Chapter 11
It looked the same. The old hospital hadn't changed in the past few years, at least since Bill had walked the empty halls looking for kids drinking beer and smoking pot. It still stood strong and in contrast to the vast wilderness surrounding it. The parking lot had been overgrown with choke weed, morning glory, mustard and downed trees, moss crept up the sides of the brick of the hospital, and mushrooms appeared as the moist ground provided the perfect setting for fungus. Bill sighed as the midday sun shone like a hallo over the brick embossed name above the entrance.
Dean stood next to the parked Impala and looked toward the building. He pulled his shoulders together, and shoved his hands into his pockets as John and Sam gathered their supplies. Dean turned when he heard his name called and looked toward John.
"You and Sam stay together," John said, and nodded when Dean acknowledged him with a nod and shrug of his right shoulder. "Sam, keep and eye on him — he's —"
"Gone," Sam frowned. "I've got his back," he reassured. "Just find this thing so we can get outtta here."
John handed Sam the sawed-off and looked toward Bill. "Your bullets won't work in there — you need iron," he handed Bill a weapon, "whatever you see that comes at you — shoot it — just like I told you earlier — you can't hesitate."
Bill nodded. "Tell me again what I'm looking for?"
"You'll know it when you see it," Sam said. "And you'll never forget it." He turned toward Dean, "Stay close."
John took point, followed by Sam, Dean, and then Bill who cautiously took up the rear. Weapons were held at the ready, and John carried a backpack on his left shoulder filled with salt, fuel, two lighters, and a maul axe. He took his time looking in rooms, checking the doors and windows. He peeled back wall paper searching for signs or clues that could lead them to the remains.
A cold breeze whistled through the long hall, followed by the flutters of wings as the birds in the rafters shifted, ready to flee. John entered the cafeteria and motioned for the others to be on alert as he continued the search. Dean looked wide eyed at the hole above them, the way the sun's rays caught dust particles and highlighted the architecture of the old building. Despite its age, history, and current condition, the building had been a place of comfort for some. Guests had eaten together at tables, they had shared stories of their families, friends, and those they had lost. Food had been cooked and prepared behind the serving counter, and for a moment, Dean caught the scent of something familiar. He looked toward Sam and then toward John in hopes they had caught the scent as well, but Dean frowned when he realized they hadn't. He watched both men carefully checked each corner, windows, doors, and around the tables. Sam tapped on the walls, listening for something.
Dean swallowed and stepped toward the center of the room and looked up. The rafters held strong and he could see blue sky through the holes in the roof. The floor above had been broken through and Dean wondered what had caused the collapse. He could see sections of flooring hanging precariously from plywood, the broken and snapped beams had failed over years of abuse. Dean could hear voices as Bill and John cleared rooms, and he could hear Sam drag his feet as he moved from section to section looking for something Dean didn't comprehend.
The flaps of wings caused Dean to glance toward the kitchen and he stepped forward, glanced at Sam and then watched John and Bill exit the room to search the bowels of the building. John barked orders, Sam nodded and glanced toward Dean, and then walked out the door and down the hall. Bill followed, gun at the ready, hairs on the back of his neck on end, and eyes alert.
Dean tried the door to the kitchen and sighed when the door didn't give. He looked over the serving counter and saw where the appliances had been, pipes, wires, and discolored walls remained. Garbage littered the floor, beer bottles, fast food wrappers, and papers. A stack of dishes lay broken next to some empty metal shelves.
"Dean," Sam said, "stay close, man — who knows where this thing is."
Dean nodded and stepped back from the kitchen and looked toward the buffet that was positioned to the right of the door and toward the tables piled against the far wall. He watched Sam position himself along the wall and flash his light beneath the tables and behind them. He tapped the walls where he could reach and sighed.
"Help me move these," Sam said, and pulled a table away from the wall to rest his flashlight on.
John entered the surgical wing of the hospital. He could hear Bill following close behind. The rooms hadn't been touched and suffered the effects of time. Broken windows, mold, and rust ate at metal, garbage collected in corners and against baseboards. Graffiti had been sprayed throughout and on random walls. Drywall had been busted through and large holes now accompanied old wallpaper and plaster. John sighed and peered into a room off to the side of the surgery. He caught a glimpse of sinks, a closet, and an old poster that had been pulled from the wall and was left to weather on the floor.
"This place is empty, John," Bill said, and relaxed his shoulders. He held his weapon at his side. "I ain't real sure what it is you're lookin' for?" He scratched his neck and watched John peek inside a closet and then turn to look at him.
"We're looking for a place someone might've hid a body," John said, and looked at Bill. "Someplace a body could be placed upright."
Bill sighed and muttered, "Needle in a haystack." He scratched his forehead and rubbed his temple as he glanced at the door and took a step back to look down the hall.
"You said the first documented case was in 1953," John said. "Same year that Jan Blythe disappeared — Dr. Kentz's assistant?"
Bill nodded. "Don't know if it was a disappearance — nothing was ever reported."
John closed his eyes and thought about the cases he had worked, the oddities, the subtle nuances that broke cases wide open. "When was this building built?"
Bill sighed and shrugged. "It was originally a sanitarium for tuberculosis patients back in the 1880s, until it was converted to a research hospital in 1910 — Dr. Kentz came on as lead physician back in... 1935 — he was German, had a difficult time finding work in the bigger cities."
"And Blythe?"
Bill shook his head and frowned. "Stories are she was strange, had a way with the old, kept to herself and lived in the hospital with a few other staff members — wasn't all that unusual back then. Staff lived in the quarters at the other end of the hospital, the large rooms we looked in after we first entered the building. Don't have a clue to which one would have been her's."
"What about Kentz — he live in the hospital?"
"No, he had a house in town — it's the old restaurant now." Bill rubbed his brow and shrugged. "Why are we lookin' for someone buried upright?" He sighed and looked toward John. "I get why you do what you do, but I haven't ever seen anything around here that would be considered… supernatural, paranormal, or belonged on Ripley's." He scratched his jaw and looked toward the hall again. "People up here are simple, they mind their own business, work honest livings, and do their best to stay out of the way — hell, most consider themselves survivalists. Everyone up here knows or has heard stories, but nobody has ever come forward and claimed that they've been haunted — possessed — or sold their soul for anything other than a good cup of coffee with old friends."
John nodded but kept his weapon at the ready. "I get why you're frustrated, but you have to realize that the world isn't made up of good ol' folks and their simple ways of life." He took a deep breath. "There are things out there that… That I don't know how to describe, and I can't sit here and babysit you while you contemplate the realities you're surrounded by.
"There is something here. There is something living off the memories of people who have ended up here for," John shrugged, "for whatever reason — and right now, the only thing I care about is getting my son back, killing whatever is doing this, and getting the hell out of here."
Bill sighed. "So where in the hell do we look?" He glanced at his watch and ripped the handle of his weapon tighter. "I want to help — I'm up here, despite my better judgement, because I want to find out what's doing this as well — this is my town, and I always wonder who's next?"
John sighed, clenched his fingers around the handle of the sawed-off shotgun. "When you came up here the first time… Gail said the townsfolk don't consider you a local—"
Bill chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah, still don't." He shrugged. "Why?"
"You remember any place that made you uncomfortable — maybe was colder than the rest of the building — maybe you smelled sulfur?"
Bill clenched his jaw and rubbed his temple. "Shit, that was… fifteen — twenty years ago when I first walked through here —"
"And nothing stuck out about it?"
"Yeah, I thought havin' the cafeteria and Dr. Klatz office right next to each other was odd," Bill shrugged, "so maybe he liked watching his patients' eat."
"I didn't see an office?"
Bill raised his eyebrows. "Probably because the tables get piled up against the door — it's an office, not a dungeon."
John clenched his jaw and walked out of the room and back toward the cafeteria. Bill followed and picked up his pace to keep up with John.
"There's a door," Sam said, as he and Dean moved the last table out of the way. Sam slapped his hands on his thighs and looked up in time to see John and Bill reenter the room. "Find anything?"
John shook his head and flashed his light toward the door. The hand engraved sign read, Dr. Elvin Kantz, hung at eye level on the heavy oak door. The brass handles and hardware contrasted the wood and door frame.
Dean looked up as the birds fluttered and quickly exited the building, sending feathers, dirt and shit toward the floor. He moved out of the way and then watched John grab the handle of the door and push it open. The door squeaked from years of underuse. John flashed his light, and captured sight of an old wooden desk, file cabinets to the right, an exam table to the left, with old metal cabinets filled with medical supplies: ointments, brown bottles, surgical instruments, bandages, and a few flies were spread out along the cabinet counter.
John entered the room and held his flashlight higher to illuminate what he couldn't see. Sam, did the same as he followed. It was windowless, stuffy, and while the room should have been covered in dust — it wasn't. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise and he looked toward Sam who looked through the files to his right, and then toward Bill who stood in the doorway, pointing his flashlight toward the exam space of the room. John stepped forward, opened the cabinets and then sighed. He looked through the portable exam hutch, and then quickly started looking through the drawers of the desk.
"Dad?" Sam said, and pulled a thick old tablet from behind the cabinet. He flipped through the first couple of pages, carefully shining his light on the photorealistic images of individuals, some laughing, some angry, some content and some capturing moments of time. Graphite had smeared across some of the pages, and a few pages were so old that the paper was fragile, splitting in the areas of stress. Sam paused a moment, inhaled deeply and shuttered. He looked up and met his father's eyes.
John glanced at Sam, saw the uncertainty in his eyes, and then looked at the image before him. John's chest tightened, his pulse raced, and blood pumped rapidly through his veins. He looked at the image, a graphite image of himself laughing with Mary, his hands on her belly. John caught his breath and looked toward Dean who continued to stand behind Bill, oblivious to his own memory. John swallowed and looked back toward the picture and then flipped to the next. He sucked in a quick breath and wheezed as his throat tightened. He remembered the moment, the look on Mary's face as she faced certain death, the fear for her boys, and fear for herself while pinned to the ceiling of Sam's bedroom, bleeding from her belly, fire igniting behind her. He remember the scent of her flesh burning.
The wail pierced the air and both Dean and Bill covered their ears and ducked while Sam and John raised their weapons toward the door. The high-pitched scream shattered the glass of the medical cabinet and the antique medial bottles.
"What the hell?" Bill said as he stood. He pressed the heel of his right hand to his temple and looked toward John.
"Sam, you see anything?" John kept his attention on the door and glanced toward Dean who had backed against the wall.
"Nothing," Sam said, and adjusted his finger on the trigger.
John quickly folded the images and shoved them into his breast pocket. "We need to find that body." He stepped back, weapon held tight, and he grabbed the medical cabinet and pulled it forward. Wood splintered, already broken glass shattered, as the cabinet succumb to John's anger and bitterness. John shrugged the backpack off his shoulders and grabbed the maul axe. "Watch the door and keep an eye on your brother!"
Sam nodded and mouthed, thank you, to Bill who had grabbed Dean by the right arm and drug him into the room. Dean fell against the file cabinet and he watched John work to demolish the walls. He swung the axe and smashed though the old wood and plaster, sending remnants to the floor and dust through the air. Unsatisfied with his work, he moved to the next wall and started the process over. Sam jumped when Dean stepped backward and fell to his butt and then pushed himself into the back corner, eyes wide in terror, jaw clenched, Adam's apple bobbing franticly. Sam raised his weapon when he saw it, moving like a shadow across the cafeteria. The form shifted, taking on the shapes of the faces portrayed in the drawings.
"Dad!" Sam yelled and then watched in horror as a hand materialized from the darkness and pressed its fingers against Bill's temple.
Sparks ignited, and Bill screamed. He dropped his weapon, clutched his head, and fell just as Sam fired his first shot. The darkness scattered. Bill gasped, pushed himself up to his elbows and tried to control his breathing.
"You alright?" Sam asked, and quickly reloaded his weapon. He could hear his dad work to pull down more of the walls, the swings of his axe followed quickly by grunts and gasps for air.
"Fuckin' peachy!" Bill snapped. He grabbed his weapon and leaned against the doorframe. "What in the hell was that?" He looked wide eyed at Sam and then pressed his fingers to his eyes. "Fuck!" He inhaled deeply and caught his breath in his throat and then with watery eyes looked back toward Sam.
John yelled, dropped the axe, and fell to his knees clutching his head when the darkness surrounded him.
"Dad, get down!" Sam yelled and fired.
John gasped, and rested on hands and knees, head bowed. "Sam," he gasped as he choked back a sob. "It's," he pushed himself up and pressed his hands to his thighs as he rested on his haunches, "it's pulling at memories — but…"
"It's getting a taste for them," Bill said, still seated, legs before him, right hand clutching his weapon. He wiped his eyes, clenched his jaw, and swallowed.
John grabbed the handle of the axe and struggled to his feet but fell as the memories and pain of his past became overwhelming. He could see her,… Mary… clear as day, and his heart clenched at the grief of losing her again. John covered his eyes — as her scent of honey and lavender overwhelmed him, and then suddenly changed to the scent of burning flesh.
Dean slowly stood, and kept his eyes on the door, Sam, and John, he guided himself toward the exam side of the room with his hands along the wall.
"Dean?" Sam said, weapon still raised and pointed toward the door.
Keeping his eyes on as much as the room as he could, Dean leaned forward and grasped the handle of the axe still lying next to his father's knees. Dean glanced toward Sam, and then toward John who's hands still shook. Dean swallowed and took a hefty swing toward the wall.
"It's coming back!" Sam yelled and tightened his grip on the weapon. "Dad!"
John struggled to his feet but fell again when a headache sent a sharp pains through his temple. "Shoot it, Sam!" He wiped the blood from nose and onto the thigh of his left leg. "Bill?"
"I see it," Bill said, and clenched his jaw. He fired a shot and the darkness disappeared once again.
Dean continued to punch holes in the walls, searching for the remains. He stopped suddenly when the blade of the axe connected with something solid. He yanked on the handle and pried the plaster and drywall away from the wall, slowly at first and then frantically as he revealed a tall narrow wooden box nearly four feet in height. The dark walnut had been engraved with symbols, and the wood had been stained and finished. Dean continued to reveal more of the piece.
They all covered their ears, when the sharp wail of a scream penetrated the room with such vigor that the files and desk shook. Sam fell back against the wall and watched the darkness encroach, it shifted and morphed as it approached. Sam raised his weapon, but the scream intensified. Dean fell onto his left hip and shifted his feet beneath him.
John grasped the edge of the box and yanked it from its position between two studs. It fell forward, and the hinges broke. He reached for it but felt the sudden and painful bursts to his temple crippled him as the darkness swarmed. John fought back a scream and a growl erupted from the back of his throat.
Dean, with his right ear pressed against his shoulder and his left hand covering his left ear he grasped the box with his right hand and flipped it over, exposing the bones and remains of Jan Blythe. Her bones had been broken to ensure she fit in the narrow confines. The symbols carved on the outside of the box were carved on the inside as well, and Dean jumped back when the screaming stopped. He looked up and came face to face with the darkness. It swirled around him and then suddenly the high-pitched screaming started again. Dean covered his ears and looked up in time to see the blackness surround Sam.
"Salt and burn it, Dean," John gasped, his nose continued to bleed, and he covered his ears with his hands. "Burn it!"
Dean grabbed the backpack and pulled it toward himself. He dumped the contents onto the ground and quickly scattered salt over the carcass and then grabbed the tin container of fire starter. He looked up when Sam screamed, and quickly dumped the fluid onto the body, on the wood and grabbed the lighter.
Just as the flame danced to life, the darkness turned, and in a burst of fury threw Dean backward toward the tattered wall. The lighter fell and landed with a burst of flames in the casket of the woman they'd hunted. She wailed one last time, and the blackness twisted, sparked and finally disappeared.
Dean groaned when he landed against the wall and struggled to inhale. He propped himself onto his knees and elbows. He gasped suddenly, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and pushed himself back against the wall. He struggled to breathe, as breaths came in short shallow bursts.
"Dean?" John said, and he looked from the remains to his son. Slowly, John used the wall to push himself up. "Dean?" he said again and stepped closer to where Dean struggled to get his feet beneath him, desperate to catch his breath. "Son," John rested on his haunches and reached for Dean's left arm.
"It's all I see," Dean gasped, hands still pressed to his eyes, fingers laced through his hair. "She won't stop," he sobbed, "she won't stop looking at me," he leaned forward, but felt his father grab his shoulders.
"Dean?" John said and placed his hands behind Dean's head as he pulled him forward. John turned and looked toward Sam for help but realized he couldn't.
"She won't stop," Dean exhaled, and suddenly caught his breath in his throat, "I couldn't stop it..." he sobbed, "I couldn't... she screamed..." He allowed John to pull him to his chest. "I ran."
John swallowed, clenched his jaw and wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders and pulled him close. "It wasn't your fault," he said, and rested his chin on Dean's head. "You couldn't have stopped it." John let his tears flow as he felt the tremors of his son's sobs.
Sam stood by the desk, gun hung limply from loose fingers as he wiped his eyes with the back of his left hand. He looked down and parted his lips as he tried to collect himself. He thought about what she had tried to take from him, the darkness, the thing that survived and hunted memories. Sam wiped his eyes one last time and looked at his Dad's back while he knelt on the floor holding Dean. Sam's chin quivered, and he had to look away. He swallowed and thought about the day he'd left home, the argument he'd had with his dad, the words he had used and the words he had heard coming from his father's mouth. It was vivid — as though he had just experienced it, emotions were raw, and he thought about the things he should have said, the things he wanted to say now.
Sam turned and looked toward Bill who still sat on the floor, knees raised, eyes covered. "You alright?"
Bill rested his elbows on his knees and looked toward Sam with red puffy eyes. "No," he said, and forcefully wiped his eyes.
Sam nodded and listened as his father continued his mantra while rocking gently back and forth. "Dad," he said, "we should get Dean out of here — Bill too."
John swallowed, pressed his lips to the top of Dean's head and sighed as John felt Dean grasp his jacket tighten "Dean?" he said and adjusted his grip as Dean suddenly went lip, hand falling from his jacket, head lulled forward. John slipped both hands beneath Dean's arms and struggled to stand, baring his weight, John shifted himself and pulled Dean into a fireman's carry.
"Dad?" Sam said and stepped around the desk.
"Grab my bag and help Bill up," John said and then looked at Sam. "You okay?" He grabbed Sam's arm.
"Yeah... I will be."
