1989

Fort Douglas, Wisconsin, was a dull sort of a town, not much ever seemed to happen there. Or at least, that's how it appeared to the casual eye, clearly since Dad had brought us here, something a little more sinister was going on.

The motel room was much like every other motel room. This one had a separate bedroom in addition to the main living area, the motel also had an arcade just off the reception, something Dean was just itching to examine a little closer. I'd have to see if there was enough spare change for the boys to have a turn or two each.

Dad sent the boys back to the car to fetch the bags and indicated with a head tilt that I should keep an eye on them while he checked the room. I hovered in the doorway, ready to assist either John or the boys, as needed. Neither encountered any issues though and by the time Sam and Dean had returned with two bags each and Dean handed the Impala keys to Dad, he had already started salting the windows and doors.

Sam is still too young to have been informed about the things that go bump in the night, but we've been salting motel rooms for as long as he can remember, so this is just normal for him now and he doesn't ask us why any more. Dean and I followed Dad around, observing and ensuring that the salt lines had no breaks in them. Once completed, we were pretty much settled in. Sam had claimed the bed which was furthest from the door and Dean dropped his own bag on the other bed and mine on the floor. I investigated the kitchen and concluded that they provided sufficient kitchen supplies here, there was no need to fetch the emergency pans from the boot. Besides, my good kitchen knife was carried in the shoulder bag that I kept with me at all times, along with a few other, less everyday sorts of knives.

Dad's bag replaced Dean's on the bed by the door, and Dean's bag joined mine on the floor. Dad then seated himself at the table and he fetched out a newspaper as Sam and Dean settled in front of the TV. I joined Dad at the kitchen table and sat, silently waiting. He rarely told the boys what he was hunting, wanting them to have knowledge on the supernatural, but not wanting them to have details on exactly what he was up against each time he left us, but he tended to keep me in the loop. I may look like I'm about nine or ten years old, but I am in fact twenty-eight, plenty old enough to help Dad hunt.

He laid the newspaper flat on the table and leant towards me, lowering his voice, "Kids are getting sick in this town. Falling into comas and just wasting away." He looked at me sharply, "Keep a really close eye on the boys while we're here, twenty four hours a day, do ya hear?"

I nodded at him, glancing over to where Sammy was now fighting De for the remote, which Dean was holding away from him, taking advantage of the fact that his arms are much longer than Sammy's. "I'll protect them." I told him, my voice quiet but sure.

He gave me a solid nod before turning his attention back to the paper. I tucked my feet up to get a bit of extra height on the hard wooden chair and leant towards him, trying to read over his shoulder. It was upside down for me though and I didn't get far before he turned the page and continued reading, so I gave up and asked for the car keys, there was a bag of groceries in the car I wanted to bring in.


I was pulling a pasta bake out of the oven as Dad came out of the bedroom, loading a sawn off. I placed it on the table and pulled a photo from Dean's hand, returning it to Dad's case file. He scowled at me but returned to the sofa to watch cartoons with Sam. It was a print left by whatever was hurting the children, the shape of an elongated hand, rotted into the wood of the child's windowsill. "Will you have some supper before you leave?" I asked, fetching plates and cutlery.

"No, I need to get going."

"When do you think you'll be back? Should I save you some?" I placed the plates and cutlery on the table and turned to fetch a serving soon.

Dad caught my wrist and pulled me back. "No, I'll be gone a few days. Now remember, anybody calls, you don't pick up. If it's me, I'll ring once, then call back. You got that?"

I nodded, "Only answer if the phone rings once first, lock all the doors and windows, ensure salt lines are intact, food money is in the jar in the kitchen, bed time is at 9pm, I'm to stay up and keep guard. When will you be back?"

He dropped my wrist, scowling at me. "I should be back Saturday. If I'm not back by-"

"Sunday evening, call Pastor Jim." I fetched the serving spoon and placed it next to the pasta bake, giving him a gentle smile. "Relax, Dad, I got this. You just focus on the job."

He gave me a terse nod, but the scowl had faded somewhat and the tension seemed to drop slightly from his shoulders as he turned to the boys. "Alright boys, I'm off. Be good for Ali while I'm gone."

De looked up and smiled cheekily at his dad, "We're always good!"

That was just not true, but I held back my snort as John patted Dean on the shoulder, "That's my man."

He gave me another stern look before he left, "Anything tries to bust in?"

"Shoot first, ask questions later." I parroted dutifully. With one more firm nod, he was out the door. I locked it behind him and called the boys over for supper.


It was the next morning when the phone rang once before stopping then ringing again a moment later. I picked it up and held it against my ear, not saying anything.

"Ali, that you?"

"Yes, Dad, it's me." I'm only allowed to confirm my identity after Dad's spoken first, even if the phone did ring once before ringing again.

"You remember that photo I took of a handprint to show you? Any luck identifying what could leave something like that?"

I sighed, I've scoured the books we brought with us, but they make no mention of anything like that. "No, Sir."

"Well, start looking, because there's another one on the windowsill of the next kid. Whatever this is, it's working its way through families, attacking kids one after the other, one each night. Window is left open after each attack."

I grabbed the motel notepad and pen and jotted down some quick notes. "You said before that the kids are in comas?"

"Yeah, they just seem to fade away, like something is just sapping the life right out of them. No marks on the children though."

"Alright, I'll hit the books." De was hovering at my shoulder, "Did you want to speak to the boys?"

"No, I need to get back to this. I'll call this evening to get the information you find." The phone went dead.

I grimaced and turned to Dean, whose expression dropped. "I'm sorry, De, he-"

"Had to go. Fine, whatever."

I winced and placed the phone back on the cradle. Dean was, I think, very close to his parents before the fire that killed his mother. I sense in him all the same feelings of grief and loss and betrayal that I felt when my mother died and my father started beating me. Now, let's be very clear; John doesn't beat Dean. It's very clear that he loves both his boys, but he doesn't express that love very frequently. From Dean's point of view; he lost his mother, his home, and his dad no longer showed affection. At a time when the child needed it most, it was the same for him as losing his father too.

I corralled the boys into their shoes and coats and out the door, taking a trip to the local library, since I'd already exhausted the resources we'd brought with us. Dean was in a bad mood because of Dad, and Sam was in a bad mood because I'd stolen the remote from him and turned the TV off. Not that I was too worried about Sam, the kid loved to read, so a trip to the library would cheer him right up. Dean however, his bad mood was likely to last all day.

By some miracle, by the time we arrived at the library, Dean and I each holding one of Sam's little hands and hefting him into a swinging motion between us, both boys had smiles on their faces. I smiled sweetly at the librarian at the front desk as we passed and headed for the children's section. We picked out a couple of books, around a reading age of 8, not that these would challenge Dean, but I made him sit and help Sammy to read them. Once they were settled I snuck off to the reference section and fetched some heavy tomes on mythical creatures.

I joined the boys on the cushions in the children's section and we read quietly for most of the afternoon. Eventually Sam and Dean finished their books and De went to fetch some that were more appropriate to his own reading level, while Sam peered over my shoulder at the small print I was scanning for information on any creatures that might suck the life out of children.

He pointed at the picture of a vampire, "Wha's tha'?"

"That's a Vampire, Sammy. They go nom, nom, nom on people's necks!" I told him leaning towards him and grinning with lots of teeth.

He giggled and pushed me away. "Vampires aren't real!" He declared, with all the innocent certainty of a six year old child.

I smiled at him, "They're still interesting to read about though." Not that they were the culprits in this case. They always leave a mark on their victims, and the children who had fallen ill had no marks of any kind.

Sammy pulled a second book towards himself and started leafing through it, mostly just looking at the pictures I think. Not all the pictures in these books are the kind of thing you might usually want a child to see, but Dad was pretty relaxed about letting the boys know what was out there, even if they didn't think that any of it was real.

"Ali, look," He pushed the book towards me, holding it up slightly so I could see the picture, "the lady killed the tree!"

The picture was a woodcarving style print, it showed an old crone resting a hand against a tree and around where she touched it the tree was dead. "So she did, Sammy, and I don't think that's all she killed. Bring it here and I'll read it to you." He scrambled over, kicking me in the knee by accident as he settled next to me, struggling a little with the heavy book, which I lifted easily from his hands and settled over the book which was already open in my lap.

I scanned over the page, and turned back one to get to the start of the section before I started reading. "The Shtriga. The Shtriga is a creature which originated in Albanian Lore. They feed off of the Spiritus Vitea, or the life force of creatures around them. Their touch will even cause wood to die and rot away. The Shtriga's preferred meal however is human, and they have a preference for children, as their life force is stronger than that of adults. In Albanian folklore, threats of the Shtriga coming to get them are used as a method of cautioning naughty children. It has also been used throughout history as an explanation for childhood illnesses which can sometimes sweep through communities.

"When not feeding the Shtriga is said to disguise itself as a human, often taking the form of an old woman, and perhaps contributing to the European tradition of a witch being depicted as a crone. Whilst in its human form the Shtriga is said to be immune to all weapons. However it must take it's natural form in order to feed, and in this form it is supposedly vulnerable to consecrated iron. Should a Shtriga be killed, any children it had been feeding from will in theory recover their life force and return to health, though this is more likely to have historically been children simply recovering from the illness which had befallen them."

"Shreeta are bad." Sammy murmured, leaning into my side and sucking on his thumb.

"Yep, but it sounds like they only go after naughty little boys who suck their thumbs!" I told him, glancing pointedly at the thumb in his mouth.

He removed the thumb and then wiped it on his shirt, making me wince in disgust. "Why don't you go find De and ask him what he's reading about?"

Sammy nodded and got up, heading over to where Dean was frowning at his book and mouthing a word in confusion. I pulled a notepad from my bag and made some notes on the Shtriga, it seemed to be a pretty good match for our culprit's MO. I scanned the information on a few of the other monsters in the book Sammy had left with me before Dean interrupted me, asking about the pronunciation and meaning of the word he'd been struggling with.

We left not long after that when Sam suddenly threw a tantrum. He was too young to be able to recognise and express that he was hungry, but he was indeed very hungry and it was making him grouchy. Once back in the motel I made up some peanut and banana sandwiches for Sam and plain jam sandwiches for me and Dean. Just a small snack to stave off the hunger while I got dinner started. Vegetable risotto was order of the day today.

The phone rang as I was about to plate up supper; that man has the worst timing. I waited for the second call before I answered, and then waited for Dad to speak first. I then promptly told Sammy to tell his dad all about the mean witch we'd read about and handed the notes I'd taken to Dean, allowing him to supervise the conversation whilst I set the table. I then sent two smiling boys to go and wash their hands while I answered any questions Dad had about the Shtriga. He agreed with me that this seemed likely to be the monster we were dealing with and he hung up muttering about getting iron consecrated.


Sam was in bed, teeth brushed and face washed at 7pm. Dean was allowed to stay up a couple of hours later, on account of being 4 years older, one half hour per year. We'd watched a film and chatted quietly about it after, still cuddled up together on the sofa before I made Dean, grumbling and complaining, complete the same pre-bed rituals that Sammy had completed two hours before. By nine o'clock Dean was also in bed, laying awake and staring at the ceiling, but staying quiet while Sam slept in the other bed.

I returned to the sofa and fetched my knitting, I was in for a long night of standing guard over the two precious boys in the other room. I didn't put any music on, letting their soft breathing be the soundtrack to my needles flashing back and forth, a lace scarf slowly descending towards my lap.

Around 6am I set the knitting aside and joined Sam in his bed, letting the little limpet curl himself around me as I dosed slightly. Dad might not be happy if he found out about this, but I can't stay awake all the time until he gets back, and staying close like this means that if anything were to happen, I'd wake up straight away.

I'm still not telling Dad though.

Around 8am both boys were awake and while De was content to laze in bed for a while longer Sam was up and watching early morning cartoons. I pulled myself out of the warm bed and set about cooking breakfast. Pancakes are a regular meal while Dad's not around, mostly because I can cook them fast enough to keep up with the two boys, but Dad eats much faster and he tends to criticize if the next pancake isn't ready when he is. Also, there aren't as many left for me when Dad is here, and I do love a pancake. We mostly eat bacon and eggs for breakfast when he's here.

Pancakes were enough to summon De from his bed and the boys sat in front of the TV in their pyjamas, each with a plate of pancakes, peanut butter and banana for Sammy and jam for De. He preferred syrup, but we were out. Not being a fan of peanut butter, I had banana and jam, best of both worlds in my opinion!

We spent most of the morning in this way, before Dean started to get fidgety. At that point we all got dressed and brushed out teeth and I fished all the quarters from the jar that held the grocery money Dad had left for us. We headed down to the reception and the arcade games Dean had noticed when we first arrived and spent $2.75 and most of the afternoon trying to get the high-score.

That evening, night and following morning passed in much the same way as the preceding ones had. Dad had been irritable in the evening phone call, having been unable to prevent the Shtriga from attacking another child the night before. On the other hand, he now knew where the Shtriga was likely to be, as it seemed to go through a whole family before moving to the next.

On Saturday afternoon he called and said that he'd missed it again, he'd been camping out keeping a watch on the window, but he'd been distracted by something happening in the house across the street and when he looked back the window was open. Closer inspection proved the room to be empty, other than the child laying pale and still against the pillows. That had been the last child in that house and Dad wasn't sure where the Shtriga would strike next. He did however warn me that the motel was not far from the area the attacks had taken place and that I should be extra vigilant in my watch that night.

We visited the park that afternoon, De pushing Sammy on the swings while I investigated the rusty fence that ran between the playing field and the bottom of someone's garden. The rust confirmed that it was iron and I went along it, testing the strength of each rail before finding one that had rusted almost completely through about 5" from the top. I snapped the tip away and hid it away in my bag before returning to the swing area. The see-saw was made of metal, the paint peeling and leaving a rough surface. I rubbed my stolen iron against this, rust dust and flecks of red paint both drifting away in the breeze. When I finished I had a somewhat less rusty iron rail and a shiny patch of steel on the see-saw.

A few drops of rain started to patter against the ground and I called Sam and Dean over to the park gate. We hurried along the road and I diverted into a small church, telling the boys to keep their voices hushed, we were just staying until the rain stopped. I could tell from the feel of it that the shower was only a passing thing. Sam looked around the church, the high ceiling and tall windows, with big eyes and reached blindly for Dean's hand. De held Sammy's hand and followed him around the small church with considerably less awe. I headed right for the font which was towards the back of the room. I lifted the heavy wooden cover carefully and reached my other hand through the gap, gripping the iron in my fist. After thoroughly wetting it in the holy water I drew it back and settled the cover back into place, letting the iron drip dry in my hand.

The rain shower lasted about 10 minutes in total and we were soon on our way again, headed to a supper of leftover risotto, reheated with extra cheese. I sat after the boys had gone to bed that night with a metal scrubby, scratching away the remaining rust and some old paint before fetching a file to help sharpen the end into a point.

My work stopped as I heard the quiet sound of a window opening in another room. I listened carefully, both boys sounded as though they were sleeping soundly, but soft footfalls were creeping across the carpet. I gripped the blunt end of my sharpened iron rod tightly as I slipped silently towards the door. I'd left the door half open, as I always did so that I wouldn't wake the boys if I came and went throughout the night. Through the gap I could see a figure leaning over the bed, cloaked in a dark ragged hood, it's features obscured except for the mouth, wide, gaping and glowing with a white light as it leant over Sammy.

I tucked the iron behind my back and crept into the room, the Shtriga looked up sharply rearing away from my sleeping brother and considering me. I stood calmly, both hand tucked behind my back, gripping the iron so tightly my fingers started to hurt.

For a moment it simply looked at me, and I at it, then it stepped towards me. I made a show of widening my eyes and taking a step back, the adrenaline pumping through my veins seemed to make every second last a minute, allowed me to calculate every move.

The gapping maw seemed to whistle and it suddenly lunged forwards at me. I let it come, taking a big breath as if I was preparing to scream.

I let it collect me and press my shoulders to the wall beside the door, its long bony fingers digging in painfully.

I let it lean in towards me, the mouth beginning to glow again.

An awful feeling came over me. I felt that every part of me was individually being blown by a strong wind towards this thing. All that I am, my energy, my soul, being drawn towards the creature.

I took my iron lump and I stabbed it in the throat.

The whistling noise stopped, the horrible feeling stopped and it gave me a look of utter confusion.

I drew the iron back and stabbed again. Down into its shoulder this time. It seemed to crumple in on itself. I stabbed it a few more times, the thing collapsing inwards every time I did, wisps of white light rising from it and floating away.

The motel room door banged open. "Dean? Sammy!" Dad's shout woke Sam, but Dean was already awake, sitting bolt upright in bed and staring at me.

Dad burst into the room, hurrying passed me to pull Sammy into his arms, reaching out to Dean also. "Sammy, De, are you both okay?"

Sammy was still half asleep, poor kid, "Yeah Dad, wahs goin' on?"

Dean pulled away from his father, "Ali, are you hurt?"

Honestly, I wasn't sure if I was or not. The horrible feeling of being sucked away was gone, but it didn't yet feel as if everything had settled back into place. "I'm fine, De. It didn't get me."

He hurried over to me and reached out, pulling me away from where I suddenly realised I'd been supporting myself against the wall. He pulled me into a hug and I burst into tears. This is my normal reaction to an adrenaline crash, even when absolutely nothing is wrong, so I tried my best to get the tears under control and not worry De any further.

He pulled me across the room to join Dad where he was still sat on the bed hugging Sammy. Dad reached for Dean, turning his face towards him and checking him over, "Are you hurt, boy?"

"No, Dad, I'm fine." He argued, pulling his face out of his father's grip, "But Ali is crying."

"I'm fine," my voice wobbled more than I'd like, but there were no injuries anywhere on me, "It's just shock, De, nothing to worry about."

He frowned at me and pulled me into another hug. I sighed and let myself settle against his somewhat smaller frame. I don't think I'll stay taller than him for much longer, but he'd never let his height stop him from being the best big brother in the world to me.

My breathing came back to normal and I looked up as Dad patted me on the shoulder. "How did that thing get in here? I thought you were keeping watch."

"I was," I assured him, "I heard it open the window so I came in here to stop it. Guess it's lucky that I look like a child, it must've thought I'd make a better meal than the boys, given I was still awake and they weren't."

He nodded and didn't say anything else, pulling Dean away from me and into a hug.

I felt much better than I had at first, more centred, and I turned to inspect the corpse of the Shtriga. It had sunken in on itself so much that there wasn't much left, but when I poked at the robes with the toe of my boots there was still something solid inside. I leant over its face and found that what remained was pretty much just skin and bones, the skin stretched taught over the skull.

I pulled the hood down over its almost human visage and began wrapping the robes more tightly around the corpse, keeping the limbs pulled in. Then I picked the thing up and headed for the door. There had been gunshots, but the thing I was carrying looked more like a Halloween decoration than a body, and besides, who would ever think that a nine year old child would be strong enough to dispose of a body? I wasn't concerned about anyone spotting me dragging this thing out to the dumpster around the back of the motel.