The Carver (3/8)
Title: The Carver
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Horror
Characters: Dean, Sam
Pairings: none
Disclaimer: I do not own or lay claim to anything related to Supernatural.
Summary: Something is carving people up like jack-o-lanterns. When the boys take a case on Halloween, Dean revisits high school from a new perspective, Sam explores his hatred of the holiday, and they both learn that the past is haunting everyone. Takes place Halloween of S3, after Bedtime Stories.
The Carver
By Spectral Scribe
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It was a small, cozy restaurant with a diner-like feel, but it wasn’t really a diner. Not like the cheap, crappy diners that Dean usually frequented, anyway. It had a nice, homey atmosphere, and even though it was a Monday at 1:00 pm, it wasn’t completely empty. Taking a look around, Dean figured that the few people present were on a lunch break, had the day off, or didn’t work a typical nine to five job. In any case, there were a few other patrons scattered about.
There was a sign that requested he seat himself, so, after picking out the guy who seemed most likely to welcome a friendly chat with a stranger, Dean sat down at a table across from that of another loner guy. He looked the part of a typical small-town Joe who waved at his neighbors and helped little old ladies across the street: late thirties, maybe early forties; sandy hair; a high, distinguished forehead; bright blue eyes covered by reading glasses. He was looking down at the newspaper stretched open on the table next to his plate, which contained a chicken salad sandwich and fries.
A waiter came by, and Dean ordered a burger. Then, alone again, he leaned closer to the man at the next table and said, “Excuse me. Sorry to bother you, but is that today’s newspaper?”
The man smiled as he glanced up. “Yes, it is.”
Dean nodded. “Any new information in there about that murder at the school?”
“No,” the man sighed. “It doesn’t look like anyone’s gotten any closer to figuring out who did it.”
Nodding some more, Dean fiddled with his napkin. “I’ve heard some… interesting things about that. I guess this has happened before? I mean, this kind of murder. I’m new in town, and well, my kid brother’s a senior in high school, and I’m nervous about sending him off there without knowing anything about what’s going on here.”
“I understand,” said the man. “And I wish I could help you out, but I’m afraid I don’t know much about it either. I just moved here a few weeks ago. And while I don’t have a younger brother, I am a substitute teacher, and I’d like to know more about this as well before I sub there. So I guess we’re in the same boat.”
Damn. Dean managed to hold onto his amiable smile even as he cursed at his luck for picking the one guy who was new to town and wouldn’t know about the stories or the history. Great. Peachy-frickin’-keen. The waiter arrived with his burger.
“Although,” the man continued after a few moments, folding up his newspaper and frowning thoughtfully. “My neighbor seems like a nice guy, and I know he’s been living here his whole life. If it’s true that this has happened before, then I would imagine he’d be a good person to ask about Fair Hill’s history.” He smiled. “If you’re interested, I could take you over there once you’re finished eating and we could talk to him.”
Dean was almost taken aback by the man’s frank helpfulness and smooth, articulate, friendly manner of speaking. “Sure, yeah. That’d be great.”
Picking up his newspaper and plate, the man moved over to Dean’s table and sat down, extending his hand to shake. “I’m Marty Robinson.”
Dean shook his hand with a grin. “Paul Garfunkel.”
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On the whole, the plumbing freakout was the most exciting thing that happened that day. Sam walked around in his unflattering gray garb, checking around the school for EMF and wiping smudged windows when he saw them. When the bell rang between periods he felt trapped by the teeming hordes of students that moved, amoeba-like, down the hall, and he retreated to a wall or the custodian’s closet to escape. When they were gone he moved easily again through the empty hallway, nodding at passing teachers who clearly couldn’t care less who he was or why they hadn’t seen him around before. He felt slightly indignant on Custodian Ron’s behalf.
He tried to eavesdrop on some conversations of students as they drifted through the hall during passing period, but it was difficult when there were fifty different conversations going on at once, the hallway filling up with thunderous chatter. He caught a mention of Brian’s name a few times, but the snatches of conversation he got weren’t enough to give him any new information. He did learn that Emily Peters was now going out with Jimmy, that slut, and that Friday’s geometry test raped someone in the ass, and that Tanya got so drunk on Saturday that she puked all over Francesca’s new shoes, that bitch. But nothing about Brian’s funeral, century old murders, or face-o-lanterns.
So now, getting towards the end of the day, having cleaned up what he could in the haunted bathroom and given up on hearing anything noteworthy in the petty conversations of the students, Sam was mopping up a spilled can of soda by the cafeteria, in front of the teacher’s lounge. Dumping the mop back in the bucket of dirty water and ruing the moment he thought that pretending to be a custodian would be a piece of cake, Sam observed that the floor was now slick and shiny and obviously wet. Satisfied that it was now good and clean, he pulled the bucket on wheels back to the closet of supplies.
Behind him, some teachers were emerging from the lounge to get to their classrooms before the next passing period bell rang. Sam hadn’t gotten far enough away yet to miss the squeak of a shoe on wet tile and then the thump of a person hitting the floor.
He tensed up and threw a glance over his shoulder, down the length of the hall. There were two younger female teachers hovering over an older woman with a shock of white hair lying on the floor clutching her right leg.
Sam darted down the next hallway on his left and was out of sight before anyone could look up.
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The man had patchy gray hair, a gnarled face, keen green eyes, and a plain brown cane clutched in his right hand. He introduced himself as Eugene and led the two men into his living room before tottering on rickety legs and plopping onto a puffy armchair.
“There’s beer in the fridge,” he offered gruffly. Marty shook his head in polite refusal, but Dean stepped into the kitchen and grabbed two bottles of Miller High Life (figures), slapped one on the table in front of the old man, and cracked his open using his handy silver ring. “So what can I do for you boys?” Eugene asked after nodding his thanks to Dean and taking a swig of his beer. “You said you’re interested in history. Guess I’m the man for that, then. I’m as good as history myself.” He chuckled.
“Well, the recent murder at the school has both of us worried, and we heard this kind of thing has happened before, so we were wondering if you could tell us anything about it,” Marty asked politely.
Eugene laughed. “I know I’m old, but I’m not quite that old. The murders you’re talking about happened in 1889, which would be…” He frowned and squinted one eye, thinking.
Marty piped up, “118.”
“One hundred and eighteen years ago,” Eugene finished with a nod. “That was still thirty-five years before I was born. But I guess I know the story as well as if I’d been alive back then. Most folks who’ve been around here long enough do.” He frowned again, thinking. Despite Dean’s desire to urge him on, he knew he had to be patient with the old man. Finally, he continued, “Fair Hill High used to be one room, one of those little old schoolhouses. I guess times were different then than they are now; no one knew the teacher real well, and the only time anyone ever saw her outside the school was at church, every Sunday.
“Miss Carver, they call her, but that’s not her real name. No one seems to know what her real name was. Way the story goes, she went nuts one day and killed all her students-carved up their faces and hung them from the ceiling rafters. All those poor kids-all but one. There was one kid she left alive, out of the whole bunch. When the one kid went home the parents figured out something had happened at school, and they all went over there to find their children. But no one could find Miss Carver. She’d up and vanished.
“They tried asking the kid if he knew where she went, but the poor thing’d gone mute. He was only about ten, eleven, twelve or so, and was so traumatized by what he’d seen that he didn’t speak a word after that until his death a couple years later in a tractor accident. No one ever found Miss Carver, but the parents all searched for her for days, looking for their revenge. Folks say she must have high-tailed it across the big field that used to surround the schoolhouse and out of town quicker’n you can blink to be gone by time the townspeople arrived.”
Eugene took a break, gulping his beer. Intrigued by the new development of one of the kids surviving, and dismayed by the lack of knowledge as to what happened to Miss Carver, Dean asked, “Why did she let the kid live?”
Shrugging, Eugene balanced his beer in his lap and idly scratched his crotch through his gray trousers. Marty politely looked away. “People say it’s because he was the only good student out of the whole class. Well-Miss Carver’s definition of good, at least. Heard she was a real stickler for rules. Kid probably never spoke out of turn, went to church on Sundays, did all his work and always got good grades. She was a strict teacher, I guess. Decided to dispose of all her bad students. Went nuts, most people say.”
“And nobody knows what her real name was?” Marty asked, brows furrowed, looking concerned for the retribution that was never paid.
Eugene shook his head. “Nope. Everyone’s looked but come up with nothing. When she vanished, she took her identity with her. Of course, what most people don’t realize is that aliens don’t have regular names.”
There was a stretch of silence filled only with the buzzing of a fly that kept swooping through the air by their heads. Dean stared at the man, positive he’d misheard him. “The what?”
“It’s the best theory out there,” Eugene explained as though it made perfect sense. “Miss Carver didn’t run away through the field. She was beamed back up into her flying saucer and went back to her home planet. Human ears probably can’t even comprehend her name in their language. Of course, they probably did tests on all the students, but the one kid who wasn’t killed would have been traumatized after being probed by his alien teacher, which is why he never talked after that.”
Dean and Marty stared at him. Dean, for one, was at a loss for words, and a sidelong glance at Marty told him that the other man was confused and somewhat alarmed by his friendly neighbor’s apparent insanity.
“Right,” Marty spoke up at last, nodding at them both. “Well. That certainly is a clever theory. I’m afraid I’ve got some errands to run, so I’m going to have to get going, if that’s all right.”
Eugene downed the rest of his beer. “Sure you don’t want to hear about the UFO that landed in the woods ten years ago?”
Dean stood up hastily to follow Marty out the front door, finishing off his beer and nodding his thanks to the older man. They said goodbye and were out the door before Eugene could launch into more alien conspiracy theories. As they strolled to their respective cars, Dean shook his head, chuckled, and murmured, “What a nutjob.”
“Sorry. I had no idea he had such a… colorful imagination,” Marty offered with a smile. Then, pulling out a small pad of paper and a blue ballpoint pen, he scribbled something down, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to Dean. “It was nice meeting you, Paul. If you need anything else, give me a call. I hope you’re not too put-off by all this to reconsider sending your brother to Fair Hill High School. But I should get going. Like I said: errands.” He waved as he headed for his car. “Take care, Paul!”
Dean waved with a forced grin on his face, paper clutched in one hand. “…Right back atcha.” As soon as Marty pulled away, he crumpled the paper in his hand and headed for the man’s house. Marty Robinson was way too nice. Off-the-charts nice. It was impossible for a person to be that sincerely nice to a random stranger in a restaurant and not have some kind of agenda.
He picked the cheap front lock with ease and slipped inside the house with a quick glance around the quiet suburban street to make sure no one had seen. Late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the windows, lighting up the wood floor. The house was classily furnished, though clearly on a tight budget. Substitute teachers probably didn’t make great money.
Sam had the EMF meter, but Dean had instinct. He crept slowly through the front hall, smelling for sulfur, looking for ectoplasm or a book on dark magic, searching for signs of foul play. It was always the unbelievably nice ones who had black hearts. Maybe this guy was summoning the evil teacher for his own nefarious purposes. The timeline fit, after all. Marty said he’d moved in a few weeks ago. Brian had been killed early last week.
It was half an hour before Dean started questioning his own logic. There was nothing in the house that would suggest that Marty was anything but a friendly, all-American brain. Which, of course, bugged the crap out of Dean. He did find a bottle of cherry vodka in the fridge and a small stash of dirty magazines under his bed, but other than that, the guy was squeaky clean.
He was about to call it quits when the phone rang. The answering machine picked up a few rings in, Marty’s perky but dignified voice informing the caller to please leave a name and number so that he might return their call. Beep. Then-
“Hi, this is Linda from Fair Hill High School calling for Marty Robinson. One of our teachers broke her leg today, and we’re going to need a substitute at least until the end of the week. If you’re available, please call back at 732…”
Dean didn’t listen to the rest of the number. Cogs were busy turning in his head.
A slow grin spread over his face, and he bolted down the stairs, replayed the message, and scribbled down the number before erasing it.
One ring. Two. Then a familiar female voice on the other end.
Dean cleared his throat and spoke with a good imitation of Marty’s polite, eloquent enunciation: “Hi, sorry I couldn’t get to the phone in time; this is Marty Robinson…”
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All was quiet. Orange-gold late afternoon sunlight streamed in through the big windows that spanned the front hall, casting a reddish glow over the dull gray lockers. Sam’s footsteps were lonely echoes against the tile floor, the cart of cleaning supplies he dragged behind him squeaking on its rusty wheels.
All the students were gone; had dashed out the doors at exactly 3:15, got into their cars (or their mothers’ cars, which sat waiting in the parking lot), and careened away from the building as fast as they could, eager for the few hours of freedom before the following morning when they were required to return. Within fifteen minutes, everyone had vacated the premises. Even some of the teachers, who’d had no need to stay, had high-tailed it out of there as if they would catch some deadly virus by remaining within the building’s walls for a moment longer than necessary. The only people left were Sam, a few straggling teachers, and the kids in the theater wing rehearsing for the upcoming play.
Nothing interesting had happened since the bathroom incident, and Sam was both thankful and disappointed for that. He hoped Dean had gotten some new information that would lead them to the teacher’s body so they could salt and burn it and get the hell out of there. Before Halloween, preferably, but seeing as they’d gotten basically nowhere so far, and Halloween was the following Wednesday, Sam wondered how successfully they would accomplish this.
He was walking through the hall, mind going over past Halloweens that had ruined hunts and nearly gotten them killed, when he passed the bathrooms and glanced to the right down the very next hall. And stopped in his tracks.
There were four children hanging from the ceiling, colors washed out like an old fashioned photograph, nooses tight around their fragile necks, ropes vanishing up into the smooth ceiling and held by nothing. Two girls clad in simple white dresses and bonnets, two boys in trousers and high stockings, looking right out of the 1800’s. Somewhere between the ages of ten and fourteen. Legs dangling high in the air, necks angled to one side, heads cocked, lifeless. Some swaying; some perfectly still. Death pallor in all their should-be-rosy cheeks.
Their eyes were gone. Mangled, bloody triangles marked the empty sockets and the space where their noses should have been. They grinned at him with bloody, torn flesh, manic smiles carved permanently into their faces, lips chopped away, dribbles of black blood oozing down their chins. They stared at him with empty, bloody, triangular sockets and grinned their demented, forced smiles.
Sam closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them.
The hall was empty.
His eyes cast about the hall for something else, darting from the bathroom to the empty hall to the next classroom. No other sign of spectral activity.
He released his breath slowly and started walking again, forcing his gait into a calm, relaxed stride. When he’d returned everything to his closet, he hurried to the exit and practically jogged to the parking lot and the lone black car waiting in the dusky evening. As soon as Sam hopped into the car, Dean’s eyebrows furrowed and he gave him a look that clearly asked what had crawled up Sam’s ass and died.
“Are we going?” Sam prodded impatiently, raising his hands briefly from his thighs. Dean shrugged, gunned the engine, and took off down the street.
It was a moment before Sam realized that Dean had dropped his curiosity about Sam’s mood and was grinning impishly.
“Let me guess… hot girl gave you her number? No, then you’d already be gloating…” He stroked his chin in mock thought. “Gas station malfunction accidentally charged you four cents per gallon instead of four dollars? No, you’re at a half tank. Oh, I know. You came across a traveling circus and signed me up as the Human Giant.”
“No-but that would have been awesome,” Dean cut himself off with a wistful smirk. “No, no. I found a way in.”
Sam quirked an eyebrow at him as Dean glanced away from the road, grin growing.
“To the school,” Dean added. “I ended up in this guy’s house ‘cause I thought he might be hiding something, and it turned out he’s a substitute teacher. Anyway, his phone rang, and it was the school looking for a sub. Turns out some teacher fell and broke her leg today.” Dean barked out a laugh. Sam’s breath caught in his throat as he turned his face toward the window, hoping Dean didn’t notice the panicked guilt in his features. “So, I pretended to be him and accepted the job. You start tomorrow, Teach.”
“What?” Sam asked, snapping out of his mortification at having broken an old lady’s leg with wet floor. “Dean, I can’t pretend to be a sub. Half the school has already seen me as a custodian. Don’t you think it’ll look a little suspicious if I’m scrubbing toilets one day and giving a math lesson the next?”
“U.S. History, actually,” Dean corrected. “And, so? This is way better. You can actually talk to the students, get a feel for what they know, what they’ve seen. Nobody talks to a janitor.”
Sam let out a frustrated sigh. “Custod-forget it.” He shook his head. “Anyway, it won’t work. Even if I wasn’t already there as a custodian-” he shot Dean an annoyed look “-I can’t just go in there and pretend to be a sub. They’ll want identification, they’ll-”
“Dude, do you doubt my fake ID making skills? And besides. It worked in School of Rock,” Dean argued.
“That’s a movie, Dean.”
There was a pause. Sam ran over possibilities in his head, wishing that he could drop the custodian job because subbing would be a way better gig, but then Dean spoke again.
“Fine. I’ll do it, then.”
Sam cast him a wary look. “Do what?”
Dean didn’t answer. They were pulling into the parking lot of the motel.
“Dean!” Sam snapped. “You can’t be a history teacher. You don’t know anything about history.” Dean got out of the car and started walking, ignoring him. Sam hastened after, shouting, “You probably slept through U.S. History and stole the notes from the class nerd! You can’t, Dean. You’ll blow your cover before you even get there! You’ve probably never cracked a textbook in your life. Are you listening to me? This is never going to work…”
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