Real Ghost Stories Chapter 2-Ghost in Thelma Todd's Garage, a supernatural fanfic

The Supernatural characters belong to Kripke Enterprises and the CW, not me. No money is being made from this story. It is for entertainment only.

Real Ghost Stories

Chapter 2

The Ghost in Thelma Todd's Garage

The Winchesters were heading for Santa Monica, California from Las Vegas. They had driven through the Mojave Desert towards Victorville and intended to drop into the L.A. Basin by way of the El Cajon Pass.

"You'll like this, Dean," Sam smiled. "We start at 3,700 feet and end up at sea level. It's like landing a plane." They had covered the 300 miles from Las Vegas by taking turns driving and Sam was currently at the controls. It had taken five and a half hours to cover the trip because of the traffic and Dean had a twist in his shorts about it..

"Never again, Sam." Dean grumped. "This place is just too crowded. Give me some wide open spaces without somebody's tail pipe in my face.'

"And now you tell me that we're going to turn the Impala into an airplane. Sounds good, bitch."

Sam shook his head. "I can't help it, that's just the way it is. The L.A. Basin is like a giant bite out of the coastal mountains. It's a huge bite, hundreds of miles from edge to edge and only the northern side is a gradual rise. We're dropping down between two mountain ranges on the Southern edge; the San Bernardino range and the San Gabriels and it's like falling off a cliff. Wait until you see it."

"I don't want to see it," Dean grumped. "I don't like the place. Why are we here anyway?"

Sam wanted to pet Den on the head like he was calming a growling puppy but thought he might get his hand bitten off. "Lighten up, bro. We're going to see a man about a ghost then we're going to hunt it and we'll be right on the beach. When we're done we can go sit on the sand and watch the early morning surfers."

They rumbled on through the flat urban sprawl of L.A., The freeways wove their ways through the landscape like veins in a piece of meat. The cars never ended, they never stopped. There were neon signs on the side of the freeway for a while then there came a break and there would be trees or hills, or freaking piles of crumbling soil and then another urban landscape was presented.

"Do you know where we are right now? " Sam asked.

"How would I know? It all looks the same and then it freaks out and the houses disappear and trees grow all lonely on hillsides. This is one wierd road." Dean replied.

"Well, on the other side of this pass is the city of Pasadena, where they hold the Rose Parade every New Year's Day. This pass is where a hundred years ago bandits would wait for people trying to get to the San Fernando Valley. They would be ambushed and murdered for whatever they had on them. The bandits were never caught and now they say that the ghosts of the dead are trapped here in the pass." Sam looked over the soft brown hills. "I understand you never want to break down on this road at night. You can still hear the victims screaming."

"You tell such charming stories, Sam." Dean muttered. "We aren't here for these ghosts, right? Let's just move on to the one we agreed to gank and get out of town. How about San Francisco?"

Sam smiled at his antsy brother. "Calm down. We'll get there."

They drove on through the city and finally found the freeway that took them out to the Pacific Ocean. When the Santa Monica Freeway ended with a tunnel they came out on the Pacific Coast Highway, watching the sun begin to sink into the ocean and the traffic begin to build on one of the busiest road systems in the world.

"Do we have to take this road, Sam?" Dean whined as another car brushed by and he imagined he heard the grinding of metal panels.

"Sorry, Dean. The location is right on this roadway, set back not more than fifty feet. Just enough room for a long, thin parking lot. We'll be alright. Please calm down." Sam was nervous enough wrestling his way between more cars than he had ever had to deal with before and they seemed to be coming from all directions. His heart was in his throat and now he had to deal with a flinching big brother

"You aren't helping, you know," Sam complained through gritted teeth. "Try and keep calm. I'm sure they aren't really trying to hit us."

Dean crossed his arms. "I blame you for this."

Sam pounded his head on the steering wheel.

"Hey," barked Dean. "Watch where you're going, bitch. You scratchthis car and you'll wake up bald in the morning."

"Really not helping, Dean." Sam ground out again and then glanced at his brother. All he could see was the seat of Dean's pants. His idiot brother was leaning out the window, yelling at the other drivers. Sam grabbed Dean by his belt and dragged him back through the window, banging Dean's head on the frame.

"What the hell, Sam! That hurt!" Dean sat rubbing the back of his head where he had clipped the window.

"It hurts a lot less than you getting shot in the face," Sam snapped. "This is freaking L.A., man. A lot of the drivers you're yelling at are armed. I've told you twice now. You aren't helping. I need you to help me. This is ridiculous. It's like being stuck in a car video game." Sam was turning red and his hands were so tight on the steering wheel that there was a good possibility that he might snap it.

"Alright, Sammy," Dean finally answered in a reasonable voice. "What do you need me to do? Calm down, little brother. We'll work it out. What do you need?"

"I need you to navigate. We need to find the intersection of this road and San Vicente Blvd. Keep an eye out for the signs. The sun is setting into my eyes and I don't seem to be able to read the signs. Is there a pair of sunglasses anywhere in the car?"

Dean started pawing through the car, looking for sunglasses. Now that he had a clear headed moment he noticed that almost every driver on the road was wearing shades. He had always regarded wearing shades to be the sign of a weakling but now he got the feeling that in L.A. they were an essential part of the road warrior's kit.

"Ok, Sam, this light is San Vicente Boulevard, " Dean called out.

Sam responded, "Now watch along that side of the road. You're looking for a long multi-storied building built into the cliff face. I'm going to work my way over to the right and as soon as you see it we're bailing out of this circus."

They finally found safe harbor in an old, busted up parking lot. Everything was old, including the man sitting on the steps waiting for them. Once they parked the man stood up and walked to the driver's side window. "Hi, I'm Rodney George. Are you kids the ghost hunters?"

Sam looked over the old man's face. He was worn and looked tired. Too many years and too many stories had passed before his eyes, each one cutting a new line in his face.

Sam exited the car, shaking out his jean's legs. "Hi, I'm Sam Campbell and this is my brother Dean. I guess you were expecting us, Mr. George."

'Please call me Rodney. It's bad enough getting old without you kids rubbing it in," the old man responded.

"Sorry." chorused both Sam and Dean.

"Well, come on in and I'll show you where we have trouble." They followed Rodney into the building.

Once inside Sam turned in a circle, taking in all the detail he could. "So this was Thelma Todd's restaurant, right?

Rodney looked at Sam." Bit of an old film buff, are you?"

"Me and my brother too. Dean seems to like the stories after the Second World War and I like the ones before. We pretty much cover it from that viewpoint." Sam went on. "You actually knew Thelma Todd?"

Rodney nodded his head. "Yeah, I knew her, in a way. I was a bus boy here in the restaurant. " He pulled out a picture from a leather case on the table and handed it to Sam. Sam took a brief look and handed it off to Dean.

"Wow," Dean exclaimed. "She was really beautiful." He handed the picture back to Rodney.

"They called her "the Hot Toddy", "the Ice Cream Blonde" and "the Blonde Venus". Rodney murmured. The old man stroked the picture lightly, removing invisible dust then put it back in the case.

"Yes, she was beautiful. Miss Massachusetts of 1925. Got her first picture contract based solely on that photo. It was silent movies at the time. They were just starting out here in L.A. with the movies. The city grew along with Hollywood."

Rodney sat down and waved the Winchesters into chairs. He pulled some beers out of a cooler that was hiding under the table. "Nine years," he muttered softly. "Nine years was all it took this place to kill her. Suicide the District Attorney said. Suicide! With busted ribs and a fat lip and blood all over the car's upholstery, they called it Suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed."

"How, did they get away with that?" Sam asked quietly. He knew an open wound when he saw one.

"They called them the Roaring Twenties for a reason." Rodney went on. "Drinking and drugs and gambling and watch your back, protect what's yours or someone will try to take it away from you. Girls in short dresses, all night parties, fancy cars, Hollywood was Sodom and Gomorra to the rest of the county."

"Those in power were worried that one more scandal would sink the whole thing. There had been a string of scandals; Fatty Arbuckle's orgy party, Rudy Valentino's bigamy trial, so many others. And they were getting in the papers! No T.V. or internet then. Things were easier to hide."

"Poor Thelma had a thing for bad boys. The night she died she had a public screaming match with her ex-husband, Pat DeCicco, a playboy with a nasty streak and Mafia connections. The fight had occurred in public at the Trocadero nightclub. When she got home the night of December 15, 1935 she had another loud screaming match with her boyfriend and business partner, Roland West, who locked her out of the apartment and went to bed. That fight was loud enough to wake the neighbors. On his death bed West was still claiming that her death was his fault. That if he hadn't locked her out she would still be alive."

"No one really knew what happened after that or how she ended up locked in the garage with the car's engine running, dressed in a full length mink coat and $20,000 in gems. A third bad boy in her life was "Lucky" Luciano, the Mafia boss who wanted to put a gambling den on the third floor of the restaurant. Thelma had told him "No" and Luciano didn't like it."

Rodney paused and took another swing of his beer. "Three men, all with reason to hurt her. Broken ribs, two broken teeth, a broken nose and the district Attorney declared it a "Suicide!" Her mother was pushing to get it recognized as a murder and a Grand Jury was convened to take evidence in spite of the corrupt District Attorney but it was too late. Someone got to the witnesses and no one would talk any more. The Grand Jury got nowhere."

"That alone stunk of Mafia and what do we have? A Mafia guy on the list of suspects, She never had a chance."

Rodney sighed. "No wonder she walks from the apartment to the garage every night." Another sigh. "It has to stop. She needs to rest. Can you help her?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Do you know where she's buried?"

Rodney looked up. "She was cremated. Her ashes were put in an urn that was buried with her mother out in Massachusetts. Mother and daughter in the same coffin, but that doesn't give her rest." Once again he asked, "Can you give her spirit rest?"

Sam stood up and placed his empty beer bottle on the table. "We'll do our best, Mr. George. Can you show us where she walks? And can we have the place to ourselves tonight?"

"I'll go make sure no one will bother you. Then I'll show you where Thelma walks." Rodney left them alone.

"What are we going to do about this, Sam?" Dean asked.

"She's got to go down somehow." Sam replied. "I'm just worried about why a spirit walks when the body is supposedly cremated. I only hope it is not a spirit in quest of revenge. That would be real tough."

Dean picked at the label on his empty beer bottle. "You think there's another beer in that cooler?"

"Sure, Dean. Good to know you have a laser like focus on the really important stuff, jerk." Sam snorted. "I'll just hang out over here and think about our hunt."

"No need to be a bitch about it, Sammy. I think better on beer." Dean settled into the chair next to the cooler.

"You know what, Sammy?" Dean said after the next beer. "Come sit down over here. I have an idea."

Sam sat at the table and, just to be a hypocrite, took another beer from Rodney's cooler.

"Look, there has to be something left here." Dean confided. "What was there? The clothes she was wearing, the jewelry, the car. Ok, those things we can look for. I just hope it's not Rodney's picture. I think that would break his heart. She had an apartment in the building. Maybe some of her stuff is left"

"Everything's gone." Rodney's voice came over Dean's shoulder.

"Oh, didn't hear you come back in, Rodney." Dean turned and looked at the old man. "Hope you don't mind that we drank your beer."

"Don't worry about it." Rodney laughed. "If that's all you guys want I'm happy to provide it though I thought I would go a little further than that and at least give you gas money."

Sam spoke up. "We've been thinking about this and we can see two ways this can go down. As long as the spirit hasn't gone bad we just have to find whatever she's attached to and burn it."

Rodney grabbed the last bottle of beer out from under Dean's hand. "Got a drinking problem, boy? Welcome to the club and take a close look. This is you in 40 more years if you keep it up." He settled in one of the chairs. "So that's the easy way? What's the hard way?"

Dean fielded this one. "If her spirit has turned inward and is concentrating on revenge we may have to do a full-fledged exorcism. I guarantee that neither you nor we want to have to do that. It's long and messy and leaves a stain anywhere it is performed."

"Well, how do we find out?" Rodney asked.

"Is there anything here from that night?" Sam asked.

Rodney looked around the room. "Oh, God, yes there is. Right there." He pointed a shaky old man's finger at a glass case mounted on the wall.

They walked over to it.

"What is this?" Dean asked. "Is this really the dress she died in? What kind of an idiot put this up?"

Rodney replied, "That stupid bastard Roland West. He was her business partner so he took over the restaurant after she died. He knew she had been the big draw that brought in all the hot parties. He thought if he could pretend it was a kind of a shrine to her he could keep the dollars rolling in for a while. I told you she went for the bad boys."

"That wasn't just a bad boy," Dean sneered. "He was a creep too."

"Let's get this opened up. I'll go get some tools." Dean headed for the door. "What you think Sam? Is this a possibility?"

"Oh yeah, this should work." Sam responded. "No matter how they try to clean something like that there's always something left behind. Between possible blood stains and the fact that this dress may have been the last thing she saw, it should be highly effective."

Rodney took them out to a pathway between the house and the garage. Thy sat down on some metal garden benches and watch Sam as he set up their 'magic'. He found an old bird bath that still was pretty sturdy. He placed his ever faithful copper bowl on it with Thelma's shimmering blue dress in the bowl, soaking in gasoline and poured salt on top of that. They sat down and waited. At about four in the morning a pale, frighten figure of a woman half ran, half stumbled, down the walkway. She constantly looked behind her and fear was etched on her face.

Dean stood in the path and held his hand out to her. She eyed the stranger's hand and Dean hoped that Sammy would hurry up so that he didn't have to let her touch it.

There was a soft 'whoomp' behind him and the ghost appeared to wrap up in her new flaming coat, no longer cold and, somehow Dean knew, no longer afraid of whatever was chasing her.

ooOoo

I used the book, "Haunted Houses of California" (1990) by Antoinette May as a reference for this story.