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|Spectral: Part 2|
|Name:||Spectral: Part 2|
|Created by:||Madi23 Talk|
These are the next chapters of Spectral after 1 - 8 readable on this page. I will begin this page on chapter 9 :)
- 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 - AwakeEdit
My eyes open lazily. I blink but someone’s jabbing me in the side.
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.
“I don’t know! Where the hell are we?!”
Adrienne locks her fingers behind her head, weaving them through her knotted hair. She exhales slowly. “Gilded Hills,”
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.
It is pitch black out. Crickets drone in the distance, and the scent of moss and woodsmoke is heavy in the air.
“I – we – let’s go.”
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.
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.
“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.”
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…
“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…”
Suddenly, I’m overcome with a sense of emptiness. Adrienne screams and I feel my body strike the ground.
“A…dri…enne…” I hear, as though over some great distance, my own voice.
Bright white light burns my eyes: and then, powerful darkness.
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.
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.
“Embry. I thought I might see you.”
“Ophelia.” I say, staring into her green eyes.
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.
“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.
I taste smoke.
“Bry! Bry!” Adrienne is coughing and gasping, shaking me profusely. “Help!” I hear her scream. “Gilded Hills Cemetery! Fire! Hurry!”
A cell phone beeps as someone disconnects a call.
My eyes roll back.
“Bry! We have to run!”
Flames are dancing across my eyelids.
A single earth-shattering, bone crushing CRACK! explodes throughout the universe. Bits of sand brush my eyelashes.
Chapter X - Memoir
- “O-pheeeeliaaa!” trills a feminine voice, weary and exhausted. I shiver. I can hear the voices, but blackness clouds my eyes.
“Ophelia Nigmos, what are you doing?”
“Sorry, Momma,” says a soft, child’s voice.
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.
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,”
The girl nods. “Okay Momma. Can we stop in Flaxen?”
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.
Ophelia’s eyes flitter to mine. She cocks her head, but her mother pulls her along before her open lips can speak.
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.
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.
“Hello, my dear Ophelia.” The older woman smiles, straightening. “Good afternoon, Willow.” She says, noticeably less pleasant.
“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.
“Auntie, Auntie, can -,”
“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.”
“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?”
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.
Olive’s eyes dart about the garden anxiously.
“Have you buried him here, too?”
“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!”
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.
“Thief!” cries Olive.
Olive’s lips curl and her cheeks flush bright crimson.
“Murderer!” shrieks Willow, as Creon tries to pull the frantic woman away.
Olive snarls, sounding almost feral.
Help, the child mouths.
And then I remember. I know Ophelia.
The school, the funeral, the…
“Adrienne!” I scream. Blackness shrouds me.
A snap, like a photo being taken.
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.
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.
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.
Willow and Creon Nigmos.
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.
Ophelia swipes at tears and pulls a piece of crinkled paper from the pocket of her long trench coat.
She begins reading, her voice choked and dry. Only Olive can hear, but the absence of an audience seems to strengthen Ophelia.
“The break is the bay of briefest breath,
Though dark is the day of decaying death.
To bear a bought-en brine long broken,
For a tear of no thought is a thoughtless token.”
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.