SPN FIC - Hopely - Eileen, 1998
Remember this little series? I started it last year: a series of outsider POVs of John and the boys during their visits to a small town, seven years apart, in pursuit of ... something that shouldn't be there. This one springs from something that happens to me now and then during the summer, when the windows are open. You wake up, and you think...
There's somebody in the house.
Her heart starts to patter wildly. It can't be anyone dangerous, can it? If someone broke in, they wouldn't stand in the doorway and talk to her, call her by name.
Maybe she's imagining the whole thing.
(If you're interested in the other stories in the series, just click the "Hopely" tag at the bottom of this entry.)
CHARACTERS: John, Dean, Sam, OFC
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG, for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 2766 words
HOPELY - Eileen, 1998
By Carol Davis
Someone's arguing.
Outside, she thinks muzzily. They're outside, in the street. On their way home from the bar. It happens all the time in the summer: people stand outside and bicker, and what time of night it is doesn't matter.
It's a quiet street, most of the time. But sometimes, people argue.
"You gonna get out of my friggin' way?"
That's…loud.
Close.
"You're gonna mess everything up! Would you - dammit, would you be careful?"
"I am being careful. Now get out of the friggin' way."
This happened once before: she woke up thinking someone was in the house, and rolled out of bed on the side away from the door so she could hide. She was down on the floor for almost a minute before she realized the window in the spare bedroom was open and the voices were coming from the Claytons' driveway next door.
Maybe it's the TV. Maybe the TV's on.
But who would have turned it on?
"Did you get 'em all?"
"I ran out of salt."
"There's a big bag of rock salt in the basement. Under the stairs. Use that."
If she could wake up just a little bit more, she could figure out where those voices are coming from. But it's nice and warm in bed, and it's Saturday. The weekend, after a long, crazy week. Time to sleep in. Relax. Sleep off the headache that's throbbing hard behind her eyes.
It's the weekend.
Isn't it?
The house is quiet for a moment. The absence of voices lets her hear a soft click-ticking against the windows. Sleet, she thinks. That's right: the weather report said there might be sleet and freezing rain. That's what the rock salt is for, to throw out on the sidewalk if there's ice.
Need to bring it up from the…
"Ms. Jordan? Are you awake?"
There's somebody in the house.
Her heart starts to patter wildly. It can't be anyone dangerous, can it? If someone broke in, they wouldn't stand in the doorway and talk to her, call her by name.
Maybe she's imagining the whole thing.
A dream. This has to be a dream.
"Ms. Jordan, it's me. Sam Winchester. It's okay. You're safe."
Sam…?
She's in bed and it's the middle of the night and Sam Winchester is in her house. Standing in her bedroom doorway.
He was arguing with someone about rock salt.
"What…" she whispers.
There's a light on out in the hall and he's backlit by it, a tall, slender shape framed by the woodwork of the doorway. Someone's out there moving around behind him, and Sam turns for a moment, mutters something terse that she can't make out, then says to her, "We found you down in the dining room. It looked like you passed out or something. We brought you up here. Okay? I know it was - I mean, you probably feel pretty weirded out, but it's okay."
Sam?
He was in her class. Six years ago? Maybe seven. He didn't make it through the whole year because…
"You're okay. I think you're okay. You're not bleeding or anything."
Bleeding?
"Get her some water," the person behind Sam says.
"I don't - it's -"
"What?"
"It's kind of weird."
"Why?"
"She's my teacher."
"She was your teacher in the second grade, numbnuts."
"Third."
"What?"
"It was third grade, not second."
"What the hell difference does it make? You gonna get her some water, or you want me to go tell Dad you want to wait this out in the car?"
"We aren't done with the salt."
"Oh, for crying out loud."
The other figure moves into the backlit doorway, shoving Sam out of the way. "I'm Dean," he says. "You saw us at the store the other day. Remember? Me and our dad and Miss Manners, there. You gonna freak out if I bring you a glass of water?"
He's alongside the bed a minute later, levering her up with an arm slipped underneath her shoulders. Her head spins crazily and for an awful moment she's sure she's going to puke all over the covers. She doesn't know this boy, Dean. She doesn't know Sam all that well, for that matter. She taught him for a few months years ago, and now he and - is it his brother? - are in her house, somehow, found her in the dining room (Passed out? I passed out?) and put her to bed with her clothes on, and…
And…
There was…
"Take it easy," Dean says in a tone that leans toward impatient. He's got the cup from the bathroom in his hand and he holds it to her lips long enough for her to take a couple of sips of water, then sets the cup on the night table and shifts her the rest of the way into a sit. "You good?" he asks.
Downstairs.
He…
There was…
She'd switched off the light in the kitchen and was turning to go back to the living room to read another chapter or two of the new Jodi Picoult novel before bed and he was there, right there, looking at her. Smiling.
Jeremy.
Jeremy was…
She fainted. That's what happened. She fainted.
"Dean?" barks another voice. "Sammy?"
"Up here," Dean calls out.
Heavy footfalls come up the stairs and that third voice asks, "She all right? We need to finish this."
She's fully dressed, definitely fully dressed - except for her shoes - but still she hesitates for a second before she pushes aside the afghan they've laid over her and climbs out of bed on the side opposite from where Dean is perched. That puts the bed in between her and the three of them, for what little that's worth. She's got nothing to use as a weapon, unless she wants to throw a bowl of potpourri, or swing a big basket of silk greenery.
She can see it now, thanks to the light in the hall. Sam's father (if that's who he is) is holding a shotgun.
This isn't good.
This really isn't good.
"Ma'am," Sam's father says, in a tone that suggests he's either very polite or…well. A polite serial killer.
The phone's on their side of the room.
"You -" she stammers. "I think - you - I need you to leave now."
Her head's still a little muzzy, but not enough to let her believe this is a dream. The floor's cold under her feet. Even though she's standing right next to the radiator, the whole room seems ice cold. Maybe they're all ghosts, she thinks. Isn't that what happens when ghosts are around? The room gets cold.
"Please," she says. "Just go."
"That wouldn't be a good idea," Dean tells her.
"There's money. Not a lot. I don't keep a lot in the house. Please."
What do they think she has? She's a schoolteacher, for God's sake. There's a PC downstairs, but it's three years old and probably isn't worth a hundred bucks. She plays her CDs on a thirty-dollar boombox-thing from K-Mart.
"We don't want your money," Sam says softly.
"Please."
She's always felt safe here, in this town. Nothing much ever happens here. Some vandalism now and then, when the kids get bored, and there were some arson fires a few years ago, but that was down at the other end of town.
Now there are three men in her house. With guns.
She can feel tears start to slide down her cheeks. A small sound slips out of her throat, a whine, and she knows that's the last thing she should be doing, acting like a victim; she should be proactive, find a way out of here, find a way to defend herself.
"There's money downstairs," she insists.
"No," Sam blurts out, and he strides across the room, grabs his brother by the arm and hauls him away from the bed. Shoves him out into the hallway and snaps at him, "I hate this damn job. You wonder why I hate this? We're supposed to be helping people. This isn't helping. This isn't helping."
"Sammy," his father says.
She could climb out the window. If they'd just leave her alone, she could climb out and run. It's a long drop to the ground, but with a little luck she wouldn't do anything worse than twist an ankle. THINK! she tells herself viciously, and tries not to pay much attention to You should have figured out a way to get out of here a long time ago. A ladder. You should have bought one of those rope ladders and kept it under the bed.
She's not sure whether she should pay attention to If they were going to kill you, they would have done it before you woke up.
Maybe they want to hole up here - maybe they've done something, and they need a place to hide. But that doesn't make much sense; the house isn't isolated. The Claytons would notice strangers moving around in here.
Maybe they've noticed already.
"There's something in this town," Sam tells her quietly. "That's why we came here."
"Sammy," his father warns.
"What? We shouldn't tell her? It's killing people, Dad."
Sam's father grumbles a couple of breaths. The light in the hall is directly over his head and it throws deep, black shadows down onto his face. In the market, when she saw them a couple of days ago, he looked like the men she sees every day, the blue collar workers, her neighbors, the ones who drive big gleaming pickups and drink beer on their porches in the dark. When Sam said hello to her in the produce aisle his father was standing a few paces away. Impassive. Waiting.
This is a dangerous man, she thinks.
"We keep -" Sam says, and sighs. "There's a thing here. A creature."
She turns a little, to look at him. He sighs again and sputters on, "It's called a huli jing, and we tracked it here. Okay? We don't want your money. We want to find the huli jing and kill it, so we can go."
Oh, that's so much better.
"What?" she squeaks.
"It's a -"
"Sam," his father says, annoyed, like Sam's said something he shouldn't have. Which makes sense, because a minute ago they were just invading her home. Now they're invading her home, and they're crazy.
"Let me DO this," Sam snaps.
In the movies, that gun would be swinging up. At the very least, Sam's father would be striding in here to crack Sam a good one on the side of the head. But he doesn't move. He just stands there with the ceiling light dumping black shadows down his face.
"Did you see something?" Sam asks her quietly. "In the house? Did you see something that shouldn't have been here?"
Compelled by something she wouldn't be able to explain, she shakes her head.
"Ms. Jordan?" Sam prods.
They all look at her.
There are tears sliding down her cheeks as she nods.
"What did you see?"
He was in the living room. Looking at her. Smiling. As if he'd come back to town from somewhere far away.
It's far. Of course it's far.
"Jeremy," she whispers.
"Who?" Dean asks.
Sam stretches out a hand but stops short of touching her. There's sympathy painted all over his face. Of course he knows who Jeremy is (was); all her kids know. She's never told any of them, not directly, but it gets passed down from year to year. She's poor Eileen Jordan, whose fiancé stepped on a land mine and was sent home… Well. Some of him was sent home.
It makes a great story, she supposes, if you're eight years old.
"It wasn't him," Sam explains. "It's the huli jing. They take the shape of people who've died. Or people who are far away."
Tears drip off her chin.
"Is it in my house?" she whispers.
"Yeah," Dean says. "We tracked it here."
She took Jeremy's ring off years ago, but once in a while she rubs that finger with the thumb of her other hand.
She does that now. Rubs hard.
"Why does it do that?" she asks, wishing she could summon a little more volume. Hold her voice a little steadier.
"To gain your trust," says the man in the hallway.
They're dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, the three of them. Like the men who sit in the bar down the street in the late afternoon and early evening. Those men go home by the time the news comes on at eleven; they leave the late-night hours to a different kind of drinker. In the summer they sit on their porches with country music playing on battered radios. She's never seen any of her neighbors brandish a gun, but she's suspected more than once that guns would pop out of nowhere, like dandelions, if the need arose.
Jeremy was one of them. Flannel shirt. Boots.
Once upon a time, he'd sing to her, soft and off-key, mimicking the down-South twang he heard on the radio.
"Get it out of my house," she says through her teeth.
In the movies, she'd ask for a gun. She'd butch up, like Sigourney Weaver. Might even be the one to fire the killing shot.
As it is, there's no shooting at all.
There's…tea.
She stands watching, barefoot, downstairs in the dining room, as Sam's father produces from the pockets of his jacket a collection of small, delicate pieces of paper covered with symbols inscribed in thick, dark ink. With his sons standing guard he chants something in a language she doesn't recognize, then looks long and hard at her as he produces a cheap Zippo lighter and flicks the flame to life. The bits of paper are burned to ash in one of her ceramic mixing bowls, then mixed into a mug of tea that Sam heats up in the microwave.
Sam's father hands her the mug and says, "Drink this."
There's no point in asking "Why?"
He seems satisfied when the mug has been drained. Seems to relax, just a little, though his posture and his expression still make him look like the rock he's been charged with rolling uphill keeps escaping his grasp and rolling back down over his feet.
Sisyphus in a flannel shirt.
"It won't come back," he says. "The house is protected now. You might see it somewhere else, but odds are it'll move on."
"To…where?" she asks.
He leaves that question to his sons. To Sam, mostly, because Dean takes it on himself to put the scorched mixing bowl in the sink and half-fill it with water, then follows his father out the front door. A moment later she can hear the solid, earthy throb and hum of a big engine. Truck, maybe, or a big, old car.
"We have to get it to show its true form," Sam says, and it sounds like an apology.
Some of her third graders, and their parents, have been in her house over the years. The year Jeremy died, a bunch of them came over and landscaped her yard. Washed her windows. Painted the back steps.
None of them came in the middle of the night.
"I'm sorry we scared you," Sam says quietly. "It's just - my dad - he -" He's silent for a moment, shuffling his feet. "We tracked it here, and when Dean looked through the window he saw you laying on the floor."
He goes on shuffling, and it's a dance, almost, anxious and agitated.
Then he embraces her, sudden and fierce, and releases her almost as quickly. "I gotta go," he stammers. "You'll be okay now. It won't come back."
And he's gone.
They're all gone.
She stands where she is for a minute, listening to the silence that falls after the heavy throb of that big old engine fades off into the distance. They're gone, but they've left their mark behind: neat lines of rock salt at the doors and windows, the tang of burned paper hanging in the air.
The floor's cold against her bare feet.
Watching the door, as if she thinks it might open again, that someone might come bursting back in, she wraps her arms around herself. One hand drifts bit by bit to her mouth and she begins to gnaw the edge of her thumbnail.
She always thought she was safe in this town. There aren't any land mines here, but apparently there's something else.
In the morning, she thinks.
In the morning, she's going to go out, and find out what the hell is going on.
* * * * *
There's somebody in the house.
Her heart starts to patter wildly. It can't be anyone dangerous, can it? If someone broke in, they wouldn't stand in the doorway and talk to her, call her by name.
Maybe she's imagining the whole thing.
(If you're interested in the other stories in the series, just click the "Hopely" tag at the bottom of this entry.)
CHARACTERS: John, Dean, Sam, OFC
GENRE: Gen (Outsider POV)
RATING: PG, for language
SPOILERS: None
LENGTH: 2766 words
HOPELY - Eileen, 1998
By Carol Davis
Someone's arguing.
Outside, she thinks muzzily. They're outside, in the street. On their way home from the bar. It happens all the time in the summer: people stand outside and bicker, and what time of night it is doesn't matter.
It's a quiet street, most of the time. But sometimes, people argue.
"You gonna get out of my friggin' way?"
That's…loud.
Close.
"You're gonna mess everything up! Would you - dammit, would you be careful?"
"I am being careful. Now get out of the friggin' way."
This happened once before: she woke up thinking someone was in the house, and rolled out of bed on the side away from the door so she could hide. She was down on the floor for almost a minute before she realized the window in the spare bedroom was open and the voices were coming from the Claytons' driveway next door.
Maybe it's the TV. Maybe the TV's on.
But who would have turned it on?
"Did you get 'em all?"
"I ran out of salt."
"There's a big bag of rock salt in the basement. Under the stairs. Use that."
If she could wake up just a little bit more, she could figure out where those voices are coming from. But it's nice and warm in bed, and it's Saturday. The weekend, after a long, crazy week. Time to sleep in. Relax. Sleep off the headache that's throbbing hard behind her eyes.
It's the weekend.
Isn't it?
The house is quiet for a moment. The absence of voices lets her hear a soft click-ticking against the windows. Sleet, she thinks. That's right: the weather report said there might be sleet and freezing rain. That's what the rock salt is for, to throw out on the sidewalk if there's ice.
Need to bring it up from the…
"Ms. Jordan? Are you awake?"
There's somebody in the house.
Her heart starts to patter wildly. It can't be anyone dangerous, can it? If someone broke in, they wouldn't stand in the doorway and talk to her, call her by name.
Maybe she's imagining the whole thing.
A dream. This has to be a dream.
"Ms. Jordan, it's me. Sam Winchester. It's okay. You're safe."
Sam…?
She's in bed and it's the middle of the night and Sam Winchester is in her house. Standing in her bedroom doorway.
He was arguing with someone about rock salt.
"What…" she whispers.
There's a light on out in the hall and he's backlit by it, a tall, slender shape framed by the woodwork of the doorway. Someone's out there moving around behind him, and Sam turns for a moment, mutters something terse that she can't make out, then says to her, "We found you down in the dining room. It looked like you passed out or something. We brought you up here. Okay? I know it was - I mean, you probably feel pretty weirded out, but it's okay."
Sam?
He was in her class. Six years ago? Maybe seven. He didn't make it through the whole year because…
"You're okay. I think you're okay. You're not bleeding or anything."
Bleeding?
"Get her some water," the person behind Sam says.
"I don't - it's -"
"What?"
"It's kind of weird."
"Why?"
"She's my teacher."
"She was your teacher in the second grade, numbnuts."
"Third."
"What?"
"It was third grade, not second."
"What the hell difference does it make? You gonna get her some water, or you want me to go tell Dad you want to wait this out in the car?"
"We aren't done with the salt."
"Oh, for crying out loud."
The other figure moves into the backlit doorway, shoving Sam out of the way. "I'm Dean," he says. "You saw us at the store the other day. Remember? Me and our dad and Miss Manners, there. You gonna freak out if I bring you a glass of water?"
He's alongside the bed a minute later, levering her up with an arm slipped underneath her shoulders. Her head spins crazily and for an awful moment she's sure she's going to puke all over the covers. She doesn't know this boy, Dean. She doesn't know Sam all that well, for that matter. She taught him for a few months years ago, and now he and - is it his brother? - are in her house, somehow, found her in the dining room (Passed out? I passed out?) and put her to bed with her clothes on, and…
And…
There was…
"Take it easy," Dean says in a tone that leans toward impatient. He's got the cup from the bathroom in his hand and he holds it to her lips long enough for her to take a couple of sips of water, then sets the cup on the night table and shifts her the rest of the way into a sit. "You good?" he asks.
Downstairs.
He…
There was…
She'd switched off the light in the kitchen and was turning to go back to the living room to read another chapter or two of the new Jodi Picoult novel before bed and he was there, right there, looking at her. Smiling.
Jeremy.
Jeremy was…
She fainted. That's what happened. She fainted.
"Dean?" barks another voice. "Sammy?"
"Up here," Dean calls out.
Heavy footfalls come up the stairs and that third voice asks, "She all right? We need to finish this."
She's fully dressed, definitely fully dressed - except for her shoes - but still she hesitates for a second before she pushes aside the afghan they've laid over her and climbs out of bed on the side opposite from where Dean is perched. That puts the bed in between her and the three of them, for what little that's worth. She's got nothing to use as a weapon, unless she wants to throw a bowl of potpourri, or swing a big basket of silk greenery.
She can see it now, thanks to the light in the hall. Sam's father (if that's who he is) is holding a shotgun.
This isn't good.
This really isn't good.
"Ma'am," Sam's father says, in a tone that suggests he's either very polite or…well. A polite serial killer.
The phone's on their side of the room.
"You -" she stammers. "I think - you - I need you to leave now."
Her head's still a little muzzy, but not enough to let her believe this is a dream. The floor's cold under her feet. Even though she's standing right next to the radiator, the whole room seems ice cold. Maybe they're all ghosts, she thinks. Isn't that what happens when ghosts are around? The room gets cold.
"Please," she says. "Just go."
"That wouldn't be a good idea," Dean tells her.
"There's money. Not a lot. I don't keep a lot in the house. Please."
What do they think she has? She's a schoolteacher, for God's sake. There's a PC downstairs, but it's three years old and probably isn't worth a hundred bucks. She plays her CDs on a thirty-dollar boombox-thing from K-Mart.
"We don't want your money," Sam says softly.
"Please."
She's always felt safe here, in this town. Nothing much ever happens here. Some vandalism now and then, when the kids get bored, and there were some arson fires a few years ago, but that was down at the other end of town.
Now there are three men in her house. With guns.
She can feel tears start to slide down her cheeks. A small sound slips out of her throat, a whine, and she knows that's the last thing she should be doing, acting like a victim; she should be proactive, find a way out of here, find a way to defend herself.
"There's money downstairs," she insists.
"No," Sam blurts out, and he strides across the room, grabs his brother by the arm and hauls him away from the bed. Shoves him out into the hallway and snaps at him, "I hate this damn job. You wonder why I hate this? We're supposed to be helping people. This isn't helping. This isn't helping."
"Sammy," his father says.
She could climb out the window. If they'd just leave her alone, she could climb out and run. It's a long drop to the ground, but with a little luck she wouldn't do anything worse than twist an ankle. THINK! she tells herself viciously, and tries not to pay much attention to You should have figured out a way to get out of here a long time ago. A ladder. You should have bought one of those rope ladders and kept it under the bed.
She's not sure whether she should pay attention to If they were going to kill you, they would have done it before you woke up.
Maybe they want to hole up here - maybe they've done something, and they need a place to hide. But that doesn't make much sense; the house isn't isolated. The Claytons would notice strangers moving around in here.
Maybe they've noticed already.
"There's something in this town," Sam tells her quietly. "That's why we came here."
"Sammy," his father warns.
"What? We shouldn't tell her? It's killing people, Dad."
Sam's father grumbles a couple of breaths. The light in the hall is directly over his head and it throws deep, black shadows down onto his face. In the market, when she saw them a couple of days ago, he looked like the men she sees every day, the blue collar workers, her neighbors, the ones who drive big gleaming pickups and drink beer on their porches in the dark. When Sam said hello to her in the produce aisle his father was standing a few paces away. Impassive. Waiting.
This is a dangerous man, she thinks.
"We keep -" Sam says, and sighs. "There's a thing here. A creature."
She turns a little, to look at him. He sighs again and sputters on, "It's called a huli jing, and we tracked it here. Okay? We don't want your money. We want to find the huli jing and kill it, so we can go."
Oh, that's so much better.
"What?" she squeaks.
"It's a -"
"Sam," his father says, annoyed, like Sam's said something he shouldn't have. Which makes sense, because a minute ago they were just invading her home. Now they're invading her home, and they're crazy.
"Let me DO this," Sam snaps.
In the movies, that gun would be swinging up. At the very least, Sam's father would be striding in here to crack Sam a good one on the side of the head. But he doesn't move. He just stands there with the ceiling light dumping black shadows down his face.
"Did you see something?" Sam asks her quietly. "In the house? Did you see something that shouldn't have been here?"
Compelled by something she wouldn't be able to explain, she shakes her head.
"Ms. Jordan?" Sam prods.
They all look at her.
There are tears sliding down her cheeks as she nods.
"What did you see?"
He was in the living room. Looking at her. Smiling. As if he'd come back to town from somewhere far away.
It's far. Of course it's far.
"Jeremy," she whispers.
"Who?" Dean asks.
Sam stretches out a hand but stops short of touching her. There's sympathy painted all over his face. Of course he knows who Jeremy is (was); all her kids know. She's never told any of them, not directly, but it gets passed down from year to year. She's poor Eileen Jordan, whose fiancé stepped on a land mine and was sent home… Well. Some of him was sent home.
It makes a great story, she supposes, if you're eight years old.
"It wasn't him," Sam explains. "It's the huli jing. They take the shape of people who've died. Or people who are far away."
Tears drip off her chin.
"Is it in my house?" she whispers.
"Yeah," Dean says. "We tracked it here."
She took Jeremy's ring off years ago, but once in a while she rubs that finger with the thumb of her other hand.
She does that now. Rubs hard.
"Why does it do that?" she asks, wishing she could summon a little more volume. Hold her voice a little steadier.
"To gain your trust," says the man in the hallway.
They're dressed in jeans and flannel shirts, the three of them. Like the men who sit in the bar down the street in the late afternoon and early evening. Those men go home by the time the news comes on at eleven; they leave the late-night hours to a different kind of drinker. In the summer they sit on their porches with country music playing on battered radios. She's never seen any of her neighbors brandish a gun, but she's suspected more than once that guns would pop out of nowhere, like dandelions, if the need arose.
Jeremy was one of them. Flannel shirt. Boots.
Once upon a time, he'd sing to her, soft and off-key, mimicking the down-South twang he heard on the radio.
"Get it out of my house," she says through her teeth.
In the movies, she'd ask for a gun. She'd butch up, like Sigourney Weaver. Might even be the one to fire the killing shot.
As it is, there's no shooting at all.
There's…tea.
She stands watching, barefoot, downstairs in the dining room, as Sam's father produces from the pockets of his jacket a collection of small, delicate pieces of paper covered with symbols inscribed in thick, dark ink. With his sons standing guard he chants something in a language she doesn't recognize, then looks long and hard at her as he produces a cheap Zippo lighter and flicks the flame to life. The bits of paper are burned to ash in one of her ceramic mixing bowls, then mixed into a mug of tea that Sam heats up in the microwave.
Sam's father hands her the mug and says, "Drink this."
There's no point in asking "Why?"
He seems satisfied when the mug has been drained. Seems to relax, just a little, though his posture and his expression still make him look like the rock he's been charged with rolling uphill keeps escaping his grasp and rolling back down over his feet.
Sisyphus in a flannel shirt.
"It won't come back," he says. "The house is protected now. You might see it somewhere else, but odds are it'll move on."
"To…where?" she asks.
He leaves that question to his sons. To Sam, mostly, because Dean takes it on himself to put the scorched mixing bowl in the sink and half-fill it with water, then follows his father out the front door. A moment later she can hear the solid, earthy throb and hum of a big engine. Truck, maybe, or a big, old car.
"We have to get it to show its true form," Sam says, and it sounds like an apology.
Some of her third graders, and their parents, have been in her house over the years. The year Jeremy died, a bunch of them came over and landscaped her yard. Washed her windows. Painted the back steps.
None of them came in the middle of the night.
"I'm sorry we scared you," Sam says quietly. "It's just - my dad - he -" He's silent for a moment, shuffling his feet. "We tracked it here, and when Dean looked through the window he saw you laying on the floor."
He goes on shuffling, and it's a dance, almost, anxious and agitated.
Then he embraces her, sudden and fierce, and releases her almost as quickly. "I gotta go," he stammers. "You'll be okay now. It won't come back."
And he's gone.
They're all gone.
She stands where she is for a minute, listening to the silence that falls after the heavy throb of that big old engine fades off into the distance. They're gone, but they've left their mark behind: neat lines of rock salt at the doors and windows, the tang of burned paper hanging in the air.
The floor's cold against her bare feet.
Watching the door, as if she thinks it might open again, that someone might come bursting back in, she wraps her arms around herself. One hand drifts bit by bit to her mouth and she begins to gnaw the edge of her thumbnail.
She always thought she was safe in this town. There aren't any land mines here, but apparently there's something else.
In the morning, she thinks.
In the morning, she's going to go out, and find out what the hell is going on.
* * * * *