Chapter 2
Leyla Harper, now 48 years old, had spent all of her life after the incident on Jocassee Island inside the walls of the Pickens Place Recovery Center. She hadn't left the Center when her mother died in a car crash in the mid-90s and she had refused to leave her room to visit her father, who lay dying from cancer a few years later. After that, her life had become even more quiet. At first, many of her friends had come to visit her, trying to encourage her to move on. Journalists had showed up, asking questions about what had happened on Jocassee Island. She had to go to several psychiatrical sessions every week, had to speak to different doctors, had to endure different medical examinations. Her parents had visited her almost every day, and they continued to do so even when all of her friends had abandoned her and all of the doctors had given up hope that Leyla ever might lead a normal life. After her parents' death, no one was left to talk to her, and she enjoyed every second of tranquility she could get. No one had ever understood how much even the slightest sound could hurt, how a mere whisper would bring back memories of those cruel days she had spent alone in the Jocassee Gorges. And sometimes, when she heard more noises than she could bear, when the memories of that night seemed to overwhelm her, those voices would return, haunting her, trying to dig their way out of her head, threatening to burst it in the process. So she just stared into the white, calm walls of her soundproof room, chasing every thought about the old church away as soon as it started to manifest itself inside her brain. At least that was what Emma told them, a young, handsome nurse who had worked at the Center for several years now and had tended Leyla ever since she had gotten the job.
When Sam and Dean came to visit her the next morning, Leyla didn't look away from the wall or react in any other way. "That's completely normal", Emma told them. "She won't show it, but she'll hear you. But..." She hesitated for a second, a hint of a blush showing on her pretty face when her eyes met Dean's: "Honestly, I don't think she'll help you much with your investigation, officers."
They had stuck to their Federal Law Enforcement Officer-identity, choosing a story that was as close to the truth at possible: They were investigating a federal series of incidents, where victims were found dehydrated, and were now trying to establish some kind of connection between those victims and the bodies found inside Jocassee Church. Interviewing any surviving witnesses was, of course, their first priority.
"Can't hurt to try", Dean said and gave her one of his charming smiles that made Sam roll his eyes. Dude, seriously! Now? he thought, trying to catch his brother's eye. Surprisingly enough, Dean returned his gaze with an annoyed look that seemed to say: Well, d'uh. Then he concentrated his attention back on the nurse who was about to give them some final instructions before letting them walk through the door. "Now, remember, Leyla likes it quiet, so try to keep your voice down. You've got half an hour, that's as much noise as she can take."
"We'll keep that in mind, thank you very much for your cooperation", Dean said to the nurse, then, as he passed Sam, whispered: "That thing on the island messed our girl up pretty good".
After closing the door quietly behind themselves, Dean and Sam sat down in two chairs standing in front of the wheelchair Leyla was placed in. Still she was staring at some invisible point on the wall, not showing any sign of awareness whatsoever. If Emma hadn't told them about her condition, Sam wasn't sure he'd even bothered. As far as he could see, that poor woman was a vegetable.
"So, Leyla", Dean tried to make some conversation, leaning towards her, his arms folded in his lap. "Did Emma tell you, why we're here?"
Leyla didn't answer, but obviously Dean didn't expect her to, because he went on only a heartbeat later: "We heard about what happened to you in the Jocassee Gorges. Pretty nasty story."
Sam wasn't sure whether he was imagening things, but at the mention of the Jocassee Gorges, Leyla seemed to flinch. The movement was almost imperceptible, but still ... Dean's tactic not to mince matters seemed to work. "We've been out there ourselves, yesterday", he went on. Another flinch, this time Sam was pretty sure he had seen it. "Somewhat creepy, isn't it?" Again, the question was left unanswered. Leyla's deep blue eyes were still doing an impressive job at staring a hole into the wall. "Actually, we're thinking about visiting that place again, tonight. Around eight", Dean continued casually. "See, if anything happens." Sam could now clearly see the small jerks Leyla's body was making, as if she was trying to rock back and forth but was stopped by some invisible bonds.
Dean looked at Sam, shrugging his shoulders. "I guess we'll have to go there unprepared", he murmured and stood up. Sam followed his example and made for the door, but a whisper brought him to a sudden halt. "Don't go out there", a thin, exhausted voice said. He knew without turning around that Leyla had decided to breach her self-created shell. Now it was his turn.
"Why not, Leyla?", he asked softly, trying to look her directly into the eyes as he sat down in the chair once again. "Is there anything to be afraid of?"
It happened, only for a mere second, but Leyla's blue eyes stopped looking straight through the wall and met his. Sam could almost feel all the pain and desperation caught in those eyes like physical pain that seemed to stab his heart with an icy dagger. He gasped, taken completely by surprise, and was almost glad when she went back at facing the wall. "Evil", Leyla muttered, "An evil presence." "Yeah, we could feel it", Sam answered, careful not to look directly into her eyes again. "Do you know what it is?" Leyla shook her head, slowly, hesitantly. "You... you won't believe me. Nobody does", she finally said.
"Leyla...", Sam began, then stopped and reached out to her, placing his hands upon hers. He was afraid that she would react to his touch by looking up at him, but she just let it happen without any response. "This may be hard to believe after so many years, but we know. We know that there are ... things out there that cannot be explained or understood by scientific methods. And we are trying to stop them from hurting others."
A tear shimmered in the corner of Leyla's eye, as she seemed to weigh the truth in Sam's words. "It...", she whispered, stopped and raised her head. "It murdered my friends", she proceeded after a few seconds, her voice firm now. "And it tried to take me too. It sent out voices, trying to drive me mad."
Sam took a deep breath and returned her look. This time, he was prepared for the piercing pain in his chest and managed to control it. "What happened, Leyla?"
Leyla waited some seconds, as if she was trying to find the right place to start, then she told them about the night on Jocassee Island. When she reached the part where she had found Robert and the others lying on the ground inside the ruins, she began to cry silently, her body trembling like a leaf. "They were still alive, but I... I just couldn't wake them up! Their faces were so pale, but they were still breathing. And that's when I heard Robert's voice."
"What did he say?", Sam asked, holding Leyla's hands, trying to comfort her.
"I... I couldn't understand him! I don't even think that it was really him. It must have been someone... something... using his voice to get to me. Believe me when I say, I have thought about his words every waking hour of my life, attempting to figure out whether it was him, whether he was trying to tell me something... I was a coward! I just ran! I left them behind!" Now the tears, imprisoned inside her for so many years, were streaming down her face, leaving wet streaks on her cheeks.
"You had no choice", Sam told her, his voice calm and soothing. "If you hadn't run, you would've died too, and no one would ever have found out what happened to Robert and the others."
"But no one wanted to listen!", Leyla cried, and though her body was that of a 48 year old, Sam could easily see the frightened, forlorn teenage girl who had lost her future in that single night. "No one ever made an honest attempt to find out what really happened!" She buried her face in her hands, sobbing wildly. Sam gave Dean a questioning look that asked: Now what?
"That's why we're here", Dean said, adressing Leyla. "We're going to find out what happened to them."
For the first time since they had entered her room, the blonde woman looked directly at Dean, but he seemed to handle her intense blue eyes rather well, not flinching at all. And for the first time in 33 years, Leyla smiled.
XXXXX
"Sooo", Dean said after they had left the Pickens Place Recovery Center, "that was... interesting."
"What? Leyla's story or the nurse's humps?", Sam grumbled, turning around just in time to see Emma bat her long, dark eyelashes at his brother. Dean chuckled to himself and waved back at her in a smooth motion, but an annoyed look from Sam made him grow serious in an instant: "Her story, of course." They had reached the Impala, which stood on the guest parking lot. While opening the car door, Sam whispered in a sad voice: "I feel so sorry for her."
Dean, who had already been on his way into the car, paused his movement. "Sam", he said, his voice firm and resolute. "What's happened to Leyla is terrible. But it's in the past. If we really want to help her, we find that thing and send it to hell before it hurts anyone else."
Sam decided to accept Dean's change of subject; after all, sinking into compassion wouldn't defeat their vengeful spirit. "Question is how", he therefore answered with a question. "Her story didn't exactly mention any specific culprit. Just these voices. You think the others passed out from too much noise?"
"It's possible. A stimulation overload can cause the human body to simply shut down in order to protect itself", Dean pondered. "And I guess a spirit could use ghostly whispers as some kind of weapon."
For a second, Sam thought he must have misheard and just gaped at Dean in astonishment. When he didn't comment on his words right away, Dean gave him a sulky look across the roof of the Impala and exclaimed: "Oh, come on! I know things too, dude!"
Sam just lifted an eyebrow and decided not to pursue the interesting how-on-earth-would-you-know-that-point any further; there would be another time to discuss their research sources. "Unfortunately", he therefore interjected, "this theory requires the spirit to be active for several days as well. And I just can't see how that should be possible." Shaking his head, he got into the car and put the seat belt on. "Unless...", Sam pondered, his eyes suddenly blank. "That note Dad left about a spirit circle... maybe there is more to it than just a circle haunted by a spirit. Maybe spirit circle is an actual term."
"Not a term I ever heard of", Dean replied, following suit and sitting down behind the wheel.
"I'm not sure, but it seems to ring a bell. I just don't remember when I heard it, or where." Sam sighed, closing his father's journal. "I think we'll have to get some more information on this case and hope that the pieces fit together at some point. Preferably before sundown."
"How about we split up? I'll pay dear Martha a visit in Clemson and find out what she knows about our mystery church and you'll do some digging at the local library?", Dean proposed. "Would save us some time."
Sam nodded in agreement, though his answer came somewhat reluctant. "You're probably right..."
"Probably?", Dean retorted in playful indignation while starting the engine, shifting into first gear and steering the Impala onto the street.
The prospect of spending hour after hour inside a half-dark library, looking through old, dusty tomes in order to find any clues on what might have happened in the Jocassee Gorges 200 years ago was not exactly Sam's idea of a fun day. Especially if he had to do all of the booky research alone, well knowing how Dean's own research would take place. But he knew that Dean was right too. This way, their investigation would advance much faster and enable them to take a closer look at the ruins right before nightfall before anyone else could get hurt. Therefore, instead of answering, Sam just snorted and unfolded the map of Pickens County, saying: "Turn right at the next intersection."
Dean stopped the Imapala with a jolt and gave his brother a long God-what's-the-matter-with-you?-look, resulting in Sam exclaiming: "What?"
"Damn, you must've gotten up on the wrong side of the bed", Dean just commented, shaking his head.
"I didn't get up on the wrong side of the bed, Dean, because I didn't sleep in the bed," Sam riposted. Sam could see how Dean could barely suppress a laughter at the thought of their struggle last night, and even though he was still slightly irritated about his brother flirting with everything with breasts and a remotely pretty face, he couldn't help but smile at Dean's mischievous grin. "So how about we have this conversation again tomorrow morning after you've spent a night on the floor."
This time, it was Dean's turn to snort arrogantly. "We'll see about that, Sammy-boy", he countered, obviously deliberately using Sam's nickname to drive his younger brother up the wall.
"Jerk", Sam simply answered.
"Bitch", Dean shot back with a broad smile and started the car again, setting course for the Pickens County Library.
XXXXX
Dean blew the horn as a farewell and waved at Sam, who was just entering the library, his eyes still filled with a deep sorrow. Meeting with Leyla seemed to have shaken him more than Dean had realised, and once again since he had partnered up with his brother to find their father, he mused on how much of a burden it must be for Sammy to be so damn compassionate. I certainly don't envy him, he thought as he drove on to the highway towards Clemson. He knew he couldn't read his brother's mind; still, he was pretty sure that he understood how Sammy must feel. Leyla had awakened feelings inside of him too, even though he wasn't ready to show them in Sam's presence. Her story reminded him of what could have happened after their mother's death, if John Winchester had simply succumbed to sorrow and despair instead of drawing strength from those feelings and becoming determined to act in order to spare other families a similar fate.
Deciding that a rush of memories was the last thing Dean needed right now, he turned on the radio ans started singing along to Nazareth's Bad Bad Boy, enjoying the countryside whooshing by and the purring, soothing vibrations the engine sent through the Impala.
A few dozen songs later, Dean reached the turnoff to Clemson. He cast a glance at the map lying on the passenger's seat, on which Sam had marked the route to the house where Martha Harris and her parents lived, left highway 123 and followed the Old Greenville Highway towards the Clemson Memorial Stadium, turning right at Oak Street and entering a suburban area. The building he was looking for was placed at the end of a small street, a single-story brick house hidden behind thick bushes and large trees. In front of it, an old, brown Ford Granada was parked.
Dean stopped the Impala behind the Ford, casually checking out the neighbourhood while he left his car and walked over to the front door. As he had expected, all he could see were an empty street and deserted gardens. After all, it was half past ten a.m. on a tuesday. Still he was confident to be able to catch Martha at home, as no school girl he knew would have gone back to school so fast after an incident like this. If he was really lucky, her parents would be at work, allowing him to have a private conversation with the unfortunate sister.
He knocked at the door and waited a few seconds, then he could hear someone scramble around on the inside. Behind the curtains, which hung in front of the glass part of the door, he thought he could see a shadow moving further into the house, away from the entrance. Dammit, he thought, this wasn't going to be easy. "F.L.E.O, please open the door", he shouted, accompanying his words with a second, more vigorous knock. The shadow had now disappeared outside of his field of view and it had grown quiet inside the house. Dean sighed and knocked a third time. "I am working on a investigation concerning the death of a Peter Harris and I will have to ask you to cooperate with me on this." Before he could knock again, the shadow returned and moved slowly towards the door, unlocking it and flinging it open forcefully. A young girl stared fiercly at him. She had long, nutbrown hair, which right now was standing uncombed in every direction, and eyes of the same colour, though they were bloodshot as if she had cried recently. "Look, I have already told the police everything I know!", she exclaimed, her voice trembling. "Now leave me alone!"
"Woah!", Dean replied and raised his hands in a notion of surrender. "You must be Martha." He gave her one of his disarming smiles, but she just kept on gazing at him as if she was trying to make him disappear with the power of her mind. "Are your parents at home?", he went on without losing his smile. "I would like to have a word with them."
"No, they're not", Martha retorted and was about to slam the door, but Dean managed to plant his food between the door and the frame. "Then maybe you can help me", he said and took a step inside the house.
"That is called breaking and entering!", Martha shouted but was taken somewhat aback, when Dean just admitted: "Only entering. I don't recall breaking anything." Unfortunately, Martha didn't seem to be in the mood for jokes, because she just continued in the same high-pitched tone: "Get out or I'll call the police!"
"Now, calm down", Dean tried to appease her, while he took his fake badge from a pocket and showed it to Martha. "I am the police and I only want to ask you a couple of questions. I know how hard all of this must have been for you, but ..." He paused, then gave her a somewhat conspiratorial look. "... we just think that we might have a lead on what has happened to Kathy and your brother."
That certainly got her attention. Martha stopped dead in her tracks and looked at him unbelievingly. Her next reaction, however, wasn't quite what Dean had expected: "You must be joking, right? Or are you some kind of ghost hunter?"
"Uh...", Dean began, but was interrupted by Martha before he could ask her, what exactly she meant. "Listen, I know very well what got my brother and that bitch of his! The stories were all true!"
"Stories..." Again, Dean only managed to say one word, before the teenage girl shut his mouth by explaining: "About a ghost inside the ruins! I thought it was a joke, I just wanted to scare her! I didn't mean for it to happen!"
This time, Dean didn't try to say anything. Martha seemed to need someone she could load her bad conscience on, and apparantly Dean had just arrived at the right time to be that someone.
"When I dared them to go out there, I didn't even think that anything could happen to them! I mean, this is the 21th century! Who believes in ghosts?" She made a wild gesture with her hand to underscore her words. "But a burnt down church and some suicides, and you got the perfect ghost story, right?" Dean nodded, trying to encourage her to go on. "But the stories were all true! And now, no one is listening to me! So unless you got a lead on a pretty pissed off ghost running around on that island, you're on the wrong track!"
"What makes you think it's a ghost?", Dean asked softly while putting his badge away.
"What makes you think it's anything but a ghost?", Martha countered.
"I didn't say that", Dean shot back. "I just want to know what kind of evidence you have." When she didn't answer for a few heartbeats, he continued: "What kind of stories did you hear?"
Martha still looked as if she didn't believe a word of what he was saying, but Dean sure wasn't the one who would hold that against her. For all he knew, every police officer she had tried to convince of her ghost theory could have called her crazy and recommended her parents to sent her see some psychologist.
"You know, local history and such", she said hesitantly.
"Actually, I don't know. I'm not from around here", he explained. Wrong answer, he thought a second later when he felt Martha's suspicious gaze upon him.
"Then why are you investigating Peter's death?", she asked, her voice suddenly some degrees colder.
Good thing to come prepared, Dean pondered and replied calmly: "A similar case has come up in Nevada, and now me and my partner are trying to find out how these two cases are connected."
"You telling me they've got a haunted church there too?", Martha persisted.
"It's not a church, and I didn't say anything about a haunting." Dean crossed his arms before his chest and looked askant at her. "But why do you think Jocassee Church is haunted?" He could practically see, how Martha weighed his words for a moment or two and then gave up her resistance.
"It's that guy who started the fire", she stated in a firm voice. "He's still haunting the ruins. Can't find rest because of what he did."
Finally something useful, he thought, though he was not ready to celebrate just yet. "Who was he, Martha?", he wanted to know.
"I don't know", she muttered. "Just some random guy who was angry at the village, I suppose. Maybe one of the Indians who had been driven away from the Gorges, I don't know."
"Indians?" That part was entirely new and interesting.
"Yeah, you know, they were driven away from the Gorges in 1790-something, something about a new Indian line, I don't know."
Apparently, there was a lot Martha didn't know, Dean mused. "So the burning down of the church was some kind of revenge on the settlers who had moved in on old Indian territory?"
"Maybe." Martha shook her head. "But I really don't know. It's just stories, you know. Heard about the old settlement in school, and then all these suicides over the years, or what they were, so people started talking."
"By people you mean your classmates?", Dean assumed.
Martha nodded. "Became kinda the thing to do if you wanted to do something for a dare. Peter and ... and that ... Kathy, they weren't the first ones to spend a night out there. I really, really, really didn't expect anything to happen, honestly!" Her aggressive exterior from before seemed to crumble more and more with every "really" she uttered. Comforting someone wasn't exactly Dean's speciality, but he decided to give it a try. "It's not your fault, Martha. It was their own decision to head out to Jocassee Island."
He could see that she had heard that kind of excuse more than enough during the past few weeks and still didn't believe it, so he cleared his throat and changed the subject again. "So, these stories... did you talk about them in class?"
Martha seemed to be relieved that they hadn't to linger on her part in this incident, because she hurried to say: "Yeah, we did... started in history class, Lucas was writing an essay about the Gorges and brought it up. He'd really read a lot about them, but I... we didn't listen too much to his facts. Not after Amy talked about the suicides."
Guess the gossip factory was working overtime, Dean thought. "Do you know where Lucas got his information?"
Martha stared at him as if he had lost his mind. "The library, of course."
"Of course", Dean sighed. The rest seemed to be up to Sam.
XXXXX
Sam gazed after the Impala until it had disappeared behind a tall building, then he closed the library door behind him and walked into the reception area. A middle-aged woman with her silvery grey hair tied up in a knot smiled forthcomingly when their eyes met and asked: "Can I help you, sir?"
Sam returned her smile and walked over to the reception desk. "I sure hope so, ma'am. I am interested in local history." Fortunately, the receptionist didn't force him to state exactly what he was interested in and why he, if necessary, had the authority to access any kind of useful information – using a fake identity, as helpful as it was in this kind of investigation, always made him uneasy. Apparently assuming that he was a student from the university in Clemson or the like and had to write a paper on a part of South Carolina's history, the librarian explained politely where Sam would find the section on Pickens County. He thanked her and followed her instructions through the almost deserted library, until he reached a door with the inscription: "Local Archive". It was a heavy fire door which creaked loudly as Sam opened it, making him wonder how often (or seldom) someone strayed into this part of the building.
Behind the door, Sam could see high wooden shelves, towering in the shadows of a murky red light. The whole room reeked of dust and the air felt too dry to be comfortable, but it was probably the most preserving environment for old books a local library branch could sustain. Closing the door as softly behind himself as possible, Sam entered the room and looked for some place he could set up base. Behind some of the shelves, he found a small table with a taboret beneath and a bedside lamp placed on it; not the most luxurious working place, but it would have to do. Sam retrieved his notes and his father's journal from the briefcase and put them on the table, then he took a closer look at the shelves around him. Luckily for him, they weren't assorted by author but by geographic locality, which made it pretty easy to find a whole section called "Jocassee Gorges, The". After that, Sam's luck ceased. There were five long rows packed with thick tomes, stacks of loose articles and maps as well as small boxes filled with handwritten notes and old photographies. Someone had tried to organise this chaos at some point, adding small tabs with year dates or topics, but whoever had worked here, he hadn't been very systematic. Sam let out a resigning sigh. This would take a while.
He picked up a photo from one of the boxes and looked closely at it under the light of the small lamp. It was black and white and showed a large group of people standing outside some kind of factory. On the backside, someone had written in a neat handwriting: The Johnson Family, 1948. Not quite what he was looking for. Gazing at the spines of the books on the first row, those labelled "Early history", Sam found various books on the history of South Carolina and the United States in general – not very helpful either. He looked at the next row and stopped a heartbeat longer at an unusually thick tome with a flawed binding. "Now we're talking", he whispered to himself and pulled out Early Settlements in the Carolinas.
XXXXX
The next time Sam checked his clock, more than six hours had past. His head hurt from reading under the dim light in the local archive, and his stomach felt as if he hadn't eaten for days, but at least he had found some information that could prove useful. A knock at the door had interrupted his research, probably the receptionist who was about to tell him that the library would close in five minutes. "In a minute", he yelled, then he put the books and boxes back into the shelf, gathered his own notes and opened the door. As expected, the grey haired librarian stood outside and sounded almost regretful when she said: "I am sorry, sir, but we're closing up for today. Did you find what you were looking for?"
Sam gave her a smile and answered: "I did. If I need anything else, I'll come back tomorrow. Thank you very much for your help."
She smiled back at him, and as he left, Sam could hear her lock up the door to the archive. Outside, Dean waited, sitting inside the Impala and listening to some hard rock piece Sam couldn't recognise.
"You took your time", his brother said with a grin and held up a paper bag with the logo of a local sandwich bar. "Care for something to eat?"
"I'm starving." Sam jumped into the car and ripped the bag from Dean's hands. Just before taking the first bite from a tuna sandwich, he asked: "What'd she say?"
"You're welcome", Dean sneered and started the Impala's engine. Sam mumbled something incomprehensible between two bites which seemed to be good enough for Dean who began telling him about his encounter with Martha. Once he had finished, they were already on their way out of Pickens. "So according to her, our friend is a restless murderer who just didn't notice he died in that fire. But I'm still not quite convinced. Did you find anything?"
Sam nodded. "First of all, most of what she told you about the history is correct. In 1797, a new Indian line was delineated, allowing settlers to move into the Jocassee Gorges which until then had been Cherokee territory. But the Indians had left peacefully, so I'm not so sure about Martha's theory. Anyways, the first thing our settlers do is building the Jocassee Church under the guidance of a reverend Dickens. Apparantly, he was a very benign man, caring more about the welfare of his flock than his own life. He was the prime mover behind the Jocassee Creek settlement, and though times were hard and the Jocassee Gorges weren't exactly the Garden of Eden, he managed to keep most of his flock alive for fifteen years. I found a quotation that describes the life of settlers in the Gorges pretty vividly." Sam picked out a note he had written during his research and read aloud:
"They survived by growing corn and making liquor, raising hogs and rearing children. Tough and independent, they married among themselves, forming strong ties of blood kinship. They built schools and churches, opened stores and ran grist mills ... a boy plowing a mule through rocky ground; a man hauling corn to his still in the gorge, then moving that still by night because of the rumor of a revenuer; a woman with raw hands humming a tune in a minor key as she hangs out clothes in a cold wind; a congregation singing a capella in a plain, unpainted church; a couple burying a little girl who died of diphtheria. All that living and dying. All those stories."
"Sounds like a boat load of fun", Dean commented, his voice dripping with irony.
"Yeah, the poor reverend became a victim of those harsh conditions too. Died from diphteria in 1812, leaving a devastated flock behind." Sam found another note and continued: "Wasn't until 1813 that Jocassee Creek got a new reverend, a very young one, according to these sources, a man named Charleston. I couldn't find much about him, just a small painting and some loose information on his background. Apparently, he implemented a great deal of changes concerning the service and even reconstructed parts of the church, but he isn't spoken of as warmly as reverend Dickens. Says that he wasn't very happy with his new job, and too much of a religious fanatic. "
"Does it say what bothered him?"
"Not really. But I found out that he came from a large town. Maybe he just had expected to tend a larger flock, or maybe farming just wasn't his cup of tea. Poor guy died in the fire of 1814 too, and after that rumours spread that Jocassee Creek was cursed. The town was deserted until it was flooded in 1967 after the construction of the dam."
"Any mentioning of a serial killer in the Gorges, by any chance?", Dean asked.
"Not as far as I can see. But I think I found something else", Sam answered. "About the spirit circle."
"What about it?"
"I think it's some kind of ritual, binding a spirit to a specific place. Pretty much like a demon trap, just for spirits instead. I'm pretty sure I heard Dad talk about it at some point, but I don't remember much of it. Something about signs and buried relics or the like." Sam scratched his head and tried to remember more about this kind of ritual, but he was completely blank. "Still, even if someone at some point has turned that church into a spirit trap, it wouldn't be able to catch humans. And it wouldn't have turned the ground unholy."
"Well, it can't hurt to look for any signs of a ritual", Dean pointed out.
"That", Sam countered in a grave tone of voice, "I wouldn't be too sure of. We still don't have any idea about what kind of creature we're dealing with."
Dean nodded in agreement, but he didn't seem to be willing to give up just yet. "I know. That's why I say we go out there and gather some first hand information."
"I don't know, Dean, I've got a bad feeling about this..." Sam checked his watch, then made up his mind. "Alright, we've got about an hour till sunset, and then almost an hour more before or mystery spirit should show up. Let's look for markings in the stones, anything we might've overlooked yesterday, and then we get the hell out of there before anything happens."
"Right", Dean said with a determined smile. "Sounds like a plan."