Fic: Down the Only Road I've Ever Known (5/7)
Fic: Down the Only Road I've Ever Known (5/7)
Summary: The Impala breaks down in the remote Appalacians, where folks keep to themselves and resent outside intrusion. Sam, Dean and Chloe discover how hard this makes hunting.
Author: pen37
Beta: Clarksmuse
Fandoms: Smallville/Supernatural
Characters: Chloe, Sam, Dean
Pairing:Chloe/Dean
Rating: Pg (It's Supernatural, guys. Draw an X on the map and mark it Terror Incognita: here be monsters).
This is a part of the Special Projects series. You can find the rest of the series here.
Written for the Crossovers100 challenge. Prompt #50 Spade. The table is here.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Detective Anna Hidleburg of the West Virginia State Police stared covertly at the two FBI agents who sat at her desk. She'd made the call up to DC, and special agents Ford Prefect and William Squier checked out. Although she pitied agent Squier for the childhood he must have had with such a famous name.
The two of them didn't act like any agent she'd ever seen. Their behavior toward each other when they thought she wasn't looking reminded her of her older brothers. Agent Prefect behaved the way she expected a federal agent to behave but that haircut was definitely not government issue. Agent Squier, on the other hand, was walking sex. And he knew it, if the way he was acting was any indication.
She wondered whether to thank God, or curse her luck that they'd come to ask her about three of her most frustrating cases - William McEvoy, Jeremy Bean, and now Danny Stiles. She had preliminary reports from the coroner on the first two. She was still fighting for the right to exhume the body of the third.
She fanned herself with the three case files as she stepped into the room. Both men straightened up and smiled at her. She returned their smile tightly as she passed the three case files to them.
“Here you go. I'm sorry that you had to come all this way over nothing.”
“You think it's nothing?” Agent Prefect asked. He leaned forward and fixed her with an earnest gaze.
She shrugged and opened the top case. “The coroner's preliminary report indicates no foul play. No illegal substances in their systems. Nothing to indicate any reason for their hearts to suddenly stop.”
“Don't you think it's a little odd?” Agent Prefect asked.
“Yeah, but I can't find any reason for it.”
“These three kids . . . There was a connection of some kind, wasn't there?” Agent Squier asked.
“Of course, there was. They were the same age. Went to the same school from pre-school on. Played on the same sports teams.” She shrugged. “They were close enough that one month ago, all of them were asked to participate in the same funeral.”
“Funeral?” Prefect asked.
She nodded. “You all understand how hostile a community this rural can be toward outsiders, right?”
The agents looked at each other, and nodded. “We have some idea,” Agent Squier said.
“Then you'll understand how hard it was to investigate these cases. Folks around there don't like strangers stirring up their business. It practically took an act of Congress to exhume the bodies for the inquisition on the first two. But the third boy: William McEvoy. His mother told me that all three of the boys were asked to open the ground for a fourth friend, Susan Rush.”
“So why aren't you investigating four deaths instead of three?” Prefect asked.
She gave them a sorrowful look. She'd been hoping to avoid the whole subject, because it was so heartbreaking, and completely tangential to the case.
“Because it wasn't for Miss Rush. It was for her three-day old child.”
The two agents looked at each other, and she could see the realization on their faces. “Oh.”
“If it weren't for the fact that the coroner hasn't found anything - I'd be tempted to say that the boys were committing suicide out of depression.”
“Is there any indication as to the father?” Squier asked.
“Miss Rush isn't saying. From what I gather it's quite the small town scandal.”
“What about the baby?” Prefect asked. “Dying that young.”
“Who knows?” She smacked the side of the desk in exasperation. “Folks in town like it quiet. They've been fighting this investigation tooth-and-nail. “I had a fight on my hands exhuming the first two boys. Now that I've found nothing, it's going to be harder to dig up the third. And even suggesting that I dig up an infant?” She shook her head. “No thanks. I like my job.”
***
“So,” Dean summarized as they walked back to the rental. “We know the connection: small-town scandal. The question is: What pattern does it fit?”
Sam shrugged. “Changelings are known to die young like that.”
“Yeah? But it doesn't lead to three guys dropping dead. There's something going on here. Some kind of local legend that the folks in that podunk town don't want us to know.”
“We can check the local library,” Sam said. “Maybe by the time we get back to Matoaka, Chloe will have some kind of lead.”
***
The Greenville County Extension Service looked like it hadn't changed since the seventies. Pea soup colored carpet and orange threadbare rugs covered the floor. The walls were dark wood with printed lines on them.
Chloe was shown past walls that were lined with photos of kids from the local 4-H, and into Michael O'Shawnasee's office.
“Miss Sullivan?” He asked as he waved her to an open chair. “No longer passing through?”
She smiled at him in a disarming manner as she sat and opened her reporter's notebook. “Actually no. I'm here on business.”
Michael's face immediately took on a guarded expression. “Really? For The Daily Planet?”
Chloe immediately realized that Michael was hiding something.
“The jury is still out on that. I manly hoped to talk to you to get a little bit of background information on some of the things that I've seen around here.”
“Background?”
“The three young men who had heart attacks?”
“Why would The Daily Planet be interested in that?”
“I haven't determined that they are,” Chloe said. “But part of my job is to gather background materials and see if there is a story here.”
“I don't see what I could do to help you.” He said.
She responded with a tenacious smile. “I'm sure you would be more helpful than you realize. For one thing, you probably knew all three of the boys - considering that you work with 4-H. For another - you probably know most of this town's history.”
He smiled and looked down at his desk. “I'm sorry, Miss Sullivan. I can't imagine what gave you the idea that I could help.”
“Can't you?” She raised an eyebrow. “That's funny.”
“What?” He raised an eyebrow.
“It's just that, with the exception of the rude waitress down at the diner, no one in this little town has given me the time of day. Yet the other day in the park, you sought me out. I was just wondering if there was a reason.”
“Miss Sullivan,” Michael held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It's not really surprising. You're an attractive woman. And a stranger around here. That adds a little bit of exotic mystery to you. Who are you? What's your story?”
Chloe raised an eyebrow at that. She'd heard some blatant lines before, but that was more over the top than one of Dean's worst.
“I'm more interested in the story here.”
“I'm sorry, then.” He said. “I'm not going to be of much help.”
“Mr. O'Shawnasee,” Chloe tilted her head and fixed him with a look. “There are three young men who have died of a heart attack. Now, I know and you know that isn't natural.”
“What are you saying, Miss Sullivan?”
“I'm saying that maybe something caused them to die like that. If so, I'd sure like to know what.”
He gaped at her while a series of emotions chased across his face. Sorrow and regret, fear and remorse. Finally, he sighed. “And what good would knowing do? Billy, Jerry, and Danny are still dead.”
“In knowing, we could make sure that it doesn't happen again.”
“It can't happen again.” He said with such a note of finality that Chloe was convinced that he thought that it wouldn't.
“Why not?” Chloe asked.
“Because - they were the only ones to dig the grave for the . . .” He trailed off with a shake of his head.
“What happened, Michael?” Chloe leaned forward and fixed him with a serious look. “Why did they die?”
“There's an old legend around town . . .” He trailed off, and then looked at his open office door. He shut his mouth, and leaned toward her. “Look - find out about Sara Sutter. That's all I can tell you.”
She nodded and closed her notebook.
* * *
After calling Sam and Dean with her information, Chloe trekked over to the library, where she spent a couple of fruitless hours digging through microfiche archived newspapers for the name Sara Sutter. She had just moved to the reference desk to take a break - glad that her healing abilities prevented tired muscles and a tired brain, but wishing they worked just as well on an empty stomach - when Sam and Dean joined her.
Dean sat in the empty seat next to her at the reference desk and pulled her into a quick greeting kiss. Then he leaned back to fix her with a questioning gaze. “Any luck?”
She gave the stack of microfiche cards a halfhearted push. “Nothing. I’ve been pinging back and forth between 150 years of genealogy reports and obituaries with no mysterious heart attacks or the name Sara Sutter.
Sam nodded. “Okay, maybe Michael got the name wrong. I can call Ellen and see if she knows any hunters who have worked this area. Maybe someone has heard a local legend, or seen a ghost. Dean, why don’t you take over the census records from Chloe?”
Dean nodded, and headed over to the genealogy section.
“Chloe - This is a shot in the dark, but why don’t you check online for local folklore. That stuff is usually inaccurate, but you never know.”
“It’s got to be better than what I’ve been doing,” Chloe said with a sigh. She stood, and headed up to the librarian’s desk. The librarian looked dubious when she requested to use the computer, but upon seeing her Daily Planet press pass, issued her a passkey to give her internet access.
Following the librarian’s directions, she found the library’s single public-use computer: an outdated i-Mac that reminded her of the computers that she used back when she worked on The Torch. She smiled nostalgically at the bright purple plastic dome, and ran her hands over it affectionately. With shapeshifters and heat-vampires, it was hard to believe that she thought of them as simpler times. Yet Chloe couldn’t help but remember them through gold-tinted lenses of introspection.
She sighed and forced her mind back onto the task at hand. She logged on and within a few keystrokes she hit pay dirt. A website maintained by the Marshal University Anthropology Department that dealt with local Appalachian folklore. She skimmed past accounts of the Mothman, and found a story that was set a little closer to Matoaka.
“Guys! Look at this!”
Sam and Dean came to stand behind her as she scrolled through the website and summarized what she read.
“In 1839, a young mother named Sara Sutter and her child, Emily took ill with the consumption. Her family intended to send her to Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, to undergo an experimental treatment there, but she and the baby lapsed into a coma, and were presumed dead about the time that their family were passing through Matoaka.”
“Presumed dead?” Dean chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully.
Chloe nodded. “Folks used to believe that consumption was supernatural in origin. So if a person died of it - it was thought that person was either enchanted by fairies, or possibly a vampire.”
“Makes sense,” Sam said. “Bram Stoker based his vampire on folkloric descriptions and his Dracula fit all the symptoms of TB. And when he attacks his first victim, she seems to waste away just like someone who has contracted TB.”
Dean looked up at Sam and raised his eyebrow. “And here I thought the worst part of being a vampire was looking like Gary Oldman.”
“I like Gary Oldman,” Chloe said quietly.
“You’ve never seen him in Sid & Nancy, have you?” Dean said.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Dracula and Harry Potter.”
“Oh darlin’, we gotta’ fix that.” Dean grinned. “And you’re not allowed to call me a musical cretin again.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Getting back to Sara and Emily Sutter.”
“Right,” Chloe paused as she skimmed ahead on the story. Her face turned dark, and she sucked in a long, shaky breath. “They buried her as quickly as they could. But farmers in the area swore that Sara appeared to them in the mornings before the sun rose, begging for a pint of milk. This went on for three days.
“On the third day, farmers dug up the casket - intent on driving a stake through Sara Sutter’s heart. What they found - so the story goes - was that Sara was dead. But the baby Emily was still alive.” Chloe shut her eyes. “That’s not possible. Three days? Without air?”
Sam cleared his throat. “A lot of times, these stories get embellished.”
Chloe pushed a shaky hand through her hair. “Yeah . . . okay. I’ll do a search on TB epidemics and --” She trailed off as she pulled a search engine up onto the screen. The three of them were silent as her fingers moved rhythmically over the keyboard like an Irish Step Dancer across a stage.
Before long, she’d pulled up a second website. “Here’s something from the CDC. It’s a cautionary tale when dealing with epidemics in rural areas like this one.”
She leaned in toward the computer screen as if transfixed by what she read. “Her name really was Sara Sutter. And she really did have an infant. No name, listed though. Both of them slipped into a death-like sleep. They were hastily buried, but that very evening, Sara’s brother caught up to the husband at the hotel he was staying in, and asked that they re-open the casket, so that he could see her for a final time.
“Mr. Sutter was feeling uneasy about her quick burial and figured it wouldn’t hurt. Since they figured that the townsfolk wouldn’t comply with their wishes, they slipped into the cemetery in the night and opened the grave.”
Chloe swallowed convulsively. “According to this, the body had shifted into a position of agony, the arms braced against the lid of the coffin and the hands bruised as if she had been beating on the lid.”
She shut her eyes. “They buried her and the baby alive,” her voice was barely a whisper. “And they both suffocated.”
Sam and Dean shared a concerned look. Dean looked pointedly at the shelves in the distance, and then back to Sam. The younger Winchester nodded in understanding and walked away to give Dean time to deal with Chloe.
“Hey,” Dean pulled her into his arms. She rested her head against his shoulder. “Tell me,” he whispered.
She buried her face in his neck and shivered violently. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I wasn’t scared of being in the box. Not at first anyway. I was certain that Clark would find me. I mean, he’s the whole town’s freaking teenage hero. He could save the pink princess at the drop of a hat. Why shouldn’t he be able to find me six feet underground?
“But then the air started to run out. And I realized that he might not get there in time.”
Despite her trembling, her voice was even and detached, as if she were describing something that happened to someone else. Dean held her as she shook. He was expecting - tears or something. But not this weird semi-detached state.
“It’s not like what you would expect. I didn’t just suddenly run of my air supply. Like I was held under water and there was literally nothing to breathe. This was more like --”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “I was using up all the oxygen and replacing it with carbon dioxide. As the oxygen levels dipped, I kept breathing what was left. So with every breath I took, I was poisoning myself. And then, when I realized that Clark might not get there - that I might die at age sixteen. And not even die well: just scared, cold and alone in a dark box. I panicked. And that made me breathe faster, and use up the oxygen quicker.
“First came the muscle spasms, and then the seizures: I don’t think I’ve ever been in so much pain. But in a way, it was good, because when I was having a seizure, I wasn’t focused on feeling like I was drowning. Then there was the hysteria: when I tried to beat my brains out by slamming my head into the side of the box.” She gave a short, bitter bark of laughter. “But I didn’t even have the space to accomplish that.”
“Jesus,” Dean whispered quietly.
“I prayed to him,” Chloe nodded. “And every saint that I could think of. St. Mary, St. Jude - especially St. Jude. I like to think of St. Paul as my patron saint, but I always end up talking to St. Jude.
“Then I started making saints up. Saint Dominoes: patron saint of thirty-minute pizza delivery. Saint Helvetica, patron of cub reporters. I did that until I lost the ability to think coherently. At that point all I could do - was suffer. Like some kind of . . . animal.
“When Clark found me - All I could think was that I knew he would be the one to find me. It was always him. And I never told him that, while I never lost faith in his ability to find me - I had a few doubts over his timing.”
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Dean said. “The idea that something like that could happen accidentally or that someone could do it on purpose.”
She pulled back to regard him with wide, sorrowful eyes. “It’s an awful way to die. I can see why someone would become a restless spirit.”
Dean nodded. “I get that. But Chloe, she’s hurting people. We’ve still got to put her down.”
“I know,” Chloe nodded. “I just wish there was another way.”
“If it helps, Sam and I can salt and burn the bones.”
“It does,” She nodded. “Dean?”
“Yeah?”
She pulled him back into an embrace, and pressed her lips to his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered into his ear.
He tilted his head back to regard her with his own serious expression. Slowly, he smoothed his hand down her hair, and caressed her cheek. “Always.”
She replied with a tight-lipped smile before looking away to break the moment.
Dean stared at her for a moment longer, before glancing back to the bookshelves where Sam had gone. As he expected, his little brother was watching without trying to be obvious about it. He nodded Sam back over. “You find something?”
“Burial records for the local cemetery,” Sam nodded. “We can locate Sara Sutter from these.”
Dean nodded. “I’ll get the Impala running, and then we can burn the body, and hit the road.”
“The thing I don’t get,” Sam wondered. “What’s the connection? I mean, Sara died over a hundred years ago. So why start killing people now?”
“All three boys helped to bury an infant,” Chloe said.
“An infant who was already dead,” Dean replied.
“Maybe we should go talk to Susan Rush,” Chloe said.
Summary: The Impala breaks down in the remote Appalacians, where folks keep to themselves and resent outside intrusion. Sam, Dean and Chloe discover how hard this makes hunting.
Author: pen37
Beta: Clarksmuse
Fandoms: Smallville/Supernatural
Characters: Chloe, Sam, Dean
Pairing:Chloe/Dean
Rating: Pg (It's Supernatural, guys. Draw an X on the map and mark it Terror Incognita: here be monsters).
This is a part of the Special Projects series. You can find the rest of the series here.
Written for the Crossovers100 challenge. Prompt #50 Spade. The table is here.
Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7
Detective Anna Hidleburg of the West Virginia State Police stared covertly at the two FBI agents who sat at her desk. She'd made the call up to DC, and special agents Ford Prefect and William Squier checked out. Although she pitied agent Squier for the childhood he must have had with such a famous name.
The two of them didn't act like any agent she'd ever seen. Their behavior toward each other when they thought she wasn't looking reminded her of her older brothers. Agent Prefect behaved the way she expected a federal agent to behave but that haircut was definitely not government issue. Agent Squier, on the other hand, was walking sex. And he knew it, if the way he was acting was any indication.
She wondered whether to thank God, or curse her luck that they'd come to ask her about three of her most frustrating cases - William McEvoy, Jeremy Bean, and now Danny Stiles. She had preliminary reports from the coroner on the first two. She was still fighting for the right to exhume the body of the third.
She fanned herself with the three case files as she stepped into the room. Both men straightened up and smiled at her. She returned their smile tightly as she passed the three case files to them.
“Here you go. I'm sorry that you had to come all this way over nothing.”
“You think it's nothing?” Agent Prefect asked. He leaned forward and fixed her with an earnest gaze.
She shrugged and opened the top case. “The coroner's preliminary report indicates no foul play. No illegal substances in their systems. Nothing to indicate any reason for their hearts to suddenly stop.”
“Don't you think it's a little odd?” Agent Prefect asked.
“Yeah, but I can't find any reason for it.”
“These three kids . . . There was a connection of some kind, wasn't there?” Agent Squier asked.
“Of course, there was. They were the same age. Went to the same school from pre-school on. Played on the same sports teams.” She shrugged. “They were close enough that one month ago, all of them were asked to participate in the same funeral.”
“Funeral?” Prefect asked.
She nodded. “You all understand how hostile a community this rural can be toward outsiders, right?”
The agents looked at each other, and nodded. “We have some idea,” Agent Squier said.
“Then you'll understand how hard it was to investigate these cases. Folks around there don't like strangers stirring up their business. It practically took an act of Congress to exhume the bodies for the inquisition on the first two. But the third boy: William McEvoy. His mother told me that all three of the boys were asked to open the ground for a fourth friend, Susan Rush.”
“So why aren't you investigating four deaths instead of three?” Prefect asked.
She gave them a sorrowful look. She'd been hoping to avoid the whole subject, because it was so heartbreaking, and completely tangential to the case.
“Because it wasn't for Miss Rush. It was for her three-day old child.”
The two agents looked at each other, and she could see the realization on their faces. “Oh.”
“If it weren't for the fact that the coroner hasn't found anything - I'd be tempted to say that the boys were committing suicide out of depression.”
“Is there any indication as to the father?” Squier asked.
“Miss Rush isn't saying. From what I gather it's quite the small town scandal.”
“What about the baby?” Prefect asked. “Dying that young.”
“Who knows?” She smacked the side of the desk in exasperation. “Folks in town like it quiet. They've been fighting this investigation tooth-and-nail. “I had a fight on my hands exhuming the first two boys. Now that I've found nothing, it's going to be harder to dig up the third. And even suggesting that I dig up an infant?” She shook her head. “No thanks. I like my job.”
***
“So,” Dean summarized as they walked back to the rental. “We know the connection: small-town scandal. The question is: What pattern does it fit?”
Sam shrugged. “Changelings are known to die young like that.”
“Yeah? But it doesn't lead to three guys dropping dead. There's something going on here. Some kind of local legend that the folks in that podunk town don't want us to know.”
“We can check the local library,” Sam said. “Maybe by the time we get back to Matoaka, Chloe will have some kind of lead.”
***
The Greenville County Extension Service looked like it hadn't changed since the seventies. Pea soup colored carpet and orange threadbare rugs covered the floor. The walls were dark wood with printed lines on them.
Chloe was shown past walls that were lined with photos of kids from the local 4-H, and into Michael O'Shawnasee's office.
“Miss Sullivan?” He asked as he waved her to an open chair. “No longer passing through?”
She smiled at him in a disarming manner as she sat and opened her reporter's notebook. “Actually no. I'm here on business.”
Michael's face immediately took on a guarded expression. “Really? For The Daily Planet?”
Chloe immediately realized that Michael was hiding something.
“The jury is still out on that. I manly hoped to talk to you to get a little bit of background information on some of the things that I've seen around here.”
“Background?”
“The three young men who had heart attacks?”
“Why would The Daily Planet be interested in that?”
“I haven't determined that they are,” Chloe said. “But part of my job is to gather background materials and see if there is a story here.”
“I don't see what I could do to help you.” He said.
She responded with a tenacious smile. “I'm sure you would be more helpful than you realize. For one thing, you probably knew all three of the boys - considering that you work with 4-H. For another - you probably know most of this town's history.”
He smiled and looked down at his desk. “I'm sorry, Miss Sullivan. I can't imagine what gave you the idea that I could help.”
“Can't you?” She raised an eyebrow. “That's funny.”
“What?” He raised an eyebrow.
“It's just that, with the exception of the rude waitress down at the diner, no one in this little town has given me the time of day. Yet the other day in the park, you sought me out. I was just wondering if there was a reason.”
“Miss Sullivan,” Michael held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It's not really surprising. You're an attractive woman. And a stranger around here. That adds a little bit of exotic mystery to you. Who are you? What's your story?”
Chloe raised an eyebrow at that. She'd heard some blatant lines before, but that was more over the top than one of Dean's worst.
“I'm more interested in the story here.”
“I'm sorry, then.” He said. “I'm not going to be of much help.”
“Mr. O'Shawnasee,” Chloe tilted her head and fixed him with a look. “There are three young men who have died of a heart attack. Now, I know and you know that isn't natural.”
“What are you saying, Miss Sullivan?”
“I'm saying that maybe something caused them to die like that. If so, I'd sure like to know what.”
He gaped at her while a series of emotions chased across his face. Sorrow and regret, fear and remorse. Finally, he sighed. “And what good would knowing do? Billy, Jerry, and Danny are still dead.”
“In knowing, we could make sure that it doesn't happen again.”
“It can't happen again.” He said with such a note of finality that Chloe was convinced that he thought that it wouldn't.
“Why not?” Chloe asked.
“Because - they were the only ones to dig the grave for the . . .” He trailed off with a shake of his head.
“What happened, Michael?” Chloe leaned forward and fixed him with a serious look. “Why did they die?”
“There's an old legend around town . . .” He trailed off, and then looked at his open office door. He shut his mouth, and leaned toward her. “Look - find out about Sara Sutter. That's all I can tell you.”
She nodded and closed her notebook.
* * *
After calling Sam and Dean with her information, Chloe trekked over to the library, where she spent a couple of fruitless hours digging through microfiche archived newspapers for the name Sara Sutter. She had just moved to the reference desk to take a break - glad that her healing abilities prevented tired muscles and a tired brain, but wishing they worked just as well on an empty stomach - when Sam and Dean joined her.
Dean sat in the empty seat next to her at the reference desk and pulled her into a quick greeting kiss. Then he leaned back to fix her with a questioning gaze. “Any luck?”
She gave the stack of microfiche cards a halfhearted push. “Nothing. I’ve been pinging back and forth between 150 years of genealogy reports and obituaries with no mysterious heart attacks or the name Sara Sutter.
Sam nodded. “Okay, maybe Michael got the name wrong. I can call Ellen and see if she knows any hunters who have worked this area. Maybe someone has heard a local legend, or seen a ghost. Dean, why don’t you take over the census records from Chloe?”
Dean nodded, and headed over to the genealogy section.
“Chloe - This is a shot in the dark, but why don’t you check online for local folklore. That stuff is usually inaccurate, but you never know.”
“It’s got to be better than what I’ve been doing,” Chloe said with a sigh. She stood, and headed up to the librarian’s desk. The librarian looked dubious when she requested to use the computer, but upon seeing her Daily Planet press pass, issued her a passkey to give her internet access.
Following the librarian’s directions, she found the library’s single public-use computer: an outdated i-Mac that reminded her of the computers that she used back when she worked on The Torch. She smiled nostalgically at the bright purple plastic dome, and ran her hands over it affectionately. With shapeshifters and heat-vampires, it was hard to believe that she thought of them as simpler times. Yet Chloe couldn’t help but remember them through gold-tinted lenses of introspection.
She sighed and forced her mind back onto the task at hand. She logged on and within a few keystrokes she hit pay dirt. A website maintained by the Marshal University Anthropology Department that dealt with local Appalachian folklore. She skimmed past accounts of the Mothman, and found a story that was set a little closer to Matoaka.
“Guys! Look at this!”
Sam and Dean came to stand behind her as she scrolled through the website and summarized what she read.
“In 1839, a young mother named Sara Sutter and her child, Emily took ill with the consumption. Her family intended to send her to Mammoth Cave, Kentucky, to undergo an experimental treatment there, but she and the baby lapsed into a coma, and were presumed dead about the time that their family were passing through Matoaka.”
“Presumed dead?” Dean chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully.
Chloe nodded. “Folks used to believe that consumption was supernatural in origin. So if a person died of it - it was thought that person was either enchanted by fairies, or possibly a vampire.”
“Makes sense,” Sam said. “Bram Stoker based his vampire on folkloric descriptions and his Dracula fit all the symptoms of TB. And when he attacks his first victim, she seems to waste away just like someone who has contracted TB.”
Dean looked up at Sam and raised his eyebrow. “And here I thought the worst part of being a vampire was looking like Gary Oldman.”
“I like Gary Oldman,” Chloe said quietly.
“You’ve never seen him in Sid & Nancy, have you?” Dean said.
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Dracula and Harry Potter.”
“Oh darlin’, we gotta’ fix that.” Dean grinned. “And you’re not allowed to call me a musical cretin again.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Getting back to Sara and Emily Sutter.”
“Right,” Chloe paused as she skimmed ahead on the story. Her face turned dark, and she sucked in a long, shaky breath. “They buried her as quickly as they could. But farmers in the area swore that Sara appeared to them in the mornings before the sun rose, begging for a pint of milk. This went on for three days.
“On the third day, farmers dug up the casket - intent on driving a stake through Sara Sutter’s heart. What they found - so the story goes - was that Sara was dead. But the baby Emily was still alive.” Chloe shut her eyes. “That’s not possible. Three days? Without air?”
Sam cleared his throat. “A lot of times, these stories get embellished.”
Chloe pushed a shaky hand through her hair. “Yeah . . . okay. I’ll do a search on TB epidemics and --” She trailed off as she pulled a search engine up onto the screen. The three of them were silent as her fingers moved rhythmically over the keyboard like an Irish Step Dancer across a stage.
Before long, she’d pulled up a second website. “Here’s something from the CDC. It’s a cautionary tale when dealing with epidemics in rural areas like this one.”
She leaned in toward the computer screen as if transfixed by what she read. “Her name really was Sara Sutter. And she really did have an infant. No name, listed though. Both of them slipped into a death-like sleep. They were hastily buried, but that very evening, Sara’s brother caught up to the husband at the hotel he was staying in, and asked that they re-open the casket, so that he could see her for a final time.
“Mr. Sutter was feeling uneasy about her quick burial and figured it wouldn’t hurt. Since they figured that the townsfolk wouldn’t comply with their wishes, they slipped into the cemetery in the night and opened the grave.”
Chloe swallowed convulsively. “According to this, the body had shifted into a position of agony, the arms braced against the lid of the coffin and the hands bruised as if she had been beating on the lid.”
She shut her eyes. “They buried her and the baby alive,” her voice was barely a whisper. “And they both suffocated.”
Sam and Dean shared a concerned look. Dean looked pointedly at the shelves in the distance, and then back to Sam. The younger Winchester nodded in understanding and walked away to give Dean time to deal with Chloe.
“Hey,” Dean pulled her into his arms. She rested her head against his shoulder. “Tell me,” he whispered.
She buried her face in his neck and shivered violently. “It’s not what you’re thinking. I wasn’t scared of being in the box. Not at first anyway. I was certain that Clark would find me. I mean, he’s the whole town’s freaking teenage hero. He could save the pink princess at the drop of a hat. Why shouldn’t he be able to find me six feet underground?
“But then the air started to run out. And I realized that he might not get there in time.”
Despite her trembling, her voice was even and detached, as if she were describing something that happened to someone else. Dean held her as she shook. He was expecting - tears or something. But not this weird semi-detached state.
“It’s not like what you would expect. I didn’t just suddenly run of my air supply. Like I was held under water and there was literally nothing to breathe. This was more like --”
She took a deep, steadying breath. “I was using up all the oxygen and replacing it with carbon dioxide. As the oxygen levels dipped, I kept breathing what was left. So with every breath I took, I was poisoning myself. And then, when I realized that Clark might not get there - that I might die at age sixteen. And not even die well: just scared, cold and alone in a dark box. I panicked. And that made me breathe faster, and use up the oxygen quicker.
“First came the muscle spasms, and then the seizures: I don’t think I’ve ever been in so much pain. But in a way, it was good, because when I was having a seizure, I wasn’t focused on feeling like I was drowning. Then there was the hysteria: when I tried to beat my brains out by slamming my head into the side of the box.” She gave a short, bitter bark of laughter. “But I didn’t even have the space to accomplish that.”
“Jesus,” Dean whispered quietly.
“I prayed to him,” Chloe nodded. “And every saint that I could think of. St. Mary, St. Jude - especially St. Jude. I like to think of St. Paul as my patron saint, but I always end up talking to St. Jude.
“Then I started making saints up. Saint Dominoes: patron saint of thirty-minute pizza delivery. Saint Helvetica, patron of cub reporters. I did that until I lost the ability to think coherently. At that point all I could do - was suffer. Like some kind of . . . animal.
“When Clark found me - All I could think was that I knew he would be the one to find me. It was always him. And I never told him that, while I never lost faith in his ability to find me - I had a few doubts over his timing.”
“I don’t know what’s worse,” Dean said. “The idea that something like that could happen accidentally or that someone could do it on purpose.”
She pulled back to regard him with wide, sorrowful eyes. “It’s an awful way to die. I can see why someone would become a restless spirit.”
Dean nodded. “I get that. But Chloe, she’s hurting people. We’ve still got to put her down.”
“I know,” Chloe nodded. “I just wish there was another way.”
“If it helps, Sam and I can salt and burn the bones.”
“It does,” She nodded. “Dean?”
“Yeah?”
She pulled him back into an embrace, and pressed her lips to his neck. “Thank you,” she whispered into his ear.
He tilted his head back to regard her with his own serious expression. Slowly, he smoothed his hand down her hair, and caressed her cheek. “Always.”
She replied with a tight-lipped smile before looking away to break the moment.
Dean stared at her for a moment longer, before glancing back to the bookshelves where Sam had gone. As he expected, his little brother was watching without trying to be obvious about it. He nodded Sam back over. “You find something?”
“Burial records for the local cemetery,” Sam nodded. “We can locate Sara Sutter from these.”
Dean nodded. “I’ll get the Impala running, and then we can burn the body, and hit the road.”
“The thing I don’t get,” Sam wondered. “What’s the connection? I mean, Sara died over a hundred years ago. So why start killing people now?”
“All three boys helped to bury an infant,” Chloe said.
“An infant who was already dead,” Dean replied.
“Maybe we should go talk to Susan Rush,” Chloe said.