Monachopsis

Chapter XIII: Legends Make Liars

I winced as Sam jabbed my face with an alcohol-soaked tissue. It wasn't pain so much as humiliation. I was a hunter. I should be able to take care of myself.

"Just hold still," Sam scolded, struggling to clean the wounds as I squirmed.

Irritated by my own vulnerability, I argued, "I can do it myself, Sam."

He rolled his eyes, but otherwise ignored me. As he continued to clean the cuts, he said," Just log onto my computer or grab that book,"--he gestured to an ancient-looking volume with a decaying spine--, "and make yourself useful if it bothers you that much."

I grit my teeth, but knew when I'd lost. I snatched the book from the table in his and Dean's room and started flipping through it. It was mostly theology, mentioning spirits and divine entities of all sorts. I didn't really know where to start, so I just started from the beginning.

Dean spoke up from where he was lounging on his bed, doodling in a motel stationary notepad. "What the hell is this symbol? It's bugging the hell out of me." He paused, then looked up. "This whole damn jobs bugging me. I thought the legend said that Mordechai only goes after chicks."

"It does," Sam said. He plucked a shard of glass from a cut on my cheek and I flinched.

"Ouch!" I hissed. "Easy with those tweezers, Operation!"

"Sorry."

Dean continued, "Right. Well, that explains why he went after you two, but why me?"

"Bite me, Meathead!" I snapped, pushed to violence by the stinging in my face.

Dean raised an eyebrow at me, but otherwise didn't react. I had a suspicion that he was either getting used to my outbursts or five minutes away from punching me in the face. I immediately felt guilty for snapping at him, but I was too prideful to apologize. Instead I frowned and returned my attention to the tome in my lap.

"Hilarious," Sam drawled, obviously annoyed by my temper tantrum. He drew away from me and opened his laptop to the Hellhounds website. "Legend also says he hung himself, but you see those slit wrists?"

"Yeah," Dean said. I nodded in agreement.

"What's up with that?" asked Sam. "And the axe, too. I mean, ghosts are usually pretty strict, right, following the same patterns over and over?

"His mood keeps changing," Dean said.

"Exactly," said Sam.

"But what kind of ghost can change their nature like that?" I wondered, mostly to myself.

Sam answered. "I don't know. I mean, not one that I've ever heard of. Ghosts usually stick to one way of existence; one loop in time that keeps them trapped here and rots them from the inside. It usually has something to do with how they died, or who they were in life. I'm telling you, the way the story goes--"

He cut off abruptly, then said, "Wait a minute."

I looked up from the book. Sam was staring at his computer screen, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Dean glanced at him.

"What?" he asked.

Sam said, "Someone added a new posting to the Hellhound site. Listen to this--'They say Mordechai Murdoch was really a Satanist who chopped up his victims with an axe before slitting his own wrists. Now he's imprisoned in the house for eternity.' Where the hell is this going?"

"If this turns out to be some kind of Scooby-Doo whodunit bullshit, I'm killing this bastard myself," I growled, slamming the book on the table in frustration. "This is getting ridiculous. How can we get rid of this thing if it doesn't even play by its own rules?"

Movement flashed in the corner of my eye. Dean sat up in bed, eyes wide with recognition. He was staring at the notepad in his hand. He said, "I don't know, but I think I might have just figured out where it all started."

Rock music squealed over the music store speakers. I cringed at the noise, inhaling the familiar odor of starched covers and vinyl records. My eyes scanned the interior of the store, and it didn't take long to find him.

Craig Thurston, leaning against the counter, gulping down coffee from a to-go cup and staring off into space. I reached over without looking and pinched Dean's elbow. He followed my gaze, and nodded.

"Hey, Craig," he called, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket. "Remember us?"

Craig, who'd left the counter, turned to us with a weary sigh. "Guys, look, I'm really not in the mood to answer any more of your questions, okay?"

I raised my eyebrows, but didn't say anything. Sharing a look with Sam conveyed what I was feeling just as clearly.

"Oh, don't worry," said Dean, "We're just here to buy an album, that's all."

Satisfied with our answer--and obviously anxious to get back to his thoughts--Craig turned away from us. I watched with a growing bubble of grim excitement as Dean expertly selected a square from the row of albums and spun it in his hands. As it rotated, I caught sight of the cover art.

Then he turned to us. "You know," he begin in a faux-innocent tone, "I couldn't figure out what that symbol was, and then I realized it could mean anything." He shrugged nonchalantly, but we'd wandered over to where Craig had stationed himself, corralling him like a skittish animal. "It's a logo for Blue Oyster Cult," said Dean. "Tell me, Craig, you into B.O.C. or just scaring the hell out of people?"

Dean held out the album and Craig took it. He flipped it over to where the familiar logo was printed, and sighed.

"Why don't you tell us about that house," Dean continued, "without lying through your ass this time?"

Craig plopped down the record and faced us. Shame was clear in his eyes. "All right," he said. "My cousin Dana was on break from TCU. I guess we were just bored, looking for something to do. So I showed her this old abandoned dump I found. We thought it'd be funny if we made it look like it was haunted. So we painted symbols on the walls, some from some albums, some from some of Dana's theology textbooks. Then we found out this guy Murdoch used to live there, so we--we made up some story to go along with that. So they told people who told other people. And then these two guys put it on their stupid website. Everything just took on a life of its own."

Eyebrows furrowed, I glanced up at Sam. I couldn't tell if this kid was being genuine. He seemed like he was, and it definitely seemed more plausible than his first story, but I'd already heard him lie once. Maybe he was just getting better at it.

"I mean, I thought it was funny, at first," Craig said, "but, now that girl's dead. It was just a joke, you know? None of it was real. We made the whole thing up. I swear."

Craig sniffled into his hands.

"All right," said Dean quietly. I stayed silent, searching Craig's face for any sign of deception. But there wasn't any. His eyes were brimmed with regret, his posture slumped as if in defeat. His face was haggard with exhaustion. He wasn't lying.

"Gray," Dean called. I turned and followed them to the door.

"He was telling the truth," I announced, keeping my voice hushed. "Nobody can fake body language like that."

"Yeah, well, if none of it was real," Dean countered, "then how the hell do you explain Mordechai?"