Do you know what the world really looks like around you? Do you know how many psycho's walk around with the blood of the dead on their hands? How many dead walk around you and you don't even know about it? Are the tales about demons, vampires, ghosts, simply that? Tales made for people to gain slight enjoyment and to curb their addiction to fear? What about the ones who have their eyes opened to see all that is supposedly a tale? The people who see and know that those evil and spooky things actually do go bump in the night, should they be punished for what they see? Or should they be praised and thanked because they are the only ones who can fight and kill the evil that seeks to infect and eliminate any living being existing on this planet?
My name is Erica White. I have Black hair, gray eyes with purple in them, and I am one of those few who seeks to end all the nightmares that walk around in real life. I always was, even from my youth. I was claimed insane. My mother left me alone to listen to the ghost's and I became very unstable. Between being forced to take tons of medication, doctor's claiming Post-Traumatic Stress after being there when my father died, a car crash, and the ghost's trying to hurt me or talking to me constantly, I couldn't tell the difference between reality and nightmares. Then I figured out, from reading a book, that killing ghosts, was done by salting and burning their remains. I found every one of the ghosts remains and burned them all. My mother caught me though. I was sent away to a mental asylum until I was 10, when they thought I was stable enough to go home. The asylum though, was evil. I was tortured there. For six years I was there, being punished just because I was trying to save my mother from ghosts. All because I could see why random deaths occurred, why the other patients screamed about a killer who was dead. I was punished for it. Then I had to pretend it didn't exsist in order to keep myself from getting hurt. I didn't tell my mother anything though. Then I ran away when I was 16. I couldn't stand my mother not believing me.
That...and I met a boy. Dean Winchester. He was two years older than me and boy was he nice. He was only a student at my school for about three weeks though. He saved me. I was getting beaten up behind the school for being the "Depressed Psycho" and couldn't fight everyone off. Then He came. He got to know me a little more than anyone ever has. I found out that he was a hunter. He knew about the same things I did. He thought it was cool that I could see what even he couldn't see all the time. Then he was gone. I decided to become a hunter myself. That was why I ran. I nearly got myself killed but I met another guy who was a hunter. Bobby Singer. An old drunk true, but he was nice and didn't look or talk to me like I was crazy.
I had my moments though, mostly after awakening from a bad dream, or bad memory. But Bobby took good care of me. He was the father I never had. Hunting made things easier. Soon I hardly ever had a crazy moment. Then one day I went on a hunt and saw him again. Dean Winchester. And that's where we begin.