12:05
~37~ Lure
Dean had no idea how he got back to the cellar. One moment he was running through the endless cavern, sand kicking up behind him, the next he was sliding to a halt before he ran headlong into the cellar wall.
He should have been relieved, but he wasn't. Something was...wrong.
At first he thought it was just the flashlight. Got some blood on the lens, giving the beam a rosy tint. But when he looked at it, it was clean. Then why did everything look so red?
And either the cellar had gotten bigger or he had gotten smaller. Neither made sense, leading Dean to the conclusion that Ewah was messing with him. Distracting him.
He turned about, expecting the demon to be there. Instead he caught a glimpse of black writing on the wall.
Don't look at him.
"Well I already know that," Dean mumbled.
"This way."
He turned towards the stairs, saw no one. It had sounded like Agnes, but he tightened his grip on the shotgun as he ascended the steps, pausing on the landing. The wooden stairs beyond stretched at least three times further than they should, and the risers were gone, giving him an ominous view through to darkness.
He couldn't recall much about his childhood home, but remembered he was one of those kids with an inherent fear of the open basement stairs. Something was always waiting under there, ready to grab your ankle if you moved too slow.
Just go, Winchester!
Dean took them three at a time, not because he was afraid, but because Sam's sacrifice, although utterly appreciated, had only given him an hour. Despite his haste, however, it took too long to get to the top of the stairway.
He was breathing hard when he slammed into the door, expecting it to burst open. He nearly tumbled back down as he rebounded.
"Oh, come on!" He put his shoulder to it and pushed with all his might. It was like moving a stone slab. Eventually he got it open enough to squeeze through.
"Y'call this fair?" he snapped. Nothing answered.
He looked around for his fickle companion, and with foreboding took note of the differences the house had taken.
He was still seeing red and objects were disproportionate. Everything far away was too small and everything near was too big. The floor curved but felt normal as he strode for the foyer. In the corridor, he found another message.
His eyes are many.
Dean didn't dwell, hastening on. He didn't notice a final change until he looked at the windows on either side of the front door.
The infernal fog, which had been swirling around out there since the beginning, was gone. All that was there now was darkness.
Dean approached the windows cautiously, shining the light through the glass. A rosy orb reflected back, but nothing seemed to be out there. He squinted—
Then leaped back as a hand slapped against the glass, dismembered and pale. It vanished.
Dean backed away. Best he didn't excite anything by remaining too near.
"Alright. Think, Dean, think! What did we miss?"
What information they had gathered hadn't impressed Ewah the slightest. Although he wasn't sure how telling the demon would have helped. It had been a faint, fractured hope that proving what they had learned would make them suddenly wake up, back in their own bodies. But that would have been too easy. No. Angelina wanted them to figure out how this all started, because in doing so, they would learn how to end it.
I must find her. She did this, and she's damn well going to put it right.
When he'd first woken up in that fourposter bed, alone in a random room on the second floor, he'd found a key and a note in the wardrobe. The key had given them access to the third floor. The note had read, Come find me. Then why the goose chase? Why misguide them with crap poetry and slow them with puzzles?
He shook his head. It didn't matter. All that mattered now was getting to the third floor. The most direct route was right in front of him. A dash up the foyer stairs, a short stroll towards the west wing, then up more stairs. He should be there in under a minute.
He knew it wouldn't work. But he'd be an idiot not to try.
Dean performed a quick pat down, checking his supplies. Flashlight. Walkie-talkie. Copper leaf broach. Sam's knife. Cleaver. Empty revolver. Ward stone from the well. Loaded shotgun. Two extra shells. And fifty-two minutes. Fifty-two minutes to solve the Corvus Manor mystery.
"Go."
He'd only made it up three steps when the hand shot out of the wall and seized him by the arm. It was so cold it burned, and he felt the intruding presence in his mind. Cursing, Dean thrashed, ramming the butt of the gun against the wall-arm's elbow. Bones snapped like winter twigs and it released him, and he tried to slip past it. But there were more.
The colour of the wood they stretched from, half a dozen leathery arms flailed from the wall and steps, those closest reaching for him with emaciated fingers. Dean traded shotgun for cleaver, and he severed hands from wrists in the effort to fight his way through. But no matter how many times he swung, new hands were always there, ready to grab him.
"Oh, come on!"
One grabbed his ankle. Another his knee. More and more got a hold of him, all vying for control, all desiring the lifeline tethering him to his body on Earth. Even the dismembered hands began to cling to him, climbing up his legs like mutilated spiders.
And then from the wall burst an entire head and torso, silent, mummified. There were only faint indentations of eyes, nose and mouth on its bald noggin, and it got right into Dean's face. Sand-paper hands grabbed him by the head, pressing against his ears, harder and harder until he thought his skull would be crushed.
Somehow he remembered the cleaver in his hand and he chopped through the spirit's wrists in one swing. It wailed and thrashed, and Dean took his chance to leap over the rail, tearing away from the other hands.
He landed with a thud, crouching to absorb the impact. When he straightened, he saw that the arms had all disappeared.
"I'm trying to help you!" he snapped. Of course, there was no response.
It might have been the dead, or it might have been Ewah, messing with the constructs of the manor again. What he knew for certain was that he was going to have to use the other way to the third floor.
He'd used the servants' passage once, when he and Sam had gotten separated by a wall of bars and he needed an alternate route to get off the third floor. It was inside the walls, a quiet, discreet way for the servants to get around and perform their duties whilst remaining unseen. It was also a perfect place for Dean to get trapped. If the demon kept manipulating the house...
"Best not keep it waiting."
Dean turned left from the stairs, into the library. The endlessly tall shelves were still in there, as were the impossibly high stacks of books. Shining the flashlight up at them, he watched them swaying, slowly, back...and forth...and back...and forth...and back...and forth...and—
"Stop." He shut his eyes and forced his head down. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fair at all. He opened his eyes again. Another message had been scrawled on the floor.
Don't let him catch you.
He took it as his cue that he wasn't moving fast enough. Because he was pretty sure that message hadn't been there when he first entered the library.
"Then help me," he muttered. Nothing answered.
Not looking at the books, he continued on to the music room, pushing the double doors open.
It was as how the brothers had left it, hours ago. The smashed piano, demolished furniture, the scattered sheet music and the trio of cellos on the dais before great bay windows.
He panned the flashlight across the room, only then noticing that the red tint from before was gone. But the windows were still dark and he had the horrible suspicion that something was in this room.
Then, crying. It was soft and pitiful, and hauntingly familiar.
"...Sam?"
There he was, in the far right side, opposite the windows. He was a pillar of dark, facing the corner, weeping softly. The flashlight caught the ominous stains on his jacket.
Sam got away from the demon! Or perhaps it thought things would be more interesting allowing the brothers to work together. Whatever the reason, Dean would take it.
He crossed the room towards him, light fixated on his back. "Hell, man, you had me worried... Sam?"
Dean was now feet away. His brother did not turn around. He kept his head bowed, hands at his sides, a child sent to the corner. And he was still crying. Why was he crying?
Dean's skin crawled. But he kept approaching.
"Sam, hey..." He reached out to touch his brother's shoulder, and—
"Dean." Sam spun around so fast Dean never even saw his face before he was enveloped in a strong, desperate embrace.
He had no idea what could have shaken him like this, so Dean just held him, like he used to when John wasn't around and little Sammy had had another nightmare. He was trembling, each breath a shudder, crying over Dean's shoulder until...until...
A low, reverberating chuckle. Dean stiffened as Sam drew back. He just caught a glimpse of the lower half of Sam's face, which was split in too wide a smile with too many teeth.
"Fooled you."
A thousand needle teeth bit into Dean's neck, and he had no chance to scream before his throat was ripped out, blood spraying over the walls, gushing hot over his hands as he fell to his knees—
He jerked awake, a ragged gasp filling his lungs. He was lying on his side on the floor of the foyer, flashlight and shotgun just within view.
"What...the...?"
Sitting up, Dean looked around. He was back where he started, not bleeding out, not dying. He felt his neck. It was sore but the skin was not broken.
"Okay. Second chance. Awesome." He stood, scooping up the gun and light, scanning his surroundings once more before going through the library again.
Ignoring the temptation to look at the swaying books, he paused at the door of the music room.
Yes. There was the soft weeping again. Sam's soft weeping. Only it wasn't Sam. And there the pretender was, back in the corner, as though nothing had happened.
It was like a video game. And Dean had used up one of his lives. How many did he have? Or was the penalty simply a loss of time?
He didn't even want to consider the consequences of his first mistake; if his body on Earth was alright or if it was already dead, leaving him nowhere to go once he beat the demon. For one thing, it was a waste of time. For another, he could do nothing about it anyway.
He stepped into the room, flashlight fixated on the thing that looked like Sam. It continued to weep as he cut across the dance floor, making straight for where he knew the door of the servants' passage stood hidden. He just had to get there without attracting the thing's attention. He was half way—
Creeeeek.
"Dean."
Crap.
Pounding feet. Dean saw a flash of teeth and stitched-shut eyes but was already fleeing, unsure whether if the thing could be hurt with a shotgun blast and not convinced he could shoot it in the dark. But before he could figure out where the hell he was going to run to, he passed over the threshold and the pounding stopped.
His instincts urged him to keep running. He ignored his instincts. He stopped and turned, shining the light on the monster's retreating back. It seemed to ignore him, until he stepped into the room again, foot scuffing the transition strip. It started to turn but Dean backpedalled, pressing the lens of the flashlight against his body.
He listened as the thing returned to the corner, and resumed its crying.
"So either it thinks I'm stupid or it is," he muttered.
But what was catching its attention? The light? Sound? Both?
There was no time to test it. If this was to be the first in a line of challenges, he was off to a bad start. He was, however, willing to bet the thing was sightless, if its sewn eyelids were anything to go by.
Still, he turned off the flashlight.
Hello, darkness, my old friend...
He was blind again. Blind as the moment the demon sucked out his eyes. Already he felt his other senses rev into overdrive. The crying seemed louder, and no matter which way he faced, he could zero in on its source, could sense its exact location.
Get moving.
One hand on the wall, Dean kept a light step while still moving as quick as he dared. For that was another potential trigger – time spent in the creature's territory. He passed a bookshelf and a row of chairs, careful not to bump anything. And then his fingers brushed over an alabaster bust he knew was in the corner.
Yes! Now just a bit further.
He walked a few metres along the next wall, knowing he was heading straight for the monster. But somewhere along here would be a lever – a fake book on one of the shelves, or a pressure plate in the baseboard moulding. Something to open the hidden door.
But he couldn't possibly find it in the dark. He pulled out the flashlight – which snagged on a shotgun shell, making it tumble out of his pocket and hit the floor.
"Dean."
Dammit, no!
He threw caution to the wind, turning and bolting for the exit, light beam flailing about. The skin on his back crawled with nerves and he almost tripped over his own feet. He knew the thing had been inches from seizing him when he ran over the threshold, but as before, it stopped chasing him and slowly walked back to the far corner.
Dean's heart beat so fast he felt ill. He took several deep breaths, quelling the building frustrations. He couldn't let them govern his actions. They would only get him caught quicker.
"Hey, you," he said to the air. "I need help."
He waited ten seconds. Twenty. Gritting his teeth, Dean prepared himself for another attempt.
Wait, Dean, a voice whispered in his head. It sounded like Sam. You're alone. It might not know that. You need...
"A distraction."
Dean stood in the library but leaned forward, casting the flashlight into the music room. He could throw something when he got close to his target, get the monster to the other side of the room. But if it discovered his ruse, he would be trapped. And with only seven shells left, the thought of shooting the thing was even less appealing.
Or I could knife it, he thought. Get it while its back is turned.
No, Dean. They said don't let it catch you.
I won't let it catch me.
Don't do it.
Fine, he grumbled inwardly, uncaring that he was arguing with a mental figment.
Shining the flashlight over towards the bay windows, he spooked himself from the shadows cast by the trio of cellos, leaning in their stands. He scowled and went to look away, only to be struck with an idea.
Keeping the flashlight aimed at the dais, he followed the wall towards the bay windows this time, avoiding potentially squeaky floorboards closer to the middle of the room. It was a tentative journey, and he knew he was taking too long. But if he went any faster, his chances of being caught heightened, and he would lose even more time.
Finally, he made it to the dais without squeaking a single board, and he stepped onto it, making his way to the cello trio. He was careful not to bump the next in line as he sat down beside the first, taking up the bow in one hand and the neck of the cello in the other.
He set the bow to play before remembering what had happened when Sam did it, only a few hours ago.
"Don't hold me here," he said softly but firmly. And then he drew the bow across ancient strings.
It squealed and he froze for only a heartbeat before trying again, not pressing so hard. Out came a rich hum.
"Dean."
It took all of his willpower to not leap up and flee right then and there.
There's time. There's time! He gently released the bow and cello, stepping away from the instrument as it took up a tune by itself. There were the pounding footsteps of the monster, getting closer and closer as Dean slipped off to the side, conscious of the exit, setting his feet down as softly as possible.
When he left the room, he shone the flashlight towards the humming cello. And there the monster was, facing it, motionless.
The familiar shape of his brother clashed with the knowledge that it wasn't his brother at all. Dean shuddered and turned to follow the wall in the other direction, towards the hidden door. He could move faster with the music masking his footfalls.
When he got there, he found the dropped shotgun shell and pocketed it before pausing and listening. The cello was still playing and he couldn't hear the monster. But the problem still remained – he had no idea how to open the door from this side. He could feel it, the crease forming a rectangle in the wall, and he knew it swung out into the room, hinged on its left side.
Despite believing the monster blind, Dean kept his fingers over the flashlight lens so it only emitted a faint, peachy glow. About as helpful as a glow stick but it was all he could risk.
Hurry, Dean, hurry...
Brushing his hand over the striped wallpaper, he felt a string at the exact moment the cello's song ended, and silence fell.
He had no idea how the thing heard him, but the only sounds were those pounding footsteps, rushing towards him.
Dean yanked on the string, felt the mechanism on the other side disengage. The door popped open and he slipped through. He didn't need to close it – the monster slammed into it in its haste to rip him in two.
Blam!
Blam!
BLAM!
Silence. Dean released a breath he didn't realize he was holding and his head cleared. He knew he was scared, but not that scared.
"So not cool." He turned his back on the door, shining the flashlight about.
He was at the end of a narrow corridor, lined with sections of brick and lathe and rough, wooden beam supports. Going forward would take him past the library and then, after a turn, end with a door that would open to the staff quarters, if it hadn't been boarded up. Before that was a staircase that made a stop on the second floor and then continued to the third. When he'd first come through here, most of the doors leading to various rooms had been sealed off. There was precious little space to run if Ewah decided to toss something in here with him.
Then let's hope it didn't. Steeling himself, Dean soldiered on.