Author's Note: Yet another product of writer's block, this tale be. But it's an interesting story (I like to think so, at least), so I hope you all enojoy it. Sorry for an unexciting AN, but I figured I'd do better to let the story speak for itself for once : )

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing and no one you recognize. Unrecognizable characters are most likely mine; I'll let you know.

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"Hi, girls."

They glance up in unison, almost as if they were one entity, all squinting against the sun in the same exact way, the same curiosity reflected in each of their gazes. Dean grins disarmingly; he's pushing fifty, but he's still got it. "My name's Paul Fitzhugh. I'm with the Health Department. Have any of you noticed anything…unusual around here, lately? Anything, you know, gross?" He chuckles, just another old guy trying to sound hip and happening; it's all part of the act.

"Like, fungus?" one of the girls, a blonde, tries, sounding confused.

The girl next to her, another blonde, leans in and whispers confidentially, "There's mildew in every shower stall. It's hideous."

Dean-as-Paul-Fitzhugh laughs again. "Mildew's nasty, but I didn't mean anything like that. Have any of you, maybe, heard anything strange? Pipes making noise? Scuffling in the halls?"

"Oh, God, if you say Saint Thomas' has a rat problem, I will freak," the first blonde says, terror marring her overly-painted features.

"I've heard things."

They all turn, three blonde heads and two brunettes, to face the girl on the end. She has pale brown hair and emerald eyes, and her face is all seriousness as she tells Dean/Paul, "I hear footsteps every night and I see shadows on the quad. And three people have died in the last six months."

Dean is startled by this revelation, but one brunette scoffs, "Come off it, Sash."

"It's true." The green-eyed girl glares at her. "Your roommate, Mary Beth Stoker? Remember?"

"She was attacked by an animal."

"In your dorm?"

The brunette huffs and crosses her arms over her ample bosom. "Mrs. Lockwood talked to the police, and they said wild animal. Why would they say that if it wasn't true?"

The girl, apparently his only ally and source of information, sighs. Patiently, she says, "I have no idea, Katherine."

"Maybe Sasha's right," the third blonde says, visibly shaken. She looks back to Dean. "The second girl was perfectly healthy and bam! Died in her sleep. Sasha found her."

Before Dean can inquire, Sasha's turned her glare on him. "I'd rather not talk about it."

A bell rings from somewhere in the massive brick building. All around the courtyard, girls are gathering lunches and backpacks and scurrying back inside for class. The five girls rise together, Katherine muttering that she hadn't had time to copy anyone's geometry homework, and they all smile demurely and say their good-byes to the "Health Inspector," just like they've been raised to do. Sasha remains in her seat on the bench, overpriced bag at her feet, playing with a thread coming off her uniform skirt and waiting for the others (those idiots) to move off.

When they've gone, Dean takes the seat a little down the bench from the girl, notepad open and pen poised over a fresh page. He's formulating questions, about to open his mouth to ask her about exactly what she knew, but she sighs. "I'm thinking ghosts," she says and looks at him to gauge his reaction. "Have you had time to investigate yet?"

"No," he replies, deciding honesty is the best policy. "Who's the hunter in your family?"

"No one."

"Then how do you know about what's going on here?"

She looks away again, eyes downcast. "My mum's in the business."

"Oh." He suspects he shouldn't ask, but wants to. "What about your dad?"

She shrugs. "I don't know."

He lets it go at that. He's hunting, after all, not doing a damn genealogy project. "So, ghosts you said?" She nods. "What about that attack you mentioned?"

"Mary Beth was my best friend," Sasha admits, and shivers. "She was drained dry."

"Overzealous vampire, probably."

"I thought so, too. The wounds weren't as extensive as with a werewolf attack." She smirks. "Wild animal, my ass."

"How do you know all this?"

"I asked my mum to look into it. She's not a hunter, but she's a good liar."

Dean scribbles down a few notes. "And the second girl?"

"My roommate, Annabelle Taylor." She closes her eyes, remembering the morning she'd woken to the alarm, and Annabelle hadn't. "No bite marks, no wounds of any kind. Her heart just…stopped." She pauses, thinking it over. "And she was cold. Freezing. But she couldn't have been dead more than six hours."

"And there's the proof for your ghost theory."

She nods. "That, and I've seen them wandering the halls. Some other weird shit's happened around her lately, too."

"I couldn't find any lore surrounding the school."

"There isn't any. But I've seen people wandering the grounds at night, too. It's freaky. I don't know what to make of it."

"You said three victims," he reminds her. "Who was the latest?"

"My chemistry teacher, Ms. Drewes. They found her dead three days ago and called it a heart attack. She was twenty-seven." She glances up, into the sun. "They called in the Health Department to make sure it wasn't some kind of epidemic, but they didn't find anything. Damn ghost is on a killing spree, and no one can stop it." She turns her head to look him in the eye, and it's uncanny how familiar she looks. "Except you, I guess."

"If I can name that ghost and burn its bones, sure," he replies. "But your friend, Mary Beth, and the vampire bites…" He frowns. "It doesn't fit."

"I know. I don't get it either."

"Miss Talbot!"

Sasha turns sharply, panic crossing her face, then grabs her bag and leaps to her feet in one fluid motion. Dean turns and rises slowly from his seat, watching an older woman with sharp features and gray eyes to match her curly hair striding forward, raising dust and yet remaining impeccably clean. It's Mrs. Lockwood, the Headmistress of Saint Thomas' Preparatory School for Girls, and she's giving Sasha a death glare.

"Miss Talbot! May I ask why you are not in your assigned class?"

"It's my fault, ma'am, and I apologize." Dean grins, but his dancing eyes and shiny teeth have no effect on the old crow. He adds half-heartedly, "I was just finishing up my interviews for the day."

"I appreciate your dedication, Mr. Fitzhugh, but I implore you to keep these little chats to my girls' free periods."

Dean feels himself wilting under Mrs. Lockwood's stony gaze, the same as twenty-five years' worth of teenage girls have before him. "I apologize again, Mrs. Lockwood," he mutters, lowering his eyes.

"Forgiven, Mr. Fitzhugh." Her eyes dart to Sasha. "Well?" she demands. "You have an English class to attend, if I remember correctly."

"Yes, Mrs. Lockwood," Sasha mutters, and rushes off.

Dean nods to the Headmistress. "I'll get going, too," he says. "Thank you very much for your help and patience in this investigation."

"My…pleasure," she assures him, not even a flicker of a smile on her face. "Good day, Mr. Fitzhugh."

He bobs his head in her general direction again and turns to go, feeling her steely eyes on his back the entire time it takes him to cross the quad, duck under the tunnel cutting through the south wing of classrooms, and, at last, reach the sanctuary of its darkness. He's almost to his car, his trusty Impala, when it hits him.

Miss Talbot! Mrs. Lockwood calls shrilly in his mind.

Her name's Bela Talbot, Bobby told him, a long, long time ago.

My mum's in the business, Sasha had explained, not ten minutes ago.

He smirks to himself, already over the initial shock, as he puts it together. If he saves Bela's darling daughter, Sasha, and if he can figure out whatever the hell is going on at her fancy prep school, he will own Bela.

He slides a pair of sunglasses out of his breast pocket and adjusts them on his nose, turning the key in the ignition and blasting the radio as he prepares to go. This is good. This is very good.