Tecumseh

By Tidia & MOG, May 2006

SnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsN

Chapter 1/18

Millerton, 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 there, Bones?”

“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 up now.”

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 old ghost.”

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 with bravado.

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.

“Sam! Sammy!”

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.

SnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsN

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