One Night Only
Author's note: The town in this story is totally based on fiction and is not intended to represent any real places with the same name!
...
St Anthony's Cove is just a small recession hit town this side of Santa Barbara. It has an average population, and average unemployment rate, and a pretty below average local bar.
Believe me, I know, I've sampled it.
The place used to be a thriving fishing village back in the day, but that day has long gone, and the only thing left to show for it is a broken down old cannery that takes up a hunk of the bay front area.
The folks at the cove have their own lighthouse, their own radio station and a small lodge out on the adjoining road called the Seagrass Motel, but for anything else, you'll need to travel into nearby Goleta or put up and shut up.
Yep, St Anthony's Cove is the kind of place you'll find on the Hallmark channel. A place where Jessica Fletcher might thrive, but where a hunter like myself would either go bucket's of crazy or shoot himself – and I don't mean in the foot.
The town's only claim to real fame was way on back in 1906, when a minor aftershock from the 'frisco quake knocked over a misplaced lantern and the now defunct cannery's predecessor burned to the ground.
Yessir, the Cove is a regular hive of activity – if you're about ninety-five.
And yet, late last Christmas Eve, me and my brother Sammy found ourselves travelling towards this humdrum little town via the winding coastal road from Cali.
Maybe you think it's just what two weary hunters might crave. A place to hold up and finally have one normal day.
Just one damn day when we could be like everybody else.
Eat drink and be very merry.
Because you're so not gonna find anything supernatural, or crazy-ass in St Anthony's Cove right? Hell, no self respecting spook, demon or freak would come within a hundred miles of this town, especially not at Christmas.
But then, you'd be wrong.
Dead wrong…
Just outside St Anthony's Cove
Christmas Eve 2011
Sometimes, just sometimes I have to wonder what goes on inside that thick skull of my brother's. Other times, well I can read him like a dime novel. Right now, as I guided the Impala past the towering form of the local lighthouse, I could tell that Sam was thinking about the last few months.
Some days he still doesn't talk to me over Amy's death – well, murder as he puts it. Other times, he starts to get pissy and then just clams up again.
I like to think that he's wrong and that I didn't overstep the mark, but the nightmares I still have about it tell me otherwise. I've hunted and killed my fair share of crap. Hell, more than my fair share, but maybe, just maybe, once I made the wrong call.
All I know is that the afterimage of Amy's kid looking at me from that doorway is burned into my retinas for all eternity. But I can't tell Sammy that. Not now, maybe not ever.
I looked over to him as the spinning light above us cut through the darkness, skimming over a thin fog bank that had started to appear at ground level about a half a mile back.
"Tell me again why we're headed for the most boring town in the state on Christmas Eve?" I glanced over to Sam as I drove, hoping to drag a conversation from him.
"Because it's the nearest place that had a motel room without driving half the night," he answered sombrely. "And because I don't want to spend yet another Christmas in this car."
I frowned, feigning hurt pride. Then I tapped the car's wheel appreciatively. "Don't listen to him, baby."
He smiled then and flicked on the radio. "Maybe I can get you in the mood with a few carols," he chuckled.
Instead, Something To Believe In by Poison filled the airwaves. It was my turn to grin. "Now that is more like it, Sasquatch. Who says you can't have rock at Christmas, huh?"
The music faded and the voice of the local DJ crackled through my baby's speakers. He had one of those annoying voices that sounded like he should be advetizing baby milk or something.
So, are all you weary Christmas shoppers finally ready for Santa tomorrow? I hope so, because the stores are all closed, and its time to sit back and relax with SAKB as we wile the last few hours away with some classic tunes…
Next up, some aptly titled Deep Purple, but first a local weather report…
Dan, everybody's favourite weather man informs us that there's the likelihood of some light mist in all areas tonight as the unusually warm temperature over coastal areas causes what he calls an "advection fog". In short, folks, turn on your lights and keep your eyes peeled for…
Music began to pour from the speakers again and I instantly recognized it as Smoke on the Water.
As the tune grew in intensity, I finally spotted my target. Up ahead was a badly-illuminated motel that's neon sign was only half lit. I could see a few rooms, and behind the place, slightly elevated on a hillock was an ancient, crumbling house.
I pulled up the Impala and could see Sammy was thinking the same as me.
"Are you sure you don't wanna spend the night in the Impala?" I asked, only half-joking.
Sam rolled his eyes and dragged his huge butt from the car. With two strides he was in a grotty little office that definitely hadn't been decorated since the fifties.
"Excuse me, we have a room booked for a couple of nights?"
I watched the exchange with amusement.
"Excuse me, I err, rang earlier?" Sam tried again, and eventually the short, skinny-assed little man actually bothered to turn and face us.
He had even more acidic features than I expected and I just couldn't resist a quip. "Don't tell me you got mom decomposing upstairs in a rocking chair?"
I grinned. I can be an ass sometimes, what can I say?
The guy looked at me and I expected a rebuttal, but I swear he didn't even get what I was insinuating. "You know, Anthony Perkins? Psycho?"
"Do you want the room or not?"
Sam snatched a small set of keys from "Norman's" hands. "We want the room." And with that he dived back out the office, dragging me with him as I tossed a few crumpled notes on the counter. "Dean! What's with you? Do you have to pull that Psycho crap at every motel we stay in?"
"Aww c'mon Sammy, you were thinkin' it too. I'm telling you man, just don't use the showers here…"
Sam groaned and scooted back over to the Impala to get our gear from the trunk. I took in my bag, a pack of beer and a bottle of Jack D's finest.
Hey, it was the festive season, and I planned on being very festive.
Luckily the key Sam had been so quick to grab had our room number on it, or we might have had to revisit Mr Creepy. As it was, we found "101" right in front of where I'd parked.
I hoped that was just a coincidence as we settled inside.
And heck, did this place even have over a hundred rooms?
I don't think so…
"So, should I bother putting up the tree?" Sam was rifling through his holdall as he spoke.
"Dude, we have a tree?"
A tiny effigy of a pine tree emerged from Sam's bag and he smirked at me. "Now we do!" He stuck the dang thing on the table between our beds and rubbed his hands together. "We're going to have a good time here, Dean. No hunting, no killing. Just us."
I shook the bottle I'd brought in. "Us and Jack," I corrected. "And hopefully some semi-naked beauties cavorting around your laptop screen and I may die happy tonight."
Sam grimaced. "I doubt we'll get a connection out here…."
I had kinda suspected as much. "And the TV? Just don't tell me all we got is local crap and no movies?" I decapitated a bottle of Coors, took a swig and grabbed the tiny, busted up TV's remote.
The thing came on – that in itself was a miracle.
After ten seconds of flicking through channels I dropped on the end of my bed. "Oh yeah, this will do nicely!" I swung my legs on top of the throw, worked my back into the two pillows and got comfy.
Sam looked at me incredulous at what I was about to do. "Dean, you're going to watch a horror movie fest on Christmas Eve? That's just not…right."
"Craven, Carpenter? Are you kidding me? That's heaven!" I reached over into my bag and pulled out a huge bag of M&M's.
Sometimes it can be insanely funny to watch the Hollywood take on our world.
Sam looked disappointed. "How can you watch that stuff, given what we do?"
"Easy!" I turned up the volume as The Fog began to open up on screen. That opener with John Houseman is just freakin' awesome, after all.
I stuffed in a mouthful of chocolate and was about to take another swig of beer when the TV started to flicker. The images began to blur and the volume buzzed like screaming static.
Annoyed, I got up and slapped the thing on the back, but that seemed to aggravate it more. What was left of the picture began to roll and turn to a thick grey miasma until the screen was filled with nothing but dots.
"Aww, you've gotta be kidding me!"
The TV banged and the screen turned to complete black.
"Guess Kitsune's aren't the only thing you're good at killing…"
I stopped dead in my tracks.
I probably deserved the jibe, but there is only so much guilt you can have poured on you without snapping.
So I snapped.
"Is that what tonight is gonna be about?" I barked. "Huh? I get it, Sam. I really do. You're pissed at me, will be forever pissed at me, and you're within you're rights to punch my lights out. So why don't you come on over here and get it over with?"
He looked at me.
Just looked.
"Because it's Christmas…"
Damn him. Trust Sam to come up with a schmaltzy one line answer I couldn't bounce back off.
I grabbed the Impala's keys instead. "If I'm gonna listen to this all night I need more beer. Hell, more bourbon!"
"Don't you think you've had enough of that stuff lately," he retorted.
"Nope, not by half." I slammed the door behind me, then paused when I realized the radio DJ's slight mist had actually turned into a full-on fog bank.
Reflexively, I shivered.
I don't know what it was, but something was eating at me here, and no, I don't mean Sammy's attitude.
The air around me was crisp and cold, and I could feel the moisture from it on my skin.
I patted the Colt hidden in my waistband and somehow found it comforting to feel the hunk of steel right where it should be.
"Going out so late?"
I spun around to see the skinny motel owner staring at me through beady eyes. Funny, but it wasn't him that was creeping me out so much, it was the dang fog.
"I err, was gonna look for a twenty-four hour store and grab some beers." I looked around me at the fog and shrugged. "Hadn't expected this, though."
"Hank's one stop is open until eleven tonight. He's just off the main road before you get to town. You might just catch him."
"Norman" sauntered off then, vanishing into the swirling mist and presumably back into his office.
I frowned, but climbed into the Impala anyway.
Why the hell was I out here?
I remembered Sam's face, and Amy's shocked expression as I'd stuck the knife in flashed across my conscience.
I quickly turned the car's ignition and felt the GM motor grumble to life.
Maybe it was better if I spent an hour or so out to let Sam cool down and for my stupid, stubborn streak to subside.
As I pulled out from the motel, I tried to focus on the road, not my guilt complex.
Well, I would have concentrated on the road, had I been able to see it.
The fog was getting thicker until my old girl's lights didn't seem to have any effect on it anymore.
I turned up the heater, but the chill inside the car didn't go away, either.
Suddenly, I felt alone, and couldn't resist the urge to flick on the radio. The local station was still transmitting, but the weather must have been interfering with the signal, because all I got was bursts of static and the odd explosion of sound as the DJ's voice tried to give out the news.
It sounded like there'd been some trouble in town. I caught the mention of a "victim" and raised my brows in surprise. "Jeez, there's actually someone with enough jewels to off someone in this place?" I said to no one in particular.
Something spattered on my windshield and I turned on the wipers before realizing it was the shredded remains of a dead bat.
A truck horn screamed from the heart of nowhere, deafening me as the lights of a Mack semi filled the Impala's rearview just a little too much.
I raised a hand, expecting the impact as the truck ran into the Impala's butt, instead the manic trucker roared past me at the last moment, his trailer swaying wildly as he took the next corner on the wrong side of the road.
I flipped him the bird, knowing he had no way of actually seeing the motion but somehow getting satisfaction from it all the same. "Jackass!" I howled, my head pocking out the side window angrily.
The semi was swallowed by the dense murk around me and was gone before I could blink a second time.
Maybe this drive wasn't such a good idea after all?
I squinted, looking for the center road markings, but instead finally saw bright lights in the distance that were intense enough to cut through the gloop.
I sighed with relief.
Was something actually giving me, Dean Winchester, the willies out here?
I told myself it wasn't.
But I was lying.
As I pulled in front of Hank's I noted a black rig parked out back. Okay, so the dickwad that almost creamed my ass is inside. Just don't go getting thrown in the local jail on Christmas Eve, I begged my own ego.
I wandered into the store and shivered again. Sheesh, didn't these tin-pot little towns know what heating was?
The tiny hairs on my skin began to stand on end, and as I looked down each of the aisles and saw no one, I felt compelled to draw my gun.
Call it an abrupt knee-jerk reaction, but it was right on the money.
"Hello? Anybody home?"
Don't ask me why, but I knew I wasn't going to get a response.
Carefully, I edged sideways towards the counter. Where was Hank and where was my mad-ass trucker friend?
I checked my watch. It was 11.15pm. The store should be closed now anyway.
"Hello?" I tried again and heard my own voice crack.
Something was eating at me.
Something was familiar about all this, and yet, not familiar.
St Anthony's Cove.
Fog.
Seagrass.
Lighthouse.
Local radio.
Finally my brain did the math and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
The next part of the equation was death.
I knew that much, because I was living out scenes from a movie that were morphing and taking on a life of their own wasn't I? A movie I'd not half an hour ago sat down to watch.
It was like the Trickster, or should I say Gabriel was messing with me and Sammy all over again – except this time good old Gabe couldn't be in the running. His ass had been fried way too long ago for any of this to be his doing.
A girl screamed from somewhere out back and I hesitated, wondering what was reality, and what was in my head.
In the end, I gave in to temptation and dodged behind the counter into a dimly lit stockroom.
At the far end, a young woman of about twenty-five was backed up against a wall, her hands covering her mouth, her skin ghostly white.
For now, I resisted the urge to call her in case we weren't alone in the room. Instead, I quietly picked my way through the shadows until I was adjacent to her, but still in the half-light.
My eyes darted to every corner, every possible hiding place, but I saw nothing, no one.
On impulse, I let my gaze follow the girl's stare and I realized a thick oozing carpet of fog had seeped under the store's back door and was covering the floor almost up to where we both stood.
The mist writhed and ebbed like it was a living thing rather than an act of nature. But it didn't move any nearer.
I felt myself transfixed by it.
The vapour seemed to sense it had an audience in me and the girl and shyly began to back away, pulsing and shimmering with a strange aura until it had vanished completely back under the door and into the night.
What it left behind gave me a better understanding of why the girl had screamed in the first place.
On the concrete floor near the rear exit was a body.
Or, what was left of a body.
From the long greying hair and remnants of a beard, I could only guess this had once been Hank, the owner of the establishment.
I carefully moved into the light keeping my weapon drawn, but letting the young woman see me.
She flinched at my presence, but didn't attempt to run.
"He's…he's dead"
I scratched at my head with my free hand in wonder that she'd even had to voice the fact. Maybe it was shock or something. "Lady, he's more than dead, he's total dog chow."
Okay, so sometimes I'm not the best with words, but that's usually Sammy's department.
She looked at me then and I could see fear in her eyes, but determination too. She may have cried out earlier, but this chick was not your regular everyday screamer, trust me, I can tell.
I slid a hand to my jeans and withdrew a false FBI badge I'd used on a previous gig. "Can you tell me exactly what's going on here, miss?" I thought about it. "Maybe starting with your name and what you're doing here?"
She relaxed a little at the sight of the badge, but took a few seconds to compose herself before answering. "I'm Denise, but my friend's call me Denny. We were having a party and ran out of beer…"
"So you thought you'd see if Hank was still open?" I pressed.
"The lights were on and the door was open, so I came in the store even though it was past eleven. When I couldn't see Hank anywhere I was about to leave again when I heard…well I heard something. Like a growl, maybe. I know I shouldn't have come in here, but I was worried about Hank and…"
Denny's voice petered out and I guessed what she'd seen next hadn't been pretty. My eyes returned to Hank's body and I took in the damage. He'd been shredded.
Literally.
Blood pooled on the floor around tattered sinew and obliterated bone.
The closest thing I could liken it too was when the hellhounds had torn at me, but that wasn't a memory I wanted refreshing, and even that hadn't been this bad. "Did you see what did this?"
Denny closed her eyes and inhaled. "The fog was everywhere back here, but I could make out shapes, two of them. A man and a…"
"A what?" Jeez, this was like pulling teeth.
"You'll think I'm crazy, but I swear there was some kind of creature in the fog. Maybe even made up of the fog." She shook her head as if she sounded mad, even to her own ears.
I put a hand on her arm. "Actually, I think you're pretty sane, given the state of Hank's body. You say there was a man? Did you get a look at him?"
I kneeled to check the floor for boot prints in the blood – anything to indicate what or who had been here. Maybe some sulphur or ectoplasm?
But there was nothing.
"I didn't see much. I think he had jeans on, a plaid shirt, cowboy boots and a baseball cap. The cap was grimy, you know, oily."
I nodded. Some things were fitting into place at least. "Like the kinda hat a trucker might wear?" She nodded. So, what kind of monster was I dealing with? "Did you see his eyes? What colour were they? Red? Yellow? Black?"
Denny looked at me like I was the one who had suddenly gone whacko. "Actually, I think they were plain old blue. I couldn't make out his face much, though, because he had one of those bandana things pulled up right the way over his nose."
I cringed. Was I dealing with a human that was whacked out of his gourd and a girl who thought she'd seen a monster, or was there really something spooky going down in the Cove? Oh, and how could I forget all the "Fog" references that were sticking their asses up everywhere?
"Maybe we should try and call the Sheriff," Denny offered.
Somehow, I doubted that was going to be possible, but I pulled out my cell anyway and checked the line. It was dead.
Whatever was in the bizarre mist was dampening the signal. I saw the girl looking at me expectantly as I eyed the phone and I shook my head. "Not a chance. This thing is a s dead as," I glanced over to the mush on the floor that had once been Hank and didn't finish my sentence.
Denny shook a little and rubbed at her arms, uneasiness chilling her bones. "Look, no offence, but what if this mad guy is still out there? You're only one man, FBI or not."
I looked at her, amazement at my own stupidity creasing the features of my face into a grimace. "How could I have been so dumb!" I made a dash for the front door of the store as fast as my legs would carry me.
When I'd arrived, the semi had been out back, and while I'd talked to Denny, I hadn't hear its engine roar into life.
The sonofabitch who'd wasted poor old Hank was still here somewhere.
As I slammed through the double glass doors, finally I heard the rattle of a big block diesel grumble as it cranked. I skidded to a stop by the side of the Impala and looked around in the swirling mist until my eyes were able to focus in it just a little.
The truck's air brakes hissed like a serpent and its twin stacks belched surreal red smoke into the moist atmosphere.
I ignored the fact that it was headed for me and honed in on the front window, capping off five maybe six rounds into the glass.
Nothing shattered.
Instead the panes seemed to absorb the bullets like a friggin' T2!
The semi's speed increased and I guessed that instead of damaging it, I'd simply pissed off the driver.
It bore down on the Impala and I should have dived out of the way and taken cover. But I couldn't. I just couldn't.
I stood there, waiting to be turned into ground beef and not even knowing why my legs wouldn't move.
I closed my eyes seconds before the impact.
And opened them again when nothing mangled my flesh to pulp.
The truck was gone, literally disintegrating before it hit me.
I blew out a breath and realized Denny was standing in the store doorway blinking as if her eyes had deceived her. "Maybe I drank more at the party than I realized," she suggested. "Because the things I'm seeing out here can't be real."
I opened the Impala door for her, ushering her inside as I stuffed the Colt back in my waistband. "Trust me, sister, they're real, and I don't think we've seen the half of it yet."
As I hit the gas and churned up gravel, exiting the tiny parking lot, Denny pulled out a small bottle of bourbon I can only assume she rifled from Hank's. She twisted off the top and took a swig, letting it warm her through.
Wiping the top with her palm, she offered it me next.
I thought about it. I thought about all the whiskey and rot gut I'd tossed down my throat over the months since Amy, since Sam's "Hell-wall" issues, and since Cas's death.
Suddenly, its taste felt like a bittersweet reminder to me rather than a sugar-coated comforter and I pushed the bottle back. "No thanks." I said gruffly.
I saw her reflection in the windshield take another gulp. "So do you know what's happening? I mean, this has to be some kind of prank. Something just isn't right. It's all so crazy." She didn't sound scared now, just confused beyond belief. "It's Christmas Eve, for heaven's sake!"
"Christmas doesn't mean a thing to these kinds of…jerks, and crazy doesn't even come close, not ever. I've spent half the night living through references to a horror flick, chasing a mad trucker with a half invisible monster for a sidekick, oh yeah, and my brother is pissed at me."
I stopped complaining as the reality of my last statement kicked in.
Sam.
The semi was heading right back the way it had come.
Right back the way I had come.
I floored the Impala's gas pedal even though I had almost zero visibility.
We hit a bump and the car swerved madly, fishtailing before I regained control.
Denny grabbed her seat and swallowed hard, her eyes wide. "What's the hurry?" She asked, her expression saying she may already know the answer. "You're not trying to catch that thing, are you?"
I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles were white and I began to sweat even in the cold air.
"That sonofabitch is heading right for The Seagrass Motel," I said through gritted teeth. "So yeah, maybe I do need to catch up with him, before he catches up with Sammy."
She seemed even more confused. "Sammy?"
"My little brother," I enlightened. "And somehow, I suspect that thing's next meal…"
TBC...
