DISCLAIMER: I don't own Supernatural, or the Hardy Boys. Also, there's character death, but not any of the major ones.

Sam is 17, Dean is 21, Joe is 17, and Frank is 18.

Enjoy! And don't forget to review!

PROLOGUE

Callie Shaw knocked on the front door hesitantly. She stepped back, taking in the appearance of the house. It was an old blue-painted Victorian, one of the few ones left in Bayport which hadn't been renovated. The pathway leading to the front door was lined with huge flowerpots up to the porch which had a rocking chair with a blanket on it. Callie was trying to decipher the figures on the blanket when she heard footsteps and the door swung open.

"Ah, Miss Shaw, is it?" Mr. Peterson, her history teacher smiled down at her. "Come in, come in."

Callie followed the 60-something man into the house. The inside was modestly furnished, with a soft cushy couch on one side, a coffee table in front of it and a real fireplace opposite, with flames crackling merrily.

"Please, sit. I think I have what you're looking for in my study. I'll be right out."

As he left, an old woman came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray with cups. She was slim, with graying hair framing the austere face of a woman used to having her own way. She was wearing a clean apron over a beautiful, but worn dress. She set down the tray and offered her a hand.

"Hello, dear, I'm Melanie. Would you like some tea?"

Callie shook her hand and declined the tea.

"You know," Mrs. Peterson said, taking off the apron and putting it on the back of the couch, next to Callie's jacket. "Harvey was never going to go back to teaching. But we're not exactly rich, and we do need an income to keep us going. I hate that he's away most of the day, but what can I do?"

Callie nodded uncertainly. She had no idea how to answer that. "So, how long have you been living here?"

"Well, most of our lives, I suppose," Mrs. Peterson sat next to her and helped herself to some tea. "We came after the birth of our son."

"Oh, where is your son, now? Did he move away to another city?"

Mrs. Peterson's grip on her teacup tightened. "He's dead, dear."

"Oh." Callie shifted awkwardly.

Fortunately, Mr. Peterson arrived at that moment, and his wife excused herself, put the apron back on, and busied herself in the kitchen.

"Mom? I'm home!" Callie called out as she let herself into the house. The delicious aroma of dinner hit her nostrils.

After dinner, Callie readied herself for bed. She brushed her hair, got into bed and switched off the light, when she felt a piercing pain in her stomach. She almost cried out, clutching her middle.

She felt another stab of pain and rolled out of bed, falling onto the floor in mass of blankets. She reached up a hand to switch on the light, and screamed.

Her bedside lamp illuminated her hand, which was covered in what looked like blood. She looked to her stomach in horror, and screamed again when she saw the deep gashes still forming. She was bleeding freely, blood pooling on the floor and soaking into the sheets.

Her parents ran up to her room on hearing her screams, but when they reached, she was already dead.

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