New Orleans:
Michael lay awake, the covers of his bed clutched tight in his hands. The room was cast in long shadows, made to dance by the flickering streetlight outside his bedroom window.
He could hear them again.
Soft, whispering voices, just on the edge of hearing. Pleading. Begging. Help us. Somebody, please help us… Michael tried desperately not to make a sound, trying even not to breathe, in case they heard him, came for him… His eyes were wide, flitting from one corner of the room to another, searching for them, but hoping that they weren't there. His grip tightened on the covers, distorting the printed fabric face of Buzz Lightyear into an evil grimace. The hiss of voices grew louder, more demanding, the anger rising in their words. Why won't you help us? Why? WHY? WHY WON'T YOU HELP US! Michael's heart felt like it wanted to pound its way out of his chest and the terror that gripped him became overwhelming. He whimpered, the sob muffled by the duvet that half covered his face. The roar of disembodied voices reached a deafening crescendo and washed over him like the sea punching through a levee. "Mommy!" His eyes were wide with fright as the shadows closed in around his bed. Would his mom be able to hear him through the screams and raging words that filled Michael's senses? "Mommy!" The boy was terrified. "Mommy! MOMMY!" He screamed, a piercing yell that shattered through the din. He couldn't stop screaming – he screamed and screamed and screamed…
"Michael! It's OK, baby, it's OK! Mommy's here, Michael, Mommy's here!" Mary rushed into the room, her arms winding protectively around her hysterical son. She pulled him close to her, rocking him, trying to calm him. "Baby, sssh! It's OK, honey, it was just a nightmare, baby, just a nightmare! Ssssh…" She held him tight, stroking his soft, blond hair. Mary felt the child start to relax a little, but the sobs continued to send judders through his body.
A shadow appeared in the doorway of the room, and a sleep-addled Alex stared in at his wife and child. Alex had to get up for duty in two hours, and he was not best pleased at being woken by yet another one of the child's bad dreams. Fighting fires required all your wits and concentration. Alex loved his job. But he loved his family too, and the genuine terror on the young boy's face turned his annoyance into concern. He padded softly into the room and sat on the edge of the bed, a look of anxiety passing between him and Mary. The nightmares were getting worse. The child psychologist had said that Michael would go through phases of these nightmares, as the trauma of what had happened two years ago gradually worked its way from deep in the child's subconscious to the surface. It was a good thing, he had claimed. Alex wished sincerely that the shrink were here, right now, looking at the terror in Michael's face. That dreadful night when Hurricane Katrina had smashed her way into all their lives, destroyed their home and killed their neighbours, and reducing the whole district to rubble. And then the aftermath. The vision of Hell as the bloated bodies floated in the sewerage tainted water. The roar of the levee finally giving way. The horror of the little boy stranded alone in the house. His mother, fighting to get back into the house before the wall of water dragged her grip from the doorhandle. She was swept five blocks before someone managed to drag her unconscious body from the water. It had been hours before she could manage to get back to the house and her son. In those hours, the boy had witnessed what seemed to an eight-year-old as the end of the world. Crying for help, for his parents. His father had pulled a 36-hour shift, fighting alongside his colleagues to save the lives of the thousands of victims of the tempest Mother Nature had hurled at them. The sheer fury of the hurricane had made Alex think that Mother Nature hadn't sent that storm at all. It came straight from Hell itself. And Michael had been alone. All that time. Jesus. No wonder the kid was traumatised! Alex had witnessed many of the fire-fighters and emergency crews who had nearly died themselves trying to save others go through the same. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, they had neatly categorised it. It sounded almost benign. But Alex knew there was nothing benign about the trauma his son had gone through. He lay a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. "Hey, little man! It's OK now. Nothing's gonna hurt you now, Daddy and Mommy will make sure of that, son. OK?" He smiled and stroked the back of the boy's head. Michael clung to his mother like a drowning man clings to a life preserver. Mary tried to coax the details of the nightmare out of the child.
"Sweetie? What was the dream about? Wanna tell me, honey?" The boy's sobs were becoming more sporadic and his breathing was less gasping as he managed to speak.
"It… it wasn't a dream! They were here! They were angry at me…"
"Who was angry at you, baby?"
"They were. They said we didn't help them. They said they were mad because nobody tried to save them."
Mary gave Alex a questioning look and he shrugged a reply. He was as confused as she was. This wasn't the usual, 'Monsters in the Closet' kind of nightmare. This was something else. Something worse… "Michael, baby? Who are they?" Michael buried his face deep into his mother's embrace. "They died in the water. There were so many of them. I couldn't see their faces, they were all covered in mud and slime. It wasn't a dream, Mommy! THEY WERE HERE!" Michael's grip on his mother was almost painful. Mary was startled at the strength in the slightly-built boy. She winced as the grip tightened – it felt as if her ribs were about to crack. She threw a pleading look at her husband, who put his powerful hands under his son's arms and prised him loose.
"C'mon little man, let's get you downstairs. We'll have some milk and cookies until you feel better, yeah?" He swung his small son up and carried him to the doorway, the boy's arms wrapped around his father's neck, his blond head buried in his dad's shoulder. Alex glanced back at his wife and shook his head. Mary watched the two of them climb down the stairs, her hand rubbing at her arm where Michael's fingers had pushed into the flesh. She looked at the angry red marks on her skin – they were going to bruise up badly. Mary got up to follow her family downstairs but stopped in her tracks as the barely audible hiss of voices began. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and she turned slowly, a sense of dread filling her. The voices grew louder, louder…
Alex opened the refrigerator and pulled a carton of milk out. He closed the door and turned back to the table where his son sat, pale, wide eyed; his delicate hands clenched around an empty glass. Alex ruffled the boy's hair as he poured the milk into the glass. The child didn't respond, the haunted look still darkening his normally bright blue eyes. "Michael, these nightmares you've been having, son." Alex sat down next to the boy. He laid a hand on the boy's clenched fingers, urging the child to listen to him, to hear him, to be comforted by him. "They're not real, son. They're just made up of bad memories. Of things you saw when you were little. But they'll go away, son, I promise you. They can't hurt you, you know? Everybody was scared, Michael, everybody. I was scared! We all were. But we can't let that fear control the rest of our lives, son. And Mom and I will make sure you're never on your own like that again, Michael, I promise you. But these dreams are just that, Michael, just dreams. They aren't real, they're just dr…"
The scream shattered the quiet of the house. "MARY!" Alex sprinted from the kitchen, the carton of milk discarded and spilling white liquid in a frothing torrent all over the floor. Michael moaned in fear, the moan building into a wail as his father pounded up the stairs. "MARY!" Alex slid into Michael's room, a knot of fear twisting in his stomach. His worst fear lay in front of him on the carpet. "Oh god! No! NO! NO!" Mary lay flat on her back, her eyes open, her mouth fixed in a death mask grimace that told of those last, terrifying seconds. She was ringing wet, slime and weeds clinging to her soaking night-dress. Just as she had looked when his neighbour had pulled her from the flood. He dropped to his knees and stroked her matted hair, tears of horror and confusion running down his cheeks. How? How had this happened? Why had this happened?
Dean took another bite of the congealed burger and pulled a face. "Oh man, that is just nasty!" He spat the burger back into its wrapper, screwed up the paper with one hand and tossed the trash onto the back seat of the Impala. He swilled his mouth out with tepid coffee, but the greasy after-taste persisted. "Ugh!" He grimaced again and glanced at his watch. Sammy was taking his time… Dean sat back and waited, admiring the view from the window. The view was about five foot eight, slim and brunette. Her tight jeans complemented her curves perfectly and she flashed a smile at Dean as she sashayed past. He grinned back at her, putting on his best, "Cheeky chappy, loveable rogue" impression. Worked every time. He was just about to open his mouth to say hello to the view when the passenger door creaked open and Sam clambered in, slamming the door shut. "OK, Dean, we've definitely got something here. Ash says that the weather patterns are all over the place and paranormal activity in the area is off the scale. Dude, this stuff is weird man, even for us! Reports are all over the press about weird stuff going on in New Orleans, especially the areas that were destroyed when the levees broke. It seems…" Sam paused and looked at his older brother. Dean was grinning like an idiot at some slim brunette. "Dean?" Sam clicked his fingers millimetres from his brother's ear. Dean flinched and his head snapped around, a look of mild annoyance and barely hidden mischief on his face.
"What? What?"
Sam looked vaguely annoyed. He knew his brother was teasing him. He had heard every word, but somehow had the remarkable ability to focus on his job and ogle the nearest pretty girl at the same time. Mind you, Sam had to admit that the brunette was a stunner… He lost himself in a stare. A hard punch on the arm brought him back to the here and now.
"Hey! I saw her first! Ogle your own, little brother!" Dean grinned at him. "Now. What's this about New Orleans?"
"So you were listening?"
"Of
course. Ash was talking about the weather patterns?"
Sam was
impressed. Dean had taken one relevant fact from the conversation and
used it to cover his pre-occupation with the brunette, thus ensuring
that Sam's feelings were not slighted by being ignored whilst
talking. Sam suddenly wished he hadn't taken Psyche 101. Perhaps
that's where his tendency to over-analyse everything came from. He
grinned. Busted. Back to business. "Plus there's been some
strange deaths. One in particular. The woman drowned."
"Wow, Sammy, that's really strange. A woman drowned. In New Orleans. A town renown for its violent weather patterns and frequent flooding. And it's strange how, exactly?"
"She was in her bedroom. Two floors up. And it hasn't rained in New Orleans for three weeks. They're in the middle of a heatwave. And, smart-ass, it was three am and she was covered in slime and mud. So unless she decided to take an early morning stroll down to the canal, throw herself in and then walk back six blocks and die of drowning on a bedroom floor, I'd say it was a pretty normal death by drowning story, wouldn't you?" Sam gave Dean a "get out of that one!' look. Dean nodded and grinned. He let Sammy have the victory. Dad had been right. He was going to make a damn good hunter. Dean clicked into his business-mode.
"OK, that is weird. So what are we dealing with here? Angry spirits? Because after what happened in that place during Hurricane Katrina, there must be plenty of pretty damn pissed off spirits wandering the streets. Did you get any background on her?"
"I think it may be more than that, Dean. I mean, normally it takes a long time for a spirit to build up enough anger to kill. I don't know, maybe we're dealing with something older here. What was that case you worked before down there? You know? The one you mentioned when you first called in on me?"
Dean remembered that night. He hadn't seen Sam in two years. Well, not face to face, anyway. He had swung by the university regularly to check and make sure that Sam was safe and well. How things had changed…
"Voodoo."
"Voodoo? Seriously?"
"Oh very much so, yes." Dean shuddered. That son of a bitch had taken some serious putting down. Dean had had nightmares about it for several weeks after. "No, Sam, I don't think this is voodoo. That tends to have very ritualistic elements to it, you know, chicken feathers, that kinda thing. There's none of this here." He was scanning the article from the newspaper. Like Sam said, the woman had been found on her son's bedroom floor. The official post mortem said she had drowned, her lungs filled with filthy, sewerage tainted water. The trouble was, the floods had long gone two years previously, and the family lived nowhere near any rivers, levees or canals. So how had she ended up covered in mud and slime, two floors up? He looked up at his brother. "Looks like we're going to Mardi Gras, Sammy." He grinned. "And if a girl wearing a lot of beads chats you up, feel free to, you know, catch some you time!" He grinned again and turned the key of the Impala. The V8 coughed and growled into life and headed south…
Mamma Deveau sang quietly to herself as she stirred the pot. The kitchen was spotless – not the kind of environment you would expect a high priestess of voodoo to work in. There were no bubbling cauldrons, no poppets filled with pins hanging from twine, none of the usual paraphernalia that someone who knew nothing about the belief in an ancient and essentially benign religion would expect to see. Mamma Deveau was a healer. Her knowledge of remedies covering everything from depression through to blood poisoning was extensive. But so was her knowledge about the other side of things. The spirits were angry. She could feel them all around her, hear them whispering and pleading for help. For justice. For revenge. Every door and window frame was sprinkled with goofer dust to keep them out. During daylight, it wasn't too bad. But at night, in the darkness…
A knock at her door pulled her attention away from the pot. She quickly put it to one side to stop the contents spoiling and wiped her hands on her apron. Through the frosted glass, she could make out the figures of two men. One of them she recognised instantly. "Dean!" She threw the door open and enveloped the man in a huge bear-hug. Dean hugged her back, genuine pleasure at seeing the woman again on his face. Sam stared. There was obviously more to his brother than he realised. Mamma Deveau pulled back and beamed at Dean. "Let me look at you! Dean Winchester, you been eatin' right? You're just skin and bones, chile!" She turned to Sam her deep brown eyes staring into his. A puzzled look crossed her face. "Well, well. So you finally brought your little brother with you this time, huh?" Dean smiled.
"Sam? Meet Mamma Deveau. Mamma Deveau? This is…"
"Sam, yes, yes, I know Dean." She held out a large hand. "Pleased to meet you, Sam. Come in, come in!" The large woman bustled the two men into an immaculate living room and sat them down. Within seconds it seemed, a steaming pot of coffee and a pile of cakes sat on the table. Dean didn't need asking. He tucked in happily to a slice of cake, the crumbs tumbling down his chin and onto the cushion of the sofa. He brushed them absent-mindedly onto the floor and then suddenly realised what he was doing. His hand stopped in mid-air and he looked up guiltily at Mamma Deveau. He chewed twice and swallowed.
"Sorry."
"You will be, boy. Dust-Buster is in the cupboard." Dean put the half-eaten slice of cake down and stood up, more crumbs cascading down onto the floor. "Damn boy, you just makin' it worse! Sit down and sit still for a moment!" Mamma Deveau busied herself sucking up the crumbs with the Dust-Buster, put it back in it's cupboard and picked a small plate covered with a napkin. She thrust the plate out at Dean, who took it apologetically and laid his cake on the napkin. Sam could barely contain his laughter. Dean glared at Sam. Sam couldn't stop himself and broke into a broad grin at the sight of his brother's discomfort. He put his cup down. Straight onto the table. With no coaster under it. Dean winced and looked away. Mamma Deveau looked fit to explode. "Goddamn it Sam, you as bad as he is!" A coaster seemed to magically appear under the cup and Mamma Deveau sat herself down on the sofa opposite the two now squirming brothers. Her big arms folded over her chest, and suddenly the expression changed from one of annoyance at their appalling manners to a warm grin.
"Anyway, Winchester. What you doin' back in this neighbourhood then? Ain't no problem here with him since you put him back in his grave."
"It's not him, Mamma. It's this." Dean pulled out the newspaper article and held it out to the woman. She took it and scanned it quickly.
"Oh yes. Strange case, this one. That poor child."
"Yeah. I don't understand it, though. She drowned in her son's bedroom." Dean leaned forward. Sam recognised that his brother was in full-on business mode. It was a side of Dean Sam had seen only rarely. Usually he was full of flippancy. The serious side meant that this was something big…
"No, I mean the woman's child, Dean. Dreadful case."
"Wanna fill in the gaps for me?"
"Promise not to spill any more food on my carpet?"
"Promise."
"OK then." She picked up a cup and leaned back into the sofa. "Two years ago, we kinda had a bit of a storm down here."
"Hurricane Katrina."
"Yeah, if you wanna give it a fancy name. No point givin' a name to something that comes from Hell, Dean. Givin' it a name gives it an identity. Give it an identity and you give it a soul. That storm had no soul, Dean. It took everything. Our homes, our city, our families, everything. And that little boy lived through it. When the levees broke, his part of town was hit by a damn flood that Noah would've been proud of. His momma was washed away as she tried to get back into the house. He saw her bein' tossed around in the water like a leaf." She paused and took a mouthful of coffee. "She was lucky. Six blocks down, she was pulled from the water by a neighbour. Film crew was on hand to capture the rescue. The footage went international. Anyway, she survived and eventually got back to the house, to find her son near outta his mind with fright. He'd been in the house on his own for nearly two days. His daddy's a firefighter, so he was out rescuin' people. But that poor little boy saw everything – dead bodies floatin' up against the window, and all the time on his own."
"Jesus." Sam could imagine the agony of the little boy as he stood there, alone, watching the destruction and desecration of everything he had ever known in his young life.
"Don't you be blaspheming in this house, young man! Dean? You taught your brother any manners at all?" Dean shrugged apologetically – he wasn't going to risk another telling off for talking with his mouth full. Mamma Deveau smiled gently at Sam. "But I know what you mean, Sam. That poor chile went through his own kinda hell on that day. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, they called it. Not from where I'm sittin' it ain't. That kiddy was more than traumatised, I'm tellin' you."
"What do you mean?" Dean had finally finished the cake and his hand automatically went to take another slice. Sam threw him a look and Dean guiltily withdrew the hand and put his plate carefully on the table. Mamma Deveau looked at him, her soft brown eyes full of concern.
"I mean, sweetie, that strange things happened to little Michael. He's always been a delicate child, you know, prone to them bigger kids pickin' on him all the time. But after Katrina it got worse. He claimed he could hear voices, the voices of those poor souls who died in the flood. Callin' after him all the time. Well, people didn't take kindly to that kinda talk. Too raw still for this town. So the poor mite ended up getting' more ostracised than ever. His momma even took him out of school for a while." Mamma Deveau took a sip of coffee. "Guess he won't be going back any time soon now."
"So this kid is some kinda real-life understudy for that kid in 'Sixth Sense'?"
"If you mean he sees dead people, Dean, then yes. The kid's about as psychic as you can get."
Sam felt a chill. He had to ask her. "Mrs, um, madam, um…"
Dean jumped into his rescue. "Mamma Deveau."
"Sorry,
yes, of course. Mamma Deveau, can I ask you a specific question?"
"Of
course you can, Sammy." Dean winced at the familiarity that he knew
Sam hated from anyone else except his brother, but Sam seemed to let
it ride with no reaction. He also smiled inwardly at the gentle and
subtle teasing by Mamma Deveau by coming back at his stumbling
attempts to address her correctly, with exactly the right name to
make Sam squirm. She hadn't lost her touch. Dean had always liked
Mamma Deveau. She was wise, incredibly knowledgeable about a wide
range of Supernatural phenomenon, and made the best damn gumbo this
side of the Mississippi. He glanced at his brother, wondering what
was on Sam's mind.
"Are there any reports of a fire in Michael's nursery when he was about six month's old?"
Mamma Deveau looked genuinely surprised. "Why yes! Yes there was!" Her face crinkled as she remembered distant details. "That's why his daddy became a firefighter. Michael's momma died. That kiddy been through some crap in his short life, he really has. But why the question, Sammy?"
"I thought the newspaper said that his mother had died in his bedroom from drowning?"
"No no, that was Mary, his second wife. He married her about a year after Kathleen died. Kathleen was Michael's birth mother. Mary was his step-mom."
Dean and Sam stared at each other. Michael was special. One of the Special Children…
"Mamma, always a real pleasure to see you again. We better start checking around. Any good motels we can crash at round here?" Dean stood up, Sam a split second behind him. Mamma Deveau looked at the two men and smiled warmly. John had done a good job. His boys had turned out just fine.
"There's a good one a mile north of here. I know the old fella who runs it. I'll call ahead, let him know your coming." She stood to see them out and they walked to the door. As Dean opened the door, Mamma Deveau's voice took on a serious tone. "Dean? There's something real big brewing. Cath Miller's in town."
Dean's hand froze on the handle and he turned slowly. "Seriously?"
"Uh-huh." Mamma Deveau's face was grave. "And where she goes, there's bound to be trouble." Dean flashed a smile at the woman.
"Thanks for the heads-up, Mamma. You take real good care of yourself, OK? Any problems, you call me!"
"Now don't you worry 'bout me, boy, I been fighting nasties since your papa was in diapers!" She laughed heartily. "Now git! G'on. Do what you have to do."
The doors creaked open on the Impala and the Winchester brothers climbed in. Dean sat for a moment, his hands resting loosely on the steering wheel. Sam looked at his brother, an expression of concern etched into his features. "Dean? You OK?"
"Yeah." Dean didn't look at his sibling.
"Really? Cause you don't look fine. In fact, you haven't looked fine ever since Mamma Deveau mentioned that Cath Miller. Who is she?"
Dean turned, his look dark. "Trouble." He turned the ignition key and the Impala roared into life. "Let's get to this motel. If I'm gonna tell you about Cath Miller, you're gonna need a beer." The wheels spun on the gravel and the car growled off into the evening.
From her window, Mamma Deveau watched them leave. "May God watch over you, boys. Cause what's out there ain't holy. Ain't holy at all." She turned from the window, her face set. She knew what she had to do…