Alice Beyond The Grave
New story. It's been in the back of my head for a while and I thought I would test it out. Tell me if you like it?
Summary: When Alice Goodman died, she knew it was for a good cause. Now, once her life has flashed before her eyes, she recounts just how and why she lived (and died) along side the Winchesters' in the epic fight for the world.
My family, my life, my name-which is Alice, by the way-was nothing important. I did nothing note worthy or had any amazing talents. Mom and I got along; Dad was in the picture. I lived moderately fast after the age of eighteen, and died at the early-ish age of twenty eight for a cause I believed in.
What did make my short span of life some what special was two things: the people I had the fortune of knowing, even if I was just background noise, and that I'm not mad about dying. Nothing could have been more worth dying for.
My family dabbled in hunting and had been for years before I showed up. I wasn't some prodigal child angels depended on for some epic battle that over shadowed even Star Wars, but I knew two people that were. Hunting was more of a choice than a drafting program. No one forced me to. They simply let me experience both and the decision was up to me from there.
At first I stayed away from it. Even if the things that went bump in the night were real, I was smart enough to back off its trail. No way was I going to sacrifice my life for the cheap, momentary thrills hunting provided. And this is what I told myself for a long time.
Until two handsome men appeared on my father's doorstep late one night when I was fifteen.
Nothing happened traumatizing that night, don't get too excited. My whole family wasn't murdered and angels didn't blow up my house. Neither of them hit on me and I wasn't really interested in them either. They just asked to talk with my father about a book. We met. They left. That's all.
So, you're probably wondering why I'm writing this at all. Well, a couple of years later, after I got done with my two years of college, they called on my dad once again. It was the night before Thanksgiving, I believe. My mom had insisted I wake up early that day to help cook the massive meal she planned prepared for the whole family. And, by massive, I mean two turkey's feeding six children, their spouses, grandchildren, cousins, aunts, uncles. In other words: the extremely Catholic Goodman family.
My dad was in the shower and wasn't expecting any important phone calls-in the hunting world, you always answer the phone-so my hand picked up the Block like Nokia after a few rings. "Hello, you've reached the phone of James Goodman. He's not available right now but can I take a message?"
A slew of cuss words was the only answer I recieved. "Is he still alive?"
I remember shifting my weight from one foot to the other, "Yeah! Who is this?" My voice raised without my permission as my panic seeped through my veins. "Look," the voice, whom I now know to be Dean Winchester's, gruffly mumbled out. "Keep him in a ring of salt for a while and avoid mirrors. Ghosts from hunters past are coming back for vengeance."
I didn't wait much longer before I broke out in a run toward the bathroom. "Dad!" A gurgled sound came through the bathroom door when I reached it, "Daddy!" I yelled, hoping he was decent as I slammed my shoulder forcefully against the locked door.
In my haste I failed to notice the knocking sound at the front door, or my worried mother scurrying to answer it. I did not miss it when my brother and his wife dropped everything they had in their hands to rush to my aid. "Alice, what's wrong?" His voice took a moment longer to register than it normally would have. "Ghost. Dad. In bathroom!"
It wasn't one of my more elegant responses, but it was all I could ground out around the building hysteria. Matthew immediately turned the door knob. "No, Matthew, it's locked!" It came out more of a screech than anything else.
My brother, in all his six foot, five inch glory, gripped the door knob as hard as he could, turning the offensive object until it overrode the locking mechanism and popped open.
Inside, my fathers' face was pulled as close to the mirror as Newton's laws allowed, a shadowy hand enwrapped around his shaving cream ridden neck, that gurgling sound emitting as my father's only scream. My brother and I both leapt forward, struggling to breach the doorway at the same time.
My hand, because I was closer to the mirror, gripped the spectral arm, my nails digging into the surface of it's mush-like flesh. Matthew's arms encircled my father's waist, pulling him in the direction opposite the ugly, murdering, supernatural being.
Matthew's wife, also a hunter, pulled the salt container she always kept in her purse from the shadowy depths in time to hurl the contents across the bathroom, drenching Matthew, my father, and I in salt: effectively searing the surface of the dead man's arm.
With the force disappearing from the mirror, releasing its hold on its victim, making both Matthew and my father slam into the bathroom wall, only to slide down into a heap of gasping Irishmen on the floor.
As for myself, I leaned on the wall neck to the medicine cabinet, staring in disgust at the odd colored goo stuck to my hands. "Dad," I breathed out when his eyes opened, his hand moving on his chest as it huffed up and down. "Some guy called. Said to get in a salt circle and stay away from mirrors."
"Thanks for the warning, but it's a wee bit late, don't cha think?" James Goodman, a native Irishman, gasped out in his thickly accented voice.
Tell me what you think? One-shot or story?