Fanon:Spectral
| Spectral | |
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| Name | Spectral |
| Genre | Horror/Romance |
| Created by | Madi23 23:18, August 28, 2011 (UTC) |
| Rating | Teen |
| Number of Chapters | Undecided, 10 Planned |
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| Production | |
| Status | New & Under Construction |
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Summary
My name is Embry Alder. I am twenty 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.
Comments
Please comment if you want more chapters :)
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 a sprawling industrial city.
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 brutal 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.”