PROLOGUE
A flash of lightning gave a split-second illumination to the dark interior of the bedroom, long enough for him to catch a shadowed glimpse of the fear showing in his lover's face. Her fingers dug tighter into the sleeve of his shirt. "Stay here," she pleaded in a whisper. "Stay with me, don't go out there."
He lowered his head close to hers. "It'll be okay," he whispered back, his hand over hers gently working free of her fingers. A loud, sudden noise just outside the door made him freeze and clutch her hand hard, his heart thudding hard in his chest. After a moment, his hand relaxed again, and he whispered, "Whatever it is, I'm going to protect you. I swear. I'm not going to let it hurt you. You stay here. And no matter what, no matter what you hear, don't come out."
She took a shaky breath and nodded into her chest, her dark, wavy hair curtaining her expression.
A another violent crash of lightning made them both jump, and suddenly the locked door to the bedroom burst open.
He shoved the girl behind him and stood facing the invisible force, looking around wildly for a weapon. Moving with what felt like instinct, he reached to grab an iron poker from the fireplace set near the hearth. Gripping it with two hands, he aimed a powerful swing at the thing he couldn't see.
The rod connected solidly with something in front of him, causing whatever it was to cry out in pain.
The tone of that cry made him pause, his breath caught in his throat, and he felt himself scouring his subconscious for the source of the unease it dredged up in him. In the air in front of him, he heard ragged breathing, broken by a soft grunt and a moan. The sound of it made him waver, the rod lowering slightly. Then he felt something touch his shoulder. He yelped and leapt back, swinging again in the direction of the touch. He contacted hard with the invisible thing. The force brought another cry of pain and the sound of staggering footsteps.
He looked at the floor, frowning, puzzled by the smears and drops of red that appeared there. It shouldn't bleed, he thought disjointedly. Ghosts don't bleed.
He looked back at the girl, feeling shaken and confused. Through the darkness, he could make out her wide, fearful eyes and her hands clasped tightly to her chest, white fingers twisted into knots at the base of her delicate neck. The sight of her looking so frail and terrified steeled his resolve, and he felt a surge of adrenaline hit him like an electric shock. He couldn't let this thing hurt her. He would die before he let that happen. He spun around, brandishing the iron poker.
"Kill it!" she begged.
The sound of her voice emptied his mind of all conscious thought, and he let out a low growl as he raised the rod high over his shoulder, listening intently for the sound of its uneven breathing. He lunged forward, and as he did his foot caught on a raised loop in the oriental rug laid out before the fireplace. He came down hard, unable to catch himself, his skull cracking solidly against a sharp jut of stone from the raised hearth.
CHAPTER ONE
"Dean," Sam pleaded, "I'm not kidding. You should pull over."
Dean spared a second of his attention from the messy road to shoot his little brother a pained look. "Where?" he demanded. "Here?"
Sam swallowed hard as a car passing in the opposite direction on the narrow, two-lane road threw what seemed to be a bucket's worth of water directly into their line of sight. There was an agonizing moment of blindness until the wipers swooshed the windshield clear again, only to be immediately obscured by the crashing downpour. His hand tightened involuntarily on the door handle, imagining the car barreling forward into the darkness ahead, the tires losing their grip on the slick road and sending them careening into a ditch or tree. "Just... yes, here! On the shoulder. Look, I get that you think you're an expert behind the wheel, but-"
"Think I am? Come on, Sammy."
"Sam," he corrected.
"Sammy." Dean smirked and stole another glance over at Sam, taking in his stiff, nervous posture. "Relax, I got this. Besides, there's no shoulder here and cars are barely getting by as it is. How far are we from Dad's coordinates?"
Resigned, Sam pulled the map from under his seat, still keeping an anxious eye on the road ahead. He unfolded it along its well-worn creases and tilted it up to the window, then toward the car's interior to try and catch enough light to read the tiny type of small-town names. "Are we still on Route KK?"
"That sounds right," Dean affirmed. "This seems like the kind of town that's always just one K short of a lynch mob."
Sam raised his eyebrows, slightly horrified. "Really? Classy, Dean. Real classy."
"Eh, you know me," Dean dismissed with a shrug. "Mister classy. How far, you think?"
Sam shook his head and tilted the map again, squinting hard at it and bringing it close to his face. "About a-"
They both lurched, seat belts locking as the car jerked with a loud, grinding squeal, Sam's hands flying out to instinctively brace against the dashboard and door while Dean gripped the wheel hard and gritted his teeth, fighting for control as the tires locked up and the wipers seized in mid-stroke. He aimed for what he hoped was the side of the road, praying that they were surrounded by flat farmland and not a rain-bloated creek or steep drop-off.
Momentum carried the Impala off the road as they rode out a wild series of bumps over a grassy dip in the terrain. Sam clung to the side of the door and braced for whatever impact was sure to follow, hearing Dean's litany of curses and his staccato shit!-shit!-shit! with each jolt the car took.
Thankfully, after a moment, they rolled to a stop. An eerie stillness filled the cabin punctuated by the rain that continued to pound the roof. Sam and Dean, not daring to breathe yet, exchanged wide-eyed stares.
His hands still tightly fisted around the steering wheel, Dean leaned back and breathed out through pursed lips.
"Did we hit something?" Sam ventured at length, reaching down to retrieve the map from where it had flown in the chaos.
Dean frowned and shook his head. "That sounded mechanical. And everything just locked up all of a sudden. It's not supposed to do that."
"No shit," Sam breathed.
"Hand me the flashlight under the seat, smartass." Dean flipped the collar of his jacket up, preparing to get drenched as soon as he opened his door. Sam complied, his hand closing on the familiar feel of the, silver metal Maglight without needing to look, and flipped the "on" switch.
Nothing happened. He flipped it off, then on again, then gave it an aggravated shake.
"Are you kidding me?" Dean demanded.
Sam stared at it in disbelief. "Dude, I just replaced the batteries in this!"
"Where are the extras?"
"In the trunk," Sam said, grinning apologetically.
Dean rolled his eyes, snatching the dead flashlight from Sam and pushing open his door into the torrent outside. Sam did the same out of solidarity, meeting his brother in the rear of the car under the dubious shelter of the open trunk.
Wind howled through the open field around them, whipping Sam's bangs into his eyes and stinging his face with cold needles of rain. As Dean searched for the package of batteries, Sam peered into the distance ahead, where the road had been taking them.
"Dude!" he said, putting a hand on Dean's arm to get his attention. He pointed, and Dean followed his gaze.
Not fifty feet ahead but still difficult to make out through the sheets of rain, set back from the road, was a pale, statuesque building adorned with curving architecture, columns, and tall, stately windows stacked over three stories. A wrought-iron gate clanged against its post, trembling in the high winds.
"That look a little out of place to you?" Dean wondered out loud.
"It looks old," Sam said. "Like historical-old. Probably one of the first things they built in the area while everything out here was all farmland."
Dean looked at the expanse of nothing around them. "Was farmland?" he snarked.
"We're like fifty miles south of Independence, Dean. It's not like this is the middle of nowhere."
"Might as well be. You see any other houses or anything out here?"
Sam shook his head. "Not for a while."
"Yeah," Dean said to himself. "Nothing but a creepy, deserted old building, and no..." Dean finished inserting the new batteries and flicked the flashlight on. The light stayed dead. "Oh, come on!" He gave it a solid whack against the side of the trunk, which didn't work either.
"Just as well," Sam reasoned. "You can't fix this tonight, not in this. Come on." He nodded toward the building. "Shelter!"
To be continued.
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