Ghosts In The Machines I
Part One of approximately Six
PG 13 rating for language
Crossover between Insidious and Supernatural
Word Count: 1,500
Summary: Ben Winchester has taken his first steps to being a hunter. He has more trouble than he expects with a simple spirit until art student Dalton Lambert offers some tips. The amateur leading the amateur may just be worse than the blind leading the blind.
[Updates on Fridays]
Ben Winchester allowed himself a small smile as his black 2008 Camaro took the curve on Foothill Freeway with ease, virtually purring at eighty. He decelerated when he saw the sign of his exit ramp.
“Can’t find his way to Pasadena my ass,” the smile became a smirk. It almost made him wish he was back in Indiana to see the look of reluctant surprise on Dean’s face.
After seven years under his father’s paranoid eye, he was giddy with his newfound freedom. All the pressure, the secrecy, the fighting, it was finally behind him.
Pasadena would be his first hunt, whether Dean agreed or not.
Ben rolled up to a stoplight and flipped open his cell phone, hitting the speed dial.
“Hey, I made it,” he said as soon as the connection opened. He pulled through the light.
“I never doubted you, Ben,” the relief in Sam Winchester’s voice was unmistakable. “Are you near the college now?”
“Just reached the parking lot,” Ben put the Camaro in park. He sat back in the seat and his face lit up with a grin that made him seem like a teenager again.
“This’ll be a piece of cake, Sam. You taught me everything I could possibly need to take on a spirit.”
“Don’t rule other scenarios out so quickly, and don’t be so cocky- I know I at least taught you better than that.”
“Come on, this isn’t rocket science,” Ben protested. “The old school president died just before he could cut funding to the art program. Now there have been freak accidents with both the kiln and the graphic design copiers. Isn’t it you that always says there’s no such thing as a coincidence?”
“You’re right, hunting‘s worse than rocket science. The benefits package sucks and if you‘re not dead by next Tuesday, you‘re the exception. Never take a situation for granted, and for God’s sake, stop thinking you know everything after a few shooting lessons and some books I snuck you behind Dean’s back.”
Ben was silent. He didn’t get why his uncle was suddenly acting so uptight. Until now, he’d been on Ben’s side; he’d understood why Ben was so driven to hunt.
“I’m taking this seriously, stop worrying. I have bigger monsters to kill than some spook in Pasadena.”
A sigh came crackling over the connection, “Don’t be too proud to call me if you need help. You know I’m in Oregon on a vampire job.”
“Vampires? I’d be watching my own back if I were you,” Ben hung up the phone before Sam could reply.
He got out the car and grabbed a light bookbag from the backseat. He locked his doors and tucked his phone and keys into the smallest pocket.
The bag contained everything Ben would need for his first day of college: a hunting knife made of iron, a canister of salt, the EMF reader he’d rigged himself, and a Colt loaded with shells of rock salt.
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The guidance counselor couldn’t decide what to look at, the new student sitting before her, or the list of classes he’d slid across her desk.
“Is there a problem?” the student’s hazel eyes studied her with a calmness that unsettled her.
“Well… your lab fees will be considerable, you understand.”
“I’m fine with that.”
Ms. Hastings glanced dubiously at the list. The student who’d introduced himself as Harry Price insisted he was only interested in taking Drawing 101, a studio art course, and Computer Design 200, a tech lab.
“There’s also the problem of your credit hours…”
“What do you mean,” for the first time, he seemed thrown off, a slight frown furrowing his eyebrows.
“You need at least ten hours per semester to be registered. Labs are worth a little more than normal classes, so right now you’re at six credits, but you need four more.”
Ben cursed inwardly. He was starting to get an idea of what his uncle had been warning him about; it seemed nothing was as easy as it was in theory.
“Is there a class worth four credits being offered this semester?”
“There’s Biology, but it would come with more lab fees-”
“I told you, that’s not a problem,” Ben stood up. “Put me in the Bio class.”
It wasn’t like he would ever attend it anyway.
Ms. Hastings typed in his classes obediently, and sealed in his schedule with a tap of the enter key.
“There we are, now I’ll just print you off a table with the times and rooms for your classes.”
She glanced at the paper as it came out the printer, “It seems you’re due in the art studio in thirty minutes. I’m sure the professor won’t mind providing your materials for today’s class, but you’ll need to buy supplies for your classes from the school store when you get a chance.”
Ben nodded, not even registering what she was telling him. Mentally, he was preparing for the situation he knew he was about to jump into feet first.
The guidance counselor trailed off mid-sentence as Harry Price turned and left her office. It would have been insulting, if she hadn’t been so relieved to see him go. Something in that student’s eyes unnerved her- he seemed to see more in one look than Ms. Hastings felt she would see in her lifetime.
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Ben paused with his hand on the doorknob of the art studio and took a deep breath, his fingers flexing as he calmed his nerves. This was the moment he’d been preparing for.
On the other side of the door, something was wrong. Something strange and sinister had leaked into the normal world. As a hunter, it was his job to fix it.
The door hit the wall with a resounding bang when Ben threw it open, and he strode into the room only to find himself face to face with a tall, furious and paint-spattered artist.
“What the hell, man! This is a studio, not a flophouse. How many times do I have to tell you frat bastards, the couch here is not for sleeping off binges?”
“I’m not drunk.“
Ben supposed he looked a bit rough; he’d driven straight through last night and hadn’t had a chance to shave yet. Or change clothes.
The student gave up trying to smear the paint from his jeans, looking up at Ben with exasperation, “Okay, then mind explaining why you decided to imitate fuckin’ Rambo there? You really screwed up my project, dammit…”
“The door was jammed, so I-” Ben narrowed his eyes, suspicious.
“Why are you here anyway? The next class doesn’t start for fifteen minutes.”
The stranger indicated himself with a mixture of pride and irritation, “Art major, procrastination comes with the territory. I’m supposed to present a painting of mine today, so I figured I should at least paint it first.”
He surveyed the canvas behind him and shook his head, “Well, I can’t blame you for this one. Guess my heart wasn’t as into it like usual.”
With a sudden switch in mood, he turned back to Ben, “I’ll admit, you scared the shit out of me. The name’s Dalton Lambert- I haven’t seen you around before, have I?”
“Harry Price.”
“Like the ghost researcher?”
Ben couldn’t hide his surprise. Dalton saw his expression and laughed.
“Don’t look so shocked, I’m a bit of a paranormal fanatic. Something happened to me when I was younger,” his smile faltered for a moment. “Guess I just haven’t been able to shake it.”
He gestured to the canvas, and Ben realized the painting was of a young woman dressed in antiquated clothing, doubled over. She was vomiting what appeared to be pins and needles. The shadowy form of a crone could be seen stooping over her, the hag’s claw-like hands about to close around the young woman’s throat.
“It’s based on descriptions of the Bell Witch haunting,” Dalton said. “I’m in the middle of a series of fictional movie posters done in oil paints. They’re all based on classic hauntings.”
Ben privately thought the idea was stupid. Horror movies were horrible only in their inaccuracies in portraying the real monsters, and the Bell Witch hadn’t even been a ghost, it had been a poltergeist, a twisted one at that.
“Looks painful,” he said. To his relief, other students began to arrive and Dalton excused himself to finish the painting. It gave Ben a reason to avoid him without coming up with an excuse.
As far as Ben was concerned, self-proclaimed “paranormal fanatics” were much more trouble than they had any right to be. His uncle told him countless stories about people with an interest in the supernatural getting in the way of hunts, including one instance when Sam and Dean had almost wound up arrested by the FBI for a bank robbery.
Ben made a mental note to stay as far away from Dalton as possible, and sat down in a distant corner of the studio, content to watch and wait
PG 13 rating for language
Crossover between Insidious and Supernatural
Word Count: 1,500
Summary: Ben Winchester has taken his first steps to being a hunter. He has more trouble than he expects with a simple spirit until art student Dalton Lambert offers some tips. The amateur leading the amateur may just be worse than the blind leading the blind.
[Updates on Fridays]
Ben Winchester allowed himself a small smile as his black 2008 Camaro took the curve on Foothill Freeway with ease, virtually purring at eighty. He decelerated when he saw the sign of his exit ramp.
“Can’t find his way to Pasadena my ass,” the smile became a smirk. It almost made him wish he was back in Indiana to see the look of reluctant surprise on Dean’s face.
After seven years under his father’s paranoid eye, he was giddy with his newfound freedom. All the pressure, the secrecy, the fighting, it was finally behind him.
Pasadena would be his first hunt, whether Dean agreed or not.
Ben rolled up to a stoplight and flipped open his cell phone, hitting the speed dial.
“Hey, I made it,” he said as soon as the connection opened. He pulled through the light.
“I never doubted you, Ben,” the relief in Sam Winchester’s voice was unmistakable. “Are you near the college now?”
“Just reached the parking lot,” Ben put the Camaro in park. He sat back in the seat and his face lit up with a grin that made him seem like a teenager again.
“This’ll be a piece of cake, Sam. You taught me everything I could possibly need to take on a spirit.”
“Don’t rule other scenarios out so quickly, and don’t be so cocky- I know I at least taught you better than that.”
“Come on, this isn’t rocket science,” Ben protested. “The old school president died just before he could cut funding to the art program. Now there have been freak accidents with both the kiln and the graphic design copiers. Isn’t it you that always says there’s no such thing as a coincidence?”
“You’re right, hunting‘s worse than rocket science. The benefits package sucks and if you‘re not dead by next Tuesday, you‘re the exception. Never take a situation for granted, and for God’s sake, stop thinking you know everything after a few shooting lessons and some books I snuck you behind Dean’s back.”
Ben was silent. He didn’t get why his uncle was suddenly acting so uptight. Until now, he’d been on Ben’s side; he’d understood why Ben was so driven to hunt.
“I’m taking this seriously, stop worrying. I have bigger monsters to kill than some spook in Pasadena.”
A sigh came crackling over the connection, “Don’t be too proud to call me if you need help. You know I’m in Oregon on a vampire job.”
“Vampires? I’d be watching my own back if I were you,” Ben hung up the phone before Sam could reply.
He got out the car and grabbed a light bookbag from the backseat. He locked his doors and tucked his phone and keys into the smallest pocket.
The bag contained everything Ben would need for his first day of college: a hunting knife made of iron, a canister of salt, the EMF reader he’d rigged himself, and a Colt loaded with shells of rock salt.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The guidance counselor couldn’t decide what to look at, the new student sitting before her, or the list of classes he’d slid across her desk.
“Is there a problem?” the student’s hazel eyes studied her with a calmness that unsettled her.
“Well… your lab fees will be considerable, you understand.”
“I’m fine with that.”
Ms. Hastings glanced dubiously at the list. The student who’d introduced himself as Harry Price insisted he was only interested in taking Drawing 101, a studio art course, and Computer Design 200, a tech lab.
“There’s also the problem of your credit hours…”
“What do you mean,” for the first time, he seemed thrown off, a slight frown furrowing his eyebrows.
“You need at least ten hours per semester to be registered. Labs are worth a little more than normal classes, so right now you’re at six credits, but you need four more.”
Ben cursed inwardly. He was starting to get an idea of what his uncle had been warning him about; it seemed nothing was as easy as it was in theory.
“Is there a class worth four credits being offered this semester?”
“There’s Biology, but it would come with more lab fees-”
“I told you, that’s not a problem,” Ben stood up. “Put me in the Bio class.”
It wasn’t like he would ever attend it anyway.
Ms. Hastings typed in his classes obediently, and sealed in his schedule with a tap of the enter key.
“There we are, now I’ll just print you off a table with the times and rooms for your classes.”
She glanced at the paper as it came out the printer, “It seems you’re due in the art studio in thirty minutes. I’m sure the professor won’t mind providing your materials for today’s class, but you’ll need to buy supplies for your classes from the school store when you get a chance.”
Ben nodded, not even registering what she was telling him. Mentally, he was preparing for the situation he knew he was about to jump into feet first.
The guidance counselor trailed off mid-sentence as Harry Price turned and left her office. It would have been insulting, if she hadn’t been so relieved to see him go. Something in that student’s eyes unnerved her- he seemed to see more in one look than Ms. Hastings felt she would see in her lifetime.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Ben paused with his hand on the doorknob of the art studio and took a deep breath, his fingers flexing as he calmed his nerves. This was the moment he’d been preparing for.
On the other side of the door, something was wrong. Something strange and sinister had leaked into the normal world. As a hunter, it was his job to fix it.
The door hit the wall with a resounding bang when Ben threw it open, and he strode into the room only to find himself face to face with a tall, furious and paint-spattered artist.
“What the hell, man! This is a studio, not a flophouse. How many times do I have to tell you frat bastards, the couch here is not for sleeping off binges?”
“I’m not drunk.“
Ben supposed he looked a bit rough; he’d driven straight through last night and hadn’t had a chance to shave yet. Or change clothes.
The student gave up trying to smear the paint from his jeans, looking up at Ben with exasperation, “Okay, then mind explaining why you decided to imitate fuckin’ Rambo there? You really screwed up my project, dammit…”
“The door was jammed, so I-” Ben narrowed his eyes, suspicious.
“Why are you here anyway? The next class doesn’t start for fifteen minutes.”
The stranger indicated himself with a mixture of pride and irritation, “Art major, procrastination comes with the territory. I’m supposed to present a painting of mine today, so I figured I should at least paint it first.”
He surveyed the canvas behind him and shook his head, “Well, I can’t blame you for this one. Guess my heart wasn’t as into it like usual.”
With a sudden switch in mood, he turned back to Ben, “I’ll admit, you scared the shit out of me. The name’s Dalton Lambert- I haven’t seen you around before, have I?”
“Harry Price.”
“Like the ghost researcher?”
Ben couldn’t hide his surprise. Dalton saw his expression and laughed.
“Don’t look so shocked, I’m a bit of a paranormal fanatic. Something happened to me when I was younger,” his smile faltered for a moment. “Guess I just haven’t been able to shake it.”
He gestured to the canvas, and Ben realized the painting was of a young woman dressed in antiquated clothing, doubled over. She was vomiting what appeared to be pins and needles. The shadowy form of a crone could be seen stooping over her, the hag’s claw-like hands about to close around the young woman’s throat.
“It’s based on descriptions of the Bell Witch haunting,” Dalton said. “I’m in the middle of a series of fictional movie posters done in oil paints. They’re all based on classic hauntings.”
Ben privately thought the idea was stupid. Horror movies were horrible only in their inaccuracies in portraying the real monsters, and the Bell Witch hadn’t even been a ghost, it had been a poltergeist, a twisted one at that.
“Looks painful,” he said. To his relief, other students began to arrive and Dalton excused himself to finish the painting. It gave Ben a reason to avoid him without coming up with an excuse.
As far as Ben was concerned, self-proclaimed “paranormal fanatics” were much more trouble than they had any right to be. His uncle told him countless stories about people with an interest in the supernatural getting in the way of hunts, including one instance when Sam and Dean had almost wound up arrested by the FBI for a bank robbery.
Ben made a mental note to stay as far away from Dalton as possible, and sat down in a distant corner of the studio, content to watch and wait