Chapter Text
I’d never given much thought to how I would die—though I’d had plenty of quiet moments to imagine it. Growing up in Del Sol Valley, where the sun kissed every corner and the paparazzi hunted my every step, death seemed like a distant shadow. Something that happened to other Sims in the glossy tabloids Mom skimmed over her morning coffee.
But as I lay there, the cold Spoons pavement biting into my back, the fog wrapping around me like a shroud, I knew this was no idle daydream. The screech of tires. The blur of velvet and bronze. The golden eyes staring down at me. It all crashed together—a chaotic symphony I couldn’t escape.
He hovered above me, his face a mask of something I couldn’t name—horror, maybe, or a twisted kind of awe. The scent of old books and melancholy clung to him, sharp against the damp air. And his voice, when it came, was a low murmur, like poetry carved from stone.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said, as if I’d chosen this collision—this moment where my life teetered on the edge of something broken, something off-script.
My head throbbed. My vision blurred. I felt the pull of darkness, a velvet tug at the corners of my mind.
And in that instant, I saw it.
Not my death—something worse.
A future where I was bound to this strange, pale boy with haunted eyes… to the wild girl with oil-stained hands who’d rattle my sleep… to a town that whispered through its fog like it knew my name. I didn’t know them yet, not really. But I felt them—vampires and werewoofs, secrets and snarls, a love triangle I never asked for.
And as the blackness claimed me, I had just one clear thought: Maybe I’d traded one kind of chaos for another. Maybe Spoons would be the stage for my undoing… or my awakening.
And here I thought I was done being the main character in someone else’s story.
PREVIOUSLY…
The moving van disappeared faster than I expected. One moment it was parked at the curb, rumbling like it might explode. The next, it vanished into the fog like it had never been here at all—like even it didn’t want to stay in Spoons.
I stood there holding a chipped mug full of mystery tea my dad insisted was “good for fog immunity.” I didn’t ask what that meant. I just let the steam curl around my face and watched my new life settle like dust.
Spoons smelled like wet bark and old gravel. The town looked like it had been designed by a committee of ghosts who got bored halfway through. Everything was a little too quiet. A little too beige. A little too… expecting something.
“You sure you got everything?” my dad asked from the porch, shifting his weight. Sheriff boots, cargo jacket, awkward stance—he looked like he was trying to pose for a “World’s Okayest Dad” calendar.
“I’ve got it,” I said, nudging my last duffel with my boot. “Not exactly moving into a fortress.”
“Still.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’d help if I didn’t throw out my back chasing raccoons last week. Don’t let anyone tell you being sheriff’s not a combat sport.”
He laughed alone.
Inside the house, it smelled like wood polish and takeout. Everything was clean but sad, like a waiting room that forgot what it was waiting for. The furniture leaned toward functional. Beige couch. Beige walls. Beige lamp that looked like it gave up long ago.
There was one framed photo on the mantle—me, age three, wearing fairy wings and crying into a juice box. Charming.
“Home sweet home,” Dad said. “You hungry?”
I shook my head. “Just tired.”
He nodded, the way adults do when they want to say something meaningful but panic and retreat to silence.
My room was upstairs, past a hallway with a flickering sconce that seemed to be doing it on purpose. The room was bigger than I remembered. My childhood things were gone, replaced with a plain twin bed and an empty bookcase.
I set my bag down and pulled out my most sacred item: my battered, annotated copy of Monty & Capp: A Tragic Llamaquill Romance. I placed it on the windowsill like a ward. Its corners were curled, the spine cracked. I’d underlined all the parts where they hurt each other on accident and called it love.
I opened to a random page. The sentence read:
“And so she left the golden court for the cursed woods, not knowing which would swallow her first—her pride or her heart.”
Cute.
Outside, the fog clung to the trees like it didn’t trust them. Beyond the branches, up on a hill, a mansion crouched behind iron gates. Tall. Gabled. Faintly lit. A flicker of gold moved past one of the upper windows like someone—or something—was pacing.
It didn’t make sense, but I felt it.
I wasn’t alone.
My phone buzzed. Mom.
I sighed and answered. “Hi.”
“Sweetie!” Rinelle’s voice chirped from somewhere that definitely wasn’t fog-wrapped or depressing. “Did you get in okay? How’s your room? How’s Chuck? Still doing the whole… sheriff cosplay thing?”
“He’s still sheriff, Mom.”
“Oh, right! Right.” She laughed. “Well, I just posted a throwback of your eighth birthday to remind people how fast you’re growing up. It’s already getting a lot of likes. Also, guess who your stepfather ran into at brunch? The director of Moonlight Massacre III! Can you believe it?”
“Wild,” I said, lying down on the bed.
“I hope Spoons isn’t too, you know… dead. But sometimes dead towns have character, right?”
I looked out the window again. The mansion had gone dark.
“Sure,” I said.
“Well, give your dad my love. And text me if you see anyone cute!”
Click.
Later, Dad took me into town for “provisions,” which turned out to be frozen waffles, fabric softener, and one very suspicious-looking bag of discount apples. The grocery store had flickering lights and a teen cashier who stared at me like I might be new, or cursed, or both.
On our way out, an old woman stocking magazines leaned toward me and said, “Careful near the woods, sweetheart. That fog doesn’t always give things back.”
I blinked. “Sorry?”
She smiled like she hadn’t said anything.
Chuck was already at the car. I got in without mentioning it.
Back in my room, the window was still open a crack. A breeze had nudged the book’s pages to a different passage:
“He kissed her like he wanted to forget they were enemies, and she let him, because forgetting was easier than fearing.”
I shut the book.
The fog outside had thickened. I thought I saw something move—a shape low to the ground, sleek and too smooth for a dog. A fox, maybe, or something pretending to be one. It looked up at me. We stared at each other through the mist. Its eyes didn’t shine.
Then it turned and disappeared, swallowed by the trees.
Dad knocked on my door that night, holding a bowl of popcorn and two sodas.
“Wanna watch something old and terrible?”
“Always.”
We ended up watching a black-and-white vampire movie where everyone fainted dramatically and screamed in mid-Bridgeport accents. Dad fell asleep halfway through.
I watched the ending alone. The vampire died in the sunlight, reaching for someone who didn’t want to be saved.
That night, I lay in bed with my sweater pulled to my chin, listening to the house breathe.
Spoons was too quiet. Not peaceful. Not safe. Just… silent in a way that made you feel like something was holding its breath, waiting for you to blink.
And for the first time in a long time, I realized I’d spent so long being watched, I didn’t know how to feel when no one was looking.
Except—I wasn’t totally sure no one was.