"This damn machine needs a new light bulb or five," Sam muttered under his breath as he squeezed his eyes shut. He had been staring at the too-dull screen of the microfilm machine at the Allenstown public library for almost three hours, which was, if he did say so himself, about two and a half hours too long. When his vision blurred again, he finally tore his attention from the screen, turning in his chair and rubbing his eyes vigorously. "Dean, can you switch with me?"

Dean sighed but without a word he vacated his seat at the worktable. Sam grinned a thank you and happily turned his chair over to his brother. He sat down at the table and sighed in relief at the relative clarity of the newsprint.

Because Evans was an older cemetery that was still selling plots, Sam had begun checking obituaries in the oldest issues of the local newspapers while Dean had started with the most recent. As was typical with their research, neither brother knew exactly what they were looking for but they were certain they'd recognize it when they found it.

The hush that had fallen over the workroom was broken when Dean groaned in frustration and squinted at the screen. "Jesus, how the hell did you stare at this thing for three hours?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder at his little brother. "I've been looking at it for like, twenty minutes and I already have a headache."

"Now you know why I needed to switch," Sam replied without raising his eyes from his newspaper.

"Yeah, thanks for the warning."

Sam finally looked up, cringing. His unintentional deception was kind of mean. "Sorry."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean pressed his thumbs into his closed eyelids and shook his head before returning his attention to the screen. For the next few minutes, the only sounds in the room were the turning of the newspaper pages and the constant, low hum of the microfilm machine. Suddenly, one of the headlines caught Dean's eye: "Young Man Freezes to Death."

A fourteen-year-old named Joseph Quigley had succumbed to exposure after being lost in the woods near Evans Cemetery. Joseph Quigley. Why did that name sound so familiar? "Sammy, come here."

Sam, his mouth turned down in a curious frown, stood from his seat, crowded in behind Dean, and began reading the article over his brother's shoulder. "It says 'behind the new cemetery'," Sam said, nudging Dean with his elbow. "When's this from?"

Dean raised his eyes to the top of the screen. "November 1879."

"November what?"

"Twentieth."

"Tomorrow's the twentieth."

Dean turned his head and met his brother's eye. "He was missing for eight days and then found dead on the nineteenth. He was lost in the cold, Sammy. Certainly sounds like he could be one of our spirits." That was when it clicked. The fourteen-year-old's headstone that he had paused in front of that first night in the cemetery! It was Joseph Quigley's. "But is he the good one or the bad one?"

"We're still thinking there's a good one?" The uncertainty quivered in Sam's voice.

Dean just shrugged. "I can't understand why it would have shown me where you were otherwise. I don't know, maybe we're dealing with a spirit with a conscience."

Sam bit his lower lip before sitting back down in his chair. "I really scared you guys, didn't I."

It wasn't a question. Dean sighed softly and turned sideways in his seat. He had been furious with Sam when he was missing, mostly because it was easier to be angry with him than worried about him. It was easier than believing the worst. But now, seeing the remorse and unease on his brother's face, knowing that Sam had been tricked, he found he couldn't be angry. "Yeah, you did. When we found you, Sam, I thought …"

Sam didn't need the sentence finished. He studied his feet before raising his gaze to meet Dean's. As he opened his mouth to apologize, Dean just held up his hand. "It wasn't a hundred percent your fault."

"I really thought you and Dad heard me call to you but by the time I realized--"

"Don't. Everything worked out okay, didn't it?"

Sam nodded.

"Then shut up."

There was a short pause before Sam returned Dean's calm smile and then another before he faced forward in his chair and turned back to the newspapers. The brothers again worked in silence. All of a sudden, Sam gasped. "Dean, listen: 'A suspected bank robber who was last seen running into the woods behind Evans Cemetery last Tuesday was found dead from exposure early Monday morning. Police found a bag with a large portion of the stolen money on the body of David Moran and are still looking for his accomplices.' This paper's from November 20, 1979. Two freezing deaths in the same woods exactly a hundred years apart."

"And two spirits," Dean mumbled under his breath. "How much you want to bet that this David Moran guy is the bad one?"

Sam was about to reply when an older man stepped into the work area on his way to the front of the library. Both boys quickly turned back to their respective newspapers, each one praying that the man hadn't heard even a little part of their conversation. As the stranger walked past the table, he glanced down at the map of Evans Cemetery Dean had copied from a local history book. "You boys aren't planning on trying to find those crazy lights, are you?" he asked, his tone friendly.

"No, sir," Sam answered quickly, looking up at the man to meet his eye. "We're working on a school project. History class."

"Good, good." Sam gave a slight smirk, always amazed by how easily people accepted the old "history project" excuse. "Those lights have appeared every November like clockwork, but too many young people are getting hurt now looking for them."

Dean's eyes widened at what the stranger had said. "What do you mean, now?"

"Those woods are a maze. They were bad enough in my day, but it seems like over the last fifteen years or so, more and more kids have gotten lost in there."

"Were they okay?" Sam asked quietly. How many other kids had been lost and wandering aimlessly the way he had been the night before?

"Most were, some weren't. A shame, really. The lights used to be fun, something to put this little town on the map, but now ..." The man shook his head before giving the boys a rueful smile. "Anyway, you two don't need to be bothered with that. Good luck on your project."

"Thank you," Sam said, smiling politely at the older gentleman.

Once he was sure the man was out of earshot, Dean turned to Sam. "Fifteen years? If David Moran is the bad one, it fits. And that means Joseph Quigley's the one people have been seeing for years. He must try to help! Maybe--"

"What, Moran gets them lost but Joseph leads them out?" Sam shook his head as he returned his gaze to his newspaper. "I don't know."

Dean sighed, knowing just from the morose look on his brother's face that Sam was wondering why, if that was the case, Joseph Quigley didn't try to lead him out of the woods the previous night. Truthfully, Dean would have liked the answer to that question as well, but he had learned long ago that nine times out of ten, there were no satisfactory answers. "Either way," he continued, clearing his throat, "if they only show a couple weeks out of the month, it's probably because of the anniversary."

"Which means that if both of them were found dead on the nineteenth," Sam concluded with a nod, "tonight's probably our last night."