I had a longer chapter planned, but got a headache at the end of the week, so I didn't have time to finish it. Here's chapter 7, though, bringing in a few more answers (and some more questions).
Chapter 7
The first entry was dated 6th of January 1985. It had to be close to the time the town became abandoned. Sam did not know who the writer was, but they must have been grown-up. At least, the style read like that of a mature person documenting unusual events. Sam frowned, wondering if the people had seen it coming, whatever it was. If so, why hadn't they done anything to prevent it? Or had it been too late by then?
Tom is missing. This is the third person to go missing in two weeks. The sheriff keeps shrugging his shoulders, saying there isn't anything we can do about it. Tom probably disappeared voluntarily, as did Sally and Kai. I told him it wasn't possible. Sally and Kai, possibly. Neither of them had a very good reputation in town. But Tom – Tom wouldn't. He was too attached to his ailing mother, even more so since the death of his father. You won't convince me that he ran away.
There's something else that has me worried. Tom was sick. I know he went to the doctor's and he hinted it wasn't looking good. Shame, really. He was practically a kid. When I told the sheriff that, he just shook his head darkly. He thinks Tom got some fatal diagnosis and went in the desert with his gun to take care of business himself. Tom wasn't like that, though. He was a fighter. Had to be, since he had been orphaned so young and all.
I'm worried, because apparently, Sally was also sick right before she vanished. Well, Sally has drug problems, everyone in town knows this. So it's hard to tell if she's sick or in withdrawal or whatever else is going on with her. And her roommate was saying she was rambling on and on about some grey-faced monster staring at her from the window. If I go with this to the sheriff, he'll have me arrested for wasting his time on the ramblings of a drug addict.
And Kai…Kai was the first to go missing, I think. No one really knew much about Kai. He came into town with his father, but the layabout abandoned him. I don't even know if Kai was his real name. He might have left all on his own for all I know. They all could have.
Still, I can't help looking at the timeline. This all started when we dug up that hole close to the church. Those from the gas company said they wanted to modernize and extend and whatever. So they dug up holes in several places to put the pipes in. Good and fair, you could say. Only the hole beside the church was full of skeletons. Like a mass grave. And they did not look like they had gone peacefully, either. Their limbs were contorted.
Of course we sent in for reinforcements, some archeologist bigwigs and whatever, and they cordoned off the area and did their stuff, and their theory is they were probably victims of some contagious disease. A plague or something.
Things started to become weird after that. Dogs barked at nothing – a few of them disappeared, too. Some other animals went missing. Sheriff said it must have been a wild animal or something. Coyotes, maybe, but I really doubt that. The sheriff acts as if he can't hear the noises at night. Something scratching at the door. Something looking at you through the window. Something that was here long before us and doesn't want us here anymore.
xxxxXXXxxxx
Sam flicked through the diary. There were several more disappearances. The writer of the diary had begun to discover a pattern. Sam bit his lips. He finally understood what was happening. If this was true, then he and Dean had been the last people that should have been sent to the town.
"I've gotta tell Dean," Sam muttered. "He needs to know."
When he tried to get up, though, he realized his feet would no longer cooperate with him. He sat down heavily again and leaned his head against the table. Time was of the essence. If he did not hurry, those things would come for them. Or for Peter. Still, Sam could no longer keep his eyes open. He did not have the strength to call for help, either.
The last thing he heard was the sound of nails scratching against the window. They were outside, Sam thought. They had come.
xxxXXXXxxxx
John grimaced as he caught sight of Bobby's truck pulling in front of Arthur Croydon's house. He had no idea how Singer had got there so quickly – probably John had caught him already on the road on a hunt of his own. Now that he was there, John was certain Bobby would give them a piece of his mind. He suddenly did not think he wanted to be in the same room as Bobby and the general. Somehow, he knew Bobby would take one look at Croydon and decide he was bad news.
Still, John decided he was mature enough to suck it up and face Bobby's wrath. He had no idea why Bobby should be wrathful in the first place. The boys were John's. It wasn't as if Bobby shared custody with John, although John suspected Singer would have loved that.
John left the house and went to meet Bobby. Croydon came after him.
"This is Bobby Singer," John introduced him. "He helps me sometimes. We'll go find Sam and Dean."
Croydon gave Bobby a curt nod, then frowned at John.
"I thought your boys could handle it."
John was surprised Croydon had seemingly forgotten so quickly John had nearly taken his head off the last time he had slighted one of his sons. One look at Bobby told John he was quite close to getting his shotgun.
"They might need reinforcements," John admitted.
Bobby snorted.
"I'd say."
Croydon looked from John to Bobby.
"What about Elizabeth?"
"Out of the people that have been disappearing there, no one came back," Bobby explained soberly. "There were no bodies, either, but you must still get ready for bad news."
Croydon nodded.
"I'm already expecting the worst."
Bobby watched him, assessing.
"How is your wife taking all this, Mr. Croydon?"
John frowned at the question. It was not like Bobby to make small talk.
Croydon stiffened.
"It's General Croydon," he said. "And my wife's been dead for ten years."
He turned and left, walking back to the house and slamming the door pointedly behind him. Bobby did not seem bothered by the reply. If anything, he seemed to have been expecting it.
"We'd better go," he told John. "We'll take my car."
John decided this was not the right situation for them to lock horns over who got to drive and lead the hunt. He transferred some of the weapons in his truck to Bobby's vehicle – even though Bobby had quite the arsenal himself.
"So what was that about?" he asked. "The question to Croydon? What made you ask about his wife?"
Bobby started the car and pulled out of the yard.
"It was just something I needed to confirm," he said.
John shifted in his seat, irritated by Bobby's vague hints.
"Confirm what? Singer, you know I hate it when I don't have the whole truth."
Bobby directed a dark glare towards him.
"You didn't have the whole truth when you sent Sam and Dean in there," he pointed out.
John huffed.
"Not this again."
Bobby slammed his hand against the dashboard.
"Yes, this again, Winchester. Because that mention of Croydon's wife just confirmed to me what a big mess you made of things by sending Sam and Dean out there alone. They were always to become victims, just like Elizabeth."
John stared at him in horror. What had he done?
xxxXXXXxxxx
Dean woke up with a gasp. Something was wrong. His instincts were on the alert. He could sense the threat in the air. It came from outside. Their improvised defenses would probably hold, but Dean was suddenly beyond creeped out. It was just registering to him that he was in a stranger's house, and that whoever had owned that place had disappeared under strange circumstances that had to do with whatever was outside. Who knew how many restless spirits were in that place? Inside one of those houses felt just as threatening as outside.
Something tickled his throat and he started coughing. He coughed and coughed, nearly choking. By the end of the fit, he was on his knees, head bent and trembling. He closed his eyes trying to get his breath back.
The front door rattled. Dean frowned.
"No you won't, asshat," he muttered.
He got up shakily. Apart from the rattling and the creaking, the place was silent. He could hear nothing inside the house. Dean should have felt relieved – but he wasn't.
Sam was not there. He was sure his coughing fit had been heard. Sam would have never slept through something like that. The brothers were so attuned to each other, that even if Sam had been sleeping deeply, he would still have woken up at the sound of Dean in distress. And he wouldn't have hesitated. Dean might have tried often to reject Sam's help when he was hurt, but Sam got like a bloddhound whenever Dean was in trouble. He refused to allow himself to be driven away – and Dean had been often blunt about it. Insults and snide comments, Sam took it all, gave as good as he got and did not hesitate to help Dean despite Dean's protests.
Dean got up and headed up the stairs. He peered into Beatrice's room. She was asleep. Peter was stirring restlessly, but seemed no worse than before. Dean wondered how long that would last. If the creatures would make their move, it would be on Peter first.
He searched for Sam in the other rooms and found him in the office, papers strewn all over the table in typical Sam fashion. He glimpsed something from the corner of his eye at the window, but when he approached it disappeared. He had time to see a shadow sprinting down the street. Dean frowned. He was sure there was something still at the front door. Were there more than one creature? What was happening there anyway?
Finally, Dean turned to Sam, who seemed to be asleep, his head on the table. Dean approached him.
"Sam," he whispered. "Rise and shine."
Sam did not move. Dean reached out and grabbed his shoulder, his heart pounding. Sam was warm – too warm maybe – and he was still breathing, which quelled Dean's fear that Sam had somehow died during the night while Dean was not looking. Still, the fact that he wasn't waking up was worrying.
Dean shook him slightly.
"Sammy," he said. "Hey, Sam, wake up."
Sam's face scrunched up as if in pain, but he remained asleep. Dean shook him harder.
"Sam!" he shouted. "Sammy, I swear, if you don't wake up right now, then I'll tell the next girl you like that you secretly play with Barbie dolls and spend all your free time combing their hair."
Sam stirred and opened his eyes, squinting up at him. Dean heaved a sigh of relief.
"Oh, so now you wake up," he quipped.
Sam looked confused.
"Dean?"
He sounded disoriented and frightened. Dean ran his hand up and down Sam's arms.
"Hey, it's alright. You're safe. I promise."
They weren't, except that Dean really didn't intend for anything bad to happen to Sam. In his mind, Sam was always safe when he was with Dean. Sam seemed to agree, as he settled down at the sound of his brother's voice.
"Dean, there was something outside."
Dean nodded.
"Yeah, I saw it. There are several somethings outside. It's more than one creature. What the hell's going on here, Sam?"
Sam tried to sit up. He looked slightly dizzy so Dean did not let go of him. Sam did not seem to mind the closeness either, which was quite a change from the usual noise he made about Dean being in his face. Dean did not know if he should feel gratified or relieved that Sam wasn't pushing him away now.
"You Ok?" Sam asked.
Dean snorted tiredly.
"Sam, have you seen your face in the mirror recently? Because you look like crap. I think those things are after you."
Sam shook his head. He stopped and swallowed harshly. Dean felt his concern increase.
"What is it?" he asked.
Sam did not answer right away, swallowing convulsively a few times.
"Sorry. I shouldn't be shaking my head right now. Makes me feel dizzy and nauseous."
Dean raised his eyebrows. Sam rarely admitted to being unwell even in the best of times.
"Well, here's a fair warning. You puke on the leather jacket, I'm smothering you in it."
Sam huffed, leaning heavily against Dean.
"That tough guy persona would have worked much better if you weren't practically holding me in your arms."
"Careful, Sammy," Dean quipped. "One more chick flick line and I'll revoke your big boy privileges."
Still, he did not let go, and Sam did not seem to want him to, either.
"You're wrong," Sam said. "Because it's not me and it's not you. It's both of us. It would have been both of us anyway."
Dean frowned. Sam was hardly making any sense.
"You're not getting delirious on me, are you, Sammy?"
Sam did not answer right away.
"My thoughts are a bit muddled," he admitted, to Dean's growing concern. "But…I've read this journal. And it all fits. We need to talk to Beatrice, too but…she said she's divorced, right? We need to ask her if Peter's dad still has any parental rights."
Dean wondered where Sam was going with all this.
"What's that got to do with anything?" he asked.
"The people who started disappearing," Sam said. "In the journal, the writer found a pattern to the first disappearances. I wanted to come wake you up as soon as I read it but I…I think I fell asleep?"
Dean was pretty sure Sam had actually passed out, but he would argue about etymology later on.
"What pattern?" he asked.
Sam looked at him gravely.
"One we both fit. It was never going to be just one of us, Dean. If something happened to you, if the creature took you, I would have been next."
Dean closed his eyes. Sam often pleaded for more research before entering a hunt. John often preferred the old-fashioned attack and see what's next approach. Dean enjoyed his father's version more and took John's side, overruling Sam's protests. Now Dean was beginning to understand Sam might actually have a point.
"Sam…" he began, then stop, realizing that apologizing was not going to get them out of the situation. "Tell me."
Sam reached out and clutched Dean's arm.
"I think eventually all the town disappeared," he said. "But the first victims all had something in common. Either one or both of their parents had either died or abandoned them when they were kids."
Dean drew back to look at Sam's face.
"The General never mentioned a Mrs. Croydon, did he?" he asked worriedly.
Sam looked away.
"No. We walked right into this Dean."
Dean had no idea what to say about that.
xxxxXXXXxxx
Godfrey woke up abruptly in the middle of the night. He thought it was raining. That wasn't what had ended his sleep, though. No, something else had brought him back to the waking world. It was an instinct that an uncertain life had forced him to develop. Contact with powers beyond one's understanding came with a price. Constant vigilance was a curse – but it was how someone in Godfrey's situation kept himself alive.
He switched on the lamp, blinking at the glare. When his eyes adjusted, he searched the room. Nothing seemed amiss. Of course, Godfrey knew all the hunters' tricks. Salt and sigils and even garlic and hazel branches. Some basil at the windows to keep succubae out, although Godfrey's friends sometimes joked that, with his mug, only a desperate succubus would want him. Nothing could get in his room unless he wanted it to.
"Safest place there is, eh, Luck?" he asked.
The black cat looked at him without blinking. Godfrey had often joked about it being his familiar. It wasn't, really. It was just a stray cat he had decided to take in. Animals could sometimes sense the supernatural. Luck was his early warning system.
The picture of Mary stood on the table. Godfrey hesitated, then reached out for it. She looked different than the girl Godfrey remembered, hunting with her father. He shook his head.
"Campbell, you should have listened to me," he said. "You should have kept your daughter out of all this."
It was too late now. Samuel Campbell was dead, as was his wife. As was Mary. And something had happened the night Mary had died. Something that brought the world one step closer to darkness.
Godfrey shuddered. He could not stay here. He knew too much. He knew more than he had told John.
"We'd better pack our bags, Luck," he said. "It's time to move the shop. People will be coming for us."
Briefly, he thought of Croydon and his daughter, and the ghost town. That was where he was. Mary's son. The one who…
"If something happens to him there, it will be for the good of us all."
Luck still kept looking at him, and Godfrey turned away in disgust.
"I know what you want to say. It's like you're not my familiar. You're my conscience, and people with a conscience have fewer chances of surviving than those without one."
Still, he was talking about a kid. The grandson of one of his friends. Could he really allow a kid to die?
Samuel Campbell would have. In a heartbeat. If he had thought his grandson was a threat, he would have killed him himself. Maybe the father would have, too. He was a Hunter, after all. And Hunters held with their causes more than they held with their families – or with what normal humans would consider moral and acceptable.
"Well, Hunters are bastards," Godfrey declared. "You win, Luck. You'll be spending some time with the old lady down the street. I'm going on a trip tomorrow."
He wanted to see Mary's son. And, more than this, he wanted to save him. For Mary. Who had saved Godfrey even when her father had ordered her to leave him behind.
I'd planned on Godfrey being more of an antagonist, but as I was writing him, he was becoming more and more ambivalent, until he actually turned into someone decent. Funny how characters take on a life of their own like this.
Next chapter will explain in more detail the mystery of the town. Promise.