"Saving people, hunting things, the family business."
Dean
Massachusetts was cold this time of year. A harsh breeze swept through the streets of Salem, tugging at the last of the leaves that were still desperately clinging to their trees. But sooner or later they too would fall. A wind destined to make houses built from cards collapse.
The air tasted of salt, sea and space. The aroma of the coast, a greeting from the nearby ocean, tart and alluring at the same time. A contrast, an ambivalence to the gray of the town. It smelled of wet foliage and a little of exhaust fumes. The freshness of the last rain was almost vanished again, barely palpable like a slowly fading memory.
The deep tinny roar of an outdated engine tore apart the deceptive calm of that late afternoon. An echo of times long past. The small stones crunched on the crumbling asphalt as the car pulled up on the side of the road, and the doors generated a squeaky noise as they opened. Shortly afterwards they were slammed again, almost gently.
Two men had got out. Jeans, boots, flannel shirts, leather jacket. Hunters. The wind grabbed the taller man's long brown hair and blew it into his face. A ray of sunshine, which had fought its way through the thick cloud cover and the high fog, shone in the dark varnish of the 67's Chevrolet Impala before it also disappeared again as if it had never been there. The smaller of the two blinked up at the sky, then, as if to drive away a thought, he shook his blond head and motioned for his companion to follow him.
"Agents Novak and Lokhard, FBI."
The taller one straightened his recently put on tie.
Volatilely the officer glanced at the badges shown to him. "Are you coming for the unexplained mortality?"
"Tell us everything you know about that."
"There have been five so far, almost one in every month since the beginning of the year." It is October, thought the hunters. "Cause of death unknown", the officer continued. For a moment he hesitated. "At first we considered it to be old age, infirmity, you know. But younger men also died. All were clergymen, priests, bishops, monks."
"And all of them died in monasteries or churches near Salem?"
"Yes, here in the city or in the vicinity."
"May we see the last deceased?"
"Of course, follow me."
It was chilly down here. On the ceiling the neon lights buzzed. A man's body was visible under a white sheet, laid out on the metal table of the pathology.
"This is him", the detective said and uncovered the sheet so that the dead man's head and chest were exposed. "The autopsy results." The taller of the two 'Agents' accepted the file that was handed over.
"Would you please leave us alone", the smaller one asked in a tone that did not sound like a polite request.
"Of course." The police officer stroked his mustache and left.
While one studied the pathologist's notes, the other examined the body thoroughly. Mid-forties, maybe a little younger, that was hard to tell. The man had been in good shape for a servant of the Church. The now sallow skin of his even face was shaved smooth. A short strand of his dark brown hair had slipped down his forehead. 'Agent Novak' swallowed. There was something about this man that irritated him.
"Sam, you can do it alone here, right?"
"Sure, what's going on?"
"Nothing. I just have to get out for a moment." And with that he had rushed through the door.
"You usually never get sick, Dean", the younger man called after him, teasing him a bit.
When he stepped outside again after a while and eagerly inhaled the comparatively fresh air, he met his companion on the phone. "I have to hang up now, Cas. It was good to hear you."
"He called you, is that why you left so quickly? What did he want?"
"Nothing. I called him."
"What for?"
The smaller one only gave his counterpart a withering look, which should make him realize that he had taken his brotherly curiosity too far, and did not go into it further. "So what did you find out?"
Nothing. Not even in the apartment of the last victim, a priest. Not even where the body was found. No witch bags, no sulfur, no EMF swings. Merely a eyewitness reported something like seizures.
Grains of dust danced in the light of the setting sun that fell through the tall stained-glass windows as the two hunters entered the church. The smell of incense, burning candles and old wood was in the air and enveloped them as soon as the heavy double door was closed. The carved figure of a saint looked down at them reproachfully. A woman rose from the creaking pews, made the sign of the cross, and left.
The witness was a frail man who must have worked here for decades. His face was lined and weathered. Evidence of already bygone days of a long life. Bittersweet melancholy oozed into the devout calm of this place and changed Dean's expression only for a few seconds. It was hard to smile at the thought that they would never reach that age.
"I cleaned the church, then I saw him praying, early in the morning", the sexton began, "Then all of a sudden he started to tremble. He fell over on the floor, twisted and screamed... It was bloodcurdling! I called the ambulance, but when it arrived, Father Nicolai was already dead."
"Was it uncommon for him to sojourn in church so early?", 'Agent Lokhard' asked.
"Yes, normally nobody is around when I clean up before morning prayer."
"Was anyone else there?", 'Agent Novak' wanted to know, who had just returned from his prowl through the nave. About the standard 'unusual occurrences' they didn't even ask. Cold spots, strange smells and flickering lights weren't exactly rarities in spiritual places like this.
"I think so... A woman in the back row. But she was already gone when the emergency doctor came. Maybe I just imagined her. "
There were also indications at the four other crime scenes that another person had been present. Reports of a dark figure in the cover of the shadows, an open window, a door ajar, faint footsteps hurrying away. After a long visit to the city archives, the trail led them to the witch trials of Salem, their victims and an old drawing.
"Take a look at this." Sam brushed the dust off the leather cover of an old handwritten case file. "At the age of four or five, Dorcas Good was charged with witchcraft along with her pregnant mother. Some villagers claimed the child was mentally deranged and repeatedly bit them as if she was an animal. After a brief interrogation, she was found guilty and detained. She allegedly admitted to being a witch and seeing her mother ally with the devil. She testified that her mother gave her a snake that spoke to her and sucked blood from her finger. Her mother Sarah Good gave birth to a daughter named Mercy in prison, who died shortly after the birth, probably from malnutrition and the harsh prison conditions. Sarah Good was found guilty and hanged on July 19, 1692. Dorcas was imprisoned for almost nine months until she was ransomed in December 1692."
Sam continued to leaf through the archives and stated: "After that, her trail will be lost. No further records, no death certificate. Just this old drawing that is supposed to show her as a young woman." He turned the yellowed piece of paper over. "But wait, that can't be. The drawing is from 1855..."
"Maybe a twisted number or smeared ink."
"No, take a look for yourself", he handed the document to his brother. And indeed...
"So what is she? A vengeful ghost?"
"Ghosts are usually tied to a place or object", the younger one pointed out.
The eyewitness to the last incident finally identified, with a little 'tutoring', the woman in the picture as the one he had seen in church. Dorcas Good. There lived a Dorothy Good in town.
A small house in a remote district. Ivy grew up to the roof tiles and almost completely hid the old wooden facade. Littered with tall oaks and fruit trees, which bent under their crimson weight, lay a garden that could best be described as left in its natural state. There wild flowers found their way into the light between blackberries and bushes. In the tall grass, a cricket chanted its last song to the melodic sounds of a wind chimes that wafted from somewhere.
A young woman opened the door for them. Light skin, gray eyes, inconspicuous except for her dark, tangled hair. Purple and blue forget-me-nots were woven into it. The gentle scent of herbs enveloped her. Her simple dress was blowing in the cold wind that came uninvited into her house through the open door. Shivering, she pulled her olive jacket tighter around her thin body. She was one of those people whose beauty you only recognized at second glance. And the resemblance to the woman in the drawing was unmistakable. No, she looked exactly like that.
"Dorothy Good?"
"Yes. Who are you? What do you want?"
"Agents Novak and Lokhard, FBI. We are investigating the case of the deceased Padre. May we come in?"
"No, ask your questions out here", she replied, surprisingly harsh.
"Are you related to a Dorcas Good? Perhaps even in the very distant past?"
Her lineaments darkened. "There was never a Dorcas Good." And with that she slammed the door in the hunters' wake.
"She is it." Dean was sure. He had wanted to break in and confront the woman, but Sam had persuaded him to shadow her for the time being. Now the hunters waited in the car near her house, hidden behind some juniper bushes.
"We do not know that."
The sun was already going down. Sam shivered. That was the problem with old cars, no parking heater. Dean reached behind to the back seat and handed him a woolen blanket.
"She has the same family name, a similar first name, and she looks the same. Those are really a few too many coincidences."
"So suppose she somehow managed to live that long ..."
"Witch", the older one interrupted him.
Sam paused, cogitating. One could see that in him, that focused inward, concentrated look. He pondered too much, wondered and worried too much about things that one shouldn't know, the blonde thought.
"Why now, Dean?"
"Hm?", he didn't understand what his brother was getting at.
"Why is she just now taking revenge for the death of her mother and what was done to her?"
"No idea", Dean shrugged his shoulders, "Who knows what's going on in the head of this crazy one." Witches, he hated them. They made everything complicated. The suspicion crept into him that this case would preoccupy them more than it should. A gloomy premonition that it would leave marks.
"It doesn't matter what you are. It only matters what you do."
Sam