samnaturalhq @samnaturalhq - Tumblr Blog

Jul 23

𝕿HE 𝕳OLLOW 𝕭ELL - 𝕰pisode 1; 𝕬CT I

WORD COUNT: 5.1k

RUNTIME: ~ 39 minutes

CASE-BRIEF: An unexplained death draws Sam and Dean to the quiet town of Ashbrook, where a routine investigation leads them to the town's librarian—and the first signs that someone has been rewriting the past for nearly a century.

Ashbrook was the kind of town that shut down early. By half past ten, the high street had emptied, shop lights blinking out one by one until the only place still spilling warm light onto the pavement was O'Malley's. Laughter drifted through the open door every now and then, chased by the clink of glasses and the faint hum of an old jukebox that probably should've retired ten years ago.

"G'night, George!"

George looked up from where his key had clicked satisfyingly into the front door and smiled over his shoulder. Hayley stood in the doorway, still wearing her apron, arms folded against the evening chill. She'd only been working at the pub a few months, but she'd somehow appointed herself the unofficial goodbye committee for every regular who wandered out after closing.

"G'night, sweetheart."

"See you Friday?"

"If my knees survive gardening tomorrow."

She laughed, "They'll survive. You only planted tomatoes."

"They're heavier than they look."

Hayley rolled her eyes with a grin, "I'll keep that in mind."

George gave her a little salute before stepping away, hearing the heavy oak door swing shut behind him with a familiar thud. Silence settled over Ashbrook almost immediately. This was his favourite part of living in the small town, when the houses went to sleep and the residents were tucked in, there was no traffic, no shouting, merely the distant rustle of wind through the pines that surrounded the valley like a wall.

George shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and started the walk home. He could've done it blind.

Past the florist.

Across the square.

Wave to Mrs. Whitlock's upstairs window if her lamp was still on.

Left at the library.

Home in ten minutes.

He'd walked the same route every Thursday night for nearly twenty years, and tonight was no different.

At least… not at first.

The library windows were dark when he passed them, reflecting only the moon and the empty street behind him. Someone had forgotten to take down a flyer from the noticeboard outside. It flapped lazily in the breeze, the drawing pin squeaking every time it caught the wind.

George barely noticed, his mind was already on the cup of tea waiting at home. Maybe that slice of Victoria sponge Hayley had wrapped in a napkin and insisted he take.

She was a good kid, deserved a raise for all the new business she brought in, all the young’ns in the vicinity enjoyed his bar thanks to her.

A church bell rang.

He slowed.

One clear toll, deep enough to settle in his chest.

George frowned and glanced around him, not sure what he was looking for though. Ashbrook didn’t have a church, hadn’t in decades.

He stood still, listening. Nothing.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, he shrugged and shook his head, the wisps of white hair on his scalp fluttered in the nightly breeze.

"Getting old," he muttered.

He adjusted the paper-wrapped slice of cake beneath his arm and continued walking.

The second bell rang.

Closer this time, vibrating through his ribs like he'd been standing beneath it instead of halfway across town.

George stopped again.

The hairs along the back of his neck prickled.

Because it wasn't just the bell. Somewhere beneath it, there was a faint humming. Young, nearly angelic. A little girl's voice, nearly impossible to hear the soft tune over the wind.

George slowly turned in a circle, peering down the empty street, "Hello?"

No answer.

The humming continued. Steady. Patient.

He frowned, "Hayley?"

Nothing.

She wouldn't have left the pub yet... would she?

He glanced back towards the high street.

The lights outside O'Malley's had gone out.

The windows were dark.

She'd gone home.

The humming drifted again.

This time, from somewhere beyond the library.

George swallowed.

He wasn't a superstitious man.

Never had been. The war hadn’t allowed him to keep that blind faith in anything but his gun and platoon. Ghost stories were for children trying to scare each other at sleepovers, not sixty-three-year-old retired postmen with mandatory service under their belt, carrying leftover Victoria sponge home after a pint.

Still… his feet had stopped moving.

The humming wasn't getting louder.

He was getting closer, feet carrying his frame without realising it.

One careful step at a time.

Drawn toward the old footpath that disappeared between the pine trees behind the library.

Another bell rang.

George's heart lurched, he looked up instinctively, searching the skyline.

There wasn't a church tower as he suspected, there couldn't be.

Ashbrook's church had burned down before he was even born.

Everyone knew that.

The town hall had been built where it once stood.

He knew that.

He'd voted for the renovation himself.

So why did he suddenly know exactly where the bell was coming from?

The humming stopped.

Silence rushed in so suddenly it made his ears ring and George let out a slow breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding.

See?

Nothing, just your imagination.

He gave a quiet, embarrassed laugh to himself and turned back towards the road.

Crunch.

He froze.

The sound came from infront of him, the few paces beyond the safe yellow glow of the streetlight above him, like someone had stepped on a bed of dry pine needles. George looked down to his worn loafers, plain sidewalk concrete met his gaze.

Another crunch made his eyes snap up again.

Then another.

Slow. Measured.

Coming towards him.

George stared into the darkness between the trees, "...Hello?"

No reply.

But the wind had died, the branches became perfectly still. George blinked, the air had become strangely suffocating, damp. Like wet stone that had been soaking for years.

And then-

A small hand reached into the light, tiny fingers with tips black with what looked to be soot reached towards him.

The church bell rang once more.

George forgot how to breathe.

The Impala rolled steadily down the two-lane highway, cutting through miles of Oregon pine. Classic rock crackled softly through the speakers, low enough that the rumble of the engine almost drowned it out.

Dean drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, "So..."

Sam didn't look up from the case file spread across his lap, "So?"

"Tell me this town has pie."

Sam flipped another page, "It has a population of eighteen hundred."

Dean sighed and lolled his head away from the stretch of road, facing his little brother, who was already frowning at him, "That's not what I asked."

"There's a diner."

"There we go. Hope at last- it’s been days without pie Sammy. "

A comfortable silence settled between them. Over the years, they found silence to be comfortable no matter the place, motel rooms, highwards. It was easy to find peace in the hush that found them over too many cups of terrible coffee.

Dean broke it first, "What've we got?"

Sam adjusted the folder, "George Wallace. Sixty-three. Found dead just outside the town library Thursday night."

Dean nodded, "Heart attack?"

"That's what the sheriff thinks."

"I'm guessing that's why we're here."

"The coroner found third-degree burns."

Dean frowned, "...There was a fire?"

Sam shook his head, "No."

"Car explosion?"

"No."

"Lightning strike?"

"No."

"...Okay,” Dean glanced across the car before looking back at the road, "That's weird."

A smile tugged briefly at Sam's mouth before he continued, "There've been multiple deaths with the same MO over the past decades." He tapped the report, "Different ages. Different locations. But they all have the same burns."

Dean let out a low whistle, "Small towns."

"What?"

"They're either completely normal...or they're cursed."

Sam laughed quietly, "I don't think that's how statistics work."

"It's worked like that so far."

Sam couldn't really argue with that. He closed the file for a moment, looking out at the endless trees rushing past the window, "There was one thing."

Dean groaned dramatically.

"I knew there'd be one thing."

Sam pulled out a notebook from the passenger door, reading from his scrawls, "The first victim called his wife."

Dean frowned.

"The second mentioned hearing singing."

"Okay..."

"The third phoned 911."

Dean looked over, "...Before he died?"

Sam nodded once, "They all reported hearing a church bell."

Dean's fingers slowed against the steering wheel, "A church bell?"

Sam shook his head with scrunched brows, "Ashbrook hasn't had one since the thirties."

"Huh."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Dean reached over and turned the radio down another notch, the silence inside the Impala suddenly felt louder as a green sign rolled into view.

WELCOME TO ASHBROOKPopulation: 1,842

Dean smiled to himself, "Think the diner opens before the sheriff's office?"

Sam looked over, "You've got priorities."

Dean eased the Impala off the highway and into the quiet little town, "I've got experience."

If you were to ask Dean what he made of Ashbrook, he’d say it looked exactly like the kind of town people forgot to leave.

He eased the Impala onto the main street, the tyres humming against faded asphalt as the town slowly unfolded around them.

Old brick buildings lined either side of the road, their painted shopfronts sun-bleached and peeling in places. Hand-painted signs hung above shopfronts that looked as though they'd belonged to the same families for generations.

A florist with warm lantern’s seeping glow from the tall store windows onto the pavement, illuminating the pre-made bouquets that sat in long, white buckets. Their brown paper crisp in the autumn air with bright orange tissue paper billowing out from the folds; glitter pinecones peaking out from between.

A barber from which you could see men sitting in auburn leather seats, the silver hardware glinting in the log burner as the workers adjusted heights and twisted new cuts into mirrors that lined an entire wall.

A tiny coffee shop with the words Connelly Coffee printed in white above the green awning canopy that was open, sheltering the two matching wire tables that sat surrounded by delicate seats. The seating was full with a couple on one whilst the other housed a young family, despite the morning chill- they enjoyed their steaming drinks whilst waving at passerbys.

An elderly man stood outside the bakery, holding the door open for a young mother balancing a toddler on her hip. She thanked him by name.

Across the street, someone raised a hand from behind a newspaper stand, "Morning, Frank."

"Morning."

Dean smiled faintly, "Creepy."

Sam glanced up, "What?"

"Everybody knows everybody."

Sam gave his brother a look before glancing out of the window properly, peering at the townsfolk who were chatting with one another, kids that ran across the green grass dressed in the local school uniform.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

Dean shrugged, "I'm just saying... if I stole a candy bar here, the whole town would know before I hit the county line."

Sam laughed under his breath.

The road curved gently around a small square, as they passed the bend a weathered wooden sign stood in the grass.

ST. AGNES CHURCH

The arrow beneath it had almost completely faded. Only, there was nothing in the direction it pointed.

Just a stretch of pine trees.

Dean noticed it too, "Huh."

Sam followed his gaze, "Probably never took the sign down."

"Or they're really committed to bad directions."

They drove on. A library came into view a moment later.

It sat slightly back from the road, built from pale stone with wide front steps and tall windows reflecting the pines behind it. Hanging baskets overflowed with flowers despite the season, and someone had chalked SUMMER READING PROGRAMME across a blackboard outside the entrance.

A woman paused on the steps to hold the door open for an elderly couple. Another waved through the front window to someone passing by.

Dean rested his arm against the open window, "You know..."

"If this place wasn't haunted..."

"...I'd almost hate it less than most towns."

A row of young children streamed down the stone steps, their little arms full of picture books, led by a woman in a high-vis vest, like little ducklings, "High praise."

A church bell echoed faintly through the valley.

Both brothers looked up at the same time.

Dean frowned, "I thought you said there wasn't a church."

Sam looked back towards the faded sign disappearing in the rear-view mirror, "So did I."

Neither of them spoke again as the Impala rolled past the town square and continued towards the sheriff's office.

The library had always been your favourite place in Ashbrook.

Long before it became your workplace. Long before you learned the Dewey Decimal System by heart, or could point someone towards the town archives without thinking, this had simply been where you liked to exist.

Some people found peace in churches, within pews surrounded by other worshippers. You found yours between shelves, helping customers find their next favourite read.

Morning sunlight streamed through the tall front windows, casting warm rectangles across the worn wooden floorboards. Dust drifted lazily through the beams, disturbed only by the gentle turning of pages somewhere in Fiction and the occasional squeak of the old ceiling fan.

The building carried the familiar scent of cedar shelves, furniture polish and ageing paper- a smell that clung to your cardigans long after your shifts ended.

You'd stopped noticing years ago.

Carefully, you lifted another book onto the padded restoration mat, its leather spine had split almost clean through, the binding hanging together by little more than stubbornness and thread.

"Poor thing," you murmured.

Dipping a fine brush into a tiny pot of archival adhesive, you worked slowly beneath the loose fabric, easing it back into place one delicate stroke at a time.

Book restoration wasn't glamorous and most visitors assumed librarians spent their days checking books in and out, a good few fascinated by what exactly you were doing to the book if they found you busy within the task.

Because they rarely saw this part.

The preserving. The repairing. Making sure a story survived long enough for someone else to discover it.

Footsteps echoed across the polished floor, "You hiding again?"

You glanced up. Margaret appeared around the end of the shelving unit carrying a cardboard box almost doubly wide as she was.

"Morning."

She dropped the box onto a nearby trolley with a grunt, "Donations."

You peered inside.

Three dictionaries.

An atlas from 1989.

A stack of outdated travel guides.

You sighed dramatically, "If one more person donates a dictionary older than I am, I'm starting a rebellion."

Margaret laughed, "They mean well."

"I know."

"They're just making me reorganise an entire shelf every Tuesday."

"You'll survive."

"I'll survive."

"But barely."

Shaking her head, Margaret wheeled the trolley towards the sorting room.

The front door chimed.

A young mother you recognised wandered in with two children. She was dressed in a pair of jeans, the denim worn well through wash cycles and a t-shirt you could just about make out from below her rain-coat. Her two children were nearly entirely engulfed in their own jackets and they smiled at you from beneath their hoods whilst their mother returned a small collection of bedtime stories.

Mrs. Ellis returned another pile of detective novels she'd somehow finished in less than a week.

A teenager headed straight for the computers.

Normal. This was comfortably normal. Exactly the way mornings in Ashbrook were supposed to be and had been for years.

Another chime sounded.

This time, slower footsteps approached your desk, "Morning."

You looked up.

An older gentleman smiled sheepishly as he held out a hardback book, "I believe this belongs to you."

You accepted it with both hands, running a finger over the glossy exterior as you did.

Treasure Island.

Opening the cover, you found the library slip tucked neatly inside.

The due date made your eyebrows lift. Six months.

The man rubbed the back of his neck, "I kept meaning to bring it back."

"So you finally got around to it." You smiled up at him, firing up the logging system that you hated more than you did the same pervert who kept searching for porn on the computer near the back.

"I did."

"My wife reminded me every week."

"And?"

"I forgot every week."

With a shake of your head and a shrug, you answered, "It happens."

"So..." He shifted awkwardly, "How much do I owe you?"

Without answering, you stamped the return date inside the cover before placing the book gently onto the trolley beside you, "No late fees."

He blinked, "Really?"

You nodded, "I'd rather people return books eventually than avoid coming back altogether."

"Well…” Relief softened his expression almost immediately, "That's awfully kind."

"It's just a book."

"No,” He smiled warmly, "It's more than that."

He glanced around the building before looking back at you, "My wife always says this place wouldn't be the same without you."

Heat crept into your cheeks, "You tell her she's very sweet."

"I'll do that."

With a grateful nod, he tipped his cap before making his way back towards the entrance. The little brass bell above the door chimed softly as he stepped out into the day. You watched him disappear down Main Street before returning your attention to the workbench.

Another book waited patiently beside you. Its pages had begun separating from the binding, corners softened by decades of careful hands.

You reached for your brush again as a voice drifted from somewhere behind the history shelves, "Can I borrow you for a second?"

Margaret.

You looked over your shoulder, "Depends."

"The microfilm reader."

You closed your eyes, "...Again?"

"It ate today's newspaper."

A slow sigh escaped you as you stood, "I swear it's doing this on purpose."

"I've told you before,” Margaret folded her arms, "It can't hear you."

"It absolutely can."

Together, you disappeared into the local history room. The ancient microfilm machine sat blinking an entirely unhelpful error message.You stared at it. The machine stared back, "You know..." You rested your hands on your hips, "I've been incredibly patient with you."

Margaret covered a laugh.

"You're talking to it again."

"I'm negotiating."

"You've reached the bargaining stage?"

"I skipped denial,” Reaching for the release latch, you gave it a careful tug.

Nothing.

Another tug.

Still nothing.

Finally, with one firm pull- Click. The spool was released.

"There we go." You huffed and wiped your hands against each other.

Margaret smiled."You fixed it."

"I intimidated it."

Outside the library windows, a black Chevrolet Impala rolled quietly through the town square before turning towards the sheriff's office.

Around mid-day, the bell above the front door chimed for the umpteenth time.

You didn't look up straight away.

"Afternoon," you called automatically, hunched over your work station whilst carefully easing a strip of linen tape along the inside cover of a well-loved copy of Little Women.

"Good afternoon."

A man's voice, unmistakably deeper than most of Ashbrook's regulars. A set of footsteps followed, heavy and purposeful. Definitely not a local.

Only then did you glance up. Two men stood just inside the entrance. The older of the two- though only by a few years, if you had to guess- wore a worn leather jacket and looked around the library with the kind of uncertainty people usually reserved for dentists' waiting rooms.

The other was taller. Longer hair with warm brown eyes and a little awkward in the way he stood, like he wasn't quite sure where to put his hands.

Neither of them looked like they'd ever voluntarily spent a Saturday in a library. Interesting.

The older one caught sight of the history shelves almost immediately.

"I'll, uh..." He pointed vaguely across the room, "...go be educated,” Without another word, he wandered off, hands shoved into his pockets.

Leaving the taller man squinting his eyes at him until he cleared his throat and approached the main desk, an ornate dark wood semi-circle that covered the front wall of the tall pillar in the centre of the building, reaching all the way up to the ceiling.

There was something oddly puppy-like about the way he eventually wandered over. He smiled politely and watched as you nudged open the short gate with your leg whilst tilting your head and smiling back.

"Good afternoon," He reached into his jacket. For the briefest second, your brain considered every possibility before settling firmly on wallet. But instead, he produced a leather badge holder.

He flipped it open, "FBI."

You looked from the badge, to him, then back to the badge.

"Hm."

He blinked, "Hm?"

"You don't get many FBI agents in Ashbrook."

"You don't?"

"No."

"I mean…” You folded your hands together, "...not enough for me to know if you're doing it right."

The corner of his mouth twitched, "I'll take that as a compliment."

"You shouldn't."

That earned a small laugh.

"So..." You stepped back slightly, "What can I help you with?"

"We're looking for your newspaper archives."

You nodded thoughtfully and started towards the creaky gate that never latched, "Of course."

Your skirt brushed softly around your ankles as you gestured towards the back of the library, "We've got physical copies, microfilm and digital records. Depends how far back you're looking."

He nodded, "October."

You reached for the archive request slips that sat on the far edge of the desk, clicking open a pen- you glanced at him through your hair that had fallen over your eyes, "What year?"

"1934."

Your pen stopped "..."

You looked up, meeting his perfectly calm expression. Then, over his shoulder where you caught sight of the history section- where his partner was pretending to examine a shelf while very obviously listening.

Then back at the man in front of you, "...That's oddly specific."

"It relates to an ongoing federal investigation."

Silence. You waited. He waited.

"...Into..." He cleared his throat, "...historical..." Another pause- Dean slowly closed the book he'd picked up, "...church..." Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, "...record keeping."

A beat.

Dean quietly turned around and without saying a word, he walked into another aisle.

You watched him disappear.

Then looked back at the leather badge holder that was clutched in this man's hand, his gaze fixed on you whilst your pen remained paused.

Then you looked back at the man, "...Church record keeping?"

A deep breath through his nose and a smile that had become painfully polite preceded the resigned expression that graced his features, "Yes."

"In Oregon."

"Yes."

"In 1934."

"Yes."

You nodded slowly, "Huh."

Another silence settled between you. Finally, you slid the archive request form across the desk, your sweater brushed against the varnished dark mahogany as you patted the slip, "I'll pretend I believe that."

Relief flickered across his face but he schooled it, "I appreciate it ma’am”

"You owe me a better story before you leave town."

He blinked his brown eyes at you and his lips parted around an answer, "I'll... see what I can do."

You couldn't help smiling as you pushed open the gate, "The archives are downstairs."

He followed as you stepped out from behind the desk, leading him towards the narrow staircase tucked behind the local history shelves. Halfway there, Dean reappeared carrying a thick book titled Oregon's Historic Churches.

He held it up just enough for Sam to see.

Sam sighed.

Dean grinned, "Thought it'd help with the... church record thing."

Sam shot him a look.

Dean's grin only widened.

You glanced between them. Definitely brothers, only siblings could annoy each other like that through subtext.

You pushed open the archive room door. A cool breath of air drifted up from below, carrying the familiar scent of old paper and dust.

"Mind the third step," you warned, "It squeaks."

Sam looked down instinctively, "The third?"

"It skips the squeak sometimes and goes straight to being unstable, thats when you trip down the rest of the way."

"...That somehow feels less reassuring."

You smiled, "I know."

The archive room was a small area beneath the library and was noticeably cooler than the latter, with floor to ceiling wooden shelves packed against the four walls, some tall enough for large flat boxes and some deep enough for short tubs to wedge comfortably between. Anchored onto them was a steel bar and a sliding ladder, much like the ones that were littered generously on the above floors. Each box had a permanent label stuck to the front along with your handwriting looped onto it.

Birth Records.

Property Deeds.

Town Council Minutes.

Newspapers.

Every box sat perfectly square, every folder dated, every archive indexed.

A dark wooden table stood in the centre of the room, surrounded by four hand-carved chairs. A large storage box sat built into the worktop, filled with archival tools; white cotton gloves for fragile photographs, soft brushes for centuries-old artwork and everything else needed to preserve the town's history.

You flicked on another light, the fluorescent tubes buzzed before flooding the room with a soft yellow glow, "There we are."

Sam glanced around slowly, "...Wow."

You looked over, "What?"

"This is..." He stepped closer to one of the shelves. "...really well organised."

You blinked. Then laughed, "No one's ever complimented my filing system before."

"They should,” you noticed that he wasn't joking, "I've been in archives where people filed newspapers alphabetically."

You frowned.

"...They're dated."

"I know."

"They alphabetised them."

You physically winced, "Oh."

"Yeah."

"That's upsetting."

"It was."

The two of you shared a laugh before you reached for a grey archive box marked 1930–1939. You lifted it onto the table between you, "So..." You slid off the lid, "...October, 1934."

Sam nodded, "If you've got it."

"I've got everything."

His eyebrows lifted, "Everything?"

"Almost." You pulled on a pair of cotton gloves before carefully lifting out the first bundle of newspapers, "Some editions were damaged during a roof leak years ago."

Sheaves of yellowed paper rested neatly between sheets of acid-free card.

"People think libraries are about books,” You laid October across the table, "They're really about not throwing things away."

Sam smiled, "I'm starting to see that."

He began turning pages carefully.

Birth notices.

Harvest festivals.

School photographs.

Advertisements for tractors that hadn't existed in decades.

Your eyes drifted over the headlines, most of them you'd read before. Several more than once.

Then-

"Hm."

Sam looked up, "What?"

You leaned over slightly, reading the headline upside down.

LOCAL CHURCH DESTROYED IN MIDNIGHT FIRE

"...There it is,” He gently flattened the page, large, white gloved fingers splaying against the delicate paper.

The article wasn't particularly long.

The church had burned overnight. No obvious cause. Ten children rescued from the Sunday school basement. One pastor injured. The building was declared beyond repair.

Sam frowned, "...That's strange."

"What?"

"The case file says there've only been three unexplained burn deaths."

You tilted your head, "In recent years."

"What do you mean?"

You rested your elbows lightly against the edge of the table, "When I was little, my grandad used to tell me not to wander through the woods after dark."

Sam glanced up, "'Cause of the church?"

"He never really explained,” You shrugged, "He'd just say..."

Your voice softened into an older imitation, "Every ten years Ashbrook remembers."

Sam's expression shifted, "What does that mean?"

"I always assumed it was just one of those small-town sayings,” You reached for another archive box further down the table, "Hang on."

The label read:

Deaths & Obituaries - 1950 - 1989

You flipped through the dividers.

1963…

Then stopped when your finger rested on a newspaper from 1964.

The headline was small.

LOCAL FARMER FOUND DEAD

Cause of death unknown. Signs of smoke inhalation but no fire was noted.

You frowned, "...That's odd."

Sam leaned closer, "What is?"

Instead of answering, you reached for another box.

Another article. A woman found dead beside the river. Burn injuries with no source.

A delivery driver. Again, smoke inhalation. No fire.

An elderly teacher.

A mechanic.

George Wallace- just a few nights ago.

You slowly laid each newspaper side by side across the table. The room became very quiet.

Sam stared at the dates, "...Ten years."

You nodded once, "...Almost exactly."

The archive settled back into silence as you both read through the little information on the deaths.

Sam carefully folded the newspaper he'd been reading and laid it beside the others, "So..." He glanced towards the shelves lining the room, "If this really has happened before..."

"There should be something from the fire."

You nodded, "There is."

Crossing the room, you stopped in front of another shelving unit labelled NEWSPAPER ARCHIVES.

Your fingers traced familiar labels before settling on a grey archive box.

ASHBROOK GAZETTE 1934

You lifted it onto the table between you, "I've probably opened this box a hundred times."

Sam watched as you untied the faded cotton ribbon holding the newspapers together. The paper was fragile now, softened by ninety years of careful hands. You turned each page slowly.

September. Another September. The beginning of October. Harvest Festival. Town Council Elections. School Fair.

Your brow furrowed, "...That's strange."

Sam looked up immediately, "What?"

You frowned, flipping another page. Then another, "...No," Your breath was merely a whisper as you turned back. Forward again slowly this time. But your fingers stopped as realisation pieced itself together.

"The papers are here..." You glanced up at him, "...but somebody removed a page."

"What do you mean?" Sam stood and came around to stand next to you, your shoulder brushing his chest as you leaned towards what your hands were flicking through.

Without answering, you carefully spread the bundle across the table. Between two complete editions, one sheet was missing.

Sam bent over the table beside you. You pointed carefully, "The page numbers jump."

He studied the edge. The cut was almost invisible, clean and perfectly straight. Not the ragged tear left by age or careless handling.

He gently ran a fingertip just above the paper without touching it, "...This wasn't ripped."

"No."You shook your head, " It was cut. But by what?"

"A blade."

His eyes followed the edge of the paper. The colour matched the rest of the newspaper perfectly.No bright fibres or fresh damage. This hadn't happened recently, it had aged with the paper.

"A long time ago," Sam murmured.

You looked at him, "You think someone did this on purpose?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he carefully folded the newspaper closed and slid it back towards you. His expression had changed, "Can I see every paper from October?"

You nodded, "Of course."

Turning back towards the shelves, you reached automatically for another archive box. Your hand stopped halfway there, "...Can I ask you something?"

Sam looked up, brows furrowing as he leaned against the back of one of the chairs.

You hesitated.

The badge.

The questions.

October, 1934.

The missing page.

None of it felt like just church records anymore.

"...Why are you really here?"

𝕮ASE 𝖀PDATE

𝕾TATUS: Investigation ongoing

𝕰VIDENCE 𝕮OLLECTED ✓ George Wallace's final testimony ✓ 1934 church fire records ✓ Missing newspaper page ✓ Pattern of deaths every ten years

𝕮URRENT 𝕿HEORY Unknown

𝕹EXT 𝕯ESTINATION ???

SUPERNATURAL and its characters are the property of Warner Bros. Television, Wonderland Sound and Vision and Eric Kripke. This is a non-profit transformative fan work created for entertainment purposes only.