The Sword, the Singer, and the Vessel
"No Evil"
47:30
The turning of pages, while comforting in the noise it created, served to remind me of my own incapacity. With Sam, Bobby, and Dean occupied, I felt uncomfortable remaining seated on the bed. I twisted the quilt in my hands, wondering if Dean noticed my fidgeting.
"You were right about the TV." The rustling of paper stopped—my only indication that he was listening. "It must be killing you, being unable to talk." I winced when one of the quilt's threads came loose. "I really wish you could talk," I muttered, smoothing my hands down my jeans.
A series of knocks interrupted our one-sided conversation and I turned toward where I estimated the door to be. Something must've happened for Sam and Bobby to have returned so soon. I furrowed my brows when the metallic clang of the key and lock remained absent. Another couple of knocks echoed in the room and I turned my head toward the sound, realizing my mistake.
"Dean?" The knocks continued. "Knock twice for no and three times for yes."
I couldn't restrain my smile when he responded with three sharp knocks.
"Clever," I said, relieved for the new method of communication.
It was comforting to know that we could carry a conversation if need be, albeit a simple one. At this point, I was willing to settle for just about anything as long as I had someone to talk to with the ability to reply, even if it was through primitive means.
Facing Dean, I realized the downside to this new system—I would have to carry the conversation. The silence stretched on as I tried to think of something to say. My thoughts wandered through the last couple of days, unable to avoid what occurred at the crossroads.
"So...that Demon." I cleared my throat. "She—they seemed more, well, normal than I expected. Is it safe to assume that everything I've seen about monsters in movies is wrong?" I asked. "I mean...the Demon that was possessing Donald was actually kind of...eloquent. Nothing like Linda Blair vomiting split pea soup."
Dean replied with two slow knocks.
"Some of it is real, then?" I asked, trying to interpret his hesitance.
Three knocks.
I doubted the early horror films contained much realism. Classic monsters like Frankenstein's monster and the Wolf Man didn't seem to fit in this world of ghosts, witches, and demons. Even Dracula lacked relevance, despite the existence of vampires. I wondered what had happened, what misunderstanding had taken place to lead to the alteration of their lore so thoroughly in mainstream society.
I stood up and used my hand to follow the length of the bed with slow, deliberate steps. When I reached the frame, I continued to the wall and turned to lean against it. I lowered myself to the floor, straightening my legs and sighing at the coolness seeping through my thin shirt. The hard wall and floor felt far more real than the soft bedding had.
"Find anything useful, yet?" I asked after a few minutes.
Two knocks.
"You know what I don't understand?" I pulled my right leg closer and wrapped my arm around it. "Why didn't anyone notice? Random cases of blindness seem odd enough. But deaf and mute, too?" I rubbed my eye, blinking against the ache. "I get that most people wouldn't make the leap to a supernatural cause. But even medically, someone should have noticed. Even Dr. Harvey didn't make the connection. Are people really just that oblivious?"
Three knocks.
The thought of how unaware people were, how easily they carried on while their friends died around them made me queasy. No one noticed the timed deaths, fairy tale massacres, or skinned children. No one noticed walking statues with molten eyes that shifted to fathomless and dark in a single red drop. Twin suns eclipsed by blood and the spidery blue lines under flesh.
"You know, I noticed there was something different about, well, them the first time I saw them." I rubbed my eyes harder. The ache probably wasn't real. "They didn't eat, they barely talked, and he—he growled at these guys." My exhale turned into a chuckle. "I might not have known what they were, but I knew there was something different about them." I laughed, feeling my nose and eyes begin to tingle. "Hell, Edward even let it slip that he could read minds on our first date!" My smile faded and the tingle in my eyes and nose grew stronger. "I..." I swallowed.
I probably shouldn't have told you that, I thought silently.
The world might have already emptied for all of the sound I could pick up in that moment.
"Is this what happens when you lose your sight?" My eyes twitched, but I refused to rub them this time. "You start babbling to compensate? Why couldn't it have enhanced my hearing instead?"
Dean remained idle, both in reply and movement, but then, my question lacked the potential for a yes or no answer. I could have rephrased it, made it more palpable, or remade it in an effort to draw his attention away from what I had revealed. I pushed myself up the wall and felt my way toward the bathroom, aware of the futility of trying to distract Dean. I flicked the light switch out of reflex and left it on for a sense of normality. The splash of cold water on my cheeks certainly felt familiar. The lack of heat, however, did not.
...
The green and browns of the peeling bark and crumpled leaves had faded, but the forest seemed familiar. My feet scraped through the dirt, which seemed more like water with the way I moved. The clawing branches elicited a smile, even while digging shallow cuts into my arms. I watched the rust well up through the cracks, continuing to run between the living columns.
The difficultly of my progress lessened the further I ran, almost as if the trees had stepped aside. The polite tip of a trunk and the curl of a branch inward welcomed me deeper into the grayed forest. Vines slipped down the scratchy skin of the trees to pool around their trunks. The fleshy tendrils crumbled into ash under the pressure of my feet.
The forest drained the sound from my steps, the hue from my flesh. Only the panting remained—my panting, the last, or an echo in my ears, in my memory. Branches curved further into their trunks and slipped from existence. The ground, the trees, the air—they all stopped.
Darkness filled my mouth, my ears, and the gaping sockets where my eyes used to be.
...
44:50
I choked and flailed and maybe I was falling, but I couldn't tell, couldn't see. Something hard shook through my knees and elbows and I tipped my head down, pressing my forehead against it. My body curved in on itself and I wheezed, feeling thick drops scrape over my tear ducts and down my nose. Darkness clogged my lungs and I could almost feel it pushing up between the webbing of my fingers.
Something pulled me away from the floor—twin pressures on my shoulders. I struggled against it, the grasping darkness, but my limbs refused to cooperate, like my bones had been scooped out. The grip on my shoulders slid to my upper arms—warm flesh—and urged me to turn. The hands shifted along with my body, one moving to cradle the back of my head, while the other smoothed up and down my spine. I allowed the hand to angle my head down and inhaled the fabric around my nose and mouth.
The smell of soap and oil replaced the darkness in my lungs and my wheezing faded. I clenched my hands for a moment, digging my knuckles into the floor. Dean's grip tightened and I wrapped my arms around him, returning the pressure. The only sound that remained—my rushed inhales and exhales.
"What if it's permanent?" I clenched my eyes shut and rubbed the ache into Dean's shoulder. "What if even after we stop this thing," my voice shook, "I'm still blind, you're still mute? What then?"
My breathing continued to fill the room and I dug my fingers into Dean's back. The hand on my head slid down my back and to the floor.
One knock—I couldn't be sure I actually heard.
...
I wondered what I looked like, under the unforgiving bathroom lights. The cool lid of the toilet coupled with the tile under my bare feet helped ground me. Dean remained soundless, apart from a rustle of fabric and the interruption of running water that signaled his movements. I tried not to flinch when the rough washcloth—had to be, judging by the size—scraped at my cheeks. They felt dirty, a layer of dried tears coating my skin. I tried to ignore the sensation of darkness clogging my eyes. That couldn't have been real. They were only tears.
I could feel Dean's fingers through the fabric, swiping underneath one of my eyes. I sucked in a breath at the sting, but otherwise refused to react. The pressure of the digits felt light, though they still made my eyes ache. I probably should have taken the washcloth away from Dean, insisted on taking care of myself, but I couldn't. There was something oddly comforting about Dean's ministrations, for all the pain and awkwardness it might have caused.
Dean's fingers dragged down my cheeks and around my lips, before returning to my nose. My cheeks heated when he swiped around my nose and I hoped that my clogged nostrils remained so. The idea of Dean cleaning snot off of my face was far more embarrassing than the mouth-breathing. I sniffled a little, wincing at the resulting ache between my eyes.
"I'm sorry," I said, once Dean had finished patting my face dry.
I waited for the knocks. Two would have denied the sincerity of my apology, while three would have confirmed the need to offer him one. In the end, there weren't any knocks, just a firm squeeze of my shoulder with his hand.
"I'm not sure what that means," I said.
Any reply Dean might have made, whether in sound or pressure, faded under the noise of the door opening. I only had the rush of air in front of me to signal Dean's departure. I listened to the rustle of paper and the tap of their boots, smoothing my hair and adjusting my clothes without the benefit of my reflection.
"Dean, what happened?" I heard Sam ask. "There's blood on your shirt."
I jerked toward the door and held onto the frame, searching the darkness for a hint of red.
"Blood?" Even with my clogged nose, I thought I could smell its rusty scent. I remembered my thrashing on the floor, while Dean tried to comfort me. The skin underneath my nails itched.
"He says he's fine," Sam said, after the clicking had stopped. "Just nicked himself shaving."
I slumped against the frame, exhaling.
"If you're done discussing Dean's beauty secrets," Bobby said, "it's time we got to work."
...
44:10
"Dean, you can translate. I'm tired of playin' charades with your brother."
My lips curved into something of a smile. The bedding beneath me offered little solidity in comparison with the floor, but I made do. The nightmare and breakdown left my head somewhat fuzzy and I doubted Dean's washcloth had removed all traces of them. Neither Sam nor Bobby had commented on my appearance yet, but I imagined that clinging to the floor would loosen their tongues.
"According to the medical records, there have been eleven victims of sensory deprivation who died of brain hemorrhages in the past two years," Sam recited. "Six reported blindness, two deaf, and three mute."
"Eleven people died in this town and no one noticed?" I wondered aloud.
"Only five of them were locals," Bobby replied.
I chewed on my lip and restrained myself from lowering my head. I had gotten used to the delay between my questions and the brothers' replies. Having someone around who could both listen and speak made me oddly nervous, despite the accompanying relief.
"All of them did visit the same hospital," Sam added, once Dean had finished relaying the conversation. "So whatever's happening to invoke the three monkeys, it's originating here."
"Mystical monkey powers or not, a spell like that is gonna take some serious mojo," Bobby said, the sound of clicking keys following. "Any of you misplace some blood, hair or saliva?"
"So that's true, then?" I couldn't help but ask. "Those things can really hold that much power over someone?"
"Parts of the body can affect the whole," Bobby replied. "Spirits use it to hang on and witches use it to target their victims."
Gertrude had demonstrated that when she forced Dean to choke down those desserts in Kennewick. In theory, inescapable gluttony should have ranked worse than a little sense deprivation. However, in practice, I found myself feeling more of the opposite. The immediacy and the directness of the threat in Kennewick had made it much easier to defeat. The curse Gertrude had inflicted on me had remained largely unnoticed until those final moments in the forest and in her shop.
Whatever mystical loophole I had unintentionally found in Kennewick remained absent in Maple Springs. This time, I had to suffer the effects of the spell or curse right alongside the brothers with a clock hanging over our heads. Though I appreciated the sense of camaraderie that came from sharing a burden, the lack of consistency worried me.
"What about food and drink? Ingest anything that was out of your sight?"
"Not really," Sam replied after a few moments. "Nearly everything we've consumed since arriving has been from sealed containers. If the fast food or buffet items were spiked with anything, there would be more people suffering the effects."
"So you haven't lost anything, haven't taken anything, and Ariel didn't find any hex bags while we were gone." Bobby sighed. "We have to be missing something."
"What I don't understand is why we're even being targeted," I sighed, picking at a loose thread.
"One of you must've pissed someone off," Bobby replied.
"Or they knew we were Hunters," Sam suggested.
"What about Lawrence?" I asked, recalling his annoyance with Dean. "He didn't seem too happy with us investigating."
"He checked out."
"Besides, that guy really didn't seem like the kind of person to take the moral high ground," Sam added.
"I thought you couldn't hear anything?" I glanced in the direction of Sam's voice.
"I can't," Sam replied, "but I do have eyes. Judging by his body language—"
"And you don't want to underestimate the importance of body language..." I mumbled to myself.
I tried not to choke at the idea of Lawrence shaking his hips to the tune while attempting to entice Dean into making a deal. I blinked the image away and finally noticed the silence. I must've spoken louder than I thought. I opened my mouth to apologize—making jokes at Dean's expense was rather unfair considering how kind he had been about my blindness—and sputtered when something soft smacked me in the face before falling into my lap. I squeezed the object—must've been a pillow—and pointed what I hoped was a sufficiently contrite smile to the room at large.
"Sorry."
"We're getting nowhere with this," Bobby pointed out, the sound of his footsteps joining the persistent clicking of Sam's laptop and Dean's phone.
"Maybe we should be focusing on why we were targeted," Sam suggested. "If it's about our investigation, then why isn't Dr. Harvey dead?"
"He's been looking into the deaths longer than we have," I agreed. "And it sounded like he tried getting in touch with the CDC."
"Exactly."
"Killing the doctor would've drawn more attention," Bobby said. "Most of the victims are distant enough from each other to keep the CDC from sniffing around."
"Dean's right," Sam said in response to Dean's latest text. "The doctor's death would've screamed contamination."
"But wouldn't giving Dr. Harvey the chance to contact the CDC still yield the same result?" I asked.
"Eventually? Yes," Sam replied.
"And isn't killing us even more suspicious?" I asked, sitting up straighter. "For all the killer knows, we are from the CDC."
"Bella's right. If it was about keeping things quiet, you three wouldn't have been struck deaf, blind, and dumb."
I coughed and cleared my throat, attempting to cover up my snicker.
"So what if it isn't about that?" Sam asked, his voice growing more animated. "What if we were targeted for the same reasons Tammy Hasher and Leonard Finnley died?"
"The killer could've seen Dean and I talking to Lawrence, but what about you, Sam?" I interjected. "Remember what you said before? How we each lose the sense that was most important to us?" I swallowed. "This-this punishment, or whatever it is—it was tailored to us."
"And that kind of precision wouldn't just be random," Sam agreed.
"It had to be all three of you," Bobby said.
"We went to the hospital together that first time," I said. "And the buffet."
"You three didn't go anywhere else?" Bobby asked.
"Not together, no."
"Dean's right—it must've been the buffet." The direction that Sam's voice originated from seemed to be shifting with each word. "Their soda machine was out-of-order when we went. They had to fill up our cups from another machine in the back."
"Someone could've spiked your drinks then," Bobby agreed.
"But what did we do to provoke them?" I wondered.
"You and Dean did throw things at each other," Sam reminded me.
I cleared my throat and, though the weight of their gazes made it a pointless endeavor, I tried to suppress a blush. My behavior during that meal had been somewhat childish, but it had seemed like the best way to distract Dean from his own darker thoughts at the time. I gripped the bedding beneath me, wondering if my actions had prompted the killer to target us.
"Whatever the reason," Bobby interjected, "it sounds like the buffet's our best bet."
...
"And don't underestimate the importance of body language, ha!"
-Ursula; "Poor Unfortunate Souls" (The Little Mermaid)
This chapter puts this series over 100,000 words! Congratulations to all of us for reading/writing a hell of a lot. I want to thank all of you who have continued reading and/or commenting, despite my sporadic updates. Being a full-time student with two jobs makes finding time to write difficult. Beyond that, I'm also supposed to be focusing more on my original work. Good thing I'm so obsessed with this series.
There is a blog dedicated to this series, if anyone is interested. It features teasers, fanart, fanvideos, gif sets, and some of my notes (including a list of upcoming episodes): .com