"DEAN!" Sam yelled. His voice carried through the abandoned publishing office, summoning his brother.

"I found it!"

"What does it say?!"

"Interview with Jacob Walters

Paranormal History Magazine

Interviewed by Andrea Hawkins

It's a quiet evening with minimal fog and clear skies. Mr. Walters is approaching 87 years old, but is still spry enough to surprise me with a meal of crab cakes and red wine. During the casual dinner, I believe we got a good sense of each other's personalities. I found Mr. Walters to be a true gentleman, a wonderful conversationalist. It was more like dining a socialite rather than an ex-security guard.

We move to his soft, comfortable sitting room, with red velvet cushions and intricately-carved cherry-wood chairs. The walls are dark paneled, a fireplace to my left. The fire crackled cheerfully. Mr. Walters explains that he inherited the place from his mother.

After getting myself together, the interview begins around nine in the evening.

A: Good evening, Mr. Walters.

J: Good evening, Andrea. Did you enjoy dinner?

A: Yes, Mr. Walters, it was lovely. Thank you very much.

J: It was my pleasure.

A: Now, on to the reason I'm here.

J: Yes, of course.

A: I was curious about your experiences at the old asylum in Baltimore, back when it was in business. You're the last surviving member of the faculty.

J: Am I?

A: Yes, sir.

J: I hadn't heard that Elle had passed…

A: Yes, she passed some six months ago.

J: Oh… Well, thank you for telling me.

A: I'm sorry for your loss.

J: Thank you, but we haven't spoken since the asylum closed. No no, it's fine. Now, tell me what you would like to know.

A: Your position in the asylum, how long you worked there, and what finally drove you out for good. Anything else you may remember, if you please.

J: Not asking for much, are you? *both chuckle* Well… They say that if you stare into the abyss, it stares back into you. They don't tell you that if you listen to the demons, you become one of them as well. Some sort of deranged indoctrination. To be fair, though, I'd probably be fine and sane today if I had chosen another job.

I used to work in the Patapsco State Hospital, right off the Anchorage Marina. Used to. I couldn't handle it anymore, after…

I'll start at the beginning. It's a fairly short tale, because the trouble only began in the last five years that it was open. You know, of course, what drove me out… Same thing that drove everybody out, but I had a job to do and I stuck to it as best I could…

In 1958, fifty years ago next week, I was twenty-nine years old when I began my night job at the Baltimore asylum. Understand that it was 1958, and the Depression and the industry boom caused by the war was all that I knew.

Gas was still 10 cents, the Golden Gate Bridge was just built, my sister was still waiting for Amelia Earhart to come back, and unemployment was dropping. I knew any day I'd be let go from my job at the retailer's, so I decided not to wait and just find another job. Couldn't hurt.

My job was an easy one, at first. Stand outside all night, keep out the weird relatives and religious freaks. I may not look it now, Miss Hawkins, but I was a buff guy in my prime. *both chuckle* Anyways… I just keep the patients safe from the outside.

Until the problem came from the inside, forty-five years later, in 2003.

The patients began getting more violent. No one could really tell why. No diet change, no medicine change. Nothing whatsoever was different. Except the patients and their sudden desire to kill every man, woman, child, and orderly in the asylum. I was reassigned to walk their halls at night.

Can you imagine it, Miss Hawkins? My blue uniform standing starkly against the dimly-lit white walls, the sterile scent of the sickly, my footsteps the echoed among patients' moans and occasional shrieks?

I regret to say that I got used to it. Shrieking and sobbing simply became as inconsequential as elevator music.

*short pause*

A: You said the patients had become violent. Were you ever attacked?

J: Not exactly. They attempted to, but couldn't get through the doors. They would throw themselves at me but were stopped by the doors. By the rubber walls. They would scream one name, just one, over and over…

A: *pauses* … What name, Jacob?

J: Lyssa.

A: Lyssa?

J: That's what it sounded like. Lyssa. That's the only thing it could've been. Nothing else made sense. Nothing. Just chanting, over and over. It began on one side of Wing A, then skipped two floors to the opposite side of the building in Wing D. We ruled out a simple case of hysteria fairly quickly.

The doctors couldn't figure it out, simple as that. They did tests, drew blood, tried giving them different medicines, but nothing. There was no discernable cause, no symptoms other than the uncontrollable chanting- Yes, I said uncontrollable, Miss Hawkins. I don't believe they were saying these things of their own free will. I knew one girl, a patient named Nova, for three years before the chanting started. She never looked as scared as she did while that awful name forced itself past her lips.

A: Nova? Are you speaking of Nova Teresi?

J: The very same. She was the first of the deaths.

A: Could you tell me about it, please?

J: Certainly. She… Well, she had been admitted for suicidal tendencies in the past. But she was getting better, Miss Hawkins. I saw her coloring, even heard her singing. She loved Vera Lynn, Miss Hawkins. Vera was a little before her time, but she loved the hope the woman's voice gave her, same as everyone during the war. She sang "Auf Wiedersehen, Sweetheart," and "We'll Meet Again."

*sighs, shudders softly* You have no idea, Miss Hawkins...The asylum was filthy, with a halo of pure and clean around Nova and her clear-as-dewdrops voice. It made anyone and everyone smile. Some of the orderlies nicknamed her "Snow White," for her looks and nature.

A: And then, Mr. Walters?

J: *his voice is cracked, cold now in grief* And then we found her body dangling from her window, overlooking the interior courtyard.

*we hear Andrea gasp*

J: Yeah. I suppose she wanted to feel the sun on her skin one last time… That's when my bad feeling started. The chanting and hostility, I could ignore. Not this. Not Nova. She was innocent. She was getting out.

To simplify this story, I will tell you what didn't know at the time.

It had been my presumption that Nova's body, with no family to be returned to, had gone down to the funeral home for cremation. But her body never made it there.

A: Where did it go, Jacob?

J: Hell if I know. *he chuckles and sips more wine*

We didn't know it at the time, but Lyssa had a body now. Nova's body, unbeknownst to me, was stolen and was never found. Now I know that Lyssa took it, took her, for her own use.

A: How do you mean?

J: … It's difficult to… Well, I imagine… considering the magazine you work for, I suppose I'm safe with you…

A: You are, Sir.

J: *smiles… then the smile faded* … I said I would tell you what we didn't know. So let me tell you.

Lyssa needed a body, you see. She couldn't keep doing her work as a shadow, as voices chanting her name, no, that just wouldn't do. She'd gotten a taste of a corporeal form, so she wanted more.

A: You're confusing me, Mr. Walters… Who is Lyssa?

Jacob Walters looked at me then, with a somberness that you only encountered in the lull of a funeral. The fireplace threw shadows against his face. His wrinkles, which I'd barely even noticed before, despite the number of them, were sharp and too blatant not to see. For the first time, it truly struck me that I was speaking to a very old man.

J: After Nova's death, I looked in every book I could get my hands on, looking for Lyssa.

The only possible explanation seemed to be the Greek Goddess Lyssa. She was a daimona, a spirit of rage, raging madness. Her Roman counterpart was named Rabies, for Christ's sake. And she was in my asylum.

A: She took Nova's body?

J: That's right. Now remember that there were two stages to end end of the asylum; the first seven deaths, then the "finale," as she called it. I only personally witnessed the last of the first seven deaths.

A: Sister Rosalia?

J: Yes. Sister Rosalia was… She was nobody's favorite, to be perfectly frank, but she did do her best in all she did. She chose her consecrated name when she became a nun because she saw parallels between herself and the original Saint Rosalia, the descendent of Charlemagne, who had turned away from her wealthy, materialistic life to live in a cave and humble herself for Jesus. Sister Rosalie gave up her own life of luxury to care for the sickly… and she paid for it with her life.

It was storming. It's always storming, isn't it, in ghost stories… A few patients had gotten loose and were racing around the building, screeching and wreaking havoc, throwing themselves into windows and freeing other patients and such. It was mayhem, even before we lost power. Then it was dark and in mayhem. *chuckles dryly*

A: What did you see, Mr. Walters?

J: … Nova. I saw dear, sweet Nova, standing on prone Sister Rosalia's hair. I saw her… She had a bowl, a huge bowl… It was full of molten gold. And she poured the gold into the Sister's mouth and nose, even her eyes.

Later, we learned that the gold was her crucifix and the cross and candlesticks from the altar in the chapel. I'm still at a loss as to how she melted it so quickly…

Nova- or Lyssa, whatever you wish to call her- she looked at me and smiled. Wider than it was possible for any mouth to smile. Quite literally from ear to ear, so wide that her lips cracked and bled. She quoted scripture, Miss Hawkins, with blood running down her chin… I'll never be able to unsee Nova like that.

A: Scripture?

J: Isaiah 3:21. "Now it will come about that instead of sweet perfume there will be putrefaction; Instead of a belt, a rope; Instead of well-set hair, a plucked-out scalp; Instead of fine clothes, a donning of sackcloth; And branding instead of beauty."

I can only assume she was mocking Sister Rosalia.

A: … My God.

J: It was a godless place, Miss Hawkins.

A: Yes… If you could tell me what else happened, maybe something you didn't see, that would be…

J: You don't want to hear it, Miss Hawkins. I can see it in your eyes. You're horrified. *Andrea nods here* Yes… You haven't been at this job very long, I can tell… But I'll tell you. The Patapsco Asylum has been voiceless for too long.

I'll tell you about Kurt Geer. He came over from Dresden, Germany, to get an education and experience in the medical field. And I can tell you that his experience didn't end because of homesickness, no. It ended because of his father, truly. He was a victim of his blood as much as Lyssa. You see… we didn't know until after he had died. But his father was a Nazi, and a rich one. He was even put in charge of a tiny concentration camp that was notorious for its treatment of Jewish children.

The short version is that Lyssa cornered Geer, silenced him, and killed him. The truth is that there was a particular child in Geer's father's camp who died, and Lyssa replicated those wounds onto Kurt. When I saw Kurt at lunch, he was six foot, four inches and two hundred and thirty pounds. Six hours later, he was on a cold slab, five foot ten and one hundred and four pounds. *pause* He had rectal prolapse, his penis was cut straight down the middle, scarring in the lungs, and he had a checkerboard pattern of lacerations on his chest.

A: *Andrea is a nasty greenish color here* I… I see. Dear God.

J: *nods and goes quiet*

A: … What happened, Mr. Walters? How did it all end?

J: Strangely, Miss Hawkins."

Sam looked up at his big brother helplessly. "That's where it ends, Dean. The rest of the manuscript's been torn off."

Dean pursed his lips in a frown and shook his head. "We'll find the rest of it, Sammy. Or maybe this Walters guy is still around somewhere."

The brothers weren't sure how or why, but they knew Patapsco was important, a puzzle piece that fit in with other hunts that would reveal the bigger picture. It was exactly what they needed. It has to be. After all, they're out of leads. And Cas wouldn't lie to them.

A/N: Hey there. This wasn't actually supposed to be a SPN fanfic, it was supposed to be an exercise in voice techniques and it ran away from me XD. Please, tell me what you think!