Chapter 4

The Nightmare

Sam sunk down into the softness of the motel mattress. He stared at his cell phone that he held in his palm. He scrolled down a list of names and phone numbers until he came to Dean's. He was silent, debating with himself whether or not to disturb Dean's hunt. He was starting to worry. It was getting dark and he hadn't heard from him all day.

Sam worried that maybe he had found the Rider and was in a dangerous situation and needed his help. At the same time, he could've found nothing and ended up at a bar for a drink to kick off the evening… as well as a waitress for the night.

Sam's thumb hovered over the call key, still unsure of his decision. On the other hand, Dean could somehow have the Rider in sight and be attempting to sneak up on it or gather information and his call could throw off his thoughts or give away his position. His single selfish action could cost Dean his life. This thought made up his mind completely. He swayed his thumb to another button and turned off the phone. It was too risky. And if he really was in trouble, he could always just dial Sam's number.

He tossed the phone gently onto his pillow, letting it land softly onto the thick white cushion. He turned back to his laptop and typed in a new key phrase to search in the city archives. He was getting nowhere with this, so far, and the dead silence of the room was suddenly maddening. He could hear the dripping of the faucet in the bathroom, and the maid's vacuum several rooms down for his.

His heart began to quicken pace. Sweat began to form on his brow. His breathing sped up and thickened. He was familiar with this sensation, but it panicked him none the less.

Suddenly his head pounded and a voice echoed deep in the back of his mind. The words were still unclear to Sam. All he paid attention to was the throbbing of his temples. The voice shouted in his head. He groaned and closed his eyes to shut out the pain. Fuzzy and partially blurred images danced around in his mind, a sure sign of a premonition. He dropped to his knees and let go of all that was happening around him to embrace the vision.

A young man with shaggy, short brown hair lifted his head from his work on a metal motorbike. An older man with matted dirty blonde hair leaned over him with a silver skull-headed cane in one hand. He held out an unrolled scroll with different kinds of fancy scribbled writing etched onto it in black ink and a line for a signature. It was a contract. Voices sang over the images of these people as if they had been said as the scene occurred.

"All you have to do is sign", the older man told the teenager.

Another voice that didn't seem to match either of the men whispered in a gravely southern accent,

"Any man who sells his soul for love has the power to change the world."

The boy lifted a hand to the contract in attempt to grab the scroll from the man. His finger caught on the rough edge of the scroll's handle and a single drop of deep red blood splattered onto the line meant for sealing the deal.

Almost instantly the scene changed and in this one the same teenage boy stood under an old oak tree in the center of lush fields on a steep hill with a girl of his age. Her auburn hair was pinned up at the top with the back flowing over her shoulder. She smiled at the boy with such joy and love in her eyes. The voice of the old man with the contract said over the image,

"Forget about family. Forget about friends. Forget about love."

Then the boy was on his motorcycle that he had been fixing up in the first image. He was staring up at the girl who was standing on the hill like they had been moments ago. The rain came pouring down on them, dripping off their noses and chins as they kept eye contact, knowing what the other was thinking. The girl's smile faded as the boy drove off down the winding road. The same voice rang another phrase of explanation.

"You will be the rider for as long as you live."

It now showed the boy grown up, with the same features that were matured, rugged and chiseled. He sat on the bike wearing a black leather jacket and dark jeans glaring angrily at the vehicle.

"You have no choice", the voice said.

A new scene appeared of the man crawling on the ground of a grassy lot looking up at a block of stone with the words, 'Barton Blaze, Loving Father' engraved into it. Assumingly it was the tomb of the man's once father. A white haired man with a straw hat and messy overalls peered over at him while supporting his weight on a dirty shovel. He spoke to the man in a deep southern accent. It was the same unidentified country tongue that had said things throughout the vision before. It seemed that he was really narrating the story all along, with his strong tone accenting every word with emphasis.

"The rider is the Devil's bounty hunter sent to hunt down anyone that escapes from Hell."

Again the scene changed and the apparent main character stumbled forward with his head in his hands. Fire flickered from his biker boots as he stepped slowly and stiffly away from his motorcycle. His hands burned a red glow and smoke billowed from his amber eyes. The storyteller continued.

"Story goes that he'll be normal during the day, but at night, in the presence of evil…"

The man moved his hands away from his face to show his flesh peeling away from his white skull. In only moments, the man's face was a pure milky skull and his hands were bony structures with joints. His body had too turned to bones, as his figure was now gaunt under his clothes. All bones that showed were blazing with fire of amber and gold.

"…The rider takes over."

Now as a skeleton, half man, half monster, the man flew through the city streets on his flaming chopper. His own voice spoke over the scene of him zooming down the road, tearing up the flat black tar and kicking parked cars out of his way.

"I'm going to take this curse and turn it against you."

The old blonde-haired man stomped his gothic cane on the cement floor and screamed in rebellion to his comment. The noise echoed through the tall empty hall of an abandoned church.

Now the rider was a normal human again holding a pistol out at arm's length, only the pistol was inflamed and his hand gripping the weapon was clearly inhuman. The shadows of night surrounded the hand of the man that held the gun while light shone on the rest of his body. As he shot the flaming bullets, which were no different than anything else he touched, his voice said in a subtle, calm yet powerful declaration,

"I'm the only one that can walk on both worlds. I'm the Ghost Rider."

The rider, now back to his usual monstrous form scowled at someone that was not shown in the vision. He growled in a snake-like hiss and threw a fireball with great force that bleached the whole picture in a blinding light.

Sam's eyes burst open. He gasped for air as the pain died down. He ran a hand over his forehead to wipe away the sweat and rubbed his eyes clear of wet tears that had collected in his tear ducts. As he thought over this vision, he came to a puzzling conclusion. The vision he had just seen wasn't a premonition, but a flashback into the life of the Ghost Rider.

He had now witnessed a piece of what the Rider had experienced. He now had a view into the Rider's life. He felt as though he understood him a bit better now and how truly awful it was to be what he was. He felt that he and his brother were not that different from the Devil's bounty hunter. They were quite similar with how they hunted and their lifestyles; how they lost loved ones and how they could never get off the job. It seemed to Sam that they too were like bounty hunters for Hell.