Supernatural 7 - One Year Gone

by Rebecca Dessertine

  “What are you doing in Reverend Parris’s root cellar?” Caleb demanded.

  “What are you doing?” Prudence shot back.

  “We are here to examine the body,” Thomas said, taking control of the situation. “Why are you here? Aren’t you scared?”

  Prudence shrugged.

  “Are you still bewitched?” Thomas asked skeptically.

  Prudence grinned. “Of course. Haven’t you heard what Reverend Parris said? Satan has come to Salem and is using witches to do his bidding. I’m afflicted. Just not right now.”

  The boys left the strange girl in the cellar, climbed back outside and went around to the front of the house to meet their father. They waited pressed against the wall until Reverend Parris had shut the door on Nathaniel, then they approached him.

  “Did you find anything?” their father asked.

  “Yes. A dead body in the cellar and a strange girl,” Thomas said. He went on to describe their encounter with Prudence Lewis and the dead man’s broken neck.

  “Well, I think we know who we need to try the marking spell on next,” Nathaniel said.

  “Who?” Caleb asked.

  “Prudence, you dimwit.” Thomas nudged his brother in the ribs as he spoke.

  “What about the empty graves?” Caleb asked.

  “We’ll have to investigate further,” Nathaniel said. “But we have to ask ourselves a question first.”

  “What?” Caleb asked.

  “What do the witches want?” his father replied.

  Dean set down the journal and looked over at Lisa sleeping in the other bed. He got up to check on Ben in the adjoining room. He had fallen asleep in front of the television.

  Dean was amazed. Not only were there Campbells in Salem during the witch trials, they were also hunters. Dean flipped through a couple more pages of the journal. In the margin Nathaniel had written the witch-marking spell:

  Per is vox malum ero venalicium. Per is oil malum unus ero ostendo. Per is herb malum unus ero brought continuo. They mos haud diutius non exsisto notus.

  Dean was sure that he could use the marking spell to identify a witch to help him. He wasn’t much closer to finding a Necronomicon, but he was sure if he found a witch the book would follow.

  SEVENTEEN

  In the morning, Dean, Lisa, and Ben headed downstairs for breakfast. As Dean was finishing his coffee, Perry, the young girl from the clam shack, appeared at his elbow. Ben was visibly delighted. Dean, not so much.

  “Hey there, Captain Morgan. How are you this morning?” Dean said with a good amount of snarkiness to his voice.

  Perry cast a strange sideways glance at Dean.

  “I’m great, Mr. Winchester. How are you?”

  Dean frowned at the mention of his last name. Had Ben told her what it was? He didn’t like strangers knowing it. Best to stay under the radar in such a small town.

  Despite her earlier wariness, Lisa chatted amiably with Perry. She was warming up to the girl, Dean noted. He just nodded and pretended to read the paper. Then a little blurb under the local police blotter caught his eye:

  Salem Police have found ten abandoned vehicles in the last two weeks.

  All vehicles have been impounded at Salem’s Lot and Tow.

  Cars will be sold at State Auction at 11:30 a.m. today if they are not claimed.

  Ten abandoned cars in two weeks is not unusual in a big city, but Salem was relatively suburban, despite its sprawl. Dean pushed himself away from the table. He really should be pursuing the Necronomicon and a witch to help him, but his hunter instincts were spiked. There was something not right about that many abandoned cars in a small town.

  “Ready to go?” Lisa asked.

  “Actually, I’m going to go check some things out. I’ll meet you back here for lunch?” Dean said.

  “Dean, we said we were going to go to the clipper ships together,” Lisa said, a hint of frustration in her voice.

  “I know. I know. Why don’t we go later?”

  “What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” Ben asked.

  “I’ll show you around,” Perry piped up.

  “Yeah sure, Perry must know the place pretty well. Let her show you the town. I’ll be back soon,” Dean said.

  He kissed Lisa on the cheek and left the dining room in a rush.

  He drove round the block and then stopped to change into a suit, before heading out into the morning traffic.

  * * *

  Three car lengths behind Dean, Sam pulled the white van into the same lane.

  “This van sticks out like one of Heidi Montag’s nipples. Couldn’t we get something a little less conspicuous?” Sam asked.

  “Stop complaining and follow your brother,” Samuel growled. “We need to find out what he’s up to.”

  “Because of these witches, right?” Sam said.

  “Exactly, these witches are bad news, they’re making monsters. Netting them will make me happy,” Samuel said. “Any questions?”

  Sam had plenty of questions but kept them to himself.

  Dean pulled into Salem’s Lot and Tow. A skinny kid appeared from a little shack perched on the side of the lot.

  “Hey man,” Dean greeted the kid, “my sister lost her car. We think it may have been stolen. Can I take a look in your lot?”

  The kid shrugged.

  “You’d have to prove registration and pay the fees to get it out.”

  “Or you sell it,” Dean said.

  “Well, not me, it goes to the police fund actually,” the kid said.

  Dean nodded. He hopped out of his car and headed toward the vehicles lined up in rows.

  “What kind of car did she have?” the kid asked, falling into step beside Dean.

  “I’ll recognize it when I see it. Where are the ones that were found the past couple weeks?”

  The kid pointed out several cars off to one side. Dean walked over to them with purpose, as if he saw one he recognized.

  The first vehicle was an old red Camry, a hand-me-down to a teenager type-thing. Dean made sure the kid had gone back into his hut, and then slid into the driver’s seat. He flipped open the glove box hoping to find the registration, but it was empty. He looked underneath the seats, ran his hands over the door panels, peered under the mats, then finally noticed something shoved into the heating vent.

  Popping the grate out threw a cloud of dust into the car. Inside was a small bag tied with a red string, very like the one that had made Lisa so sick. Dean cut it open with his knife and its contents fell into his lap. He identified withered herbs, a nasty bloody chicken feather and a chicken vertebra. Either the previous owner had been a witch, or a witch had put the bag in the car to keep it off the spiritual radar.

  Dean heaved himself out of that car and checked the next one. Sure enough, inside was the exact same hex bag. Perhaps Dean wasn’t going to have to look far to find a witch. But why all the abandoned cars? Dean decided to see if the police had any missing person reports.

  “Duck!” Samuel shouted as he saw Dean pull his car out into traffic.

  Sam and Samuel were parked right outside the lot—they hadn’t expected Dean to pull out so soon. If he had turned his head to the right, he would have seen them.

  Fortunately Dean never bothers to look both ways when pulling into traffic, Sam thought to himself.

  “Where’s he going now?” Samuel growled.

  Sam gunned the engine and followed his brother into the traffic.

  The Salem police station was a large freestanding brick affair. Sam and Samuel parked the van across the street, and watched as Dean mounted the steps to the door.

  “It looks like he’s working a case, not hunting witches,” Sam observed.

  “He’s all ADHD. Believe me, he’s tracking the witches,” Samuel said.

  “Why are you so sure?”

  “I just know,” Samuel replied tersely.

  “Fine. Forget I asked,” Sam muttered, watching the door of the police station.

&nbs
p; Inside, Dean went to the desk clerk and asked to see the missing person reports.

  “Well, most of thar ain’t missing no more,” the fat desk clerk said with a thick Massachusetts accent.

  Dean nodded. “I totally get the whole Barney Frank thing now.”

  “Donch get yar mening.” The clerk looked perplexed.

  “Can I speak to your supervisor?” Dean asked.

  The desk clerk eased himself out of his seat and led Dean to his captain, an older guy who sat behind a desk in a glass-fronted office. Dean was immediately struck by the captain’s striking resemblance to Chief Wiggum in The Simpsons. Sam would love this dude, he thought.

  Dean badged the Captain.

  “Agent McBrain. Can I have a look at your local missing person reports?” Dean demanded in his best authoritative voice.

  “Don’t you guys up in DC have it in your computer?” the captain responded grumpily.

  “Ah yes, the computer,” Dean replied. “Well, we do, but I wanted to check for any recent ones that you hadn’t filed yet. You’ve had ten abandoned cars found these past couple of weeks. Seems to me like you might have ten reports to go with them.”

  This seemed to perturb the captain.

  “No need to make everyone crazy. A couple of abandoned cars don’t seem like much trouble,” he said.

  Dean smirked—this guy was hiding something.

  “It is a problem if those cars belong to missing people.”

  The Captain stood up and lumbered over to a cabinet. He pulled out a thick manila file and threw it onto his desk.

  “Was goin’ to wait till the summer was over.”

  Dean stared at him, incredulous.

  “Really? You were going to wait until the summer was over to file the reports? Why?”

  The captain shrugged.

  “You can’t have dead bodies coming up outta nowhere. Scares off the tourists.”

  “Wait! What dead bodies?” Dean grabbed the file from the captain’s desk. He flipped through it quickly. Inside the folder were ten individual files, each with a crime scene photo attached. Nine of the ten victims were young women. “Wait a second, all these bodies you’ve found here, in Salem?” In every one of them the cause of death was listed as asphyxiation. “How did these people actually die?”

  “Don’t know. Still lookin’ into it,” the captain said.

  Dean was pissed. He wasn’t really a higher rank then this guy, but if he had been, he would have throttled him for sure.

  “Have you reported this to the federal authorities?” Dean demanded.

  “You’re here now,” the captain pointed out. “Besides, don’t hurt no one. These here are transients.” The captain pointed to the file. “Probably gangbangers from Boston.”

  “She’s about as much a gangbanger as my grandmother,” Dean said, holding up one of the crime scene pictures. It depicted a young girl with blonde hair, her face mottled with bruising. Around her neck was a peace pendant.

  “Gangbangers? Really?” Dean spat. “Wait until Washington hears about this!”

  He thrust the file under his arm and stomped out of the office.

  As he walked away, he heard the captain again mumble something about scaring off the tourists.

  Outside the police station, Dean tried to calm himself down. He needed to find out who or what had killed those people; they deserved some sort of justice.

  Dean opened up his cell phone and dialed a number.

  A business-like male voice answered, “FBI.”

  “Yeah, this is Agent McBrain from the Boston office. You need to come down to Salem and see this shit. Ten girls dead, local police playing keep-away with the information,” Dean said brusquely.

  “What’s your ID number, Agent?”

  “Oh, sure, I’ll give it to you. One moment. It’s 1—” Dean hung up the phone. Hopefully, the little ruse would piqued the FBI’s interest enough to get them to follow up and do all their CSI stuff running down the wrong people. But at least that way all the families would be notified.

  Dean decided to go to the coroner’s office too, even though he knew what he’d find: each cut would be exactly the same, the same depth in the neck for maximum bloodletting. It was ritualistic killing, sacrifices. The puzzle pieces still didn’t jive though. Sacrificing usually meant that someone was trying to do a really powerful spell. But for what?

  On some level Dean felt a buzz, like his brain was finally kicking into gear. He was hunting. He knew what to do. This was his world.

  EIGHTEEN

  Dean sliced through each of the small bags so their contents scattered onto the store counter and Sukie’s bare feet.

  “There are nine girls and one Justin Bieber-looking kid—all dead. All with these bags found in their cars. Why are you killing these people?” Dean growled.

  As Sukie opened her mouth to speak, Dean grabbed a handful of her necklaces and pulled her close.

  “And don’t give me any of that ‘I don’t know nothing about being no witch’ crap,” he breathed and then let her go.

  Sukie looked genuinely scared. She glanced furtively around the store as if someone might be watching.

  “Listen, it’s nothing to do with me, I’m not taking part in whatever they’re doing. I just tell them what I see and I keep to myself,” she stammered.

  “So you told them about me?” Dean asked.

  “Among others. I didn’t know they were killing people, I swear I didn’t. I just hear stuff. I knew something big was happening. But I don’t know what.”

  “What are these bags supposed to do?” Dean asked, though he was pretty sure he knew the answer.

  “They’re like invisibility bags. You know, dissipates the psychic energy of the owner so a clairvoyant can’t find them,” Sukie said.

  “Who’s killing them?”

  “I already told you, I don’t know,” Sukie said. “And I’m always here.” She gestured at the store.

  “So where else could someone get this stuff around here?”

  “Nowhere, we’re the only place. But I swear I didn’t sell any of that stuff to anyone. I open and close this place every day of the week.”

  Sukie seemed to be telling the truth.

  “Okay, so you’re just Bush. Who’s your Karl Rove?” Dean pressed. “Is there anyone else who could take this stuff and you wouldn’t know?”

  “No... I mean the only other people who have access are Connie and her girls.”

  “What are we talking, here? A witch brothel? Let me guess, everyone wears a lot of black lace, Fleetwood Mac-style?” Dean smirked.

  “No, she just has girls that work for her.”

  “Are they all witches?” Dean asked.

  “I don’t know. How many times do I have to tell you? Do you mind if I clean up now? This stuff smells.” Sukie gestured at the dust, bones, and crap before her. “If you want to know something, go ask Connie yourself.”

  “One more thing. What do you need for a marking spell?” Dean asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Something that marks a witch, a bad witch. Clearly not a witch-lite, like you,” he said.

  “I don’t know. Do you have a spell?”

  Dean took out Nathaniel Campbell’s journal and pointed to the spell written in the margin of one of the pages.

  “This looks old. What’d you do? Filch this from the Peabody?”

  “Something like that. Just tell me what I need.”

  “Well, I don’t know. I mean I can only guess. I can’t tell you exactly. I’ve never seen this spell,” Sukie said hesitantly.

  “Guess then,” Dean said.

  “Well, I’d put a little Valerian root, some dragon’s blood and I guess a little sulfur. Might work. I’m not making any guarantees.” She moved round the store, gathering the stuff. She then wrapped it in a linen gris-gris bag. “You can try this.”

  “Thanks,” Dean said.

  “Hey, just so you know, I would never be involved with anyone that kille
d people. Connie is a Mean Girl, you know? I’m not like that.”

  Dean nodded and left the store.

  It took all his self-control not to head straight to Connie’s, crash through her front gates and rip her limb from limb. It seemed he was playing with a powerful witch, and he realized how close he had come to losing Lisa. Maybe he should call Lisa and check in, just in case...

  This time he wasn’t going to get caught without something to hold over Connie. He was sure that she had something to do with the dead bodies, but he had no solid evidence. He could bring her to hunter justice—bind her up and smoke her like a Virginian ham—or turn her in to the authorities. He was going to have to get proof.

  Back in his car, Dean opened the police file. He decided some old-fashioned shoe leather was called for.

  NINETEEN

  From their van parked down the street, Sam and Samuel spotted Dean walk out of the store.

  “You wanna follow him?” Samuel asked.

  “Nah, let’s go talk to the little bitch inside,” Sam proposed.

  “I thought you said she didn’t know anything,” his grandfather said skeptically.

  “Well, let’s just see if she’s changed her mind.”

  Samuel and Sam barged through the front door of the store to find it completely empty. The girl was gone.

  Samuel gestured for Sam to go to the back while he would look upstairs. Sam headed behind the counter into the dark storage room. The back door had been fixed and it was so dark in the windowless room, he could barely see his hand in front of his face.

  A floorboard creaked behind him. Sam spun around and came face to face with a strange woman with harsh features.

  “I’m sorry, no returns,” she said, her voice sharp and grating. She flicked her wrist and Sam was thrown up against the opposite wall. “And no, I don’t care if you’re a Campbell.”

  He tried to fight the power that held him there, but the woman was too strong. He felt an unseen weight press against his chest. The women inched her hand up higher and Sam felt himself thrown up against the ceiling, he struggled to breathe as the invisible weight continued to press down on him.