"I told you, Sammy. There's something weird about that doll." Dean slid into the Impala, starting it up with a roar. "And now an ARA. She's the match. We need to find out how that little girl died."

"I admit it's strange that two people with the doll have died…but it's not conclusive proof that the doll is possessed."

"Two people have died, one with the initials in Dad's journal, plus, the doll's in Dad's journal. It's definitely possessed."

"I don't know…I mean, if that's the case, why haven't we heard more about the doll injuring other people? Why doesn't Cariño have a history of little girls being killed, or something? Wouldn't that have been in Dad's journal?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe Dad just caught wind of it but didn't have time to explore."

"When has Dad never had time to explore?"

"When he's on the trail of that thing. Or maybe nothing had happened in a while. June's daughter died a year or two ago, maybe more. Besides that, there's nothing that links those two families other than that doll. They don't share the same house, they don't have the same family. They haven't even shared the same town. The Amlys were new. Or newer, at least."

"There has to be more to it, though. I mean, if it were just a possessed 'toy', then there should be more history around it. But we've been given no indication, not even by the mother, that the doll is suspicious in any way. If it had been responsible for the death of her daughter, why would she then pass it on to the daughter of her best friend? It doesn't make any sense."

Dean shrugged. "Does it ever?"

"We need to look deeper. Let's find out if the town has a Hall of Records."


Sam rubbed his face with his hands, giving his eyes a rest. The nice thing about a small town, with a small population, was the amount of information that a library or records hall had about it.

He'd found death notices, obits, and even a couple of news articles about mysterious happenings in Cariño.

But nothing conclusive about what he'd wanted to find out most—nothing about little girls being murdered, and nothing about 'possessed dolls.'

The Amly house had a clean history, with nothing particularly suspicious in it's past. It had been constructed in the 1940's sometime, as the boomers were beginning to start up.

The Arnette house was older, as June had said, with origins sometime near the turn of the century. But nothing in the records, or the papers, mentioned anything about anyone dying in that area.

He had found the obituary and information on the death of Amelia Arnette. She'd drowned in the pond behind her parents' house, after wandering out the back door one day. Nothing suspicious involved, just a random, terrible accident. The only thing that seemed to corroborate Dean's suspicions at all was the fact that they were alerted to her disappearance when they found her doll by the pond shore. A sweep of the pond had led to the discovery of her little body wrapped in the grass at the bottom of the lake.

She was only four years old.

Sam sighed. So young, without any chance to live… Her parents must have felt terrible, knowing there was something they might have done to prevent it…

Jess flashed across his mind, smiling at him.

I need that damn car. Just for one day.

Dean would never let him have it. And now that he was hell bent on finding something supernatural about that doll, he wasn't even going to consider it.

He sat back, gathering some of the older papers carefully and bundling them up.

The lady at the front of the hall smiled at him as he strode past, returning the items. "Thank you, Agent King. I hope everything goes well with your investigation."

He flashed her a brilliant smile. "Thanks. You've been very helpful." No matter how many times he had to deceive nice, trusting people, he never felt comfortable doing it, particularly when the whole thing seemed useless.

The park was empty of kids; probably in school this morning. It was a beautiful town park, with a warm and comfortable feel. Something he'd never really had, since he'd never really had a home.

He wondered if Jess had ever had anything like this. She'd been so wonderfully warm—so loving and caring about others—he was almost certain she had. He slumped onto a park bench, burying his face in his hands.

"Sam. Sammy?"

When he finally looked up, Dean had the Impala parked and running in the street in front of the park. His brother was halfway out of the car, eyes wide. Sam stood, rubbing his face, and lumbered over to him.

"You've been sitting there forever, man. Are you okay?"

"Yeah."

Dean sat back down in the driver's seat, staring at Sam warily. "You sure?"

"Sure. I'm fine." He cleared his throat. "Did you find out anything?"

"I've got something to show you," Dean said, still watching Sam with a tenuous expression. "What about you?"

"Nothing. No murders, no little girls getting killed, no psycho dolls or haunting stories. The only thing is on Amelia Arnette—drowned in the pond behind her parents' house. It was an accident, Dean."

Dean steered the car down a gravel path not too far from the square, his thumb tapping the wheel. "Oh."

"What've you got?"

He shrugged. "Nothing much, just another connection to the journal. And Amelia Arnette."

He turned the Impala into a small, grass filled parking lot. There was an old-style church in the far corner, and next to it, a relatively large graveyard.

"A lot of the residents of the town are buried here. I found something this morning."

He led Sam down a tree-lined path, carved into the dirt by years of treading. There was a small, worn-down grave marker in the far corner near the fence, the tombstone weathered and gray. The stone bore a relatively obscure epitaph:

ARA—beloved daughter, beloved child. Two years on this blessed Earth, many more in blessed Heaven.

"Guess it isn't much, but I thought I'd show you anyway."

Sam stared at the headstone, puzzled. "Dean, this isn't Amelia Arnette's grave."

"Why not? You said she died a few years ago, and here she is."

"Because Amelia Arnette wasn't buried. She was cremated. And she was four, not two."

"What?"

"She died when she was four years old. And the obituary said she was cremated. The remains were to be kept with her parents."

"Okay…" Dean scanned the headstone again. "Well, it could be older, now that I think about it. Even stuck back here in the corner, it wouldn't get this beat up over only two or so years. And whoever this ARA is happens to have the same initials as Amelia Arnette."

"And Anna Amly."

"What?"

"Her birth records list her middle name as Rachel. Annabeth Rachel Amly." He scanned down the row of headstones. Everything else looked normal.

"So…we have our connection," Dean said. "We need to go back to the Arnette house."

"Yeah, but…"

"But what? It all fits—doll, name, kid. This thing is after Anna Amly."

"But…if that was the case, why did it attack Patricia? Wouldn't it have gone after Anna?"

"Yeah, I suppose it should have."

"Mistaken identity?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Humans make mistakes. Ghosts don't."

Sam sighed. "Right. I don't know. Something's off, Dean. The whole thing is confusing. It feels supernatural, but at the same time, it doesn't. Amelia died, but there is no indication the doll killed her—she dropped it on the pond shore before she fell in. And then it's Patty, not Anna, who died in that car crash. And this ARA—this gravestone is years older. And the person buried under it was only two years old—that's not a lot of time to build up a vengeful spirit."

"Hey, I had to baby-sit you when you were two. I can tell you right now that even two-year olds can have vengeful spirits."

"But nothing really seems to add up. What do they have in common, other than the initials? I've never heard of an anagram being a reason to kill, Dean."

"Well, maybe the doll's the focus, and the initials—or the name—is the link."

"But if that's the case, and it is after Anna Amly, why hasn't it attacked her yet? I'm sure there are plenty of times when she and the doll were alone…"

"Maybe it's been waiting. Maybe it wants to make sure that this is the 'ARA' it's been looking for. Did you didn't find anything about anyone dying with the initials ARA? Other than Amelia Arnette?"

"Honestly, I didn't look. I was searching for murders, little girls' deaths—not for the initials."

"Then I think we need to get back to the library, Sammy-boy."


A subsequent search of the Town Records—gladly provided for by Gladys, the nice front desk clerk, who let them stay there well into the night—still turned up nothing with regards to A.R.A.

Gladys herself, who'd lived in the town nearly 20 years, knew nothing about the headstone or any other deaths related to ARA. "You know, many historians have come digging around town, and a few have come across that headstone, but it never interested anyone enough to keep searching. Some poor child who died at the age of two, probably of a disease or something. There's no record of it here, so we think it may have been a passer-by."

"No way," Dean commented later as they were leaving. "No entity haunts a town they were passing through. This 'thing', whatever it is, is connected here. It just doesn't have a history. That doesn't mean it didn't exist."

"Yeah, but without a history, it makes it a whole lot harder to track."

"But it's connected to the Amly family. It shares their name. It shares that doll, somehow. It's not that disconnected."

"It has nothing about it here, Dean. Neither the Amlys nor the Arnettes have been here long enough to know what's been going on in their houses. And I sincerely doubt that Mrs. Arnette is going to be thrilled with the idea of detailing to us exactly how her daughter died, particularly since they must feel partly responsible. We're at a dead end."

"When did you become so negative, all of a sudden?" Dean asked quietly. "Normally you're all 'gung-ho' Internet explorer and surrounding town records and big city newspaper articles and junk. A woman died here, Sammy. Why don't you care?"

"I do care. I just…don't think we have good leads here, Dean. I don't think we'll be able to do anything until something else happens."

"The next 'something else' that happens could be the death of that little girl. You really want to wait until then?"

"Of course not. But if there's nothing else to go on, we'll be sitting here, twiddling our thumbs, and wasting our time. Sooner or later, someone's going to figure out we're not Department of Histories agents or DFCS counselors. And then what'll we do?"

"We'll just have to keep on pushing, like we always do."

"Sometimes we push too hard," Sam sighed. "Sometimes we should probably just let it go."

"What?" Dean narrowed his eyes. "What's wrong with you? You still want to go joyriding, is that it? What is so damn important in Sacramento—or is it San Francisco—it's taking your focus off this case to the point you barely care?"

"We've never been stuck dead in the water before, Dean. That's what this case is turning into."

"Is it Dad?" Dean asked suddenly, turning to face him, "did he tell you to do something without me?"

"What?"

"Is it?"

"Why would you think that?"

"The last time we talked he was particularly interested in talking to you. You two got a secret you're keeping?"

"Of course not, Dean. We spoke about the headaches. You were there, you know that! Besides, Dad wouldn't call on me without you—you know that, too."

"Do I? Nowadays it seems like you and he are getting awfully chummy."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "You're pushing it, Dean. Dad wouldn't ask me to do anything without you—and I wouldn't go without you. If you think I would, then you don't know me as well as I thought you did."

Dean's face softened. "Then what is it, Sam? Why don't you want to get this thing as much as I do? Why aren't you here, with me, trying to figure it out?"

"I'm sorry. But not everything is going to be about something supernatural. And sometimes it's just not going to work out the way we—or Dad—might want it to."

"But it's not about us. This time it's about Anna—and Patricia Amly. And Amelia. And June. It's about finding out what the hell is hurting them and finding a way to stop it. No one else can do that, Sam. Just us. We're the only ones. We don't forget that."

"All about the mission," he said briskly. "I got it, Dean. No problem."

Dean's halfway nodded. "Good. Now get your head back in the game. And get some rest. Tomorrow, we're going flat-footing."


McAllisteer's Antique Store was one of those old-fashioned, only-open-when-we-feel-like-it type shops that smelled immediately of dusty books and ancient furniture. Dean liked the smell; it reminded him a lot of some of the things that Dad had brought home from his jobs.

The shop owner had a tinge of an accent, perhaps left over from the days of his parents, both Scottish immigrants. He was a pleasant older gentleman, who took his time showing them items, and explaining about 'the good ol' days.' One of those nice guys who enjoyed long lunches and lemonade out in the sun. One of the 'grandfather' type guys who loved to tell long, involved stories.

Dean hated guys like that.

He sat with his hand resting on his chin, a wan smile on his face, trying his best to pay attention as Mr. McAllisteer talked about the fourth generation families that now inhabited Cariño, and the shock of Patty Amly's accident on their small town. He blinked a few times, trying to keep his eyes from glazing over. This, in his opinion, was the hard part of the job. Give him a gun, some rock salt and a group of ticked off demons any day.

Even Sam, who was much better at handling McAllisteer-types, looked bored.

His mind's still on Sacramento, and whatever he's waiting for.

He believed Sam when he'd said it wasn't there father. John Winchester wasn't easy to read, and Dean didn't put it past him to involve Sam in something that didn't involve Dean. Their father was just like that. Whatever means to the end—that was his philosophy.

But it wasn't Sam's, and if Sammy said he wasn't meeting their father, he wasn't meeting their father.

It had to be Jessica, then. He'd never meet anyone else without Dean knowing.

At least, Dean didn't think he would.

But what about Jessica? What connection did she have to Sacramento? Parents, maybe? Or maybe it was San Francisco? Was she from there?

"Dean."

He glanced up. Sam and McAllisteer were staring at him.

"I'm sorry?"

"Mr. McAllisteer asked us if we wanted to see the dolls."

"Uh…you can. I'm good, thanks." He smiled as jovially as he could. For the first time that day, Sam grinned. A wicked grin.

Dean glared at him. "Alright, what've you got?"

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" Sam murmured under his breath.

"Shaddup."

McAllisteer led them into a small room, decorated to resemble a Victorian era little girl's room. There were porcelain tea sets, old mohair rocking horses, and frilly pink-and-white lace pillows.

On a shelf near one of the small windows were a row of dolls, similar to the one owned by Amelia Arnette, and now, Anna Amly.

"What do you know about these types of dolls?" Sam asked.

"Standard Victorian era—modeled after the ones created in England. They're dressed in customary style, with the ruffles and lace. Porcelain was unrefined, and they went after more of a 'stylish' look than for realism, so you get the bigger eyes and such."

Dean scanned the shelf. They were close, but nothing exactly matching the Amly doll. "Any of these dolls come from Cariño?"

"A few…maybe…this one…" he pulled a doll with a dark curl painted on the forehead. "And this one." Another, this one with blue eyes.

"Anything strange ever happen to the owners of these dolls, as far as you know?"

"To the owners?"

"Histories of dolls include the histories of the owners," Sam said quickly.

Mr. McAllisteer looked puzzled, but shrugged. "Not that I'm aware of. We did have mention of a few children drowning, but that's natural in a small town. Nothing directly connected to any of these dolls—like, nothing for Ghost Hunters or anything like that."

Sam flipped the doll backwards, searching for anything that might be related to Anna's doll. There was nothing.

"Do you know about a doll owned by June Arnette? It would have belonged to the owners of the house prior to the Arnettes."

"Hmmm…she sold a lot of things after…well, you know about her little girl, I assume?"

"Yes."

"Tragic, really. 'Melia was a sweet little thing. Anyhow, June had me come look at a whole bunch of items. I took almost everything from her nursery—that stuff sells real well—but she kept a few things. Rocking horse, furniture and a tea set—and the Olivia doll."

"Olivia doll?"

"Yeah, that pretty thing with the tear drop on her face. That's an Olivia—pretty rare, made by only one doll maker from San Francisco 'round the turn of the century. They were expensive even then, and he didn't sell to just no one. My guess is the old lady got it when she was a girl, and left it with the house."

"The old lady?"

"Anderson. Rebecca Anderson. I knew her most of my life, but didn't really know her. Her family was wealthy and traveled in and out of San Francisco most of the time. This was a summer house. She fixed it up, I think, and came out here to stay on holidays, but she kept to herself."

"And when she died she just left it to someone else? Even being that rare?"

"Who knows? It was in a storage closet. Hey, she was rich. Probably didn't mean as much to her as it to do some others. June kept it because Amelia had loved it."

"Do you know anyone who might have known her well? Enough to know her family?"

"Maybe Morgan Sanderson—he's from here and has lived here all his life. But he'll be a waste of your time. Gold digger. He spends all his time talking to those feature shows for those history stations and stuff. His family moved in around the time of the gold rush, and he likes to pretend he's the gosh darn heart of the town. But he may have known Rebecca."

"Where's he at?"

"He's down Duena Street. 135. But it'll be a waste of your time."

"Thanks."

"Mr. McAllisteer—one last thing. There's a grave in the old cemetery off the park…a grave marked 'ARA'. Do you happen to know who that is?"

"McAllisteer thought for a moment. "Noooo…don't care much for graveyards. At least, not if it doesn't involve a price tag. Are you sure you don't want to buy one of these?" he asked, taking the doll back from Sam.

"No. We're good, thanks." Dean ignored the look on Sam's face, and headed out.


Morgan Sanderson lived in his family's old house, a beautiful two-story Victorian on the edge of a pretty, wooded lake. He greeted them genially, obviously used to strangers coming to visit.

"How can I help you boys?"

"We were wondering if we might be able to talk to you a bit about the history of the town—if it isn't too much trouble."

"Sure. I've lived here my whole life—family too, since before the turn of the century—20th century, that is."

"Great. We were wondering…"

"There's just the small matter of a consulting fee."

"Ah…excuse me?"

"It's traditional for you guys, whenever you come around, to afford out a small consulting fee for my services. You know, for those 'according to Morgan Sanderson, a resident of the town' type deals."

"Uh, we're not involved in one of 'those type' deals."

"We just want some information."

"Hmmm…well. That's too bad. Seems my memory is a little sketchy these days."

"I could tell you that without the consulting fee," Dean hissed.

"Dean. Look, sir," Sam said quietly. "We're just wanting to know if you know who owned the house that June Arnette lives in. What family—or if they had a little girl."

"Well…maybe. I can't seem able to recall clearly."

"I recall my car parked outside, in front of the house," said Dean. "I also recall being told that this would be a waste of our time. Let's get out of here, Sam. Mc-antique old-guy was right…he doesn't know anything. Maybe if we go back to the store, we can find something useful."

"Who told you that?"

"Mr. McAllisteer," said Sam.

"That money grubbing treasure-hunter? The only history he'd know is the history of sale. My family has lived in this town for one-hundred and fifty years!"

Dean shrugged, his hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. "He may be a treasure seeker, but he's not the one charging us for information."

Sanderson's nostrils flared. Dean shook his head, and turned for the door.

"Alright. But just this once, I ain't in the habit of giving up a nice living for the sake of being principled. The Arnette family lives in the old Anderson house. Nice house, one of the first built around the lake. Rebecca Anderson inherited it from her father—Tom Anderson."

"Thomas Anderson?"

"Yeah. Thomas and Elizabeth was the mother, I think. Nutty as fruitcake, that one."

"Nutty?"

"She had problems most of her life. Then again, she was rich. You ever knew rich people not to be nutty?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Did Rebecca have any siblings?"

"No. Rebecca was an only child. Why are you so interested in the names? I thought you wanted to know about the house."

"We want to know a little of everything."

"Oh. Well, Rebecca inherited the house from her parents when they died. The Mom used to come here at the beginning of the spring for some oddball reason or another. After they died, Rebecca refurbished it a bit. But only came during the summertime. Avoided it like the plague, around March. But, well, she was nutty, too, just like her Momma. She lived most of the time in San Francisco."

"Do you know if anyone ever—died in that house?"
"Yeah. Both the Mother and Rebecca. Mother in the 40's sometime, and Rebecca in 1984. Died on vacation, though they're buried in San Fran."

"How did they die?"

"I reckon they both died in their sleep, since there wasn't a bit stink about it…Hey…you ain't with one of them ghost-hunting shows, are you?"

"No." Dean and Sam said in unison.

Sanderson stared at them suspiciously for a moment.

"It's a hobby," said Dean quickly, trying to look convincing.

"Well, them's the only two I can remember, before Amelia Arnette. I'm sure you know about her." Morgan replied.

"What about…what about a baby doll—an Olivia doll?" Sam asked. "Have you heard of an Olivia doll belonging to Rebecca, being passed around?"

"Rebecca would have had a lot of things from her childhood here, she spent her holidays in that house. But that's getting into particulars I don't know."

"Nothing about a doll being involved in her death?"

"No—why are you so interested in dolls, son?"

Dean rubbed his face with his hand. "How about the graveyard by the park—do you know who 'ARA' is?"

"No…just that that headstone's been in that cemetery for years. Before I was born, and that was over eighty years ago. I don't think anyone's alive who knows who that headstone belongs to."

"Great," Dean murmured.

"I can tell you this, though. It used to have a 'legend' associated with it, if you could call it that. Schoolyard stuff—nothing for the ghost chasers. They used to say a spirit of a toddler haunted that grave."

"Why would they say a toddler?"

"Probably 'cause the age on the tombstone is two."

Sam smirked. "Of course."

"Anyways, sometimes the kids would joke about it, that that kid would haunt you if you had that name. Some families took it seriously. We had one or two people die with a combination of those initials—like Rebecca Anderson—and sometimes it spooked people."

"They stopped using 'A' names, I take it?"

"Yeah—how'd you guess?"

"What about Amelia Arnette?"

Sanderson shrugged. "Coincidence. Her family wasn't from here—they'd moved in only a few years ago. And people in the town don't remember much about the 'curse of ARA' anymore—it's been too long—so I don't suppose anyone thought to tell her. Not that it would make a difference. It was just a schoolyard legend. Not even good enough to make the history books."

"But…even if it's been a century…you have to admit that it's a little strange, the death of a little girl, with the initials ARA."

"Maybe. But why? Who'd haunt a name?"

"I think that's something we have to find out," Dean murmured.