Now the story really gets interesting...(I hope)

-CHAPTER 4-

On Main Street downtown, they found a deli that offered wireless service. They ordered sandwiches at the counter and then chose a table by the window, away from the half dozen other people scattered about. Sam wasted no time firing up his laptop and Dean wasted no time tearing into his Sherman Club Sandwich.

"What're you going to look for?" Dean asked through a food-filled mouth.

'Cemetery records," Sam replied. "I'm hoping something weird will come up when I search April and May 1871." Dean was about to point out how unlikely the death of an illegal slave would be listed, but Sam beat him to it. "I know it's a long shot, but-"

"Might as well try every angle," Dean agreed. He swallowed another mouthful of sandwich and stared at the back of Sam's laptop. He then looked around the deli and found what he was hoping for - a copy of the local newspaper, laying in the open for anyone to read.

"Force of habit," he said when Sam shot him a strange look. At least he had something to do now.

He was skimming through the obituaries with no luck, when Sam made a noise deep in his throat. Dean looked up as Sam rotated his laptop. "The Schumann family. All died May 8th, 1871." Dean scanned the list and saw the names of six people all bearing the last name Schumann, grouped together in a row. He then looked at the rest of the results, various names of people who also died that week.

"'Unknown'?" Dean asked, reading one entry which also had a death date of May 8th. "Does that mean the body was unidentified, or the gravestone was unreadable when they transcribed it?"

"Doesn't say," Sam replied, sighing. "Maybe it's connected, maybe it's not." He turned the computer back around and began clicking and typing away. A few moments later, he started nodded. "Okay, the Schumann family is connected to the Morey's, though. According to marriage records, a Lucy Schumann married a Thomas Morey, back in 1870."

"So she would have been out of the house when the rest of her family died. Then her family inherits it, and several generations later, on May 8th, 1925..." Dean frowned. "That can't be a coincidence, can it?"

Sam leveled a look at him before turning back to his laptop. "We've seen enough of these to know it's not," he said.

Dean nodded, though Sam was too busy to notice. Feeling restless, Dean shuffled through the newspaper again. "Did that girl actually die from an aneurysm back at the mansion?" he finally asked.

"Already checked. The paper reported that doctors suspected an aneurysm, but they never published a follow-up."

"Ah." Dean racked his brain for something else. "Did any of the recent deaths happen in May?"

"No," Sam replied immediately. "Greg was in June, Cheryl October, and the double suicide I think happened in July." He looked at Dean, a smug expression settling on his face. "How did you get anything done without me?"

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Hey, I don't need a laptop," he replied nonchalantly. "Dad and I did fine on just newspapers."

Sam sat back and folded his arms over his chest, a half smirk on his face. "Oh, you did?" he asked sardonically. "And how would newspapers have helped with this?"

"We had our ways of finding what we needed to know," Dean shot back coolly.

"Uh-huh."

Dean sat up straight. "Look, Dad and I have been doing this for a hell of a lot longer than you have, so don't just-"

"Hey man, I was there," Sam retorted, straightening up. "Except for college, that was my life too, remember?"

"But you left!"

"So? According to you, you and Dad did fine without me!"

Dean ground his teeth together. "But you left us behind," he said lowly.

"Yeah, when Dad cut me off just because I wanted to do something more with my life," Sam argued back, his eyes flashing.

"So our way of living isn't good enough for you."

"You've seen how Dad gets." Dean stiffened, shooting a glare at his brother.. "I'm here now, aren't I?" Sam added.

"And what happens once we track down that thing that killed your girlfriend?"

Sam suddenly deflated. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

His younger brother sighed, his eyes searching Dean's face. "Dammit, Dean."

Dean waited for him to add to that, but he didn't. "That's it? 'Dammit, Dean?'"

"Yep," Sam drawled out. Dean let out a harsh, dry laugh and shook his head.

Ghosts were tricky bastards – especially the ones of people so long dead their bodies had already decayed into nothing.

Of course, Dean reasoned, even if there were bodies to dig up and salt, they wouldn't know which ones belonged to the ghosts haunting the mansion. Hell, out of the ghosts haunting the mansion, they didn't even know which one was responsible for the recent deaths.

So Sam and Dean decided to confront the ghosts. Not the most effective strategy, but if they were lucky, a simple "you're dead, move on" would do the trick. If they weren't lucky, they would have to try the more complicated Plan B: figure what's keeping the ghosts there, and do what they can to destroy it.

Maybe all they'd need would be a couple of pissed off kids to drag them off to hell.

The Winchester brothers agreed to try the house first. As strong as the activity was in those outbuildings, as far as they knew no one had died there—at least, not from supernatural means. However, Dean hoped they would get a chance to explore that last building before they left. He'd even bought a cheap step ladder after lunch.

But first things first. They had at least one ghostly ass to kick.

Inside, the house was just as they had left it. Only this time the mood had completely changed, now that they had an idea what had happened there. Everywhere he looked, he imagined the families that had once lived. He imagined their sudden, tragic deaths, their lives suddenly snuffed. The lighting suddenly seemed more gloomy and the broken furniture and dirty walls more sinister. Dean didn't mind though. Knowledge gave him confidence.

"The upper floors seem to be the hotspots," Sam remarked, already heading for the stairs. Dean stared after him for a moment before quickly catching up. He almost made a crack about Sam's impatience, but he decided against it.

They went through both the second and third floor twice without encountering anything. By then the afternoon was waning, and Dean could tell Sam was getting frustrated. They finally came to a stop on the third floor hallway. "Could use a good flash-your-headlights-three-times right about now," Dean joked wryly. His brother only snorted in reply.

"All right," said Dean. "Time to piss it off." If it weren't so cold out, he'd be pushing up his sleeves. Instead, he just grabbed the hammer from Sam and started swinging.

"Come on out, you jackass!" He slammed the hammer against a doorframe, the force splintering the wood.

"Damn," Sam snorted, shaking his head.

Dean grinned at him and turned back towards the hall. "You goddamn pussy!" he shouted, banging the hammer against the wall. Pieces of plaster rained down onto the floor. "Show yourself, you dead freak!"

As he made his way ranting down the hallway, Sam slipped past him to peak into each bedroom. Dean continued hollering and swinging, keeping one eye on Sam for any sign. "Hey, asshole! Why don't you go home to your mama?" he yelled. "I saw her last night--getting freaky with Henry the Eighth!"

Sam shot him a look, and Dean merely shrugged. Brilliant insults weren't always easy.

Suddenly, a cold breeze swept through Dean, and he shivered as the temperature abruptly dropped. He exchanged glances with Sam, who, judging by his expression, also felt the change. Instantly stilling, Dean trained his ears to listen for any noises.

But the entire house had fallen into a deathly silence. No traffic in the far off distance, no wind through the branches outside, nothing.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, when all of the sudden the door to his left swung open with a bang.

Sam spun around to face it, his eyes growing wide. At the same time, Dean was racing down the hall towards him, towards the door and whatever lay behind it. With his heart pounding, he watched as Sam's expression turned to horror. Sam recoiled sharply but didn't move from his spot.

Then, just as Dean was about to reach him, he saw a black shadow, an inky, indistinct form, swell out from the room. Dean tried to skid to a halt.

Then the dark shadow slammed into him and all he saw was blackness.

Dean groaned as awareness returned to him, and he blinked in confusion. He found himself in the hallway, sprawled out on the dirty floorboards. With a start, he jumped up to his feet.

The hall was empty.

"Sam?" he called out. His brother didn't respond. "Sam?" he cried out louder, racing into the room. There was no sign of him, and no sign of the black shadow. The house was quiet and still.

"Sam!" he hollered at the top of his voice. "Dammit, Sam! Answer me!" He ran through each room, calling out for his brother.

A search throughout the house turned up nothing.

Dean punched the wall in anger. He had to be somewhere. "Sam!" he called out one more time. No answer.

The only other option were the buildings outside.

Dean quickly climbed out through the back window. By now, the cloud cover had turned into a darker gray, and it was almost black out to the west. It would only be a matter of time before night fell.

Dean ran to the middle of the backyard and then stopped. There he stood, surrounded by the outbuildings, his back to the mansion. A cold breeze sliced through him as he tried to concentrate, but the blood racing through his veins made that impossible.

He had to find Sam, he had to find him now, he can't just be gone...

Dean forced himself to choose a building to search first. He set off for the one farthest to his left, figured that was good starting point, but then his brain told him something wasn't right.

Stopping in his tracks, Dean swiveled his gaze around. His eyes settled on the middle building, the one with the unopened door that stood off the ground. His stomach flipped inside out.

A set of stairs sat underneath the door, leading right to it. They were wooden and looked portable, just slats of wood stretched across an open frame, almost like a glorified stepladder. Dean looked around, but he saw no one. The yard was empty, the only movement coming from the grass shifting in the wind.

"Sam?" he called out.

As he approached the steps, he clung to the hope that Sam had found them laying around somewhere and was now inside exploring. He refused to acknowledge the doubts that Sam would go off exploring without him. After all, someone had place the stairs there.

Even if it hadn't been Sam, the stairs were where they weren't before. Dean knew he'd find something.

From the looks of the gray wood, he wasn't sure it could handle his weight. But it held when he placed both feet on the first step. He walked up each of the five steps slowly, carefully placing his foot with each step he took. But the stairs didn't even creak under his weight.

Before he knew it, he was at the top. The last step was twice as wide as the others, and when Dean stood on it, he was even with the door.

He knew from last time they tried that the door would be latched tight, but this time, the door didn't look quite as old, didn't seem quite as...guarded. Since it was missing a handle, he placed a hand against the wood to test its strength.

The door swung open under his touch. Dean frowned as he poked his head into the dark room.

Then, before he could resist, something yanked him inside.