in my bed like a good girl and await news, getting more and more annoyed as the clock continues to tick loudly.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Doctor Hilroy comes in an hour later, and smiles when she sees that I’m awake.

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in">I shift uneasily in the bed. The room is designed like a comfortable, one-roomed apartment, built for semi-permanent patients. A dresser and TV stand are beside the bed, with a couple counters and cabinets on the opposite wall, along with a mini fridge and stove. If not for the curtain dividing the room and starched white hospital bed, the area would seem almost normal.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in">Almost.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“A friend of yours called in a 9-1-1 report. Police arrived on the scene, expecting a dead body. Paramedics found you and three others blacked out in different sections of the building.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Royce…Adrienne…They’re okay?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A soft smile. “Royce is fine. He woke up in the ambulance.” She sits down beside the bed. “Your father left a short while ago. Adrienne saw him walk by and demanded to see you. She was refused, and…”

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She nods sympathetically. “She was very shaken. That was about an hour ago. We calmed her down, got her off the medications, but she ripped out all of her needles and her tests need to be resubmitted. I believe no one has been able to make her cooperate since. She’s locked in her bathroom now, but I made sure she would not be disturbed.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I look away from the kind doctor. My eyes are stinging. The only thing Adrienne is more afraid of then airplanes in hospitals. It would seem like she hates authority, but really the painkillers and medications they give her make her unable to block out any ghosts, and cause her to lose her grip on what’s real.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Nicholas Brooks is still unconscious. His scarred tissue is rejecting our painkillers. He was not supposed to be doing anything remotely exerting for weeks, even months yet.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“What happened to us? Why are we here?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She hesitates, having one of those moments where she realizes that even if she is my and Adrienne’s doctor, she feels more like close friends, and the feeling is mutual for both Adrienne and I.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Well, Nicholas, his leg, of course. Royce left earlier, after being checked by his doctor this morning. Adrienne is having fits of dementia. You were unconscious and your pulse was so low they thought you were dead, too.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in">''<span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Too? ''<span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif""> I think, and I realize she hasn’t told me about John yet.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She frowns; a worried expression crosses over her face that makes me shiver.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Jonathon passed on. He was dead when police and paramedics arrived.”

<h2 style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Chapter VI - Ophelia
 * Jon has been dead for three days.


 * Chapter_6.jpg

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The four of us attend Jonathon’s funeral. The hospital has left us all uneasy, and Adrienne is a zombie. She stands next to me as Royce recites Jon’s epilogue. Her face is emotionless, the dark circles under her eyes plastered over with foundation. She was released after her last dose of medication wore off, when she stopped screaming about ghosts staring at her and whispering in her ear. I wasn’t allowed to see her while this was happening, but I could hear Nurse Blondie complaining loudly in the hallway about “that crazy Levine girl” who “won’t let the drugs do their jobs”. Heaven forbid she get off the phone with The Boyfriend, and take care of a patient.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I gaze at her with worry. Her hair is glossy and wavy, but only because she knows that the more she looks the “Crazy Levine Girl”, the more people will talk about her.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Royce finishes; his voice is even and he’s smiling sadly.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Jon died of a heart attack,” Adrienne whispers softly to me, her voice shaky.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Yes,” I murmur, thinking she was asking a question.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She shakes her head and looks straight ahead.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Royce stands with his and Jon’s family on the other side of the room. He hasn’t talked about what happened to any of us, and I feel shunned.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Nicholas nods, hearing Adrienne’s statement from her other side, but she is walking away swiftly, and I hear her muttering low condolences to Jon’s parents before leaving.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I’m about to follow her when Nick motions me toward him.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“I think we need to talk. Me, you, Adrienne, and Royce.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I nod. Rarely does Nick ever want to casually hang out. I understand the situation and agree, telling him I’ll bring Adrienne and Royce to his place. He says he already spoke with Adrienne, and that she will be there shortly later, after she can leave her sisters when her parents get home.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">In the parking lot, I wait for Royce, who is my drive home.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">My father had still been in Bridgeport when we arrived simultaneously just before eleven, and had been called immediately.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">He was a nervous mess when he arrived back at hospital after Hilroy’s visit. He hugged me tight and made me promise to talk to Catharine, who was in a state of devastation when she heard I was back in the hospital. I hadn’t gotten to speak with her for long, because she and Peter were flying to Africa for their anniversary.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I start at the sudden voice, losing my train of thought.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“My name is Ophelia Nigmos,” she continues. Ophelia is a beautiful young woman, slightly younger than me. She has long caramel blond hair and smooth dark skin. Her posture is casual, and she’s wearing dark jeans and a gray striped shirt. Silver chains are wrapped around her waist like belts.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Hi.” I say kindly, recognizing her. “You’re in my art class, aren’t you?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She smirks, but gives no answer. Her hands remain buried in the pockets of her leather coat.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“You’re recovering well, I see.”

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“You were discharged from the hospital in Bridgeport two days ago.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I study her face, which is now frighteningly serious.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She nods, gaze distant. “I saw you at the high school Saturday. The Ancients were flooding around your friend Adrienne.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">My thoughts run blank. Is she talking about ghosts?

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“You…” I swallow. “Are you talking about ghosts?” I try to sound incredulous.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She gives me a strange look. “I’m not talking about photosynthesis, if that’s what you’re asking.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Intently, I look deep into her emerald eyes. She gazes back.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">The car rumbles to life at my back, and I see Royce watching me silently over the roof of the car.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“I – have to go.” I say apologetically, opening the passenger door.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">She smirks at me once more. “Yes.”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Her smile fades. She is staring at the empty space to Royce’s left, fear flickering in her eyes right after understanding. She nods to herself.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I close the door. Royce backs out and even as the car pulls out of the lot and onto the road, Ophelia’s eyes stare after us, and her expression has turned collected and mirthful, as if she knows our secrets and is certain the outcome will be bad.

<h2 style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Chapter VII <p style="margin-left: 40px; ">“Bry,”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I jump, dropping the hot frying pan back onto the stove. It clatters across the burners.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Dad?” I call toward the front door.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Royce enters my line of vision.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Oh, hey Roy. You want some lunch?” I grin, gesturing to the deformed mush of scrambled eggs on the pan.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">His eyes are sullen. He doesn’t smile.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">He grabs my hand and pulls me closer. He hugs me lightly and rests his forehead against mine. His eyes are downcast, a dark and ominous blue.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">He looks down at me. His eyes are tired and sad. They reminds me of Adrienne, without the heavy makeup.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“No.” he says flatly, gaze flickering. “Embry, I need to…move on. I’m sorry...”

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I stare at myself in my mirror, face twisted in disgust. Standing perfectly still in my sleeveless black dress, my eyes are glued to the scars. I tug my hair into a bun, and finally walk away from the mirror. Doctor Hilroy gave me a liquid cream that helps scarring fade. She warns me not to use it on my entire body, only my face, and that the chemicals contained in it can be poisonous if absorbed too quickly. Since I don’t have much facial scarring, I’ve almost never used it.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I grab the bottle and squeeze half of it into my hands. I slather it across my chest and arms, reaching to lather it into my shoulder blades. Not a moment of remorse enters my mind. I never want to see them again.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I slide out of the dress I wore to the funeral, and slip on some jeans and a blouse. I pull on a long white coat, and ten minutes later I’m pulling into Nick’s drive. Adrienne’s car is there, an old Chevy she borrows from her dad. I knew I was late. I call her cell.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“Bry? Are you going to be at Nick’s soon?”

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“I’m in the drive way. Will you…come to my place?”

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“I’ll be right there,” she says, muttering a few words to Nick.

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">When we get back to the house, I’m sobbing and I can’t stop. Adrienne is so overwhelmed. She curls up next to me in my room, where we’ve lugged a TV so we can watch movies. My eyes are puffy and irritated, and as soon as Adrienne’s eyes drift shut at two am, a gust of wind rustles through the room. My eyes are closed and I breathe deeply.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A raspy voice in my ear makes me gasp. I cough, choking on the powerful aroma of smoke.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I shift away from Adrienne. Words are whispered in my ear. I cannot understand them.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">A face suddenly materializes in front of me. The young man, face screwed in distaste. Though his lips are pressed in a tight line, voices dance around me. I try to hold my breath, but after only moments I inhale sharply. The apparition looks down at me. His waist and legs are in my bed, his torso rising from the blankets, as though he walked through it.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">He’s the only spirit here. I don’t know how he’s here – I’ve never had a ghost appear when I was not alone.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I am terrified. I had no idea they possessed the ability to physically touch living things. He looks more solid; his color and frame less gaseous. His eyes are no longer white shapes, but clear and distinct, though they are still the golden red color of the rest of his spectral body. His face falls, becoming unmasked of emotions. His thumb presses into my palm. A burning sensation bursts from his touch. I frantically try to pull away, like a rabbit in a trap.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Flames spread across my flesh, searing up my arms and across my shoulders and back. I try to tell myself it’s the medication. I curse myself for using it, but I was aching inside…I couldn’t look at the scars that caused this, caused Royce to change, caused this…

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I force myself to ignore it until the realization of the pain hits me like a ton of bricks.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">But there is no sound.

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

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">My back is arched off the bed in agony.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">Adrienne hasn’t so much as twitched.

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

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">I can feel it - the flames preying on my scarred flesh, burning deep to the bone.

<p style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;text-indent: .5in"><span style="font-family:"Arial Narrow","sans-serif"">“NO!”