Tecumseh

By Tidia & MOG, May 2006

SnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsN

Chapter 8/18

The morning sun fought to burn through a layer of gray clouds when Dean and Sam pulled up to Uncle Frankie’s house. The older man sat in a lawn chair in his front yard, looking like he was interested in little more than watching the world go by. His long, jean-clad legs stretched out, allowing the heels of his boots to dig into the dirt patch terrain. A pair of aviator sunglasses shielded his eyes from the sun and from view.
Dean shifted the Impala into Park as Frankie approached the driver’s side. The older man smiled at Dean. “You gonna let me drive?”

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Uh, no. But I’ll let you get in the back seat.” He gestured for Frankie to enter on his brother’s side. Sam opened the door and stepped out to give the older man room to get in.

Within a minute of being on the road, Frankie stretched his arms across the backseat and settled in comfortably. “Damn, Dean, it’s like you’re my chauffeur.” He clasped his hands briefly before rubbing them together in a dramatic fashion. “Pull up along side of somebody and ask them for some Grey Poupon.”

Sam turned his face toward the window but did little to hide his smile. It was always so amusing when someone managed to push his brother’s buttons.

“Where exactly are we going?” Dean asked bluntly, while turning up the radio.

Sam mumbled under his breath. “And why are we in this handbasket?”

Frankie settled into his seat and pointed vaguely forward. “Just go that way till I tell you to turn.”

SnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsN

Sam spotted the house a half a block away. He silently hoped he was wrong, but his instincts told him their destination was the two-story, purple home with coral-colored trim.
“Up here on the right,” said Frankie, “with the orange mailbox.”

“How did I know,” Sam mumbled. He exchanged a look with his brother as Dean pulled up to the curb and shut the engine off. Dean raised his eyebrows but Sam couldn’t tell if it was due to being impressed or slightly afraid. The lawn décor was like nothing they’d ever seen.

They let Frankie lead the way up the narrow path. From one far corner of the yard a flock of no fewer than 15 plastic pink flamingos stared at them with black, beady eyes. A small fishpond had attracted a herd of miniature cement goats and one aqua-colored burro, pulling a stone cart of the same hue. Closer to the house, a two-foot tall plastic goose was dressed in witch regalia, complete with pointed hat and long, black cape.

Brass raccoons, ceramic elves, polyethylene camels. Stone and plastic creatures, both real and mythical, were positioned so that all eyes were upon any visitors coming up the walk. Sam felt the urge to move slow and quiet, lest he stir anything into aggression. He jerked back suddenly, bumping into his brother, as one of the animals moved.

“Damn – is that a rat!”

Dean saw it too when it scampered away into a hedge. A long, bushy tail added to the complete picture of the creature he’d seen in Ben’s yard.

“No, no – it’s like a big mouse-rabbit thing. Frankie, look! There – what is that?”

Frankie looked over his shoulder to where Dean pointed. “It’s a garden gnome...what does it look like?”

“No,” Dean sputtered, “behind that. There was…”

Frankie, however, was already clomping up the porch steps. He’d pulled the screen door open and turned the front door handle before Sam caught up to him.

“Um…should we knock, or something?”

Frankie dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. “We’re friends! Scarlett!”

He pushed open the door and walked through the entryway into the living room. “Bezon!” He glanced back at Sam. “That’s Shawnee for ‘hello’…see, ya learn something new every day.”

A fierce scream pierced the air and a formidable looking, older Native American woman burst through a doorway at the far end of the living room. One hand raised a Louisville Slugger over her head, ready to strike. The other hand maintained a grip on a highball glass, filled a third of the way with ice cubes and a whiskey-colored liquid.

Her yell faded as Sam and Dean’s surprised shouts echoed through the house. In a split second, Dean’s brain ran through a list of what kind of evil incarnation this could be; and what would be the best weapon to use against it.

The woman stopped abruptly and stared at Frankie. “You bastard, you scared me half to death! Who says you can just walk into my house!”

“Scarlett, ulethi equi’wa--”

“Don’t you ‘beautiful woman’ me, you son of a--”

Frankie interrupted smoothly. “Boys, meet Ms. Scarlett Ellis. Scarlett, this is Dean and Sam. They want to check out the Mission.”

Frankie smiled and slipped the highball glass from Scarlett’s hand. He took a sip, ignoring the baseball bat that now rested on her shoulder. Scarlett, meanwhile, appraised the Winchester boys with a careful eye, and Sam stood a little straighter under the scrutiny.

Scarlett shrugged. “Two teams in as many days. You’re more than welcome to try.”

She paused deliberately to watch Frankie as he walked to the kitchen. A seductive growling sound emanated from her throat. “I tell ya, that man has the finest ass in three counties.”

Dean coughed, muffling a laugh. Sam's eyes widened briefly, mortified by the woman's show of brazenness in front of strangers. Finding his voice, he directed her back to the topic at hand. “Someone investigated already?”

“Have a seat, honey. Where are my manners?” Scarlett leaned the bat against the wall and sat on the edge of the couch, crossing her legs. Her long, broomstick skirt bunched up and from Sam's position he noted the gray-shaded tattoo of a cherub-faced child on the outside of her left calf. It was only a head-and-shoulders portrait and Sam suspected the baby might have been around a year old.

He didn't mean to stare, but the artist had captured such beauty and innocence in the baby's large, dark eyes and the curve of its little, pursed lips. Frozen in time, the infant would forever have a glow of peace.

It struck Sam as a memorial piece and he felt embarrassed when he glanced up and noticed Scarlett watching him.

“Wasn’t I a beautiful baby?" she asked, studying the artwork on her leg. "I wanted to have it put on my backside, if ya know what I mean, that way it would stay baby soft. But then I thought it would sag too much.”

Sam tried to think of something nice to say, but words had escaped him completely and he simply nodded.

“You were saying you had another team?” Dean asked. He subtly knocked his brother on the leg to pull back Sam's focus.

From a pile on the coffee table, Scarlett gave them each a brochure with a sketch of an inn on the cover.

“Oh yes, honey. I decided to open a B and B at the Mission - I think it’s just what this town needs to attract tourism.” Scarlett clasped her hands together in her lap and leaned forward. “I like to think my second husband has guided my hand as I’ve spent his life insurance payout. He was perrrfect, said I had quite a mind for business.”

“Yeah, I can see that.” Dean was starting to understand why Ben had wished them luck that morning before they'd left.

“I’m perfect!” Frankie stated, patting himself on the chest as he entered from the kitchen and caught the tail end of the conversation.

Scarlett ignored him. “So, I bought the Wheelock Mission. There’ve always been stories about it. I figured it would add to the ambiance." She waved her hands in a gentle, dramatic fashion.

"Stories?" queried Sam.

"I'm gettin' there, honey. It used to be one of those ridiculous Indian schools. Train up the redman to be white. In this case, it was redwoman. It was a girls’ school run by some sisters - the nun-type, not the family kind. Three Cherokee girls were murdered there. Oh, when was it, early 1900's?

“It was fine up until a few weeks back. Peter, my contractor, him and his boys knocked out a couple of walls for the bedrooms and since then they've been hearing footsteps, knocking, voices. One of them said he saw blood oozing from the tree trunks out front. Like I need that. When one of the guys said he was pushed halfway down the stairs that go up to the second floor-”

“She figured she should get somebody in to see what could be done.” Frankie dropped down on the couch. Scarlett took her glass from him and appraised the lower liquid level.

“You could have at least refreshed it if you were going to drink this much.” She focused again on Dean and Sam. “I called some people, like Ghostbusters, but on the up-and-up. They were there last night, but now they say they can’t go back in. They said something about calling their consultant. What is that about? A consultant for ghosts?”

Sam narrowed in on the history. “I'm sorry, if I could back up a little, you said murdered?”

“Somebody broke in one night, stabbed three,” replied Scarlett. “Just little girls, somewhere around 7 or 9 years old, I think. They never figured out who did it.” She looked at Frankie and he took up more of the story.

“They had at least a couple of suspects,” he said, “but there was never a trial. Didn’t matter much back then, ‘cause the girls weren’t white.”

“But ever since I was little,” said Scarlett, “people always talked about seeing things in the trees out front. Nobody said anything about getting pushed down stairs. Who’s going to want that in a bed and breakfast?”

Dean raised an eyebrow at Frankie. “Gee, I thought you would have dealt with it by now, you being a witch doctor and all. Frankie Metis - the myth, the legend; yeah, riiight.” He grinned, delighting in his first opportunity to annoy the older man since the chauffeur comment.

“I deal with the here and now,” replied Frankie, patting Scarlett’s leg, “not the past.” He moved over on the couch to sit closer to the woman but she pushed him away playfully. “And I’m still the legend, ask Scarlett.”

Sam interrupted quickly. “You mind if we check it out?”

“Oh, honey, be my guest. I’ll offer you the same I offered the last team – ten thousand if you can clean that place.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “That would be dollars?”

“You can call those other guys if you want – like a tag team. Like I say, honey, the more the merrier,” Scarlett patted Frankie’s hand. “Well, when you’re drinking at least...and dancing...and debaucherizing.”

As Sam and Dean stood, Dean looked at Uncle Frankie. The man remained unmoving next to Scarlett. “You coming?”

Frankie replied, while still holding Scarlett’s gaze. “I’ll make my way back.”

Sam was already edging towards the front door, eager for escape before witnessing anything that would burn a disturbing image into his brain for life. He held up the brochure in his hand. “Okay then, um…looks like we’ve got directions. Are there keys, or….”

Scarlett motioned toward the entryway. “There’s a set in the basket by the door. The ones with the Troll keychain. Those ghost people’s card is there too. I wrote the address of their hotel on the back.”

Five seconds later, Sam was on his way out the door. He was leaning against the passenger’s door of the Impala by the time Dean made his way down the front path. Unlocking Sam’s door, Dean grinned at his brother’s apprehensive expression and circled around to the driver’s side as Sam spoke.

“You know these people are touched.” He held up the two-inch tall Troll keychain, showing Dean the flame orange hair and creepy plastic perma-smile.

“What, Sammy, a little senior love got you freaked?” Dean opened his door and leaned on the roof. “I like them.”

“You would,” replied Sam, before dropping into the passenger’s seat and pulling the door closed.

SnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsnsN

Onto Chapter 9

Home



Uploaded by Majs