AN: Sorry for the late posting - the day got away from me. But I want to offer my sincere thanks to all my readers both those who are following along privately and those taking the time to review like Colby's Girl, Shazza19, Dagur, and iwokeuponthewrongsideoflife. Thank you all for your encouragement.

Just for clarity, everything in italics are the ghost's memories.

Charity's Home

Sam was lying on his side, pressed against a hard packed floor. The smell of dirt and something more sinister flooded his senses and set off alarm bells even while his brain struggled to catch up. One minute he'd been standing in that hot bedroom, and now he was somewhere else with no idea how he'd gotten here. He guessed he was underground, presumably taken like the other missing people. Wherever he was, it was cold, dark and stank of death. Sam pushed himself to sitting, happy to have a wall to his back. He shivered, in part because of his sweat-damp tee and thin overshirt, but also because what Dean would call his spidey senses were tingling.

Thinking of Dean, he was probably freaking out right now. No one was a better hunter or would be more motivated to find him than Dean, but he was worried about the effects of the curse. The ghost had snagged him before he could relieve Dean's pain. The fact that his stoic, stubborn ass of a brother had even asked for help meant Dean was suffering. And that was completely unacceptable.

Rather than sit there and stew about Dean, Sam assessed his resources. Unfortunately, he'd dropped the weapons duffle on the bed just before the ghost snatched him, but he still had his Taurus tucked into his jeans and his cell phone in his pocket. Pulling out the phone, he turned it on. There was no signal, of course, but using the flashlight on his phone, he took a look at his surroundings.

The post-and-plank wall he was leaning against looked old and decayed. A spot by his elbow had disintegrated, spilling dirt into the room. Obviously the place was man-made and not a natural cave or hole. Looking up, the ceiling was criss-crossed with heavy timber beams. At one end of the room, one of the beams had broken and a small cave-in had formed a large heap of dirt. There were no windows of course, but a narrow tube protruded from the roof in the far corner.

Panning the phone light across the floor showed the source of the terrible smell. A variety of human skeletons were strewn around the room. It was a macabre sight and he couldn't help but shudder even as he forced himself to look further. Based on what he could see it looked like they were mostly intact. Thinking back to the list of victims, it was likely all 15 of the missing were here in this room as some bones were obviously older but others were not. In fact, a few feet away, the empty sockets of a skull stared back at him, a few tattered bits of clothing still clinging to its vertebrae. Sam looked away. He'd seen his fair share of skeletal remains, but seldom so many in one place.

Continuing his exploration, it seemed the centre of the room once had held wooden furniture of some kind, maybe a table and chairs, but the rotted remnants were now piles of dust and fragments among the bones. There were other objects too, some of which glinted dully in the light from his screen, but nothing he could identify.

Slowly Sam kept panning, stopping when he saw a person curled in the opposite corner. Getting to his feet, Sam carefully made his way over to check on the missing hunter.

"Bryce?" he whispered, crouching. He put two fingers on the man's chilly neck and was pleased to find a steady, if slow pulse. At his touch, Bryce moaned and his eyes flickered open.

"Wha-?" he mumbled, the word slow and slurred. Dressed only in jeans and a cotton button-down, the hunter was obviously in the early stages of hypothermia. The cold wasn't doing much to Sam yet, but according to the date and time on his phone, he hadn't been here long.

"Bryce?" he asked again. He blinked up at Sam in confusion. "Hey. I'm Sam."

The older man struggled to sit and Sam offered a steadying hand. He was very pale under his dark beard and it took the guy a minute or two to focus on Sam's face. Bryce groaned and wrapped his arms around himself, leaning heavily against the wall.

"She got you too," he stated weakly.

"Yeah, I guess so. She?" Sam didn't remember seeing anything that would suggest a gender. In fact, other than a haze that clouded his vision, he didn't remember being snatched at all. Which was weird. A ghost powerful enough to transport a person would have to have a strong sense of self. They would generally manifest either as they had looked when they died or as they saw themselves in life.

Bryce groaned again and rubbed his forehead with his fingertips. "The ghost is definitely a young woman."

Sam filed that information away for later. Right now he needed to find a way to get back to Dean. "Any idea where we are?" he asked.

The hunter shook his head. "I got the impression this is her home. Like she's always been here, but I have no idea where 'here' is."

Making a note of the battery power left on his phone, Sam decided to look for an exit. Presumably Bryce had done the same when he arrived, but considering how disoriented the bearded man seemed, it was worth checking again.

Stepping gingerly among the remains, he circled the room. At one end was the mound of dirt from the cave-in. Moving some of it aside, Sam saw a rectangle of poured concrete that had partially spilled into the area and pushed the wall inward, likely causing the collapse. If that had been the way out, it was firmly and permanently inaccessible. The side-walls were the wooden planked construction he'd already seen. The wood was in poor shape and it wouldn't take much for it to crumble and let the walls fail completely.

Peering at the tube in the corner, he recognized it as some kind of vent. The bottom was covered with a mesh grate and a heavy coating of cobwebs that swung in the faint air current coming from the surface. Far above he thought he saw a sliver of daylight, but the pipe gave him no clue about where they were buried.

At the other end of the room was a wooden door. Much like the surrounding wall, it was crumbling; what was left was held up with rusted hinges and an ornate doorknob. A good tug and it would disintegrate completely so instead he shone his light through one of the large voids in the wood. Inside he could see another room, smaller than the one he was in. He saw what was left of an iron bed frame before the temperature plunged. Whipping his head around, he saw both the icy fog of his own breath and a cloud of grey.

Not for the first time, Sam wished for the heft of his salt-loaded shotgun. The cold grey mist coalesced into a roughly human sized mass, but he still could get no distinct image from the ghost. Then part of the haze shoved towards him and his brain was on fire.

Images forced their way into his brain. Very much like the visions he'd had back in the days of Azazel, they were detailed and very painful. It was as if he was seeing and remembering through someone else's eyes. Clutching his head, Sam fell to the ground with a strangled cry.

"Please father, please," she begged, tears streaming down her cheeks, blurring the face of the tall, stern man whose arm she clutched so desperately. "I swear I'll be good. It will never happen again, I promise." He was impassive, leaning away from where she gripped his sleeve.

Father pulled his arm free with a brief expression of distaste. He set the candle that had lit their way onto the small table. "I'm sorry, but this is for your own good Charity." He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his hands. "You are a danger to others and I cannot allow you to imperil your brothers or sisters. You will be safe here." With that, Father turned and left her in this dark and terrible place, firmly closing the door behind him with a bang.

Lighting a second candle, Charity sat at the table and looked through the picture book, the pages soft and worn at the corners from use. It was her favourite. The pictures of trees and birds seemed almost to move in the flickering candlelight. It had been so long since she had seen a tree or a flower, years since she had the sun on her face. She almost couldn't remember it.

A sound at the door had her springing to her feet. Father entered, carrying a heavy basket and Charity set aside the beloved book. The smell of food filled the small space as he placed the basket on the table.

"Thank you Father," she said dutifully. Charity had long ago given up begging for freedom, or company or even to see daylight. Father was nothing if not unyielding and if she displeased him, it might mean a shortened visit and a long wait until he returned. Besides his visits, her life was these two rooms, and the thoughts inside her head.

She began to unpack the bounty when he grabbed her arm and pulled her around angrily. "What did you do?" he demanded and she stilled, frightened of his rage.

"Nothing Father." But she was unable to meet his eyes. The night before last she had one of her dreams, the kind Father disapproved of so strongly. The kind he punished her for. Charity didn't know how to stop them, she prayed and she prayed, but still they would come to her sometimes.

In her most recent dream, a boy had fallen from his horse. As he laid so still, she had been unable to resist going to him. Hurrying to him in her dream landscape of grey, she'd wanted to help him, to save him, but she'd kept quiet. She wasn't supposed to have these dreams; she wasn't supposed to be here. Instead she crouched over him and he'd opened his eyes. He looked right at her. Other than Father, Charity hadn't seen another person in many years, and she couldn't prevent herself from staring back at him. Terrified of what she'd done, she shoved him away and fallen backwards only to wake up in her bed in the next room.

"Then explain to me why your younger brother refuses to ride a horse?" Charity said nothing. Father sniffed and shook her arm, gripping tightly. "He claims a girl came to him in a dream and warned him that he would die if he rode one. A girl who looks exactly as you do." She kept silent. What could she say? Her father flung her arm away and stalked to the exit.

"I had hoped you would outgrow this strange perversion, but apparently even at a distance you are a menace to your family." And with that he left, slamming the door so hard, the wind of it extinguished the candles on the table.

Charity lay in her bed. When she'd first come to live here, it had seemed so large, the linens and blankets so comfortable and luxurious. It had been one of the few things she liked about her room. But now she hated it. As she had grown, Father had brought her new boots and clothing, new books and lessons, but it was the same old bed. Perhaps it was the sameness that made her want to scream. It was the same bed, the same table, the same shelves, the same room, the same everything. Sometimes she worried she was going to go mad from the sameness. By her count she had spent eight years - half her life - in these two rooms.

The only thing of any substance that changed was her Father. She reluctantly stood in the bedroom doorway to watch as he made his way to her table. He used a cane now and had grown lean and gaunt. His hair was grey and thin and she no longer had to look up to see his face. For the first time Charity realized her strong, intimidating father could be weak. And if he could be weak, perhaps she could be strong. The first tentative idea of escape flared to life in her mind. Hiding her thoughts, she joined him in unpacking her supplies.

The last candle sputtered out and the room was plunged into black, but Charity didn't notice. Her mind lost track of things so easily now, but she was fairly certain she had been living on only sips of water for at least a few days. She found herself lying on the damp floor but couldn't remember how she had come to be there. Moving was impossible, her limbs refused to obey her directions, so she stayed where she was on the dirt and tried to manage her thoughts.

The last time Father had come, he had been unusually patient throughout her lessons. And he had called her by her name, an occurrence that was rare indeed. Rarer still was the soft smile he shared and the way he touched her sleeve. But, when days and days had passed and he did not come, she wondered if she was being punished for relishing that small treat.

In the early days Father had made her go hungry when he was displeased, making her worry for a meal or two until he came back, usually with a sweet and a new book. And it had been years since he'd done even that. Had he somehow known of her growing thoughts of rebellion, of freedom? Surely even if he was angry he wouldn't be so cruel? Days passed and she found herself missing his presence more than the supplies she needed.

After a month had come and gone with no visit, her stores had run low and she grew frightened. She prayed Father would come, promising heaven she would repent her wickedness and beg forgiveness if only there was his key in the door. Still he didn't come. What had she done to deserve such a fate? And now she was dying, cold and alone in the darkness.

It was a voice that roused her. From where, she was not sure. Before she was nothing, without form or substance, and now she was…something. A voice was explaining how a door had been found behind the wine cabinet. A second voice responded, a voice that was familiar yet not.

Hovering above her own remains, she watched curiously as the door to her tomb creaked open and two men invaded her home. They were carrying small devices that shone beams of light around the room. The younger man was a stranger, dressed in a shirt and mended trousers, with a workman's cap. The older, finely dressed man with a pencil-thin mustache looked very much like Father. She moved closer and all at once his face stirred some faint memory. A memory of family, a memory of her younger brother. Suddenly Charity was filled with a deep longing for connection, companionship, family. Feelings she imagined had died with her body.

She witnessed the two men explore the room marveling at her moldering things. The familiar man flipped open one of her books and read the inscription with his flameless lamp. The colour drained from his face and he closed his eyes. A moment later, the workman called out, having found her bones. They stared at what was left of her earthly body in silence. Eventually the older man spoke.

"Tomorrow you will fill the tunnel with concrete and repair the wall so there is no trace of this passage." The younger man looked at his superior with large, frightened eyes. "You will tell no one of this. Do you understand?" he commanded, the mustache quivering with intensity. The workman nodded fervently, and her brother scowled at him until he bobbed an awkward little bow and hurriedly left the room.

Shining his light around the space one last time, the gentleman muttered to himself. "Oh Father, what did you do?" and tucking her picture book under one arm, turned to leave. Pausing at the door he whispered into the darkness. "I'm so sorry Charity." Then he was gone and she was left to her nonexistence.