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The war begins with a call from Bobby.
Reports of supernatural activity in a Mississippi River town, two miles wide and two yards long.
It’s a case like any other.
This time, in antebellum country. Pre-war.
So, they pile into the Impala, doors creaking as they pull them shut. Dean leans back and fiddles with the volume dial as the opening riff of The Allman Brothers Band’s “Ramblin’ Man” clicks over magnetic tape.
Sam rides shotgun.
“Looks like we got one,” he says, spreading a copy of the Shreveport Times out over the dashboard. Bobby’s hot tip.
Dean glances over. “Anything good?”
“Strange sightings just north of Baton Rouge. Some town called St. Francisville.”
“Isn’t that where the Myrtles Plantation is?”
Sam blinks, pointing at the photo of an old antebellum house that accompanies the newspaper article. He reads: “Laurel Grove, pictured here, was built in 1796 by General David Bradford, who lived on the 600 acre property until he was called for the Whisky Rebellion. The Creole-cottage style mansion was later renamed the Myrtles Plantation — yeah, you’re right. You’ve heard of it?”
“Saw it on Ghost Hunters. The crew was making a big deal about ‘technical difficulties’,” he says, with air quotes. “Ratings gold.”
“So you know about the hauntings, then.”
“Hauntings?” Dean balks. “Looked like camera tricks to me. You know, bang some shoes around for footsteps, make one of those computerized ghost thingys like in Ghostbusters.”
“I don’t think Ghost Hunters has that kind of budget…”
Dean shrugs. “In any case, if there’s some bad hoodoo juju going on, we should check it out. Also, two words — crawfish étouffée.”
Sam shakes his head. “It’s always food with you.”
“Not just food, Sammy. New Orleans strippers too. Never forget about the strippers.” He grins. “Now, tell me about this Whisky Rebellion. I woulda done well in one of those…”
It’s eleven hundred miles from Broken Bow, Nebraska to the heart of the Deep South. Winchesters are damn experts at crossing lines. But they don’t usually dip down below the Mason-Dixon.
Sam marks up map coordinates: 30.7881° N, 91.3768° W.
St. Francisville, Louisiana.
Dean floors it.
Burned rubber in the rearview and bayous on the dash.
~~~
They pull into the lot of the Grantree Motel fourteen hours later, drop their bags and saddle up for the hunt. It’s just after noon and their legs need a stretch from riding through the Cotton States all night. (Conveniently, they pull up at an In-N-Out Burger, where Dean stuffs two bacon cheeseburgers down his gullet while Sam pokes around a salad.) Now, they’re inching the Impala up a dirt road, the stalactite-moss brushing the windshield. It’s Dixieland.
“Dunno how I feel about walking around a plantation,” says Sam, peering past the brush and through to the trimmed hedges that line the driveway ahead.
THUNK. The Impala’s left front wheel takes a hard plunge into a swampy mud hole.
“Goddamn it,” Dean curses, shakes it off. Baby needs new shocks anyway. “How’s a plantation different from any other house?”
“Because, Dean, it was used for slavery.”
Dean can practically hear his brother’s eyes roll. Know-it-all.
“Yeah, well, so were a lot of places. Hell, even your precious Stanford president wanted to, you know, breed people.”
That certainly shuts him up.
“Is — is that true?” says Sam, after a moment. “Who told you that?”
“Did my research,” Dean shrugs. “After you left.”
Sam hums, nods once. Decides to leave that one alone.
Eventually, they pull up to the Myrtles Plantation, passing what Sam figures is the old French Quarters alongside the courtyard. Dean cuts the engine and the gentle hum of the daytime cicada presses in all around them like the whrrr of their overactive motel air conditioner. Giant bald-cypress trees pepper the grounds, providing shade and tangles of Spanish moss hanging off their branches like a grandpa’s beard. The grounds are well-kept, the grand gardens precisely manicured in geometric shapes, the large brass fountain ornately polished, with a few rogue coins in the well.
It’s hot as the centre of Hell in the Pelican State. But they’ve got stone cold work to do.
The family business don’t run itself, after all.
~~~
The Myrtles house is even more remarkable than its grounds — built in the 19th century in Creole-cottage style, it features nine bays and an impressive double-door entrance. The veranda stretches the length of the house and wraps around the Southern end, featuring an ornate cast-iron railing with a green-grape cluster design. It’s an impressive bit of architecture, to say the least.
Nothing seems out of the ordinary.
“Look, Dean,” says Sam, who’s stepped onto the veranda and around to the Eastern entryway. He runs his finger along the transom above the doorway, ghosting over hand-etched stained glass. “These patterns… they’re modelled after the French cross. The Creole people thought they would help ward off evil spirits.”
“Ha. Look how that turned out.” Dean shakes his head, chuckling. “All this hoodoo crap… it sounds like mumbo jumbo to me.” He snaps his fingers. “Ooh, that reminds me… we should get shrimp gumbo later.”
Sam sighs and starts to pick the side door lock. “Can we at least take a look around before we make dinner plans?”
The lock clicks and Sam heads inside, Dean at his heels, muttering something that sounds an awful lot like “dinner plans, mehmehmehh.”
Two steps inside the plantation is like taking a trip back through time. The whole place is full of history, of General David Bradford’s pardon by President John Adams. Of the Myrtles’ fortunes lost and title deeds won again after the collapse of Confederate currency. Of typhoid deaths, slave uprisings, and cold blooded murder.
They enter into a study, where old velvet chairs, chestnut bookshelves filled with manuscripts, and old accessories like clocks and an old phonograph sit as though they were in use yesterday. There’s scarcely any dust or an object out of place. The groundskeeper must work overtime to ensure the interior hasn’t deteriorated over time.
Dean closes the door behind them as Sam steps forward to examine a museum plaque near the side entrance. He reads:
“Although rumoured to lay host to over 10 murders, historical records only indicate the murder of plantation owner William Winter in 1871. According to the Point Coupée Democrat, Winter was teaching a Sunday school lesson in this very study when he heard someone approach the house on horseback. Winter went out onto the side gallery of the house and was shot. Legend has it Winter staggered back inside the house and died trying to climb the stairs. He perished on the seventeenth step. Visitors of the Myrtles Plantation today can still hear his dying footsteps.”
Dean thumps his feet dramatically on the floor, dragging his boots in a mock stagger. “Oooh, oooh, can you hear that, Sammy? It’s ol’ Willy Winter! Help, help…”
Sam tries (and fails) to stifle a grin at his idiot brother. “Cut it out. The guy actually died here.”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Dean, shrugging it off. He wanders around the study, running his hands over the old velvet chairs. “I just hate all this hoodoo magic crap.”
“Why?”
“Because their spells are gross! Velerian root, black poodle dog hair, powdered bone… not to mention, you know, body fluids.” He shoots Sam a look.
Sam sighs. “Just because we’re in Louisiana doesn’t mean this is hoodoo. The curator mentioned handprints on mirrors, vanishing objects, weird smells, footsteps on the stairs… all as precursors to people getting hurt. Sounds like a vengeful spirit to me.”
“Mm-hmm,” Dean hums as he flips open the top of a Spanish cedar cigar box and brings one of the implements to his nose, taking a whiff. Mutters an “Oh, yeah” before pocketing it for later.
Sam’s fingers, on the other hand, are ghosting over the spines of old tomes, gold-lettering twinkling in the sunlight. “Tons of gothic literature. Wow.”
After finding nothing of interest, besides ample new reading material for their next midnight ride, they head north into the Dining Room.
The banquet table is still set with glittering goblets, gold-gilded plates, and sparkling silverware. Dean runs a finger along one of the plates.
“Not too dusty. Ooh!” He spots a decanter of whisky on the table. He opens it and takes a whiff. “Straight Kentucky bourbon. Jackpot.” He unearths a flask from the inside of his jacket pocket and fills it with the liquid.
“Dean, we’re in the middle of a case.”
“Yes, and now we’ll have something to celebrate with once it’s solved.” He steps forward and tucks the flask into Sam’s breast pocket, pats it twice with a grin. “Hold on to this for me, will ya?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Just don’t touch anything else. There could be cursed objects all over the place.”
“Relax, Sammy,” says Dean, who’s already digging around inside a tortoise-shell snuff box. He pinches a bit of the tobacco and snuffles it up his nose. “It’s not like anyone’s died in here.”
“There were ten murders here, Dean.”
“Allegedly. Pffff, come on, no one’s died in here in decades and”—his eyes bulge from the hit of tobacco—“wow, that’s good stuff.”
Sam looks around, shifty-eyed. “Yeah, well, there’s still something off about this place. I don’t like it.”
They reach the end of the dining room and are about to step through an archway and through to what looks to be a Children’s Dining Room when something catches Sam’s eye. To the left of the archway, tucked between the two dining rooms, hangs a velvet veil, the bottom of it in tatters.
“Like that,” says Sam, halting when he sees the curtain. “What the hell is that?”
“I know, right?” says Dean, appraising it. “Who puts a curtain right in the middle of the hallway? Doesn’t even match the rest of the decor…”
He moves forward, reaches out a hand to touch it before Sam’s grasp yanks him backwards.
“Are you insane? Don’t touch it!”
“What?” says Dean, getting defensive. “It’s not like the curtain’s gonna get us.” He takes his gun out and, using the barrel, brushes the veil aside, checking to make sure there’s nothing behind it. “Satisfied?”
Sam leans forward. “It’s a staircase. Holy shit. It’s a hidden staircase.”
Dean pokes his head past the veil and looks upward to the second floor. “Why’s it so hidden away?”
“A lot of these old plantations had hidden staircases at the back of the house to lead up to the bedrooms. It’s how a lot of the slaves were able to have easy access to taking care of the children.”
Dean notes the haphazardly painted walls, the paint chips and scrapes and general disrepair of the stairway in comparison to the rest of the house. It’s dark and creepy and there’s no way in Hell that either one of them are going up there. “Let’s keep looking.”
They slide the curtain back over the foot of the stairs and push forward through the Children’s Dining Room, featuring old wooden high-chairs and child-sized plates and cups on the table, and then continue on into the music room, where two gold-gilded pianos, parent and child, are sitting.
Sam runs his fingers along the embossed etchings on top of an old harpsichord. “So what’s the real reason why you hate hoodoo so much?”
Dean shrugs. “Like I said, it’s nasty.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Dean. I can read you like a children’s book.”
He sighs, ringing his hands. “Fine. I dunno, I just… ghouls and vampires, I get. They’re monsters. They have a purpose. Hoodoo magic is just… I can’t understand how people can think they can somehow harness the supernatural to make their lives better.” He shrugs. “I’ve seen enough to know that’s a load of crap.”
Sam bends down, examining the grooves more closely. “You just don’t understand it. That’s why you’re afraid.”
“I’m not afraid,” he balks. “Freaky spells and rituals that make your head spin are no match for a sawed-off Ithaca 37. Kill it dead before you become it.”
Sam glances over at his brother and grins. “Control freak.”
Dean brushes him off. He walks up to one and starts playing a tinkling rendition of “Chopsticks” on the piano with two fingers.
“Hey Sam, what happens when you play Beethoven backwards?” He pauses for effect. “He decomposes.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “Chopsticks isn’t Beethoven. It was written by some sixteen-year-old piano teacher.”
“You’re no fun today,” says Dean, pausing mid-note.
Sam harrumphs. “In any case, you’d better stop playing that thing…”
“Why?” says Dean, finishing his tune.
“You’re gonna get us into treble.”
Dean blinks twice, then grins. “That’s my boy.”
~~~
The Myrtles house is enormous. They’ve already counted eight rooms and they’ve only just begun poking around the East Wing. It would be so easy to get tangled up in here, what with the interconnected rooms, the winding hallway design, plus all the secret servant doors and passageways that allowed slaves to get from one area of the house to another. After creeping their way through a cobweb laced passage, at last, they reach what seems to be the Entry Hall of the plantation. It features an enormous staircase leading up to the second level.
“This is where William Winter died,” says Sam, gazing wistfully at the stairs. He takes a step up, one, two, three, casting a glance higher, higher. “The seventeenth step.”
“Lemme see,” says Dean, pushing past where Sam hovers near the bottom, studying the carpet close enough to potentially see 19th-century bloodstains. The steps squeak and shimmy as he ascends, “…fifteen, sixteen, seven—.”
CREEEEAK.
“—teen.”
As the weight of his foot presses onto the seventeenth step it emits a freakish sound, like a distant scream. No sooner does the house go quiet than a strange sensation washes over Dean, as if the very molecules in his body are dissolving and reforming. He takes pause, wondering if there perhaps wasn’t something a bit stronger in that snuff box he’d opened. Cocaine was like candy in earlier years.
Or maybe his mind’s playing tricks on him.
“You good?” asks Sam from below.
Dean blinks, reasserting himself as the strange feeling dissipates. “Yeah, fine.” He bends down and examines the stair carefully, clicking on his flashlight and shining it at the carpet. “No bloodstains. And it looks like the original floors. Why people put carpeting over hardwood is beyond me…”
“Listen, we’re never gonna get through this place. It’s too big. Let’s split up.”
“You take the upstairs,” says Dean, teetering on the seventeenth step, body and brain recovering from the strange jolt of energy he’d experienced a moment ago.
“You’re already up there. What’re you scared or something?”
“No,” says Dean, poking at the step with the toe of his boot. “Fine. I’ll meet you back here in twenty minutes, bitch.”
“Deal, jerk,” Sam nods before heading down towards the West Wing. Before he disappears, he turns and nods upwards to Dean. “See you soon.”
Sam ducks down the hallway and out of sight.
Dean breaths a sigh of relief. He knows it’s silly, that they’re too old for games like this, but Dean’s always felt like he’s got to put on a brave face for Sam. Make sure he let’s nothing slip. Doesn’t mention that the very essence of his being — the stitching of his skin, the opening and closing of pores, his brain chemistry — had been somehow shifted once he’d set foot on step seventeen. Then again, it’s probably just a coincidence. Or some freaky hoodoo spell that hits you and wears off almost instantly.
Sure, that’s a thing.
He continues upward until he reaches the landing. The second floor isn’t that much different than the first. At the top of the stairs is a sitting area filled with old musty furniture: cherry red and emerald green velvet chairs are arranged around the hall like at a funeral parlour, which is fitting considering the house’s history.
After poking around the hall and finding nothing of interest, Dean heads west into a stately master bedroom.
“Woodruff Suite,” he reads off the loopy engraved lettering on the door. The bedroom looks like it hasn’t been disturbed in decades: the linens are crisp and clean, the chandelier dusted, a dressing mirror perfectly polished. He approaches the latter, eyes circling the silver glass for cracks or spots. He’s never seen a mirror this clean. It’s… too clear, too reflective. Almost, unreal. He leans in, further and further, until he’s being somehow pulled into it like a magnet—or magic—until his nose is mere inches away from the surface. His reflection is so real. Like a fully fleshed out him, only different. It’s hard to explain. But he’s so close to it now that he’s about to fall inside of it and melt into his other self like a vanishing twin, reabsorbed; a chimera.
It would be so easy to just fall right in . . . Dean barely notices when the emerald eyes of his reflection glance left as if independent, the crook of a smile at its mouth . . .
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
Dean startles. His blood runs cold as he glances towards the bedroom door and back into the hallway.
That sound… squeak, squeak. Someone is coming upstairs. He tears himself from the mirror-image—his freakish doppleganger—unearths his gun, and tip-toes over to the doorway. Hides behind the grandfather clock. Time's ticking.
Squeak, squeak.
CREEEEAK.
The familiar shriek of the seventeenth step makes his skin prickle. His insides are rearranging, shuffling around and slotting back together like puzzle pieces. Breaking and reforming like a reverse-motion firecracker. Sweat pools at his temples, but he doesn’t have time to worry about what the fuck kind of 19th-century acid was lacing that tobacco because the footsteps are getting closer, reaching the top of the landing now. Dean takes a deep breath, gives the intruder a minute to pad across the hallway before he peers around the doorway, silent as a grave, points his gun and sees…
The back of Sam Winchester’s stupid long-haired head.
“Son of a bitch, you scared me—whoa!“
As quick as lightning, Sam whips around, wielding a hammer in Dean’s direction. When they realize it’s only each other, they both recoil to absorb the hammer’s force.
Sam’s eyes are as wide as full moons. “Dean?!”
“Yes, Dean!” he balks, tucking his pistol back into his jeans. “It’s me you idiot! What’re you tryna hammer your big brother to death?”
Sam lets the hammer hang limply by his side. He blinks twice. “You missed an opportunity for a good ‘nail me’ joke there.”
Dean shrugs off the fact that his heart’s pumping a mile a minute, too fast to think of dirty jokes. What the world is coming to… “Where’d you find the hammer, Thor?”
“On the back porch,” he says, blinking. “I thought you were gonna check the backyard?”
“The backyard...” he trails off, shaking his head and trying to make sense of all this nonsense. With a huff, he digs into his breast pocket, unearths the snuff box, and shoves it into Sam’s hand. “Take this. Get rid of it. The shit’s fucking with my head, dude.”
Sam shakes the box. “What it is?”
“The tobacco, remember? From the study? I think it’s cursed or hoodoo heroin or something…”
Sam just stares stupidly at Dean, then the box, as he twists and turns it between his fingers before tucking it in his pocket without another word.
It takes a second for Dean to catch his breath again. “Did you find anything downstairs?”
“Haven’t checked yet.”
“Oh, I thought…” He gives his head a shake, rattling around whatever’s left in there. The heat must be getting to him. “Okay, well, go check the downstairs West Wing after you’re done up here.”
“Kay,” Sam nods, turning towards the upstairs East Wing and creeping across the landing away from Dean.
Dean lets out a huff of air. For despite how goddamn sugar sweet his little brother seems, there’s not much more terrifying in the world than Sam Winchester with a hammer.
~~~
Just having the cursed snuff box off his person puts Dean in a better mood. He returns to exploring the Woodruff Suite, tugging at the cushions of an old love seat with beige upholstery and an ornately carved chestnut frame. Moves along the room to the fireplace, running his hand along the mantle. Smooth. Cherry oak, maybe.
He looks more closely.
In the inner hearth, a wrought iron andiron sits with three stacked pieces of wood on top. Just outside it sits a matching set of fire irons in a wrack — tongs, a slice bar, shovel, and a poker. All present and accounted for.
Nothing of note there. He moves north into the adjoining room, a children’s room of sorts. Must be where the Nanny took care of the kiddies.
This room unsettles Dean like no other. There’s an abandoned cradle in the corner and the boudoir lays host to a variety of childcare knick-knacks and a few unfaded photographs. He picks one of the frames up and looks it over. Shudders as he stares at the picture of a baby in a flowing white Christening dress, lace and linen. Something about old photographs makes everyone look haunted.
He puts the photograph down and turns to one of the shelves. Atop it is a collection of old toys and, to Dean’s horror, two twin dolls sit right in the middle. There’s nothing wrong with the dolls, not at first, but the longer Dean stares at their glassy black eyes, the more unsettled he feels. The dolls don’t quite… look right. They’ve got the bodies of infants but the faces of people much older. And the strange thing is that, as Dean stares, the dolls seem to… change. Their features shifting, a wrinkle here, a cheekbone there, nostrils flare and Dean’s pretty sure he’s going crazy because the dolls are breathing.
A shiver zips through him and he jumps backwards away from the toys. There’s an eerie pull towards them, like the mirror, so he makes the effort to avert his eyes as to not get sucked in. The last thing he needs are those twins staring at him, through him.
He shakes his head and mutters, “Why is it always dolls?”
Across the room is a window overlooking the North End of the property. Dean shuffles over to it and peers outside. The view is of the stately back garden, with fountains and trees and white benches. It’s hard to imagine the type of life people who lived here — the type who owned slaves and enjoyed decadence and money and owning everything you could ever want.
He’s about to step away from the window when a flicker of movement catches his eye. At the back of the yard, the shape of a tall man is poking around an enormous cypress tree. Shadows obfuscate his features, but he’s obviously preoccupied with something. A second later, the man seems to turn to face the house and then ducks behind the tree as if in hiding from someone.
Or something.
Dean leans forward to get a better idea of what frightened the mystery figure and, lo and behold, he spots Sam coming out the back door of the plantation.
Must’ve gone down the back staircase.
Dean watches as his little brother pokes around, scanning the yard for clues.
“Idiot,” curses Dean. “Why’d he go out there without me? Hey, Sammy!”
Dean knocks fervently on the window, trying to get Sam’s attention. At last, Sam spins around and looks up towards the noise. His face turns white when he spots Dean in the window.
“Sam. Over. There,” Dean mouths as clear as he can. He makes an exaggerated pointing gesture towards the cypress tree.
Sam whips around towards the back yard, then turns to the window again. There is genuine fear in his eyes, a fear that makes Dean’s stomach squirm.
The hell is he so afraid of? Had he seen the figure too?
“Watch out,” Dean mouths, pointing again at the backyard. “I’m coming down.”
Just then, another of flurry of movement catches his eye, bigger and darker. Only this time, he sees things very clearly and it makes him startle.
A grisly hellhound is sitting at the back of the yard, red eyes affixed to the cypress tree where the man had been hiding. The man had since disappeared. Or was just tucked away out of sight.
One heartbeat… then another… boom, boom, BOOM… pulse racing, ears throbbing. It’s too much. It’s all too much.
This can’t be happening. Not again. Please, don’t take me there. Don’t take me back…
Dean clenches his eyes shut, scrubs at them with his knuckles before opening them again. The patch of lawn is empty.
The wretched creature has vanished.
He swallows. It was all a vision. A nightmare. Some deep-seated tendril of Hell’s influence scratching at his brain, making him see things. Making him insane.
It takes a second to get his bearings, but he manages to wrench himself away from the window. He tears back through the Woodruff Suite and into the upstairs hall so fast he reaches the top of the staircase in seconds. He nearly jumps out of his skin when he spots Sam already standing at the bottom, staring up at him.
“Christ, dude. You gotta stop doing that,” says Dean, heaving to catch his breath. He’s more than a little relieved to see Sam hadn’t been murdered by a hellhound, but miffed that Sam hadn’t stayed put to keep an eye on the mystery man behind the cypress tree. “You lose him or something? Where’s your hammer?”
“Lose who? What hammer?”
“The guy in the yard! Lurking behind the tree? I just pointed him out, come on…”
“Dean, there’s nobody out there.”
Dean pauses. He’s going to regret saying this, he knows it. “So, you didn’t see the hellhound?”
“You’re…” Sam’s mouth drops open in worry, “you’re seeing hellhounds?”
“Nah, it’s nothing. I’m just messing around.”
Sam furrows his brows. He knows when Dean’s all smoke and mirrors. He shifts his weight onto one foot, surveys his brother with suspicion. “Dean, how’d you get up to that window so fast?”
“How’d I — what?”
“We just split up.” Sam shakes his head, raises a finger. “You’re telling me you got from the back yard to that upstairs window in the span of, what, twenty seconds?”
Dean shrugs. He’s not sure what twenty seconds has to do with anything. Chalk it up to Sam being weird again. “Well, it was more like a few minutes… Remember, we were gonna meet back here in twenty? But then I saw that guy out the window and that went to hell.”
Sam blinks twice. “Dean, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, what’s the matter with you? You fall on your head or —“
Their squabble is cut short when they hear piano music coming from the Music Room. They freeze.
Someone’s playing “Chopsticks.”
Sam and Dean look at each other with terror. It’s the same tune Dean’d been playing earlier. Spine tingling, Dean tip-toes down the stairs as quietly as he can, being careful to skip over the squeaky seventeenth step and joining Sam at the bottom.
Without a second thought, he grabs his brother and pulls him across the room towards an old cabinet at the far end of the entry hall. He shoves Sam inside and, as he turns back to look over his shoulder before climbing in himself, his stomach drops when he spots a body with long legs at the top of the stairs, moving from the East Wing towards the Woodruff Suite. Heart thumping, Dean climbs into the cabinet and pulls the door shut behind them, plunging them into darkness.
“Ouch, Dean, you’re on my foot!”
“Sorry,” he mutters, shifting his weight. As Dean positions himself to peer out of the crack where the two doors meet, the sliver their only light source, his voice shakes as he murmurs, “Something weird’s going on. There are other people in here, man.”
“What?”
If Dean closes one eye, he can just manage to see the shapes and blurs of furnishings in the foyer, including the master staircase. The piano music has stopped and now he can hear the whisper of footsteps and low murmurs from the down the hall.
“Shh, shh, someone’s coming.”
In the distance, coming from the Music Room, Dean can barely make out two dark shapes. He can’t quite tell what they are — but there’s something… familiar about them. Can’t quite put a finger on it. Giving up on seeing the figures, Dean turns and presses an ear to the crack, trying to listen in to the two voices —
“—are you gonna make that joke every time we come through here?”
“Yeah, probably.”
“Great. Can’t wait for the third retelling.”
“What? You’re drunk.” They seem to pause, appraising the Entry Hall. “You take West Wing, I’ll take East?”
One of the figures sighs. It sounds familiar.
“I told you, I already checked the West Wing.”
“You did?”
“Yes. I think you’re the one who’s drunk…”
“Alright then, you take the upstairs, I’ll take the East Wing, and you pull the stick out of your ass. Sound good?”
Heavy sigh. “Fine.”
There’s a bit of shuffling as the two figures pass, a few squeaky footsteps and then —
CREEEEAK.
The unmistakable wail of the seventeenth step makes Dean’s blood run cold. But soon, all is quiet again. The coast is clear for Dean to open the cupboard and the two of them step out again.
“Who were they?” whispers Sam, dusting off his jeans.
“Strangers,” he whispers. Familiar strangers. “Look, we’ve got to divide and conquer here. We’re outnumbered. I’ll deal with the two guys upstairs. You find the one in the East Wing, okay? But be careful, he might go up the back staircase.”
“Back staircase?”
“Yeah,” says Dean. “The creepy one. With the hanging veil? Tell me you remember…”
Sam nods. “Oh, um, sure.” He blinks twice. “The veil.”
Dean searches his little brother’s eyes for something. Now’s not the time for Sammy to be having a mental breakdown. It’s like he’s gotten stupider all of a sudden.
Not like him at all.
“Sam, did open that damn snuff box? Because, I gotta say, I’m seeing dolls come to life, so please, for the love of all that is holy, do not inhale. Okay?” He claps his brother on the shoulder. “Meet back here when you’re done.”
Sam nods in confusion but heads off toward the East Wing in pursuit of one of the mystery figures. Meanwhile, Dean grabs the gun from his pants and runs upstairs, forgetting to count from the bottom and —
CREEEEAK.
“Damn it,” he curses under his breath. The last thing he wants is to announce his presence to the multiplying devil’s spawn now sneaking around the house.
He reaches the upstairs landing and ducks quickly into the Woodruff Suite, where he’d been before. There’s no one there. Funny, he could’ve sworn he just saw at least two figures head this way…
WHUMP.
Suddenly, he’s distracted by the sound of a scuffle and a surprised yelp coming from the direction of the Nanny’s Room. He whips out his Colt Government pistol, clicks the action, cocked and ready, and creeps slowly towards the other end of the room. There are a few thumps and bumps ahead and Dean’s ears prickle. There’s definitely someone in the adjacent room.
On his way across the room, something else catches his eye. It’s the display of andirons next to the fireplace. The ones that’d been arranged and hanging quietly earlier. But now…
The poker is missing.
He draws a deep breath, trying to put the missing piece out of his mind as pushes forth into the Nanny’s Room. The room is empty. Just when he’s about to drop his weapon and sigh with relief that he’s just seeing things — that’s there was some sort of hoodoo curse on the snuff box, he notices a doorway he hadn’t seen before. A doorway that leads to what looks to be an ensuite bathroom.
The door is ajar. He creeps forward and inches it open with the barrel of his gun, fully expecting a hulking figure — some shapeshifter or witch — to spring out at him.
But there’s nothing.
He takes another step forward into the bathroom, swears he can hear ragged breathing — someone’s final breaths — coming from behind the shower curtain. Hands shaking, he reaches forward to grab hold of the closed curtain when —
“Son of a bitch.”
The sound of a voice — his own voice — coming from directly behind him makes his blood run cold. He whips around in terror to see…
No. It’s impossible.
Six foot one, emerald green eyes, cropped hair, wearing Dad’s hunting jacket and… and… the amulet. It’s…
Me.
They stare at each other for a split second before Dean pulls the trigger, firing at the shapeshifter or apparition or whatever the hell clasped onto his essence and duplicated it. Two bullets to the chest — Dean was always a good shot — and the thing drops to its knees, dead before it hits the ground.
The house is deathly still as Dean’s ears ring with the sound of shots fired and the deafening sound of his own heartbeat. He stares at the dead creature, facedown on the floor, bleeding out all over the carpet. It’s still there — it hadn’t, well, dissolved or exploded or shattered into a million pieces. It’s still… him.
“I… it…”
Inch by inch, Dean approaches it. He nudges its carcass twice with the toe of his boot, then crouches down, and steadily brings two fingers to the pulse point on its neck. Shivers when his fingertips make contact with warm skin — human skin. Recognizes the little scar under its ear; is intimately familiar with the freckles along the side of its neck. He takes a breath and then tugs at the corpse’s shoulder, turning it right side up and gasping in horror when he meets its eyes.
It… it can’t be.
The cold, dead eyes that stare up at him are his, just like everything else — the nose with the little bump he’s always hated, the pouty lips and crooked bottom teeth. A shudder rips through him because this thing he’s killed is so clearly, so obviously, not a monster — it’s himself. Another version perhaps, but him.
It’s uncanny.
“Wh — what do I…” The ringing in his ears has subsided in favour of outright panic. Dean clutches his chest to quell the ache and mops his sweaty brow.
He can’t think clearly. Not when he’s just… killed himself. So his hunter instincts take over. He shoves the butt of his gun into his pants and, as quietly and quickly as he can, grabs the body around the shoulders and drags it from the Nanny’s Room to the Woodruff Suite. Takes an enormous effort to shove it under the bed, tucking the lifeless limbs under the dust ruffle before backing away, breathing heavily.
Pauses in the room, just staring into space. Because that couldn’t have just happened. It’s impossible.
The house is playing tricks on him.
He’s got to get back to Sam before anything else happens. They’ve got to get out of this hellhole, this madhouse, this hoodoo haven. He tears from the room and back onto the landing, skips down the stairs (three at a time) in record speed and pauses at the bottom.
As he looks to the right, down into the West Wing, his heart stops.
Because what he sees… well, it’s once again, the outline of… of… himself, facing away and poking around the main floor bedroom. Panicked, he turns the other cheek, looks to the left and sees…
Sam, thank god. His little brother is exploring the ladies parlour in the East Wing.
Dean’s about to call out to him when it hits him…
He’d just hidden away with Sam in the cupboard. And he’d tasked that Sam with investigating the back staircase. The cupboard Sam wouldn’t still be lingering in the ladies parlour, not this long after they’d parted ways. And if there’s more than one, well, Dean, maybe there’s more than one…
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
Dean’s pulse races at the loud thumping upstairs, just above the East Wing. He’s about to sprint up the steps when he spots a very bloodied and terror-stricken Sam emerge at the top of the landing, clutching the iron fireplace poker in shaky hands. Blood drips from the pointed end of it.
Sam’s eyes are wild, like he’s seen a ghost. Or worst. His hands shakes as they grip the iron poker. He opens and closes his mouth, stunned, as he stares at Dean. “I - I just… I just…”
There’s no time to explain or understand. “I know, I know. This house is messing with us. Let’s get out of here. Now!”
Sam nods, terror in his eyes and blood spatter on his face. “Okay,” he stammers, nearly tripping over himself as he shakily moves down the stairs.
CREEEEAK.
That sound. That wretched, evil caterwaul. The shriek that makes Dean’s bone rattle, his brain turn to mush, and his blood simmer. Dean presses two hands to his ears, trying to get it out of his brain, but it’s burrowed deep inside, nested there like a termite.
He’s shaken out of his stupor once Sam reaches the bottom of the stairs and grabs Dean’s arm. “Front door. Let’s go.”
They turn and, just before they barge out of the front door, Dean catches movement out of the corner of his eye. To his right, there stands himself, gun drawn, in the West Wing.
“Dean… Dean." Sam squeezes his arm and points in the opposite direction.
In the East Wing, stands Sam, gun drawn and pointed.
The four of them stand motionless, frozen in time like they’re caught in some other dimension, an endless loop or mind maze. But before any of them can react, Dean, with all his might, launches him and Sam forward, bursting through the front door and taking the 19th-century hinges with it.
BOOM.
BOOM.
Two guns are fired, shots cutting through hazy air, followed by anguished, familiar cries — of bullets through flesh and last breaths.
Sam and Dean sprint across the porch and back over to the Impala, still parked where they’d left her earlier, leaving the dying wails behind. Sam tosses the bloody poker aside before he climbs in, riding shotgun. Dean kicks her into gear and rips out of the driveway, pulling the smoothest one-eighty he’s ever managed, leaving mud tracks in their wake.
Pedal to the metal.
~~~
For several minutes, the two of them sit in silence, catching their breaths and trying to make sense of things. But the puzzle pieces just won’t fit. Dean’s still not sure what they witnessed back there — what mysteries lurked within the Myrtles Plantation's walls. All he knows is that something in his very bones feels unsettled. Disturbed and multi-dimensional.
Only one way to calm his nerves.
“Hey,” he says, voice rattling. “Can you hand me that whisky?”
Sam, shaken to the core, glances over. “What whisky?”
“I put my flask in your jacket pocket. Remember?”
Sam pauses, then replies with a stilted, “Oh, right.” He digs in his breast pocket, patting around the lining. “Dean, I, um…”
“What?”
“I don’t have it.”
Dean blinks. “You don’t have it?”
“No. It must have, um, fallen out.”
Dean shakes his head. “Never mind.”
The sound of Sam breathing a sigh of relief fills the entire cab. Dean, too, takes a breath and returns to staring out the windshield as they, at long last, turn onto the main highway, heading down the US-61, fingers white-knuckled on the wheel.
And as he drives, the strangest thought strikes him… an outrageous idea. Deeply disturbing.
So, as the sun sets over the Louisiana bayou, he turns to his little brother riding shotgun.
“Bitch.”
Sam raises one eyebrow, glances over and smiles.
“Jackass.”
