The diner Sam chooses is one you've not been to before. He wanted to head back to the place you went this morning but you can't shake the feeling that there's something off about it. You can't put it into words but that's okay by Sam – he's always trusted your instincts, even when you have your doubts.
Turns out, strong coffee is what's needed to help you forgive Sam enough to consider your position with a level head. Sam is plugged into the internet. God knows where he's getting a signal from, but he's happy for now. He's back to researching something or other – whether it's the store, or Charlie or something else entirely you don't know or care. You don't feel anything watching you and there doesn't seem to be much to do for the moment, other than kick back and chill for a bit. Sammy's always called it his thinking time.
As you watch him over the rim of your mug you see him frown, eyebrows trying to meet in the middle of his brow, and screw his nose up the way he does when he finds something he prefers he hadn't.
"What?" you ask. He shakes his head slightly and drags his eyes away from the screen.
"Charlie was cremated." He couldn't look more despondent if he tried. "He probably isn't our ghost."
You ponder this new piece of information. "So, who is then?"
"Could be anybody, Dean." Any minute now you expect Sam to throw his hands in the air and huff dramatically. To give him his credit, he doesn't do that.
"But it all started when Charlie died. Don't you think that's a bit of a coincidence, Sam?"
Clearly he does, and the look on his face says it all.
"But if there are no remains…" he trails off into a frustrated silence that's not like him at all. It reminds you too much of those days after Jessica, when he couldn't understand anything for a time. It's a time you don't want to dwell on any more than he does.
You need to pull him out of this quickly, before you lose any connection with him. You know from past experience that when he broods on things it can take an atom bomb to rouse him. Or you nearly dying. That normally gets him going again but it's a method you'd rather not resort to.
"Maybe someone else died before him and we just missed it?" you offer, although you know Sammy's research is the best in the business. He doesn't miss the minutia so there's no way he's going to miss something as huge as another suicide in this town. But it's got him thinking, so you can relax again.
"There's one person we have missed," he announces, after a moment's thought. "Charlie's fiancée. We talked to the others, we should talk to her. Maybe she knows something, or maybe we missed something about Charlie."
You think it's clutching at straws but you've got no better ideas so you may as well go with it for now. Sam's already folding up the laptop and rooting through his pockets for some bills to settle up. You sigh and follow suit, gracefully sliding out from your seat and swinging the keys to the Impala around your forefinger in a way you know gets the girls looking. Shame there aren't many here to appreciate your talents.
Sam already has the address in his head. You've always prided yourself on being able to find your way to anywhere, from anywhere, so between you it takes just 20 minutes to get to Alice McLeod's home. She lives in a typical suburban street that gives you the shivers to just look at. All the front lawns are so neatly mowed you wouldn't be surprised if someone checks them each Sunday with a ruler. The mailboxes are a uniform blue and the front doors are, without exception, white oak. You couldn't bear to live like this and don't understand how anyone else can. Your upbringing was unconventional, travelling from town to town, transferring schools more often than you changed your socks, making enemies and breaking hearts in so many places that you're never quite sure what reception you're going to get in any one place. But Mr and Mrs Suburbia? Forget it. You'll take Dad's way of life over this any day.
Sam pulls you from your thoughts with a quick, directed glare. He knows how to keep you on track when you need it. You shrug and grin, watching as he knocks on the door, falling into a well worn routine. When the door opens, you're not sure there's anyone behind it but Sam doesn't dive for cover or reach for his gun so you guess there must be someone there. He looks back at you for a brief second and you wonder what story he's going to pull this time. Belatedly, you wish you'd discussed a cover on the way over. After all, look what happened last time.
"Miss McLeod?" Sam is the picture of professionalism as he smiles at the young woman standing in front of him. Sam dwarfs her but you reckon that's not that hard. She's one of the smallest people you've come across in a long time. She eyes him nervously before turning her gaze on you. You give her a reassuring smile that normally has the girls fighting for a front row seat. She just looks blank and turns back to your brother.
"Yes?" If a dormouse could take human form, this is what it would be, you decide. Her voice fits her tiny frame perfectly. You wish you knew what Charlie looked like. You want to picture them as a couple. Mentally shaking the vision away, you wait for Sam to continue. When the pause becomes a little too long, a little too uncomfortable, you look at Sam. He's transfixed by this woman and by the look of her, she knows it. You suddenly decide that she's presenting you with an image, a persona she shows the world. You'd like to bet there's a lot more going on there than she cares to show.
"My name is Sam, this is my partner, Dean," he waves a hand in your general direction and you feel your blood pressure rising again. If he thinks you're going to go through with this ridiculous charade he seems to be intent on playing out, well, he's got another thing coming. He gives Alice a meaningful look and you make a note to talk to him about the tales he spins. "I wonder if we could talk to you for a few minutes."
"What about?" she's suspicious and you don't blame her. Sam's given her no reason to let you in. He turns on that smile of his and you swear you can pinpoint the second she decides he's not a threat to her.
"David Durrant gave us your name…said you had a piece of jewellery commissioned from him," he pauses just long enough to seem sincere. "I want to get something really special and he suggested that we take a look at some of his work."
Alice gives you a long, hard stare and to your amazement, she steps back, pulling door with her, and invites you both into the house. As you pass her, you feel a chill in your bones and it's all you can do not to stop and stare her down. Sam carries on as though nothing has happened, and maybe it didn't. Maybe it's that imagination of yours again.
The hallway is bright and airy, uncluttered and, in your opinion, completely sterile. You could be in any show home, in any town. This house could be home to Martha Stewart it's so completely lacking in originality and personality. Alice directs you silently into the sitting room and Sam literally sinks into a grand couch under the bay window. You can't quite hide a smirk as he loses his balance and his feet leave the ground. He sees you though and glares at you. If looks could kill, Sammy would be the next Jackal. You decide to learn from his mistake and opt for standing casually by the door.
Sam regains his composure so quickly you wonder if Alice even noticed the incident. You let him get on with business while you use the time to examine the room and its owner in detail. You're beginning to build on your first impressions of the woman. Whilst there's no denying she's a tiny girl, you don't think she's as fragile as she looks. When she looks at Sam it's so intense you half expect him to burst into flames. When she looks at you, the cold steel in her irises makes you shudder involuntarily. You notice she flicks her long, auburn hair out of her eyes a lot and wonder if it's a nervous habit or if she's using it to attract attention.
Her choice of living accommodation is simple. It's clean, tidy and white. You don't know how anyone can live with such a total lack of colour in their life but then you haven't seen the rest of the house. Yet. You start fidgeting, shifting slightly from one foot to the other. Sam casts a glance your way and tilts his head the way he does when he's asking a question. You simply raise your eyebrows at him and nod imperceptibly at the door. He barely acknowledges the gesture, but it's enough of a sign for you to know he's got the message. He knows what you're up to. Just when you think you're going to have to drop a heavier hint, Alice notices you.
"Up the stairs, on the right," she answers to your request for the bathroom. You don't need to go but now you've got a valid reason for leaving the sitting room and scoping the rest of the place. It's amazing what you can learn about a person from the rooms they don't invite you into. You know you have to be quick though, so you limit yourself to the bedroom.
It's a typical bedroom. White walls, white linen, white furniture, even a white carpet. You're beginning to think there's some sort of compulsive disorder lurking in this house. Who the hell has white carpets? You glance down quickly to ensure you're not traipsing dirt all over the floor. Luckily it's been dry for the last few days so you've not had the time to get your boots muddy.
Alice's dressing table is as neat and ordered as the rest of her house, and presumably, her life. Her jewellery box is precisely placed in the top left hand corner, her make up box is symmetrically placed in the opposite corner. You're not going to open the make up but its partner in crime is crying out to be explored. Pausing only to check that you can still hear Sam and Alice conversing, you quickly cross the room and open the box. There's the ring that Sam claims you've come to view, along with three or four simple gold chains and a couple of charms. Sitting next to a row of earrings is a silver locket. It looks like an antique, a family heirloom maybe, but before you have time to really check it out you hear voices moving nearer to the base of the stairs. You hastily replace everything where it was and make your exit to the bathroom.
You flush the toilet and run the taps so that Alice thinks you've been in there all along. You time your exit as Alice enters her room and hurry down the stairs. Sam is standing in the sitting room now and you wonder if he fared any better getting off the couch than he did sitting down on it. He's looking at photos on the bookshelves and doesn't notice you coming into the room. You make it all the way to his shoulder before he realises you're there.
"She's gone to get the ring," he tells you simply.
"Yeah, I saw." You take in the photos he's so engrossed with. There are a couple of family portraits but mostly they're shots from outings and parties. Alice is in a few and you guess the gangly young man with her in those is Charlie. You point at the nearest one.
"Found out anything?"
Whatever Sam is going to tell you is going to have to wait because Alice has reappeared in the doorway. She gives you a funny look and you suddenly worry that she knows what you were doing upstairs. The moment is gone so quickly though, you wonder if it ever happened. She walks past you as if you're inconsequential and hands a ring box to Sam. He takes it almost reverentially and you think he's playing this part a little too well for your liking. He turns it to the light, admiring the sparkling diamonds and sapphires.
"It's beautiful," he breathes, "it must be very special." And you swear you can see Alice melting at his words. You really ought to take lessons sometime in how he does that. You prefer the direct approach but you have admit, Sam gets results.
Sam fawns over the jewellery, making the right noises and going through the motions for another ten minutes and you think you're going to die of boredom before he's done. Finally you catch him making your goodbyes for you and you smile briefly at Alice as the pair of them pass you on the way out. Taking one last look at the room, you follow.
Back at the motel you're itching to find out what Sam has learnt from this morning's little outing. He's infuriatingly slow today. You remind yourself again why it is you went to get him from Stanford. He's getting coffee and is in no rush to share information with you. You think you're going to have to beat it out of him when he eventually turns to you with a purposeful look in his eyes. He hands you a steaming mug and settles himself opposite you, perching on the edge of his bed.
"Charlie was cremated." And there goes your best theory, flying out the window. You were so sure it was him but if there are no remains, then there's nothing to hold him here. "Alice had all his belongings sold or destroyed. There's nothing left to suggest he ever existed. Interesting thing though, she didn't seem to care. Whatever her deal was with Davey, Charlie didn't seem to enter her head once. He may have been besotted with her but, reading between the lines, I don't think she cared one way or the other about him." Sam shakes his head sadly. He can't imagine being with anyone without love. You don't want to disillusion him, not now, not so soon after Jessica, but you think Alice probably has it right. Charlie was just a lovestruck fool. No way you'll ever get caught going down that road. Not again, anyway.
You don't realise you've drained your mug while Sam's been talking. He takes it out of your hand and automatically refills it from the pot on the side he made earlier. He has his back to you and you watch him run his hands through his hair, pulling on it from time to time. He's always done that, ever since he was old enough to make his own hairstyle decisions and grow out the short crop that Dad was always so set on. Spinning round to you, he sighs in frustration.
"What do we do now, Dean?" he asks, as if you've got all the answers. You'd love to be able to tell him, you'd love for this to be a simple salt 'n' burn but it's looking less likely by the minute.
"I don't know, Sam. We've tracked down all the victims, right?" He nods in confirmation. "We've spoken to all the relevant parties, right?" He nods again. "Then we sit tight, and hope your little scam hits paydirt. If you're right, the spirit will come to us." Although, god knows, you'd hoped it would be a little less creepy than that. Not that you're scared of going head to head with the ghost but you don't want Sammy put at risk.
By the time dusk falls you've still not come up with an effective plan of action. The motel room is getting dark and, for the sake of Sammy's eyes, you stand to switch the lights on. The change in brightness makes him squint and he glares at you, demanding warning next time you do that. You just smile at him and shrug your shoulders to the accompaniment of your stomach rumbling. You grab your wallet and keys, and tell Sam you're going out for food.
The convenience store is small but has what you want. The ride out is quick and uneventful. As you pull back into the parking lot outside your room, you're concerned to note that the room is in total darkness. There's no sign of life within and your hackles are raised instantly. Vigilantly you make your way to the door and nudge it with your gun. It's still locked, just as you left it. That doesn't ease the worry, though. The only reason for Sam to have the lights off is if he's gone out and he wouldn't do that. He knows you were only going for dinner. You slide the room key out of your pocket and quietly slip it into the lock. Turning it slowly, you wince as the noise of the door opening sounds like a trumpet fanfare to you.
You ease your way into the room, night vision kicking in as second nature. You can't see anything out of the ordinary. Your duffle bag is where you left it, Sam's papers are lying on the table, your stale coffee mugs are sitting next to Sam's laptop. The only glaringly obvious problem with the room is it's distinct lack of Sam. Kicking the door closed with your heel, you hiss his name in the hope he's just gone to the bathroom.
The answering silence scares you more than the sudden drop in temperature. Coldness you can deal with, emptiness is harder to handle. And that's what you feel whenever Sam is missing. You're so focussed on finding your brother that you don't notice the mist behind you morphing into a figure. When you do spin round to face it, you're unprepared. You curse yourself for making such a rookie mistake but it's too late. The figure thrusts out an arm at an unnatural speed and before you know it, ice cold fingers are on your forehead and the pain is intense. You think any minute now your head is going to explode. The last time you felt anything near this was the time you'd gone a little too far with Amy Wallis and her dad wasn't best pleased. Neither was your dad when he found out and that's where the problem lay. The backhander he dealt you was a keeper. You don't think you ever made that mistake again. Amy, on the other hand… well, you heard she was a mom by the time she hit 15.
You're sure you can hear every beat of your heart crashing into your eardrums. The jazz band in your ears is matched only by the blinding white pinpricks of light behind your eyelids. You think Sam might be somewhere in the room but you can't see or hear anything other that your own pain and terror building slowly. You know you're breathing far too quickly, you know if you don't slow it down you're going to be in real trouble any minute now. At least you're conscious, for the moment, although the alternative is looking more and more attractive with every passing second.
Then, as suddenly as it started, the noise and pain stop. The fear remains for a little longer – you're too canny to be taken in by a lull in the storm. You manage to raise your head off the floor, vaguely wondering how you ended up on the carpet, and peel your eyes open. The headache you're expecting doesn't materialise and you know you should be grateful for that but you don't believe this is over yet. That would be too easy.
The motel room is untouched, unchanged. You were right – Sam is in the room but he's not going to be much help to you for a bit. He's lying on floor next to the wall, looking for all the world as though he's catching up on some much needed sleep. You know better though and the untidy position of his limbs tells you that he didn't lie himself down. You feel the first pangs of fury overtaking the fear in your heart. Something hurt Sammy and threw him where he's lying now. Nobody touches your brother like that and gets away with it. When you're back to yourself…
There's a hissing in your ears and as you pull yourself up off the floor, agonisingly slowly, words start to form at the edge of your consciousness. Leaning back against the wall next to Sam you concentrate real hard, trying to make some sense of the noise.
"He lied," it says, over and over and over again. "You're not special. He will hurt you."
If you only knew who 'he' was, you might be able to come up with a suitable retort to that. There are hundreds of people who've lied to you, hundreds who want to hurt you. Some have even succeeded. You'd like to narrow this down a bit. It might make things clearer. You're actually more concerned with whatever the hell is in your head. You're a private person and you're not keen on sharing with your brother, let alone some freak that decides to take up residence in your head. Without even asking.
Keeping a close eye on Sam, you ask yourself what he would do. What you would tell him to do if the tables were turned. Sam would try to gather more information, you know that. You should talk to it. You feel stupid talking to yourself but Sam is still out of it and he need never know. He doesn't need the worry of what's going on inside your head, he has enough to deal with. You settle back against the wall, all exits in view and Sam under constant scrutiny.
"Who lied to me?" you whisper. The hissing in your head is louder now, clearer and you plainly hear the answer. No pretending this is your imagination now.
"He did. Sam did. You're not special to him. He will hurt you. They always do. They say they love you but first chance they get – bang! I can help you. You won't have to suffer the pain and humiliation. Not like I did. I can save you."
Well, duh! You don't think so. You don't need saving from Sam. You know who this is now, though. Charlie may be dead but he's far from gone. He's coming through loud and clear. And he's so far off the mark on this one you'd laugh but you don't want to piss him off. He is in your head after all.
"He wouldn't hurt me." And he wouldn't. You're so sure of that, never been more sure of anything in your life.
"They all think that," Charlie laughs in your head. He's getting stronger and the pressure behind your eyes is starting to build. You feel him prying into the deepest corners of your mind, poking his nose into places nobody gets to see. It's getting uncomfortable in more ways than one.
"Get out of my head," you spit at him. Suddenly there's a blinding light flashing through your skull and you can't help but clutch your head to stop it bursting into a thousand separate pieces. The accompanying pain is excruciating and you fall to your knees, crying out in pain. Through the haze you can feel Charlie's anger as he digs ice cold feelers into your brain.
"You lied to me!" he screams. "You both lied to me!" And if it wasn't hurting so much you'd probably laugh at that. Of course you lied! It's what you do, you and Sam, and although you can't recall having had a conversation with Charlie, the state your head is in right now, you could be wrong.
Your heart rate has speeded up again, the rapid thumping against your chest is back and you'll never complain about an ice cream headache again. Charlie is in every fragment of your mind now. You can feel him rifling through your memories, your emotions, your thoughts. You've never felt so violated in your life.
Then there's another sound, the sharp retort of a handgun and then it's raining in here. In your confusion it takes a minute or two to realise it's salt and that the pressure is gone from your head. There are two hands holding your shoulders but it's all you can do to keep breathing. You want to crawl under a table and die. You don't want Sam to see you like this but you guess it's too late – who else would have a salt-loaded gun in here? You feel as though you've run a thousand miles and you know the sweat running down the back of your neck wasn't caused by the heat in here.
Suddenly there's a coolness on your forehead and the relief it offers runs through you in waves. Your arms feel like lead as you try to raise them. There's a buzzing in your ears and those might be tears trying to escape from beneath your lashes. You know Sam's safe – you always know these things. He's here with you, a solid, reassuring presence.
It's been a frightening experience and you think the best thing to do now would be to pass out.
So you do.