Viewfinder
A/N: I can't believe it took me such a long time to realize that I love The Fairly Odd Parents so much. I mean, back then I used to watch this show everyday, and not a single, "Dude! This is the best show ever!" escaped from me. But after a few good marathons and a few creative FOP fanfics, I've become attached. And also recently, my friend gave me a copy of the latest installment in the Fatal Frame series, and I've become addicted to bashing ghosts with an old camera as well. So, take some pink and green fairies, some Japanese horror and a musty camera; put them all together and what have you got? A story called "Viewfinder" that you're about to read...NOW.
Disclaimer: I do not own both The Fairly Odd Parents and the Fatal Frame series. They belong to the brilliant creators, Butch Hartman and Keisuke Kikuchi, respectively. I also do not own any commercial names that I might mention in this story.
21st of March, year 2006; Starbucks café, Dimmsdale, CA--
It has been nearly four months since the series of tragedies have occurred. No one expected that what started out a simple assignment would soon turn into a chain of macabre deaths and inexplicable disappearances. I feel terribly bothered about these events, but it is not just the deaths that are keeping me from peace. I should've seen the signs a long time ago. I should've paid attention to the clues—those crystal clear clues. If I had, then...then maybe, I could've done something to prevent it.
"Dammit!" Along with the curse came the sound of a porcelain mug hitting the surface of the wooden table. The piping hot espresso spilled on the table and on the drinker's hand. The woman, about in her mid-twenties, didn't seem to feel the burning coffee splatter on her skin though. This has been the umpteenth time that her subconscious has risen to the surface of her thoughts. She had absolutely no idea why the memories that she's trying very hard to forget keep on resisting to be forgotten.
Maybe because her conscience prevents her from doing so? Or maybe because it really was her fault why those disasters happened?
The woman began to run her hands over her head in a sort of agony one cannot identify. She wasn't feeling any physical pain. It was inside her head, like a shrill ringing. A few strands of her black hair slipped to the side of her face as she shut her eyes in distress. No...no...it wasn't my f-fault..., The woman pleaded in her thoughts. The ringing then became louder, more intense. But as it grew louder, another sound could be heard amidst the humming. It was muffled and almost inaudible, but she knew it was the voice of a person. It was a slow, ghostly moan. The ringing has reached the point that it has become too unbearable. Her head hit the table, hands still clutching it in pain.
"Stop...stop it!" What she originally planned to scream out loud fell as a soft, low whisper. The people in the nearby table noticed the woman writhing and decided to help her out with whatever's wrong. One of them, a middle-aged man, stood up from their table and approached the woman cautiously.
"Excuse me, miss...but can we help you in any way?" He lifted a finger to tap her on the shoulder. Just before his finger made contact to her, the ringing in the woman's head stopped. She slowly opened her bespectacled eyes, which were now rimmed with a few scared tears. The noise has stopped, She thought—a bit relieved. But then, just when she though everything was okay,
"Help me...help...I don't want to die...I don't want to be taken into the Abyss..." The ghostly groan filled her ears again; only this time, it was a lot comprehensible. The woman was frozen—head still down, only her eyes were open. A single drop of tear trickled down the side of her face.
"Hello, miss?" The middle-aged man finally touched her on the shoulder. As he touched her on the shoulder, voice faded and the woman immediately saw her surroundings change. She was no longer in Starbucks. She was back there. Color has been drained everywhere, as the café turned into the scene of the misfortune. Intermittent scenes of the deaths she witnessed firsthand flashed in front of her like a disfigured slideshow. She was taken back into her memories of the horrifying events. They were all there...
The fire, the car accident, the train and the peculiar disappearances.
Black and white as they were, she could still make out the scenes. And they were vividly presented despite the lack of color. They all flickered quite fast, only leaving traces of the events. Except for one, though. It was the last image, a picture of what looked like a vast village. It stayed there for a while. Smaller houses were around a huge, old manor, and an even older house was connected to the mansion. It was a village with two manors in it. More tears trailed down her face, smudging up the heavy mascara and eyeliner around her eyes. Ugly black lines dried up on her cheeks. Flecks of snow fall gently on the ground, but the woman felt nothing gentle of them. Then, after a while of lingering, the image of the village-manor disappeared. The woman could see only static.
"...I'm...sorry..." These were her last words before she slowly fainted. She could only make out voices of people panicking and causing quite a commotion around her.
Quick! Call an ambulance!
She fainted! Get a med or something, stat!
Hello? Dimmsdale Medical? We have a situation...
As she began to lose contact with outside phenomena, the fading images of the massacre—and that place—flashed a bit before her. But there was something else before the visions were finally gone: an image of a strange, old camera.