A/N: First of all, thanks for reading. Bold, see what I did there? Second of all, there will be more Winchester involvement in the future. Don't worry, I'm working up to it. :) Third, please drop me a review! I love them so much! Honestly, sometimes I just go back and read reviews to cheer myself up as I write. Not even kidding. I know, pathetic. Anyways, enjoy!
Finals week—the bane of existence to all college students. My finals weren't all that hard, both first quarter and now this one. There weren't many curveballs professors could throw at you with drawing, art history, and painting classes. You could either do it or you couldn't, and I happened to be on the high side of the spectrum where my God-given talent for turning what was in my head into something beautiful on paper was actually useful for a change. So yeah, a little studying here and there, and I was good to go for finals.
Libby's finals, on the other hand, were driving her insane. Her school was a week behind mine, so I was already done with two of my three finals, and she was just starting to call me at least every other day, wondering if she was going to fail and then drop out of college and then become a philosophizing hipster working in a coffee shop for the rest of her life. Each time it happens, I dutifully remind her that she is probably the smartest person I know and that there is no reason to panic. She must believe me, because each time, she hangs up and fends off the mental breakdown for another day.
I don't know why she freaks out so much. Maybe her finals were harder than mine. Actually, I knew for a fact that her finals were going to be harder than mine. My first two were pretty dang easy. Well, mostly easy. Well, easy-ish. They would have been a lot easier had none of the regular ghost-y mumbo jumbo interfered.
Suffice it to say, moody artists do not make good ghosts. In fact, the moodier the little bugger, the more violent it can become the second time around—a gem of knowledge I had discovered while dodging airborne paintbrushes and palette knives. Nevertheless, I had dealt with it in a timely fashion and completed my "final" piece of art with time to spare.
Someday, my professor might discover the ashes of the paint easel I had torched. And someday, someone might question why there were so many paintbrush and knife sized holes in the walls, but it would never be actually be traced back to me, and the danger to the other students had been eradicated, so I was calling it even.
So yeah, piece of cake. Kind of. Okay not really, which is why I was now icing my wrist while hunting and pecking on my keyboard using my other hand. Thank goodness it was only my left wrist that was wonky, though, because I still had to take one more written exam tomorrow. And outlining the history of seventeenth century art would have already been grueling enough without a gimp hand to write it down. But I was good to go, as long as I didn't fall out of my chair and land heavily on my left wrist in the middle of the exam. Since I didn't foresee that happening, I was fairly confident on acing or at least doing rather well on the final.
Which reminded me that Libby was overdue with her "anxiety rant" phone call and I was kind of missing her voice. Well, as much as anyone can miss their best friend's voice while scanning through recent deaths on the internet. Whatever. Pursing my lips, I started my daily trawling of the online news sources.
Someone had died of old age in Salem, but it was a suspected overdose on heart medication. Two people had died in Portland, but in a depressingly normal way. In Bend, someone had "fallen" down a set of stairs. That one was vaguely interesting, but there had been no further deaths, so I didn't suspect a haunting.
On the Washington side of things, a Walla Walla farmer had been pinned under his tractor. His nephew swore that something mystical had turned the tractor on its side. But the farmer had also been tested for a blood alcohol level of .07 percent, so I wasn't holding my breath on that one. An Olympia resident had apparently choked on a spoon and died, which was weird, but it still didn't seem like my kind of gig. And then in Shoreline, a lifeguard for the local college had apparently drowned. By herself. In the five feet of water. With no drugs or alcohol in her system. And that—well that was strange.
I Googled Shoreline and got a little bit nervous when I found out that it was only twenty minutes or so from Seattle. Finding the biggest newspaper in Shoreline—The Shoreline Times—I starting combing the archives for previous news.
That's when I found it. The lifeguard had died a one week ago, which was sad, but I had bigger things to worry about. Because before that, another college student had drowned, though she was suspected of being drunk at the time and hadn't been near the lake. Still, both bodies had similar strange bruises on them.
It could have been a random coincidence. It really could have, but at the same time, it could have been more than that. Clicking through issue after issue, I searched for any more deaths in the lake. It took forever, and I was rapidly burning through my study time, but I wouldn't leave it alone.
Then, two coffees and an infinite knowledgebase of all the boring things that had happened in Shoreline for the past few years later, I finally found what I was looking for. I sat back in my chair, stretching my arms up above me and popping my back. Then I yawned and settled forward in my chair, sighing at the wide columns of obituaries. "Tom Sorbenth," I said, covering another yawn with a hand. "Just what are you up to, Tom?" Then I looked around guiltily, remembering I was in a public place, and people don't tend to talk to inanimate objects in public.
It was okay, though. I was completely alone in the little outdoor seating area of the hole-in-the-wall coffee shop. Besides, this was Portland. People were characteristically weird in Portland. Not as weird as people from Seattle, but close. And besides, no one was around to judge my weirdness save for the barista who was busy serving the people inside the shop. I gave one last glance around and went back to my laptop, opened up different browser tabs for each of the pertinent articles I had found.
I stared at my first tab, skimming the article and coming up with a brief mental synopsis. On August 17, 2010, an elderly Tom Sorbenth died at the lake in question. The obituary said he moved on peacefully—going to sleep next at his favorite picnic spot and simply never waking up. Interestingly enough, the lake was the same place he had both met and then later proposed to his wife.
Then I moved on to tab number two. On August 21, 2010, Tom Sorbenth was buried in a plot near the lake, and a plaque was inset over the grave due to the sizable donation he had previously given for the upkeep of the area surrounding the lake.
I was still frowning at my screen, somewhat disturbed, when my phone vibrated madly on the surface of the coffee shop table, startling me with its chainsaw impression. "Crikey," I said in disgust, annoyed that all it took to get my heart pounding these days was a little noise.
Then I shook the disgust off, seeing who was calling. "Hey, lady, what's up?" I asked cheerfully, sandwiching the phone between my ear and shoulder.
"Hay is for horses," Libby said, stress making her voice a little snarkier than she probably intended.
Love is patient, love is kind, I reminded myself, holding back my own annoyed reply. "It's also a widely accepted form of salutation," I said calmly.
"Do you even know how many psychologists there are?" Libby demanded. "Why must they all have separate theories? Why? Why?" I envisioned her pulling at her wild curls with both hands. It was a Libby thing.
"Yeah, seriously, tell me about it," was all I needed to say, and Libby was off on her rant. I set the phone down on the table and put Libby on speaker, clicking through some more archived issues of The Shoreline Times as Libby droned on. These ones were more recent, though, from this year. Actually, from like a month ago.
Tab three: on February 11th, police discovered the grave of Tom Sorbenth partially dug up. It looked to be wild animals, but there was no DNA or fur to confirm it.
"Yeah, but you have to admit, that kind of makes sense," I interjected randomly at the ten minute mark. I didn't actually know if it made sense or not, but it put Libby on a whole other topic.
In truth, I wasn't totally listening, but hearing Libby's voice was like my version of listening to the radio. It was our thing. I "listened" to Libby talk for as long as she needed to rant, and she accepted that I wasn't actually one hundred percent paying attention. As long as my audience participation was above thirty percent, she was happy. And really, talking was how Libby processed information, so I was providing a way where she could talk out loud and not look like a crazy person.
Tab four: on February 19th, a college sophomore, Rebekah Nevans, drown—though not at the lake—at one of the local water fronts. She was at a party, and alcohol was a suspected player.
"Definitely," I said, maybe four minutes later, "I've heard that, too." Libby was talking about Abraham Maslow, now, and I was actually listening. I'd always been interested in his Hierarchy of Needs. It was one of the things in psychology that made a great deal of sense to me. But then Libby moved on, and I subsided back into faux listening.
Tab five: on March 5th, the lady who had originally started my inquiry—the college lifeguard, Kat Ganache—died at the lake under mysterious circumstances.
I sat back, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. When both drownings involved college students, were barely a month apart, and lacked straight forward circumstances or witnesses—well that…that sounded like my kind of case. All in all, it meant that it was possible—for some inexplicable reason—that sweet, old Tom was not so sweet and not so peacefully moved on anymore, which meant that I should probably go to Shoreline and rectify the problem.
Libby went on for a while, bouncing from psychologist to psychologist, and I nodded along, tracking down driving directions and places to stay in Shoreline. "Well, from what I hear, you'll do great," I supplied when it sounded like Libby was winding down. "I mean, you basically just named all the major theorists and what you liked or disliked about their theories. Plus, somehow you always manage to scooch by with an 'A' in your classes, so I'm not too worried."
Libby sighed, and there was a long pause. "Thanks for listening," she said finally. "I just had to get that off my chest. Oh, what about your first two finals? How did they go?"
I readjusted the ice pack on my wrist, fighting the urge to snort. Aside from being attacked by the ghost of a lugubrious, recently deceased artist?
"Piece of cake," I reported.
"Sweet," she said, half in congratulations and half in jealousy. Then she got excited. "And you're still driving up to get me?"
"For sure." I had agreed to drive up after my finals and pick Libby up so that we could both spend winter break at home. It would have been a seven hour drive—one way—for her parents to pick her up. But since Portland was less than three hours away from Seattle, I had agreed to just do it. It was easier that way, and it meant I got to spend extra time with Libby, which was probably what I missed most now that I was in college. We were both kind of pumped about it, actually.
Since my last final was tomorrow, I had several days—five to be exact—until Libby was ready to go. Which was good because I was going to need some extra time to check out Shoreline.
"Awesome," Libby said. "Okay, I have to go study, but I'll see you soon. Sorry I'm so erratic. Finals stress me out."
"Yep, good luck! Love you, girly," I called before disconnecting.
Putting Libby's stress out of my mind, I continued to frown at my computer. There didn't seem to be any other lake related deaths besides the two I'd already found. But this sounded like a haunting, so I was more than willing to check it out. Especially when college students seemed to be the target, and Libby was less than twenty minutes away from the danger zone.
Yep, that settled it. I was going.
My phone buzzed again, and I picked it up. It was my mom, texting me.
Good luck with your last final. Can't wait to see you! her message read. Then, a second later, another text arrived. What are you going to do while you're waiting for Libby?
I glanced up from my phone to look at the Google maps driving route leading to Shoreline. Then I typed my answer, holding back a snort. Mostly just working. I might check out some tourist spots near Seattle, though. Excited to see you guys, too! I sent back.
Another text. Look at you, working. All grown up and responsible.
I sent back a smiley face, but I didn't feel smiley. Yeah, working—so responsible. More responsible than most kids my age, I supposed. She'd probably assumed I got a job at a coffee shop or something. I snorted again. If only. Tossing my phone away, I sent it spinning across the table.
The barista came out to check on me. "Can I get you another one?" she asked warily. I glanced over at the three paper cups lined neatly along the edge of the table before looking back at her. I'd be wary too if my customer was as caffeinated as I was right now.
"No thanks," I said with a laugh before closing my laptop. "I should probably get back."
"Finals week," she said sympathetically, kindly clearing away my cups and garbage.
"Finals week," I confirmed, packing everything up and heading to the counter to pay up on my tab. The fact that they had allowed me a tab told me that college students often binge drank caffeine during this particular week. They also gave me a student discount, and I left, promising to definitely come back sometime later.
When I got back to my dorm room—which I hardly ever used after first quarter—I was too wired to relax. I sat on my bed, surveying the room, and it came as no surprise that it didn't make me feel at home. It was an empty and kind of depressing space, because I didn't feel like decorating when I only used it once every few weeks. Well, maybe more than that.
First quarter, I had cut Hunting out of my life completely. I had been a regular college student doing regular things. But I hadn't been able to make it stick. So this quarter, I had decided to do a hybrid type thing. I had taken online classes and had done a little Hunting on the side. As a baseline, I'd only had to come back to campus every two weeks or so to take proctored quizzes or turn in pieces of art. The rest of the time I'd been free to travel and Hunt while doing schoolwork on my laptop and sketchpads. Hence the poorly decorated and completely impersonalized dorm room. It was definitely very stark and clinical, which was probably better in the long run, because I mostly just used it for studying. Like now.
Getting off my bed, I pulled out my notes and reviewed my art history, pacing around the room as I developed a rough mental outline of what I was going to write tomorrow. After that, I packed my bags, for no other reason than I wanted to be ready to go right after my final was done. When that was done, I moved on to prepping my Hunting backpack, making sure I wasn't running out of anything. It was a good thing I had checked, because I was getting a little low on lighter fluid and salt. Since those were probably the most important things in my pack, I grabbed my cinch bag and decided to walk to the bus stop and then the store for refills.
One of the things I loved about Portland was that no one cared what I looked like. No one cared that I was buying tons of lighter fluid when I only looked eighteen. No one cared that I was buying salt in bulk. To them, I was just another random customer, and it was glorious. I paid in cash, just like I always did, and left.
Whenever I made Hunting purchases, I tried to pay in cash. That way if, God forbid, I was ever arrested, then there wouldn't be a nice paper trail detailing all the weird things I'd bought. It was a precaution that I might never have needed to take, but I did it anyways.
Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.
I got back to my room around seven, and it was already getting dark outside. Winter—so ridiculous. Stashing my purchases in my backpack, I collapsed on the thin mattress and pulled up Netflix. Stretching out on my back, I set the laptop on my stomach and started binge-watching one of my favorite TV shows. "You can't take the sky from me," I crooned softly at the screen when the song for the title sequence played.
I think I fell asleep that way. Because a great deal of time later, I woke up to my phone going off and the laptop compressing my internal organs. Moving my laptop aside, I groped around the corner of the desk for my phone. My hand knocked it onto the floor, and I scowled.
"Crap. What time is it?" I mumbled, scrambling off the bed to search for my phone. My foot hit it, and it skittered even further away across the floor. "Shuddup, shuddup," I growled, diving after it.
Finally, lying collapsed sleepily on the carpet, I lifted my phone up and saw that it was only seven o'clock in the morning. And Libby was calling. My eye twitched madly, and I fought the urge to hurl my phone away. But I didn't. Instead, I rolled onto my back and answered. "Lib," I groaned, "I love you more than coffee, but not always before coffee."
"Good luck on your final!" Libby practically crowed. "If anyone gives you trouble—knock 'em dead."
"Oh, I intend to," I murmured, not even joking, as I rubbed my eyes.
"Hah, hah," she said slowly, like she couldn't tell if I was serious. Then she became overly chipper. "You can't kill me. I'm an entire state away."
"I've been practicing my telepathy," I reported sourly. "I hate you. Goodbye."
"Love you!" Libby called as I hung up, entirely too cheerful for what time of day it was.
After Libby's entirely rude wake up call, I rustled up one more coffee from the overpriced coffee shop on campus, packed my bags into my car, and reviewed my historical outline. Then I marched myself into the room for proctored tests and sat down.
After what felt suspiciously like mentally regurgitating anything and everything I had managed to remember throughout the quarter, I walked out of the room a free woman. Tossing my school backpack in the backseat, I pulled my Hunting backpack into the passenger seat beside me. Retrieving the directions to Shoreline and the other articles I had printed out, I looked around the already busy parking lot.
I was surrounded by people who were smiling and laughing with their friends while toting stuff out of their dorms and packing their cars up. For a second, I wondered if I'd made the right choice, adding a little Hunting to my life again. If I hadn't, I would be one of them, lightheartedly joking around with my friends as I got ready to leave school for a couple weeks.
Then I glanced down at the pictures of Kat and Rebekah, ones from when they were still alive. In Kat's picture, she was smiling and laughing with friends of her own. I shook my head slowly, shuffling the printed directions back on top of the stack of papers. No, I was doing the right thing. Because of my chosen isolated lifestyle, I might only have one real friend right now, but honestly, I wouldn't have it any other way.
Taking one last glance back at the myriads of college students scurrying around like extremely happy, extremely carefree ants, I turned my attention forward. "Come on, Tom," I said, thinking of the old man that was probably haunting Shoreline. "Let's finish this the way we started it." And although pulling out of the parking lot in preparation of killing ghost wasn't as epic as grabbing my arch nemesis and pulling him off the edge of old ruins, I figured there was never a wrong time to quote Harry Potter.
So I pulled out onto the road, ready to kick some ghost-y butt, and I didn't look back.
Being normal is overrated anyhow.