Supernatural: Night Terror

by John Passarella

  “Gavin Shelburn?” Sam asked.

  “Shelly’s fine,” the man said, making no effort to approach them. “You with the government?”

  “FBI,” Dean said. “Okay if we ask you a few questions, Shelly?”

  “I’m not crazy,” he said.

  “Good to know.”

  “It happened right here. Quinn’s boys think I’m nuts. But I ain’t nuts. Sure, I drink. Who doesn’t? But I see what I see... at least I...” He stuffed his hands in his overcoat pockets. “It was a Gila monster attacked me. But big. Size of two cars back to back! I know that ain’t right. But I can’t explain it.”

  “Did you see where it came from?” Dean asked.

  Shelburn shook his head. “I was walking back from Joe’s Pizza Shack and I heard it. Heard something. Turned around and there it was. Chased me. I ducked in here and, well, jumped in there. Guess you could say Dumpster diving saved my life.”

  Sam pointed at the scratch marks. “Then it attacked the Dumpster?”

  “Yep,” Shelburn said, finally coming a few steps closer. He walked along the brick wall and showed them scrape marks at Dumpster height. “Pushed it, slammed into it, then tried to climb inside after me. That’s when the wheel busted off, under its weight, I guess.”

  “But it gave up and left?” Sam asked.

  “That’s the weird thing. It never walked—crawled away. I would’ve heard that, with its claws scraping the ground and that tail thumping everything in sight. But nope. Nothing. One minute it was there, the next it was gone.”

  “Anything else you remember?”

  “Seemed mighty hungry.”

  “Right,” Sam said with a slight smile. “Thanks for your help.”

  “You know what caused it?”

  “No,” Dean said. “We’re here to find out.”

  “Bet it was radiation,” Shelburn said. “Or toxic chemicals. Illegal dumping. Or... some top-secret government experiment? Is that it?” He backed up a few steps. “That why they sent you FBI types to Clayton Falls? A cover-up? They send you to kill all the witnesses?”

  “Whoa! Nothing like that,” Dean said. Batting a thousand, he thought. First witness already panicking. “The ‘I’ is for investigation.”

  Shelburn nodded slowly, as if trying to convince himself, calm himself.

  “Okay, all right. I’m not a conspiracy nut. Never was. But you see a giant Gila monster and you start to rethink everything, right? Down is up; up is down.”

  “You might want to steer clear of this alley,” Sam suggested.

  “You believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” Shelburn said, suddenly smiling broadly. “I may be down on my luck, but I ain’t crazy.” He doffed his hat and extended it in his arm. “Wouldn’t mind a donation...”

  Sam smiled.

  Dean reached into a pocket, peeled off a twenty and dropped it in the hat.

  “Mighty generous of you,” he said, tucking the bill into a pocket. “I’ll take your advice as well and clear out.”

  “Wait a minute,” Sam said. “You’re out most nights?”

  “About every night. Why?”

  “Wait here,” Sam said. He walked to the Impala and returned with a pair of two-way radios from the trunk, handing one to Shelly. “You know how to use these?” The man nodded. “Keep it on channel five. You spot anything weird, out of the usual, call me.”

  “You deputizing me?”

  “Think of it as neighborhood watch activity.”

  They spent a moment checking the battery levels, sending and receiving messages. Shelly adjusted the volume on his unit and nodded, satisfied, and stuffed it in his pocket. “Anything weird or unusual. Got it.”

  “Don’t put yourself at risk,” Sam said. “Just call it in.”

  “No worries on that account.”

  As Shelly sauntered off, Dean shook his head at Sam.

  “What?”

  “Dude, you realize that radio’s headed for the nearest pawn shop.”

  “Not like I gave him the pair.”

  Shelly paused at the entrance to the alley and looked back at them.

  “Remembered one other thing,” he called. “White mist, clinging to the ground. Noticed it right before the beast attacked.”

  FIVE

  Blake Dobkins, marketing manager at an organic food company located in an industrial park at the south end of Clayton Falls, met Dean in the lobby and led him to a conference room where they could speak in private.

  “Not much to tell, Agent DeYoung,” Dobkins said. “My wife and I were out celebrating our fifth anniversary at this Italian place where we had our first date. Actually, we were leaving the restaurant to go home, when I saw the speeding car hit that young man in the middle of the street.”

  “Police report said the car was red. Any other details?” Dean asked.

  “Not really a car enthusiast,” Dobkins said apologetically. “It was an older car. Maybe one of those muscle cars from the sixties or seventies. Gone before I had a good look at it.”

  “Nothing unusual about it? Spoiler? Fancy hubcaps? Tinted glass? Anything?” Dean pressed.

  Dobkins shook his head, almost a reflexive gesture. But then he closed his eyes. Dean waited, resisting the urge to drum his fingers on the shiny surface of the conference room table. He could imagine Dobkins trying to visualize those brief seconds as the car sped up to Bullinger, struck him, and raced away from the scene.

  “White,” Dobkins said at last, opening his eyes and nodding. “A streak of white.”

  “But you said the car was red.”

  “Yes, it was,” Dobkins said, “but it had a wide line—a racing stripe—on the hood. That was white. My eyes tracked the boy when the car struck him. Everything happened so fast, but yes, I remember a streak of white on the driver’s side of the hood.”

  “Good,” Dean said, trying to sound encouraging. “That could help us find the car.” Assuming the car was real and had a human driver. “What happened after Bullinger was hit?”

  “I ran into the street, to see if he was okay, but I... when I got up close... it looked bad. I called for an ambulance, but...”

  “Before he died, Bullinger spoke to you?”

  “He said nobody was driving. Didn’t make sense, but considering his condition, I wasn’t surprised.”

  “Were those his exact words?”

  “He said, ‘nobody driving.’ That’s all I heard.”

  Sam flashed his FBI credentials at the front door of the Clayton Falls Child Care Center and was buzzed in by a middle-aged woman with frizzy brown hair and a distracted demeanor. She introduced herself as Mary Horton, the manager. She wore a white smock with dozens of colorful giraffe silhouettes dotted across it. They stood in the middle of a spacious room with scattered activity centers for children, including a mini puppet show theater, art supplies and easels, a stocked bookcase, jigsaw puzzles, blocks and bins filled with toys and action figures. All the tables and chairs were scaled down for children, but the room was empty. Judging from the commotion Sam heard out back, they were all enjoying the playground equipment.

  “Oh, no! This isn’t about a kidnapping, is it?” Mary Horton said, eyebrows dancing with concern.

  “No, Ms. Horton,” Sam said. “I’m here to talk to Linda Dobkins.”

  “She’s not in any sort of trouble, is she?”

  “I have a few questions about an accident she witnessed.”

  “Oh, yes, she told me about that. Horrible. Who could do such a thing?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “Wait here. I’ll get her,” she said. “One of us has to stay with the children at all times.”

  Sam followed her to the back door and waited there in the relative silence.

  Mary talked to a younger woman with a blond ponytail wearing a white smock with monkey silhouettes over faded jeans and sneakers. Compared to the chaotic appearance of her boss, Linda Dobkins seemed almost ser
ene in the middle of the childhood frenzy whirling around her, kids racing from sliding boards to swings to seesaws and back again. Linda nodded, brushed her hands on her jeans and came in through the back door.

  She offered her hand. “Agent... Shaw, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you know who I am, obviously,” she said, flashing a smile. “Of course, I want to help, but I’m afraid I told the police everything I saw. Or, rather, didn’t see.”

  “The disappearing car.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Crazy as that sounds.”

  “Tell me everything you saw, from beginning to end.”

  “We—my husband and I—were leaving the restaurant. I heard the roar of the car’s engine. I swear the car accelerated. Like the driver was trying to hit that boy. It was a split second, a flash of motion, then the impact. I was shocked, stunned, but Blake ran out there to help. No hesitation. I tried to get a look at the driver, but the car was already past me, so I tried to catch the license plate number. Even part of it. I’ve seen television shows where a few digits are enough to find a car.”

  “Did you see any digits?”

  “No,” she said and frowned. “I mean, it was a second or two at most. Before my eyes could focus on the license plate, the car vanished.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  Sam noticed several of the children had become curious about his presence, pressing their faces against the glass door for a better look. One girl, about five years old, waved at him. A boy not much older stuck out his tongue. Mary Horton took notice, rushed up and shooed them away from the door.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” Linda said. “The car started to turn the corner. I was losing my angle on the license plate and then it was like it... winked out of existence. Blake thinks I must have looked away, distracted by the injured boy, but I never took my eyes off the car from the time I tried to catch the license number.”

  “Could another vehicle have passed between you and the car?”

  “No,” she said. “Traffic was light. No other cars or trucks passed by during the few seconds before, during, and after the accident.”

  “I see.”

  “You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”

  “For what it’s worth,” Sam said. “I don’t.”

  Timing was everything. Dean managed to snag a corner booth in C.J.’s Diner before the sizable dinner crowd rolled in. Considering how popular the place was, he had high hopes for the quality of his ordered cheeseburger and fries. Sam arrived at the tail end of the rush, spotted Dean from across the crowded restaurant and joined him.

  “Quiet little place?” he said.

  “Until about ten minutes ago,” Dean replied. “Who knew?”

  Their energetic waitress—Betsy, according to her nametag—arrived with two identical plates, smiling broadly as she placed them down on the Formica table.

  “Careful, boys,” she said amiably. “Food’s hot and so are the plates.”

  Dean nodded at the food.

  “Kept it simple. Ordered two of everything.”

  “Which, if I don’t eat, gives you two of everything?”

  “C’mon,” Dean said. “It’s a burger. Won’t kill you. Look, she put lettuce on it.”

  After a moment, Sam shrugged. “Fine. But next time, I order.”

  Betsy put her hands on her hips, her smile maintaining its high wattage, as if she were the chairperson of the Clayton Falls welcoming committee. She certainly looked official in her server uniform, white blouse and black slacks topped by a navy blue vest with four red buttons and “C.J.’s” embroidered in gold thread script opposite her nametag.

  “You’re them FBI agents. Am I right?”

  “How did you know?” Sam asked.

  “Bit overdressed for this place,” she said. “Plus, word gets around.”

  In the next booth, an elderly man with a few days’ growth of stubble laughed.

  “Let them eat before their food gets cold, Betsy. And I’m still waiting on my onion rings.”

  “Oh, you’ll get your onion rings, Phil Meyerson,” she said. “But if you want them now, you’ll eat them raw.”

  “What’s taking so long?”

  “Put the order in two minutes ago,” she said. “You’re retired, Phil. Relax.”

  “Not in my nature.”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” she said. “Any super viruses come along, we’ll kill them in our deep fryer.”

  Dean and Sam exchanged a look.

  “Super viruses?” Dean asked. He looked down at his half-eaten cheeseburger and fries then back up at Betsy. “Anything I should know?”

  “Oh, nothing,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Phil worked at the C.D.C. in Atlanta. Don’t think he brought anything contagious with him.”

  “Phil?” Sam said.

  Dean could see the wheels turning.

  “Microbiologist,” Meyerson said. “Retired seven years ago. Only contagious thing I’ve had since then was a nasty head cold. Now, look at this. My coffee cup is empty.”

  “Relax, Phil,” Betsy said. “I can take a hint.”

  Before she turned away, Dean said, “We were hoping to talk to Lucy Quinn. Said to meet her here.”

  “Oh, right! Girl said she had to hang around.”

  “Hang around?”

  “Shift ended a few minutes ago,” Betsy said. “She’s in the break room. I’ll send her out.”

  After Betsy left for a coffee pot, Meyerson slid out of his booth and headed toward the restroom. Dean took the opportunity to compare notes with Sam.

  “Anything new from Linda?”

  Sam finished a fry, and shook his head.

  “Nothing that wasn’t in the police report.”

  “What are we looking at here? After the possessed love doll thing in Jersey, I’m keeping the Impala far away from any vengeful spirits.”

  Through the front window, Dean saw an ambulance roll into the diner’s lot and stop behind a row of cars without pulling into a parking slot.

  “Linda said the car vanished. I believe her.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Not a vengeful spirit.”

  “Poltergeist? Some kind of haunting?”

  “I don’t know, Dean,” Sam said. “Headless horseman, giant lizard, phantom car. Not seeing a common thread. What about the husband?”

  “Remembered the red car had a white stripe on the hood,” Dean said. “Otherwise, no revelations.”

  A rail-thin EMT entered the diner and walked over to the counter under a “Pick Up” sign dangling from two chains made out of interlocked paper clips. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the countertop and looked around with quick darting motions.

  Hummingbird metabolism, Dean thought. Or an addiction to amphetamines. A waitress in her fifties working behind the counter brought him a grease-stained bag and a large coffee.

  As the EMT paid for his order, a young woman with red hair came through a gap in the counter and spoke to him briefly, patting his arm. She looked around the diner until she saw Dean and Sam and made a beeline for their booth. She wore a cropped denim jacket, a black T-shirt and jeans, with a lime-green canvas bag slung over one shoulder. Dean saw the edge of a blue C.J.’s vest poking out of the bag.

  “Agent DeYoung?” she said, guessing right. She offered her hand. “Lucy Quinn.”

  Dean stood, shook her hand.

  “This is my partner, Agent Shaw.”

  She turned to Sam, repeated the gesture.

  “Scooch over,” she said to Sam, who obliged. She sat next to him and snatched one of his fries. “Not really supposed to hang around after my shift, but I’m sure my boss will make an exception for the FBI.”

  On his way out to the double-parked ambulance, the wiry EMT called over to her, “Bye, Lucy.”

  “Later, Roman!” She waved at him.

  “Friend of yours?” Dean asked.

  “Neighbor,” she said. “Roman Messerly. Babysat me years ago, whe
n my dad took my mom to her chemo... Anyway, he’s kind of like the older brother I never had. Worry about him. That job is all wrong for him. Way too stressful. Jeez, I’m rambling.” She clasped her hands together and sat up straight, as if practicing good posture. “Sorry. Nerves.”

  “We have a few questions,” Dean said. “About the horseman.”

  “My dad warned me,” she said, then quickly added, “I mean, he told me you’d ask about what I saw. I asked Tony to meet us here—’cause he saw it too—but he’s a no-show. Time challenged. So, questions?”

  “You were in the park—” Sam said.

  “Yep. Founders Park. By the monument. Just hanging out, minding our own business.”

  “And the headless horseman appeared out of nowhere?”

  She nodded. “I was facing the statues. The town founders. They’re both on horses. So, two horses. Next thing I know, I see three horses. But the third horse and rider are moving, and they come around the monument and start chasing us.”

  “And the rider had no head? You’re sure.”

  “Definitely! He was dressed in black head to toe—well, neck to toe—but there was no head attached to the body.”

  “Maybe his face was hidden,” Dean suggested. “A dark mask?”

  “Nope. His neck was all ragged and... blood-crusted, like whoever lopped off his head took several whacks to finish the job.”

  “And he came after you?”

  “All of us or... I don’t know, maybe one of us was the target, but we ran away together and he charged us with a sword. Until...”

  “What?” Sam asked.

  “We split up,” she said slowly. “Tony pulled me to one side. Steve kept running straight ahead. The horseman followed Steve, not us. We were so scared. We kept running through the park until we came out on the north side, and headed home. Later, we called Steve but got no answer on his cell. He never made it home. My dad called me after he found out about the hit and run, to make sure I was okay.” She took a deep breath. “That... thing chased Steve into traffic. It’s the reason he was killed.”

  “Did you notice anything unusual before the horseman appeared?”

  “No. It appeared out of nowhere...” She paused. “Oh, wait. There was some kind of white ground mist. I noticed that first when Steve dropped his... What? Why are you guys staring at each other like that?”