A/N: IT'S FINALLY HERE!! YAY!! I hope you enjoy this first chapter! Read and enjoy, duckies!

Oh yes...I would like to stress the fact that I am not trying to offend anyone in particular. This fanfic is simply for fun and Sue bashing. Any simularities between Smooge and you is purely unintentional...and probably a sign that you need to wise up and read more books. (And I mean GOOD books, not Harlequin Romance novels.) ;-)

Stave 1: Barley's Ghost

OR

The Girl Who Gets to Shoot At People With A Cool Flaming Pen And Wail Smooge's Name In A Very Spooky Voice

Jackie Barley was dead. As dead as a doornail.

In the fan fiction world she was once known as PeterzEvenstar, the beta-reader of Emma-Leeza Smooge (whose penname was Xxwilliamsgirl4everxX)...but alas, Smooge's stories were so bad, so horrible...that Barley eventually died of BFIS (Bad Fanfic Intolerance Syndrome).

Smooge didn't care. She was as shallow as a birdbath, loud and giggly, and as empty-headed as a goldfish bowl. The tweenage fangirlishness within her wiped out her writing abilities, perverted her imagination, shriveled her common sense, stiffened her creativity, made her eyes swoony and her poofy lips say annoying things. All she cared about was Peter/Will, "teh hottest guy evR!!" She constantly fantasized about him, drooled over his "dreamy" blue eyes and gushed about how Peter and Susan were "OMG!!1 ther such a cute coupl there liek ment 2 b 2gethR!!"

Flames and constructive criticisms had little influence on her...for of course, she only listened to the people who raved about her stories. She yelled indignantly at the flamers, ignored the critics and squealed over the people who sent a positive review her way. It was enough for her to hear people say, as she said of a recent Peter/OC fic, "OMG!! plz update soon i lurv this stry itz liek ttly awesome!!1"

On this occasion it was a late Christmas Eve night, and Smooge was busy at the computer desk in her room, her eyes glazed over and glued to the glowing monitor and her little sparkly, manicured fingertips typing away at the keyboard, spawning some new devilry of a fanfic. She had just finished returning flames to someone who had insulted a Peter/Susan/Edmund lurv-triangle fanfic she wrote, and now she was working on an update for her latest Mary Sue fic, titled "true luv in nanria". And yes, that is how she spelld it.

She paused a moment and sighed dreamily as she looked over her napkin-sized paragraph. It was from Peter's POV and he was swooning over his "beutifull" girlfriend/warrior/unicorn shape-shifting enchantress, waxing eloquent (cough) about her "jewl-lyke" eyes and "simmmring" hair, remembering about how he'd found her unconscious in the woods "liek an angel htat had falen frum teh sky", and musing over how "hse didnt hav 2 uze her powrs 2 spelbind hm." (Doing all this for the seventh time in the story, actually.) Her mind was soon lost in yet another brainless fantasy...in fact, so lost that she didn't notice her little brother creep up behind her...

"Oooooo, sissy's dreaming about William Moseley again..."

"Shut up, Tommy," she snapped, jolting out of her day-dream. She whirled around to smack him but he danced out of the way, grinning from ear to ear in the gleeful, mischievous way only a ten-year-old boy can accomplish.

"Emma and Will-iam, sittin' in a tree," he sang, "K-I-S-S-I-N-G..."

Of course, an ordinary girl with at least half a brain would be thoroughly ticked off by now. But not Smooge. Instead, she stopped dead in her tracks and instantly went into Fangirl Mode.

"Omigosh! Sitting in a tree with the hottest guy ever? Gazing into those depths of immeasurable blue? Kissing those soft, sweet, gorgeous lips of his? That would, like, totally be sooooo romantic..."

"Aaagh! MY EYES!"

Tom had had the misfortune of catching sight of her fanfic. He howled and covered his face, staggering blindly around the room.

"My EYES! It burns, it burns...I'll be scarred for life..."

Smooge just rolled her own, undamaged ones. "Enough with the melodrama already."

"I swear, I'm not pretending!"

"Didn't I tell you to shut up and GET OUT OF MY ROOM?"

He uncovered his eyes for a moment.

"Technically, no."

"Well I'm saying it now: SHUT UP AND GET OUT OF MY ROOM!" She reached out to grab him but he only dodged out of the way again, as if in a game of Tag. She chased him in endless circles around the room, but Tommy was a master at eluding her grasp. She finally gave up and hollered,

"MOM!"

She needn't have said anything; for her mother, Freda, was already standing in the doorway.

"Stop it right now, you two," she ordered, stepping between them.

"Mom," Smooge whined, "he's like, totally bugging me!" Her brother mouthed along with her, exaggerating the pout on her lips. She glared at him and punched him in the arm, which only sent him lapsing into snorting giggles.

"That's enough!" Their mom sighed in exasperation and gave them both a reproachful look. "Come on, guys," she said. "Little Lynn is trying to rest, and you two are making way too much noise. You know how fragile your sister's health is, and she's only just gotten over the cancer..."

Smooge huffed and crossed her arms, but Tommy at least had the decency to mumble an apology.

"And besides," added Freda, "it's Christmas. The least you can do is try to be civil to each other for once."

"Civil?" Smooge snerked.

"Funny joke there, mom," chorused her brother.

"Oh good grief..." Freda turned him around to face his sister. "Tommy, this is your sister's room and you had no right to barge in without her permission. Now apologize to her."

Smooge smirked in triumph. Undaunted, Tommy stood up quite straight and smiled angelically back.

"I apologize for intruding, dear sister," he said, his voice as sweet as the fake sugar people put in their coffee. "I hope you have a very merry Christmas."

"Likewise, dearest brother," said Smooge, her voice practically dripping with Splenda.

"Fred!" Their dad's voice echoed up the stairs. "Hun, the phone's for you!"

"I give up!" said their mom, pushing Tommy out the bedroom door and hurrying down the stairs. Smooge gave a victorious "Squeeeeeeee!" and resumed her activities.

A little later, Freda came back with a glass of cold eggnog for her. She saw her daughter glued to the computer again and frowned in disapproval.

"I wish you'd spend less time staring at a screen and more time doing something more constructive...like reading a good book, or drawing, or playing outside in the snow."

"Puh-leez," said Smooge, rolling her eyes. "Gag me with a spoon. Reading books? That stuff is, like, soooo boring."

"No it isn't," said Freda, striding over to Smooge's long-abandoned bookshelf and dusting off her neglected books. "Books are wonderful things. They're like...gateways. Portals."

Smooge snorted and kept typing. Her mother took no notice and continued,

"They're like doorways that your imagination can slip through. Once you open a book, you can go anywhere...to another time, another place..." She lovingly ran her fingers over the boxed set of the Narnia books she had given her daughter long ago. "Even another world," she murmured.

"Yeeeaaah. Sure. Whatever. I've got my i-pod to play with."

Freda simply shook her head and walked back over to where Smooge sat. She peered over her daughter's shoulder and suddenly seemed to have something nasty in her throat. (At any rate, there was quite a bit of coughing and spluttering.) She regained her composure after a few moments, then casually asked,

"Emma...er, what's that you're writing?"

"I'm writing a story about Will...I mean, Peter. As if it has anything to do with you," she added, casting a hostile glance at her. Freda exhaled deeply and rubbed her temples.

"Um Emma? Sweetie, uh...look, I think it's great that you're doing something creative by writing stories about Narnia and I'm glad you love the movie so much, but...did you ever take the time to read the Chronicles of Narnia for yourself?"

"Pfft. No. Maybe way back in third grade or something…"

"Emma, stop for a second and look at me."

Smooge swiveled around to face her mother, and Freda laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Listen, I wish you would be more considerate as far as Narnia goes. I grew up with it as a child, and it is very special to me. I wish you would treat it with more respect."

Smooge rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time and opened her mouth to answer back, but Freda jumped ahead:

"Emma...Narnia was not made to be twisted and abused by people. It was meant to be loved and cherished; to be a place of all that is good and noble. The world doesn't revolve around you and your dreams about William Mosby..."

"Uh, hello? It's William Moseley, Mom. The world wouldn't revolve at all without his hotness. And guess what? It's a free country. I can do whatever I want with your oh-so-sacred Narnia..."

"Emma-Leeza Smooge!"

"And guess what else?" She pointed at the program on her screen. "The slogan clearly says 'unleash your imagination' and that's exactly what I'm doing. So bug off."

"Don't you use that tone with me, Emma-Leeza!"

Smooge realized she'd gone too far and immediately shut her mouth. Freda took a deep breath, shook her head sadly and made to leave the room. Before she shut the door, she said,

"Emma...quite frankly, you're missing out on a lot. I feel sorry for you."

"Yeah, whatever."

"Very well. Oh and by the way...you're grounded. No friends, TV, computer or i-pod."

"What?!" Smooge whirled around. "But Mom, it's Christmas! And I have plans!"

"Not anymore."

"But that's not fair!"

"Too bad. You're grounded, and that's final."

"But why?" whined Smooge. "What did I do this time? And for how long?"

"You're grounded for being disrespectful towards me, and your punishment will continue until you learn to honor your parents and the fandom they grew up with. I'm sorry I had to do this, it being Christmas and everything...but your attitude needs a lot of work. And I won't stand for it anymore."

"Fine, be that way." Smooge huffed and slumped in her chair, sulking.

"Yes, well...I love you too. Goodnight." Freda blew her a goodnight kiss and shut the door. Smooge continued to pout. Getting grounded at Christmas? Life was so unfair.

Soon all the lights were turned out. Her parents had somehow miraculously managed to finish wrapping up all the last-minute gifts and get to bed before midnight. All through the house not a creature was stirring...except Smooge. She was munching on chips and taking advantage of her computer before her mom could take it away tomorrow.

Reaching for another handful, she suddenly felt very cold, as if a wintry draft was breezing through her window. She shivered and checked to see if she'd left it open a crack. It was shut fast.

"Okay, that's weird." She shook her head and took no further notice of it. She did, however, take time to change into her fuzzy hot-pink pajamas, all the while gazing at the William Moseley poster on her wall and sighing in the most fangirlish way.

And then, she saw it:

Where his face and "gorgeous blue eyes" should have been, there instead was the face of her long-departed beta-reader, Jackie Barley.

Smooge squeaked in fright, rubbed her eyes hard and looked again. Mr. Hottie's dreamy eyes were back where they belonged, and the intruding face was gone...as if it had never been there. She sighed in relief, and plopped down on her swivel chair again.

The big, hallway clock outside her room chimed the quarter hour. The only problem with this was the little fact that it hadn't ticked or chimed for as long as she could remember.

Smooge felt a tiny bit spooked as she flung open her bedroom door, half-expecting to see Tommy or one of her parents doing something to it. But no one was there.

"Gee...Dad must have finally fixed it or something. Yeah, that's it."

She closed the door behind her and gave a weak laugh, trying hard to convince herself that there was nothing to be scared of. But just as she managed to calm herself down...

"Smooge..."

A high, thin, wailing whisper drifted by; a cold, ghostly murmur that would have sent shivers up and down her spine...if she'd had one, that is.

"Mom?" Smooge called out in a shaky voice. "Dad? Tommy? You guys, this is so not funny!"

"Smooooooge..."

She now felt thoroughly spooked and flung open the door again to yell at whoever was scaring her. No one was there--but an eerie, greenish light glowed from downstairs, and she thought she heard the clinking sound of chains being dragged up the creaky wooden stairs...

She shrieked, slammed the door shut and dove under the piles of pink and green cushions on her bed.

"EMMMAAA-LEEEZAAA SMOOOOOOOGE!"

The door flew open with a blast of icy wind, and in passed the wraithlike figure of Jackie Barley, bound in a long, sinister, glittery-pink chain and holding a flaming pen in her left hand.

The Ghost looked with disdain at the trembling behind sticking out from among the heap of pillows and casually pointed the pen at it, shooting out a small, well-aimed stream of flames.

"AYIIIIEEEEE!" Smooge gave a deafening screech and shot up ten feet in the air, landing in an undignified heap on the floor before Barley's phantom form.

"W-who the h-heck are you?!" Smooge wailed, ending in a squeak.

"Ask me who I was."

"Huh?" Smooge gave her a blank stare.

"Ask me who I was," the Ghost repeated.

"Uhhh...why?"

"Oh for crying out loud, it's in the script! Just go with it and ASK ME WHO I WAS!" the Ghost boomed, taking a fistful of chains and shaking them in an intimidating way at the empty-headed girl.

"Okay, okay, fine!" cried Smooge. "Who was you?"

The Ghost put a hand over her eyes in exasperation and muttered, "We have so much work to do..." She cleared her throat and resumed her spooky-sounding voice. "In life I was your beta-reader, Jackie Barley."

"Omigosh! Are you, like, a ghost?"

"I am."

"But, hello? It's like waaaaay past Halloween and...oh wait." Smooge made a pathetic attempt at thinking, then smiled idiotically. "I get it, I'm dreaming! This happens all the time in the movies."

"You believe this is a dream, Smooge?"

"Yep."

"A DREAM?" the Ghost thundered, advancing upon her. The pen she wielded blazed threateningly. "Doesthis feel like a dream to you?" the spirit cried, shaking her chains again and wailing in quite a frightening way.

"Eeeeeep!" Smooge squealed and hid behind her swivel chair. "Be nice to me!"

"DO YOU BELIEVE IN ME OR NOT?"

"Okay, okay, I believe you! But like, why are you bugging me? Everyone always picks on me; it isn't fair..."

"Fair!" the Ghost spat. "I'll tell you what's not 'fair': the fact that people who loved the Chronicles of Narnia—books that C. S. Lewis poured his heart and soul into—cared enough to make a decent movie out of it...and YOU won't even bother to give the books a glance! The fact that people grew up with those books and have fond childhood memories of them...yet YOU twist and distort the characters they love for your own stupid, selfish, wish-fulfillment fantasies! You don't care; nobody caaaaaaares!"

The Ghost's accusing voice faded into an anguished cry of sorrow and torment; a cry that would have pierced the heart of any other human being. Smooge, however, was completely lost and not too interested. She instead had her eyes on the yards of pink, glittery chain that were wrapped around her beta-reader's ghostly figure.

"Jackie, whazzup with the chain? It would look sooooo much cuter on you if you wore it as a belt or something."

The poor spirit flinched at the mention of the nonexistent word "wazzup", and replied,

"I wear the chain I forged in life by my selfish, ignorant acts against Narnia. I made it link by link and yard by yard, and of my own free will I wore it. But these are not only my fetters. They are also the chains that bind the beloved realm of Narnia in ugly, perverted, trashy fanfic. Fangirls and great writers alike, we forge these chains, binding ourselves and Narnia with it. Is its pattern strange to you?" The Ghost gave her a shrewd look.

Smooge blinked. "Uhhh...I don't get it."

The Ghost sighed. "The chain symbolizes...oh never mind..." (She had probably realized that explaining the whole thing to her was a hopeless cause.) "Let's just get down to business. I came to help save you from certain doom, and no amount of stupidity is going to stop me."

"Okay, whatever." Smooge shrugged, the words "certain doom" going completely over her head.

"You will be haunted," she continued, "by Three Spirits."

"What?! Oh come on," protested Smooge. "Getting haunted by you was exciting enough, but three more?"

"Yes, Smooge," said the Ghost severely. "Three more. DEAL WITH IT."

"Yeah...I think I'll pass on that, thanks."

"You'll thank me for this later, trust me. Without their visits, a vital part of you will die...and your future will not be as bright as it could have been. Expect the first tonight, when the bell tolls One."

"Couldn't I just have them all at once and get it over with?" Smooge whined.

"Nope. Sorry."

"By the way, how did you make that clock chime anyway? It's been broken in, like, forever."

"Night changes many things," said the Ghost mysteriously. The pen flared as the phantom's keen eyes gazed at her one last time and then pointed at the window. It swung open, and the coldness from outside drifted in.

As the icy wind swept through her window, Smooge heard something…a wailing, moaning sound, as though a thousand voices were crying out in anguish and grief. At first she thought it was just the swirling breeze; but as she peered out into the night, she realized it really was a thousand voices…for down below, drifting in the streets, there was what seemed to be a ghostly procession. Hundreds upon hundreds of pale, translucent figures trudged through snow, all dragging glittery-pink chains behind them and weeping as though their hearts were breaking.

"They weep for their fandoms," said the Ghost, answering Smooge's unspoken question. "They weep because they wish to go back and start over; to write good fan fiction that honors and respects the fandoms they love. But it is too late for them, now. They have lost that power forever."

Smooge had a strange, nagging feeling in the back of her mind that maybe all this had something to do with her. But of course, she didn't have the sense to heed it.

Barley's Ghost nodded farewell to Smooge, moving towards the open window. But before she could take her leave, Smooge said,

"Jackie, wait! Hold on a sec! I wanna ask one more question."

"All right," sighed the Ghost. "Just make it quick."

"I wanna know, like, what happened. What happened to you?"

"It's pretty simple," she replied. "For a while I was your beta-reader, and every bit as vapid as you. But eventually I came to my senses and became quite a good writer...and an avid C. S. Lewis fan. That's when I stopped working with you. Then one day I made the mistake of wondering what you were up to, and I read one or two of your fics. They were so bad that I had a seizure and died of BFIS (Bad Fanfic Intolerance Syndrome) that very hour."

Smooge gaped in confusion and surprise. There was so much of this she couldn't wrap her puny little brain around...in particular the idea that her fanfics were—God forbid—BAD. That was so not cool.

Jackie Barley's Ghost simply winked at her, drifted out the window and faded into the mist, leaving Smooge to collapse dramatically in a dead faint on the bed.