-CHAPTER 2-
By the time the sun sank below the horizon, the Winchester brothers gave up their search inside the house. Dean suggested going through the outbuildings next, and Sam was forced to agree, even though the temperature was starting to dip from its already cold starting point.
They climbed back out of the window that lead to the back of the house. Sam eyed the small building stood right behind the house, almost butted up against the house itself. The only thing separating the brick structure from the house was a narrow back porch. It seemed curious to Sam, though admittedly he didn't know much about 19th century estates. Maybe it was used as a kitchen or for meat storage.
He was too busy wondering about the building, which stood to his right, to notice Dean had fixed his attention to their left. "Oh, no," Dean muttered angrily. Sam whirled around and saw the flashing blue and red of a police car. "He better not touch my car," Dean added with a growl.
When his older brother started stomping his way back down the driveway, Sam quickly caught up and followed behind him. In the failing light, he could barely make out the form of an officer standing by the two cars, obviously waiting for them.
"Anything I can help you with, gentlemen?" he asked gruffly once they were within hearing distance.
Dean quickly stuck out a hand. "Good evening, officer," he greeted cheerfully, shaking the reluctant man's hand. "My name is John Martin, Jr. and this is my co-worker, Larry Baumgartner." With a swift, practiced movement, he pulled something small and white from his shirt pocket and handed it to the officer. "I'm a real estate agent, here to assess the property."
"From Kansas?" he pointed out skeptically.
"Just transferred a week ago," Dean replied without missing a beat.
Sam watched, forcing himself into a relaxed stance, as the officer read the business card. "You're out here awfully late, aren't you?" the cop remarked.
"Time got ahead of us," Dean explained with an easy chuckle. "We couldn't get here until late this afternoon, but the owner demanded we put this up on the market ASAP, so…" He threw up his arms in a helpless, what-can-you-do shrug.
Sam kept calm as the cop looked between the two brothers. "So Ol' Miss Morey finally caved in, eh?" he finally asked, and Sam let out an imperceptible breath.
"Yes, she sure did," Dean agreed. "Needs some money so she can spend her golden years in comfort."
The officer let out a half laugh, half sigh. "Damn, what a relief. She's had us patrol this road since before I became a cop, just to kick out occasional high-schoolers or sightseers." He shook his head at the thought. "So, how much is that trash heap worth?"
"Well, obviously, it needs major renovation, but when you add in factors such as the acreage and the historic age of the place, it should fetch Miss Morey a pretty penny, at least." Sam nodded along with Dean's assessment, relieved it didn't sound too half-assed. "I'll have to figure everything out at the office, but you should see the listing in Sunday's Eagle-Gazette."
"All right," the cop said. "Well, it is getting dark, so I'll have to ask you to leave the premises. I'm sure you guys understand."
"Oh, of course, Officer," Sam replied smoothly. "We were just leaving anyway." There. He could lie just as easily. The two brothers parted with the officer, who ambled back to his cruiser.
"So I guess we're not leaving tomorrow, are we?" Sam said as they climbed back into the Chevy. When it was apparent the policeman was waiting for them to leave first, Dean pulled out into the road, turning back towards town.
Once he was on the road, he glanced over at Sam. "Well now, you have an equal say. What do you want to do?"
Sam sighed, slumping against his seat. Of course Dean would leave it up to him. It wasn't thoughtfulness, it was a dare. Sam glowered, knowing Dean was gambling that he wouldn't want to leave an open case. As sorely tempted he was to prove him wrong, Sam was torn.
"Larry Baumgartner?" he finally asked, raising an eyebrow.
Dean smirked. "You haven't gone through the all those ID's I gave you?" Sam rolled his eyes.
As they lapsed into silence, Sam replayed the factors in his head. The Mudhouse Mansion was definitely haunted - they witnessed that first-hand - and possibly dangerous. But since winter was rolling in, what were the chances of somebody trespassing on the grounds to explore or hang out? Even if they did, fatal encounters seemed to be few and far between. But what if Sam and Dean did leave, and some hapless person is killed?
Dean spoke up suddenly. "Hey, did you know this town still has a drive-in movie theater? My baby would feel right at home," he said, patting the dashboard of his '69 Impala. "Maybe we should relax, check out a movie…"
Sam snorted. "Sorry, Dean, but I just don't like you like that."
Dean grinned back at him. "Thank God. So then, no movie?"
"Don't we have research to do? I want to get this thing over with," Sam replied, and Dean's grin grew wider.
The hunt was on.
As soon as they came back to their hotel room, Sam quickly set up his laptop computer and within minutes was logged into the hotel's wireless connection. Dean dropped onto the edge of the bed closest to the desk where Sam was seated so he could look over his shoulder.
"All right, since the local paper isn't archived past 1990, we'll have to try other sources," commented Sam as he started typing away.
"At least now we have a last name," Dean added, and Sam nodded distractedly as he raked his eyes over the search engine results.
"Damn. Nothing," he muttered a few moments later.
He went back to the websites dedicated to the mansion, hoping to find something they might have overlooked. Unfortunately, he didn't, and he was quickly reminded why he had been so skeptical in the first place.
Somewhere along the line, someone attached a Bloody Mary to the property, but no one said why. The only information the different pages listed were rumors of a neighborhood boy disappearing back in the sixties (a slight detail Dean had remembered wrong), and the death of Greg Johnston back in 1991 and Cheryl Lee in 1998, both of which Sam verified in the newspaper archives. A woman on one of the websites also claimed that back in the eighties, two of her high school friends committed suicide a week after visiting the mansion.
And that was it. No background, no history. No mentions of anybody named Morey, nothing about a girl dying.
Sam suddenly leaned forward and began typing again. "That girl we heard scream…She was probably under twelve, you think?"
"Yeah, I'd say so," Dean replied.
"According to the cemetery records, there are 32 people with the last name Morey buried in this county."
"And are any of them young girls?" Dean asked, catching on.
Sam was already checking. Running through the list of names, he quickly subtracted the birth year from the death year to get the age for every female. By the time he reached the end, he had found only one girl that fit. "Here we are," he announced, taping the monitor to show Dean. "Lucy Morey, died May 8, 1925 at age ten."
Frowning thoughtfully, Dean leaned forward to read the screen. "Same day as Marcus," he announced.
"Huh?" Sam asked, startled. His eyes immediately went to that entry. Marcus Morey, April 3, 1912 - May 8, 1925. Intrigued, Sam ran down the list again, this time searching for matching death dates.
"Annie, Henry and Henry junior also died on that day." Sam and Dean exchanged looks. "A family massacre?"
Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Well, I doubt a house is haunted because a bunch of people died from typhoid."