Chap. 3 Curse?
The next morning, Sam looked at Dean across the breakfast table, his eyes heavy. The two of them were having some coffee and doughnuts before they got to work. Sam huffed a breath. Despite having gotten a fair amount of sleep, he still felt tired. The dark nightmare he'd had was still fresh in his mind.
"Sam, you okay?"
"Yeah, I—I think I'm still just recovering from yesterday." Sam cleared his throat.
"Mmm." Dean's grunt sounded concerned.
Sam noticed his older brother staring deeply at him, as if he were searching for signs of ailment. Sam raised his eyebrows. "What?"
Dean swallowed. "Sammy, you went sleepwalking last night."
Sam's heart skipped, and he narrowed his brows in disbelief. "What?"
"I woke up to find your bed empty. Found you traipsin' out in the yard fully dressed. Looked like something outta The Walking Dead. You don't remember? You even tried to climb the precious Impala."
Sam's mouth dropped open. "You've gotta be kidding me."
"You wouldn't speak to me the whole time, but I did get you back into bed. Kinda freaked me out, to be honest." Dean took a sip of coffee.
Sam's mind was reeling. He suddenly remembered that he had woken up in bed that morning wearing jeans, a jacket, and a shirt. At the time, he had momentarily felt confused but had forgotten about the mismatch in the doings of the morning. Oh, my gosh…
"Do you know what might've set it off?" Dean's eyes probed Sam's face.
Sam shook his head. "Like I just said, I don't remember any of this." He was silent for a moment. "I…know I did have a nightmare, though."
"Nightmare? You remember what it was about?"
"Sort of. You were walking towards something bad, and…I wanted to stop you but couldn't. That in itself was…awful. And there was something like rain in the form of glass hitting my head."
Dean drew back and whistled. "Phew! Sounds cooky." He grinned.
Sam's youthful face remained serious. "I hated the feeling it gave me. It was like I could do nothing to help you."
"Yeah, but I'm right here." Dean stood up from the table and clapped Sam on the back comfortingly. Sam managed a small, uncertain smile. Dean moved to the sink to deposit his chocolate frosted plate.
Dean was relieved. Apparently, his younger brother had simply been led into sleepwalking due to a bad dream that had felt too real. Of course, Sammy had had nightmares in the past that had never led to such activity, but the combination of a prior brain freeze plus a nightmare must've just done something strange to his system. Dean was confident it was a one-time event.
Now to investigate their ghost case further.
Sam had managed to get ahold of the official name of the man who had died at the haunted house, along with his wife. "Calvin Holbrook. Used to go by Cal. His wife is…Yvonne Holbrook. Couldn't find any info on where she's living now, though. Good news is, there's a relative, an aunt of Cal's with an address. Gwen Constantine. We can try her."
On the way to Ms. Constantine's, Sam discussed with his brother the photographs he'd nabbed the other night. "I got a feeling something's up," he said. "In the old pics, this man here is posing with two different women at different times." He held up both.
Dean shrugged at the wheel, giving the photo a glance. "Could be one's a wife, one's a sister."
"I don't think so, Dean." Sam shook his smooth brown head. The way the old-timey man had his arm about each of the women appeared romantic and loving—Sam sensed that perhaps the man had married twice or at least been in multiple relationships. A somewhat rarer occurrence back in the day, but still possible. Maybe it had something to do with the ghost…
The Constantine house ended up being on the side of a road near a steep hill. The brothers strolled up to the door, and Dean knocked.
After a long moment, a woman with a lined face opened the door. She did not greet them with a smile. "Who are you?"
Dean cleared his throat. "Hi, we're local reporters. We're doing a story on your nephew Calvin Holbrook. We would just like some information if you have any—"
Sam cut in, "We were very sorry to hear about his passing. And we understand if—if this might be hard." He smiled quickly, hoping to reassure the woman. "Uh, I'm Dennis Cleary. This is Brock Roach." He bobbed his head in Dean's direction. Dean grinned slightly.
The lady nodded and sighed. "I'm Gwen Constantine. Come in."
As the brothers followed Ms. Constantine, Dean whispered aside to Sam, "Since when did you start naming me after a cockroach?"
Sam shrugged. "I was just naming you off the top of my head, dude."
Dean rolled his eyes.
"You're saying the police didn't find any evidence of murder or foul play?" Sam sat on the couch leaning forward attentively, eyes glued on Ms. Constantine, pen poised over notepad.
Ms. Constantine shook her head. "Cal's…body was found in the yard near the roses. His wife Yvonne was out shopping at the time. Funny thing was, the officer who discovered him said there was a strange cat perching next to his body. Cal didn't keep any pets. Anyways," she sighed, "I've figured in my mind he killed himself, just like all the…other suicides there've been in my family."
Sam and Dean exchanged meaningful glances. Cat, was the silent word resonating between them. Also other suicides.
"I'm sorry," Sam murmured. "Did the police also investigate those?"
"Yes. But they found nothing. The…males in our family are unfortunate. Predisposed to self-harm, it seems."
Dean tipped his head to the side and nodded slowly. "Just the men…"
"To be honest, I've often wondered if it's a curse." Ms. Constantine blinked and bit her lip. "But if so, I don't know how it happened."
Sam looked thoughtful. He carefully drew out the photographs he had in his pocket. "I…found these in Cal's home. Are they relatives?"
Ms. Constantine stared at the images. "Oh, yes. Great-great grandparents. The one in this photo, he passed too, not long after he married."
Sam and Dean raised their eyebrows.
It was the man who had posed with two different women.
"The ghost must've taken on the form of a cat," Sam surmised on their walk back to the Impala. Ms. Constantine had given them directions to Yvonne's current place of residence.
"Yeah, sounds like we have ourselves another shape shifter," Dean agreed.
"My theory is that the ghost might be the thwarted lover of the great-great-grandfather. Maybe he married another, so she put a curse on the men in the family and killed them."
"Well, I'm hopin' Mrs. Holbrook can tell us more."
Unfortunately, Mrs. Holbrook turned out not to be at home. Not to be outdone, Dean questioned a few neighbors and found out that Cal's wife spent her evenings at a nearby restaurant called Crunchin'.
"Alright, here's the deal, Sam," Dean said over a lunch of ham sandwiches. "Tonight we'll go to Crunchin' and we'll wait around for her. We know what she looks like from her photo. We'll say hi, get to talkin', and see if we can learn anything about the family history."
"You mean you will," Sam said.
"You're gonna sit this one out?"
"Someone needs to research Cal's family," Sam explained.
Dean sighed in resignation. "Alright."
That evening at 9 p.m., Dean sat at a table at Crunchin', a drink before him, waiting. And waiting. He'd been waiting two hours for the widow of Calvin Holbrook to show up. Had those neighbors been lying?
Dean decided to call Sam on his cell.
"Hey, Sam?"
"Hey. Holbrook arrived yet?"
"Nah. Nothin' all this time."
"Maybe the neighbors weren't telling the truth?"
Dean huffed. "My thoughts exactly."
"Well, if I'd been recently widowed, I think a crowded restaurant would be the last place I'd wanna be."
Dean grinned. "You got a point there, Sammy."
"Haven't found anything of interest on the family yet," continued Sam. Dean heard him yawn through the phone. "Gettin' tired…might have to call it a night pretty soon."
"Me, too," Dean agreed. After he'd hung up, he sighed and tapped the table absently with his finger.
All of a sudden, a quiet female voice asked, "A glass of iced tea, please. And a croissant."
Dean's head shot up. The lady standing at the counter was Yvonne Holbrook. He was sure of it. She had a curly bob of white-blond hair just like in her photo.
Dean straightened in his seat and composed his face, letting a pleasant, friendly smile brighten his features. That smile was still glowing strong when Mrs. Holbrook headed towards the area of seats.
"Hi," Dean said. "You like to sit here?"
The woman paused and looked uncertain. "Thanks, uh…" She headed over and sat down. She managed to give Dean a faint smile. Dean noticed the dark circles under her eyes. The marker of grief, he knew. Yet Mrs. Holbrook appeared beautiful and young. Probably around his own age.
"Nice night, isn't it?"
"Yeah."
"I'm Brock," Dean declared. Crazy how he was using the first name his little brother had made up for him.
"I'm Yvonne."
"I'm new to Crunchin'. Whatta you like about it?"
"Well, the late hours are nice for someone who likes the night life like me," Yvonne said. "They've got a good variety of French specialties."
"Ah. Any hamburgers? I'm a burger fan, sorry." Dean wiggled his eyebrows and was happy to hear Yvonne laugh.
"Of course. What restaurant doesn't?"
"Yeah. Biggerson's is one of my personal faves."
"Oh, it's my hus—" Yvonne stopped mid-sentence, her eyes widening with pain.
"It's your husband's favorite, too?" Dean guessed.
"Was," Yvonne said in a near-whisper. "He passed."
"I'm sorry to hear that." Dean took a sip of his drink. "You know, I lost my dad. Hurt pretty bad. Still does."
Yvonne nodded quietly. After a moment, she said, "Do you ever…blame yourself for his death?"
"Oh, yeah. All the time." Dean cocked his head and studied the woman's face. He took a breath to speak, but suddenly Yvonne gasped. Her face paled. She seemed to be staring at something behind Dean.
"What's wrong?" Dean demanded.
"Oh, I-I-I have to go," Yvonne stammered. She got up and rushed for the exit.
"Wait." Dean rose and followed the lady out into the cold night air. Yvonne was running into the parking lot, towards a silver sedan. "Hold on, maybe I can help—"
Dean suddenly sensed a chill behind him. He whirled around.
A ghostly female face met him. It was the same entity that he and Sam had encountered yesterday.
Dean reached for his gun, but the spirit vanished before he could take a shot.
When he turned back to the parking lot, the silver sedan was already speeding off down the road.
Dean drove back to his and Sam's shack, frustrated. His plan had not been very successful. Yvonne had left before he could make sense of things. At least now he knew that the woman was aware of the ghost that was haunting her former home. And she was very frightened of the spirit—most likely, it had killed her husband. But it also seemed like Yvonne herself was carrying some sort of guilt…
It was after 10 by the time Dean parked the Impala and unlocked the door of the shack. The windows were dark. He figured his sibling had headed off to bed a long time ago.
Dean opened the door and switched on the light. A second after he stepped inside, he heard a loud clunk.
Dean's eyes veered towards the stairs to see Sam pitching forward off the top step.
Sam fell. His middle hit a step with a sickening whack. Then his head banged the next step. THUMP! Thump! THUMP! He tumbled down the rest of the stairs in a blur.
Dean watched, unable to move, unable to think, struck dumb with shock.
Then suddenly reality registered. Oh, my gosh, Sammy…!
"SAM!" Dean ran to his brother's side. Sam lay motionless at the bottom of the stairs. His arms were splayed out on either side of him like a cross, his face pressed to the floor.
"Sammy, are you okay? Sammy?" Dean patted Sam's shoulder. He gently slipped his hands beneath his brother's armpits, rolling him face-up. "Are you hurt—"
The face that met his eyes was blanched white. Sam's eyes were closed, his soft lips still and slightly parted. Long dark waves of hair swathed his face, making it look even paler.
No. Please, no. Dean moaned inwardly, horror clutching him.