ELEVEN

Weary from a long day investigating and witnessing the confusing and destructive behavior permeating the town, and after over an hour of questioning from one of Moyer’s finest, Dean and Sam checked into the imaginatively named Moyer Motor Lodge. Without heading back to the interstate and driving to the nearest rest stop or—God forbid—booking a bed and breakfast, there weren’t a lot of rooming options. The Delsea Lake Inn was cheaper with a much better view, but Gruber mentioned a recent bedbug infestation that management claimed to have eradicated. Nevertheless, he advised them to “proceed with caution.”

So, the Moyer Motor Lodge it was.

Dean couldn’t wait to finally ditch the Fed suit. He’d whipped off his tie, folded it and tucked it in a jacket pocket while waiting for the room key. Standing there, he’d noticed that instead of paintings, the lobby had enlarged decades-old photos of people vacationing by a scenic lake. The prints had faded, the colors almost entirely bleached away.

In a way, the framed photos mirrored the general state of the motel. Small areas of disrepair had gone untended. A quick perusal revealed marks on the walls, scuffs on the floors, worn carpet, chips in wood surfaces. If Dean had to guess, the motel had fallen on hard times a while ago and continued to teeter on the brink of insolvency. But it was, thankfully, free of bedbugs.

The brass plaques on the frames of the bigger prints mentioned Lake Delsea and the month and year of the photo. Not much after the mid-Seventies. Out of idle curiosity, Dean asked, “Nothing recent?”

“My mother took those back in the day,” the balding clerk said. “Besides, the lake’s been closed to tourism for decades.”

Dean recalled that Pangento chemical spills—or possible toxic dumping—had soured everyone on the lake. The spill may or may not have been intentional, but the chamber of commerce had been unable to salvage Moyer’s tourism reputation. Instead, Moyer became a chemical factory town.

“Reclaimed wilderness now.”

“What?” Dean asked.

“Lake Delsea,” the clerk said. “Overgrown. Main pier’s still there. And some of the summer shops and shacks. Mostly, it’s a teenager hangout.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, sir,” he said. “They go there to drink, do drugs. The cops found paraphernalia there. Busted a few kids. ’Bout a year ago, one of them got drunk, took a swim on a dare and drowned. Lot of people say the lake’s cursed.”

“Is that so?”

“If you believe that kind of thing,” the clerk said with a shrug. “Personally, I won’t swim in the lake.”

“You think it’s cursed?” Dean asked, intrigued. Could Lake Delsea have some connection to the weird behavior plaguing the town? “Haunted?”

“No,” he replied. “I think it’s polluted. And I’d rather not swim in toxic sewage, thank you very much.”

“Well, that’s understandable.”

“Oh, Pangento say they cleaned it up but I don’t trust them.”

Dean smiled. “Not a company man?”

“Hell no,” he said vehemently. “They broke this town once. And if they ever pull up stakes, Moyer would become nothing but a ghost town. That bunch! No regard for anything but their bottom line.” He shook his head for emphasis. “I’d leave sooner than work for them.”

“A man of principle.”

“You know it,” he said and slid a key fob across the counter. “Room 142. Two doubles.”

* * *

“Make a friend?” Sam asked as they carried their overnight bags down the walkway to their room. “You were in there a while.”

“Hearing lore of the haunted Lake Delsea.”

“Really?”

“Not unless pollution attracts more ghosts than juvenile delinquents.”

“You know, Dean, we could call Mick,” Sam suggested. “Maybe the Brits have seen something like this before.”

“No way, Sam,” Dean said. “This one’s you and me. No interference. Whatever this is, we’ll figure it out on our own.”

Dean unlocked the door, unsurprised to find the walls hung with more photos from Lake Delsea’s glory days. At least one duplicate of a lobby photo, but the colors had lasted longer in the room’s print. Less sun exposure. And yet, just as depressing. Almost felt as if the motel itself was haunted, that they had stepped back in time to a bygone Moyer when the whole world waited impatiently for the death of disco.

Lacking the energy to ditch the Fed suit, Dean picked up the TV remote and plopped onto the nearest lumpy bed, flicking through a limited selection of channels with the sound on mute. Sam filled a glass with water from the faucet, took a sip and frowned.

“No good?”

“Well water, maybe.”

“Or a Pangento cocktail.”

“Remind me to pick up some bottled water,” Sam said as he held the glass up to the lamplight.

Dean had no idea what his brother expected to see in the water, but if it was that bad, Dean planned to survive on beer, either canned or bottled.

Sam pulled out a chair from a utilitarian desk and sat with his arms crossed over the back. “So, what do we think?”

“If I hadn’t seen Orderly Red-eyes,” Dean said, “I’d put money on a toxic mutant.”

“The weird shadow movement,” Sam said. “The flicker of red in the eyes right before the orderly’s voice changed, before he changed.”

“Same as the lacrosse coach,” Dean said. “If we believe random lacrosse girl.”

“No reason not to,” Sam said. “From the beginning, people here have been acting out of character.”

“After the midnight blackouts.”

“Right,” Sam said. “My gut told me we were dealing with something that stripped away people’s inhibitions.”

“And their clothing,” Dean said, referencing the streakers.

“Acting without filters, no restraint,” Sam said. During their debrief in the hospital conference room, Gruber mentioned incidents that hadn’t yet made the news, including the restaurant server tossing a plate of spaghetti and meatballs at the windshield of a bad tipper, and the mail carrier who decided delivering mail to mailboxes was less satisfying than tossing it in the street and driving over it. “Even giving into their baser impulses. Worst case, something is unleashing their ids. Everyone has a dark thought now and then, but some of these people are acting out their worst impulses.”

“‘Told’ you?” Dean asked. “Past tense. What changed your mind—or gut?”

“Talking to Nancy about the attempted suicide. I don’t think that was a suppressed impulse brought to the fore.”

“The psychic joyride,” Dean said, nodding. “And the hidden hit list.”

“But she had no enemies.”

“That she knew of,” Dean said. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

“Today, in the emergency room, was totally random,” Sam replied. “That orderly did not act on a dark impulse. And how could the so-called hit list maker know that Davick would get frustrated with the wait, pick a fight, and make himself a target for that orderly?” Sam shook his head. “For those few moments after Luther’s eyes flashed red, something else was at the wheel.”

“We’ve already agreed the streaking, pranks and vandalism incidents don’t fit the demon MO,” Dean said. “What about a trickster? They love mischief, pranks. And murder’s not a deal-breaker.”

“Not their style,” Sam said. “What did Bobby say? They target the high and mighty to bring them down.”

“Nothing high and mighty about a graphic designer or an orderly,” Dean agreed.

“And that trickster sense of humor is lacking,” Sam said. “Even a gallows sense of humor.” Dean opened his mouth to interrupt, but Sam cut him off. “Other than the streakers.”

“So, where’s that leave us?”

Sam spread his arms wide. “Back to the lore. Follow the possession angle. Something that takes control of human hosts.”

“What if time is a factor?”

“How so?” Sam asked, finally pulling off his own necktie.

“The possessions have been short,” Dean said. “A few seconds up to an hour tops. Maybe they can only maintain control for a limited amount of time.”

“Streakers may have lasted the longest,” Sam said. “Maybe extreme behavior causes them to lose control faster. If they tap into what the host secretly would like to say or do, they stay in the driver’s seat longer. But if they try to kill the host or have the host murder someone, the host rebels enough to force them out.”

“Like having a pleasant dream versus a nightmare,” Dean said. “You want the dream to last, but the nightmare can’t end fast enough.”

“Speaking of nightmares,” Sam said, sniffing the sleeve of his jacket. “I still smell that puke bucket.”

“Gift that keeps on giving.”

“Mind if I take the shower first?”

“Be my guest,” Dean said.

While Sam changed and showered, Dean hung up his own suit jacket and pulled out the laptop. He’d leave the lore-sifting to his brother. While they talked, he’d had an idea on how to prove the mass blackouts were connected to the bouts of mischief and mayhem that followed. Television news had the attention span of a toddler, always focusing on the shiny new thing. A fire here, a car crash there, hazy security footage of a convenience store robbery after the break. Local papers, if they were still in business, were short-staffed and had to make coverage choices wisely. But the Internet, the great accumulator, could fill in the gaps. Any stories he’d missed or that had been covered well after the fact would have an online home. Even blog posts sometimes served a purpose. Once you weeded out the flat-earthers and tinfoil hat society.

First, he examined any article or blog post covering the short period between the mass blackout and the initial reports of odd behavior, combing through the online police blotter for Moyer. Anything that didn’t raise an eyebrow, he skipped. He examined human interest stories, came across an article about a nearby 5K race to raise money for a local boy who needed surgery. Judging by the finish-line pictures, it was not a clothing optional run. And, of course, the usual fires, car accidents and shoplifting sprees. Nothing meriting a raised eyebrow until the weirdness began. And much of what he’d heard about from Gruber hadn’t been covered anywhere yet, either formally or in social media posts.

If nothing had happened to trigger the mischief after the blackout, maybe it happened before the blackout. Skipping back a week, with the benefit of foresight, he looked for any stories leading up to the blackout that might have been a harbinger of what was to come. He moved forward, day by day, skimming articles, seeking anything related to fainting, loss of consciousness or random bouts of narcolepsy. Whoever or whatever was responsible for knocking out the whole town at once may have had a trial run beforehand to work out any kinks.

He examined the police blotter again, checked their social media presence on the off chance any locals reported anything odd there. Seemed like a lot of people lived most of their waking lives on social media, so reporting something there rather than calling 911 might seem perfectly natural to them.

As he came closer to blackout day, he despaired of finding any connection between the blackout and the dirty deeds that followed. But not establishing that connection felt like ignoring the elephant in the room. They all agreed the events were connected and they were staring right at them, but the explanation remained elusive.

Social media finally arched his eyebrow when he read of an explosion in the hours of the afternoon before the blackout. Something big enough and loud enough to be heard by multiple people, though some didn’t realize it at the time. Police investigated and discovered the explosion had been caused by old, unstable dynamite stored in the rotted loft of a barn on a long-abandoned farm. Apparently, a lightning strike during an afternoon storm dislodged one of the crates, setting off the explosion. Only those in homes nearest the blast distinguished the explosion as a separate event from the storm. Everyone else assumed lightning blew a transformer. Nobody had been present or injured at the barn. And the police disposed of the rest of the dynamite with a controlled explosion.

Disappointed, Dean shoved the laptop away. “Frigging dead end.”

Sam emerged from the bathroom in street clothes, his hair wet. “What is?”

Dean explained his fruitless search for a connection.

“Lore?”

Passing the digital baton to his brother, Dean said, “All yours.”

* * *

Sam settled down at the narrow desk with the laptop. From open browser tabs, he saw that Dean had been looking into possible causes for the midnight blackouts, including an article about an explosion of unstable dynamite on an abandoned farm the afternoon before the incident. Curious, Sam checked the address against county records. The owner, Martin Warhurst Jr., had died last year, and the property was currently tied up in probate court. Martin had inherited the farm and land over forty years ago, when his father died, but he’d stayed in New York and never worked there himself. The explosion was due, in part, to the long-term neglect of an absentee owner who lived most of his life a thousand miles from Moyer—an owner who had died the better part of a year ago. Hard to see any connection to the blackouts eight hours later. No wonder Dean considered the lead a dead end.

Rather than waste any more time down that rabbit hole, Sam decided to course-correct with research relevant to the shadows. Wading through the mass of supernatural lore could take months for the uninitiated. Hunters had an advantage. Experience. And the Winchester family had decades of experience. You saved a lot of time when you knew what was irrelevant.

Focusing on the jittery shadows and the red eye flares, Sam searched his bookmarked sites. Only a couple minutes into his search, his phone rang, breaking his concentration. “Yeah,” he said, distracted, then recovered, remembering his cover identity. “Go for Agent Blair.”

Gruber’s voice. “It’s official,” he said, sounding weary. “I’m never leaving this hospital.”

“Job offer?” Sam asked.

“Funny,” Gruber said, a smile coming through the line. “But no. I’m still a cop, unfortunately.”

“What happened?”

“Patient decided to perform liposuction on himself.”

“I assume the patient was not a doctor.”

“Truck driver,” Gruber replied.

“Not ideal.”

“With kidney stones,” Gruber added. “Liposuction wasn’t scheduled.”

“Is he okay?”

“Passed out from shock and blood loss. Or both,” Gruber said. “Point is: I couldn’t question him.”

“That’s not why you called.”

“No,” Gruber admitted. “I found some security footage I’d like to run by you and your partner.”

“What is it?”

“I think it’s better if you see it yourself.”

“Be there in fifteen minutes,” Sam said. “Thirty, tops.”

“Who’s got two thumbs to twiddle?”

“Funny,” Sam said and disconnected.

The shower cut off as Sam rapped on the bathroom door.

“Dude, you had your turn,” Dean called. “Find something?”

“No,” Sam said, “but Gruber wants our opinion on something.”

Dean opened the door, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Something?”

“Security footage.”

“Couldn’t wait?”

“Apparently not.”

“I’ll drop you off,” Dean said and closed the door again.

“Not interested?”

“It’s not that,” Dean called through the door. “I want to interview more blackout victims.”

“Any particular reason?” Sam asked as he closed the laptop and slipped it into its case.

“We’re missing something,” Dean said. “Out there somewhere, somebody saw it or heard or experienced it—and remembers. And anyone working that shift is probably working now—or soon will be.”

“Makes sense.”

Dean stepped out of the bathroom and grabbed the car keys.

The long day continued into night, but at least Sam had rid himself of the bucket odor. As they climbed into the Impala to go their separate ways, Sam made a mental note to have their suits dry-cleaned.