By Tidia & MOG, May 2006
Oklahoma; 11:40 p.m.
Sam held the sawed-off shotgun primed
with rock salt close against his leg as he and Dean walked up the three
steps to the abandoned Victorian-era home. The house sat on ten acres
of land and wasn’t visible to any of the neighboring homes, yet Sam
still wished to keep as low a profile as possible.
Dean turned on the EMF detector. The
meter beeped immediately and he raised his eyebrows at his brother.
Sam just stared back. “Got something
“So that makes you Spock? ‘cause you
sure aren’t Captain Kirk.” Dean folded up the detector and tucked it in
his jacket pocket before pulling at the boards covering the door. “Give
me a hand.”
Within moments the boards were gone
and they entered.
Sam cast the beam of his flashlight
around the entryway. “Man, would you look at this. It’s completely
furnished. It’s like no one ever left.”
“Didn’t you read the stories that
brought us here,” Dean replied. “No one did. This town hasn’t wanted to
have anything to do with this place for fifty years. I’m surprised it
didn’t ‘mysteriously’ burn down.” He shined his own flashlight to the
left. “I’ll go this way.”
Silently, Sam went to the right.
Dean completed a search pattern
through the sitting room and kitchen, coming around to the front
entryway again just as Sam exited the living room. Dean gestured for
his brother to follow as he headed up the stairs.
They again split up with Dean taking
the right and Sam the other side. Dean entered a bedroom and couldn’t
help but notice the dramatic drop in temperature. “We tracked you this
far,” he said in a quiet voice. “Don’t you be thinkin’ we’re gonna give
He circled the room slowly, shining
his flashlight along the floor, walls and ceiling. The cold increased
and his breath rolled out in visible puffs. “Come out, come out
wherever you are…ya nasty son of a bitch.”
Dean’s light panned across a door on
the far side of the room and hit a tarnished doorknob covered with ice
crystals. Ignoring his increased pulse and heartbeat, he moved toward
it. He reached for the closet’s knob and gently twisted the freezing
metal handle, letting the door swing open.
He swept the flashlight beam downward
and found what they were looking for – a pile of clothes and bones
that, fifty years ago, was unconvicted child murderer, Lincoln Beets.
Now, however, it was the source of malevolent spirit activity.
“Sammy…found him!” Dean yelled out.
Crouching down, he fingered through a dust-covered flannel shirt. His
eyes narrowed in on small holes in the fabric, surrounded by dark
stains. He pushed the shirt away to expose the thoracic region of the
skeleton. He wasn’t surprised to see four .45 caliber slugs scattered
amongst the rib bones.
“Looks like a little vigilante
justice caught up with you, Beets. No wonder you’re such a pissed off
Suddenly, a small pop echoed in the
closet and the beam from Dean’s flashlight disappeared. The hairs on
the back of his neck stood up and Dean had a strong feeling it was time
to get down to business, before Beets had a chance to. Dropping the
flashlight, he quickly dipped into his jacket pocket to retrieve his
Zippo, while his other hand dug into a small drawstring pouch in an
inside pocket and came out with a handful of salt. With a snap of his
fingers he flicked open the lighter and sparked the flint.
He lowered the Zippo down close to
the body to find his target, then unlocked his fist, urgently dusting
the bones with salt. He was completely unaware of the closet door’s
movement until it slammed hard against his back and heels, knocking him
to his knees. The lighter dropped from his hands and he felt his palms
come down hard amongst the skeletal bones.
The door bounced back violently as
Dean scrambled up off of Beets’ remains. The Zippo remained true to its
reputation and remained lit, even as it lay unattended on the flannel
shirt. Dean yanked the entire pouch of salt from his pocket and rolled
backwards just as the closet door swung inward again. It slammed loudly
and the force exerted by the unseen hand cracked the door jam.
“Sonofabitch!” Dean spat. Pushing
himself to his feet he poured half the salt in a line along the bottom
of the door, shoved the bag in his pocket and reached for a small
bottle of holy water peppered with flakes of iron and silver. “Think
you know how to beat me!” he shouted at the door, charging the question
At that instant, he heard a door slam
shut down the hall, and a blast from the shotgun reverberated through
the house. A sharp cry from behind the closed door extinguished any
cockiness Dean felt and he turned instantly, sprinting through the
darkness down the hall.
Without even slowing, Dean twisted
the knob of the door at the same time he threw his body against the
hard wood. The door flew open, banging hard against the wall behind it.
The same icy temperatures that Dean experienced in the bedroom
permeated this space. In the light of a half moon shining in through a
dirty window, Dean froze at the image of Sam pinned, motionless, under
an enormous oak bookcase.
Onto Chapter 2
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