Next died the Lady who yon Hall possessed;
And here they brought her noble bones to rest.
In Town she dwelt:- forsaken stood the Hall:
Worms ate the floors. the tapestry fled the wall.
-George Crabbe, "The Lady of the Manor" (1819, year disputed)
Things filtered in by pieces. The small glow that kept the darkness at bay was the first, as soon as he managed to pry his eyes open. The expansive hole above him that the glow gently illuminated. The rustling of papers off in the...somewhere. Somewhere distant but close.
And, oh yeah. The pain that was filtering through his system, one tiny nerve ending at a time. He let loose a helpless groan, and the rustling stopped. He shut his eyes tight and focused on the pain. It wasn't really easy.
The nausea helped with that, in the worst way possible of course.
"...n? Dean? You back with me?"
"Loud and clear," Dean managed, and from somewhere above him, he could hear Sam's sigh of relief. "What happened?"
"You blew him away, that's what happened," Bethany said, somewhere off to his left. "We haven't heard a thing in ten minutes."
"Not even from you," Sam said quietly, and Dean did get his eyes open again at that. Sam looked pretty freaked but was desperately trying to hide it. Failing miserably, but trying. "Jesus Dean, you...there was this sound when you hit the floor-"
"And speaking of, why the hell did I hit the floor?" Dean asked, pushing himself up. The glow and encroaching blackness spun alarmingly, and Dean shut his eyes tight. A hand at his back kept him grounded, long enough for the nausea and the dizziness to abate. "The fuck happened?"
"The floor gave," Sam told him. "Rotted through."
If there was a piece of irony to be found in this entire mess, that was it. "Guess there are some rotted floors, huh?" he said, blinking his eyes open again and taking a good look around this time.
The flashlight was set up on top of an old oak desk, the light beam hitting what little was left of the ceiling and thus spreading the light out over the room. The desk, the chair behind it, and the floor were all covered in dust, wood, and metal bits from the broken ceiling. Most of the debris looked like it was now piled in a corner. Probably Sam's doing.
"I think we're in that office we passed," Bethany said, answering his next question. "The employees only one across from the kitchen?"
The locked door. Dean glanced over at the door, feeling a small amount of satisfaction when he found the key in the lock. The very iron key in the lock. If the iron round had actually hurt the sonuvabitch, then he couldn't get in.
Not that way, at any rate. There was a hole above them he could in through, but seemed like the iron had done the trick.
For now.
"I think we left the door to the stairwell open down here," Dean said, moving to stand up. Sam was a solid rock beside him, an anchor when Dean's legs felt like water. As soon as Dean was up Sam was guiding him over to the chair that Bethany was dusting off, to the best of her abilities. It still looked pretty damn dusty, though. Dean didn't even want to think about how bad it had looked before her and Sam had started cleaning.
Once Dean was seated, Sam moved back towards a stack of papers on the desk. "I've been digging through here for anything that might help, and I think I found something," he said, pulling out a book with yellowed pages. "Take a look about three days before the 13th."
Dean took a quick look at the front – a leather bound book with engraving that stated simply, 'Guests' – then moved his eyes to the page Sam was pointing at. Near the bottom of the page was perfect handwriting in which someone had written, Mr. William Deventon and family. Beneath that, another hand had written Four guests: fifth floor, the Executive Suite.
Dean frowned. "Family?" he repeated. "I thought there were two couples, suggesting adults."
"Could've been in-laws," Sam suggested with a shrug. "It's more than we had before. At least we have a name."
"We have more," Bethany said from the corner she'd been investigating. "Look."
Sam crossed the small office to see what she'd found. Dean settled for leaning across the desk. His head was killing him, and his legs still felt like they were asleep, like someone had sat on them for too long. He'd bruised his ass and tail bone, obviously. Walking was going to be a bitch.
Running was going to be even worse, but he doubted Axe-to-Grind would be willing to wait. Dammit.
"Dean."
Dean glanced up from his introspection and found Sam with a faded, torn newspaper in hand. "Main page," he said grimly. The yellowed, dusty page was ripped in most places, and very little of the actual text remained.
The headline was hard to miss, though.
Dean carefully took the paper from Sam and read. SPECIAL EDITION: THREE BODIES FOUND IN OCEAN HOUSE was the bold headline, with a picture of police standing outside the Ocean House Hotel, holding spectators off. In the background, there were a few men carrying a stretcher out, the body covered. Even with the faded age of the paper, Dean could still see the sheet dark in several places due to blood. "Holy shit," he murmured.
The text was torn right through, but the article stated enough clearly. Dean set it down and, after glancing up at Sam, began to read out loud all of the available text. "'On the 12th of April, a tragedy occurred. Three of the Ocean House's guests were found, murdered, throughout the tainted hotel. Two bodies, those of Mr. William Deventon and his wife, were found in the bedroom of the Executive Suite of the hotel, while another woman was found in the basement. The hotel reports four guests having arrived in total, which leaves one guest missing in the once presumed safe, and happy, resort. Mr. Deventon's body was discovered-' ...Jesus. No wonder the place shut down." Press like that, the owners would've been lucky to have escaped Dennis with any sort of dignity or money.
"Any others?" Dean asked, setting the paper down gingerly on the desk.
Sam shook his head. "There's a few more copies, but they have even less text than that one. None of them have the full article."
"So...what, the fourth guest goes nuts, kills William and his wife and the other girl, then...bites it somehow?"
"Are you sure he didn't just...escape?" Bethany asked tentatively. "They never found his body."
"He can't be here haunting the place if he got out," Dean said. "No, whoever the guy is, he's dead, and he's still in here somewhere. Which means..."
Sam pinched his lips. "Yeah, I know."
"Wait, know what?" Bethany asked, wrapping her arms even tighter around herself. "I don't know what. What do you know?"
Dean sighed, feeling his headache growing even more with each passing minute. Of all the times for him to hit his head...
Thankfully, Sam started explaining. "In order to get rid of a ghost, we have to find their remains and burn them. Generally, the body is what's tying the spirit to a place." He glanced at Dean before continuing. "So we have to find the body."
Dean slowly nodded. No point in telling Bethany that a poltergeist rarely had a body, and that sometimes a spirit could be tied to items, too. That'd be a mood killer, and she'd just started calming down again, too.
"But the police didn't find the body," Bethany said with a frown. "So that means...oh." Her eyes widened as realization took hold. "Oh god."
"Time for a body hunt," Dean said with false cheer. "Yup."
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. Probably feeling every moment of his own head injury, too. How the hell he'd been managing so far, Dean didn't know. "Think we've got any aspirin in the bag?" Dean asked softly.
Sam turned, frown deepening. "Is it that bad?" he asked, clearly worried. "God, Dean, I don't-"
"For you too, moron," Dean said, though his gentle tone belied his words. "We could both do with some."
Sam immediately dropped his hands to his side. "I'm fine," he insisted. "I'll check for you, though. We need the EMF detectors anyways."
"EMF?" Bethany repeated, before shivering. "Are you guys as cold as I am?"
Now that she'd mentioned it, it did seem colder in the room. Sam stopped digging to evaluate the temperature. "It wasn't that cold a moment ago," he said quietly. "I mean, it's been pretty cold in here ever since we got in, but-"
Dean waved at him to stop, cutting Sam off effectively. "It means we gotta move," he said. "Iron rounds don't kill 'em, just knock them out for a little bit. Time to pack it up, boys and girls, before we play another round of 'Pop Goes the Weasel'." Which Dean wasn't looking forward to. That child's rhyme and those stupid Jack-in-the-Box toys had never been his favorite as a kid. Popped up at any given time, tried to scare the shit out of you.
Plus, they'd generally been clowns, and Sam and clowns didn't mix. Actually, it had probably been one of those toys that had started the whole afraid of clowns thing. It didn't matter, though: something was always popping up out of nowhere and trying to get to them, and Dean had had about enough.
"Anything?" Dean asked, when Sam closed the bag back up. Sam glanced up from where he was kneeling and bit his lip, giving Dean his answer. Crap. "We'll get some when we get out to the car," Dean tried to say optimistically. Sure they would. And then they'd all wear tutus and go frolicking in the flowers.
"What's EMF?" Bethany asked again.
Dean really didn't have the time or the energy to explain. "Ghost detector," he said, settling for the short version. "We need to move." Which involved him standing up. Right.
And suddenly Sam was there, hand out to pull Dean up. He didn't so much as move when Dean practically climbed up and put all his weight on Sam's arm. By the time he was standing, the room was trying to spin again. His legs felt more solid, though, and the pins and needles feeling was starting to emerge. "You're awesome," Dean managed to get out when Sam started looking more concerned.
"Be nice if it were true," Sam said with a roll of his eyes. "Bethany, you stay behind me at all times, got it?"
Bethany nodded. "Dean?" Sam asked, saying so much more with one name. Got my back? and I'll take front, if it's okay? and even a Be careful?
Like Sam had to even ask. "I got it," he said, answering all the questions with three words. He took a hesitant step forward to test out his legs. Wobbly but still holding. Cool. By the time he made it around the desk he was almost perfectly stable. He checked for his gun and found it on the corner of the desk. Time for round god knew how many.
"Go," he said, glancing up once at the ceiling, half expecting to see a shadow of an axe. But the only thing he saw was the darkened room above him and broken beams of wood from the floor.
He turned back in time to see Sam carefully reaching for the key. With one quick move he pulled it from the lock and twisted the handle. The door swung out fast, and Bethany gasped in fear.
The hallway was empty. The kitchen's turning door was right in front of them, and no face came through the small window. Sam's shoulders dropped a full inch or two. "Ready?" he asked.
Dean's next breath came out misty, and the temperature in the room dropped even more. "Gonna have to be," Dean said, and the three quickly hurried out, shutting the door behind them. The hallway was only a little bit warmer, but even as they began to move, the temperature continued to plummet.
Sam didn't even hesitate as he had with the office door, merely grabbed the door to the stairwell and pushed it open, gun already up and ready. "Move," he ordered a minute later, and Bethany quickly ran inside, Dean following up from behind.
"Fifth floor?" Bethany said as Sam shut the door hard.
"Fifth floor," Dean agreed. "Up fast, kids." The stairwell was warmer than the spirit cold it'd been before. The sooner they moved, though, the better things could be. A total of four people dead in the hotel meant a possible four spirits. So far, they'd encountered two, which left two possibilities. Just because the woman they'd met seemed more inclined to help them, didn't mean the two unknowns would feel the same.
His legs felt odd and wrong as he moved fast, the pins and needles effect making him want to stop and shake his legs out. Instead, Dean gritted his teeth together and clenched the handrails as they climbed and climbed. His eyes watched every door they passed to the other floors, and he knew Sam was doing the same. His brother had the flashlight in one hand and the gun in the other, and he was making his way up as swiftly but as safely as he could. The kid was a hell of a hunter, and Dean realized that even though they'd been on opposite ends for the past few months, he still trusted Sam implicitly with his life. No though, no hesitation.
He wondered if that had been an unspoken question of Sam's in the office, if there'd been a Trust me? in the mix. If there had, Dean's answer was the same.
It was only when they reached the top floor that Sam paused. "Sammy?" Dean asked immediately.
Sam held a hand up and edged slowly towards the door. Even without the full light from the flashlight Dean could still make out the dark stains on the door, on the wall of the stairwell. Bloodstains.
When Sam turned the flashlight up to hit the door, the handprint smeared with blood was obvious. "Oh god," Bethany murmured, horrified, eyes on the blood. The still dripping blood.
Without waiting Sam pulled the EMF detector out and turned it on. The high pitched wail startled even Dean, and the lights were all on full. Sam turned it off and swallowed. "That's...bad, isn't it?" Bethany asked.
"It's not good," Dean admitted. Blood didn't drip for fifty years. That meant they had a ghost nearby, probably on the floor in the suite. Didn't make him any happier, especially with a civilian. He carefully sidestepped Bethany on the stairs and joined Sam at the top. "No point waiting," he said. "Iron rounds can't hold it off forever."
"I know," Sam said. "It's just...god. This place is wrong, Dean. I can feel it. The wrong inside of it."
No psychic powers necessary there: Dean felt it too. Something terrible and wrong had happened inside the hotel, and it had left a mark. The reporter hadn't been wrong: the hotel was tainted.
As one the brothers drew their weapons up, with Dean this time reaching for the handle. With one swift pull they yanked it open and scanned the hallway.
Dark and empty. Still, the sense of uneasiness lingered, possibly stronger than before. "Where?" was all he asked.
Sam scanned the area with the flashlight until he reached the other end of the hall. There, at the end, was a single door. The numbers on the door marked 501. The Executive Suite.
"We need to go," Bethany said suddenly, bringing Dean's attention back to the stairwell. She'd moved down a few steps towards the landing between the fifth and fourth floors, and she was starting to look freaked out again. "I don't...oh god, I don't want to go up there. I thought I could, but I can't. He's going to be up there-"
"We're not gonna let him get you," Dean said, feeling stupid by saying so because there was no real guarantee. The poltergeist was a nasty sonuvabitch, and the likelihood of someone dying tonight was high. "I promise," he said anyways, trying to believe it.
"We're safer together," Sam added. "Bethany, if you run right now, he will kill you. There's no ifs, buts, or whats about that. You need to stay with us."
Bethany didn't look convinced. "Bethany, please," Sam pleaded. Dean glanced down the hallway again and saw the door looming at the end. Bethany's growing terror was starting to affect Dean, and he could feel the goosebumps on his arm rising. The urge to run had suddenly never been stronger, and Dean desperately didn't want to go down the hallway. Whatever was in that room, whatever had happened there was the worst part of the hotel, and it screamed wrong and bad and stay away.
He forced himself to look away at Bethany, who had taken one step back up towards them. "We go in there, we see if we can find any clues about where the body is, we go home," Dean told her. "That cool with you?"
Bethany began to nod when she froze, jaw dropping in horror at something behind Dean. Dean whipped around at the same time Sam did, gun aimed through the doorway.
The woman spirit was back. This time, however, she was covered in blood, dripping from her caved in forehead and trailing down her bare arms. Her white slip was in tatters, and her entire chest was a gaping hole. Her ribs stood out, blood stained and broken, some even still hanging, not quite broken off yet.
Even as Dean tried not to gag, tried to keep his gun steady, her arms reached up with supernatural speed. Straight for Sam, who was backing away, only straight towards the railing of the stairs.