“So, creatures made of shadow could be, what, mesmerized by strobe lights?”
“Definitely,” Sam said. “From what you describe, the strobe lights may have had a hypnotic or paralyzing effect. To our eyes, the rapid interchange of light and shadow creates gaps in movement. To a shadow person? Maybe, I don’t know, fractured reality.”
With his notes and a shopping list, Dean drove around town to purchase shadow hunting gear, before hopping on the interstate to visit a department store and a party supply warehouse for the last few items.
When he returned to the Moyer Motor Lodge, Dean found Sam on his bed, sitting next to an impressive pile of salt rounds for the two shotguns he’d removed from the trunk of the Impala before Dean left. “Both loaded,” Sam said. “With plenty of rounds to spare.”
“Two-man war?”
“Town’s riddled with shadows.”
“Don’t even know if the salt will have any effect.”
“They trip the EMF detector,” Sam said, nodding toward the bedside table.
Whether the last intruder had been a random encounter or a scout sizing up a potential enemy, neither of them could guess. The possibility existed that the shadow people knew about hunters. Some of them had possessed cops, so they might know of the arrival of two FBI agents. But none of the cops had an inkling that the Winchesters were hunters or anything other than government agents.
Dean assumed the prior visit was random. The possessions had become more brazen, the shadow people themselves less secretive, allowing themselves to be observed by numerous eyewitnesses. More than likely, they assumed they were immune to any countermeasures the humans might employ. They wouldn’t expect an assault on their home base.
Sam began to fill two leather pouches with the salt rounds. “Better too many than not enough,” he said. “You find everything?”
Dean slid the strap of a stuffed duffel off his shoulder and tossed the bag on his bed. “It’s all there,” he said. “Tasers, stun guns, portable black light flashlights and portable strobe lights.”
Sam’s cell phone buzzed. “Gruber,” he said as he picked it up and put it on speaker. “Go for Blair.”
With raised eyebrows, Dean mouthed the same words at Sam, who shrugged.
“Sorry it took so long,” Gruber said. “No time-outs in Crazy-town. Arrested two neighbors for robbery.”
“Working together?”
“One robbed a bank,” Gruber said. “With his hunting rifle. Warning shot in the ceiling. Demanded singles only. No large bills.”
“Strip club plans?” Dean asked.
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Gruber said. “The other went next door and robbed Calloway’s Crullers—with an aluminum tennis racket.”
“Donut place?” Sam asked, surprised.
“Yes, but nothing from the cash register,” Gruber said. “Only donuts. Specifically, jelly donuts.”
“Any warning serves?” Dean asked.
“It’s not all fun and games,” Gruber said. “A pair of off-duty cops who happen to live a few houses apart, decided to have an old-fashioned duel, Glocks at twenty paces. One took out another neighbor’s headlight. But he wasn’t so lucky. Lost his spleen. And, of course, none of them remember anything.” They heard a sigh over the line. “But that’s not why I called.”
“Find something out about the cult house?”
When Gruber spoke next, his voice was lower. “Newspaper account glossed over the explosion and the loss of life. Hardly any coverage or follow-up articles. Seemed odd. But guess who was on the force way back in 1968.”
“Hardigan,” Dean said, recalling the chief of police, who had the military bearing of a law enforcement lifer.
“Got it in one,” Gruber said. “I pressed him about it and he finally caved. After the explosion, the police found a stockpile of marijuana, LSD, magic mushrooms, you name it. They also discovered the population of the commune numbered about three times what they expected. And, get this, the whole gathering area had been intentionally wired with dynamite set to explode at midnight. Over seventy victims, though they only reported a third of that. Anyone whose prints weren’t in the system got tossed in a mass grave at night. Other than a few samples to fit their narrative, the drugs were destroyed and never mentioned. They explained it all as an unfortunate accident rather than a mass cult suicide.”
“Mass suicide? But, why?” Sam asked. “If their illegal operation had gone undetected, why check out?”
“The cult leader, Caleb, believed the world would end. The Robert F. Kennedy assassination was a sign or portent or something. The whole group took his psychedelic concoction at one of their gatherings or sermons. Caleb had planted dynamite around the whole area, under the outdoor communal dining tables and so on, with timed fuses to detonate at midnight. Some underground… holding cells were also rigged to blow. They found some of the bodies in those underground rooms.”
“Wow,” Sam said softly.
“From the forensic reports, it’s likely they were all tripping out of their minds when the dynamite went off,” Gruber said. “Even if they weren’t stoned three ways from Sunday, with the simultaneous explosions, they wouldn’t have known what hit them.”
“But the house is still there, right?” Dean asked, wondering if Bonnie had her facts wrong. At her age, faulty memory was a possibility.
“Still standing,” Gruber said. “Changed owners several times over the years but remained unoccupied and fell into disrepair. Whether the explosion was an accident or mass suicide, a lot of people died there.”
“Guess the stigma of all those deaths hung a black cloud over the place,” Sam said.
“Until a couple months ago,” Gruber said. “Previous owner sold off most of what had been the commune’s farmland, leaving the house and a sizeable backyard. Marketed the house as a fixer-upper—which was a massive understatement—and sold to Daniel and Susan Yates, married couple in their mid-thirties with two kids.”
“Is it possible the Yates family has a connection to the Free Folk?” Dean asked.
“I reviewed the list of twenty-three official victims,” Gruber said. “Nothing jumps off the page. Of course, we have no records for the victims buried in the mass grave, so all bets are off there.”
“They moved in months ago,” Sam said. “If they had a connection to the shadow people, something would have happened before now.”
“Humans living there again could have been a trigger.”
“Maybe,” Sam said. “But something would have sparked sooner.” To Gruber, he asked, “Was the Yates family told about the cult before they bought the house?”
“Doubt it,” Gruber said. “The house suffered no damage in the explosion. They’re out-of-towners. Or were. Possible they’ve heard something about the house’s history since moving in. But the husband is a house-flipper. Don’t expect them to hang around after the fixing-up is done.”
“Telephone number?” Dean asked.
“Checked,” Gruber said. “No landline.”
“Thanks,” Sam said, raising a finger to disconnect the call.
“Wait!” Gruber said. “I bluffed a confession out of Hardigan, but you never said how the commune from the Sixties is connected to whatever the hell is happening in my town.”
“You wouldn’t believe us if we told you,” Dean said.
“Try me.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?” Sam asked.
“You’re telling me that Moyer is haunted?”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“What now?” Gruber asked, clearly frustrated by a threat he had no rational way to neutralize. “We hold a séance? Burn incense?”
“We have something more… offensive in mind,” Dean assured him.
“Well, whatever it is, hurry,” Gruber said. “It’s tearing the town apart.”
As Sam disconnected his call, Dean’s phone rang. He showed the caller ID display to Sam before taking the call: Bonnie Lassiter.
“Go
for Tench,” Dean said, trying it out with an overly dramatic nod toward Sam. “You have something?”
“Oh, you bet I do,” she said. “He’s back.”
“You mean…?”
“Yes,” she said. “Barry’s here.”
THIRTY-ONE
Since Addison claimed to know their father’s cell phone passcode, Ethan made a deal with her. They would only hide in the underground room until the police rescued them. No time at all, really. Because, if they didn’t hide, they’d have to keep running, and then the police would never find them.
Though shaky on his logic, Ethan only had to convince a five-year-old that it made sense. They were too exposed above ground. And if they had to keep running, Addie would grow tired a lot sooner than their possessed father. He recalled one of his teachers talking about how humans and animals reacted to extreme fear with the fight or flight response. So far, they had chosen flight because fighting their father—a grown man with a bloody knife—was out of the question. Neither option worked for them. Ethan knew they couldn’t outrun their father. So, the time had come to hide instead.
The pits were deep enough for a grownup to stand in and not bump their head on the trapdoor. For children, that meant a drop into darkness that could result in a sprained or broken ankle if they weren’t careful. Ethan couldn’t risk Addie getting hurt and crying, trapped in a pit with him, at the mercy of their possessed father. Ethan flashed on his nightmare of being buried alive in one of the pits and shuddered.
He dropped to his stomach and told her to take his hands before swinging her legs over the pit. Braced against the ground he supported her weight, inching forward to lower her down as far as he could.
“Don’t drop me!”
“It’s not far.”
“It’s dark,” she said. “I’m scared!”
“The bottom should be close to your feet,” Ethan said. “You could probably feel it with your toes if you had big clown shoes.”
She laughed at the image. “Really?”
“Just a little hop down.”
“Okay.”
“On three,” he said. “One, two…”
“Three,” she said and let go of his hands.
He heard an oomph! Then a low, “Ow!”
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Fell on my butt,” she said. “But, yeah.”
“Told you,” Ethan said.
“It’s dark down here,” she called. “Don’t leave me alone!”
“Coming,” he said, swinging his legs around to lower his body over the edge. He almost let go—
“Oh, crap!”
“What’s wrong?”
“Forgot the door!”
Fingers digging in the dirt, he had to scramble up the rough wooden surface of the chamber wall, the toes of his sneakers slipping a couple times before he pulled himself back over the edge. He flipped the door over on its hinges, propping it up with a stick, high enough that he could slither through the gap. With his left forearm circled around the stick, he lowered his body again. The fingers of his right hand clung to the edge.
“Stand back!” he called.
“Don’t fall on my head!”
“Watch out!” he called as he yanked his left arm toward the hole, which pulled the stick out from under the door. At the same time, he let go with his right hand and dropped into the pit. The door slammed shut a moment before he landed with a thud. His momentum caused him to stagger backward, brushing Addie before he thumped against the far wall.
“You okay?” Addie asked.
“Bit my cheek,” Ethan said. He ran the tip of his tongue over the cut, tasted his own blood. “I’m fine.”
“It’s darker now,” Addie said plaintively.
With the door shut, they were trapped in almost complete darkness. Ethan stared up at the trapdoor, the ceiling of their tiny underground cell. A few tiny cracks in the wood let through some light from above, but he couldn’t escape the spooky feeling that he’d buried them alive with no help at all from their possessed father.
“Makes it harder for him to find us,” Ethan said, attempting to sound more positive than he felt.
His mother always said, “You choose if the glass is half full or half empty. Nobody else.” They had lived in a bunch of crappy houses the last few years. His mother had always found something positive to say about each one. And every time they moved into another bad house, she told them it would get better each day as their father continued to fix it. And someday they would move into a great house and it would be theirs for good. He would make friends he could keep and finally get a dog.
As Ethan stood in the dark with his sister, hiding from something evil that wanted to kill them, he focused on the positive. His father had no idea where they were, so they were safe. And he believed his mother was alive and would get better, once they called for help. One simple phone call.
Ethan took those few moments to calm himself. Be brave so she’ll be brave.
Reaching into his back pocket, he handed Addie their father’s cell phone. “Okay,” he said. “Enter the code.”
She took the phone from him, looked at the lock display and began tapping numbers on the onscreen keyboard.
With his arms spread, Ethan could touch opposite walls of the pit. Turning ninety degrees, he reached out again and found the distance the same. Wide enough to lie down, he thought, but not comfortably.
“Once you unlock it, we’ll call for help,” he said. “And we’ll use the flashlight app, so we can see down here until the police and ambulance come for us and Mom.”
But Addison was frowning. He hadn’t counted the taps, but she’d entered way more than six numbers. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s not working.”
“You said you knew it!”
His calm had already started to evaporate. He could feel panic rising from his stomach. “Tell me the number,” he said. “I’ll try it.”
“Daddy said it was a secret,” she said. “Not supposed to tell anyone.”
“I’m not anyone, doofus,” Ethan said impatiently. “I’m your brother!”
She tried the number again, and again.
He snatched the phone from her hand. “Tell me,” he said. “Let me try.”
With a dramatic sigh, she said, “Okay, but I better not get in trouble.”
Ethan laughed. Couldn’t help himself. They were hiding in an open grave from their father, who was possessed by an evil shadow creature that wanted to stab them to death, and Addie was worrying about getting in trouble for revealing a cell phone passcode.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” Ethan said. “So not funny. Tell me the code!”
“He told me it’s our birthdays, but that’s too long,” she said. “They won’t all fit.”
Three birthdays, Ethan thought, puzzling it out. Their mother’s, his and Addie’s. Six digits. Two digits for each birth day, birth month or birth year. But which one? And in which order? Oldest to youngest? Or the opposite. Six possible combinations. He’d have to try each one.
From above, he heard his father’s voice, the scary shadow voice, like an animal growl, calling out to them. “Ethan!” he called. “Addison!”
Ethan entered their birth years, starting with their mother’s, but for a few moments he couldn’t remember the year she was born and the panic bubbling in his sour stomach surged.
“Ethan!”
Was it his imagination, or did the voice seem closer to their hiding place?
“Addison!”
Closer! Too close, already!
He heard a creak of rusty metal and the thud of a wooden door falling. “Come out of there!” the voice called. “I know you’re hiding!”
Oh, crap! He’s already checking the pits!
Nearby, a trapdoor slammed.
Hunched over the cell phone, Ethan feared he might vomit on the wooden floor. Addie was scared now, but if she knew how terrified he was, she’d panic.
The security code failed.
“Okay, try days,” he muttered to himself.
“Did it work?”
“Not yet,” he said.
“Told you it didn’t fit.”
“That’s not the—!” He sighed. “I’ll get it.”
“Found something in the corner.”
“What?” he asked. Rotted food? Flashlight with dead batteries?
“A stool,” she said. “With three legs. It’s short. I can sit on it.”
“Do that,” Ethan said. The three sets of two-digit birth days failed to unlock the phone from oldest to youngest, and again from youngest to oldest. “Okay, months now.”
“It’s wobbly,” Addie complained.
“We’ll fix it later,” Ethan said.
Last two digits, Addie’s birth month.
The lock screen vanished, revealing the phone’s home screen. “Thank God!”
“What? It worked?”
“Yes,” Ethan said.
SQUEAK—THUD!
Another trapdoor yanked open and slammed shut.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are!”
If Ethan closed his eyes, he pictured his father less than ten feet from their pit, heard the scuff of his shoes on the ground as he strode toward them. Bile climbed his throat. He grimaced and swallowed hard.
Quickly, he dialed 911. But nothing happened.
No dial tone! “Crap!”
“What’s wrong?” Addie asked. “Battery dead? Momma’s battery always di—”
Ethan tuned her out. The battery icon showed half a charge, but the other side of the screen showed a weak signal, only one bar. No! he thought angrily. Not after everything we…
“Let me have the stool!”
“Finders keepers,” Addie said in a maddening sing-song voice.
“Just for a minute,” Ethan whispered urgently. “I’ll give it back.”
“Okay.”
Ethan climbed onto the seat of the wobbly stool, balancing himself precariously as he raised the cell phone over his head, high enough to brush the underside of the trapdoor. The single bar transformed into two bars, flickered to three for a second then back to two.
Should be good enough, he thought, and dialed 911 again.
Supernatural--Joyride Page 22
