Chapter 5: The Witch-House
"The back door is ajar?" Peter narrowed his eyes at Neal's look of innocent surprise. "That's suspiciously convenient."
"I couldn't believe it either. I was patrolling the side of the house as you requested and came upon it. A burglar might have entered. There could be a crime in progress. Don't we need to check it out?"
Peter gave a slow exhale. "We'd be neglecting our duty not to." He pulled out his gun from his shoulder holster. "I go in first."
Neal eyed the firearm dubiously. "I don't know if guns work against witches."
Peter opened the door. "I realize that. Dean warned me that they're ineffective. But maybe we'll be lucky, and she's the homegrown variety with no demonic powers." He stopped and shook his head, muttering. "I can't believe I just said that. There's a chance she's not a witch at all. She might have used hypnosis on the guards. Besides, do you have anything better to suggest?"
"Didn't Dorothy use a bucket of water in The Wizard of Oz?"
"You want to carry a container of water around? Be my guest. I look forward to telling Dean about it."
"On second thought . . ." Was Peter devious enough to use Dean as a bargaining chip? By the smirk on his face, he just might.
Once they entered the house, the mood changed. Neal couldn't define it, but there was something about the house that was distinctly ominous. For a brief moment, he thought about suggesting they wait for Dean and Sam. But Peter already had his grim FBI agent face on. Neal stopped fooling around and shifted into thief mode. They were both on the prowl. The Winchesters might be better hunters, but when it came to breaking and entering, no one topped Neal Caffrey.
The back door took them to a utility room with a washing machine and dryer. Gardening clothes and a work jacket hung from clothes pegs. In the distance, Neal could hear the faint sound of a clock ticking. No barking dogs. Any cats were staying hidden.
Peter called out in a loud voice, announcing their presence. They stood motionless for a minute, but there was no reply. After a quick sweep of the kitchen, they moved through the open doorway into the dining room and from there to the front parlor. Impossible to call that mausoleum a living room. All the rooms were cluttered with dark, heavy Victorian furniture. There was barely room to walk around the piles of cushions, old magazines, and books on the floor. Alcy—Mozzie had taught Neal to call marks by their first names to help gain their trust—surrounded herself in the period about which she wrote. Even the kitchen stove was a retro porcelain model. Heavy curtains covered all the windows, letting in no sunlight. Tapestries were draped over the china cabinets.
They entered a long dark hallway running from the front entrance to a staircase in the back of the house. "I'll check the upstairs," Peter said. He switched on his flashlight. "Give me a shout if you find anything."
Neal explored the corridor. Several doors opened off it. Coat closet, powder room . . . He opened a door leading to the basement. He'd wait for Peter to explore that area. Another door opened into a small office. Normally he would have gone immediately to the desk, but not now. The walls had several portraits—mostly oils, but also some charcoal and pencil sketches. Next to the light switch was a portrait of Scott Pembroke. It was unsigned but was in his style. Had he painted a self-portrait for Alcy?
Neal took out his camera and began snapping photos. The room was windowless. There was no overhead light, and the light on the desk didn't work. He left the door open from the hallway, but the room was still dim.
A few of the portraits appeared familiar. One looked a lot like Percy Shelley. Next to it was a painting which could be a twin of a pencil self-portrait of John Constable that was hanging in the Tate in London. Neal examined it more closely. Could it possibly be an original? If it weren't, whoever had done it was an expert forger.
In the darkest corner of the room, an oil painting hung by itself. As he approached it, Neal's mouth dropped. A Titian? It appeared identical to a self-portrait by Titian he'd studied in Berlin. The clothes were the same. The pose. The use of color. Neal stared at it more closely. There was no mistaking that nose—it had to be Titian. He was wearing a necklace in the painting just like the painting in Berlin. No, not quite. This necklace had a tiny scorpion dangling from it. Neal began photographing the painting, taking close-ups of every inch.
"What did you find?" Peter asked, entering the room.
"Unknown masterpieces! This has to be a Titian!"
"You're serious?"
"I wouldn't joke about something like this."
Peter scanned the art lining the walls. "Did she buy these or is she an art thief too?"
"I've never seen any of these in a museum but I recognized some of the subjects—Shelley, Constable, Yeats."
"Could they be forgeries Hagen prepared for her?"
"Possibly some of them are, although I don't think he has the skill to forge a Titian such as this one. And where would he have acquired the originals? Did you see the portrait of Scott Pembroke?"
He nodded. "We'll spend more time with them, but right now our priority has to be Hagen. Now that you've discovered the woman has an interest in art, she's more likely to be connected to Hagen. The bedrooms upstairs show no sign of him. Only the master bedroom appears to be used. I checked the clothing and they're all for a woman."
"Did you find the clothes Alcy wore in the prison?"
"No. Let's search the basement."
Peter didn't need his flashlight as they crept down the steps. The light switch worked fine. No moans or clangs of rattling chains coming from below. But the staircase was old and worn like everything else in the house.
Peter had his gun drawn and gestured for silence. Neal continued in cat burglar mode. He didn't need a gun, and he easily beat Peter for stealth. He made a mental note to teach Peter how to walk without making a sound.
He thought back to old X-Files episodes he'd watched with Mozzie —Mulder and Scully going down the stairs, armed only with a flashlight. Would he find a witch or something worse? That swamp spirit in Buttonwood was otherworldly. Neal made a vow to stop listening to Mozzie's tales of extraterrestrial aliens possessing bodies. If he were here, he'd probably claim Alcy was being controlled by a giant slimy creature with five eyes and green antennas. Whatever she was, at least Neal would be able to see her. The light switch for the stairs also controlled overhead lights in the basement.
At the foot of the stairs, he paused in stunned silence along with Peter. Near the far wall of the basement an iron cage had been erected and inside it was Curtis Hagen. Neal exchanged relieved grins with Peter. They'd found their quarry.
Hagen appeared to be asleep. Still clad in his orange prison coveralls, he was lying flat on his back on a cot. The cage was empty otherwise. A hole in the ground served as a primitive toilet. The scruff he'd had on the prison feed was rapidly turning into a full beard.
In front of the cage, a design had been drawn in red chalk on the concrete floor. It appeared to be a pentagram. There were strange unknown symbols around it. Peter had already taken out his camera and was snapping photos. Neal did the same.
Neal jumped when he heard a slam and spun around.
"That's probably the door at the top of the stairs," Peter said. "I'll check it out."
While Peter headed back, Neal examined the cage holding Hagen. It was roughly twelve feet square and free standing. The base was bolted to the concrete floor. The door had a slot for food to be passed through. A tray with an empty plate and water bottle lay on the floor. Neal suspected Hagen was drugged or unconscious. He'd displayed no indication of having heard them.
Neal heard Peter call his name and he mounted the staircase. Peter was standing next to the door at the top. "It's locked. Could you do your cat burglar thing?" He descended a few steps to give Neal room to operate.
"At your service." Neal felt along the back collar of his jacket and pulled out his miniature lock pick.
The door had a simple interior lock. He made a face. Peter should have been able to open it with a few twists of the handle. Was he trying to see if Neal carried a lock pick? Sneaky, Peter.
Neal bit back the sarcastic remark, inserted his lock pick, jiggled, and . . . nothing happened.
"Hmm." He tried it again. The lock wouldn't budge. With a grunt, Neal pulled out a second tool and got to work.
"Stop messing around and open it," Peter ordered.
"I'm trying. The lock's jammed."
"Are you telling me that Neal Caffrey, master thief, can't open an inside door?"
Neal huffed and attempted it one last time. "No good. We'll have to force it open, and please hold your sarcasm for later."
Both of them threw their weight on the door—several times—stopping only when their shoulders cried out for relief.
"It's like we're ramming into a stone wall," Peter said, stating the obvious in exasperation.
"It's not just that." Neal inspected the edge of the door. "The door appears to be hermetically sealed. There's no daylight anywhere. The door's not that thick. It's not made of iron. This shouldn't be happening."
Peter pulled out his phone. "I'll call the local police and then alert Dean."
His plan was solid, but the execution was doomed from the start. Neither one of their cell phones could connect. Neal quickly scanned the walls. No windows anywhere. Didn't building codes require windows? What kind of trap was this? Despite his words, Neal hadn't actually believed this was a witch-house, but the locked door and the pentagram were causing a reassessment.
They returned to Hagen who still had his eyes closed. Neal tried his luck on the door to the cage, but it resisted his efforts as well. After several minutes of frustration, Neal turned to Peter, not believing what he was saying but what else could it be? "It has to be a spell. You know me. You know my skill. There's simply no way I could be stymied like this. It's not natural."
Peter took a slow breath. "I won't dispute it. If we can revive Hagen, he may be able to help." They began shouting his name.
Hagen started to twitch.
"Hagen!" Peter barked in a tone that would make Neal rise from a dead sleep and snap to attention. "Wake up!"
"Who's yelling? Can't a bloke get any rest?" Hagen rolled over and opened his eyes. He stared at them, blinking furiously. "You're not real. Just another bloody dream."
"We're real, all right, and I'm hereby placing you under custody."
"Finally! What are you waiting for? Arrest me! Throw me in prison. Put me in maximum security."
"I wish we could. We can't open your cage."
"No!" he cried, his expression turning to panic. "Is that you, Caffrey? I heard you can open anything. Don't hold a grudge. I didn't ask for this. Help a brother out!"
Neal shook his head doubtfully. "I'll give it another try, but don't count on it." While he worked on the door. Peter grilled Hagen about what had happened in the prison.
"I can't explain it, Burke. One minute I was trying to get some sleep and failing miserably—you really should do something about those deplorable mattresses—prisoners have rights, you know. I would be completely justified in reporting you to the United Nations Human Rights Council."
"Stuff it, Hagen. What happened next?"
"There I was stretched out on my bed, planning my new life of good deeds. I rolled over and a woman appeared out of thin air. She looked like someone out of Dickens. Long Victorian gown, frock coat, dark hair pulled back. Except the mask. It was one of those elaborate Venetian masks. She commanded me to get up, and"—Hagen rubbed his face—"it was like I was her puppet. I was powerless to resist her. The door to my cell was open." He paused to view Neal scornfully. "Obviously she wasn't an amateur like Fumble-Fingers here. We strolled down the prison corridor and out of the cellblock."
"No one stopped you?" Peter demanded.
He shook his head. "They didn't even seem to notice us. Don't you train the guards?"
Neal stood up. "The lock won't budge. The pins are frozen in place." He turned to Hagen. "How did you get in the cage?"
He shrugged. "Magic pixie dust? I have no idea. She didn't look like Mary Poppins, but perhaps Miss Poppins had a makeover. When we arrived at the front reception area, she snapped her fingers. I saw smoke, heard a faint pop, and found myself in this cage when the smoke cleared. She wasn't here. Didn't have the manners to explain why I was once more locked up in conditions even more deplorable than before." He paused to look at them questioningly. "Where is here by the way? What foul-smelling den of iniquity did I land into?"
"You're in a basement in Windsor," Peter said.
His eyes widened. "I'm being held by the Queen?"
"No, doofus. You're in Windsor, Connecticut."
He rolled his eyes. "Well, excuse me for not being current on the hamlets you have in the colonies."
Peter exhaled. "I've half a mind to leave you here."
Neal pulled Peter aside. "And that raises the question—how will we get out of here?"
"I hate to say it, but we may have to wait for Dean and Sam. Chloe will tell them where we are."
"What if the witch returns?"
"Stop muttering," Hagen complained. "That's not polite. What day is it?"
"Sunday afternoon. You've been here for over two days. Have you seen the woman since you were brought here?"
He nodded. "A couple of times. Twice a day she brings a tray of food—and miserable stuff it is."
"Same time every day?" Peter asked.
"How would I know? She didn't return the watch that your henchmen took from me. But I suppose morning and evening. I get a foul porridge for breakfast and watery soup with bread at night. The only good thing is that soon I'll be skinny enough to slip through the bars."
"Has she said anything to you?"
He shook his head. "Next to nothing. She just tells me to wait."
"Wait for what?" Peter demanded.
"You don't think I asked?" Hagen demanded, his voice cracking with frustration. "That's all she's said. I seem to sleep most of the time."
She was probably drugging his food but what was the point of telling him? Instead, Neal asked, "Did you paint anything for her?"
Hagen stared at him. "Are you nuts? Do you see an easel or paints in this hellhole?"
"You forged a painting by Titian, Salome."
"So?"
"Did you ever forge a self-portrait of Titian?"
He gazed at him in perplexity. "No. Why? Are you offering me a commission?"
Neal tried to quiz him on the other paintings but Hagen appeared genuinely ignorant of all of them. Peter meanwhile was anxious to explore the rest of the basement.
"We can question him more later," he advised. "We've got a more pressing problem on our hands, and that's what to do when the witch returns."
"Do we have to call Alcy a witch?" Neal asked. He'd had enough of witches to last a lifetime. They didn't play fair.
Peter sighed. "Would you rather me call her a demon? Whatever she is, our best hope will be to escape when she comes downstairs. If we can find a place to hide, perhaps we can sneak up the staircase when she takes food to Hagen."
"Unless she can smell us. Do witches have a keen sense of smell?"
"That's vampires. At least that's what Sam said. So now you're back to thinking she's a witch?"
"I'm still weighing my options." Neal joined Peter in checking out the other areas. The basement had several large pieces of furniture—old bedsteads, dressers, sofas with worn upholstery, a few old trunks. The laundry room was in a back corner. Neal thought briefly about hiding in one of the large wardrobes which were scattered about, but then they wouldn't be able to sneak out. In the end, they decided their best hope was to hide behind the stairwell.
They returned to Hagen and explained their plan. The only chance he had to escape his cage was for them to be able to bring back others and he was smart enough to realize it. He promised not to inform on them and Neal trusted that in this instance he'd keep his word.
Peter opened a large steamer trunk near the cage and began searching through its contents but Neal had more questions for Hagen. "Did you ever dream about the woman?"
"Who? The witch? You think I hallucinated what happened?" He glared at Neal suspiciously. "Is this your nasty way to lock me up in a nuthouse? Well, it won't work. I demand decent living conditions."
"Answer the question," Peter growled.
Hagen swiped his hand across his face and thought a moment. "A few times over the past several months, I may have seen her."
"In your dreams what kind of clothes does she wear?" Neal persisted.
He sighed. "She's dressed for a party. I see her in a picture gallery. Large candelabra. Her hair's piled up high on her head." His description matched the sketch Scott had made.
Peter stopped his search and joined Neal next to the cage. "The clothes she wore on Friday were stuffed into the trunk." He turned to Hagen. "Have you felt ill?"
"Well, yeah, Burke. I've been in prison. Bad mattress, poor food. Need I go on?"
"Before prison," Neal clarified. "Once the dreams started, did you ever feel like you were wasting away?" He winced at the words, but how else to describe it?
"At last, someone cares about me. I'm touched. Truly."
Peter exhaled slowly. "I'll take that as a no."
"That's right. Much as I'd like to sue you bastards for the emotional distress caused by you chasing me all these years, I can't say that I've been wasting away because of it."
"What about Goya?" Neal persevered with little hope of getting a straight answer.
A flash of wariness crossed Hagen's face. "What do you mean?"
"You studied his witchcraft paintings at the Goya exhibition at the Met. You forged his Witches' Sabbath. Do you feel a connection to him?"
He grimaced. "That painting . . . there's something weird about it. I got a commission to paint the forgery. Was paid handsomely. Much more than the going rate. That's ancient history though. Must be four years now." He glanced over at Peter. "I didn't steal the original, you know."
Peter scowled. "Someone did and replaced it with your painting. When we discovered the original in a warehouse, we realized the switch had been made."
He gave a dry chuckle. "I remember at the time thinking I was putting too much effort into the forgery. Those hags in the painting. I was seeing them wherever I looked." He grew serious. "You're an artist, Caffrey. Ever feel a special affinity with one of the greats? Like they're in your head?"
"Yeah, I do."
He shrugged. "Well, I don't—at least not normally. Goya's different, though. After I painted that painting, I got him, in a way I did no one else. Guess we were soulmates from then on." He hesitated. "You understand, don't you?"
"I believe so."
"It's as if once I painted that painting, I couldn't let go. I found myself visiting all his exhibits. Have you seen his Black Paintings?" At Neal's nod, he added, "When I looked at them, I could see myself inside them."
"Was there any particular reason you picked that Titian to forge?" Neal asked.
"That was another odd case." He scratched his chin as he considered for a moment. "Would you believe it came to me in a dream? That's the only time it ever happened. I concocted the entire heist in my head while I was asleep. I even painted the forgery. When I woke up, I couldn't believe what I'd done. It was child's play to steal the painting. I simply followed the plan I'd made in my dream. I guess you could say I'd been ordained to take it. For nights I was dreaming of a woman in a Venetian mask." He shrugged. "I figured I was inhaling too many paint fumes."
"Was the woman the same one who brought you here?"
"It's been too long ago and she wore a mask, remember? I can remember thinking at the time that she was Salome urging me on."
Peter was listening to them while keeping an eye on the stairs. He nudged Neal. "It's getting late. We should move into position. If she stays true to her schedule, she'll return soon."
They retreated to their hiding place under the stairs. Neal leaned against an old wardrobe. It was dusty and would leave marks on his jacket. Now he understood why Dean and Sam favored fatigues and rough clothes. If he did much more of this, he'd have to acquire a hunter wardrobe.
They'd been waiting about thirty minutes when they heard the faint slam of a door upstairs. Peter nodded at him. When Alcy brought Hagen his meal, they'd have their chance. As soon as she approached the cage, they'd dash upstairs.
It was a good plan, but would it work against a witch? All bets were off.
Neal froze as he heard muffled footsteps and the creak of a door opening. Further proof, as if he needed it, that she was a witch. She must have sealed that door shut with a spell. That also meant she probably knew she had uninvited company.
Her dress swished on the wood steps. He caught glimpses of a midnight blue damask skirt. She wore a strange fragrance. Heady, almost nauseatingly sweet. He tensed his muscles to dash upstairs as soon as she left the staircase. Peter was preparing to do the same. They exchanged quick nods and leaned forward.
But witches aren't easily fooled.
With a whoosh she was no longer on the staircase but standing in front of them, less than two feet away. Alcy wore a floor-length Victorian dress, the bodice of which had a lace filigree of scorpions. She appeared to be in her mid-thirties. There was no doubt she was the same woman that Scott had sketched. She was beautiful . . . and terrifying.
"What's this?" she said, with a voice silky smooth, her lips curling into a smile. "You've come to play? How delightful. You're a little old for hide-and-seek. What can I find to amuse you? Perhaps a round of darts?"
She made a gesture with her hand, and Neal was instantly unable to move his limbs. He slanted a glance at Peter and he appeared also transfixed.
Alcy turned her stare on Peter. Raising a hand, she uttered a single command: "Exafanisou!"
Peter was slammed sideways as if he were a sheet of paper caught up in a cyclone. He was hurled against the opposite wall some fifteen feet away. Instead of crumpling against it, he appeared glued to the plasterboard, his feet about twelve inches off the floor. His eyes blinked from the force of the collision, but his face remained expressionless.
She switched her gaze to Neal. "Exafanisou!"
He was blasted next to Peter. The back of his head crashed into the wall, making him see stars. For a moment, everything dissolved into a blur.
She wasn't done with them. He strained to pry himself free as she glided toward them. She measured Peter up and down with her eyes. Extending her right index finger, she touched his throat and murmured some words Neal couldn't hear. She pressed one long fingernail into his throat till it bled. She then swiped a finger over the wound and licked it off, all the while staring deep into his eyes. Peter's facial expression was frozen, but his eyes narrowed in a look of defiance. No words came out of his throat. Like Neal, he must be incapable of speech.
With a shrug, she murmured something to him and stroked his face before turning her attention to Neal.
Her face was now within inches of him, her dark eyes threatening to engulf him. "You think you can enter the scorpion's nest without being stung?" she whispered. Her breath was ice on his skin. Her scent was overwhelming.
She took her index finger and slowly drew it up his chest to his throat. "Should I kill you now? Or do you have another destiny?" Her finger dug into his throat, puncturing the skin. Neal could see now that the black scorpions in her lace bodice had blood-red crystals dangling from their stingers.
She withdrew her finger to lick the blood, her tongue darting out like a serpent's. The sadistic expression on her face was the worst of all. "A jawline that goes on for days. Yes, I understand." She took her finger and traced his jawbone. When she reached his chin, she jabbed it up, her eyes slanting with pleasure.
An instant later she turned away, her eyes once more on Peter. "Would you like to watch the show before you die? What was that? Is there something wrong with your voice? Let me guess. You prefer to die now." She considered a moment and nodded. "Yes, of course. Even when you arrive uninvited, I'm happy to satisfy your wishes."
Her eyes glittering, she raised a hand and stretched out her fingers. Sparks of electricity shot off them.
#
Damn. Sam was still bleeding.
"Here." Dean dug into the door's side pocket and tossed his brother a rag. "Do something about the blood. Dude, you're dripping on the upholstery. There may be a little gauze left in the kit." The wound on Sam's arm wasn't deep, but they should have taken the time to bandage it more carefully. Next time they stopped to replenish their stock, they'd need to buy additional first-aid supplies.
Lately, every time they hunted, Sam got injured. This time there really was no excuse. They'd only faced a couple of lousy vamps, and weak ones at that. Dean could have managed both of them on his own. How did Sam let one get the better of him? He damned near got bitten.
Had he caught a bug somewhere? Or was he eating too much green stuff instead of red meat? Dean vowed to lay down the law the next time Sam ordered a salad. Sam hadn't been sleeping well for weeks. Even though he got hours more sleep than Dean, he woke up looking exhausted. But Sam refused to admit anything was wrong. What was he hiding?
Sam looked up from the map. "We're almost there. Chloe found a picture of the house online and described it to me. A distinctive gingerbread house like that should be easy to spot."
"How long has it been since Peter and Neal left?"
"Over two hours ago. I'll try calling again." Sam called both Neal and Peter's numbers. No answer. He then called Chloe but she hadn't heard anything either.
"Amateurs," Dean growled. "You'd think they'd know by now to wait for us."
"Chloe said they were worried that if Hagen was holed up there, he could have left with the witch before we got there."
"So now we have to rescue them and maybe Hagen as well." Dean grimaced. "Typical."
"Yeah, about that—any ideas on how we'll handle the witch?"
"I dunno. With the powers she's demonstrated, Bobby reckons she has to be a demon. Assuming he's right, we'll have to resort to our standard demon techniques. Holy water, exorcism"—he shrugged—"rescue the vics then run like hell." He glanced over at Sam. "You stay in the car. I'll take care of it."
Sam turned to stare at him. "Let you go in there alone? No way."
"Sorry. I can't risk it. Your strength isn't a hundred percent and you know it."
"Stop worrying. That vamp just got lucky. Anyway, you need me."
"You're right. I do, but I need you healthy. I'll make you a deal. You can come in with me, but then tomorrow no excuses, you have to see a doc."
"We don't know what we'll be doing tomorrow," Sam said with a huff. "This wound was just a scratch. There's nothing wrong with me that a little sleep won't fix."
Dean lifted his hands off the steering wheel in a gesture of defeat. "Have it your way. Did Bobby have any theories about why vampires are becoming so much more common?"
Sam shrugged. "You know Bobby. He just growls to stop bugging him when he's chewing on something. The surge appears to be localized to the Northeast. His advice? We should stay in the area for now. He remembers reading something about a connection between witches and vampires. He's trying to find where he found the reference. Normally witches and vampires don't work together."
"No witch-pires to worry about?"
Sam grinned. "Not so far." He pointed to a house down the street. "There it is."
It was past eight in the evening. The last rays of the sinking sun made the white siding glow red. Was that an omen? Red skies at night were supposed to be a sailor's delight, but Dean wouldn't want to bank on that being true for hunters as well. "That's Peter's Taurus parked in front. No lights are on in the place. I got a bad feeling. We'll need to go in prepared." He parked the Impala behind Peter's car.
Sam opened the trunk. Dean surveyed the contents and pulled out a shotgun and a machete. Not that they would be any good against a demon, but they made him feel better. Sam had the journal. If they could manage to contain her long enough to use it, he could recite an exorcism. But that was a big if.
"Should we try passing ourselves off as meter repairmen?" Sam asked.
"Without uniforms?" Dean glanced down at his shirt, stained with blood from the vamps. Sam's clothes were worse than his. "I wouldn't let us in. Dude, you need more bandages."
Sam glared at him. "Enough with the Nurse Cherry routine."
"I'm serious, man. I'll say we were in a car accident."
"But what if she's holding them captive? We can't just wander in."
"Then we'll go stealth mode. If we find them having tea and cookies in the parlor, we'll say we thought no one was home and were looking for a phone."
Dean had Sam lean against a tree as if he was exhausted—in other words, his natural state these days— while he walked up to the front door and peered in. Part of the living room was visible through the leaded glass door. No lights were on. There was no answer to the doorbell and he couldn't hear anything.
Together they skirted the house, checking the windows as they went. When they got to the rear, Dean tried the back door. He cautiously turned the knob and found it unlocked. That was inviting. The thought gave him no comfort. His gut was telling him it was a trap and they were walking straight into it.
With their guns out, they crept through the kitchen into the main hallway. They could hear faint footsteps, a voice. The main hallway was flooded with light coming from the stairs leading down to the basement. They'd also found the source of the sounds. Dean checked that Sam was right behind him. He gave one nod and they crept down the stairs.