TWENTY-FOUR

Dean jumped from one browser tab to the next, checking the lore for information on shadow people, peripherally aware of sirens coming and going through town. He had a good idea the wave of vandalism and assaults continued to disrupt everyday life in Moyer. Gruber hadn’t contacted them since they left the police station with Maurice, so Dean assumed he had his hands full.

They had to get ahead of the cycle of weird behavior and escalating violence and stop the reign of terror before Moyer became a ghost town.

The thought of ghosts triggered a quick glance at the activated EMF detector by the door, the best they could do for an early warning system. One thing at least that the shadow people had in common with ghosts. Dean wondered if salt-loaded shotgun shells could temporarily disrupt shadow people the way they worked on ghosts. Not a permanent solution, but maybe enough to buy them time to regroup.

Regular light had no effect on the shadow people, yet black light changed their consistency and prevented them from possessing humans. Of course, black light also gave the shadows the ability to physically harm humans. “Double-edged light sword,” Dean said as he skimmed sections of lore.

Exhausted, Sam slept through the rising and falling wail of the sirens.

Based upon lore, shadow people were most often seen in the periphery of human vision or during periods of sleep paralysis. They stayed near humans but preferred to remain unseen. Some were considered harmless while others seemed malevolent and induced feelings of dread. The physical descriptions and movement patterns matched what Dean had witnessed in the last two days. Unfortunately, the lore included little in the way of weaknesses or vulnerabilities.

“How do you gank a shadow?” Dean wondered.

He glanced toward Sam, who hadn’t stirred since his head hit the pillow.

With a sigh, Dean reviewed his notes. The lore described the ineffectiveness of regular light against shadow people, but black light seemed to hamper them. Maybe that presented an opening.

He thought back to his encounter at Gyrations. That shadow had possessed a man and wanted to slice and dice a bunch of EDM aficionados. Yet it stopped before the assault began. Dean didn’t flatter himself to think his presence had been a deterrent to the shadow knifer. So, something in the club had been an obstacle.

On the bedside table, Sam’s cell phone rang.

Dean walked over and picked it up before it woke Sam. Checked the caller ID. Gruber. “Yeah?”

“Blair?”

“Tench,” Dean said. “What’s up?”

“Several things,” Gruber said. “None good. Luther Broady hanged himself in his cell.”

“Damn,” Dean whispered.

“Guess he couldn’t handle the guilt over what he’d done.”

Dean pressed a hand to his face. Though Luther hadn’t been responsible for the murder, all the evidence pointed to his culpability. Probably assumed he’d had some kind of psychotic break.

“Chief Hardigan is on the warpath,” Gruber said. “‘How could this happen?’ And all that, but we are stretched very thin, even with Bakersburg helping out.”

“I hear non-stop sirens out there.”

“Yeah,” Gruber said grimly. His voice dropped as he continued, “So, I watched some of the surveillance footage again…”

“And?”

“And… something’s there. Something I don’t understand,” Gruber said. “If it was one camera or one location, I’d chalk it up to an equipment malfunction or a trick of the light. But it’s something else, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. Gruber had taken the first step. “Something else.”

“Are they… Are they shadows?”

The conversation in the room roused Sam, who opened his eyes wide and pushed himself up into a sitting position on the bed, mouthing, “Gruber?”

Dean nodded and switched the call to speaker, so Sam could listen. “They only look like shadows,” Sam said, raising his voice. “It’s a mistake to assume that’s all they are.”

“Had a feeling you’d say that,” Gruber replied with a sigh. “Somehow, those things are responsible for this—chaos, aren’t they?”

“Almost all of it,” Dean said.

“How is that possible?”

“The shadow people—”

“That what you’re calling them?” Gruber asked. “Shadow people?”

“Good a name as any,” Dean said, as if the name was a convenient label, rather than something recorded in the lore. “The shadow people poss—”

Sam reached for the cell phone. Dean frowned but handed it to him. Of the two of them, Sam had a better understanding of Gruber. Sam held the phone up and said, “These shadow people have the ability to… alter behavior.”

“But how?”

“Like a drug,” Sam said, holding up a hand to forestall Dean’s vocal protest. “We know alcohol and narcotics can lower inhibitions, make people more compliant or angry, confused or depressed.”

“Sure,” Gruber said.

Good idea, Dean thought. Give Gruber something he can wrap his head around.

“Well, the shadow people have a more direct effect on people,” Sam said. He took a deep, silent breath before proceeding. “Shadow people have the ability to control their actions.”

“Again, how is that possible?”

“We don’t know,” Sam said.

Technically true, Dean thought. We know they possess people but exactly how the possession works is something only they know.

“More important question,” Gruber said, having taken the supernatural aspect in stride. “How do we stop them?”

“We’re working on it,” Dean said, loud enough to be heard from across the room.

“While you’re doing that, I have a favor to ask.”

“Sure,” Sam said, looking at Dean, who shrugged.

“Local librarian reported a book burning.”

“Not that I approve of book burning, but—”

“Gets better,” Gruber said. “Or worse, depending on how you look at it. She reported a strange shadow coming out of the guy who torched the books. And she insisted the burning books included a message of some kind. Maybe it relates to censorship, but these days, who knows?”

“We’re on it,” Sam said.

* * *

By the time the Winchesters arrived at the Moyer Public Library, a fire engine crew had determined the fire no longer presented a threat. They left behind an ambulance with two EMTs, one of whom bandaged the hand and forearm of the accused book burner, Robert Secord, by the front desk of the library.

They found the librarian, Bonnie Lassiter, a conservatively dressed woman in her late fifties or early sixties, standing over a charred mound of books at the center of a broad puddle of water. Around her, they heard a steady drip of water falling from soaked books and wet metal shelves. Judging by the covers and titles, twentieth-century American history had taken the biggest hit. Only one sprinkler head had been triggered, so most of the library had been spared water damage.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked.

“Oh! Hello,” she said, almost startled to see them standing beside her. “Are you with the police department?”

“FBI,” Dean said. “Special Agents Tench and Blair.”

“FBI? Wouldn’t have thought this crime deserved Federal attention.”

“Long story,” Sam said. “Were you injured?”

“No,” she said. “I came over here to start cleaning up. But my mind wandered. Happens more often these days.”

Dean peered up at the sprinkler head, then down to the floor and back up again. A bead of water dangled from the sprinkler for a moment until it finally fell, splashing right between the two soggy mounds of charred books. Dead center.

That’s not a coincidence.

“We understand you saw a strange shadow,” Sam said.

“Strange, yes,” she said. “Everything about this was strange.”

“Tell us what happened. From the beginning?”

“I was stacking returned books,” she said. “Alone at first. Then Bob over there entered.” She nodded toward the young man in the care of the EMT.

“You know him?” Dean asked.

“Never met him,” she said. “Anyway, I heard books falling and came over to investigate…” She explained how she’d found Secord sitting on the floor, the books arranged neatly in front of him but doused in lighter fluid. Then the fire, his initial inability to speak followed by the utterance of one word before shoving his hand in the flame and passing out.

“‘Remember’?” Sam asked. “Remember what?”

“I have no idea,” she said with a shrug. “And it took him a long time to get out that one word. When he first tried to speak, he looked like a fish plucked from the water, mouth opening and closing.”

“When you called the police, you mentioned a message of some sort,” Dean prompted.

“The books,” she said, pointing.

Dean and Sam looked at the books, too charred to read any titles or even make out what had been on the covers. “What were they?” Dean finally asked.

“I was too stunned to notice,” she said. “American history, I imagine. That’s the section he raided.”

“So, what was the message?” Sam asked.

“The message wasn’t the books themselves,” she said. “But the way he arranged them. A number. Eighty-eight.”

“Eighty-eight?” Dean asked.

“Look,” she said. “You can still see it.”

“Does that number mean something to you?” Sam asked.

“No,” she said. “Sorry.”

“He said ‘remember’ so there must be a connection to you,” Sam said. “Was it a year—1988? Did something happen to you in 1988? Or here in Moyer?”

“Maybe a sports jersey number,” Dean suggested. “Any famous sports figures from Moyer?”

“Not ringing any bells,” she said.

“Robert,” Sam called. “Mr. Secord? Does the number eighty-eight mean anything to you?”

Secord took a few steps toward them, looked over the low shelf at the burned books and shook his head. “She already asked me. I’m as confused as she is. I don’t know how I got here. I don’t remember pulling those books off the shelf or lighting them on fire—or burning my own hand.” He sighed. “I have no idea why I would do any of those things.”

Sam circled the two charred mounds of books, his boots sloshing water around, spreading the puddle outward. “Two eights…”

“Eighty-eight or two eights, it means nothing to me,” she said, giving the puddle a wide berth as she crossed the room to a supply closet. “I really need to mop up.”

“What if it’s not a number?” Sam said. “What if it’s two letters?”

“Letters?” she said. “Oh, you mean—?”

“Two Bs,” Dean said. “An abbreviation? Or somebody’s initials?”

“Of course!” she said, the mop forgotten as she walked back, right through the puddle to the destroyed books. A wistful smile spread across her face, making her appear at least a decade younger. “I’d almost forgotten. Our back-to-back Bs. Ah, but that was so long ago.”

Sam glanced at Dean, who shrugged.

“Back to back?”

“That’s how we wrote our initials,” she said. “Bonnie and Barry.”

“Who’s Barry?” Sam asked.

“Someone I knew years ago,” she said. Her gaze turned toward Robert Secord, who had wandered over, curious about their conversation. “Barry?” she asked, staring at Secord with tears welling in her eyes.

“No offense, lady,” he said, palms raised. “But I’ve never met you before. And I don’t know anyone named Barry.”

“You couldn’t have,” she said, her smile lingering. “You’re too young.”

The EMT, who looked even younger than Secord, with a blond crewcut and a pierced eyebrow, touched the burned man’s shoulder and said, “Need to take you to the hospital to have that burn looked at.”

Secord nodded and left with the ambulance. Bonnie stared after him.

Sam looked at Dean again, confused by Bonnie’s behavior, and walked over to the librarian. “You think he’s Barry?”

“Oh, no, not him,” Bonnie said, glancing up at Sam with a twinkle in her eye. “The shadow.”

“The shadow?”

“It was him,” Bonnie said. “Don’t you see? It had to be him.”