After scouring the rest of the dim, dingy office, the brothers darted out through the back door and into Dean's Impala. "Dean, this guy was eighty-seven in 2008," Sam reminded his older brother as the car sped down the Baltimore backstreets. "By now, even if he's not dead yet, he's at least ninety-five."

"I know, I know," Dean grumbled. "But we don't have a damn clue where the rest of the manuscript is, and we know where he is."

"What about that reporter, Andrea?" Sam demanded. "She was supposed to be twenty-three at the time of the interview. She's at least thirty now and way more reliable than a possibly-senile old man."

"She's in hiding, Sam." Dean fished a newspaper out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Sam.

Hazel eyes scanned the article.

"... Nine found dead in Paranormal History Publishing House. Cause of death… Come on, Dean, this can't be real," Sam looked at his brother uneasily. Dean looked back at Sam with a well, what did it say? look.

Sam pursed his lips. "Nine found dead… Cause of death was a bizarre presentation of the symptoms of rabies. Andrea Hawkins left town to start fresh, all her friends now dead."

Dean furrowed his brow. "Wasn't the date on that paper April 10th?" The shaggy-haired brother checked and nodded.

"Yeah, why?"

Dean pulled the manuscript out. "Because the date on this manuscript was April 7th. Rabies doesn't act that fast in humans. You remember Old Yeller, right?"

"I remember Dad yelling at me to stop crying when they shot the dog," Sam grumbled.

"Yeah. Well, I think rabies acts slower in humans than it does in animals," Dean speculated. "So, basically Lyssa, whoever this bitch is, probably killed them. She might still be using Nova's body."

There was a short pause in their conversation as Dean parked and let himself and his little brother into their shitty motel room. The place was likely only held together with plaster and Elmer's Glue, but it was a roof, four walls, and a bed, even if there was an ugly yellow wallpaper giving them an eyesore. Another mark of crappiness of the motel was the fact that none of the furniture matched at all. But again, it was shelter, and Sam was too big to sleep in the Impala comfortably anyways.

Sam set up shop, bringing out his portable WiFi router, laptop, and books he had picked up before visiting the publishing house. While Dean skimmed the mythology books, Sam searched through the internet for reliable information. "Lyssa was a figure of Athenian tragedy. In the tale of Aeschylus, she appears as the agent of Dionysus, sent to drive the Minyades insane. Also, in Euripides she is sent by Hera to inflict Hercules. Greek vase-paintings confirm her appearance in the story about Acteaon, that hunter who saw Artemis naked. Apparently Lyssa drove the guy's hunting dogs insane and caused them to rip their owner apart. Ouch. She traditionally appears a women dressed in a short skirt, and crowned with a dog's-head cap to represent the madness of rabies," Dean finished reading from the lore. "So basically, we're dealing with a very nasty bitch."

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother. "Well, it fits with what Jacob said," he murmured, eyes on his laptop. "Hey… I think I found something here." He swiveled his laptop to face his brother, who glanced at the page. "You're kidding. You just typed in Walters' name and found him?"

The younger Winchester shrugged. "Well, I typed in his name, Baltimore county, Baltimore City, and oldest residents, so…"

An eye-achingly small font laid out the obituary for Jacob Walters, who died only two months before. "He's survived by his eighty-one year old sister Jeanne Walters, his daughter Diana Matthews, and his grandchildren Keira and Ethan Matthews."

"And where are they?" Dean asked. Sam checked. "Not far from here, actually. Crownsville, in Anne Arundel County. Half an hour away, tops."

Stretching his muscled arms over his head, Dean yawned and shook his head. "We'll go first thing in the morning," he told his younger brother. "I'm gonna try to hustle some pool before bed first, though. Call Diana and set up a meet."

"You think you'll get a score?" Sam asked skeptically. Dean winked at his brother.

"Sammy, we are in the richest state in the US of A. I'm gettin' at least $50 tonight." He slung his coat over his shoulder, messed up Sam's hair, and headed out.

Sam rolled his eyes with a small smirk that faded with the click of the door shutting. It left an uncomfortable silence in the air, weighing down Sam's shoulders and compressing his eardrums. While Dean was away, he worked in silence, creating IDs for himself and his brother. It was best, in this case, to become journalists themselves, he decided. He smiled a little sadly to himself, casting Dean as Editor-in-Chief Bowie and himself as Associate Editor Rickman.

"Hello?" A woman asked after picking up her phone to answer Sam.

"Hello, may I speak to Diana Matthews?"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

Sam worried at his lower lip. This woman was clearly cranky. Maybe she was asleep- it was only nine-thirty. Maybe she always sounded like that. Maybe she's just preoccupied.

"I'm sorry to call you so late, ma'am. My name is Jared Rickman, associate editor of a new up-and-coming online paranormal magazine. We've been having some trouble attracting readers, you see, and my Editor-in-Chief and I were hoping you would agree to an interview."

"Let me guess, because of the whole Patapsco fiasco with my father?"

"... Yes, ma'am. We completely understand if you're not interested."

Diana sighed. "You know what? I'm quitting my job tomorrow anyways Come on down tomorrow and I'll give you a tour of the haunted mental hospital, plus the interview you want. How does that sound for your interview?"

Sam's eyes lit right up. "That sounds wonderful."

"Got a pen on you, honey? Here's the address."

Sam hung up a few minutes later, very pleased with himself. He tucked the IDs into Dean's "professional-looking" sweater pocket and went to bed. He smiled as he thought about what Dean's reaction to his new cover name. He'd either smack him or praise him.

He did both, as it turned out, on the way to Crownsville. Sam sat in the backseat for the rest of the ride, counting the cash Dean earned/stole/won last night while Dean blasted Bowie's old albums loud enough to shake Baby. "Rest in peace, Ziggy," he mumbled disgruntledly.

The house was off a backroad, away from main roads with few neighbors. It was two stories tall, sky blue with white trim, surrounded by trees, and had a two-car garage. The lawn was freshly cut and mowed, not a single blade of grass jutting over the edge of the concrete driveway, which bled into a sidewalk to the deck. Brick masonry edging separated the lawn from a graceful carpet of peonies and bunches of white chrysanthemums. A wraparound porch with white railings served as an in-between for the sidewalk and the threshold of a honey-colored wood door with an oval-shaped window. The glass in the window was intricately decorated with flowery designs.

The brothers exchanged a glance on the smooth concrete porch. Dean pointedly glanced at two flowerpots with nothing but thriving bundles of sage. Sam took note of this and nodded, then rang the doorbell.

Diana was a woman in a state of nirvana-esque apathy, who had long ago learned that being pretty was not a rent that women have to pay to live in this world. This was clear from the moment she allowed the Winchesters in her home with a pink bunny slipper on her right foot and a sneaker on her left. She was wearing jeans and a flannel pj top under a purple bathrobe and it seemed that only half of her fading brown hair was brushed.

But she had made them coffee and some snacks, which Dean liberally helped himself to. And in any case, the inside of the house was as spotless and meticulously-cared for as the outside.

"No kids in the nest anymore," she explained briskly over a steaming mug of coffee. The three of them were now seated in the sitting room, the Winchesters on a sofa, Diana in a loveseat across from them, a glass-topped coffee table with a chrysanthemum centerpiece between them. "And my husband's on a business trip in Seattle for the next three weeks, so I don't bother keeping up appearances, you understand."

"Of course, Mrs. Matthews," Dean smiled pleasantly. "Why look pretty if no one's around to see it, right?"

Diana smiled widely. She actually had a very beautiful smile that took ten years off her appearance. "Exactly, Mr. Bowie."

So far, so good. Sam cleared his throat a bit. "Mrs. Matthews, we're actually here because we're curious about a manuscript."

Diana nodded as if she had been expecting that. "The interview between my father and Andrea?" The brothers nodded in confirmation.

Diana cracked a smile. "Do you have any idea how many people have come to me asking about that manuscript since my father died? Seven," she answered her own question before one of the brothers could answer. "Seven people were desperate to know what my father told that journalist. Family, friends, and total strangers."

Sam looked down at his knees and back up in disappointment. "I understand, ma'am. If you won't give us the manuscript, would you give us a general-"

"I didn't say I wouldn't give it to you," Diana interjected. Sam fell silent, staring at her in confusion.

"... I'm sorry, but… Why would you give it to us?" Sam asked incredulously.

A little twisted smirk played at her lips. "Because I'm a bitter, spiteful old woman," she giggled. "And you seem like nice boys, so why not? Better you than those other idiots who came by here..."

Dean leaned in a bit. "Other idiots, ma'am?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah. They called themselves the Ghostfacers or something stupid like that. A bunch of camera-whores if you ask me."

"We completely agree," Sam nodded seriously. "We've dealt with them before. And we solemnly promise that the script will be completely safe with us. The Ghostfacers will never get their hands on it."

She smiled brilliantly at them and stood. "I'll be right back, boys, the manuscript is in Dad's old study."

Diana took the key off the necklace under her shirt and slipped it inside the lock of a small drawer. She gently slid out a small stack of papers and returned to the boys, pressing it into Dean's calloused hands. With a thoughtful look, she sank back down into the loveseat while Dean flipped through the script. Then, he looked back up at her.

"Hey, ah…" he cleared his throat. "Is there a page missing?"

Diana furrowed her brows and stole back the script. She got to the end and swore, seeing the last sentence incomplete.

"Dammit. Andrea must've taken it."

A: "What happened, Mr. Walters? How did it all end?

J: "Strangely, Miss Hawkins.

In the final night of my employment at Patapsco State Hospital, there was a riot unlike anything I had ever seen in all my years there. The orderlies were shepherding the patients into their rooms when it happened. It was like a massive drop in the air pressure; orderlies collapsed, clutching their ears, and all hell broke loose. Even the calm patients went completely berserk. Utter mayhem. They all started running at once, in every direction, breaking everything they could lay their hands on. Syringes, windows, bones- all shattered in their hands.

Lyssa was in Heaven. She fed off the chaos like an addict getting a fix. I… I must confess that the whole night was a blur. Up until the very end. I remember running until my lungs felt like they were dying, searing with exhaustion. Next thing I know, I'm in Sister Rosalia's old room, with her possessions exactly where she had left them. I started digging through her things, looking for something that might possibly help.

I found a box. An old, cracked marble, empty box with carved details engraved on it. As soon as I touched it, a ripple of… Peace, perhaps… shot through the room. No, not peace… Hope.

I can't explain what happened next.

Nova threw my body, along with the box, against the wall. She flew towards me like a bat, eyes red as blood.

I opened the box and cowered behind it.

She disappeared, I shut the box, and the box began to rattle as if something were inside it.

I escaped the asylum. By then, it was burning. I'm positive I stepped over some bodies. I took the box home and chained it shut.

I still have that box, Miss Hawkins.

Would you like to see it?

A/N: To be continued.