April 3, 2006

The house was quiet after a weekend filled with too many bodies in too little space and cluttered with conversation as everyone tried to catch up at once. Mary had been left frazzled by two days full of the hustle and bustle of family, the brothers going out of their way to annoy one another, a grandson underfoot vying for attention. She had loved it, right up until Saturday evening dinner.

The family had been crowded around the table, too small for so many people, Brenda cutting Johny's burger into pieces, Dean laughing loudly at one of his own jokes with his mouth full, John beaming proudly at the whole scene when it had happened.

"Hey," Sam had asked casually while reaching for the potato salad, "any of you believe in ghosts?"

"What?" she had stammered, barely catching herself before she dropped her glass. "What would you ask that?"

"No reason," he'd responded. "I just thought I saw old Bonesy out in the yard earlier. It got me to wondering, is all."

Her instinct had been to shut the topic down immediately, but she'd been stunned to silence. She'd just sat numbly, unsure how to react, as the variety of conversation typical of know-nothing civilians, speculations and campfire stories had begun to swirl around her. It had been Brenda that put a stop to it by deeming the subject inappropriate in front of a child Johny's age. If not for the questions it would have raised Mary could have kissed her.

Of course, Mary had suspected that Bones might still be around. The signs of a spirit manifestation had been apparent to anyone that knew what to look for.

Sipping at her coffee she let her memories drift to the day that the ragged stray had followed Sam home, on a wounded leg so infected he couldn't put weight on it. He'd been a sight, dirty, matted fur, crawling with god only knew what kind of parasites, initially obscuring just how emaciated the poor thing had been, just skin and bones really. That was how he'd gotten his name.

It had been heart-wrenching for her and John to try and explain to Sam that it would probably be the kindest thing to have the dog put down. Their parental resolve had been no match for Sam's sad puppy dog eyes. In the end, John had bundled the boy and the dog into the car and headed off to a vet.

It had been a hard wait. Considering Bones' condition she had fully expected that the vet would recommend putting him to sleep, that they were just postponing the inevitable in the difficult talk they would have to have with their young son. It had been a surprise when the pair had returned with a bandaged, fed, and thankfully, somewhat groomed new member of the family.

He wasn't out of the woods. For the next several days Sam had fussed over and tried to nursemaid the weak animal with endearing devotion while his parents silently prepared to console him. Each morning they anticipated being awoken by the boy's anguished cries, and each morning it failed to happen.

Somehow Bones had beat the odds and survived. He'd bonded with Sam as if he understood that it was Sam to whom he owed his life. It wasn't surprising that he would still be around. When Bones had finally died, years later, he had been waiting for Sam to come home. He was still waiting, staying loyal even in death.

She hadn't been particularly troubled by it. Bones was no more a threat to her family as a spirit than he had been in life. She would have preferred it to stay a secret though, like anything supernatural, and there her family had been, sitting around her, talking about it as if it were something fun, some kind of game.

She'd hoped that would be the end of it, a quirky conversation, not notable and easily forgotten by anyone with no reason to think any more of it. That hope was dashed when she'd woken that night to discover Sam in the kitchen raiding the dinner leftovers.

The story he told had chilled her. He'd been woken by an urgent, agitated barking. A dream, he'd reasoned, realistic enough to have woken him. She'd listened with her mouth going dry as he'd described coming awake to the sight of the long dead Bones growling and bristling at the closet door.

She'd noticed signs, skittering sounds, electrical hiccups, but she'd attributed them to Bones' presence and hadn't dwelt on them. She knew now that had been a mistake.

A dream Sam had said, and she would have like to have believed that. It would have made everything so much simpler. She'd allowed him to believe it, lied straight to his face, with all good intentions of protecting him from knowledge that could be nothing but a burden to him.

She couldn't lie to herself, however. A lifetime of living in denial had never made her forget. A protective spirit sounding an alarm was a warning she dared not ignore. Something was in her house, and she had to get rid of it before anyone else found out. She'd wanted to leave this life behind her, and now the only way to do that was to walk right back into it.

Now finally, after a nerve wracking Sunday, she had the house to herself, with John out the door on his way to work, and Sam off to visit with local friends. Sam had been visibly ill at ease in the house since arriving home. She hadn't missed the way he looked for any excuse to go out into the yard, or stretch his legs with a walk. He'd been out the door this morning even before John. She felt confident that she would have time to act without fear of discovery.

A tingly nervous feeling ran through her frame at the thought of what she was considering, but what else could she do? She needed help, and she needed it fast. She knew what she had to do.

In a catch all desk drawer, buried under an accumulation of the sort of papers probably not worth keeping, but that never seemed to make it to a trashcan was an envelope, the latest of many she had received over the years. The first had arrived shortly after her marriage, addressed to Samual Campbell, c/o Mary Winchester, only the name R C Hunter in lew of a return address.

It had almost gone into the trash unopened. It was part of an old life that she no longer wanted any part of. She had opened it however, discovering inside only a sheet of paper on which was written nothing but a phone number. Periodically a new one would arrive, which she would keep carefully hidden, making sure its predecessor had been thoroughly burned.

R C Hunter, Robert Campbell-hunter, her father's brother, had left a door open for her, discreetly ensuring that she always had a working contact number. Up til now, she had never called any of them. After the first, she hadn't even bothered to open them. Out of family loyalty, or maybe guilt, she had kept each one, one tiny bit of Mary Campbell, buried under a lifetime's worth of Mary Winchester's junk papers, at the bottom of a drawer no one ever opened.

She'd wrestled with the decision. It had been the better part of thirty years that she had pushed aside the hand that had been offered. That door, once opened, could not easily be shut again. To make that call would be to step back into the world she had tried so hard to run from, but she had no real choice. She knew this. Her family was in danger, and continued denial would not save them.

Resolved, she drained the last of her coffee and rose from the chair. Under old receipts, expired warranties, and no small amount of dust, her past waited for her to come back to it.