AN: I posted a chapter this morning and don't see it, so if this shows up as chapter 4 instead of 5, I'll be deleting it to try to post the chapter that's supposed to come before it, called Evil's History. Also, the little tune at the end of this chapter is something I actually learned as a kid. The verses only get worse from there. It gave me nightmares.

Sam raised his hands up by his shoulders. "What's going on, deputy? Allen?" He used both the man's title and first name, subtly reminding him of both his position and the connection they'd made. At that same time, his mind whirled. Does he know we're not really feds? If so, wouldn't he just arrest me at the station? Or is he behind everything? If so, is he just a human psychopath, or possessed? Or shapeshifter? Other supe that can appear human?

He also listened carefully for the man's position. Unfortunately, as a trained cop, Allen knew better than to come too close.

"Put your gun on the ground slowly. Don't turn around. That's right. Keep your hands up and walk forward." The man's voice was quavering, but not with nervousness. With excitement.

"Why are you killing people, Allen?" asked Sam. You can't reason with crazy, as Bobby used to say, but Sam was hoping there was still some reason in there. "And do you really want to kill a federal agent?"

"I'm not killing anybody. I'm just bringing the lambs to the slaughterhouse." Allen laughed. "And don't bother with the agent thing. She told me hunters would come if I dumped the bodies where they'd be found." He actually chuckled. "She says hunters have come before."

"Who is she, Allen?" asked Sam, walking as slowly as he could. He did a quick analysis of what he had on him. He had a knife strapped to his right ankle and a pocketknife and a flashlight inside his jacket. His pants pockets held his wallet, lighter, phone, and some change. He didn't think he could reach any of his weapons and use them effectively before getting himself shot. But if he could get Allen to come closer he could do some damage. Or if he were distracted, maybe Sam could text a quick 911 to Dean.

"Great-great, I don't know how many greats, Grandma Agatha. Apparently, she stuck around. And she really, really likes skinning people. She's taking care of all my problems for me. I just bring people to her and she handles it from there." He sounded proud, and more than a little giddy.

"Then you wrap the bodies in plastic and dump them where they'll be found?" Sam worked out. He was almost to the ugly little mausoleum and it sounded like Allen was about 10 steps behind. Too close to miss a shot, too far to rush.

"Yeah. She wanted me to hide 'em, but I like funerals." Allen laughed, a little too high pitched, a little too long. "I want people to know how the people died. So I tell her to push the bodies out or I won't bring her anybody else. I have no idea where the hell puts the skins."

Sam had reached the door and saw the blood on the ground. He risked looking back over his shoulder. "People will be looking for me."

Allen made a rude noise. "Your partner will be looking for you, hunter. I'll give him to Ol' Aggie too, empty your room over night and hide the car. Maybe I'll even send Sheriff Dumbass a text from your phone saying you were called away to a different case. Nobody's ever going to know what happened to you. I'll even leave your body in there for my pet ghost to cuddle. Now get inside."

Insane or not, Allen never wavered. His gun hand was rock steady. Sam turned completely to face the cop and felt his eyes harden. "There's one thing you should know, Allen. My partner? Is actually my big brother. He will find me, and he will figure out what happened. And if I'm dead, he'll make you wish you were too." There was no mistaking the conviction in his voice.

Allen's answer was a gunshot, and Sam staggered back a step, his left bicep burning. It was only a graze, but it made his point. "I'm going to keep shooting you until you get in there," smiled Allen. "Oh, and drop your phone first."

Sam took his right hand off his bleeding arm, fished out his phone and threw it to the side. Without looking overtly, he made sure he knew where it landed. With any luck, he'd get out of this and be able to call Dean. Because while the thought of being trapped and weaponless with an angry spirit that liked to skin people was frightening, the thought of this psycho hurting Dean was even worse. A thousand times worse.

"Careful what deals you make, deputy. Haven't you ever heard of a Faustian bargain?"

Allen just cocked his gun again, and Sam reluctantly pulled open the door of the mausoleum. The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut behind him was Allen whistling an old folk tune.

The words came to Sam's mind as a whispery laugh sounded all around him.

Hey, Mr. Johnny VerBeck, how could you be so mean? /

I told you you'd be sorry for inventing that machine. /

Now all the neighbors' cats and dogs will never more be seen. /

They've all been ground to sausages in Johnny VerBeck's machine.