Although we had barely scratched the surface of the state, our drive through Texas was taking an excruciatingly long time. With hours of bland scenery under our belt, I'd seen enough cattle ranches to last a lifetime. I began flipping through John's journal. I wasn't looking for anything particular, just something to pass the time. Shifting my legs stretched the bandaged cuts on my ribs. I gently rubbed the sensitive tissue to soothe its ache. A week had gone by since our encounter with those Daevas, and we all still looked like we went ten rounds with an angry razor. Unsurprisingly, we hadn't heard from John. He went back into hiding, and we went back to hunting. It needed to happen, but I wished he'd at least let us know he's all right.
The front seat squeaked, making me look up from a brief passage about death echoes. Dean reached for something just below my view. No matter how long our trips lasted, he wasn't one to fidget while he drove. Before I could ask what was wrong, he came back wearing a mischievous grin and holding a plastic spoon, which did nothing to clear up my confusion until he carefully placed said spoon into a sleeping Sam's open mouth. I rolled my eyes and returned to the scribbled words on the page. Then something occurred: did doing nothing to stop what was happening make me immature by association?
A quick click of Dean's phone taking a photo was followed by blaring music. I cringed, instinctively bringing my shoulder to my ear to shield myself from the noise. Sam jerked up, hands flailing in panic and ripping the plastic from his mouth. Dean obnoxiously banged the steering wheel in time with the beat while Sam angrily wiped saliva from his chin and shut the music off. A laugh bubbled from my lips without my permission.
Sam glared at me over his shoulder. "That was funny, huh?" he asked, offended.
I pressed my lips together tightly to stifle another laugh. "No. Not at all."
"Sorry, not a lot of scenery here in East Texas. Kinda gotta make your own." Dean apologized, but his added chuckle made his sorry a little less sincere.
"Man, we're not kids anymore, Dean," Sam complained. "We're not going to start that crap up again."
"Start what up?"
"That prank stuff. It's stupid, and it always escalates." He wasn't wrong. A couple of those stunts we pulled back then were so bad we didn't speak for days. I had to admit, in hindsight, they were fun, but we were definitely too old to get back into it.
"Aw, what's the matter, Sammy?" Dean cooed patronizingly. "Scared you're going to get a little Nair in your shampoo again, huh?"
"All right." Sam huffed along with the sound of angry gears turning in his head. "Just remember you started it."
"Bring it on, baldy."
I planted my feet on the floorboard and put the journal beside me. "Where are we now?" I asked.
"A few hours outside of Richardson," Dean answered, tapping his thumb on the steering wheel, no doubt planning his retaliation against Sam, even though his brother hadn't done a thing yet. "Gimme the lowdown again?" he asked.
"About a month or two ago, this group of kids goes poking around in this local haunted house," Sam explained.
"Haunted by what?"
"Apparently, a pretty misogynistic spirit. Legend goes, it takes girls and strings them up in the rafters."
I scoffed, "What a dick."
Sam nodded, continuing, "So, this group of kids see this dead girl hanging in the cellar."
"Anybody ID the corpse?" Dean asked.
"Well, that's the thing. By the time the cops got there, the body was gone. So, cops are saying the kids were just yanking chains."
"Maybe the cops are right."
"You think the cops are right?" I challenged.
Dean shrugged and squinted. "It could happen."
"Maybe, but I read a couple of the kid's firsthand accounts," Sam said. "They seemed pretty sincere."
"Where'd you read these accounts?"
"Well." Sam cleared his throat and scratched his head. "I knew we were going to be passing through Texas. So, um, last night, I surfed some local… paranormal websites. And I found one."
"Oh God," I sighed and shared an eye roll with Dean. Most of these sites were created by attention seekers looking to get their fifteen minutes of fame. Nothing more, nothing less. "What is it?"
Sam let out a sheepish laugh. "Hell Hounds Lair."
"Lemme guess–" Dean began, "Streaming live out of Mom's basement."
"Yeah, probably."
"Most of those websites wouldn't know a ghost if it bit 'em in the persqueeter."
"Dean." I slapped his shoulder. He looked back at me in question. "Gross," I answered.
"Look," Sam started, his amusement nearly all gone, replaced with seriousness. "We let Dad take off. Which was a mistake, by the way. And now we don't know where the hell he is, so meantime, we gotta find ourselves something to hunt. There's no harm checking this thing out."
"All right," Dean conceded. "Where do we find these kids?"
"Same place you always find kids in a town like this."
A local twenty-four seven fast food place was bustling with teenagers and college kids killing time on a weeknight. Our witnesses were scattered throughout, so we took the time to speak to each one individually. My assumption this would be relatively cut and dry was very wrong. Each of those kids was adamant about their story; the only issue was they all told us something different. One claimed the house's walls were painted black, while the other insisted they were stained red and painted with symbols like crosses, stars, and Pentecostals. Another said she kept her eyes shut the entire time but somehow managed to see the walls covered in blood. Their stories began to line up when they each stated they found the girl. They couldn't seem to decide on her appearance, rapidly going back and forth between black, blonde, and red hair. The jittery boy working the cash register said she was hanging there, unmoving. The more erratic guy in the friend group claimed she was kicking, desperately clinging to life.
They all agreed on two things, however: the girl was real. And Craig Thurston was the one who brought them there.
In the morning, we ventured downtown to a vinyl shop. Its walls were lined with decorative albums, music posters, guitars, and shelves of CDs. A plethora of records filled displays scattered all over the room. The earthy smell of old paper and new plastic filled the air. It was a music junkie's dream. Behind the counter, a college-aged guy was sorting through a record stack. He looked up from his task as we entered. "Can I help you with anything?" he asked in a friendly tone.
"Yeah, are you Craig Thurston?" Sam inquired.
He carried a few records to one of the displays, carefully placing them in their alphabetical section. "I am."
"Well, we're reporters with the Dallas Morning News. I'm Dean," he introduced, "this is Sam, and that's Tori."
Craig brightened. "No way! I'm a writer, too! I write for my school's lit magazine."
Dean thumbed through a few albums. "Well, good for you, Morrissey," he quipped.
Before Craig had the chance to let that comment sink in, I cleared my throat and smiled wide. "We're actually doing an article about local hauntings. There's some rumors going around that you might know of one?"
"You mean the Hell House?" he asked.
"That's the one," Dean said.
"I didn't think there was anything to the story."
"What is the story?" I pressed.
"Well." Craig crossed the room back to his desk, putting space between us. "Supposedly, back in the thirties, this farmer, Mordechai Murdoch, used to live in this house with his six daughters. It was during the Depression. His crops were failing; he didn't have enough money to feed his own children. So, I guess that's when he went off the deep end."
"How?" Sam asked.
"He figured it was best if his girls died quick, rather than starve to death. So he attacked them. They screamed, begged for him to stop, but he just strung them up, one after the other. And when he was all finished, he just turned around and hung himself. Now they say that his spirit is trapped in the house forever, stringing up any other girl that goes inside."
Dean nodded along. "Where'd you hear all this?"
"My cousin Dana told me. I don't know where she heard it from. You gotta realize," Craig stuffed his hands into his pockets, "I- I didn't believe this for a second."
"But now you do?" I asked.
"I don't know what the hell to think. I'll tell you exactly what I told the police, okay? That girl was real. And she was dead. This was not a prank." Craig's shoulders protectively raised around his neck. This was how it always started. People think it's one big joke, and then they're scarred forever. Maybe he was bullshitting about the rest, but his fear was genuine. "I swear to god, I don't wanna go anywhere near that house ever again, okay?"
Dusk was fast approaching, blanketing the overgrown grass on the Hell House's property in a sheet of mist. A moat of muddy dirt surrounded the foreboding structure. It was all wood—breaking, rotting, and falling apart—and covered in vines that spiraled up its porch banisters and crawled across the roof. As we drew nearer, its creaking became louder. I could see why every bored teenager in this small town would spend their weekends daring each other to go inside. It was creepy.
"Can't say I blame the kid," Sam said, breaking away from us to peer through a window into the dilapidated home.
"Yeah, so much for curb appeal," Dean commented. We stopped at the front porch. I took an EMF meter from my pocket. "Hey, maybe you shouldn't go in there," he told me. "You know, just in case."
"Why?" I asked.
"He goes after girls, Tor."
"I'll be fine. No big, bad ghost is gonna me with you around, right?"
His reaction came much like I expected; he puffed out his chest and stood tall. "'Course not."
I ticked on the device. Immediately, all the lights went bright red, and it beeped rapidly. "Oh, wow, that was fast."
You got something?" Sam asked as he returned.
"No, the EMF's no good," Deann announced, tapping the device a few times to try and make it stop. "I think that thing's still got a little juice in." He nodded to the powerlines overhead. "It's screwing with the readings.
"Guess we gotta do this the old-fashioned way then." I shut the meter down and tucked it into my jacket. The first step leading into the house was the strongest and had no issue bearing any weight, but the second groaned when it was touched. Just like its exterior, the inside was run-down—walls full of termite-bitten holes and covered in soot. The air was stagnant and musty. Somehow, though, the place had some life left, mostly due to the symbols painted all over and the freshly melted red and white candles.
Dean whistled, inspecting the walls. "Looks like old man Murdock was a bit of a tagger here in his time."
"And after his time, too." Sam pointed to a black cross neatly drawn in ink. "That reverse cross has been used by Satanists for centuries." He gestured to another, smaller symbol—a tipped plus sign within a circle—and brought up his phone to take a photo. "This sigil of sulfur didn't show up in San Francisco until the sixties."
"That is exactly why you never get laid," Dean commented. I broke away from them. Near a fireplace was a smashed chest with a crystal box of trinkets and gold jewelry inside. I leaned in for a closer look at one of the necklaces. Its chain was tarnished, and the yellow gem at the center was caked with dust, signaling all the years gone by since it'd been worn. No doubt the person it belonged to was long gone. Maybe it was one of Mordechai's daughters. It's any wonder no one snatched it yet.
"Hey, what about this one?" Dean asked from the other end of the room, standing before a symbol drawn in red halfway up the wall. It was a cross with a dot in the middle and the bottom flipping like an upside-down question mark. "Either of you seen this one before?"
"No," Sam replied, making his way to his brother.
"Me either," I said.
"I have." Dean nodded, thinking. "Somewhere."
Sam stretched up to touch it. "It's paint," he revealed, tapping his fingertips together. "Seems pretty fresh, too."
"You know, I hate to agree with authority figures of any kind, but... the cops may be right about this one."
"First time for everything," I remarked. "Nothing here but kids with a couple cans of spray paint and too much time on their hands."
"Yeah," Sam sighed. "Maybe."
An abrupt crash came from the other room, too loud to be the house settling. We briskly walked to the door on the opposite side of the noise. Dean looked to his right at Sam and left to me, ensuring we were ready before he opened it. A bright light assaulted my eyes before I had the chance to shield them, creating overlapping white spirals in my vision. My fists shot up in front of my torso protectively.
"Oh, cut!" a red-headed guy with glasses complained. My fighting stance didn't go away, even after he came into view. "It's just some humans," he waved, angrily jabbing buttons on a camera. I forced my limbs to relax and blinked until the rings were gone.
The mousey, dark-haired man next to him shut off his industrial flashlight camera. "What are you guys doing here?" he asked.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean asked. I think we all would've preferred a homicidal ghost.
"Uh, we belong here," said the first guy in an obvious tone, as though we should've known. "We're professionals."
"Professional what?" I asked, eying him skeptically. They didn't look experienced enough in much of anything to be considered professionals.
"Paranormal Investigators," he said, pulling three cards out of his card out of his pocket, fanning them out before us. "There you go." He gave me what he probably thought was a charming grin. "Take a look at that, Sweet Cheeks."
My cheeks sucked in at the nickname. I didn't take the card. Instead, I folded my arms tightly across my chest. Dean snatched the flimsy paper squares with force. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me," he grumbled.
Sam took one of the cards from him and looked it over. "Ed Zeddmore and Harry Spangler?" he read. Each man raised their hand in correspondence with their name. Ed—the redhead, and Harry—the brunette. "Hellhoundslair… you guys run that website."
"Yeah," Ed said cockily. "You've heard of us?"
"Yeah, yeah," Dean droned, cutting in front of them to inspect a cabinet. He looked back, catching my eyes and rolling his. "We're huge fans."
"Well, let me let you in on a little secret. We know who you guys are, too."
No way some random dudes on a ghost hunt in some backwoods town knew us, right? "Oh, yeah?" Sam questioned guardedly. "Who's that?"
Ed cleared his throat. "Amateurs," he said, and we relaxed. "Looking for ghosts and cheap thrills."
"Yup," Harry finally spoke. It seemed he was the quieter of the two. In that utility vest he had on, he looked more like he was ready for a day of fishing than hunting ghosts. "So, if you guys don't mind, we're trying to conduct a serious scientific investigation here."
"Sorry we interrupted," I mumbled. It didn't matter anyway; whatever they were trying for would be a bust. There were no spirits here.
"Oh yeah?" Dean asked, sifting through their open utility bag on the counter and picking up a pair of tactical binoculars. "What have you got so far?"
"Why don't you tell 'em about EMF?" Ed said to his friend, trying to suppress his eagerness. He looked excited, wanting us to pry further.
"Well..." Harry trailed off, unsure, as though it were a tidbit of groundbreaking information and not something anyone with an internet connection and some off-kilter interests would know about.
"EMF?" Sam asked so innocently I almost believed his cluelessness. He held his composure well—certainly better than me. I had to keep my eyes ahead because if I looked at him or Dean, I'd laugh.
"Electromagnetic field," Harry explained, retrieving the device from their bag on the counter. It didn't appear to be a fake. I thought for sure it'd be a toy they won in a claw machine. "Spectral entities can cause energy fluctuations that can be read with an EMF detector, like this bad boy right here." The meter began whistling, responding to the powerlines above. Harry was none the wiser. "Whoa! It's–"
"Two-point-eight?" Ed fanned himself. "It's hot in here."
Sam nodded appreciatively. "Wow."
"So, you guys ever really seen a ghost before, or…?" Dean asked and leaned against the counter, anxiously awaiting their response.
Ed swallowed hard. "Once," he said. "We were, uh– we were investigating this old house, and we saw a vase fall right off the table..."
"Byitself," Harry added darkly.
I forcefully widened my eyes and clutched my chest. "That must have been so scary!"
"Well, we– we didn't actually see it. We heard it," Ed corrected and clenched his jaw in an effort to appear more courageous. "But something like that… it, uh– it changes you."
"You're so brave." I bit my lip coyly and twirled a lock of hair in my fingers. A rush of color almost red enough to match his hair flooded Ed's fair skin. Sam's quiet chuckle didn't seem to catch either ghost hunter off guard, and they remained on their high—delusional—horse.
"I think we get the picture," Dean said, returning to us. "We should go; let them get back to work."
"Yeah, you should," Ed said. "By the way, that card has my number on it," he told me. "Don't feel too intimidated to call. I don't bite… hard."
It was my turn to be left speechless. Dean gruffly threw an arm around my shoulders and led me out of the room. "I think you scared them, man," Harry mumbled as we left.
"It's okay. She liked it." Ed tried to seem tough, but a chuckle—that frankly sounded like it'd come from a little girl—bubbled through. "I'm sorry. That pot we smoked gave me the giggles."
Faced with sitting still and staring at books or speaking to cops, Dean ultimately chose the latter and went to the police station to collect info on missing persons from the past few months, hoping we could align it with that girl at the Hell House. An hour later, we met back up outside the library as planned.
"What you got?" Dean asked.
"Well, we couldn't find a Mordechai. But there was a Martin Murdock who lived in that house back in the thirties," I explained as we ventured down the clear sidewalk. "He had two kids—both boys—and there's nothing to prove that he ever killed anyone. What about you? Don't tell me there was another perky cop."
"Far from it," he laughed. "Those kids didn't really give us a clear description of that dead girl, but no matching missing persons. It's like she never existed."
"It's just weird," Sam chimed in. Our whole stint in the library was occupied by him refusing to let go of the fact that there was really nothing here.
"Dude, come on, we did our digging, man. This one's a bust. For all we know, those Hell Hound boys made up the whole thing. I say we find ourselves a bar and some beers and leave the legend to the locals," Dean said. I was about to follow him into the Impala when Sam grabbed my arm and held me back. I raised a questioning eyebrow and received a nod to his brother in return.
As the engine roared to life, loud pop music blared from the speakers, rattling the windows. Dean shouted in surprise and tried to shut it off, but doing so only turned on the wipers. I covered my mouth to stifle a laugh. Dean's frantic flipping of buttons and switches finally made everything stop. Sam climbed into the passenger seat and marked an imaginary one in the air, pointing to himself.
"That's all you got?" Dean asked, trying to appear as though he wasn't annoyed that his car was messed with. "Weak. That is bush league."
"You guys are so childish," I tutted, getting in the backseat.
Sam looked at me over his shoulder. "You used to pull pranks, too."
"That was when I was a kid. I'm a woman now."
"Yeah," he scoffed condescendingly, "okay."
I lightly smacked the back of his head. "I am!"
"Kinda sounds like you think you're better than us," Dean assessed, eyebrow raised over his shoulder. Sam nodded in agreement.
"No, I'm not better," I said. "Just way more mature."
Our plan of drinking and crashing in the car before getting back on the road was ruined the moment we pulled into the bar's parking lot as a cascade of red and blue zoomed past. At the light, if they made a left, it was unrelated to our reason for showing up here in the first place, but if they made a right, then, well, we knew what to expect. Naturally, they turned right.
Cops gathered around the Hell House, some speaking in hushed tones while others interviewed neighbors and roped off the structure with cartoon tape. Coroners wheeled a stretcher with a full body back out of the house and into their waiting van. When the commotion died down, we approached one of the witnesses and asked what happened. He informed us that last night, a local girl—a straight-A student with a full scholarship to UT and seemingly no reason to have done this—hung herself. People had problems behind the scenes, things going on that sometimes even their closest friends and loved ones didn't know about, but this was out of place. And combined with the rest of the history here, too much of a coincidence.
Long after the sun had set, a few cops still remained on the perimeter of the property. We crouched behind a thick shroud of trees, watching them. "I guess they don't want anyone else screwing around in there," Sam said in a hushed tone.
My calves burned from my crouched position, but I couldn't move. They'd see. "We still gotta get in," I said.
Leaves crunched across the field behind us, rapid murmurs accompanying them. Running through the thick grass with the grace and stealth of two rhinos were Ed and Harry, dressed in tactical gear. "I don't believe it," Dean mumbled.
"They've gotta be joking."
"I got an idea." Dean cupped a hand around his mouth, leaning through an opening in the trees, and yelled, "Who ya gonna call!?" The cops, who had previously been minding their own business, turned in our direction. I grabbed Dean's jacket and pulled him to the ground with me.
"Hey!" one of the cops shouted as they rushed over. "Freeze!" Ed and Harry scrambled for cover but knocked into each other instead before finally making their getaway. The cops were hot on their trail, giving us an opening to rush inside. Sam pulled our rifles from his bag and handed them out. Dean flicked on his flashlight, landing on the same question mark-like symbol from before.
"Where have I seen that symbol?" he asked. "It's killing me!"
"You'll figure it out later," I said.
"Come on, we don't have much time," Sam instructed, heading for the basement.
In the lower half of the house, shielded from busted windows that the cops could see, we could relax a bit more and explore. Not that there was much to see—just tattered newspapers strewn across the damp concrete and a few broken pieces of wooden furniture. Along the far wall was a shelving unit. On it sat a few jars filled with questionable-looking liquids. Dean plucked one with a red tint. "Hey, Sam," he sloshed it around, "I dare you to take a swig of this."
"What the hell would I do that for?" Sam asked, pure and utter disgust written all over his face.
"... I double dare you."
I took the jar from Dean and put it back on the shelf. "If you put anything in here anywhere near your mouth, I will ditch you."
A low, growling scrape etched across the dirty concrete floor on the other side of the room. Nothing was immediately visible. The source of the sound came from within an old, rickety cabinet. We readied our guns, and on a silent count of three, Sam opened the squealing door. Several rats squeaked in surprise and scurried from our flashlights—a couple of them bonking into our boots as they fled.
Dean let out a noise of disgust and skidded back. "God. I hate rats."
"You'd rather it was a ghost?" Sam asked, amused.
"Yes."
"Aw, come on," I cooed teasingly. "They're cute." Dean's nose crinkled.
Just as we turned to search the rest of the basement, a tall, pale grey figure came into the light. His teeth clenched tight as he swung an ax through the air, narrowly missing us by mere inches. Sam shot at the spirit. All the bullet did was cause him to stumble back, but he didn't disappear. It barely made a dent in him. He kept coming. Dean took a shot of his own, and this time, Mordechai vanished in a cloud of black smoke.
"What the hell kind of spirit is immune to rock salt?" Sam asked breathlessly.
"I don't know," Dean replied as he tucked the gun under his arm. Judging by the worry in his voice, he didn't want to stick around to find out. I couldn't agree more. I grabbed the back of his jacket and started moving for the exit. Mordechai reappeared, crashing his ax into the shelf of mason jars, sending shards of glass and globs of liquid flying everywhere. Dean slipped from the grasp and onto the ground. I hurried to help him to his feet while Sam struggled against Mordechai.
Just before the spirit could overpower him, Sam ducked out of the way, causing Mordechai to miss his intended target and hit an electrical box. Sparks flew. We booked it up the stairs and outside. In our rush to get away, the boys busted through the front door and slipped down the steps, breaking through the strings of emergency tape looped around the entrance. I helped them to their feet. Much to my surprise, Ed and Harry stood feet away, camera at the ready. It didn't even occur to me until we'd already made a scene that the cops could've been back. All I could previously focus on was the new breed of ghost that salt rounds couldn't take out. Neither of us was prepared to deal with that.
"Get that damn thing out of my face!" Dean growled at Ed as he pushed by. Sam sputtered a string of "Go's," but neither of the men listened. Ed and Harry stayed there until we were far into the brush. All I could hear as we left were the sounds of them screaming bloody murder. I hoped they got away. At least, most of me did.
As soon as we arrived at the motel, I grabbed a set of pajamas and my toiletries bag and head straight for the shower. I needed desperately to wash off this layer of grime and soothe my tense muscles. "You taking a shower?" Dean asked eagerly from his spot on the foot of our bed.
"Yeah." I stopped in the doorway and smiled. "Why, you wanna come?"
His eyes lit up, and he opened his mouth to answer when Sam ordered, "No," not even bothering to look up from the clothes he was sorting through.
"Raincheck," I told Dean.
"Buzzkill," he snapped at his brother.
"Get over it," Sam said, just as short.
In the bathroom, I let the water warm up while getting undressed. I brushed my hair to get out any tangles to bide time. Once it reached the temperature I was looking for, I stepped under the stream and stood there for a minute or two, allowing the warmth to penetrate my sore muscles. I lathered up a washcloth and scoured my skin to get the ick from that house off me. I wet my hair and kept my eyes closed while squirting a good amount of shampoo into my hands. Rather than their usual foamy suds coating my hair, it turned into a slimy goop. I peered through water droplets falling from my eyelashes to see what had happened. Trickling between my fingers and down my wrists were green-tinted globs. I quickly grabbed a handful of suds from my hair and released a small squeak of horror when it came back in green bubbles. The bottom of the shower was flooded with an inch of swampy water. I scrambled to rinse my hair and jump out.
For some stupid reason, I hoped I wouldn't see exactly what I did when wiping away the layer of moisture from the mirror. "Oh my god," my voice left through tight lips as I took in my appearance. My normal champagne-blonde hair was stained a lizard green with yellows scattered throughout. Heat rolled from the top of my lime-colored head to the bottom of my stained emerald feet, partially settling in my chest somewhere along the way. I grabbed the nearest towel to wrap around myself and flung the door open. Both boys jumped as it banged into the wall. The lash of sound was followed by deafening silence. Sam's mouth fell open. He glanced at Dean, then back to me.
"Who did this?!" I exploded.
Dean attempted to conceal his shit-eating grin with forced surprise. "Did what?" he asked innocently.
"Dean, I swear to God–!" Just when I thought I had found my culprit, Sam's eyes crinkled. "Was it both of you?"
"Hey," Sam pointed accusingly at his brother, "he convinced me!"
"But he bought the dye!" Dean argued, jutting a thumb at Sam.
"After you told me to, Dean! And–"
"How the hell do I get this out?!" I interrupted, uninterested in who originated the idea.
Sam had the decency to look a bit regretful. "I don't know, but it's temporary!" he reassured.
"And how temporary is temporary?!" I snarled. I didn't care about his apologetic puppy-dog eyes.
"A few washes, probably," Dean said, shrugging his shoulders as though that were no big deal. "Come on, Cherry Pie, we're just having a little fun."
"You guys suck," I hissed, retreating into the bathroom and slamming the door. Fun, huh? I thought. We'll see.
Once I finished getting dressed, I made a beeline for the bed. I didn't want to speak to either of them. Dean noted how I angled away from him when I plopped down. "You still mad?" he asked, stopping his scribbling on a notepad.
I sucked my teeth. "No."
Dean cocked a suspicious eyebrow. "You're not?"
I shook my head. My hair fell over my shoulder, fanning out like soggy blades of grass. It took me a few seconds before I could muster the word, "Nope." It was almost true. My anger had somewhat lessened, but only because I was busy plotting revenge.
"Well, I guess that's what maturity does, huh?" Dean chuckled, tapping his pen on the edge of his finger. He saw straight through me.
"I guess," I shrugged it off and peered at the sketch. It was the same symbol from the house—a question-mark-cross. Seeing it took my mind off everything else, at least for a moment. "Still trying to figure it out?"
"Yeah. It's bugging the hell out of me. This whole damn job's bugging me. I thought the legend said Mordechai only goes after chicks."
"It does," Sam answered from behind his laptop.
"Well, I mean, that explains why he went after you two, but why me?"
"Hilarious," he droned, finding it anything but. "The legend also says he hung himself, but did you see those slit wrists?"
"And the ax," I noted Mordecai's change of weapon. "I thought ghosts follow the same pattern over and over?"
"They do, but this mook keeps changing," Dean said, gripping the pen in frustration.
"Exactly. I'm telling you, the way the story goes–" A click of the mousepad made Sam stop. "Wait a minute. Someone added a new post to the Hell Hound site. Listen to this. 'They say Mordechai Murdock was really a Satanist who chopped up his victims with an ax before slitting his own wrists. Now he's imprisoned in the house for eternity.'"
"What the hell is going on here?" I asked.
"I don't know, but I think I might've just figured out where it all started," Dean announced, swinging his feet to the floor. He tapped my leg. "Get dressed."
"To go where?"
"Out."
"Like this?" I pointed to my hair.
"Why do you care?"
"Because I look an Oompa Loompa!"
"Nah, you're still hot," Dean waved, "come on."
Whether I wanted to or not, I pushed aside my current appearance and changed into some jeans and a faded white tank top. To avoid staining it green, I threw my hair up and pulled on my jacket. Every so often, Sam would catch a glimpse of my hair and fight away a smile. He thought I didn't notice, but I did. I was keeping track of it all and tucking it away in my payback folder.
Outside the safety of the Impala, my messy ponytail didn't disguise the color of my hair, but it got it out of my direct line of sight. I thought I'd be okay with that until I realized my lack of being able to see it did nothing for everyone else. Despite being nighttime and the short distance between the Impala and the record store door, I got plenty of weird looks and stares, mostly from older people.
The bell above the door chimed as we entered. Craig lifted his head from his hands and got up for the back of the store. "Hey," Dean called with a smile. "Remember us?"
"Guys, look," Craig reluctantly turned, "I'm really not in the mood to answer any of your questions, okay?"
"Oh, don't worry. We're just here to buy an album, that's all," Dean assured and started flipping through a section of artists that began with B. He plucked one from the stack triumphantly and walked over to Craig. "You know, I couldn't figure out what that symbol was, and then I realized that it doesn't mean anything." He handed over the vinyl. "It's the logo for Blue Oyster Cult."
The upside-down question mark was on the back, at the very center of the already intricate design. At one point or another, John owned that record. It probably got sold off, but I'd seen it countless times before then, and it never came to mind. Leave it to Dean to remember such a minor detail.
"Tell me, you into BOC?" Dean asked the now fidgety Craig. "Or just scaring the hell outta people?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Craig said in a half-assed attempt at getting out of this conversation.
"Yeah, you do. So, why don't you tell us about that house without lying through your ass this time," Dean said, though it was much more of a friendly order than a request.
Craig huffed and puffed and dropped his shoulders. "My cousin Dana was on break from TCU. We were bored, looking for something to do, so I showed her this abandoned dump I found. We thought it would be funny if we made it look like it was haunted," he admitted. "So we painted symbols on the walls, some from some albums." Craig jabbed the corner of the vinyl into his palm. "Some from some of Dana's theology textbooks. Then we found out this guy Murdock used to live there, so we made up some story to go along with that."
"And you told people about it?" I asked.
"Yeah, a few. They told people who told other people, and then these two guys put it on their stupid website. Everything just took on a life of its own." Craig pushed the sharp edge into his hand so hard it looked like it was about to draw blood. "I mean, I thought it was funny at first, but now that girl's dead." His voice wavered with regret. "It was just a joke, you know. I mean, none of it was real. We made the whole thing up!"
There wasn't much to be said in the way of offering comfort. Not when I was so confused. I'm sure Craig never intended for a stupid story he made up with his cousin to go so bad, but it did. Somehow, it turned real, and now we had to figure out why.
Since it was late, we decided to end our day and get an early start the next morning. Dean tried cuddling up to me multiple times throughout the night, and I promptly elbowed him to his side of the bed. Not only did my hair look like bruised pear, but it smelled like one, too, from that awful dye. I wasn't over it—not yet—and by the time morning rolled around, I still wasn't ready for me and the green mop on my head to face the day. It didn't help that I stayed up late last night, either.
The door clicked open and banged shut. Keys clattered recklessly against the table. Boots stomped across the floor, growing closer until something heavy was placed on the bed by my face, jostling the mattresses. My eyes opened to a beat-up box and Dean looming over it. "What the hell is this?" he erupted through gritted teeth.
"What is what?" I propped up on my elbow and was met with intertwined globs of cassette tape piling out of the cardboard. I feigned concern. "Who would do that?"
Dean didn't bother to play along. "Of all things, Tor, why–"
"What makes you think it was me?"
"Sam doesn't have this kind of patience!" Dean desperately grabbed a handful of tape. "Do you know how long it's gonna take me to fix these?"
"Probably as long as it's gonna take this," I pointed to my swamp hair, "to come out!"
Dean scoffed and carried the box to the table, setting it down with a bang that filledthe room. His temper tantrum didn't last long when the shower shut off, and he hurriedly pulled a small paper packet from his pocket.
"Everything okay?" Sam asked from within the bathroom.
"Yeah, everything's fine," Dean reassured, tearing the corner of the paper. I sat up, watching him sprinkle powder in Sam's underwear. Perhaps I should've stopped him. It would've been the bigger person thing to do, but Sam did take part in my hair looking like a ripe avocado, so I kept my mouth shut.
"Where were you?" Sam spoke through the still-shut door.
"Oh, I went out," Dean said nonchalantly.
"Well, I think I might have a theory about what's going on."
"You do?" I asked, surprised. There weren't a ton of clues to go off of, as far as I knew.
"Yeah. What if Mordechai is a Tulpa?"
"Tulpa?" Dean questioned.
"Yeah, a Tibetan thought form." The bathroom door opened, and Dean spun, hiding the packet behind his back. Sam shuffled halfway out with a towel wrapped around his waist. "I forgot my stuff." He reached toward the clothes on the bed. "Hand me those?"
"Yeah, yeah." Dean slipped the packet of powder into his back pocket and grabbed Sam's clothes in one swift motion. "Here you go. Hurry up," he took his keys and headed for the door, "I wanna go grab something to eat."
"Is he acting weird to you?" Sam asked after his brother left the room.
I shook my head. "Nope." Sam flashed his brows and ducked back into the bathroom.
While the boys selected a table at the same spot we'd spoken to those kids, I waited for our coffee. The man behind the counter pushed a tray with three cups to me, barely eying my hair as he did so. With all the teenagers that hang out here, I'm sure he's seen his fair share of odd colors. Dean plucked his coffee from the tray before I set it down and removed the lid. Sam shifted uncomfortably on his stool as he unpacked his laptop. Whenever I thought he'd finally relaxed, he jumped again and looked like he wanted to bolt. I almost felt bad. Almost.
"Dude, what's your problem?" Dean asked.
"Nothing." Sam grimaced. "I'm fine."
"All right." The corners of Dean's mouth ticked up and fell so quickly that if you blinked, you'd miss it. "So, uh, keep going; what about these Tulpas?"
"So there was this incident in Tibet in nineteen-fifteen." Sam eagerly jumped into the lore, probably in an effort to take his mind off his predicament. "A group of monks visualized a golem in their head. They meditated on it so hard, they brought the thing to life. Out of thin air."
"So?"
"That was twenty monks. Imagine what ten thousand web surfers could do. I mean Craig starts the story about Mordechai, then it spreads, goes online. Now, there are countless people all believing in the bastard."
"So just because people believe in Mordechai, he suddenly comes to life?" I asked, dragging my nail across my paper cup's seam. Millions believed in things they couldn't see every day. That didn't automatically make them real.
"I don't know." Sam shrugged and tugged at his jeans. "Maybe."
"People believe in Santa Claus—how come I'm not getting hooked up every Christmas?" Dean asked, voicing my thoughts.
"Because you're a bad boy," I said with a coy smile. Dean hummed in agreement.
Sam's already uncomfortable expression slumped even further down. "Guys, can we–"
"Okay." I rested an arm on the table. "So there's nothing else to this? People say Mordechai is real, and now he is?"
"Not quite." Sam turned his laptop around and showed us a photo on the Hell Hounds' site. It was the same symbol on the wall in the Hell House. "That's a Tibetan spirit sigil. Been used for centuries. Craig said they were painting symbols from a theology textbook. I bet they painted this, not even knowing what it was."
I nodded. "And what does it do, exactly?"
"It concentrates meditative thoughts like a magnifying glass." Sam's hand balled into a fist, and he shifted again. "People are on the Hell Hounds website, staring at the symbol, thinking about Mordechai… I mean, I don't know, but it might be enough to bring a Tulpa to life."
"It would explain why he keeps changing," Dean said.
"Right. As the legend changes, people think different things, so Mordechai himself changes. Like a game of telephone. That would also explain why the rock salt didn't work."
"Yeah, because he's not a traditional spirit."
"Okay, so how about we peel the sigil off the wall and get those guys to take it off the website?" I suggested.
"It's not that simple," Sam said. "You see, once Tulpas are created, they take on a life of their own."
"If he really is a thought form—how the hell are we supposed to kill an idea?" Dean asked.
"It's not gonna be easy with these guys helping us. Check out their home page." Sam brought up a video of Ed and Harry during their brief stint at the Hell House last night. Thankfully, neither the supposed ghost nor us were caught on camera. All you could see and hear were blurry shots of grass and two grown men screaming like children. "Since they've posted the video, their number of hits have quadrupled in the last day alone."
"We gotta get them to take all that down," I said.
"Yeah," Sam scoffed. "Like they'd do that."
I drummed my fingers on the table. A little persuasion in the right direction could make anybody do anything. "I'm sure I could find a way to make them."
Dean paused with the cup halfway to his mouth. "Not gonna happen."
"Not in a million years," I agreed. I'd be willing to do a lot of things for this job, but that was not one of them. "But I still have my ways. Probably would work better if my hair wasn't green, though."
"Yeah, yeah." Dean rolled his eyes. "Well, I don't think you'll have to worry about it," he reassured and snapped the lid back into his coffee. "I got an idea. We gotta find a copy store."
Sam stood and let out an audible groan of discomfort.
"Are you sure you're all right?" I asked.
"I don't know. I think I'm allergic to our soap or something," he said. Dean's loud, boasting laugh erupted on the other side of the room. Sam's brows turned down in anger. "You did this!? You're a friggin' jerk!"
"Oh yeah!" Dean shouted, gleefully flinging the door open and stepping outside.
"Did you know about this?" Sam asked me.
"No!" I insisted. The crease between his brows only deepened. I gave in, holding my pointer finger and thumb millimeters apart. "Little bit."
"Why?" he asked, saturated in betrayal. I tilted my head to the side just enough that my hair fell over my shoulder. It was all the explanation Sam needed, but it did nothing to ease his annoyance. If I had to get over what happened to me, then he had to get over this.
After a pit stop at the motel so Sam could get himself sorted, we located the Hell Hound boys at a local RV park. If we hadn't found their license plate online, their tin camper would've been easy to spot. Stickers like Paranormal Scouting Unit and Clean House - Get Exorcised littered the back bumper and door. Not to mention, they weren't very quiet in their conversation about going back to the Hell House. Ed wanted to return. Harry seemed hesitant. Hopefully, his fear would be the very thing that helped us put an end to all this mess.
Dean pounded on the door, rattling the thin structure, and the voices stopped. "Come on out here, guys. We can hear you in there," he said. Latches unlocked, and the door swung open. "Would you look at that? Action figures in their original packaging—what a shocker."
Ed's eyes drifted to me and went wide. "Did you–" he cleared his throat. "Did you do something different to your hair?"
I offset my jaw. "Ed–"
"No, I like it." He chuckled nervously. "It looks good."
"Please." I held up a hand. "Don't."
"Guys, we need to talk," Sam stated abruptly.
"Sorry," Ed apologized, void of any sincerity. "We're a little busy right now."
"Okay, well, we'll make it quick," Dean said. "We need you to shut down your website."
Ed barked out a laugh as he and Harry finally exited the trailer. "Man, you know, these guys got us busted last night. Spend the night in a holding cell."
"I had to pee in that cell urinal. In front of people." Harry jutted an accusatory finger at us. "And I get stage fright." I shared a look of disbelief with Sam at Harry's confession. That was something I would've happily gone the rest of my life without knowing.
"Why should we trust you?" Ed asked, changing the subject.
"Look, guys," Sam began, "we all know what we saw last night, what's in that house. But now, thanks to your website, there are thousands of people hearing about Mordechai."
"That's right." Dean nodded. "Which means people are gonna keep showing up at the Hell House, running into him in person, somebody else could get hurt."
Ed sucked his teeth. "Yeah?" he asked, unbothered. "And?"
"And do you really want that on your conscience?" I asked. They were selfish, sure, but God, they couldn't be that bad.
Harry seemed more troubled at the idea than his friend. "You know, Ed," he began, "maybe they've got a point–"
"Nope," Ed interrupted with a shake of his head.
"No," Harry parroted. I guess his convictions weren't so strong after all.
"We have an obligation to our fans, to the truth."
Dean's smile was taut. "Well, I have an obligation to kick both your little asses right now—" he threatened. The Hell Hound's boys' eyes went wide. I placed a hand on Dean's chest to hold him back despite him not moving an inch in their direction.
"Baby, just forget it, all right?" I said. "These guys—you could easily beat the crap out of them both—"
"Well, I don't know about easy," Ed muttered. I ignored him and continued.
"I mean, we could even tell them that thing about Mordechai, but it's still not gonna matter. They're not gonna help us."
"Yeah, you're right." Dean played it off with disappointment and led the charge away from the trailer. We were better actors than we have ourselves credit for because Ed and Harry scrambled to follow.
"Wait, what'd you say–?" Ed fished.
"I didn't say anything," I retorted.
"No, no, but you– you almost did."
"Hang on a second." Harry breathlessly reached my side. "What's the thing about Mordechai?"
"Don't tell 'em," Dean pleaded.
"But if they agree to shut the website down, Dean," Sam bargained, feigning hopefulness.
"We all know they're not gonna do it," I argued.
"No, wait," Ed called desperately. "Don't listen to her, okay? We'll do it."
We collectively stopped and turned to face the breathless attention-seekers. "It's a secret, Sam," Dean said in a last-ditch effort to stop him.
"Look, it's a really big deal, all right?" Sam said. "And it wasn't easy to dig up. So, only if we have your word that you'll shut everything down."
Ed nodded so adamantly I thought his glasses would fall off. "Totally."
"All right." Dean fished the crumpled paper from his pocket and handed it to Ed.
"It's a death certificate," Sam explained, "from the thirties. We got it at the library. Now, according to the coroner, the actual cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound."
"He didn't hang or cut himself," I said.
"He shot himself?" Harry asked, peering up from the paper.
"With a .45 pistol. They say he's terrified of them."
"Matter of fact, they say if you shoot him with a .45 loaded with these special wrought-iron rounds—it'll kill the son of a bitch," Dean said.
A fraction of a second later, Harry's jittery legs sprinted him back to the trailer. Ed attempted to act much smoother about it, going so far as to wink at me before following him. "Harry, slow your roll, buddy. They're gonna know we're excited!" he hissed. They skitted to a stop at the door and disappeared into their tin box, but not before Ed gave me another quick once over.
Waiting for that website to update proved how impatient I really was. Why was it taking them so long to say that Mordechai shot himself and could be killed with wrought iron bullets? It's not like their previous posts were winning any awards for being outstanding literature. Wasting time in a town this small wasn't easy, either. Our options were limited to hanging out in a park or seeing a movie on the world's tiniest theater screen. Unsurprisingly, we chose the latter. Even after our two-hour film, they still hadn't posted, so we went to a local diner for lunch. The entire time, Dean was eying a gaudy plaque with a laughing fisherman on it hanging from the wall, waiting for the perfect moment to pull the string again. I guess he thought that time was now.
Static cackling filled our booth. Dean's goal was to get under my and his brother's skin. And boy, did he achieve it. I jabbed a spear of broccoli. "Please turn that thing off," I said.
"Why is it bothering you?" he asked, amused.
Sam reached up, pulling the cord to silence the stupid thing. "If you do that one more time, I'm gonna kill you."
With an unmoving, straight face, Dean pulled the string for the third time. Half a hyena laugh came from the speaker before Sam shut it off. "Come on, man," Dean chuckled. "You need more laughter in your life. You're way too tense."
"Yeah, I'm sure you're gonna be laughing while you fix those cassettes," Sam commented, shuffling food around his plate.
"That," Dean held up a finger, "is different."
"Have they posted it yet?" I asked. Sam tapped a few buttons on his laptop and turned it around for us to see. A new post was made just one minute ago.
"We've learned from reputable sources that Mordechai Murdock has a fatal fear of firearms," Dean read. "All right. How long do we wait?"
"Long enough for the new story to spread and the legend to change," Sam said. "I figure by nightfall, iron rounds will work on the sucker."
"Well, that deserves a toast," I said, lifting my beer. The boys did the same, clinking our bottles together. Sam didn't drink right away. Instead, he used the beer as a shield to hide his smile. I wasn't sure why until Dean tried to place his bottle down and couldn't let it go. He looked up at Sam in disbelief.
"You didn't," he said.
Sam held up a tube of superglue and laughed. "Oh, I did." Finally, he took a drink. The moment the liquid hit his tongue, his eyes rounded to the size of golf balls, and he spit whatever he didn't swallow back into the bottle.
Dean paused his attempt at prying the glass from his hand. "What's wrong with you?" he asked.
"I don't know, it–" Sam fanned his open mouth, "It's burning."
"That's probably because I put a bunch of hot sauce in it," I stated dryly. Dean's mouth fell into an o that quickly morphed into a smile.
"What?!" Sam coughed. He held his stomach. "I'm gonna be sick!"
"You'll be fine!" I said. "Come on." I tapped Dean's arm and slid out of the booth, silently instructing him to follow me. Every last person in here was so stuck in their own world that they hardly noticed Dean tagging along into the women's bathroom. At the sink, I lapped warm water onto his palm, gently prying the bottle from his skin.
He hissed and jerked back. "Ow!"
"Don't pull away like that!"
"It hurts!"
"Come back." I beckoned. He hesitantly gave me his hand again. This time, I soaped up my fingers and painstakingly loosened the glue.
"Sorry about your hair," Dean said. No matter how out of the blue his apology was, he meant it—I could see it in his eyes.
I sighed. "It's okay."
A smile played on his lips. "You gotta admit, it was good."
"It was passable," I teased. This is how these prank wars always went. We had fun, but the guilt settled in soon after. "I'm sorry about your cassettes."
He shrugged. "I deserved it."
"Yeah, you did–" I smiled, and so did he, "But I'll help you fix them."
"I'll help you wash that out," he said, nodding to my hair with suggestively lifted eyebrows.
"You know, one of those sounds a lot more fun than the other."
"Oh, I know." He grinned. His joy made my smile grow. I took in the moment while it lasted because it wouldn't be here for much longer.
"This isn't gonna feel good," I muttered, ready to pull the bottle off the rest of the way.
Dean braced himself. "Just get it over with." One final tug got the bottle unstuck but left him with a bright red hand. We ventured back out into the diner to find Sam shooting dirty looks at his beer. There was still time to kill, and we spent it finishing our food and waiting for nightfall.
It was Dean's idea to take the fisherman plaque from the diner and stick it in the woods to distract the cops so we could sneak back into the house. At first, I refused when he suggested buying it. The very last thing I needed was that horrible thing following us around from town to town. Then, he explained his plan. I agreed, only if he promised he'd leave it here.
I could still hear the cackling bouncing off the trees as we hurried into the Hell House, guns ready. Dean adjusted his pistol and huffed. "I barely have any skin left on my palm."
"I'm not touching that line with a ten-foot pole," Sam commented. Dean shined his flashlight into his brother's eyes, making him wince.
"Come on," I whispered, taking the lead. We didn't have time to mess around; we had to finish this before anybody else decided to change Mordechai's story. Following a path similar to the one we made the first day we came here, we moved through the living room, then the kitchen, where we stopped with our guns on the basement doors.
"You think old Mordechai's home?" Dean asked.
"I don't know," Sam replied.
"Me either," a voice came from behind. We spun, aiming our guns at the two familiar figures in the doorway. "Whoa!" Ed cried out, holding his hands up in surrender.
"What the hell is wrong with you? Are you trying to get yourselves killed?!" I scolded.
"We're just trying to get a book and movie deal," Ed said, sounding genuine for the first time since all this mess started.
From behind the door came the sound of knives sharply grating against steel. "Guess he's here," Dean said. My heart pounded in my ears as we readied our guns and waited in silence. Until Ed spoke, that is.
"You wanna open that door for us?" he asked, voice trembling.
"Why don't you?" Dean challenged, not breaking his gaze from the relatively thin piece of wood separating us from Mordechai.
With a loud bang that shook the barrier, Mordechai sprang through the doorway, ax swinging. Ed and Harry screamed at the collective top of their lungs. The boys and I unloaded several shots into Mordechai until he puffed away in a cloud of smoke. Sam took off into the room he'd come from. Dean was about to leave when he stopped and turned back for me.
"Go," I answered his silent question. "I'll keep an eye on these two." I nodded to the shaken ghost hunters beside me.
"Oh, god, he's gone," Ed repeated over and over, breathless. "Holy shit."
"Did you get him?" Harry asked, reaching for the device in his partner's hands.
"Yeah, they got him," Ed replied.
"No, on camera—did you get him on camera!?"
Ed struggled with the buttons. "Uh—"
"Is that really all you care about?" I snapped. Two seconds ago, they were scared out of their wits, and now the only thing that mattered to them was a piece of crappy, shaky footage?
"This is our life's work!" Harry cried, snatching the camera. "Let me see it."
The air crackled with sparks of energy that formed into Mordechai as he reappeared before us. I jumped, startled by his sudden presence. He shouldn't have come back. This wasn't supposed to happen. One swing of his ax through the camera sent shards of plastic flying everywhere. Harry's legs crumbled, and he went to the ground. I shot a few more rounds into the faux spirit, and he left again. Rushed footsteps skidded to screeching halts in the doorways before and behind me as the boys arrived.
"What the hell happened?" Dean asked, giving me a quick once-over.
"Mordechai came back!" I exclaimed. I turned to Ed, who was desperately clawing at Harry to help him up off the floor. "Didn't you guys post that bullshit story we gave you?"
"Of course we did," Ed panted.
"But then our server crashed," Harry added, dusting himself off.
"So, it didn't take?" Dean asked.
Harry bobbled his head, "No."
"So these fucking guns won't work?" Dean huffed, pushing his pistol back into his belt. "Great. Any ideas?" he asked the room. I racked my brain for a solution. Thousands of people powered Mordecha; there's no way we could do anything to permanently get rid of him without that blog post.
"Not yet," I said.
"We're getting out of here," Harry said, grabbing Ed and taking off for the exit.
"There's gotta be–" Sam's voice was cut off by two high-pitched screams bouncing off the walls from the other side of the house. His shoulders dropped in a heap of annoyance, and he went after them, telling us he'd be right back on his way out.
Dean passed by me and began digging around our duffle bag. "What are you doing?"
"Here," he said, tossing me a can of lighter fluid.
"Kerosene?" I questioned. "Dean, there's no bones to burn!"
"No, but I bet this place," he nodded to the dry wood surrounding us, "will light up real nice."
My breath stuck in my throat. "You wanna burn down the house?"
"You got something better?" Dean challenged, unscrewing the cap on another bottle.
I didn't need to think about it; the answer was obvious. "Not even a little bit," I said, popping off the top and sprinkling lighter fluid all over the ground. The droplets quickly soaked into the porous wood, making a trail of black. Its sharp, potent chemical smell stung my nose. I tried my hardest to avoid getting any on me. I'd made that mistake in the past and ruined a pair of my favorite jeans.
Rooms away, Sam's muffled shouts for help seeped through the cracks in the walls. Fear sparked in Dean's wide eyes. "I got this," I reassured, taking the other container of lighter fluid from him. Dean gave me a quick nod, snatched another can from the duffle, and hurried to his brother's aid. On legs tense like springs, I hurried to create a line of kerosene out of the kitchen and into the main room before Mordechai decided to pay another unwanted visit. Constantly looking over my shoulder did nothing to quell the paranoia.
Floorboards creaked and groaned, sending a wave of goosebumps across my skin. I reached for my gun as I backed up toward the front door and kept my eyes peeled. They strung, but I refused to blink and get blindsided. Bounding steps came from the hall to my right. I was just about to pull out my pistol when the boys appeared and met me in the doorway.
"Are you okay?" I asked, looking them over for any injuries. The front of Sam's neck was bright red, but other than that, they both appeared fine.
Sam winced as he swallowed. "Yeah."
"We good?" Dean asked me. I nodded.
Confused, Sam looked to his brother. "What are we doing?"
"If Mordechai can't leave the house, and we can't kill him." Dean began explaining his off-the-cuff plan, taking out his lighter and ensuring I was safely on the porch before he tossed it into the house. "We improvise."
Flames burst from the puddles of lighter fluid, filling the room with unimaginable heat in just a few seconds. Despite my calves feeling like taut rubber bands, they still carried me to the edge of the woods, where the boys and I stopped to look at the engulfed cabin. Mordechai materialized in the doorway, ax gripped between pale, dirty fingers.
"That's your solution?" Sam jutted a finger at the dwindling building. "Burn the whole place to the ground?"
"No one will go in anymore," Dean said, face washed in a glow of orange. "He can't haunt a house if there's no house to haunt. It's fast and dirty, but it works."
"What if the legend changes again, and Mordechai is allowed to leave the house?"
"No house, maybe the legend dies out," I suggested. Modechai's already twisted features deepened with fury. A sharp gust of wind turned him to black smoke that mixed with the fire's embers.
"And if it doesn't?" Sam contested.
"Well–" Dean finally caught his breath. "We'll just have to come back."
"Yeah," I huffed and swallowed hard. "I think I'll pass."
"Kinda makes you wonder…" Sam trailed off, looking at the burning structure. "Of all the things we hunted, how many existed just 'cause people believed in them?"
It was a question far too heavy to contemplate the answer. Truth be told, I didn't want to know.
Back at the RV park the next night, Ed and Harry's trailer was hooked to their small blue car, packed to the gills with bags and luggage strapped to the roof. They were nowhere to be found, so we decided to wait for them to show. Leaving without checking in on them almost felt wrong. I'm not quite sure why. Perhaps because it was ingrained in us to do so.
"Anyway, I was thinking that Mordechai has a really super high attack bonus," Harry's unmistakable voice broke through the bustle of the park. He and Ed approached, cradling bags of groceries in their arms.
"Yeah, sure," Ed mumbled, barely paying attention. "Man, I got the munchies. Did you get the chips?"
Harry reached into the brown paper bag and handed over a cylindrical container with a cheerful smile. "Got 'em."
Ed was about to pop open the lid when he spotted us. "Gentleman… M'lady."
"Hey guys," Sam said in a friendly tone. Neither Ed nor Harry bothered to stop. With a roll of my eyes, I followed them along with Sam and Dean. Their unfounded confidence was beginning to grate on my nerves.
"Should we tell them?" Harry asked eagerly.
"Hey, might as well, you know, they're going to read about it in the trades," Ed boasted.
"So," Harry began haughtily, "this morning, we got a phone call from a very important Hollywood producer."
"Oh, yeah, wrong number?" Dean quipped.
"No, smart-ass," Ed droned like he was too good to deal with us. "He read all about the Hell House on our website and wants to option the motion picture rights." We arrived at their car, and they stuffed their bags in whatever space was left in the backseat. Ed finally faced us. "Maybe even have us write it," he finished with pride.
"And create the RPG," Harry added, leaning on the car's frame. He appeared proud of that fact, but those words meant virtually nothing to me.
I shared a look of confusion with Dean, who asked, "The what?"
Harry fidgeted under our gaze. "Role-playing game."
"Right."
"A little lingo for you." Ed twirled a finger in the air to make his point. "Anyhoo, excuse us, we're off to la-la land."
"Well, congratulations, guys," Sam said with a smile. "That sounds really great."
"Yeah." Dean nodded along. "That's awesome. Best of luck to you," he said sincerely.
"Oh, yeah, luck. That has nothing to do with it. It's about talent," Ed bragged, oblivious to how ridiculous he sounded. "Sheer unabashed talent."
"Your talent for… hunting ghosts?" I clarified, just to gauge how delusional he was.
He smiled wider. "That's right."
I fought off the condescending smile that threatened to slip across my face and feigned regret. "Too bad I didn't get in on that when I had the chance."
Ed's mouth ticked up into a wonky smirk. "You still can."
From the corner of my eye, I saw Dean's head snap back in awe at Ed's boldness. Thank God he didn't say anything, or else I couldn't go through with my plan. "You know what?" I reached into my pocket for the folded piece of paper I stuffed in before. "I might have to take you up on that."
Ed hurried to pluck the square from me like he thought I'd change my mind and take it back. He flipped up the corner and peered inside. The numbers and a tiny heart doodle sent his brows shooting up over the rim of his glasses. Dean's cheeks hollowed, and he dug his heels into the dirt.
"Well, all right, then." Ed flicked the paper with his pointer finger and stumbled into the car. The engine sputtered before it groaned to life. That poor car has probably been through a lot with very little upkeep. "See ya 'round," he said, tossing up a peace sign. I cringed at the clunky, uneven sound the car made as they drove off.
"What the hell was that about?" Dean asked me. "You gave him your number? Didn't you already get me back enough with the cassettes?"
"I gave him a number." My smile spread slowly. "For a retirement home."
Dean let out a hearty laugh and pulled me close, tucking me into his side. "That's my girl."
"I have a confession to make," Sam announced as we began the short walk back to the Impala.
"What's that?" I asked, looking around Dean at Sam's excited grin.
"I was the one that called them and told them I was a producer," he started laughing before he got out the tail end of his sentence. It was good to hear him laugh so much, I can't remember the last time that happened.
"Oh, they're gonna be crushed," I chucked.
"Yeah, well, I'm the one who put the dead fish in their back seat," Dean added jovially. I thought he was skidding until I looked up to find a mischievous smirk on his face. My smile drooped. He wasn't joking.
"No, really?" I asked.
"Yes, really."
"When did you get the fish?" I asked. I couldn't recall a moment in which he'd have had the time.
He shrugged it off. "Don't worry about it."
"So," Sam began as we settled in our respective spots around the Impala, eyes darting between Dean and me. "Truce?"
I pushed my frog-colored hair over my shoulder in surrender. "Truce."
Dean grinned. "At least for the next hundred miles," he said, ducking in the car.
For the first time in what felt like forever, there was no looming sense of dread or worry. All of that could wait. Even after all we'd been through, we were somehow able to take a step back from it and have fun—be normal. Well, normal for us, anyway. Those shreds of hope were enough to make me forget about any uncertainties headed our way. The cynical side of me said this featherlight feeling was fleeting, but the optimist in me believed it would stay. It had to. Something told me we'd need it.
Long time no see! I'm so sorry for the wait. This one gave me some serious writers block, and on top of that, I've been sick for the past few weeks. I hope you all are doing well, and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!
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