Okay, not entirely sure what I feel about this chapter, but here you go.
I spent the whole weekend watching Supernatural, when I really should've been working on a bunch of papers.
Thanks for reading!
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Chapter 2
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"Why don't you tell us what you're really doing here," Tom suggested slowly, angling himself so as to prevent me from fleeing out the door.
"Um, people don't trust bloggers," I offered lamely, cursing the fact that I'd somehow found myself in this unfortunate situation. The one – or two – good thing was that I'm trapped in here with (or by) two very handsome men.
"Well, can't argue with that," he scoffed.
"Look, we aren't going to do anything to you," Jerry started, but was soon interrupted by his brother.
"You make us sound like rapists."
Jerry sighed in exasperation. "Why are you here?"
"Okay, okay. Fine. This may be a little hard to take in right now, but I don't think your niece killed herself."
"So you think someone did it to our, um, niece," Tom coughed, probably due to the pervasive scent of perfume.
I sniffed. Smells like Victoria's Secret. The store in general, I mean – I don't make it a point to smell every perfume bottle in the store.
"What?"
He looked at me like I was an idiot.
"Oh, yeah. Yes. I mean, maybe. What I mean is, I don't know yet. Why do you think I'm still looking around?"
Jerry nodded. "Fair enough."
"So what are you? Just a curious student or –"
"I told you. I run my own blog."
"Really. Is it some type of news thing? Or just a fun way to pass time sort of thing?"
"I write about anything that I find interesting," I replied, lying straight out of my ass."
Jerry's phone beeped, and as he bent his head to read the message, his brother was looking at me suspiciously.
Wow. That one doesn't miss a thing.
"Well, we have to go take care of some arrangements. So let us know if you find anything."
He jotted something down on a receipt he pulled out of his pocket, handed it to me, and pulled Tom out of the room with him.
"Right. I will. I'm sorry about Jenny," I replied, stuffing the receipt into my back pocket.
I waved lamely as they left, and sat on the hot pink comforter.
Distant uncles, huh.
I pulled my folder of research out of my bag and searched for what I was looking for.
Aha! No one in her family has been named Tom or Jerry. Though there was a Geraldine, but I doubt even the best sex change operation would produce such results. Granted, Jerry's features are slightly more feminine than his brother's – if they even are brothers for that matter.
Okay, so there's a brunette in almost every single room in this place. And a few were extremely eager to share their promiscuities. Probably boosts their fragile female egos.
I flattened myself on the musty queen-sized bed and made bed-angels in the vomit colored flower comforter.
Hopefully Michael won't try to cause another "suicide" before Thursday. It really is a great thing that everyone flocks home for Thanksgiving.
And it's also great to get to sleep in a big bed for once. I've spent too much time on cots, lumpy twin beds, and backseats. A large musty bed is enough to fully satisfy me.
I sighed in contentment and cursed the fact that I don't get paid at the same time. Being a girl of relatively little talents – outside of my chosen career path, of course – it's hard for me to earn quick money. The hunter-acquaintances of mine – the very few of them that I actually have – are of course, all men, and have quite a knack for pool. I'm not too fond of the game myself, mostly due to the fact that I'm only several inches taller than a pool cue. That, and because I have no aim. Hand me a gun, and I'm Annie Oakley, but give me a pool stick, and I'll forget everything I know about aiming. I think the problem is that a pool stick doesn't have a trigger. Or sharp blades.
Now I see why I don't have a boyfriend. That, and you know, the whole traveling across America thing.
Anyway, back to my point: if I did get paid, I'd probably splurge on a Presidential Suite, or rather, the Honeymoon Suite. Presidents and those of the similar caliber don't really stay in the motels I do.
But, stocked mini-fridges and heart-shaped beds with mirrors on the ceilings are a luxury I just can't afford right now.
Hm, I thought, staring up at the cracked ceiling. Okay, first thing tomorrow night, dig for Michael's bones, and then salt and burn them. That should take care of the problem.
This job seems too easy.
.
Nothing about this job is easy. And if it seems that way, then something's going to go wrong. And fast.
I read the Courier's headline and groaned.
Another female dead. She – a blonde – slit her wrists in the bathtub. And another was found before she had the chance to successfully suffocate herself with her Hello Kitty pillow.
Seems normal enough, but then again, Michael's victims all died in seemingly non-supernatural ways as well.
I daresay the ghost has gone on a crazy killing spree.
Or Platte River CC is just a hugely depressing place for female college students.
I stuffed the newspaper in my bag, grabbed my jacket, and hurried out the door.
Ten minutes later, I was once again Regina Jackson of the Courier.
"Hi!" Annie, the roommate of the first victim squealed, pulling me down onto the patched up sofa. "I read the paper every day – mostly for the horoscopes, but I pay for a subscription. Anyway, you were asking about Melanie? She's – was – my sister."
"Sisters? You were sisters?" I asked, after I let out an initial "oof" as I sank into the cushion.
She nodded emphatically. "Sorority sisters."
"Of course. Well, um, was she depressed or sad as of late?"
"No, not at all. She was actually really excited for the semi-formal after Thanksgiving."
"Nothing happened to make her want to slit her own wrists?"
Annie shook her head. "I don't see why anyone would want to do that to themselves. Too messy."
"Okay. That should do for now," I said, rising, "Thanks for all your help."
"No problem," she smiled. "Oh! There's a memorial for Melanie tomorrow night. You should come!"
"I'll check my schedule," I forced a smile. "Thanks again."
Oh god, I thought, making my way down the hall to the other victim's room. Sorority chicks are the same everywhere. It's sad.
Room 243.
I knocked on the door and waited.
And waited.
I checked my watch. Only 9:35am. Probably still sleeping, or at class.
Oh well, I thought as I left. I'll check back later.
I made my way to the library, glad to finally see students milling around. The news of the deaths probably hit everyone hard – they all looked so gloomy and somewhat lost. A group of girls were dabbing at their eyes in middle of the walkway, while others were openly sobbing. It was a strange sight to take in, never been one to let myself cry in public myself, but it's nice to know that the deaths were being mourned. I guess.
A surly guy wearing a red and white varsity jacket was standing off to the side, leaning against a tree. His face looked familiar. I wracked my brain trying to remember where I saw him, stepping closer.
His gaze shifted from the group of girls to me, and glared. Whoa, typical college football star with lots of pent up anger boiling inside due to lack of attention in his childhood days. Was made fun of in elementary school, bulked up in middle school, and joined the football team in high school, earned a scholarship to community college - not based on merit, got the girlfriend, girlfriend cheated, more anger – I don't expect any of this to be true, except maybe the scholarship-not-based-on-merit thing. Though, do community colleges even give out scholarships? I have no idea. I just like picking people apart on first glance.
Wait. Girlfriend. That's it.
"What are you looking at?" he snarled, rising to his full height. His cheeks were flushed red, and well, his neck was huge.
"Are you Brandon Collins?" I asked, ignoring his attitude and his not so subtle attempt at domination.
I'm 5'4" for godssake, you don't need to start flexing muscles.
He eyed me. "Who are you?"
"Regina Jackson," I replied. "I'm from the Courier."
"Jackson, huh?"
Gritting my teeth, I responded, "My husband's name."
He smiled coldly. "Some kinky interracial thing going on, huh?"
"Huh. Yes. Very kinky," I said evenly. "You were Melanie's boyfriend, right?"
"What's it to you?"
He folded his arms across his chest and looked at me smugly.
"Just fact checking. Football player?"
He snorted. "The best PRCC has."
Elle, just keep feeding his ego, I told myself, already irritated at the prospect of having to do so.
"I read the article about your touchdown –"
"Against Lincoln State. It was an amazing play. I did a pretty damn good job," Brandon smiled wistfully. "I didn't know they were going to write an article on it."
"Well, do you want to be in the newspaper again?" I asked, hoping he wasn't smart enough to see through me.
He looked at me, this time without any poorly hidden malice.
"You can be, if you help me with the article," I added, rubbing my hands together in attempt to staunch the cold. November is wintertime, and yet I always forget that. I think the whole driving around the country – from areas that are actually cold in the winter to places that remain relatively balmy – messes with my brain. It would be lovely if I could work case by case, state by state, but no, supernatural occurrences and entities do not organize themselves in an orderly fashion at the wishes of their hunter.
If this Brandon Collins was a man, he'd lend his jacket to the girl standing in nearly 40 degree weather wearing only a long sleeved shirt and jeans.
But he's not offering.
And so, I must conclude that he's not a man.
But under my standards, men are so hard to come by. They all died out with the knights.
He was still eyeing me skeptically.
After a few seconds, he nodded and smiled slyly. "Okay, but I don't usually go for short girls."
What.
"You're really odd, you know that?" I replied, the words not matching my cheery fake-smile.
If he was as dumb as I first thought, he'd take my last comment as a compliment.
He didn't comment on it. Instead, he unfolded his arms and propped himself against the tree again. "So what do you want to know?"
"You two were dating?" I asked, pulling out my pocket notebook to keep up pretenses.
"Yeah. Until I found her with her geek of a lab partner," he said bitterly. "It wasn't even biology."
"Oh. I see. That must have been tough for you," I responded, choosing to ignore the biology bit – because if I lingered on that, I'd start laughing.
The glare was back, but it wasn't directed towards me.
"We'd been together since the beginning of high school. We were going to get married."
Oh dear.
"So you broke up with her."
"Wouldn't you have? If someone cheated on you like that?"
"Well, I suppose. How did Melanie take it?"
"She apologized at first. But then I told her I never wanted to see her again, so she got angry, and then after a while she started crying."
"Did she seem depressed?"
"She didn't seem like she was going to kill herself, if that's what you're getting at," Brandon said bluntly.
Guess he's smarter than I thought.
"She looked terrible for a few days, but then she got over it, and started going to parties again."
"How long ago was this?"
He shrugged, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets. "A few months ago probably."
"Who was the lab partner?"
"No one special. They hung out a few times afterwards, Annie told me, but after that, Melanie just went a little boy-crazy," he said, frowning slightly.
"Do you know anyone who'd want her dead?"
He looked taken aback at my rather blunt question, and was probably shocked into silence for a few seconds. But then he shook his head. "No. No one. I mean, I was probably the one who disliked her the most, but I didn't want her to die. That's just insane."
"Okay. Just covering all the bases," I replied, clicking my pen. "By any chance, do you know a Brittany Leonard?"
"The one who tried to suffocate herself? No. I've seen her round before, but she has a strange fascination with that cat. Kitten. The cartoon thing with the huge head."
"Hello Kitty?"
"You would know," he muttered under his breath.
The bell tower chimed, and Brandon shuffled his feet.
"Well, it's been fun, but I have to get to class," he said, glancing at his cell phone.
"All right, well, thanks for answering my questions. And don't worry, I'll be sure to name you."
Shrugging, he replied, "No problem."
Then he winked and walked away.
People are so strange these days, I thought, putting the notebook back into my bag. Either that, or he's more shaken up about the whole incident than I thought.
Later around midnight, I was sweating buckets into the partially dug grave of Michael Stevenson – Beloved Son.
Brittany never returned to her room, and her roommates said she wouldn't be back. And being the great roommates they were, they had no idea where she went. Brittany's parents were away as well, so needless to say, I'd hit a dead end.
I suppose I'm getting a little careless. If Kevin had been here, he'd probably insist that we find out who all her friends are, and ask them about Brittany. Hell, after a few hours of questioning dozens of people, we'd probably know everything about the girl, from her favorite color to what she ate the morning of her failed suffocation.
I dug the shovel into the packed soil and stomped on it with my right leg. Hard. Lift with your knees, not your back, I thought mindlessly.
Voices.
Fuck. Who in their right minds would be in the cemetery this late?
"So you think this'll work?" a male voice asked into the dark night as I hurried to scramble behind a large tombstone.
"It'd better," another responded.
"What the hell."
Someone threw something to the ground in a loud thump. It landed perilously close to the tombstone I was crouched behind.
"What's this?" he mused out loud, prodding at something I hoped was not my own bag.
"Looks like someone was in a hurry."
Feeling a strange sensation on my arm, I looked down only to gasp involuntarily. I abhor spiders, and the one currently crawling towards my elbow was one of the biggest spindliest daddy-long-legs I've ever had the misfortune to come in contact with.
It wasn't until it was too late that I'd realized I'd pretty much outed myself.
"Well, well, what do we have here?"
I shot up, doing the little spastic jig I usually do when there are bugs on me.
After I was done, I looked up only to see one of the two brothers I'd met only a day or two ago.
"You," he stated flatly, grabbing my elbow.
"Get off me," I ordered, attempting to pry his fingers off my arm.
It was to no avail.
"What, do you have steel claws for fingers or something?" I asked angrily.
"Dean! Look who I found," he said as he pretty much dragged me near the pit I dug.
It was Mr. Long-Eyelashes, aka. Tom. Why the hell did Jerry call him Dean? Unless…
"Who the hell are you?" I bit out, shaking loose Jerry's grip.
"We could ask you the same thing…Elle Lee." Tom or Dean said slowly, waving my wallet in the air.
Well fuck.
"You got me there. So what. I gave a fake name. Who's Dean, by the way?" I shot him a sugary sweet fake smile.
"Okay, fine. We're all guilty of that. But it doesn't answer my question," he said in an irritatingly authoritative tone.
"I was just walking –"
"Right. And in middle of your stroll, you just felt like digging a hole in the ground," he scoffed.
"You're the one holding the shovel," I responded nonchalantly, wondering why in the world Jerry would have a shovel in the first place.
Unless…
"You guys are hunters, aren't you," I blurted, eyeing the scene before me.
"Wait. Don't tell me –"
"What? Women can't be hunters?"
"I didn't say that," Dean said quickly, tossing me my bag. "But, aren't you a little young?"
It was my turn to scoff. "How old do you think I am?"
"Eighteen, tops."
"You had my ID card. Too bad you only went for the name. Look, as fun as this has been, I need to return to what I was doing before I was interrupted," I said, gesturing toward the half-dug grave.
"Excuse us," Jerry said, pulling Dean to the side.
That boy sure likes manhandling people, huh.
Ignoring them, I picked up my shovel and started to dig. Again.
They weren't doing a great job of keeping things on the down low, if that's what they were aiming for.
"So what, do we just leave?" Jerry hissed.
"There's already someone on the job. You know we don't work well with other –"
"Do you think she can –"
"Hey, just because I'm a girl and look like I'm eighteen doesn't mean I can't do my job," I called, hitting the wooden coffin with more force than necessary.
"I never said that."
"You didn't have to. Now are you going to help me or are you just going to keep standing there like idiots?"
The two of them shared a glance, but came to help pry the coffin open.
"Come on boys, put your backs into it," I said between breaths.
Dean grunted and Jerry glared.
"C'mon Sam, you heard the girl," Dean smirked, just before we popped the lid open.
"Sam?" I repeated, pausing. "Okay, well, I guess that's better than Tom and Jerry. Not very creative, I must say."
"And Bella is? Someone read too many of those trashy vampire novels, huh?"
"It was Belle," I corrected, coughing as I breathed in some dirt.
"Hey," Sam interrupted. "Guys."
"What?" Dean and I growled in unison.
"There's nothing down there."
"Why the hell would someone bury an empty casket? Looking for a way to waste money?" I ranted out loud, kicking dirt into the box.
"My thoughts exactly," Dean mused.
"So what now?" I asked irritably.
I've been whining and complaining much more than usual, but girls have it worse than guys. PMS. Cramps. Cravings – for chocolate, silk sheets, more chocolate, and honestly, meat. It makes me sound almost animalistic, but a girl needs her protein to be able to keep up with ghosts and the like.
"We need to find his parents," Sam stated professorially. "Maybe they know what happened to his body."
"They should," Dean replied, raising his eyebrows. "So who's going to do it?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, we're not exactly working together here."
"No, we aren't," I agreed. "I got here first."
"Someone's being a little immature."
"All right, fine. You two go talk to the parents, and I'll try and make sure no one else dies before you figure it all out. Or, you guys could head off to your next hunt."
"We'll head off," Dean offered, just as Sam chose the other option.
"Which is it?"
"We'll leave the job up to you, unless you need help."
I didn't care for his tone. But what can you do.
"Are you out here alone?" Sam asked later as we were walking to our respective cars.
"Yeah, I am. I take it you and your brother – are you two even brothers?" I asked, interrupting my own question.
"We weren't lying about that," he responded, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. "Have you been hunting long?"
"I've only been at it solo for a while."
"You sure you don't want us to stay."
"I'm sure."
"You have my number, right? Just call if you need anything. We should be in the area for a while," Sam said as we parted ways.
"I will."
Not.
"Yes, Kevin, I'm eating my vegetables," I sighed, glancing at the crumpled double cheeseburger wrapper on the bed.
"I can't say I believe you, but I can't do much about it from here, I guess," he replied. "Have you gotten the package Charlotte sent you yet?"
Uh.
"Where'd she send it? I mean, did she get the address right?"
"It was the P.O. box in Cleveland, right? You didn't give us anything else."
"Yeah. I guess I haven't checked it in a while," I improvised rather poorly.
"Look, I don't want to keep bringing this up, 'cause I know it gets irritating, but I'm going to ask you again. Are you still hunting?"
"No, Kevin, I'm not," I replied, rolling my eyes at my reflection in the grimy mirror.
"I hope you're not lying. You know it's not a job to do by yourself."
"I know, I know."
"Charlotte and I were thinking of flying in to see you for Thanksgiving," he started.
"No! I mean, I'll come to you. I actually don't even know if I'll be able to get Thanksgiving off. If not, then I'll definitely come for Christmas."
"Why would you have to work on Thanksgiving?"
"Looking for a promotion," I replied, pulling out my duffle bag.
I held the cell phone between my shoulder and ear, and began to polish my guns. These babies have been neglected for almost a week – I could almost see the rust. Not really, but I tend to get a bit irrational.
"Okay, well, Charlie and I are going out soon, so we'll talk about Thanksgiving later."
"All right. Talk to you later," I said, flipping my phone shut.
I threw the phone on the bed, and placed the half-polished gun back into the bag. Reaching into my backpack, I pulled out my laptop.
Sometimes I really wish there was a directory of hunters. It's really too bad that we all have trust issues. It would be lovely to be able to Google "supernatural hunters" or even "ghost hunters" for that matter, and be able to pull up a Yellowpages type thing. But this idea of mine, like some of my ideas, is faulty. What if demons suddenly became internet-literate? They could just go down the list and kill us off.
Michael Stevenson. Parents: Don and Janice Stevenson. Address: 463 Rosewood Lane, Lincoln.
I love Al Gore for inventing the internet. Or, at least, I love him for coming out and saying that he invented it. I mean, who does that? It's great.
Three fourteen am, the flip down clock read.
I wrote the address on my planner, shut my laptop, and tuned in to late-night-early-morning infomercials.
First thing tomorrow, barring any unfortunate circumstances, a visit to Don and Janice.
