Aaron Amly turned off the sink, wiping the last plate from dinner clean. Mrs. Arnette had gone to put Anna to bed, and Simon was in his room, reading one of his mystery novels.
He'd told Mrs. Arnette he'd help with the dishes, so she didn't have to worry about them. Sometimes she looked so frail, he was afraid too much work would wear her out.
His Gameboy was sitting on one of her end tables. He picked it up, fingering it in his hands.
He wondered what that guy Dean…what was it—Hoover? was doing.
Dean had been kinda cool, for a counselor. Not afraid to tell them they didn't have to cry, and stuff. Aaron had cried a lot when Dad had died. He didn't think he could cry for Mom, too. Not like that. He'd seen how much it had hurt Mom, to watch him cry. He didn't want Simon and Anna to feel like that too.
Dean had said that was cool. That he could try and take care of his brother and sister and be strong and stuff. That was cool.
And he cursed. That was cool, too.
Mrs. Arnette came down the stairs, carrying Anna's doll in her frail little hands. Mom had always said she looked like she was about to break. She peered into the kitchen, and placed the doll on the couch.
"Thank you, dear. Everything looks great."
"You're welcome. Did Anna go to bed?"
"She cried a little, but I think she's sleeping now."
"What about Simon?"
"He's still reading."
"Um, Mrs. Arnette?"
"Yes, what is it, dear?"
"I just wanted to say thank you for taking care of us. Of Simon and Anna, I mean."
She watched him for a moment with her big eyes, and smiled. "You're welcome, Aaron. My, but you are a little man, aren't you?"
He frowned. If she pinches my cheek… "I'm going to check on Anna."
"Okay. Just be quiet." She rose. "I'm going to lock up now."
"'Kay." He watched her go into the back room, and picked Anna's doll up from the couch. She liked to have the doll in her room; he didn't know why Mrs. Arnette had brought it down.
He reached the top of the landing, popping his head into Simon's room. His younger brother was still engrossed in one of his mystery novels. He shut the door and moved down the hall, towards Anna's room.
Her door was shut tightly. Anna always liked to have her door cracked open.
A giggle fluttered down the hall.
He paused, his hand on Anna's doorknob.
The giggle came again, in the room Mrs. Arnette had decorated for her daughter. Abigail? No…Amelia.
Aaron thought the whole thing was creepy, but his Mom had said how much mothers love their children. And how much they missed them when they went away. He knew how much he missed Dad, so he supposed he understood…
Mom…
A lump rose in his throat.
The giggle sounded again. It sounded exactly like his sister. But how could she have gotten out?
"Anna?"
Once more, the laughter sounded, this time a bit louder.
He opened the door to Amelia's room. It was dark, with only the moonlight to guide his way in.
The switch on the wall wasn't working.
He peered deeper into the room, cracking the door as widely as he could, to let in as much light as possible.
There was no sign of Anna.
"Anna?"
How could she have gotten in here? She barely knows how to walk.
But she'd love to run away at nighttime, her little feet padding on the floor, their mother chasing her, wrapping her up and tucking her away into her crib.
"Anna…" he moved into the room.
He thought he heard a rustling in the far corner. "Come on, you know you have to be in bed. Come here, Anna."
The door slammed shut behind him.
He bolted for where the door had been, trying to make out the handle in the dim light.
He rattled the knob, but it was stuck. Great. He rattled it again. Nothing.
"MRS. ARNETTE!" He banged his fist against the door. "MRS. ARNETTE!"
"Mine."
He stopped, a shudder of fear running through him. The voice had come from behind him.
"Mine."
He turned slowly, his fingers trembling as he clutched the doll.
"Mine."
A tiny figure was standing behind him, her eyes shimmering in the dark. He pulled the doll to his chest. The figure shifted into one of the beams of moonlight.
He looked down at her, puzzled. She had her hair pulled into two tiny pigtails, the hair curling around her ears.
Anna?
"Mine." She moved forward again. For some reason, he stepped back.
"A-Anna. I know it's your doll…let's go back to bed now, and you can have it, okay?"
"MINE." The tiny voice deepened. A hand reached out towards him.
The hand was gray. The night dress was ragged, torn and frayed, unraveled like clothes that had been too long in the washer.
The eyes were silver. Deep. Empty.
He screamed.
"MINEEEEEEE!" she wailed, her voice rattling the eaves. Sparks flew through the room, the lights flickering wildly. The room lit up around him, in yellow flames.
All he saw was the figure, coming at him, her empty eyes staring at him, her mouth wide and wailing, the little fingers curling around his arms, his throat.
Everything went black.
Rebecca Anderson was buried at Skylawn Memorial Park Cemetery, in San Francisco. According to the database, her certificate of death listed her full name as Annabelle Rebecca Anderson, born on September 24th 1902. There was the date. And the name.
Another A.R.A.
"Jeez! This is so damn confusing!" Dean had yelled when the information came up.
Her house had been deeded to a cousin, Arthur Langstone, who'd known nothing about the history or contents. He'd been one of many trustees who had won something form the Anderson's rather large estate, and had actually been a bit disappointed in the lake house. He'd wanted one of the vintage Rolls.
She was listed as having no siblings, and no children. No other AR anythings in the family. The trail for ARA, the date, and the doll—ended there.
Sam sat by the window of their lodge room, staring out the window. They'd called June Arnette a little earlier, to check up on the kids—keeping with appearances, Dean had said, but Sam knew he wanted to make sure Anna and the others were alright. Mrs. Arnette had said the boys were doing fine, though of course 'in a state', though they were looking forward to seeing their grandparents.
They'd asked about Anna, too. June had mentioned nothing about the doll, just said that Anna was 'fine.' She'd extended an invitation to them to visit again tomorrow, the Friday before their grandparents were set to arrive.
Peace was returning to Cariño. A peace that, to Sam, had never left.
And another day wasted day had gone by. The twenty-fifth…
There was something of a chill in the nighttime air around Cariño. Sam shut the window, glancing up at the sky.
Rain was coming, probably tomorrow.
Dean was in a t-shirt and shorts, hunched over the table, studying their father's journal. They'd scoured the bits and pieces of information about Cariño a hundred times, but nothing had come up about any ARA curse. No birth records listed little girls—or boys, for that matter—dying around the turn of the century at the age of two years old.
Another dead end.
Dean had decided, for the rest of the evening, anyway, to focus on the initials, since they were the best to go on. "Do you think the 'ARA' could actually be Rebecca Goldsmith? Maybe her parents killed the real Rebecca, and adopted another girl in her place." His clear green eyes looked tired from the strain of studying the papers.
"I don't think so…that's really a stretch."
"Then…what about possession—maybe this ARA is possessing these kids, to contact someone."
Sam pulled up a chair next to his brother, "Well, we've had no indication that there's been possession or past lives involved. Anna Amly didn't kill her mother. And if it was possession, why would the entity want to kill the person it's possessing?"
"Yeah…I guess. It's a dead end. But then what would Dad have noticed here? I mean, the place, and the doll, are in his journal for a reason."
"I dunno. Maybe he heard about it, thought it might be supernatural, and put it in. Maybe this was some of the stuff he never got the chance to investigate."
Dean cocked a grin. "You're joking, right?"
"No…why would I be?"
"Because…Sam, you don't screw with 'the journal'. Dad never guessed in 'the journal'. The journal's the journal. You don't put what you 'think' in 'the journal.'"
"Okay, fine, you don't screw with the journal. Then maybe it's dated. Or maybe someone solved it already. Maybe the death of Amelia Arnette solved it, and the thing with Patricia Amly was an accident."
"I suppose it's possible," Dean said casually, shutting the diary. "Maybe it's done. But if it is, we should still destroy that doll, just to be safe."
"To be safe."
"To be safe, Sam. Just to be safe. Not to be pedophiles."
"Pediophiles. Don't get that confused. And actually, that's a pediophile—singular. I don't have a hang-up with dolls."
"Shut up."
Sam grinned.
Sirens broke through the silence. A fire engine, with two police cars and an ambulance, were racing down the main highway, past the lodge.
Sam glanced over at his brother. "You don't think…"
Dean watched the lights flicker down the road. "That's going towards the Arnette house. We better go, just to make sure."
"My God."
Dean stared in horror at the Arnette house, as the firefighters streamed water in an attempt to batter down the flames that were roaring through the right side of the house.
Police officers were holding frightened onlookers back from the scene. Dean pushed through them, followed by Sam. "Hey, hey you!"
One of the officers, a younger guy, probably mid-twenties, came over. "Stay back, sir. The house could still go."
"Hey, there were…there were kids in that house. Three kids…where are they?"
The police officer looked around. "I don't…"
"Where the hell are they?"
"In the back," said another officer, coming over to see what the commotion was about. "There were two, and the lady, got pulled out."
"Two? But there were three!"
"They only found two."
Dean swallowed. "Where?"
"Ambulance."
Sam didn't wait for Dean, just shoved through the crowds, towards the ambulance. "Mrs. Arnette? Simon?"
He pushed himself through to the back of the truck, peering in.
Mrs. Arnette was lying on a gurney, tears rolling down her ash-streaked face. She was clutching a small urn. A paramedic was at the far end of the bay, adjusting the oxygen supply.
"Mrs. Arnette? June?"
She saw him from the corner of her eye, and pulled at her mask.
"You can't be here, son…."
"No," June croaked. "A-Aaron."
"Aaron what?" Dean asked. "Aaron what!"
"He's still…still in—" she started coughing.
"Sh…" Dean whirled around, shoving his way harshly through the crowd.
"DEAN!" Sam raced after him, grabbing at his brother's shoulders. Dean maneuvered his way in front of the crowd, making it to the police tape. A firefighter at the front turned around, and shoved him back.
"GET BACK!"
"There's still someone inside!" Dean screamed, trying to shove past him.
"DEAN!" Sam grabbed his brother's arm, trying to drag him backwards. Dean could be incredibly strong, when he put his mind to it. "DEAN, STOP!"
"Let me go, Sam!"
"You can't, Dean. You…"
Someone from the crowd let out a scream. The right side of the house suddenly buckled and collapsed, sending an incredible burst of flame towards the street. The crowd tumbled back, Dean and Sam shielding their eyes as the fireball let off a blinding flare, then died back into a tumble of smoke and ash.
Sam felt his brother's body go slack, and he released him. "Dean…"
Another person in the crowd suddenly cheered.
A firefighter was trudging around the left side of the house, carrying a bundle wrapped in blankets. They watched him for a second as he bolted to the ambulance, then took off after him.
"Aaron?"
They reached the ambulance only a few moments after the firefighter. The paramedics unwrapped the bundle, lifting the little body up onto a gurney.
"Aaron…"
The little boy coughed weakly. The paramedics shooed them away, quickly placing an oxygen mask on Aaron.
His right arm was slightly burned, as were parts of his face and neck. But overall, he appeared all right.
"Aaron," Dean murmured.
The little boy opened his eyes, staring wearily at them. He caught sight of Dean, and a small smile crossed his face. He gave them the thumbs up.
Dean let out a laugh, and returned the gesture. Aaron nodded, mouthing something to Dean.
Sam watched in confusion as Dean pointed behind him. "They're both fine. Got out, no problem. You'll get to see them soon."
Aaron smiled again, and let his head roll back on the gurney. The paramedics shut the door, and within a few moments, the ambulance had disappeared into the dark hills.
They wandered around a bit as the crowd began to break up. The flames of the Arnette house were slowly dying down, the fire weakening as sections of the house had finally given way. Sam caught sight of Simon sitting in a police car, surrounded by officers. He looked as dazed as he had been yesterday, when they came to see him.
He caught sight of them, but his eyes wouldn't focus. He was lost.
A woman came up to him, kneeling down to ask him a few questions. Dean stopped next to Sam, watching the two of them as she tried to talk to the little boy.
"Not bad," he murmured. Sam rolled his eyes. Even in a crisis…
The woman rose, nodded something at the police officer, and moved over to the front of the car.
Anna was curled in the front seat, sleeping peacefully, her thumb in her mouth. Sam stared at her for a moment. Dean's focus had gone from the woman to the baby, his eyebrow arched.
Curled in Anna's arm was the porcelain doll, completely untouched, the dress, despite having been through a fire, as white as snow.
