Beware Of The…

Chapter two

"D'n." The Outsider shuttered in Teddy's arms, making strange noises, but still his eyes stayed shut.

"Mine," Teddy muttered, as he stalked off to his special place.

This was the plaything he'd longed for.

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Sam sluggishly drifted up from a land made of sticky cotton candy fluff. Crazy thoughts filled his jumbled head. Crazy thoughts like: In the song Yankee Doodle, was the guy calling the horse or the feather "macaroni"? Why did round pizzas come in square boxes? Why call the arcade game Donkey Kong when the donkey was clearly an ape? And just how fast did hotcakes really sell? But most importantly, why was life so damn unfair?

Sam coughed raggedly, and all the crazy thoughts seemed to disappear. All he felt now was warm and floaty. This was nice, he thought. He could stay this way forever – all drippy and woozy and lazy. But there was something nagging at the back of his brain, that something causing his eyes to flutter open.

"Hmmmm," Sam whimpered, only half aware, head hung low, chin resting on his chest.

He choked and spit smacking his lips together as he tried to find his mind and filter through all the thoughts and images flashing before him. He tried really hard to focus in on more important questions. Such as what, where, and why?

He'd been searching for something. Hadn't he? Walking along a path that wound around a cluster of boulders and cut tree stumps. He remembered he'd tripped and fell. Hit his head. No. He didn't trip. Something had attacked him. Something bigger than him. Bigfoot? A giant, dirty-pink rabbit? Bigfoot dressed up like a giant, dirty-pink rabbit? He couldn't be sure.

Sam shivered, a feverish chill running through him, hotter than hot one second, colder than cold the next. He wanted to go back to sleep or pass out, whichever, but knew enough he had to force himself to keep awake, put his thinking cap on, solve this puzzle.

"Nuhhh," Sam moaned, solving only one piece of the puzzle. He'd hunted enough years to know the feel of a concussed head.

Hunted?

Begrudgingly Sam risked more pain by opening his eyes; well at least he thought he'd opened his eyes.

It was unnerving waking up to nothing but cold and dark and spooky curling all around him like a black, hairy beast. Crap! Sam's shivering increased. Waking up to blackness always did bring on his claustrophobia. Was he in a box? Or maybe the trunk of a car? The bottom of a well? It was nightmarish to wonder and he wasn't sure if he really was awake or asleep. Sam took in a few calming breaths. It took him a few more dizzying moments to orient himself. He didn't have to see to finally figure out he was sitting on a hard packed dirt floor. His legs stretched out in front of him, back slumped into a corner. The wall behind him kept poking him in the back, and it was apparent it was crudely constructed of branches and jagged rock.

Sam slowly shifted to get his feet back on the ground, but the rattling sound of rusted chains cruelly yanked him back down to the cold-packed dirt.

"Guh," Sam moaned, his brain sloshing from one side of his head to the other by the sudden movement causing him to fall back panting.

What the?

He ground his teeth together now realizing his hands were free, but his ankles were cuffed, more than likely with metal shackles from the cold pinching feel of them. He bent forward, reaching down his legs with trembling hands and felt along until his fingers closed around the hard, gritty steel of a rusted chain. Lifting the heavy restraints he followed it link-by-link. Searching around in the darkness his right hand wrapped around a metal pole and followed that to the ground.

Holy crap! He was tethered to a stake like some sort of neglected dog.

Sam tried to pull up on the rod, but it was deeply embedded. Searching around blindly some more he came across the familiar shape of a padlock. It felt cheap and it was old. He could handle this. Pick just about any device, even blinded by darkness. Good thing too. Sam clumsily fumbled inside his jacket pockets. He was never a normal boy whose pockets were filled with rocks and bugs and candy wrappers. Not Sam. His lips pressed together as he took inventory, quickly realizing he'd been cleaned out. Where were his gun, his flashlight, his salt and flask of holy water, lighter, and cell phone, and more importantly where was his lock pick? Not to mention his weapon's bag.

"Okay," he breathed out. "Think, Sam. Think." The pain and the darkness and the musky stench were a real brain drainer. His head was a real mess. Pounding with the force of the seven seas, and he could feel the blood plastered to the side of his face like dried-on glue. His body, however, seemed to run on instinct, fingers already doing the walking, reaching behind him to break off a pointy twig that was sticking him in the back. It was no paperclip or bobby pin, but it would have to do.

With shaky, cold hands, Sam got to work by touch alone. It was hard to stay awake, even harder to stay alert. Periodically he'd black-out, for how long Sam had no clue. He'd come to again after who-knew-how-long. On auto pilot, going straight back to working the padlock. Several twigs had already broken off in the old-fashion keyhole, making the task that much harder. His muscles were weakening and he was growing more and more nauseous.

Each time Sam woke, all he heard echoing back at him through the darkness was his own harsh breathing as he grunted and tried to get the pain under control, tried to get a better grip on what the hell was going on while he worked the lock.

Darkness swirled and spotted before his eyes, but he forced himself not to pass out again. It was strange how the blackness seemed to come alive and flutter across the bare skin of his hands, and feathering down his jacket's collar prickling the back of his neck. The feeling creeping him out.

Remaining silent and listening, Sam tried to find his other senses to fill in where his eyes had failed as he worked. But trying to find his completely unwired brain was proving difficult as it seemed to have been absorbed by the darkness. Thoughts and images ebbed and flowed, whirling around in chaos once again.

With his primal sense of sight gone, his sense of smell kicked in – strong and basic and acute.

Sam sniffed at the air. The musky, dampness that cramped-up his body gave him the impression he was in a large hole, maybe a cave. The smell of rotting meat told him he probably was the only thing left alive in said hole…for now.

It was a disturbing thought.

Then his thoughts did a one eighty and Sam suddenly remembered the farm house, the field. Dean throwing scissors, the two of them splitting up. Sam running smack-dab into the very thing they didn't know they were hunting. It was no Big Foot. It was no hoax. No monster. It was more like something straight out of a tabloid paper. A disfigured human being with a face only a mother could love, clutching tightly to a floppy dirty-pink bunny. And even though his size did not attest to it, he looked more like a lost and lonely and scared child, then the eight-foot tall full-grown man he was.

As Sam continued to work the lock, the image of the man became clearer. He had two noses and three eyes, his face a mound of lopsided, swollen, ape-like flesh. The man didn't seem to understand much at all. And judging by the few rotting teeth left in his mouth, unshaven face, and long thick black hair hanging halfway down his back that was gnarled with matts and burrs and bugs, Sam figured he'd been out here on his own for some time.

In thinking harder, Sam knew the man-child didn't seem to want to hurt him. The poor guy was scared and truly didn't know how huge he was, didn't understand his own strength. And Sam had just appeared with gun in hand, scaring the crap out of him.

Sam stopped working the lock, when he heard the shuffling of feet and fumbling about. Someone else was there in the dark with him.

Sam remained motionless, his head cocked to one side, listening intently.

He heard breathing – heavy and fast.

"Dean," he called, straining to see through the darkness hoping to see Dean's flashlight beam heading his way, yet knowing that was a lost cause. The shuffling feet had to be inside a size thirty-seven AA shoe, Dean wore a size eleven. "I know you're there," Sam called out to the darkness. "You can come out now. I'm not mad at you," he added quietly.

There came no response. Not as much as a flicker of light, only the sickeningly sweet odor of death that lingered in the air. Two horrible, powerful words Sam hadn't thought about before entered his muddled mind. What if? There were a lot of 'what if's' in this world, but the what if's that freaked Sam out the most and sent him tail spinning out-of-control were always about Dean. What if Dean had run into the man-child as well and was here with him this whole time? What if he was unconscious? Hurt? Bleeding? Or worse yet, what if Dean was the very reason for the stench that assaulted Sam's nose right now.

The thought made Sam gag and he shook his head to free himself of the images. "Come on," he muttered, frantically concentrating harder on the lock with the twig.

No! Dean was fine and looking for him right now. He had to be. Dean wouldn't have tripped up. Not the way he had. His big brother wouldn't have tried to capture the man-child in hopes of finding him medical help. Dean would have just shot him there on the spot and been done with it. No questions asked.

There came more shuffling and a small whimper.

Sam's head jerked up. "Hello?" he called, but got no response, just the empty, hollowness that surrounded him.

Everything was quiet again, save for the constant sound of dripping water. Each drop echoing and he became more certain he may be in a deep, dank, dark cave.

The hair rising prickle at the back of his neck shot down his spine. What if this man was a cannibal? That would explain the disappearances. The horrific smell. Panic is a human certainty when found in deadly situations, and right now...Sam was starting to panic.

"Get a grip, Sam," he whispered, his inner hunter's voice slipping out dry, swollen lips. "Okay, okay," he panted taking in short, shallow breaths, composing himself as he finally unclicked the padlock and let it fall to the ground.

Sam swore weakly as he got up to his knees, then his feet. His first reaction was to run, but when he took his first bolting step his head nearly spun off and he stumbled and fell back against the wall of branches behind him and slipped back down to his ass. "Shit," he gulped in mouthfuls of damp, cold, smelly air, the hollowness around him entering into his gut and settling there like a heavy rock.

Up above him he heard movement. Fluttering and scratching. But of course, the place would be full of the little, hairy flying creatures known as bats. And where there were bats, there was bat guano, that could explain the smell. He'd go with that verses the other thoughts of dead big brother's and half-eaten hikers.

There was no telling how big this place was, but to Sam the darkness felt mammoth, an immeasurable cathedral full of tunnels and labyrinths. He'd have to feel his way out, and in the bad shape he knew he was in. That could take hours...if not days, if ever as he had no clue where he was. He only knew he had to move.

"Move. Now," he ordered himself, pushing back up to his feet.

He took a few calming breaths, and slowly started traipsing through pitch-blackness. It was unnerving. Who knew what edge he could fall off? Sam inched along the wall, his legs wobbly beneath him.

The stench was getting stronger and brought tears to his eyes and caused a fire to blaze in his gut. A thick blob of bile crept up his throat. Sam swallowed most of the sick back down, only a little bubble of fluid flowing out the corner of his mouth. He swiped his knuckles across his lips, refusing to let anymore vomit escape, and dragging in air through his nostrils.

He chanced moving away from the wall, bumping into something solid that jarred his head. He tried hard not to let out a groan but couldn't help himself. His eyes grew heavy and he struggled to keep them from closing, not that he could really tell in the darkness.

His senses suddenly heightened, and Sam froze, becoming immediately aware that something had changed. At first it wasn't something he could put his finger on. It was an internal eerie feeling. He felt empty and cold. Felt like eyes were staring straight through him. Bit-by-bit his visibility increased. The darkness screaming back to life, black mixed with blacker-black to create an oddly shaped faceless shadow. He stared down at the object he'd ran into just able to make it out in the dim-yellow glow of a flickering light. It was a vintage television set tipped over onto its side. Made out of solid wood, the thing must have weighted a ton, with square peg-legs and round channel knobs and a round, green-glassed screen. He leaned against the old relic dizzily, unused to seeing with his eyes he slammed them shut. The moment he did, something breezed past him, a puff of warm, musky air hitting his nostrils.

Sam remained silent, not daring to move just yet. Instinct telling him he needed to wait. He listened more intently, and then chanced opening his eyes. Squinting, he swung his gaze around. It was still too dark to see much more than shapes.

Sounds came to him like ghostly whispers in his ear, then grew louder. Someone was riffling through a closet or junk drawer, those big feet were back. Crunching over broken glass, then the kicking around of empty tin cans, then there was the unnerving sound of a grumbling, hungry belly.

Maybe the whole cannibalism thing wasn't such a bad theory after all.

"Who's there?" Sam called out wearily scrubbing a hand across his blurry eyes trying to see.

There came a quick snapping sound followed by a soft flick- flicking sound.

Sam listened more intently. The sound was completely familiar - flint hitting the striker of a Zippo.

In a fog of pain and fighting not to go under, Sam glanced around some more. Everything was a kaleidoscope of color. He rubbed his eyes harder. Little-by-little he was being pulled from the darkness, little by little his eyesight was restored to him and he realized what had brought the room a-glow. All around him sitting on over turned crates and resting along rocky ledges, old dressers, and a vintage radio were white candles of every shape and size. Crammed anywhere and everywhere there seemed to be an open spot, burning and dripping hot wax to create twisted art sculptures on the surfaces.

It took a few more waning minutes for Sam to adjust to the low lighting. As he looked all around, he saw that there were no windows, and the place was indeed spacious and echoey. There were large weathered tree trunks, their spreading branches and crinkled, dead leaves still dangling from spiny limbs, huge gray boulders, and smaller brown rocks, pieces of knotty paneling and sheets of aluminum lined along the walls. Everything was intricately woven and stacked together in a crude but sturdy and skillful way, all supporting the red-clay and crumbling cinder block Sam could see peeking through the construction. Toward the rear of the room sat a wheel barrel full of dirt, leaning nearby that, an axe, a pick and shovel, and hand saw.

As more dancing light filled the room Sam glanced up to see the bats he'd heard earlier. About fifteen to twenty of the little suckers hanging around. Not from stalactites, but from what he was certain to be gas and electrical and water lines, the kind found in the basement of an old house. The place was no cave.

'The farm house?' Sam mouthed silently.

They'd checked the place thoroughly.

Sam thought about the background check he'd done on the abandoned farm before they'd come out looking for 'who knew what.'

The house had been owned and lived in for well over forty years by a man named James Ford whose son reportedly died in the house during childbirth twenty years ago, and whose wife had accidently fallen down the staircase and broken her back years later. EMF readings of the farm house had indicated no ghostly activity. During a few interviews of the town's folk's he and Dean had found out Ford was a harmless recluse who only came into town for supplies once a month. His biggest crime was apparently scaring away nosey neighbors and menacing kids off his property with a broomstick. He'd died several years ago of a sudden heart attack leaving the house empty and in disrepair. Shortly after the disappearances started.

He and Dean done a complete search of the house. Finding no indication of foul play. How'd they miss what was obviously a secret hideout?

The flames danced sending moving shadows casting all about the shelter creating a spooky dream-like appearance.

With all the dried lumber and other crap, Sam briefly worried about the place burning down, but figured he had bigger problems at the moment as one of the shadows seemed to peel away from the wall, coming to life.

TBC

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