Chapter 4

"Did you come to reserve a final resting place? We have many plots available—,"

"No," Sam interrupted firmly, holding a hand up to ward off the caretaker's questions. "We just wanted to visit an old friend of ours."

"Are you sure?" The man asked, running a hand through his thinning gray hair and smiling at them in a way that seemed both pleased and sad at once. Being around death all day did that to a guy, Sam supposed. "You never know when something could go wrong; don't you want a nice place to sleep should the worst occur?"

Sam shook his head. He didn't want to ponder the worst, especially when it was such was a real possibility in their line of work. "Please, can you just tell us where Alan Pollack was laid to rest?"

The caretaker nodded, looking disappointed at the lack of sale, and pointed. "Plot eighty, fifth row to the left."

Sam glanced at Dean, who nodded curtly and set off in that direction. Sam then turned his attention back to the older man. "So, have you run this place for a long time?"

He nodded. "Yup, more'n fifty years. Own the funeral parlor over on Commonwealth, too." He smiled jovially, although there was still a hint of somberness in his round face and pale blue eyes. "Only things you can't avoid in life are death and taxes. I just figured I'd make some money off one of them."

That was a slightly sickening statement, but the man did have a point. Although now that Sam thought about it, he and Dean had managed to avoid both. So much for generalizations.

"Right." Sam said, attempting a smile. "Has anything…. strange happened here lately?"

The man's eyes clouded in confusion. "Strange? Not that I can recall. Usually everything's quiet, but now and then a few kids run by here, trying to scare each other with stories of ghosts or the living dead. I guess that's common for this time a year, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Sam said, shrugging those occurrences off; people were always fascinated with places like graveyards, where death lingered. Sam wondered if they would be so intrigued after actually having an experience with ghosts or zombies. Movies made the paranormal seem a lot more glamorous than it really was.

"Why are you asking?" The man asked suddenly, and Sam glanced back at him. "You're not one of those believers, are you, hunting down imaginary ghosts and stuff?" The tone of his voice indicated his intense distain of just such people.

"No," Sam said, immediately knowing what the correct answer should be. "I just heard that a lot of kids come here and play pranks on each other and things like that. And, well, if I were looking for a cemetery in case the worst should happen…." He trailed off, just a hint of disapproval in his tone.

The man looked satisfied but also a little alarmed, as if afraid he'd given the wrong impression. "Oh, no, this is a lovely place, I assure you. Families have been laid to rest in this cemetery for the last…"

Sam listened quietly and then spoke to the caretaker a little while longer, asking a few more questions about recent incidents and burials. Then he shook the man's hand and walked toward where his brother stood.

"Definitely a family plot," Sam said once he'd reached him, staring down at the cold grey stone in which Allen Pollack's name was chiseled. Behind it rested Pollack's father and beside that one sat his cousin. There were more headstones of the same vein, and Sam even recognized a few of the older victims buried among them. "And there's no discoloration in the grass; no dead plants nearby." He managed to keep the smugness in his voice to a bare minimum.

Dean's look indicated that he had caught it anyway. He nodded, reluctantly. "Gravestones are intact, and none of the earth looks freshly dug." He paused for a second, glancing around at the dreary scenery, and then said, "What about the others?"

"Asked the caretaker. Apparently the two other newest victims are buried somewhere around here as well. But do you really think it's necessary to go looking for them?" Sam questioned, indicating to the large expanse of hollow ground. "What are we going to find here?"

Dean stayed silent for a moment, although Sam thought it was probably more out of mulishness than anything. Then Dean shifted on his feet and pulled his keys out of his pocket.

At the same time, something large, forceful and angry swept by Sam, shoving him roughly. He only moved a few inches but tottered a little, tall frame thrown off balance by the sudden, angry whirlwind.

Then the thing that had seemed like a raging elephant but now revealed itself to be a teenage boy stepped past Sam and planted himself at the edge of Alan's father's grave. With an angry cry and a resounding guttural sound, the boy spat on the headstone.

"Hey!" Dean growled immediately, grabbing the insolent teenager by the arm. Sam noticed the numerous piercings that dangled from his nose, ears, and eyebrows, and the vivid skulls decorating his shirts, ripped jeans, and shoes.

"Let me go!" The adolescent shouted, struggling viciously against Dean's iron-hold. Dean jerked him away from the grave and then released him, still looking incensed at the display. Dean didn't handle disrespect well.

"Robby!" A woman wearing a long coat, high heels and looking utterly exhausted ran over the sloping hill and reached the scene in seconds. "Robby!" She shouted again, this time making the name a curse.

"It's all his fault!" Robby shouted, pointing not at Dean, but at the tombstone he had just defiled.

"Robby, I've told you, it was an accident! No one ever meant to—,"

"It was his idea!" Robby replied, his young, rebellious face scrunched into a furious expression, hands clenched into fists. "If he hadn't thought of it, they wouldn't be dead!"

And then, with one more contemptuous look at his mother and an angry glare at Dean and Sam, Robby darted away, running towards the large, gated exit at the edge of the cemetery.

"I'm sorry," The woman panted, hand on her chest and face flushed. "He's just upset—it's the anniversary of his father's death."

Sam perked up and Dean stiffened slightly, both listening intently. "Why'd he spit on Pollack's grave?" Dean asked, voicing his question carefully, as a curious stranger would.

She shook her head wearily, her gaze still riveted to the place her son had just departed. "Robby blames him for it."

"For his dad dying?" Sam asked, careful to make his voice calm and level. He sent a glance at Dean and then returned his gaze to the woman. "Why?"

She sighed, deeply. "A long time ago, my husband and his friends played a trick that went terribly wrong. They were kids then—stupid ones. They…." She hesitated, her eyes darting to the headstones littering the floor. "It was an accident." She finished finally. "A horrible accident."

"What happened?" Sam asked timidly, afraid that he would seem too pushy but unable to stop himself from posing the question.

"They scared an old man to death—literally. He suffered a heart attack, and the paramedics arrived too late." She sighed again, a sort of bone-deep tiredness emanating from her. "My husband never forgave himself, not totally. He always bordered on the side of depression, which frequently resulted in alcoholism. He committed suicide when Robby was nine."

A surprised silence settled over them as the statement sunk in. After awhile, Dean asked, "But Robby said 'they'. Who else was he referring to?"

"All four of my husband's friends who were involved in that… incident died over the years. Joseph King was the first"—Sam shot Dean a swift look—"My husband Brian Lee was the last." She shook her head, and her eyes glassed over slightly. "It's strange… Brian was the only one to end his own life—the others died from separate tragic accidents. I guess it was just a coincidence, then, that they all passed away in October."

She shot another look toward the gate and then looked back at Sam and Dean. "Sorry again for Robby's behavior. Would you excuse me?"

"Yes, of course," Sam replied. The second the woman was out of earshot, he rounded on Dean. "This is it," He said quickly, his words tripping over each other in their haste to escape, "This is the connection."

Dean had a similar look of surprise and burgeoning excitement. "It fits."

"Howard Bellman," Sam announced, fingers resting atop the computer keys. "He was on the list I originally looked up; I discounted him because a heart attack didn't seem like angry death material."

"Sounding a little different now, huh?" Dean asked, shifting on the bedsprings as he took apart and reassembled their preferred brand of weaponry: sawed-off shotguns, rock salt pellets, lighter fluid and a set of matches. "What's the full story?"

Sam sat in silence for a few more minutes, typing on the keyboard again. Then he answered, "There isn't one. His obituary just says that Bellman died from a heart attack on Halloween, thirty-five years ago. I'm willing to bet that the four men involved never told anyone what really happened."

"Which, if we trust this lady, is that Lee, King, Pollack and another guy—probably a relative of the third victim, Eric Donovan—used some freaky costume or decoration to scare Bellman to death."

"Exactly," Sam replied, words coming out in a hurried rush. "And if they were all as obsessed with Halloween as the recent victims were, it would explain why we originally thought that was the connection. But he's not just going after Halloween enthusiasts; he's attacking his assailants' families."

Dean grunted, re-loaded the shotgun, and then snapped the barrel back into place. "If that's true, why didn't we catch it before?"

Sam gestured for Dean to wait and then pulled up the list of victims. He'd already made written associations to the few he'd noticed were related, but now he realized that the correlation was much more widespread than that. "It didn't just go for blood relatives, Dean; it started taking out everyone. Beginning with the four who actually attacked him, and then moving on to cousins, second-cousins, wives, sons, daughters, relatives-in-law…. Some of the connections I found, but not all of them were obvious."

Dean paused in his movements and absorbed that fact for a moment. Then a look of perplexity knitted his brow. "Okay, here's the thing I don't get. The ghost is probably out for revenge, right?" At Sam's nod, Dean continued, "Then why didn't he just quit once they were all dead? And why do all the current deaths seem to be copycats of statues and decorations? Why isn't there one M.O?"

Sam sat back in his chair, eyes staring blankly into space as he pondered over that. After a few minutes of silence in which they only sounds were the renewed clicks of Dean's guns, Sam asked pensively, "What if the ghost shifted focus?"

"Huh?" Dean asked, looking mystified again.

"Like you said, Bellman was out for vengeance," Sam began, working the facts out as he went along. "What if he didn't move on after he got it? Maybe the reason he stayed behind became… altered in some way. Maybe the anger wasn't satisfied with the deaths of just those four people."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "So you're saying the ghost changed its reason for sticking around? Can they even do that?"

Sam's eyes focused, and he looked at Dean. "If he was furious with the thing that killed him, not just the people, but the actual thing, that would be—,""

"Halloween." Dean said with dawning comprehension

"And killing people won't get rid of it. But killing people who celebrate it—,"

"Okay, and that's a great conclusion; very smart," Dean interrupted, a touch of impatience in his tone; Sam decided not to take it personally. "But why's he still bothering to go after these four families? Why not move on, broaden the hunting ground a little? There are enough freaks with fake tombstones on their front porches around here."

Sam shrugged, pulling himself out of his chair and pacing the length of the room. "Maybe he held on too hard to his original goal to let go now, but maybe it's becoming more and more diluted as the other half of his rage takes over."

"Old habits die hard," Dean commented eventually. "Even for spirits."

Sam nodded, and Dean said, his eyes darting rapidly back and forth as he tallied up the sudden wealth of facts, "So, let's get this straight. If we're right, then the spirit is attacking anyone from any of these four families every October, leading up until the thirty-first. We already have three down, so the next victim will be someone from Brian Lee's family. And the only way to find that person would be to—,"

"Figure out who lives in the area and is an avid Halloween fan, yeah."

Dean set the shotguns back on the bed, pulled a large duffle from the floor and began shoving everything they'd need for a standard salt and burn inside. "Fine. You work on finding Bellman's gravesite; I'll make some calls."

"Yes ma'am, I'm with the…Holy Hugs Church Association," Dean winced, caught Sam's amused glance, and waved him off impatiently. "I'd just like to ask whether or not you have any Halloween decorations in your front yard? We at the… Holy Hugs Church Association find this to be devil worship, and disrespectful to the general, God-fearing public—,"

Dean broke off, listening to the woman on the other end of the line. "No, I'm not one of those militant Christians trying to force everyone to think just like me," Dean replied, looking slightly alarmed. "No, I'm not trying to take away your self-individuality or your right to express—," He stopped talking again and listened to her rant, this time looking a little frightened. "Yes ma'am. Thank you for your time, ma'am."

Dean quickly hung up the phone and held it away from him, as if it was tainted somehow. Sam chuckled, nose still buried in his computer.

"Dude, shut it," Dean said, shooting him a glare before turning his attention back to the phonebook spread out on one of the motel beds. He crossed her name off the list. "At least I managed to get an answer out of her."

"'The Holy Hugs Church Association?'" Sam repeated, sounding both appalled and amused.

"Best I could come up with. Not like I actually know any church organizations." Dean defended flippantly, looking up another number.

"I know," Sam said, and damn if he didn't sound serious and sad now. Dean couldn't even make a comment anymore without Sam turning it into something emotional.

Dean wasn't sure what the score was between him and Sammy and God, anyway. Dean's confused belief that he'd seen God's will during that case in Rhode Island hadn't left him completely, but he felt his conviction slip a little more with every bad turn their lives took. There was a part of him that wanted to believe in something higher, but in his current condition, he had to believe in the facts. And those facts were: Dean was going to Hell in little under a year, over two hundred demons were running loose in the world, and as far as he could see, there was no higher power offering to lend a hand.

But what about Dad? Where had he gone, after he'd crawled out of hell's gate?

Dean shoved these thoughts down, angry that he was digging up things he usually tried so hard to ignore. Shaking his head, he glanced down at the page and punched in the next number, listening the metallic ringing and hoping he wouldn't get another liberalist.

"Hello?"

Dean could barely hear the voice from all the staticky, jumbled noise that was suddenly blaring through the phone. There was a pause, a shuffling sound, and then a shout was heard over the din. "Turn that down!"

The noise suddenly ceased, and the woman sighed. "Sorry about that. Can I help you?"

Dean recognized the weary, drained voice as the women they had spoken to earlier at the cemetery. The same woman who had unwittingly filled in the missing pieces to their investigation.

"Hello," Dean said, "I'm calling from the Department of Traffic and Vehicle Safety. We've received some complaints about your Halloween decorations; apparently they're reflecting headlights and causing a dangerous distraction for drivers."

"What?" The woman, Susan Pollack questioned, sounding bemused. "I'm sorry, you must have the wrong house; we don't celebrate Halloween."

"Oh, I apologize, ma'am," Dean replied, inwardly wincing at the number of times he'd used that formal and old-fashioned term.

"No problem," Susan replied distractedly, and Dean wondered if she ever didn't sound tired. "Goodbye."

Dean bid her farewell and then snapped his phone closed, staring absently at the wall ahead of him. "I'm out."

Sam glanced up from his work. "You've called everyone? And no one is a candidate for possible attack?"

"Everyone in the phonebook. And October isn't exactly these people's favorite month," Dean replied, raising his brows. "I'm surprised the ghost found as many people as it did."

"That's something I don't get, though," Sam replied, tapping his fingers impatiently on the edge of his table. "How do they not notice that their family members are all dying?"

Dean shook his head. "One thing I've learned from his gig is, people never see what's right in front of them. They all died differently, and there's just too much doubt in a situation like this to put all the pieces together. No one really wants to know the truth."

"Maybe," Sam replied, returning to his hunt for the burial site. After a few moments he said, "I've learned to deal with this burden and these secrets a long time ago. I guess I just didn't think I'd ever believe that the alternative might be worse."

"Your family's dying, and you have no way to protect them?" Dean questioned, and Sam frowned, looking troubled. Dean knew he was realizing the similarities; they had tools to destroy evil, and yet that sort of thing still occurred all the time. "It's not easy either way. These things—ghosts and spirits and demons—they suck."

"Yeah," Sam agreed wholeheartedly.

Dean met his brother's gaze a moment more, and then looked back at the phonebook spread out over the mattress. "Seems like his pickings are slim this year, but I doubt the spirit is gonna give up that easily. Unless he's settled before?"

Sam frowned thoughtfully. "Well, here's the thing. When the murders started, they were widespread; that is, the spirit only went after the four men who originally killed it. King was murdered first, and then each of the others followed two or three years after that. As time went on, however," Sam said, turning back to the computer screen for reference, "The attacks became more frequent; one every year, then two, then three, and so on."

"So ghostie's getting hungrier," Dean commented, "Has he worked up to four before?"

"The last two years," Sam replied straightforwardly. "Dean, I don't think it's going to give up. Bellman's out for blood—at this point I'm not sure who could be at risk."

A sudden idea blossomed in Dean's, and his heart rate sped up a little. He held up a hand for Sam to wait a minute. "If it's not being particular…" He drawled out slowly, still following his own train of thought, "That kid at the cemetery, you remember him?" he asked abruptly.

"Rebellious teenager with the holes in his face? Yeah, why?" Sam asked, clearly not following Dean's non sequitur.

"He seems…." Dean's voice became firmer as the idea solidified in his mind. "Seems like the kind of kid to have lots of freaky stuff in his room, right? Skulls, maybe. Drawings of skeletons; creepy, obscure band posters?"

Understanding lit up on Sam's face. "And you think that the ghost might…"

"If it's desperate enough; angry enough—don't you think it's possible?"

"I think it's—," Sam broke off, focus suddenly back on his only true love: that damn computer. He typed for a few more seconds, and then lunged for the small pad of paper sitting on the table beside him. "I know where Bellman was buried," He said, scribbling furiously.

Without hesitation, Dean ripped out the thin page from the phonebook and grabbed his jacket, the bag of weapons, and his keys. "Come on. I'll check the kid; you get the ghost."

It took fifteen minutes to drive to Susan Pollack's house, with Dean squealing the tires as he turned corners and nearly doubling the speed limit. He roared to a stop in front of the nice, tidy home, stepped out of the car, and pulled out the weathered leather bag. "Here," He said, tossing a shotgun, lighter fluid, salt, shovel and the keys to the Impala to Sam. "Go."

Sam moved around to the driver's seat, revved the car and pulled out of the neighborhood. Dean turned his attention to the two-story house, trying to get a decent glimpse of the activity inside through the windows. He tucked the sawed-off-shotgun in the back of his jeans and threw his bulky brown leather jacket over the awkward lump. Then he started up the walkway.

He hadn't prepared a lie when he'd knocked on the door, but at the look on her face when she opened it he figured he'd better come up with something convincing.

"Hi, Ms. Pollack?" Dean asked, smiling in a polite, hazy fashion that indicated he was nothing more than an innocent stranger.

"Yes?" She asked, and he could hear the slight suspicion buried under her tone.

"Didn't I run into you earlier? My son didn't damage anything of yours, did he?"

"Actually, yes," Dean replied with a lot of false confidence. "Well, not damaged, but I think he might have stolen my wallet."

Her eyebrows arched into a confused, slightly disbelieving frown. "Yours? But Robby only bumped into the man with you; the tall one. I saw the exchange while I was trying to catch up with him."

"Right," Dean amended quickly. "I meant Sam's wallet; we're on a road trip together, so we keep our money in one—," The admittedly feeble lie was cut off by a loud crash and a muffled shout.

Susan forgot Dean for a moment and hurried towards the stairs at the edge of the room. "Robby?"

There was no reply, just another harsh cry and the sound of breaking glass. Susan rushed upstairs, and Dean quickly slipped in behind her. She hastened to the closed door at the end of the hall and banged loudly on it. "Robby, open up! What are you doing in there!?"

An earsplitting scream issued then, and Dean shoved Susan out of the way. He jiggled the doorknob, and when it wouldn't budge he shoved his shoulder into the wooden frame. The door still held strong, probably kept in place by some mystical force determined to trap its victim inside. Dean took a hurried step back and raised his foot, slamming it into the space just beside the handle. The door gave under the pressure and splintered, swinging brokenly on its hinges.

The room was covered in black, and it took Dean a moment to realize that it had been painted that way. Amid drawings and life-size sculptors of skulls and other dark, disturbing things sat Robby Pollack, huddled on the ground with an old man standing above him. A very dead-looking old man.

Dean yanked the shotgun out of his jeans, tugged on the barrel to load it, and then fired.

Dun, dun, dun! You know the drill by now; expect more tomorrow!