Supernatural: Night Terror

by John Passarella

  Shaking his head, he answered the call and said, “Ben, we’re not doing this again.”

  “Dean!”

  Lisa’s voice. Hushed and frightened.

  Dean tightened his grip on the steering wheel, instantly alert.

  “Lisa? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s in the house.”

  “What’s in the house?” he said urgently. “Lisa, what’s in the house?”

  “He looks human,” she whispered. “But he’s not.”

  “Who—what is it?”

  “Dean, he’s calling for you. Says he wants you but he’ll enjoy the fresh meat while he waits. He knows we’re here!”

  Casting aside a dozen possibilities, Dean’s mind seized on one: ghoul.

  “Where are you?”

  “In the closet, in my bedroom. With Ben.”

  “Dean, you gotta hurry!” Ben’s voice, smaller and somehow more distant.

  “We’re frightened, Dean,” Lisa said and her voice sounded raw.

  “Hang on, Lisa. I’m coming.”

  Dean floored the accelerator, staring through the muddled windshield, wipers turned to their highest setting. Visibility sucked. He could see less than fifty feet in front of the Impala’s headlights before darkness swallowed his surroundings. He had yet to see one sign on the empty road, which seemed endless and unchanging no matter how long he drove. No destination ahead of him. Nothing in the rearview mirror.

  “Dean, where are you?”

  “I—I don’t know.”

  “How long before you get here?”

  “Soon—soon as I can.”

  Dean looked left and right, desperate for a street sign or a route number. Anything. Was he even driving in the correct direction? Maybe he was heading away from them.

  “Dean... he’s coming up the stairs,” Lisa whispered frantically. “I can hear him. Tapping a knife on the banister.”

  Facing the inevitable, Dean asked, “Do you have any weapons? Anything you can use as a weapon?”

  “I didn’t have time,” Lisa said. “I grabbed Ben and hid. Let’s see...” Dean heard sounds of rustling movement. “I have... hangers...”

  “Wire?”

  “Plastic.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Boots, shoes... Dean I didn’t know I’d need weapons in my closet!”

  “Call 911.”

  “I tried. They put me on hold. Dean, he’s going to kill us...”

  “No,” Dean said defiantly. “That won’t happen. I won’t let it happen.”

  Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s too late. He’s in my room...”

  Silence on the line.

  “Lisa? Lisa, talk to me?”

  A moment later, he heard her scream.

  “No!” Dean yelled.

  He pounded the dashboard with his fist and—

  —he was standing in her house, at the bottom of the staircase.

  As Dean grabbed the railing and took the first step, a darkhaired ghoul appeared at the top of the stairs whistling an unrecognizable tune. It held a blood-streaked butcher knife in one hand. The index finger of the other hand pressed casually against the tip, as if testing its sharpness. In addition to the blood on the knife, the ghoul had blood smeared around its mouth.

  “About time you showed up, Winchester,” the ghoul said. “Had to amuse myself while I waited. And I was feeling a bit peckish.”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Dean launched himself up the stairs.

  The ghoul waited for him impassively. Until the last second. Then it slashed the butcher knife toward Dean’s throat.

  But Dean was expecting the attack, and threw his forearm into the crook of the ghoul’s elbow as he drove it back and slammed it into the wall. Dean drove his right fist into the ghoul’s abdomen, doubling it over. Then he placed his palm under the ghoul’s jaw and shoved its head back so hard the back of its skull smashed through the drywall.

  Stunned by the head blow, the ghoul failed to resist when Dean grabbed its knife-wielding hand, twisted the wrist down and forced the blade deep into its gut. The ghoul gasped and sputtered, blood foaming on its lips. Dean grabbed the back of the ghoul’s neck with his right hand and its belt with the left, and ran it forward, hurling the creature down the staircase, head over heels.

  Grunting in pain as the embedded knife cut through assorted internal organs, the ghoul rolled end over end, feet bursting through the railing at one point before its body veered toward the wall and crashed to the landing below. Moaning, the ghoul stirred, plucking feebly at the handle of the butcher knife.

  Dean marched down the steps, pulling his gun from the holster and taking aim as he neared the last step. When Dean finally stood over the prone form, the ghoul opened its eyes and tried to focus on Dean’s face, but it couldn’t ignore the muzzle of the handgun.

  “As last meals go...” it began.

  Dean fired two quick shots into the creature’s head.

  Standing in a dark silence broken only by his ragged breathing, Dean steeled himself for what he would find upstairs. He holstered his gun and rubbed his palm over his face. Numbness spread from his head to his toes. He clenched and unclenched his hands, sensing that he stood on a precipice. Looking down, he would see the face of madness.

  Several moments passed before he realized he heard sobbing from upstairs.

  Lisa!

  Dean turned back to the staircase, moved toward it, fighting the sensation that the stairs would disappear before he could ascend them. He gripped the railing for support and it wobbled crazily beneath his grip, weakened by the balusters damaged in the ghoul’s fall. With each step up, he had increased difficulty breathing. When—if—he made it to the top, he was certain there would be no oxygen left in the house.

  One plodding step after the other he came closer to the source of the sobbing. As much as he tried to hurry, he dreaded what he would find. The staircase seemed to rear upward, making the climb steeper. He pressed onward, determined to face the consequences of his actions, the price of his inaction... the result of his absence.

  At the top of the stairs, the sobbing became louder, more sporadic and—how was it possible?—even more inconsolable.

  The mournful sound led him to Ben’s room.

  Dean stood in the open doorway. His body trembled with his inability to step forward, into the room. Lisa sat with her back toward him, hunched over—

  —blood on the walls—

  —blood stained the bedcovers and—

  —blood on the floor, near...

  Dean pressed his eyes shut before he could see—

  —if he opened his eyes he would see—

  He turned away and—

  He woke up.

  In the dark motel room, lying on his right side, shuddering as he held back a bottled grief that carried over from his disturbing dream. He’d collapsed on the bed without changing out of his rumpled clothing, falling asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. Now he felt as if he’d been through a spin cycle.

  “Whoa,” he said softly as he swung his feet over the side of the bed.

  “Dean!” Sam said from behind him, undisguised relief in his voice. “You rolled over.”

  Dean looked over his shoulder. “What?”

  “You moved—rolled away. Bad dream?”

  “Doozy,” Dean said. “What’s wrong? Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Same here. Bad dream.”

  As Dean turned around, he saw Sam pass his hand over the edge of the bed, as if searching for something.

  “You need loose change for the vending machine, just ask,” Dean said, looking at his brother, puzzled.

  “No—it’s not that. Thought I saw a tear in the blanket. Guess I imagined it.”

  Dean stood up and turned to face Sam across the bed.

  “This ain’t no four-star hotel,” he said. “But I think I would have noticed ripped bedding.”

  “Right.”

  Sam stood there for a moment, l
ooking dazed. Then he ran his fingers through his hair and exhaled forcefully.

  “It’s late morning,” he said. “What do you say? Coffee with an energy drink chaser?”

  “Sam? Something you want to talk about?”

  “No. I’m good.”

  “You don’t look good.”

  Sam sighed. Dean had the impression his brother wanted to tell him what was bothering him so he kept quiet, waiting, to let Sam work it out.

  “Like I said, bad dream. More like a waking dream. I was... talking to Soulless Sam. Guess it’s the unknown. He was me. But he’s a stranger, in a way.”

  “Sure.”

  “Don’t know, man,” Sam said. “Maybe it’s a psychological side effect of having this wall in my head. Wondering what it—he was like. But what can I do? Doubt I’ll find any case studies on the Internet.”

  “You think it’s cracking? The wall, I mean,” Dean said. “Maybe Cass can patch it.”

  “No, it’s not that. I’m not remembering anything about my... lost time. Or what went on in the pit with Lucifer and Michael. It’s just about him... the not knowing.”

  “Make sense, I suppose” Dean said. As if any of this makes sense.

  EIGHTEEN

  By the time Dean parked the Impala across from 109 Chaney Lane, a tree service company was reducing the downed white oak to disposable pieces. One man cut off smaller branches and fed them into the wood chipper while a second man turned the trunk into manageable slices with a heavy-duty chainsaw.

  Between the raucous roar of the chipper and the repetitive whine of the chainsaw, Dean felt a massive headache brewing. Lack of sleep and too much caffeine could be a crappy combination. At least he wasn’t hung-over. Although, at the moment, he couldn’t imagine how a hangover could possibly feel any worse.

  Sam pressed the doorbell.

  They waited with their FBI laminates at the ready. Melinda Barnes might assume they were with the press, intruding on a family tragedy, and slam the door in their faces. She would be more inclined to speak to someone trying to figure out what happened. But what they really needed was to speak to her son.

  Nobody answered.

  “Maybe the doorbell’s broken,” Dean said.

  They certainly couldn’t hear much over the tree destruction in progress twenty feet behind them. Sam rapped on the door.

  A few seconds later, a young woman with puffy eyes greeted them, taking a moment to check their IDs.

  “What do you want?” she asked loudly, frowning as the wood chipper shrieked in the background.

  Dean wondered if the constant reminder of the tree that had killed her husband bothered her, or if she found some solace in witnessing its methodical dismemberment. Either way, Dean decided he’d defer her question to Sam.

  “Just a few questions, Mrs. Barnes.”

  “I can’t hear,” she said, shaking her head. “Come inside.”

  She led them through the house to the kitchen, which was decorated in a country style with pink gingham wallpaper, white cabinets with glass-front doors, and a light-colored hardwood floor. The windows overlooked a backyard with an all-purpose wooden playset in the center that featured a mini fort and climbing wall, a sliding board and swings. The kid wasn’t out there.

  Melinda Barnes sat down at the kitchen table and motioned them toward chairs. Dean and Sam sat facing her.

  “You’re with the FBI?”

  “Yes,” Sam said. “We’re sorry for the loss of your husband. We have a few questions and then we’ll get out of your way.”

  “I talked to the police last night,” she said, pressing one hand to her quivering chin. “Don’t know what else I can say.”

  “We’re conducting a parallel investigation,” Dean said.

  “This was a freak accident,” she said. “A horrible freak accident. That’s all, right?”

  “Ma’am, you may be aware of some of the other... strange incidents around town in the last few days.”

  “A boy killed in a hit and run.”

  “Two now,” Dean said.

  “Two?” she shook her head. “I hadn’t heard. Just some crazy talk down at the hair salon about a giant alligator.”

  “Gila monster,” Dean said. “And a giant tarantula.”

  “What?”

  “Red-kneed.”

  “The point is,” Sam said. “We believe there may be a connection between all these incidents.”

  “How could there be a connection to what happened to Max?” she asked. “It was a storm and the—the tree branch came through the window. Max was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Was he?”

  “Yes. We talked about trimming the tree because the branches scraped against the house. They scared Daniel, my son. Max said he would cut them in—in the morning.”

  She clamped a hand over her mouth and squeezed her eyes shut. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she quickly wiped the tracks away.

  “I’m sorry...” she choked.

  “No need to apologize, ma’am,” Sam said.

  “He was standing by the window because of the branches being so close... checking them, and the wind gust...”

  “Is that what your son saw?”

  “What? Of course, that’s what he saw. That’s what happened.”

  “Did he tell you what he saw?” Sam pressed softly.

  “He’s not—he’s not talking about it. I told him he didn’t have to talk about it,” she said. “But I saw. I heard him calling me and I ran into the room seconds after it happened. There was—the window was broken and... and Max was on the floor and there was so much blood.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m taking Daniel away from here for a while. I called my sister in Colorado Springs and we’re going...”

  “I understand how upsetting this is, Mrs. Barnes,” Sam said. “It’s important that we talk to Daniel—”

  She shook her head violently. “No!”

  “He’s the only witness.”

  “No!” she said again. She looked down at the kitchen table, nibbling on the fingernail of her index finger, slowly shaking her head. “No. I don’t want him to go through that again. To relive what happened to his father. Can you imagine how horrible that must have been? For a ten-year-old boy to see that... to see his father...”

  Sam waited while she composed herself. Then he tried again.

  “Ma’am, whatever caused this, whatever killed your husband, we don’t believe it was a freak accident. And we believe these incidents will continue to happen until we figure out what’s causing them and stop it.” Sam paused for a moment, then continued, his voice gentle but firm. “As a wife and as a mother, you wouldn’t want something like this to happen to another family, to another little girl or boy.”

  She continued to shake her head.

  “No, of course not,” she said.

  Finally, she looked up at Sam, met his gaze, and her eyes were wet with more unshed tears.

  “But, as a mother, I can’t put my son through this.”

  “It’s okay, Mom,” a small voice said from the kitchen doorway.

  “Daniel?” she said, wiping her cheeks hastily again. She rushed from the table and placed her hands on his shoulders. “You’re supposed to be sleeping in the guest room. What are you doing down here?”

  “Couldn’t sleep with all the noise outside,” he said. “And I heard you talking to these men.”

  “They were just leaving,” she said and glanced over her shoulder. “Weren’t you?”

  Sam glanced at Dean, who nodded, and they stood.

  “You said you can stop this from happening again,” Daniel Barnes said, looking around his mother’s protective stance at the Winchesters. “Is that true?”

  Standing there, the kid reminded Dean of Ben.

  “Yes,” Dean said. “That’s true.”

  “Then I want to help.”

  “Daniel, you don’t need to—” his mother began.

  “I want to,” Daniel insisted. “For
Dad.”

  Melinda Barnes sobbed and clamped her hand over her mouth again.

  “Dad would want me to be brave.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, he would.”

  “Then I’ll do it.”

  The boy took his mother’s place at the kitchen table and the Winchesters sat again. Melinda Barnes poured glasses of water for all of them. Dean sensed that she wanted to keep her hands busy or she would simply wrap Daniel in her arms and not let go until they left.

  With a quick look at Sam, who nodded his understanding, Dean took over the questioning. “Tell us what happened, Daniel,” he said.

  The boy nodded. Took a sip of his water and held the glass tightly in both hands.

  “The tree branches scared me,” he said. “They looked like arms with long pointy fingers. I could see creepy shadows on the walls and ceiling of my room. The branches kept tapping the window when I was trying to sleep. I was afraid they wanted to grab me. But I kept telling myself ‘wind and shadows’ and that it was nothing to be afraid of and I fell asleep.” He took another sip of water. “Then I had a nightmare about the tree.”

  “A nightmare,” Dean said. “Must have been spooky.”

  Daniel nodded. “The tree was evil in my nightmare. It wanted to kill me and its branches were like arms and fingers. They tried to grab me. Reaching through my window.”

  “In your dream,” Sam said.

  “Yes,” Daniel said. “And that was when the window cracked.”

  “The dream window?” Dean asked.

  “No. The real window,” Daniel said. “It cracked in real life. Woke me up.” He took a deep breath. “It was like my nightmare had become real.”

  Sam exchanged a meaningful look with Dean, but didn’t interrupt the flow of the boy’s account. “Go on.”

  “I freaked out,” Daniel said. “I called out for Mom, but Dad came instead. He was kind of mad, but I told him about the window. And that’s when we found out the lights wouldn’t work.”

  “You lost power?” Sam asked Melinda Barnes.

  “Briefly,” she said.

  “He—my dad—was standing by the window,” Daniel said. “He asked me to try my lamp, but that wouldn’t work either. And that’s when it happened. The wind was blowing hard and the branch came all the way through the window...”