9

Dwight had received the news a few days later that the death was officially classed as an accidental electrocution, and the fire was deemed electrical in nature as well. An older man, weakened by rough living, Peter Lathem didn't stand a chance when Hannah brought the household power out of the walls at him. The case was closed, the police tape came down, and things settled again. It was time.

Sam had made sure Dean had a few days of uninterrupted rest this time, and he already looked and sounded better. And he'd called and called the number provided for the lamb's buyer, to no avail. She wasn't there, or she wasn't answering. He'd left multiple messages but she didn't return his calls. It worried Sam, he hoped they weren't looking at yet another victim.

The weather was bright this day, but no longer warm. The wind had a bite that heralded winter's approach; it made your ears red and your nose run. Dean flipped lazily through a Maxim magazine. "What if we just call all the Bellwoods in Fredericton, for starters? Might find some relative who can pass a message along, or at least knows where the hell she is."

"I'm way ahead of you as usual, Dean. I've already called nine Bellwoods; none of them knew anything. I have five more to go...after that we may have to branch out into other cities."

"Way ahead of me as usual?"

"Relax, I'm just bugging you. I'll call the rest of them, and then I guess we should get out there and start digging. I'd rather do this at night, but nobody will be able to see us back there anyway, and it's getting a little cold out there."

Dean grunted an answer, absorbed by his magazine again. The third call proved fruitful. When Sam got off the phone, Dean looked up at him expectantly.

Sam scratched his unruly hair. "That was a cousin. He said she's been admitted to Acadie Memorial Hospital, psych ward, since last week. Seems she's been hallucinating and hearing voices. He didn't know anything else, apparently they're not close. He just heard it through the family grapevine. So, judging from that..."

"Yeah, sounds like our crying kid's been around. It's good news, Sam, but we still have to, you know…"

Sam sighed. "Yeah, I know. Might as well get to it."


They drove out to the Rose cottage. Neither had seen the fire damage up close yet. It was a sad thing, standing in front of it now, with the windows broken out on the one side, stained black streaks above on the shingled walls. They could still smell the acrid stench of burnt and water-saturated old wood. Neither felt much like going in; it was safer not to anyway. They just hoped they could accomplish their grim task without incident. Sam carried the heavy shovel and pick, while Dean had the kerosene tin, matches and other necessities. They made their way through the long grass until they reached the little overgrown shrine. Hannah's stone stood there as before, forlorn and forgotten. Dean noticed again the rectangle of raw earth beside it. It begged for the return of the lamb. He wanted to do that, after this. It still felt necessary, still felt right.

Dean laid down a tarp, placed the tin and things at its edge and sat down cross-legged. He smiled widely at Sam.

"Pretty pleased with yourself that you don't have to dig, aren't you?" Sam griped good-naturedly.

"Hey, I'd help, but you'd have an army of little old ladies kicking your ass."

Sam snorted. "No shit."

The ground had been undisturbed for over two centuries; it was pretty well settled. Sam built up a sweat, discarding his jacket as he dug and hacked through the stony soil. Dwight came up from the driveway, slowly; still learning his crutching technique. He had wanted to witness the thing, although he still wasn't sure why.

He greeted them solemnly. "How's the digging, Sam?' he asked.

"Hard. But I'm almost there, I think." He drove his shovel in again, and was rewarded with the distinct, hollow sound of steel on old wood. "Here we go." He scraped and shoveled carefully now, revealing the remains of the ancient coffin. Dwight leaned over, fascinated. It was morbid, but it was a rare opportunity; not many people could claim to have seen such a thing, except a handful of archeologists. Sam stood, stretched his back and wiped the sweat from his brow. "Well...say hello to Hannah Shaw."

He exchanged his shovel for a pry-bar and carefully and quickly pulled the rotted lid apart. Hannah lay just as she had been placed so long ago, reduced to grey bones now, the faded, disintegrating silk of a gown covering most of her body. A long braid of hair; now ropey and colourless, still draped over the ruined fabric and bones of her bodice. Dwight stood in sombre silence, awed by the thought that he would be the first, and last, descendant to see her since her tragic end two hundred years ago.

Dean handed the kerosene tin down to Sam. He opened it and began pouring the fuel into the space occupied by her skeleton. But he stopped after a few moments, having only poured a portion of what would be needed to incinerate all her remains.

"Why'd you stop, Sam?" Dean asked. He was shivering now, and wanted to get this over with.

"Something down here; looks like a little bottle or something." He crouched down, brushing away the dirt "There's stuff in it; looks like…a dried flower, and some ribbon…and hair—"

Dean peered down, his mind working in worry. Witch bottles, as they were called, were often buried under thresholds of old houses, filled with odd things believed to ward off evils, but he'd never seen one uncovered in a burial. He was suddenly filled with unease. "Sam! Don't touch it!" he warned, too late.

Sam had already picked it up and was examining it in the waning light. Dean watched as his brother's expression suddenly went blank. The bottle slipped from his fingers back into the soft dirt, and he slowly stood up in the pit, staring back at the house.

"Sam...?"

Tears began to well from Sam's eyes, spilling over and running down.

-Shit!— "Sam! Sammy, come on out of there!" Dean urged, extending his hand.

Sam turned to him, his face a mask of sorrow. He ignored the proffered help, and slowly hauled himself out of the grave, standing silent and seemingly oblivious to their presence.

Dean approached him carefully. "Sam? You alright..? Can you hear me?" He put a hand on his arm, shaking him gently.

Hannah turned to Dean, seeing him through Sam's eyes, aware of him now. And she spoke, for the first time in centuries.

"Why couldn't you leave us be…? she sobbed miserably. It was a bizarre spectacle; Sam's big frame, his deep voice, but clearly a stranger's gestures and words. "You take everything, and you leave me with nothing." Her speech was distracted, distant. She wrung her hands, holding them close to her chest.

"Hannah...?" Dean asked, fear freezing him to his core. He backed away slightly "Where's Sam? Where's my brother?"

"You take it all..." she said again, still staring toward her former home.

Dean knew they were in trouble now. If she'd somehow transferred into Sam the moment he held the bottle, as she'd seemed to; then she had a physical presence now, and a damn strong one. And where was Sam? Was he still in there, fighting against her control? "Hannah, we're not trying to hurt you...we want to stop your pain."

She slowly tore her gaze away from the cottage, leveling her intense stare at Dean. "No…"

"Please listen, Hannah! We only want to-"

"No!" She dropped her gaze to the ground, still trance-like, and picked up the discarded shovel. She gripped it in both hands, raised it slowly, and swung clumsily at Dean.

"Dwight, go! Get out of here!" Dean warned.

Confused and terrified, Dwight did as he was advised.

Dean backed away from another uncoordinated swing. He held his hands out, trying to convince her of his good intentions, that he was friend rather than foe. "Sam...Hannah! Please stop! Let me-"

But Hannah was growing angrier, her sorrowful expression replaced by something worse. She struck at him again, the shovel now held firm in Sam's strong hands. Dean ducked away from the blow; the edge of the shovel glancing sharply off his shoulder. He stumbled backwards, landing hard on the uneven mound of earth. He swore, his face screwed up against the pain from the jarring impact, and was forced to hold his hand up defensively now.

"Hannah, please! Goddamn it, I'm trying to help you! Don't do this-" He struggled to get up, desperately backing away from the angry wraith inhabiting his brother's form. "Listen to me, please! I can help-"

"Nooo!" she wailed, dropping the tool and balling up Sam's fists at his sides. "Liar! You only harm! You stole her from me again; my precious child! You burned my home! LEAVE ME BE!"

She lunged at him, shoving him hard. His heel broke the crumbly edge behind him, and he lost his footing, clawing at the grass in a doomed attempt to break his fall before tumbling awkwardly into the damp grave pit. He landed hard, crushing the splintered wood and bones beneath his back, and for a moment he lay still, disoriented and groaning. He rolled to try to get up, but cried out, as a fresh, stabbing pain lanced through his middle, and his vision swam. The stink of the kerosene filled his senses, and he opened his eyes to see Sam standing over the hole. He had the matches in his hands.

"No...no...Sam, please!" he whispered hoarsely, terrified.

But Hannah remained unmoved by his plea. Her tormentor now lay below, and she wanted vengeance. She stared down at him, expressionless.

"Sam...Hannah, don't-"

His words fell on deaf ears. She struck the match and dropped it. Dean screamed and covered his head with his jacket, thrashing as the oily accelerant burst into flames around him. Hannah stood at the edge, staring down, until the flames died out. When it was dark and silent at the bottom of the hole, she turned away, and wandered slowly back to the house.


Dwight sat in his car, trying to calm down. This was too much—He was uncomfortably accepting of the idea of a haunting, but this was something else entirely. He'd seen it with his own eyes; the young man became the vessel for her long-dead spirit! He wanted to vomit, he was so frightened. He'd lived the quiet, simple life too long, and he realized now that he had no stamina for strife anymore. But he knew that Dean was still there, in danger; as was Sam, and all to solve his and Edith's own problems. He had to get a grip, swallow his fear... Dwight took a few deep breaths and opened the car door.

He crept as well as he could on crutches, through the back yard. He saw no sign of Sam anymore, nor of Dean for that matter. But he smelled the odor of something burnt. He approached the dirt mound, furtively glancing around for anything threatening. Nothing presented itself and he peered fearfully over the edge into the grave. His heart froze at what he saw. A person...Dean; lay at the bottom, sprawled awkwardly, as still as death itself. Dwight could smell scorched clothing, and singed hair and kerosene.

"Dean?" he called softly. There was no response from the figure in the pit. Dry-mouthed with fear, Dwight fumbled in his pocket, grasping the small LED flashlight he kept his keys clipped on.

-Jesus— The cool, bluish light illuminated the grave. Dean's head was hidden by his jacket, but his hands were exposed, curled into fists, gripping his collar, and clearly burned. His jacket was scorched in places, still smoking. Horrified at the scene below, Dwight leaned further over the hole, searching desperately for evidence of life. He stared, breathlessly, waiting for a sign, some movement. He found it. Dean's chest rose and fell slowly; he was breathing.

Dwight knelt and carefully pulled back the jacket collar with the tip of a crutch, steeling himself. He huffed in relief. Thankfully, Dean's head and face were unharmed; he'd successfully protected himself from the flames with his collar and his unfortunate hands. But he was unconscious. Dwight wracked his brain to think. He had to get him out of there, out of harm's way; but he was a dead weight at the bottom of a six foot deep pit and Dwight himself was severely hampered. And Sam; what of him? He feared his return, in this apparently possessed state. Dwight had seen what Hannah could do in her spirit form; god only knew what she would be like in the physical. More than he could handle, that was certain.

He tried again. "Dean? Son, can you hear me? Dean-!"

Dean stirred and moaned softly.

"Dean, it's Dwight!"

Dean groaned again and coughed, his eyes fluttering. Dwight tried desperately to keep him conscious. "Come on now, son; stay with me! We need to get you out of that hole—"

Dean opened his eyes, trying to fathom what was being asked of him. Someone was calling him— He started to push himself up, but fell back with a cry. He shuddered with the intense and sickening pain in his hands and back. Unable to rise again, he curled up, choking back a sob as his blistered skin brushed against the splintered coffin lid. He coughed and gagged as his lungs filled with the damp from the earth, the mold, and the smoke.

"Dean! Come on, son, wake up now!" Dwight urged, growing frantic. He carefully lay down beside the edge of the hole and lowered a crutch into the pit. "Grab hold, Dean, you hear-? Listen to me!"

Dean forced himself back to lucidity, as Dwight's anxious words pierced the fog that clouded his mind. He raised himself onto his elbows and stayed there for several moments, until he had slowed the whirling black behind his eyes. Finally, he reached up and grasped the crutch, and used it to haul himself upright in the hole, swaying as he fought to stay that way. His lungs were filled with smoke and kerosene fumes, and he hung on tight as he coughed until his eyes streamed. Dwight talked him through it, pulling up as hard as he could on the crutch once Dean had it firmly in hand. As soon as Dean's shoulders were up over the edge, Dwight twisted the back of his jacket in a tight grip and hauled him the rest of the way out. Dean choked out a yelp at the pressure of Dwight's hands, as sharp pain lanced through his torso from the fragile callus of healing bone.

Both men sprawled in the grass. Dwight lay on the mound of earth for several minutes, panting. He wasn't in the shape these younger men were in; and with the recent mishap, his stamina was sorely tested. Dean curled up, shaking with shock as he tried to keep his injured hands from touching anything. Cursing his cumbersome cast, Dwight got up and leaned over the younger man, trying to comfort him, assuring him it would all be right again soon. Dean gathered himself and after some time, Dwight was able to get him to his feet. The distance to his car seemed like miles, but somehow they managed to get to it.


Edith was appalled. Dwight had gotten Dean back to the house, and between them they'd managed to get him into Dwight's first floor bedroom. She'd quickly stripped him of his layers of clothing, and the roadmap of old scars and fresh bruises on his torso left her speechless. She momentarily lost her characteristic steadiness, and dissolved into tears. His back still bristled with stitches from his first encounter with Hannah. She couldn't stand the thought that she had added to this; that their stupid, minor difficulty would be carved onto his hide for the rest of his life while she suffered no ill effects from all this. And old Peter Lathem had died in a house that she owned. She was terrified that poor Dean would join the ranks. She argued with Dwight again about calling for an ambulance.

"No, Dwight, please, don't... I have to stay here." Dean pleaded hoarsely. His fevered state amplified his feeling of threat. Thanks to past experiences, he had a deep-rooted fear of going back to the hospital, and he feared abandoning Sam even more.

Dwight gently pushed him back against the crisp, clean sheets as Edith swabbed his brow again. Ever since he'd been brought back to the house, he'd passed in and out of consciousness, burning up, and fretting over his brother. Edith had cleaned and bandaged his hands; the back of each was painfully scorched, but the burns were not third degree. He'd been lucky, if you could call it that. Sam had poured only a small amount of kerosene before he'd stopped, and Dean's thrashing had extinguished it before he was severely burned. Had it been the full amount he would have been immolated in the grave. Dwight did what he could to soothe his feverish angst, but he really had no idea how to approach the problem with Sam.


It had been two days. It seemed to Edith that her charge's condition worsened steadily, and after some nervous searching by Dwight, there was still no sign of his brother. Edith was terrified that the young man would expire under her care, and she demanded that Dwight get him to hospital. But Dean was equally compelling in his fevered insistence that he stay here, near to Sam, in case he needed him. Dwight Croscup, LLB, QC; was used to choosing sides and confidently defending his choice. But now he was caught between Dean and Edith, two powerfully intractable forces; and the circumstances were so irregular that he found he just couldn't fish or cut bait. He knew damned well that Dean should be in hospital, but he also knew why he shouldn't. And all that, compounded by the fact that his brother was wandering around with a distraught and angry two hundred year old spirit driving the bus. There was nothing in his law books illustrating any precedence for that.

But in the end, he chose to honour Dean's wishes. Dean had been talking to himself, agitated, as his fever peaked. Dwight listened intently as the young man unknowingly revealed deeply guarded secrets about himself, his troubles, his history. Dwight wasn't sure how much was real and how much was hallucination; the things he said were so strange and outlandish. Much of what he mumbled about defied reason, but then again, after what he'd seen with his own discerning eyes recently; his mind was a little more open. But one thing was abundantly clear. These boys were in trouble. Deep, legal trouble.

"He sounds croupy." Edith frowned. She was right, Dean's breathing was growing increasingly raspy and laboured. His fever wouldn't break. She'd given him more than double the recommended amount of Tylenol, but it might as well have been sugar pills for all the effect it had. Again she pestered Dwight.

"Look, Aunt Edith, I can't tell you why at this time, but it's best he not go in to the hospital right now! And with poor Sam out there; god knows what's happening to him, we just have to weather this for the time being!" He rarely lost his temper, but he was frustrated and afraid, worried that his decision was the wrong one.

In a moment of lucidity, Dean responded to their argument. "Dwight...Helen's cottages, in the bathroom...there's some medicine." he whispered.

"Absolutely, son, anything to help this. What are they, what am I looking for?"

"Bottle of big pills, for pneumonia."

Dwight was aghast. He hadn't realized he was that sick. "What exactly happened to you, Dean, in the cottage?"

"We got shocked...I hit the pegs on the wall, drove a rib into a lung."

"What? Christamighty! Why didn't you say something?"

"Why would I? Doesn't change anything."

Dwight wanted to speak more, but Dean had tired, and was drifting. He ran his hands over his wiry grey hair, feeling sick with regret. Should have burned that damned house in the spring! He was mortified, and filled with uncertainty. The whole situation, it was ridiculous, it was insane. He was unaccustomed to feeling stymied. But picking up the pills, perhaps the rest of their things; that at least was something useful he could do, and he left immediately.


Sam watched from the sidelines as Hannah stumbled about in his form. He felt like a balloon, floating helplessly, tethered to his own wrist and incapable of controlling his body. He'd watched from outside himself, in abject horror, as Hannah did those terrible things... -Dean- But it was his hands holding the shovel, his hands striking the match… And Hannah had taken him away after that, back into the house. He had no idea if Dean was still alive. Hannah took his body upstairs, where she huddled in a corner, hidden by a dresser, weeping inconsolably for days. Her sorrow was all she knew since Emeline was stolen from her. She'd wandered and wept ever since that day, stopping only to rise up and rail against anyone who intruded on her sorrow, those who came into her home, —thieves, monsters, the living— who were the root of it all. Sam floated beside her, unable to communicate with her, helplessly tied to her and her whims. He had heard Dwight call for him repeatedly, but couldn't answer. He knew he must be starving by now, and chilled to the bone. He didn't feel it, and she didn't care.