Chapter 2

"I'm sorry."

Dean glanced at Sam, only able to make out the bare outline of his face in the darkness. He twitched his flashlight, and Sam was immediately illuminated. "What?"

Dean saw him hesitate. "They didn't say how David King died," He replied after awhile, his face awash with regret. "His case was the only one that seemed like murder, so the police were pretty tight-lipped about it."

Oh, that. Dean grimaced and focused the beam of his flashlight on something else. It landed on a few dozen fake gravestones, which had faux cobwebs and plastic skeletons scattered throughout. "Forget it."

"Dean…"

"Forget it." He repeated, more adamantly this time. He flicked his hand absently and the beam scattered again, dancing across the yard. Realizing the attention the jumpy light could garner, he quickly angled it out of sight, keeping a wary eye out for passing cars or pedestrians.

The neighborhood was proportioned well, but the houses were still relatively close together. The large tree in the front yard did a decent job covering them, but he still wanted to be careful. Last thing they needed was to get busted and end up with the FBI closing in on them. Again.

"It looks clear," He said, glancing back at Sam, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness. "Ready?"

Sam sighed, as if hating for their discussion to be interrupted by petty things such as hunting, but answered with an affirmative. Following Dean, the two slipped through the yard to the front door. Dean bent down and picked the lock while Sam stood guard; after a soft click, he turned the handle and let himself into the house. Sam followed and hurriedly shut the door.

"Wow," Sam said, and Dean had to agree. Besides the fact that the small house had been stripped of its furniture, everything about it screamed 'normal.' After a yard like the one out front, Dean had been expecting something akin to a haunted house inside. It was a little anticlimactic.

"It happened in the garage, right?" Dean asked, already moving toward that side of the house. Again, Sam followed.

Dean walked cautiously down the hall to the door that he assumed would lead to the garage. He rested his hand on the doorknob for a moment, the thought of King's death still getting to him. He could just see it; the knife sliding in and David King falling to the ground, eyes wide and face slack—

He shoved the thoughts away, determined not to make King's death and Sam's one in the same. He grit his teeth and then threw the door open.

This was more like what he'd expected to see. Not that there would be anything different about it under normal circumstances, just boxes piled high with junk and a layer of dirt and dust covering everything. But the cleared space in the middle and the stark-white outline on the concrete left nothing to the imagination. Neither did the dark, bloodied stain that stretched out around it. And the air was different, too; stagnant, stale and tinted with a coppery scent.

Knowing that his brother was behind him and watching, Dean pushed himself into the room, careful not to disturb the scene. Dust fluttered in the two beams of light as the brothers looked around.

"This is definitely where it happened," Sam said, and Dean heard the distinct crackle of an EMF reader. "There's probably something—holy shit!"

There was a loud clatter and then Sam, all six-foot-four of him, tumbled to the ground. He landed on his ass, legs out in front of him, eyes wide.

"Sam!" It took Dean scarcely a heartbeat to reach his brother's side, eyes searching for the source of Sam's fear. His brother didn't scare easily.

"What hap—," The words choked in Dean's throat as his flashlight illuminated a figure, skulking against the wall like a crazed animal. Its glazed, plastic eyes glared down at them and its painted lips sneered evilly. The similarly fake butcher knife glinted in its gloved hands.

Dean choked again, this time on his laughter. He let go of Sam, who was already pulling himself off the floor, and braced his hands on his knees, doubling over.

"This is not funny," Sam bit out, his voice a low grumble as he tried to regain some of his dignity.

"You—the clown—," He started, his words punctuated by deep chuckles. He breathed through his nose, trying to dispel his sudden laughter.

"Who keeps something like—something like that in a garage?" Sam demanded, edging a shaky glance in the statue's direction.

"I still can't believe you're afraid of clowns after all we've seen and done," Dean said, calmer now but his voice still coated with amusement. Then he narrowed his eyes. "And don't mention planes again. At least my fear is logical."

"You're telling me that this thing doesn't freak you out?" Sam asked, both incredulous and defensive.

"No."

Sam glared.

"Don't worry, Sammy," Dean said, his eyebrow quirking, "I'll search this side of the room for you."

Dean saw the debate as clearly on Sam's face as if he'd spoken aloud. After a few moments and one more jumpy look at the clown, Sam nodded and shifted to the other side of the room.

"Are you limping?"

"Shut up, Dean!"

Still sniggering to himself, Dean returned to his search and pulled out his own EMF reader. After five minutes of aimlessly pointing, he reached a conclusion.

"This room is covered. You getting the same readings I am?"

"Yes," Sam replied, and his EMF also responded positively. "Except for the middle, which is more concentrated because that's where David died, everything is showing moderately high readings."

"So, definitely supernatural."

"Which part clued you in?"

"You're just pissed because I'm not afraid of the clown."

"At least I can get on a plane without humming Metallica."

They both glowered at one another, having reached an impasse. Eventually, Sam gave in and broke eye-contact first, muttering about getting the job done. Dean loved it when Sam tried to pull the mature card.

"We need to do some research." Sam said, still looking elsewhere.

"No," Dean corrected, now turning toward the exit. "You need to do some research. I'm more of a hands-on type guy."

"That better not be an innuendo." Sam groused, and Dean flashed him a grin.

"Sammy, everything's an innuendo."

Sam sighed, conveying all of his thoughts on maddening older brothers in that simple expulsion of breath. "Fine, I'll research. You can talk to the locals."

"Sounds good to me," Dean replied, clapping his hands together in an enthused way as they slipped out of the house.

"But Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't shoot any of the Halloween decorations this time."

Dean pulled the Impala into an unobtrusive parking lot behind a reasonably nice-looking store and then set out on foot. He had a list of addresses in his pocket, which included the victims' homes and the various places they had worked. He was planning on asking around and getting an idea of the situations surrounding their deaths.

Since there was still no clear pattern other than the fact that the victims died in October, Dean needed to find some way of linking them to each other; ghosts rarely stayed behind just to off random people. And he couldn't cross demons off the list of suspects either, although most of the evidence pointed towards an angry spirit. Except for the lack of connection.

He tucked his hands into his jacket pockets to fight off the slight chill in the air and crossed the street. There were shops on either side, each one bright and colorful and decorated with spooky figures and smiling ghosts. His lips twisted, but he shoved down his impatience and focused on the job. He walked another block, glanced at his list, and then stepped into the small coffee shop on the corner.

The door jangled as he entered, and he felt the stares of the few customers scattered around the café. He wondered if they were looking because Lawrence was small enough to easily identify outsiders; if so, they'd need to watch themselves. Low profiles were vital at this point.

After a few seconds' debate, he sat down at one of the tables and took a quick glance around. There were seven or eight tables in all, four of them filled including his, and there were also a dozen stools set up against the counter, two of which were occupied. A waitress served drinks from behind the counter, and there was an additional exit in the back.

The waitress, who looked to be eighteen or nineteen and had bright red hair and freckles, caught sight of him and made her way over to his table.

"What can I get you?" She asked, and from the slow, unhurried quality of her voice he could tell that this place was hardly ever crowded.

"Coffee, black," He ordered, figuring he might as well get a boost while he was here. He watched as she moved over to the counter and poured his drink into a bright orange mug. He grinned a little, but made no comment as she brought it back over.

"It'll taste like mud," She warned as he took a sip. He grimaced; she had a point.

"We don't get many people who drink straight black coffee in here," She continued, shrugging at his look. "Mostly just lattes and cappuccinos."

He laughed a little and shook his head. "Too bad I didn't bring my brother."

"You guys visiting?" She asked, and he was guessing she wasn't in a rush to serve anyone else. He leaned forward toward her, resting his forearms on the table.

"Yeah," He replied, and then, struck by sudden inspiration, said, "Actually, I'm here to visit an old buddy of mine. I used to live around here, but I moved and lost contact."

She responded to his shift in position, moving a little closer and leaning her hands against the table. "Do you remember his name? Maybe I could help."

"Allen Pollack," He responded immediately. As expected, she paled and took a hurried step backward.

"Oh," She said, her hands now dancing nervously and clutching her ordering pad. "I don't… I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but…." She glanced around anxiously, as if wishing to be anywhere else.

"What? Did something happen to him?" He asked, his best impersonation of worried bewilderment.

"He… he died, two weeks ago," She said, so softly that he might not have understood if he hadn't already known the answer.

Dean leaned back in his chair, eyes widened and face slack. He wasn't so great at sympathy, but this he could do. "He died? How?"

"I don't…" She fiddled with her order pad and pencil again, sliding both through her fingers in a decidedly uncomfortable gesture. Clearly she regretted entering this conversation at all.

"Please?" He asked, looking at her with every appearance of a saddened old friend.

"He hung himself," She said finally, reluctance and grief dripping from her tone. "I don't know why—he always seemed so happy—," She broke off, eyes watery. "He worked here before… before it happened."

"Oh," Dean said, and then paused a minute. When he figured it would be believable he asked, "You're sure you don't you know why? There wasn't any change in his behavior before it happened?"

He knew she had noticed it, the sudden, business-like manner of his question. Her eyes narrowed and her hands abruptly stopped moving. However, just when he thought she might turn around and walk away, she answered, "No. He seemed fine all week. We had most of our shifts together and if anything was wrong, I couldn't tell."

He nodded but stayed quiet, thinking it over. Same basic story that the newspaper had given; friend walked in and found Pollack swinging from the ceiling.

"Thank you," He said, as solemnly as he could manage. This seemed to regain a few of the points he'd lost, and she smiled a little.

"Yeah, no problem. I'm Emily, by the way." She held out her hand to him. He returned the gesture and reciprocated the smile, figuring he might as well be charming about it.

"Dean."

"Nice to meet you. And I'm sorry you came all this way to find out… you know." She fidgeted again; a habit of hers, he was noticing.

"Oh, yeah. I'm sorry about that, too." He nodded slowly and then, going out on a limb he said, "He always seemed like a good person."

Her eyes misted over and she dabbed at them absently with the corner of her notepad. "Yeah, he was. I'm not so great at this stuff," She waved her hand toward the scary-looking machines behind the counter, "but Allen helped me out a lot."

"Must be hard," He responded, honestly this time. He understood something about losing the person you worked alongside every day.

"Yeah," She repeated, and then smiled tremulously. "If you want to say goodbye, I could give you the name of the cemetery where he was… you know, buried." The last word trembled a little.

Grave sites were always helpful. He nodded. "That would be great, thank you."

So, he thought as he watched her scribble down a name and address. They had three dead guys, no motive or explanation, and one very freaky Halloween decoration.

It was time to figure out what the hell was going on.

Big thanks to those who have reviewed so far! This is personally my favorite chapter, so if you read it, if you liked it, let me know! More tomorrow.