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Part 3
Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
"Find anything?"
"Maybe."
Dean turned to his brother as Sam folded himself into the Impala and closed the door.
"'Maybe'? That's helpful." Dean caught Sam's expression and groaned inwardly. Captain Empathy was making an appearance.
"Dean, are you--?"
"I'm fine. What's the 'maybe'?"
Sam sighed, pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and handed it to Dean.
"I found that mark outside the girl's bedroom window. It seems familiar, but I can't place it." Dean stared at the small picture on the phone's screen.
"Never saw it before. You think whatever it is left it? A little 'Kilroy was here'?"
"Could be. I want to see if it was left at the other girls' houses." Sam quickly scanned his notes. "I guess our next stop is 1852 Maple Street. Melissa Wallace."
"How far?"
"This one is closer to the center of town. Actually, except for the Millers, all of the other residences are within a couple of blocks of each other."
"OK, then I got an idea. I'll drop you off and let you make the rounds while I head over to the town library and check out the local legends, see if there's anything we should be on the lookout for." And my idea has nothing at all to do with the last interview. No, not at all.
"I don't think we should split--."
"Look, Sam, whatever it is, this thing is going to attack tonight. We can cover more ground this way. Besides, you're better at the interview thing than me."
"Dean…"
"C'mon, man. What kind of trouble can I get into at a library? I promise I won't do anything 'kamikaze'. Or even ninja." Sam glared at him for a moment before caving and responding with an exasperated snort.
"Fine. Go back out to the end of the street, turn left, and take the first left. It should be halfway down the block." Dean turned the Impala around and headed back toward the town.
"Here we are, 1852 Maple Street. Better watch out for monsters, eh Sammy?" Dean turned to Sam with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood. Sam gave him that OK, random puzzled look again. Dean sighed. The kid really was hopeless.
"Look, after I finish up I'll find us a place to stay. We passed a motel on the way into town, about two miles out. I'll sort out the gear and then we can meet up later at that diner I saw near the center of town."
"All right. Call me if you find anything, OK?" Sam opened the door and stepped out on to the street.
"Count on it." Sam leaned down and looked in the car at his brother.
"And Dean…watch yourself. We have no idea what we're dealing with here."
"Yes, Grandma." Sam slammed the door with a little more vigor than necessary and Dean winced. He knew his brother was worried, not just about the case, but also with all of the other crap they had to deal with lately. Dean worried too, but was also angered by the fact that there really wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. With a sigh, he headed to the library he had seen at the center of town.
The Mossy Oak Library-slash-Historical Society building was a sharp contrast to the surrounding storefronts and offices. The Gothic Revival design, complete with multiple arches and spires, was better suited to a church in the English countryside. Dean wondered briefly who had put up the cash to build such a thing before climbing the stone steps to the entrance.
The inside of the building was as grand as the outside, with high arched ceilings and leaded glass windows that cast the dim January light through, barely reaching the main floor. Reading tables with green glass-shaded lamps sat in front of the huge wooden bookcases lining the walls, and small brass signs marked the various sections. The place was quiet except for the click of the librarian's heels as she walked down a row towards him, pushing a large cart heavy with books in front of her. Dean caught her attention and she left her cart to make her way over to him, weaving through the maze of tables with unexpected grace.
"Yes? May I help you?" Her tone was clipped, professional, with an undercurrent of unease. Dean turned on the charm.
"Good afternoon, ma'am. I'm doing a little research on local history, folklore, and legends for an article I'm writing. Could you point me in the right direction?"
Her expression softened a bit and she gave him the once-over, a slightly predatory smile crossing her lips.
"Uh…yes. You're in luck today, as a matter of fact. One of our town's best resources for local lore is here." She pointed to a far corner. "I'm sure Mr. Bransen will be happy to help you."
Dean looked where she was pointing and saw an elderly man hunched over at one of the tables with his back to them, piles of books and bound newspapers stacked around him. "Follow me, I'll introduce you." She turned and strolled towards the old man, her hips swaying a bit more than necessary. When they reached the table, she tapped the man on the shoulder. He flinched slightly and turned to look up at her.
"Ah, hello Edith. Need something?" His voice was deep, gravelly, with the faintest trace of an accent. Deep south, maybe Mississippi, Dean thought.
"So sorry to bother you, Jed. This young man needs your help."
"That so?"
"Yes, he's working on an article on local history and folklore. I told him you're the expert around here."
"Be happy to help. Have a seat," he said to Dean, indicating the chair across from him.
"Thanks." He took a pen and notepad out of his pocket and lowered himself into the chair.
"You boys have fun," Edith chirped, dropping a wink at Dean before heading back to her cart. Dean smiled and nodded before turning his attention to Jed Bransen. The man was staring at him, a guarded look in his faded-blue eyes.
"So, you're a reporter?" His voice held the same caution as his expression.
"Yes, sir. My name is Tommy Shaw, and I work for the Huntington Gazette. I--." He paused when the man chuckled dryly.
"Sure, and I'm the Queen of Sheba. Don't even try to test my bullshit meter, boy." He glanced over his shoulder to make sure Edith was out of earshot. "You're a hunter." Dean froze, uncertain of what to say next. He decided to try and dismiss the question.
"A hunter? Nah, I'm not much into--."
"No, not that kind of hunter. Ghosts, monsters, things that go bump in the night. Am I right?" Startled, Dean stared at the old man for a moment before replying.
"How did you--?"
"I've run into your type before. They come looking for info on local legends, usually with the cover of 'I'm working on a story', or 'paper' or some such thing. Y'all are not a real creative bunch." He snorted derisively and continued. "You're hunting whatever is snatching little girls from their homes at night, aren't you?"
"Yes. Do you--?"
"No, I have no idea. Same thing I told the last one who came through. Not that he did much good – poked around for a day and when he couldn't find something to kill, he left. Been several like him over the years. A couple asked for my help to try and find the girls, where they were buried. Not even a thank you before they blew out of town after something more interesting."
"Are you, uh, some sort of …psychic?" The old man chuckled again.
"No, I'm a dowser."
"Dowser? You mean like, finding water with sticks?"
"Grave dowser. And the 'sticks' are brass divining rods. I concentrate on what I want to find and when I find it, the rods cross. I can even use them to find spirits."
"So it's kinda like an old school EMF?" Bransen laughed.
"Old school. Yep, that's me." Dean saw that the man had relaxed a bit, and decided to try again.
"So, there's nothing in the local lore than would explain what's happening? No disasters, sources of angry spirits, legends…?"
"No, nothing. No explanation, no cause, they just disappear." Bransen's face clouded. "Now why don't you do like your buddies and take off. Nothing to see here." He turned back to his book. Dean thought a minute before he spoke, carefully phrasing his response. He leaned in and lowered his voice, doing his best to convey his sincerity.
"You know, me and my brother, we've had some run-ins with other hunters. Some of them are…complete bastards, only in it for the killing. I'll agree with you there. But I'm not like that." Bransen looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.
"Oh really? What makes you so different?"
"Because I care. Saving people by hunting things, that's what I do, what we do. I don't want to see another little girl go missing…and I don't want to see another mother wind up like Nancy Miller. Do you?"
Bransen silently regarded Dean for several minutes. Dean held his gaze, hoping that the old man could be convinced. Finally, Bransen spoke.
"What's your name, son?"
"Dean. Dean Winchester." Bransen's eyebrows rose in surprise.
"Sam's your brother?"
"Yeah…how--?"
"Ellen Harvelle. She told me about you boys, said you're decent. And to answer you next question, we're old friends. She was my student back when I was a history professor and before she decided to marry a hunter. We still keep in touch."
Dean was silent for a minute, trying to reconcile the image of Ellen in college with the woman he knew. He cleared his throat and shook his head, several questions passing through his mind before he settled on one to ask the old man.
"So…"
"I've heard a couple of stories, rumors, but nothing concrete."
"Dude, stop that, you're freaking me out!" Bransen laughed.
"Sorry. It's what I would have asked if I were you. Now, as for the stories: a couple of years after the first girl disappeared, another vanished. A few days later a group of teenagers thought they saw both little girls, dressed in white, standing at the edge of a field about 2 miles from here, just down the road from the motel. The kids recognized the girls from the missing posters and the news, but they said the first girl who disappeared, Elizabeth Martin, didn't really look any older. When they went back to get a closer look, they noticed that the girls were…flickering, like a TV with bad reception. One of the teenagers 'freaked out' and started screaming, and the girls just vanished into thin air. The kids told me, probably because I'm one of the few people in town that would have believed them. The next day I went out to check in the field, but I didn't find anything."
"You went looking for the graves?"
"Well, that…but also to see if I could get them to tell me what happened. The divining rods can also be used to communicate with spirits. But not there. Those spirits weren't talking."
"Any theory on why?"
"Could have been any number of things, but…listen. I've seen some strange things in my time, and I don't scare easy, but I got the sense of something…evil out there."
"Demonic?"
"No, I wouldn't say that. It was just a feeling, like something was watching me the whole time I was there, and it wasn't happy that I was there, you know?"
"Yeah, I've had that feeling many times. Anything else?"
"That was the only sighting. Other people have claimed to hear things out there: crying, singing, but nothing more substantial. We still have no idea how the girls could have gone missing in the first place."
"Where is the field?" Bransen shot Dean a dark look.
"You're not thinking of going out there? I told you, there's nothing--."
"Just being thorough. Besides, I don't really have any other leads." Bransen nodded thoughtfully.
"I still don't think you'll find anything, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to look. The field is outside of town about a quarter mile past the motel. Back near the tree line you'll see what's left of the Dillon farm: a couple of decrepit barns and the chimney of the house. It burned down a couple of years ago. It was abandoned long before that, though."
"Thanks. Anything else I should know?"
"Just…well, if you boys are going to find this thing, you'd better hurry. I figured out the pattern of the disappearances, and it's--."
"The night of the first new moon after the winter solstice." The man met his eyes and, for the first time, smiled.
"You do know what you're doing, don't you? All right, get to it…and good luck." He held out his hand and Dean shook it, relieved at the old man's acceptance.
After checking into the motel and changing out of his suit, Dean loaded a duffel bag with supplies and headed down the road to the field. He decided it was safer and less likely to draw attention to his work in the field if he left the Impala parked at the motel. Besides, it was a short walk and he relished the chance to stretch his legs after being cooped up in the library. He thought about calling Sam, but decided he really wasn't in the mood for another lecture or pity session. He'd just meet up with Sam later to fill him in. This job probably wouldn't take that long.
When he reached the field, he made his way through the knee-high weeds to the tree line. He dug his EMF meter out of the bag and started to make a sweep of the barns and the charred remains of the house.
Not a peep.
He then walked the perimeter of the field before starting a survey of the interior. While he worked he noticed that the road had almost no traffic. No one stopped to ask him what he was doing, no one even slowed down to look. The field was unnaturally quiet. Even in winter he would have expected to hear some sort of birdsong, or the movement of animals in the underbrush.
Creepy.
Finally, after almost two hours of searching, he decided to call it quits. The sky overhead was getting darker as storm clouds gathered, and he really didn't want to be caught out in the snow. He headed back to the ruins to pick up his duffel, pulling out his cell phone as he trudged through the field.
He was just about to flip the phone open and call Sam when something slammed into him with enough force to knock the wind out of him and the cell phone from his hand. Before he could catch his balance he was hit again and knocked to the ground.
"Son of a BITCH!"
He tried to get up but a dark shadow fell over him and he was suddenly hit with pain so intense he couldn't move. When he was finally able to catch his breath he realized that he was wrapped in a cloying, roiling darkness and being dragged roughly along the ground, in what direction he couldn't tell. He kicked and struggled against the darkness that shrouded him, desperately trying to stop his progression, but the vegetation he could feel beneath his hands tore away from its roots with ease. Suddenly, the ground opened up beneath him and he felt himself falling, his screams muffled by the shadow that enveloped him. Soon his descent was brought to an abrupt halt, and his cries of terror were silenced when his head connected with something solid, sending him into a dark oblivion.
A/N:
"Killroy was here" is a classic form of American grafitti (no, not the movie) that originated during WWII. It's also the title of a Styx album :)
Dean's "watch out for monsters" is a nod to a classic Twilight Zone episode, The Monsters are Due on Maple Street.
Tommy Shaw was with the rock group Styx