A/N: Okay this came to me after re-reading a ghost story by Daniel Cohen, and is losely based on it. Hey if Toby Hooper can do it, so can I...LOL. Anywho, I wrote this tonight, last night whatever, I was up until three in the morning writing it, so if anything doesn't jive, blame it on that. I am sorry once again about the Char. death. You will see what I mean and why it had to happen later in the story. Hope this wasn't too long like this, just would not work broken up into chapters.
Discalimer: I own the story and thats it. Sammy and Dean are not mine, but oh how I wish they were, for my nights would be oh so much nicer. (Did I say that out loud?)
"Lifeless"
The stories behind the Trenton house had circulated throughout the town as long as people could remember. Not a one of them jived with the other, but since it had been so many years since the original owners had lived in the home, there was plenty of space for speculation.
The first owners, Jeremiah Trenton and his wife Ava, had lived in the house fifty years ago, and the story goes that Jeremiah came home one evening to find Ava in bed with his brother. He killed them both. What weapon, no one could agree on. It could be a gun, or an ax, even a rope. They do all agree however that the killing was brutal. Then Jeremiah supposedly killed himself in the upstairs bedroom, hanging himself from the light fixture.
Then, maybe ten years later another family moved in, but only stayed a year. It was like this for the next couple years, then it was boarded up and left to the elements. No one would go near it, not even animals. You could not even hear crickets in the tall weeds that choked the foundation. Wind failed to cause the trees and plants to flutter. Nothing colourful grew on the lawn, only weeds. The last flower to grow, was a rosebush the last owners planted, but when they moved out, it died, never to bud again.
XXXXXXXXXX
"You are not seriously thinking about staying the night here?" Sam rolled his window down and eyed the cracked house. It was a two-story colonial that had seen better days. The white exterior paint had faded and looked gray and dirty. Of the two windows that faced him, one was broken out completely, while one was partially boarded. Someone had spray painted a nasty word on the wood. The weeds touched the middle of the window, making them three and a half feet tall, at least. A heavy storm was barreling down on them, and the wind was making trees and power lines swing wildly, but Sam saw that nothing, not one blade of grass on this decrepit acreage moved. It unnerved him.
"Do you not see the potential of this shit hole?" Dean chuckled, then unhooked his seatbelt. He had wished the rain had let up just a bit. He hated thunder and lighting. Ever since he had been electrocuted, just the thought of it made him jump. Sam glared at him, but followed suit just the same. They exited the vehicle, rain slamming them hard in the face. By the time they got to the front door of the house, they were soaked from head to toe.
"Jesus, remind me never again to do something so stupid." Dean said, shaking his head like a dog. Sam smiled broadly.
"You've got yourself a deal."
Dean ignored his brother, and got to work on picking the lock. It was harder than he thought, since the lock was almost forty years old, and extremely rusty. It also seemed to be packed with something. To Dean it felt like dirt or mud, but at closer inspection, he saw that it was human skin. Falling back on the stoop and almost taking Sam down with him, he let out a slew of curse words.
"What the fuck?" He eyed the keyhole for a moment then looked up at Sammy, who just stared at him in confusion.
"What is it? What's wrong?"
Dean sat up, and wiped mud off the seat of his pants. He grunted, then looked at the keyhole again. What was most upsetting about what he had seen, was that the small piece of skin was not old and rotting, it was new and still had that human stink to it, even in the storm. Every time the wind filtered through the keyhole, he caught the smell, and wanted to gag.
"Some sick fuck has been here before us Sammy." He stood and slowly touched the handle. He wasn't sure what the hell he was doing, but instinct kicked in and he had to know more about this. Turning it, and only a little surprised to find it already unlocked, he pushed the door into a sparse entry way.
Sam looked over Dean's shoulder to see a few scraps of furniture scattered about. A small, three-legged side table was against the wall under that stairs. One leg was threatening to fall out from under it. A cracked vase was sitting askew on top, and dead tulips were scattered below.
Next to this was an antique chaise lounge. The material had once been a beautiful blue and white stripe, but now had turned gray and brown. It was torn and there was a large hole in one corner revealing a coil spring.
The oak floors were cracked and splintered and rotting away. The boys stepped cautiously around a large hole in the floor. Dean felt another one beginning to start as he set his foot down in front of the chaise. As Sam stepped beside him, the floor creaked loudly. He pushed Sam into the living fast as the floor gave way, and he disappeared into the basement.
Sam got up from the living room floor fast, and slid beside the hole.
"Dean! Dean, can you hear me?"
Dean looked around him, cursing at himself for not being at least a little more careful. Now he probably had a broken leg, and they were stuck in a psycho's house. Smooth Dean, really fucking smooth.
"Yeah," he coughed as the dust around him settled. "I hear ya man. Now get me the hell out of here." He was not mad at Sam, just mad at himself. It just came out that way.
"Um, okay. Just hold on." Then, before he could stop himself, he yelled back down to Dean. "Just don't go anywhere."
"No shit dumbass." Dean yelled back, but Sam was already running to the car for some rope. Dean stretched both his arms, checking them for any major damage. They seemed fine, at least at first glance. Then he checked his legs. He could feel them, and bend them, but his left ankle hurt really badly. He lifted himself up on a nearby table and stood on it, but the pain was too much. Dean leaned back on the table, once again cussing at himself for being an asshole.
A few minutes later, Dean heard a scraping sound. He swung around, and cringed as he put a little to much pressure on his ankle. Hopping on the right one, he saw a set of stairs at the far side of the room. Since his eyes had finally adjusted to the darkness, he could make out other objects in the cellar. He saw that on the table he had been leaning on was an old hammer and a ball of wire. The head of the hammer was held on with black tape. It had most definitely seen better days. The rest of the table was empty, save for about an inch of dirt, and something that caught Dean's attention. Carved in one corner of the small table was a name. It was 'Malcolm.' Dean traced the crude lettering gingerly, when he heard the sound again.
"Damn it Sammy, that better be you . . . " Dean reached for the hammer without knowing it. The scraping was louder now, and sounded as if it were right next to him. Gripping the hammer tight, he hopped toward the stairs, bumping into an empty paint can. It clattered noisily across the cement floor. Dean jumped, waiting to see if the owner of the noise had heard that. Holding his breath, he scanned the basement. He saw nothing. As he made the move for the stairs, something scurried past his feet, almost knocking him down. Dean dropped the hammer, and let his breath out. In the corner of the room, near the stairs, was a rat. It glared back at him for invading his space. It screeched at him, then disappeared.
"I can deal with daemons trying to steal my soul, vampires and other assorted nuts. Yet rats get under my skin. Damn it!" Dean picked the hammer up, tossed it onto the table, and sighed. Just as he began to lean against the table again, a thick rope dropped into the hole.
"Kick ass Sammy, just in time. I was getting cabin fever down here." He grabbed the rope and felt a tug.
"You were down there what, five minutes? How does that constitute as cabin fever?" Sam chuckled, and yanked at the rope.
"Quit being such a smart ass and get me the hell out of here okay?"
"Hey, I have the means, motive and opportunity. I could just drop your ass."
Dean grunted, but said nothing. A few seconds later, he was out of the basement, and back in the foyer. Sam helped his brother up, when he noticed his ankle.
"Why didn't you say anything?" He pointed to it. Dean just shrugged and hopped into the living room ignoring Sammy. This room was in pretty much the same shape as the last.
A fireplace was recessed into the far wall, bricks chipped and falling away. The screen was torn and mangled. It looked to Dean as if someone had taken a saw to it. A few pieces of kindling lay beside it, but he was sure they were too dry to be useful, or that the chimney was far too old.
A large overstuffed couch with only three legs was shoved against the two windows Sam had seen earlier. The colour was no longer discernable. There were slash marks all along the back half of it. Sam stepped closer to it, and saw what looked like blood stains. Now he was officially freaked out.
Dean sat down in a large easy chair that seemed a little too clean to him. It was a lazy boy, blue corduroy, and had a pull out foot rest. He did not really like this too much, but it was comfortable. Sam eyed this suspiciously, then sat down next to him on a small love seat. It was clean enough.
Dean leaned back and kicked his feet up. His ankle had swollen pretty badly, but he was pretending that the pain was minimal. Sam could read his brother too damn well. He saw the look on his face, and knew he was hurting. Sam stood, telling him to wait while he got some things from the car. Dean tried to argue that he was just being silly, but Sam was out the door before he could finish.
Dean waited for Sam, when he heard the same sound from the basement. It wasn't rats. The noise was above him, and was moving. As he shifted in the chair to get up, Sam burst through the door.
"Dean," His face was flushed, he looked like he had been running a marathon. He set his bag down at Deans feet and grabbed his knees. His hair fell in his face covering his eyes. This scared the hell out Dean. Something was up.
"The car . . . Someone, someone smashed up the car."
If Dean's ankle had been hurting, there was no indication of it now. He jumped off the chair and rushed out the door faster than he had ever before. Across the street where they had parked, the Chevy was covered in shadows, but even from there Dean could see that his baby was bent and broken. The windshield was gone. It had been broken in and lying all over the front seat. The hood was crumpled by the looks of some blunt object, and all four tires were slashed.
"FUCK!" Dean screamed at the top of his lungs. He punched the screen door heard, denting it even more than it was before. Turning around, he pushed past Sam, and stood at the bottom of the stairs. The last five were missing. You would have to step on the outer stringer to get to the next step.
"Hey asshole . . . " Dean placed a foot on the first empty step. Sam grabbed for him but he shoved him away. "If you're up there, come and face me like a man. It takes a REAL man to kick the shit out a car doesn't it?" Dean laughed, then stepped back. Sam touched his arm lightly, making him spin around.
"What the hell is the matter with you?" Sam looked up the stairs, the darkness stared back at him like a daemon in its death shroud. He moved closer to the stairs. Something was pulling him into the darkness. This was the biggest mistake they had ever made. Before he realized it, he was halfway up the stairs. Dean was watching him, open mouthed wondering what the hell he was doing.
"Sammy, get back here . . . "
Sam ignored him, and turned the corner. The dark engulfed him in a matter of seconds. Dean stood there, unable to do anything. As he waited, a loud bang echoed throughout the upper hallway. It was followed by a crash, then nothing. Dean was holding his breath again. He backed up against the wall next to the door, his arms around his shaking body. His ankle was throbbing, but he ignored the pain.
Some time later, a shadow passed across the stairway, causing Dean's heart to skip a beat. He wished to God he decided against this trip. It had been nothing but a goddamn disaster thus far. He just hoped that Sammy was okay. If so they would just get the hell out of here.
As if he had heard his thoughts, Sam emerged from the darkness, cobwebs stuck to his hair and shirt. He was futilely pulling at them. In his left hand was a box with some papers sticking out. A single word was scrawled on it. 'Trenton.'
After working his way down the stairs, Sam shoved the box into Dean's chest. He made no move to grab for it.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" He pushed the box back at his brother who looked offended, as if you had just run over his dog.
"You wanted to be here."
"Yeah, that was before I screwed up my ankle, and found out that Ed Gein lived here." Dean took a step, and he hit the floor. Sam grabbed him and led him into the living room. Dean sat down hard on the chair. Sam set the box down and picked the bag up that he had dropped earlier. Inside were some medicine and an ace bandage. Giving the pills to Dean, he began to wrap his brother's ankle. Dean sucked air between his teeth every time Sammy touched the skin with the wrapping.
"You and your cockiness." He stuck the metal pins into the cloth and looked at Dean who had just downed three pain pills. "You always think you're so goddamn hard all the time. One day it's gonna get you killed."
"Yeah whatever. What's in the box Nancy Drew?" Dean cocked his head toward the torn, dusty box.
Sam drug it over to the love seat and sifted through it. The first few items meant nothing to him, but the next item jumped out. It was a deed to the house. Jeremiah Trenton had bought the house fifty years ago in April 10th, 1957. He and his wife Ava paid about $20, 000 for it then, which was a lot of money. He was a surgeon and she was a nurse. This Sam locked away for later reference. A few papers later and he saw another paper of interest.
"Hey Dean, says here they were married in June of '56, and they had a son in . . . " Sammy read quietly to himself a minute, then looked up. He was calculating something. Dean watched him intently. Then Sam's face was full of confusion. He handed Dean the paper he was holding.
"Dean, I know I added this right, but . . . "
Dean looked at the paper. It read: Date of Marriage June 7th 1956, Date of birth January 19th 1949. Dean looked it over twice. He knew that it was not that rare to have children out of wedlock, but seven years? This looked like it was written by someone who had been trying to figure it out themselves.
"Hey Dean, look at this . . . " Sam handed him a couple other papers. One was the birth certificate, and one was the marriage licence. The birth certificate had the child's name, the same name that Dean had seen carved into the table in the cellar. The name of the mother was Ava Trenton (Mason), the father was penned with different ink as was Ava's. It was if it had been blank, and Ava had put Jeremiah's in later.
"Oh my god . . . Dean, look at this." Sam thrust a book into his brother's hands. It was a photo album. There was a picture of a young Malcolm. It said he was seven years old. He was standing next to an older man, his uncle the picture said, and they were both smiling. Writing had been scribbled across their faces in red ink. 'This is my daddy, mommy lied . . . '
Dean dropped the book on the floor. It made a hollow thud. Sam caught the look of horror on his older brother's face, and it mirrored on his own.
"We have to get out of here, now." Dean stood, pain shooting up his left leg. Sam grabbed him, lifting him with all the strength he could muster. Dragging him toward the front door, they were stopped by a looming figure in the doorway.
He stood maybe 6'8", with scraggly black hair that fell to his waist. His jet black eyes burned into them with a fire they had never felt before. He was wearing a coat that was not normal leather. Sam could see that it was human hide, cured and pressed with pride. His shirt and pants were also human skin. His own skin was yellow and tighter than that of a drum. You could see every bone. Sam wanted to scream.
"Mommy and daddy were bad parents." Even though he spoke with a child's verbiage, his voice was that of someone beyond his years. It was grainy and rough, like that of a chain smoker.
"They treated Mal like a bad boy. They lied. So they had to be punished." He rubbed his chin, smiling. Sam saw a ring made of bone on his left ring finger, and he gagged.
"Now, I have to punish you, it's just the way it has to be . . . " He continued smiling as he pulled a knife made of bone from a small satchel over his shoulder. Sam knew what this was, knew what he had made this out of. He and Dean backed up, almost falling into the hole. They edged their way into the living room, Malcolm never missing a beat.
As Malcolm got closer, Dean suddenly got his strength back. He shoved Sam onto the broken couch, sending a cloud of dust up into the air, blocking Sam's view for a few moments. Dean stood in front of Malcolm as best he could.
"You want to try anything, you start with me." He swung his arms out, exposing his chest. Malcolm smiled. "You just leave my baby brother the fuck out of this." Malcolm nodded, then thrust the knife in, clean up to the hilt. Dean leaned forward, grabbing the man's skin clan arm. Dean eyed him closely, Malcolm's smile never ceasing.
"You got your wish." He walked forward, pushing Dean out of the living room and into the dining room. He slammed the door behind him, locking it. Sam recovered from the slew of dust particles, just as the door slammed in front of him. He jumped from the couch and ran for the door, banging and kicking at the barrier. As he slammed his fists on the wood, he heard screaming.
"Dean! Dean, goddamn it! No!" He punched the door hard, splintering it, causing some of the pieces to embed themselves in his hand. Blood dripped onto the door and down onto the floor. He kept kicking, when he heard a gurgling sound, then silence. He stopped hitting the door, and slid to the floor in sobs. Dean was gone, he was alone, and now he would die here.
A minute later the door opened and Malcolm emerged, blood soaked and still smiling. He saw Sam crying on the floor, hesitated only a second, and grabbed him by the hair. Sam snapped out of his daze and flailed wildly. Malcolm ignored this foolishness, and tossed Sam into the room. He hit the far wall hard, knocking him unconscious.
An hour later Sam awoke, a nasty bump on the back of his head. He tried moving his legs but he found they were strapped down, as was the rest of his body. He looked down to see that he was lying, naked, on the dining room table. Fresh and dried blood was all over the walls, the table and the chandelier. The blood on the latter cast the room in eery shadows, making the room look as if bugs were crawling the walls.
To Sam's left there was a Victorian high back chair. Sitting in it was the man he had seen in the photo. He was remarkably well preserved. Black hair, blue eyes, thin, about 6'5". He was wearing black dress slacks and a white dress shirt. His arms and legs were crossed in front of him. To his right, the sight made his heart sink. There was Dean, his lifeless body hanging from a skin puller, his arms outstretched. There were deep cuts at his neck, wrists and ankles. Where Malcolm had stuck him with the knife, he had sewn him up with a doctor's precision.
Tears fell from Sam's eyes. He felt a pang of guilt for what he had said to him earlier, for telling Dean that his being hard was going to get him killed. He just wished this was over.
Malcolm, as if reading his mind, stepped into the room holding some wire and his knife. Sam caught sight of this, and started moving. Malcolm only laughed.
"Oh how your brother squirmed. It was beautiful." He touched the knife to Sam's naked chest. It was cold to the touch. He shivered. "I will relish in killing you."
"Why?" Sam breathed hard, not sure what he was saying. Malcolm set his implements down on the table. "Why us, what the fuck did we ever do to you? Why not stop at mommy and daddy?"
Malcolm touched Sam softly, his skin rougher than his voice, and twice as thick. His hands traced Sam's body, his tongue darting in and out like a lizard. When he reached Sam's legs, he pulled them as far apart as the straps allowed.
"You see, daddy, my real daddy, was mommy's brother." He ran his hands up Sam's thighs making him feel sick all over again. "The story was so full of holes over the years, no one knew what was real and what was fiction. She loved daddy ever since grandpa died, accidently." He looked into Sam's eyes, and caught a glimpse of something, something he wasn't sure he had seen before. He continued all the same.
"Well, when I came along, things became a little difficult. She had to become a respectable woman, so she met Jeremiah, tried to pass him of as my new daddy. He knew the story. He knew what she had done. Yes, he did come home that day to find her in bed with another man, but it was my daddy. They fought, he hit her, and I heard all this. He killed daddy, so I killed him. She wanted to send me away, to put me in an asylum, so I took her life as well. Don't they look lovely on me?" Malcolm said all this so matter-of-factly. Sam watched him the entire time, and as each word came out of his mouth, he became more and more terrified.
"I've been here ever since, living in the attic. Anyone that tries to invade my home . . . well you get the idea." He pointed at Dean. This time Sam vomited, half of it ended up his nose, making it hard to breathe.
"Oh, let me, we don't want you dying yet." He wiped at Sam's face with a bloody rag, sending more vomit past his lips. "Oh my. Well, I think I've said enough. It's time to get to work."
He set the rag aside, and picked up the knife. Slowly moving to Sam's ankles, he made a shallow cut around both of them. Sam groaned, tightening his fists. Malcolm closed his eyes, then leaned down and licked at Sam's cuts. He wanted to kick his face in.
Then he moved up to Sam's wrists doing the same here. Blood dripped onto the already filthy floor. Sam felt dizzy and lightheaded. As Malcolm moved to Sam's neck, he was close to passing out.
"Oh no, you have to see everything, you have to enjoy it with me." He went back to Sam's wrists and began to suck on them. Sam felt warm, then extremely hot. His eyes shot open, and he grabbed at Malcolm's head. Yanking at his long hair, he could feel some of it rip off in his hand without much trouble. This only made him laugh.
"Now you shouldn't have gone and done that." His hand touched the spot, and Sam caught sight of blood and tendons. Jesus Christ.
"Time to finish things." He lifted Sam's head up and lightly cut around his neck. He felt cold again. Malcolm set the knife down and grabbed the wire. Stretching it all the way out, he wrapped it around Sam's ankles. He pulled it taught, and began sawing back and forth. Sam screamed out as he felt his skin being cut from his body. Malcolm continued with the next ankle, spraying blood onto Sam's leg. Sam beat his hand against the table, unable to do anything against the pain. As Malcolm continued his slicing, Sam caught sight of the knife to his right. Malcolm was busy, so Sam grabbed it.
Malcolm finished his left ankle and moved toward Sam's right wrist, when he thrust the knife into his groin, twisting it around two times. Malcolm screeched loudly, and hit the floor writhing in pain. Sam cried out, emotions overtaking him. He screamed Dean's name, then struggled against the straps. He could feel the one across his chest coming loose as he moved, thus giving him more motivation. Sam could still hear Malcolm yelling below him, so he knew he still had time on his side. He sat up hard, and the strap snapped. He pulled his legs out of the lower strap, and felt warm blood and stinging as he did. Flinging his legs over the opposite side of the table, he tried standing on his feet, but the pain was too great, and he hit the floor hard.
Looking behind him, Malcolm was gone. Sam spun around, and saw nothing, no one. The room was empty, save the body on the chair across the room. He struggled to pull himself along the floor, trying to get to a small sofa at the end of the room, when he felt a presence behind him. Too scared to turn around, he closed his eyes, and held his breath. A hand settled on his shoulder, making tears flow once again.
"You . . . failed!" The last thing he felt, was a knife entering just below the nape of his neck.