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underground-secret · 1 year

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The Hunter and The Witch: Dean Winchester x Fem! reader

Description: A small town where dark secrets unfold isn’t anything new to these seasoned hunters, except when it has something to do with urban legends…apparently.

Warnings: cannon violence, mentions/talk of suicide, mentions of gruesome death, eye bleeding, Blood Mary (idk if this would be a warning but like 🤷🏼‍♀️), mentions of murder, witchy stuff

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld , @okayiamkassandra ,@fablesrose

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long to get out again my AP class is really AP-ing and has taken up literally all my time. I spent four days working on a 20 pages packet that took forever meaning I had zero time for this. Again so so sorry.

Word count: 7,719

Bloody Mary

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Next Chapter)

“Sam, wake up.” Dean nudges the man in question, the car in park.

Sam wakes, confused, he sits up and looks around. “I take it I was having a nightmare.”

“Yeah, another one.” Dean confirms, and I nod too a frown on my face.

“Hey, at least I got some sleep.” Sam offers

“Sam” I stretch out his name, “that cannot be your positive to this.”

“You know, sooner or later we're gonna have to talk about this.” Dean adds.

But Sam ignores us, avoids the whole conversation, “Are we here?”

Dean lets him avoid the whole ordeal and I have to wonder how long he will let his brother lie. Though I guess I'm no better. “Yup. Welcome to Toledo, Ohio.”

Sam picks up a newspaper that sat on the console of the car, the obituary of Steven Shoemaker circled.

‘The Shoemaker family is sad to announce the sudden death of their beloved husband and father Steven Shoemarker. Steven was 46. A short service will be held on Wednesday, [...] 31 at 2:00 p.m. at the Toledo [...] and cherish you [...] Your [...]’ The article read.

“So what do you think really happened to this guy?” Sam asks us.

“That's what we're gonna find out.” Dean answers, turning off the car. “Let's go.”

We exit the car, entering the large hospital building that stood in front of us walking up to the two desks that lie in the room. One of them is empty with a name tag that reads, ‘Dr. D. Feiklowicz.’ The other one however was occupied by a Morgue technician in blue scrubs, “Hey” the man greets us as we approach.

“Hey.” Dean answers back.

“Can I help you?” The technician asks, looking between the three of us.

“Yeah. We're the, uh...med students.” Dean lies.

“Sorry?” The man asks back.

“Oh, Doctor—“ Dean stammers over the name, “—Figlavitch didn't tell you? We talked to him on the phone. He, uh, we're from Ohio State. He's supposed to show us the Shoemarker corpse. It's for our paper.”

“Well, I'm sorry, he's at lunch.” The tech informs us.

“Oh well he said, uh—“ Dean sighs, “—oh, well, you know, it doesn't matter. You don't mind just showing us the body, do you?”

“Sorry, I can't. Doc will be back in an hour. You can wait for him if you want.” He tells us, gesturing to the seats on the side of the room.

“An hour? Ooh. We gotta be heading back to Columbus by then.” Dean looks at me and Sam as if queuing us to lie with him.

“Yeah.” Sam and I say at the same time, “Jinx” I mumble underneath my breath just loud enough for Sam to hear me who in return gives me a scrunched face.

“Uh, look, man, this paper's like half our grade, so if you don't mind helping us out—“ Dena explains getting cut off by the man in scrubs, “Uh, look, man...no.”

Dean laughs a little. He turns around to face us, mumbling, “I'm gonna hit him in his face I swear.”

But I mean we can’t really blame the guy he’s just doing his job.

Sam hits his brother on the arm, taking a step in front of him he opens his wallet and pulls out some twenties. He lays a few of them, at least five, down on the desk. The Morgue Tech picks up the money, “Follow me.”

The technician gets up and leaves. I go to follow, seeing in the corner of my eye Dean grabbing Sam when he too tries to follow, forcing me to stop and go back a step to see what they are on about.

“Dude, I earned that money.” Dean complains.

“You won it in a poker game.” Sam clarifies.

“Yeah.” Dean answers.

Sam rolls his eyes, pulling away from his brother to follow the technician.

“You’ll make it back” I say, patting Dean on the back shortly to go follow the morgue man.

Dean stays back a half a second before following after us.

“Now the newspaper said his daughter found him. She said his eyes were bleeding.” Sam said as the Morgue Tech pulled back the sheet over Steven’s face. Revealing a pale, long faced man with dark hair, blood stained on his cheeks below his eyes as if he had cried them.

“More than that. They practically liquefied.” The tech scuffs.

“Any sign of a struggle? Maybe somebody did it to him?” Dean asks him.

“Nope. Besides the daughter, he was all alone.” He answers.

“What's the official cause of death?” Sam questioned.

“Ah, Doc's not sure. He's thinking massive stroke, maybe an aneurysm? Something burst up in there, that's for sure.” He replied.

“You mean like cerebral bleeding?” I ask, wanting to clarify.

“Yeah. This guy had more blood in his skull than anyone I've ever seen.” He responded.

“The eyes & mash;what would cause something like that?” Sam asked.

“Capillaries can burst. See a lot of bloodshot eyes with stroke victims.” The technician explains.

“Yeah? You ever see exploding eyeballs?” Dean scuffs.

“That's a first for me, but hey, I'm not the doctor.” The tech shrugs.

“Hey, think we could take a look at that police report? You know for, uh...our paper.” Dean requests.

“I'm not really supposed to show you that.” He answers, stretching out ‘that.’

Sam sighs clearly annoyed, as he pulls out his wallet.

Now leaving the hospital, walking down the stairs Sam suggests, “Might not be one of ours. Might just be some freak medical thing.”

“How many times in Dad's long and varied career has it actually been a freak medical thing and not some sign of an awful supernatural death?” Dean points out.

“Uh, almost never.” Sam answers.

“Exactly.”

“Well then, let's go talk to the daughter.” I announce”

We walk into Steven’s funeral, a picture of him on the desk.

All the men in the room are wearing black suits and the women adorned in black dresses, everyone except us. Dean points this very fact out, “Feel like we're underdressed.” I nod in agreement, my lips in a tight line, the guilt of interrupting these people’s mourning with not only us being undressed but also for not having a reasonable explanation of us being here.

But no one stops us as we keep walking through the house, all the way towards the back and outside to the backyard.

A man points us towards Donna and Lily Shoemarker, the daughters of the man we had seen on a metal table only moments before, who are standing near two people whom I can only assume is a friend or family member.

“You must be Donna, right?” Dean greets the eldest daughter as we approach the group of people.

“Yeah.” She answers sadly brushing her short brunette hair out of her face.

“Hi, uh—we're really sorry.” Sam says.

“Thank you.” She replies, and I know she must have heard that same phrase of ‘i’m sorry’ and must have answered the same ‘thank you’ over and over to each person here. As if the death of her father hadn’t broken what’s inside her enough.

“I'm Sam, this is Dean, and that’s Y/N. We worked with your dad.” He explains.

She looks at one of the adults near her and then back at us, “You did?” And I feel bad for lying to her about this to give her a connection to her father that had never existed.

“Yeah. This whole thing. I mean, a stroke.” Dean goes on.

“I don't think she really wants to talk about this right now” One of the men with her say, stepping in.

“It's okay. I'm okay.” Donna says, with a sharp nod.

“Were there any symptoms? Dizziness? Migraines?” Dean asks, listing out various options.

“No.” She says simply.

Lily, the youngest daughter, turns around, “That's because it wasn't a stroke.”

“Lily, don’t say that.” Donna snaps.

“What?” Sam asks.

“I'm sorry, she's just upset.” Donna explains.

“No, it happened because of me.” Lily speaks up.

“Sweetie, it didn't.” Donna tries to convince.

“Oh Lily”, I say sadly crouching down to be closer to her eye level, “What makes you think that?” I knew what it felt like to blame yourself for someone else’s death, especially your parents, especially when it happens twice and you're too young to understand why this would happen to you. I feel the eyes of the people around me bore into me, especially from the brothers behind me.

“Right before he died, I said it.” Lily answers.

“Said what?” I ask her.

“Bloody Mary, three times in the bathroom mirror.” She explains, pausing, “She took his eyes, that's what she does.” My eyes go wide, not exactly expecting that answer.

“That's not why Dad died. This isn't your fault.” Donna reasons.

“I think your sister's right, Lily. There's no way it could have been Bloody Mary. Your dad didn't say it, did he?” Dean offers, giving the kid some logic to combat what she believes.

“No, I don't think so.” Lily answers. But I know it will take her years to really believe it wasn’t her fault, if ever.

Saying ‘bye’ to the grief rickened family we head back inside the house, but instead of truly leaving we sneak upstairs, approaching the bathroom.

Sam pushes the door open, dried blood stained to the white tiled floor, “The Bloody Mary legend...Dad ever find any evidence that it was a real thing?”

“Not that I know of.” Dean answers, him and I trailing in after Sam who stoops to the floor touching the dried blood, “I mean, everywhere else all over the country, kids will play Bloody Mary, and as far as we know, nobody dies from it.”

I grimace, why would he touch the blood?

“Yeah, well, maybe everywhere it's just a story, but here it's actually happening.” Dean offers.

“The place where the legend began?” Sam asks and we both shrug, Dean opening the medicine cabinet.

“But according to the legend, the person who says B—“ Sam looks at the medicine cabinet mirror, it now facing him, he closes it before continuing, “The person who says you know what gets it. But here—“

“Mr.Shoemaker gets it instead” I finish his sentence.

“Right.”

“Never heard anything like that before. Still, the guy did die right in front of the mirror, and the daughter's right. The way the legend goes, you know who scratches your eyes out.” Dean adds.

“It's worth checking in to.” Sam concludes, as we leave the bathroom.

“What are you doing up here?” A blonde woman stops us, the same woman who was comforting the daughters outside.

“We—we, had to go to the bathroom.” Dean lies, poorly, because it makes perfect sense for three people to be using a private bathroom all at once.

“Who are you?” She asks us, naturally not accepting the poorly down lie.

“Like we said downstairs, we worked with Donna's dad.” Dean confirms.

“He was a day trader or something. He worked by himself.” She counters, and we should really start researching these people before we make up lies of how we know them.

Dean tries to cover, “No, I know, I meant—“

“And all those weird questions downstairs, what was that? So you tell me what's going on, or I start screaming.” She tells us, leaving no more room for any nonsense.

“All right, all right. We think something happened to Donna's dad.” Sam begins.

“Yeah, a stroke.” She answers.

“But it isn’t a typical sign of stroke, it might be something else.” I say softly, ashamed for suggesting such a thing to someone who has no knowledge of our world. These people are going through so much the last thing they need is some random people questioning what they know, I wouldn’t blame her if she did scream.

“Like what?” She scoffs, crossing her arms in front of her.

Sam explains this time probably sensing my unease with all this, “Honestly? We don't know yet. But we don't want it to happen to anyone else. That's the truth.”

Dean tilts his head, “So, if you're gonna scream, go right ahead.” My eyes widened, snapping to look at him, and suddenly that unease I felt vanished, replaced by a burning hot feeling that rushed through my veins and brought a flush to my face. I gulped, trying to push down the feeling a simple sentence that wasn’t even directed towards me made me feel. The cockiness it held as well as the allowance in his voice…it shouldn’t have affected me, and really shouldn’t have created a burning-longing in my gut.

“Who are you, cops?” The woman questions us, but my eyes haven’t left Dean as if he was light and I a moth.

I catch Sam and Dean looking at each other, speaking without words, in my peripheral vision. “Something like that” Dean answers.

It’s then that Dean must have felt my gaze on him, my lips slightly agape as I looked at him through my lashes. His attention turned to me as Sam continued the conversation that I had long blanked out of. Dean looked me over, eyes trailing over my very being, only worsening the burning I had felt within. His eyes met mine again giving me that devilish smirk of his, I swallowed again my eyes falling to his lips.

Sam clears his throat, nudging his brothers hard enough that he knocks into me slightly. Effectively catching our attention.

“Let’s go” He tells us, the woman still in front of us this time her attention to a small piece of white paper that I assume has some sort of contact information on it.

“All right, say Bloody Mary really is haunting this town. There's gonna be some sort of proof—Like a local woman who died nasty.” Dean begins as we walk into the oddly dark library, the stale smell of cleaning products surrounding us.

“Yeah but Blood Mary is a widespread legend with tons of versions of who she actually is, with no clear answer. There’s the mutilated bride, a spirit conjured to tell the future, a witch, and a whole lot more” I answer.

“All right so what are we supposed to be looking for?” Dean asks.

“Well in every version's got a few things in common. It's always a woman named Mary, and she always dies right in front of a mirror. So we've gotta search local newspapers—public records as far back as they go. See if we can find a Mary who fits the bill.” Sam adds, answering.

“Well that sounds annoying” Dean admits.

“No it won't be so bad, as long as we…” Sam trails off looking over to the table lined with computers all that say ‘Out of Order’, he chuckles “I take it back. This will be very annoying.”

We quickly turned around, heading back to the motel we were staying at to do our research there. Dean sat leaning with his head on his hand on the small table in the room on his brother's laptop. The younger brother in question had fallen asleep on one of the beds, the rustling of the sheets giving away the fact he was tossing and turning. I however sat crisscrossed on the other bed Deans to be specific, not like he cared anyways, researching on my laptop trying to find any relevant info on a Mary in this town or deaths relating to mirrors.

“Why'd you let me fall asleep?” Sam suddenly speaks up, voice evident with sleep.

“Cause I'm an awesome brother” Dean scoffs, he’d never admit it was really because Sam hadn’t been able to sleep or at least sleep long for the last couple of weeks.

“And what’s your excuse Y/N?” Sam questions me, leaning on his side with one arm propped up.

“You were sleepy!” I admit simply, smiling at him. He rolls his eyes, huffing a laugh.

“So what did you dream about?” Dean asks him, though what he was really asking was ‘did you have another nightmare?’

“Lollipops and candy canes.” He answers sarcastically. So sassy and for what?

“Yum” I reply, my eyes going back to my laptop.

“Did you find anything?” Sam asks us.

“Oh besides a whole new level of frustration?” Dean huffs, making Sam sit up, “No. We’ve looked at everything. A few local women, a Laura and a Catherine committed suicide in front of a mirror, and a giant mirror fell on a guy named Dave, but uh, no Mary.”

Sam falls back on the bed, the crisp sheets making a ‘whoosh’ noise beneath him, “Maybe we just haven't found it yet.”

“Thing is, there’s also been no strange deaths in the area, no other eyeball bleeding. Nothing. Which you know is good in hindsight but not quite helpful for us.” I explain.

Dean adds on, “Whatever's happening here, maybe it just ain't Mary.”

Almost as if on cue Sam’s phone rings, he answers, still laying down. “Hello?”

Charlie, the blonde woman who questioned us before, sat on the park bench slightly hunched. I sat next to her to offer some comfort, while Dean sat on the back on the bench, his leg nearly brushing my back.

“And they found her on the bathroom floor. And her—her eyes. They were gone.” Charlie nearly sobbed, having explained everything that happened with her friend Jill.

Jill, who had wanted to tease the blonde women about believing in such a legend, saying the name in the mirror and winding up dead. Her death being in the same manner as Mr. Shoemaker.

“I'm sorry.” Sam answered, eyebrows scrunched together.

“And she said it. I heard her say it. But it couldn't be because of that. I'm insane, right?” She whimpered, using the back of her hands to clear the wetness from her cheeks.

“You aren’t insane” I tell her clearly.

“Oh God, that makes me feel so much worse.” She whines and I try to not let it hurt me, because she's griefing, even though it does.

“Look. We think something's happening here. Something that can't be explained” Sam explains. Dean adding, “And we're gonna stop it but we could use your help.”

Dean lifts me up again, this time to reach an elevated first floor window rather than a fence. His hands sliding from tight around my hips, to brushing down my thighs as he lifts me in reach of the window sill. The window wasn’t that high to reach in the first place but with my height, amidtely being shorter than both the boys, it wasn’t exactly comfortable or super easy to reach the window and pull myself up and in.

My hands grasp the cold white window sill, my rings clinking against the surface as I pull my body up. I swiftly slide my hips sideways making my butt land on the sill, in the same sort of movements you would use when you lift yourself out of a pool.

I move my legs inside the carpeted room, ducking slightly as to not hit my head on the open window. The room belonged to Jill, and as my feet hit the soft gray carpet I officially feel the disgust of intrusion creep up on me.

I slide off the windowsill moving into the room more, Sam quickly taking my place near the window to pick up the duffle Dean threw up at him. He catches it, putting it on the bed and immediately digging through it.

“So what did you tell Jill’s mom?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, the uncomfortability of being in someone’s bedroom let alone a dead girls bedroom crawling up my skin and in my bones.

“Just that I needed some time alone with Jill's pictures and things.” Charlie answers looking between us and the door nervously. Dean climbs through the window shutting the curtain behind and Sam pulls something out of the bag. “I hate lying to her” Charlie adds.

“Trust us, this is for the greater good. Hit the lights” Dean orders.

She goes over to the lights, “”What are you guys looking for?

“We'll let you know as soon as we find it.” Dean hums.

Sam hands him a camcorder on and ready, the object he got from the duffel, “Hey, night vision.” He recalls prompting the older brother to do so, his face scrunched with focus as he finds the button.

“Perfect.” Sam smiles.

The little screen of the camcorder is facing Dean, in a ‘selfie’ like mode, “Do I look like Paris Hilton?” He smiles.

I laugh, slapping a hand to his upper arm on instinct, “Sure you do, baby” I joke, the pet name not something I ever use slipping from my tongue before I could realize. His head turns to give me an amused and smug smirk. In his distractment Sam takes the camera back, going over to the closet door filming around the mirror.

“So I don't get it. I mean...the first victim didn't summon Mary, and the second victim did. How's she choosing them?” Sam asks out loud.

“Beats me.” Dean answers, focusing back on the situation at hand. “I want to know why Jill said it in the first place.”

“It was just a joke.” Charlie reasons.

“Yeah well somebody's gonna say it again, it's just a matter of time.” Dean replies.

Sam wandered into the bathroom now, looking at the mirror there. “Hey!” He calls out, getting us to turn and look at him. “There's a black light in the trunk, right?”

Dean immediately went off to go get it coming back rather swiftly, just as Sam placed the mirror on Jill’s bed laying it upside down after having carried it from the bathroom. With the black light now in hand, he peels off the brown paper that’s on the back of the mirror, shining the purple light on its back revealing a handprint and the name ‘Gary Bryman.’

“Gary Bryman?” Charlie reads out loud both as an acknowledgment and also a question.

“Do you know who that is?” I ask her.

“No.” She answers simply.

Back on the bench, in nearly the same positions, Sam recalls his findings. “So, Gary Bryman was an 8-year-old boy. Two years ago he was killed in a hit and run. The car was described as a black Toyota Camry. But nobody got the plates or saw the driver.”

“Oh my God.” Charlie gasps, horror in her eyes as she covers her mouth.

“What?” I ask the question we’re all thinking.

“Jill drove that car” She answers. Without looking for confirmation I know the boy's eyes are wide too, but there’s no room for the talking that comes after shock.

“We need to get back to your friend Donna’s house.

Somehow, with the help of Charlie, we convinced our way into Donna’s house back up to the bathroom we were in only hours before.

Hunched over the mirror with the black light, our suspicions were correct. There’s a handprint, one I have to say looks like the one in Jill’s bathroom, but I'm no criminologist. This time the name ‘Linda Shoemaker’ is written on it.

We all look at each other, knowing it’s likely that Steven killed his wife hence why Bloody Mary went for him and not the young girl who chanted her name. But the only way to have any idea of this theory is correct is to ask the brunette teenager downstairs.

“Why are you asking me this?” Donna asks us.

“I’m really sorry, Donna, but this is important.” I try to explain, but I know it won’t make sense to her. I mean we are total strangers asking her uncomfortable questions about her dead mother.

“Yeah. Linda's my mom okay? She overdosed on sleeping pills, it was an accident, and that's it.” She fumes, eyebrows scrunched together in fury, “I think you should leave.”

“Now Donna, just listen.” Dean reaches a hand up, as if to motion ‘calm down.’ But it doesn't work. Teary eyed and a little red in the face she yells, “Get out of my house!” Swiftly she runs up the stairs, not giving us another option.

“Oh my God. Do you really think her dad could've killed her mom?” Charlie asks, finally picking up on our theory.

“Maybe.” Sam shrugs.

“I think I should stick around” Charlie announces, referring to staying with Donna, which is probably a good idea.

“All right. Whatever you do, don't—“ Dean tries to warn getting cut off, “Believe me, I won't say it.”

The crisp smell of old books and, oddly, cinnamon fill my nose as I take a deep breath, flexing my hand as I work out the cramping from writing a little too intensely in my small journal.

Dean sits next to me on the cold metal chairs in the library we decided to research in (different to the original one we were at), he’s typing away on the clunky computer the library has. Sam’s staring off at a bulletin board behind us with all sorts of things on it.

“Wait, wait, wait, you're doing a nationwide search?” He asks Dean, alerting us of him coming back to his seat on the other side of his brother.

“Yep. The NCIC, the FBI database—at this point any Mary who died in front of a mirror is good enough for me.” Dean answers.

“But if she's haunting the town, she should have died in the town.” Sam points out.

“I'm telling you there's nothing local, I've checked. So unless you got a better idea—“ Dean explains and as much as I love him I cut him off.

“Well, Mary’s victims have a pattern, which I know you guys already know so I'll just cut to the good part. Both victims had secrets relating to where people died and, here’s the good part, there’s a lot of folklore on mirrors, specifically that mirrors are a reflection of your soul. And with that your secrets and lies are revealed to the mirror.

Fun Fact! It was the Romans who believed that the soul would regenerate every seven years, so if you broke a mirror then you’d have to wait seven years until your soul was cleansed of the bad luck and misfortune.

And while I have more fun facts about mirrors I will end it there.” I smiled, satisfied with my information vomit as well as my fun fact because fun facts are wonderful.

Both boys look at me strangely, a mix of confusion and what I think is amazement (they should be amazed cause that was a really great fun fact). Dean seems to shake it off, “Right. So if you've got a secret, I mean like a really nasty one where someone died, then Mary sees it, and punishes you for it.”

Sam adding, “Whether you're the one that summoned her or not.”

“Correcto!” I answer, and by correct I mean that’s what I was thinking for our working theory.

“Then take a look at this.” Dean announces, clicking a few buttons on the computer before leaning over to the nearby printer, pulling out and handing us the paper. It’s a picture of a woman lying by a mirror in a puddle of blood. He prints out another picture, this time of a handprint and the letters “Tre.”

“Looks like the same handprint.” Sam points out and I nod in agreement.

“Her name was Mary Worthington—an unsolved murder in Fort Wayne, Indiana.”

“I was on the job for 35 years-detective for most of that. Now everybody packs it in with a few loose ends, but the Mary Worthington murder—that one still gets me.” The detective states, unfortunately I immediately forgot his name. It's not the nicest thing to happen but I was also really focused on his country accent that’s just a little too funny.

“What exactly happened?” Dean asked, leaning forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees.

“You boys and girl said you were reporters?” Mr. Detective questioned.

“We know Mary was 19, lived by herself. We know she won a few local beauty contests, dreamt of getting out of Indiana, being an actress. And we know the night of March 29th someone broke into her apartment and murdered her, cut out her eyes with a knife.” Sam recalls the gruesome story.

“That's right.” He confirms.

“See sir, when we asked you what happened, we wanted to know what you think happened.” Sam clarifies for him, somewhere between a curious and condescending tone.

Mr. Detective eyes us over as if he’s contemplating something. He spins his wheely chair around swiftly getting up and going to a large file cabinet. “Technically I'm not supposed to have a copy of this” He huffs, pulling out a file and then a picture, the same picture Dean had already found on the computer. “Now see that there? T-R-E?” Detective reads out, even though unbeknownst to him it’s old news to us.

“Yeah” Dean answers.

“I think Mary was trying to spell out the name of her killer.” He theorizes.

“Do you know who it was, or any theories?” I ask, trying to get any sort of new answers.

“Not for sure. But there was a local man, a surgeon-Trevor Sampson.” He pulls out another photo, this time of this Trevor guy, he has an oval face with curly short hair definitely on the darker side but I can’t say exactly what color due to the black and white photo. He’s also wearing some sunglasses.

“And I think he cut her up good.” He finishes, his accent thick.

“Why do you think it’s him?” I question further.

“Her diary mentioned a man that she was seeing. She called him by his initial, ‘T’. Well, her last entry, she was gonna tell ‘T’'s wife about their affair.” He answers, and for a detective that truly means nothing.

“No offense but how does that directly correlate to Sampson… I mean there’s other people with the initial ‘T’ right?” I question him again, hoping it doesn't offend the man.

“It's hard to say, but the way her eyes were cut out...it was almost professional.” He explains.

“But you could never prove it?” Dean asks, chiming in.

“No. No prints, no witnesses. He was meticulous.” Mr. Detective nods.

“Is he still alive?” Dean follows up.

“Nope.” He sighs, sitting down. “If you ask me, Mary spent her last living moments trying to expose this guy's secret. But she never could.”

“Where's she buried?” Sam asks this time.

“She wasn't. She was cremated” He answers. No digging up bodies for us today.

“What about that mirror”, Dean nods towards the one in the photo, “It's not in some evidence lockup somewhere is it?”

“Ah, no. It was returned to Mary's family a long time ago.” He explains, leaning back in his chair.

“You have the names of her family by any chance?”

We drive down the roads, the sun setting behind us. Sam’s call dictates where we go, either to whatever location he gives us or back to the motel.

“Oh really? Ah that's too bad Mr. Worthington. I would have paid a lot for that mirror. Okay, well maybe next time. All right, thanks.” Sam hangs up, pocketing his phone.

“So?” Dean asks.

“So that was Mary's brother. The mirror was in the family for years, until he sold it one week ago to a store called Estate Antiques. A store in Toledo.” Sam stated.

“So wherever the mirror goes, that's where Mary goes?” Dean raises.

“Her spirit's definitely tied up with it somehow.” Sam simply puts it.

“Isn't there an old superstition that says mirrors can capture spirits?” Dean asks.

“Yeah! People would cover up the mirror when someone died so that their spirit/ soul wouldn’t get trapped.” I explain, happy to spew some more of my fun facts.

“So Mary dies in front of a mirror, and it draws in her spirit” Dean works through the facts.

“Yes! But I don’t know how she’s working through various mirrors” I admit.

“I don't know either, but if the mirror is the source, I say we find it and smash it.” Dean proposes.

“Yeah, I don't know, maybe.” Sam gets cut off by his own phone, “ Hello.” A look of concern washes over his face, becoming pale “Charlie?”

The motel room is colder, the rain outside causing that meek fact. Charlie’s sitting on Sam’s bed, her head on her knees, after we picked her up from school all terrified. All the curtains are drawn shut, all the mirrors and reflective surfaces are covered with sheets or turned aquas towards a wall or the floor there will be no bloody mary getting in here.

Sam sits next to Charlie, “Hey, hey it's ok. Hey, you can open up your eyes Charlie. It's okay, all right?” She looks up reluctantly and slowly, “Now listen. You're gonna stay right here on this bed, and you're not gonna look at glass, or anything else that has a reflection, okay? And as long as you do that, she cannot get you.”

“But I can't keep that up forever. I'm gonna die, aren't I?” Her voice wobbled, fresh tears running down her cheeks.

“No. No. Not anytime soon.” Sam comforts, but I don’t think it helps.

Dean sits on the bed too, “All right Charlie. We need to know what happened.”

“We were in the bathroom. Donna said it.” She answers simply, rocking herself slightly.

“That's not what we're talking about. Something happened, didn't it? In your life...a secret...where someone got hurt. Can you tell us about it?” Dean pushes.

She looks around uncomfortably, swallowing she begins, “I had this boyfriend. I loved him. But he kind of scared me too, you know?” She looks over at me for confirmation knowing without any previous conversation about it that I would understand. And she was right. It was as if bad boyfriends were sewed into the fabrics of being a woman, it would be a little strange if you hadn’t had one.

I nod and she continues, “And one night, at his house, we got in this fight. Then I broke up with him, and he got upset, and he said he needed me and he loved me, and he said "Charlie, if you walk out that door right now, I'm gonna kill myself." And you know what I said? I said "Go ahead." And I left. How could I say that? How could I leave him like that? I just...I didn't believe him, you know? I should have.” She cries harder, going back to her previous position.

I move towards her, Sam getting up to allow me to sit close to her. I hug her, holding her close despite her awkward position. “That’s not your fault” I told her simply, and I meant it too. She uncurls herself, quickly wrapping her arms around me and stuffing her face into my neck. I hold her tighter. “You did the right thing, leaving him” I mutter.

Dean huffs, gripping the steering wheel slightly tighter, “You were right back there Y/N, her boyfriend killing himself, that's not really Charlie's fault.”

“You guys should know as well as I do that spirits don't exactly see shades of gray. Charlie had a secret, someone died, that's good enough for Mary.” Sam reasons.

“I guess” Dean sighs.

“You know, I've been thinking. It might not be enough to just smash that mirror.” Sam suggests.

“Oh, what do you mean?” I ask with a tilt of my head.

“Well Mary's hard to pin down, right? I mean she moves around from mirror to mirror so who's to say that she's not just gonna keep hiding in them forever? So maybe we should try to pin her down, you know, summon her to her mirror and then smash it.” Sam explains.

“Well how do you know that's going to work?” Dean questions.

“I don't, not for sure.” Sam shrugs.

“Well who's gonna summon her?” Dean follows up.

“I will. She'll come after me.” Sam states as if it’s the most obvious answer and with no care for himself.

“You know what, that's it.” Dean nearly shouts, pulling the car over quickly and roughly making my body shift nearly knocking into the door.

“This is about Jessica, isn't it? You think that's your dirty little secret that you killed her somehow? Sam, this has got to stop, man. I mean, the nightmares and calling her name out in the middle of the night—it's gonna kill you.” Dean fumes, not quite yelling but also not quite talking.

“Now listen to me—It wasn't your fault. If you wanna blame something, then blame the thing that killed her. Or hell, why don't you take a swing at me? I mean I'm the one that dragged you away from her in the first place.”

“I don't blame you.” Sam answers plainly, almost in defeat

“Well you shouldn't blame yourself, because there's nothing you could've done.” Dean adds.

“I could've warned her.” Sam sighs, and the pain in his voice makes me want to cry.

“Sam…you couldn’t have known that would happen.” I chime in, though it doesn't quite feel like my place.

“And besides, all of this isn't a secret, I mean we know all about it. It's not gonna work with Mary anyway.” Dean exclaims.

“No you don't.” Sam states, no further explanation given.

“I don't what?” Dean asks.

“You don't know all about it. I haven't told you everything.” Sam shrugs.

“What are you talking about?” Dean questions, face full of confusion.

“Well it wouldn't really be a secret if I told you, would it?” He replied sassily.

Dean looks surprised, “No. I don't like it. It's not gonna happen, forget it.”

“Dean, that girl back there is going to die unless we do something about it. And you know what? Who knows how many more people are gonna die after that? Now we're doing this. You've got to let me do this.” But Sam doesn't get any answers, with a roll of his eyes Dean drives off. Conversation over.

Sam is trying to pick the lock on the shop's door, somehow without any word he became the designated lock picker. The dark oak door opens and all around the store are mirrors, mirrors of all shapes and sizes and varieties. Truly the worst place to be in this situation.

“Well...that's just great, '' Dean sighs, pulling out the photo of Mary’s corpse to look at the mirror, the one we’re looking for being a wooden frame. Not very helpful considering our location where there are countless mirrors that look exactly the same. “All right let's start looking.”

I nod in agreement handing both boys their crowbars. I shifted my baseball bat in my hand, there wasn’t a third crowbar and there was no reason for it anyways, a baseball bat is just as good at smashing.

We enter the dark store, flashlights on, splitting up we look for our specific mirror.

“Maybe they've already sold it.” Dean suggests, from some part of the store.

“I don't think so.” Sam says, stopping in his tracks. Dean and I walk over on either side of the taller man, Dean pulls out the picture again comparing the two. It’s our mirror.

“That's it.” Dean sighs, “You sure about this?”

Sam hands over his flashlight and sighs, “Bloody Mary. Bloody Mary.” He looks between the both of us, “Bloody Mary.”

A light shines through the store windows, illuminating the room.

“I'll go check that out. You guys stay here, be careful. Smash anything that moves.” Dean shuffles away.

I grip my bat tighter as a breath that isn’t mine nor Sam’s surrounds us. He turns around quickly but I keep my back towards him, “Nothing?” I ask and he hums in confirmation.

Out of the corner of my eye I see Mary in one of the mirrors, I step forward swinging my bat back and then forward hard. The glass shatters falling to the floor around my feet. Then Sam hits a mirror behind me, before swiftly turning back to her mirror.

“Come on. Come into this one.” He mutters underneath his breath.

He tilts his head watching his regeneration weirdly when suddenly he starts breathing heavily grabbing at his chest.

“Sam!” I shout, grabbing his arm. His eyes begin to bleed, blood trickling down his cheeks. He drops his crowbar, the metal clinking against the floor loudly.

“It's your fault. You killed her. You killed Jessica.” A voice rings out, one that sounds like Sam’s though I know it’s not him speaking. I help him to the floor carefully as he grabs his chest harder.

“You never told her the truth—who you really were. But it's more than that, isn't it?” The voice fumes.

I get up leaving Sam to the floor, “That’s enough of you” I mutter, gripping my baseball bat tight. I hit her mirror, the glass shatters around me.

I hear Sam take a deep breath in, when I look down at him he’s no longer holding his chest. He holds a thumb up to me, weakly.

But for some reason the voice didn’t stop, Mary was no longer hurting Sam but her accusations wouldn’t stop.

“Those nightmares you've been having of Jessica dying, screaming, burning—You had them for days before she died. Didn't you!?! You were so desperate to ignore them, to believe they were just dreams. How could you ignore them like that? How could you leave her alone to die!?! You dreamt it would happen!!!”

I smash three more mirrors, anything to get it to stop by it doesn't.

“SAM, SAMMY!” Dean shouts, rushing into the room and crouching down to his brother.

“It's Sam” He answers meekly.

Dean holds onto his brother's face gently, eyeing his face and the blood on it, “God, are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” Sam replies, a little unsure though considering the circumstances I get it.

“Come on, come on.” He pulls Sam up, bringing his arm around his neck with a nod of his head towards the door. I follow the boys towards the exit.

A sudden crunching noise forces us to turn around. Mary crawls out of the frame of her mirror, her long black hair covering her face, she walks over the broken glass with no care, her head tilting to the side as she crawls towards us. Her dark nearly black eyes bore into us, somehow she forces us to the floor.

My chest feels tight as if someone was squeezing my heart, I try to crawl backwards on my hands like a crab walk when a sharp pain surges through my hand followed by my eyes. I bring my hand in front of me, a large slash runs through my palm, a piece of glass sticking out of it. The ache in my eyes I know is not caused by glass but by Mary, I reach my gold hand up to my cheek blood trickling down my face. I suck in a breath, the pain not helping the already pain I was feeling. I look over to the boys on the left of me nearly on top of each other as blood runs down both their cheeks.

Mary stands approaching us with a head tilt and a limp. I grumble holding up a shaky hand, waving my hand once, slowly, making long mirrors form in a line in front of Mary acting as a wall between us.

“You killed them! All those people! You killed them!” A female voice cried out, Mary’s voice.

She looks at her reflections scared, when she begins to choke. She grabs on to her throat and her chest, crumbling down to the ground she shrieks, turning to a puddle of blood

With another wave of my hand the wall of mirrors shatters, glass falling to the floor loudly.

“Hey Y/N?”

“Yeah?” I hum feeling a little defeated.

“This has got to be like...what? 600 years of bad luck?” He asks me and I can’t help the big smile that falls on my face.

“Mmm I can’t wait” I laugh, the sarcastic comment coming to me with ease.

The sun rises in front of us, gleaming on the Impala. Our faves are cleaned up, ridden of blood and the event that unfolded. The only proof of it happening being my hand that’s carefully wrapped in white gauze, the glass now out and the cut cleaned.

Charlie sits next to me in the back seat as we pull up to her house, it's odd having someone else back here with me.

“So this is really over?” She asks us, her eyes puffy from her night of crying.

Dean looks at her through the rearview mirror, nodding, “Yeah, it's over.”

“Thank you.” She says, Dean reaching back to shake her hand. She turns to me next, arms open in a hug. I close the gap between us and give her a good squeeze.

She smiles a little sadly at me, getting out of the car.

“Charlie?” Sam calls out, stopping the woman in her tracks. She turns around, “Your boyfriend's death...you really should try to forgive yourself. No matter what you did, you probably couldn't have stopped it. Sometimes bad things just happen.”

She smiles faintly, turning back around to go into her house.

Dean hits his brother's arm gently, “That's good advice.”

We drive off the car falling silent for a beat before Dean talks again, “Hey Sam?”

“Yeah?” He answers.

“Now that this is all over, I want you to tell me what that secret is.” Dean tells him, looking between him and the road.

“Look...you're my brother and I'd die for you, but there are some things I need to keep to myself.” He admits with a sigh, looking out the window.

The car falls silent again.

Healing isn’t easy. It's not something you can put a bandaid on and expect to be fine, and maybe all that Sam shared will be enough for now but that’s not something we can gauge.

That is times doing, and time isn’t something we can control.

God knows i’ve tried.

#dean winchester #dean winchester x reader #fanfiction #sam winchester #supernatural #john winchester #slow burn #witch #witch reader #witch craft #sunshine x grumpy #romance #fantasy #bloody mary #urban legends #mystery #mirror #fun facts #the hunter and the witch

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ladyeckland28 · 2 months

Text

Welcome To Shadowvale

A horror story by Ecky

Part 1 The Fogs Embrace

The wipers squealed across the windshield, fighting a losing battle against the relentless fog. Mark Larsson squinted, leaning forward in his seat as if those few extra inches might help him pierce the impenetrable wall of mist before him. The headlights of his beat-up Corolla barely illuminated a car's length ahead, the beams diffusing into a hazy glow that seemed to mock his efforts to navigate.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Where the hell am I?"

The clock on the dashboard read 11:37 PM, its red digits a stark contrast to the sea of gray outside. Mark had left work over two hours ago, what should have been a straightforward 45-minute drive home turning into a nightmarish journey through an alien landscape.

He'd lost cell signal an hour back, his GPS abandoning him to the whims of this otherworldly fog. Each turn of the road brought a fresh wave of disorientation, landmarks obliterated by the all-consuming mist. The trees that usually lined the highway had long since vanished, replaced by formless shapes that loomed and receded like phantoms in the gloom.

Mark's eyes burned from the strain of constant vigilance, his body aching from the tension that had settled into his muscles. The long day at the office—filled with demanding clients and looming deadlines—seemed a distant memory now, replaced by a more primal fear: the fear of being lost, alone, in a world suddenly rendered unfamiliar and hostile.

A yawn forced its way past his clenched jaw, and Mark shook his head vigorously, trying to ward off the creeping tendrils of exhaustion. He couldn't afford to let his guard down, not here, not now.

"Focus, damn it," he growled at himself, turning down the radio that had long since devolved into static. The silence that followed was oppressive, broken only by the monotonous swish of the wipers and the low rumble of the engine.

Suddenly, something changed. The fog seemed to thin ever so slightly, and Mark found himself entering what appeared to be a town. Dilapidated buildings materialized out of the mist on either side of the road, their windows dark and uninviting. Streetlamps cast sickly yellow pools of light at irregular intervals, barely piercing the fog that swirled around their bases.

Mark's foot eased off the accelerator, his car crawling forward as he tried to make sense of his surroundings. He didn't recognize this place; it certainly wasn't anywhere he'd passed on his usual commute. A faded sign loomed out of the darkness: "Welcome to Shadowvale."

"Shadowvale?" Mark whispered, a chill running down his spine. He'd lived in this part of the state his entire life, and he'd never heard of a town by that name.

As he crept down the main street, Mark's unease grew. There wasn't a soul in sight, no lights in any of the windows, no cars parked along the curb. It was as if the entire town had been abandoned, left to rot in this perpetual, fog-shrouded twilight.

He was about to press on, hoping to find his way through this ghost town and back to familiar territory, when a movement caught his eye. There, in the middle of the road perhaps fifty feet ahead, a figure had appeared.

Mark's foot instinctively moved to the brake pedal, easing the car to a stop. He squinted, trying to make out details through the swirling mist. It was a woman, he realized with a start. A woman in a tattered white dress, her long, dark hair obscuring her face as she... danced?

Yes, she was dancing, swaying and twirling in slow, dreamlike movements. Her bare feet moved gracefully over the cracked asphalt, and as Mark watched, transfixed, she began to hum a haunting melody that somehow carried to his ears despite the closed windows of his car.

For a long moment, Mark sat frozen, his mind struggling to process the surreal scene before him. Then, almost without conscious thought, he found himself reaching for the door handle.

"Hey!" he called out as he stepped from the car, his voice sounding thin and reedy in the oppressive atmosphere. "Miss? Are you alright?"

The woman continued her eerie dance, showing no sign that she'd heard him. Mark took a few tentative steps forward, his shoes scuffing loudly on the road.

"Excuse me," he tried again, louder this time. "Do you need help? Are you lost?"

The humming stopped abruptly, and the woman's dance came to a halt. Slowly, so slowly it seemed to take an eternity, she turned to face him.

Mark's breath caught in his throat, his heart seizing in his chest. The face that stared back at him was not that of a living woman, but a grotesque, decaying visage that belonged in a nightmare. Sunken, milky eyes regarded him from sockets ringed with rotting flesh. Lips pulled back in a rictus grin, revealing blackened teeth and pustulent gums.

Before Mark could react, before he could even draw breath to scream, the woman—no, the thing—reached into the folds of its tattered dress and produced a long, wicked-looking knife. The blade gleamed dully in the sickly light of the street lamps, and then it was moving, slashing through the air as the creature lunged towards him with inhuman speed.

Mark's paralysis broke, and he stumbled backward, nearly losing his footing on the slick road. The knife whistled past his face, so close he felt the displacement of air against his cheek. Panic lent him speed, and he sprinted back to his car, fumbling with the door handle as he cast terrified glances over his shoulder.

The dancing woman was advancing, her movements a horrifying parody of her earlier grace. Each step was punctuated by a wet, squelching sound, as if her decaying flesh was barely clinging to her bones.

Mark all but dove into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut behind him. His trembling hands struggled with the keys, and he let out a strangled sob of relief when the engine roared to life. He threw the car into drive, his foot slamming down on the accelerator.

The tires squealed, and for one heart-stopping moment, the car didn't move. Then it lurched forward, and Mark allowed himself a brief flicker of hope. He was going to escape, he was going to—

A thunderous impact rocked the car, and Mark's head snapped forward, nearly striking the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, he saw the dancing woman clinging to the trunk, her rotting face twisted in a snarl of rage. The knife flashed once, twice, and Mark heard the distinctive hiss of air escaping punctured tires.

"No, no, no!" he screamed, pressing the accelerator to the floor. The car lurched forward again, but he could feel the pull and drag of the flattening tires. He wasn't going to outrun her, not like this.

The rear window exploded inward in a shower of safety glass, and a cold, clammy hand seized the back of Mark's neck. He jerked the wheel instinctively, and the car slewed sideways, crashing into a lamppost with a sickening crunch of metal.

Dazed, his head ringing from the impact, Mark fumbled with his seatbelt. He had to run, had to get away. As he struggled, a memory surfaced, unbidden: a story he'd heard as a child, whispered around campfires and at sleepovers. The legend of the Serbian Dancing Lady, a vengeful spirit that haunted these parts, luring unwary travelers to their doom.

He'd always dismissed it as a silly urban legend, but now, faced with the horror trying to claw its way into his ruined car, Mark found himself believing.

With a final click, the seatbelt released, and Mark threw himself out of the driver's side door. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs, but terror propelled him to his feet. Without looking back, he ran.

The fog seemed to part before him, only to close in again at his back. The sounds of pursuit were ever-present: the slap of bare feet on wet pavement, the whisper of a tattered dress, and always, always, that haunting, wordless hum.

Mark's lungs burned, his legs trembling with exhaustion, but he didn't dare slow down. He darted down side streets and alleyways, trying to lose his otherworldly pursuer in the maze-like layout of the abandoned town. But no matter how many turns he took, no matter how fast he ran, he could feel the Dancing Lady drawing ever closer.

As he rounded yet another corner, Mark's foot caught on an unseen obstacle, and he went sprawling. He scrambled to his feet, casting a frantic glance behind him—and there she was, at the mouth of the alley, her knife gleaming with malevolent purpose.

Desperate, Mark looked around for any means of escape. His eyes fell on a partially open window in the building to his left, just within reach. Without hesitation, he leapt, grasping the windowsill and hauling himself up and through the opening.

He tumbled to the floor inside, the impact knocking the wind out of him once more. For a moment, he lay there, gasping, expecting at any second to feel cold hands grasping at him, to feel the bite of that wicked knife.

But seconds ticked by, and nothing happened. Slowly, warily, Mark pushed himself to his feet, his eyes darting around the room he found himself in.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

The interior of the building was filled with mirrors. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined every wall, creating a dizzying, infinite reflection. Mark saw himself repeated a thousand times over, his face pale and drawn with terror, his clothes disheveled and torn from his frantic flight.

But it wasn't his own reflection that drew his attention and sent a fresh wave of horror coursing through him. In the mirrors, standing just behind his reflected self, was another figure. A woman, or what had once been a woman, her flesh as decayed and horrifying as the Dancing Lady's. But this was a different entity, Mark knew instinctively. Something just as ancient, just as malevolent, but distinct.

And all around, scrawled on the walls in what looked disturbingly like dried blood, was a single word, repeated over and over: "Mary."

Mark's legs gave out, and he sank to his knees, his mind reeling. He was trapped, caught between two supernatural horrors, with no idea how to escape or even if escape was possible.

As if in response to his despair, a low, eerie laugh echoed through the mirrored room. Mark's head snapped up, his eyes darting from reflection to reflection, trying to locate the source. But in every mirror, the corpse-like woman named Mary simply stood and smiled her terrible, rotting smile.

Part 2: Reflections of Terror

Mark's ragged breathing echoed in the mirrored room, each desperate gasp multiplied infinitely by the surrounding reflections. His eyes darted frantically from mirror to mirror, searching for any sign of movement from the decaying figure of Mary.

"This isn't real," he whispered, his voice cracking. "It can't be real."

But the cold floor beneath him, the musty smell of decay that permeated the air, and the hammering of his own heart told him otherwise. This was no nightmare he could wake from, no drug-induced hallucination. This was reality, warped and twisted into something horrifying, but reality nonetheless.

Slowly, painfully aware of every creak of his joints and rustle of his clothing, Mark rose to his feet. His reflected selves rose with him, an army of terrified doppelgangers stretching into infinity. And behind each one, Mary waited, her milky eyes never leaving him, her grotesque smile never wavering.

"What do you want?" Mark called out, hating the tremor in his voice but unable to suppress it. "Why are you doing this?"

The silence that followed his questions was oppressive, broken only by the soft drip of water from somewhere unseen. Then, just as Mark was about to speak again, a voice whispered from every direction at once:

"Join us, Mark. Join us in the mirrors."

The words seemed to slide into his ears like ice water, sending shivers down his spine. Mark spun around, trying to locate the source, but Mary's position remained unchanged in every reflection.

"No," he said, backing away from the nearest mirror. "No, I won't. I don't belong here. I need to get home."

A low, gurgling laugh filled the room. "Home?" Mary's voice mocked. "This is your home now, Mark. There's no escape from Shadowvale. No escape from me."

As if to emphasize her words, Mary's reflections began to move. In every mirror, she took a step forward, closing the distance between herself and Mark's reflected self. Mark stumbled backward, his back hitting the cool surface of another mirror.

Panic rising in his throat, he looked around desperately for an exit. The window he'd entered through was gone, replaced by yet more mirrors. There had to be a door, a hallway, something—

There! In the corner of his eye, Mark caught a glimpse of what looked like a doorframe. He lunged towards it, only to have his path blocked by Mary, suddenly corporeal and no longer confined to the mirrors.

Her decaying hand shot out, fingers like claws grasping for his throat. Mark ducked, feeling the rush of air as her hand passed just over his head. He pivoted, using a move he remembered from his high school wrestling days, and managed to slip past her.

But Mary was fast, inhumanly so. Before Mark could reach the door, he felt those cold, dead fingers close around his ankle. He went down hard, his chin striking the floor with enough force to make his teeth clack together painfully.

"No escape," Mary hissed, her fetid breath hot on the back of Mark's neck as she began to drag him backward. "You're mine now."

Mark kicked out blindly, his heel connecting with something soft and yielding. Mary's grip loosened for just a moment, but it was enough. He scrambled forward on his hands and knees, ignoring the pain as broken glass from the shattered mirrors cut into his palms.

He reached the door and yanked it open, half-expecting to find only another mirror on the other side. Instead, he was met with a dark hallway. Without hesitation, Mark threw himself through the opening.

He slammed the door behind him, hearing Mary's enraged shriek cut off as it closed. For a moment, he leaned against it, gasping for breath, before the fear of what might come through spurred him into motion once more.

The hallway was pitch black, and Mark had to feel his way along the wall. The wallpaper was damp and peeling beneath his fingers, and more than once he jerked his hand away, imagining the touch of rotting flesh instead of decaying paper.

After what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, Mark's questing hands found another door. He fumbled with the handle, his heart in his throat as he heard a distant crash from the mirrored room. Mary had broken through.

The door swung open, and Mark stumbled out into the foggy night air of Shadowvale. He was in an alleyway, the buildings on either side looming over him like silent sentinels. The fog swirled around his feet, and the silence was broken only by the distant sound of the Serbian Dancing Lady's humming.

Mark allowed himself a moment of relief. He was out of the mirror maze, away from Mary's clutches. But he knew he couldn't rest, not here, not now. He had to find a way out of this cursed town.

He started down the alley, moving as quietly as he could. Every shadow seemed to hide a potential threat, every swirl of fog a possible manifestation of some new horror. Mark's nerves were frayed, his body pushed to its limits, but the will to survive drove him onward.

As he neared the end of the alley, a new sound reached his ears. It was a rhythmic tapping, like metal on stone, growing louder with each passing second. Mark pressed himself against the wall, trying to blend into the shadows as he peered around the corner.

What he saw made his blood run cold.

A figure was approaching, tall and menacing in a long, dark coat. But it wasn't the coat that drew Mark's attention. It was the gleaming hook that protruded from the figure's right sleeve, tapping against the buildings as it passed.

The Hook Man. Another urban legend come to life in this nightmare town.

Mark's mind raced. He couldn't go back the way he'd come – Mary would be waiting. But to go forward meant facing this new threat. His eyes darted around, searching for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself.

There, half-hidden by the fog – a length of pipe, probably fallen from one of the dilapidated buildings. Mark inched towards it, trying to keep one eye on the approaching Hook Man. His fingers had just closed around the cool metal when the tapping stopped.

Mark looked up to see the Hook Man standing at the mouth of the alley, his face hidden in the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then, with a speed that belied his hulking frame, the Hook Man charged.

Mark barely had time to bring the pipe up before the hook slashed through the air where his head had been a split second before. The screech of metal on metal set Mark's teeth on edge as he parried the blow.

"What do you want?" Mark shouted, backing away as the Hook Man advanced. "Why are you doing this?"

The Hook Man's only response was another vicious swipe. This time, Mark wasn't quite fast enough. He felt a burning pain across his upper arm as the hook tore through his shirt and into the flesh beneath.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, Mark swung the pipe with all his might. It connected solidly with the Hook Man's side, drawing a grunt from his attacker. But the Hook Man seemed more annoyed than hurt, shrugging off the blow and pressing his attack with renewed vigor.

Mark found himself being driven back down the alley, desperately parrying blow after blow. The Hook Man was relentless, each attack flowing into the next with fluid grace. It was all Mark could do to stay alive, let alone mount any kind of counteroffensive.

His back hit a wall, and Mark realized with horror that he'd run out of alley. The Hook Man loomed over him, the curved metal of his weapon glinting in the dim light.

In that moment, time seemed to slow. Mark saw the hook descending towards him as if through water. He saw his own reflected in its polished surface, eyes wide with terror. He saw—

A window.

Just to his left, at shoulder height. Without conscious thought, Mark threw himself sideways. Glass shattered around him as he crashed through the window, tumbling into the dark interior of the building beyond.

He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. For a precious few seconds, he lay there, gasping like a landed fish. Then the sound of breaking glass spurred him back into motion.

The Hook Man was coming through the window after him.

Mark scrambled to his feet, ignoring the burning in his lungs and the stinging cuts from the broken glass. He was in some kind of abandoned store, shelves looming like the ribs of some great beast in the gloom.

He dove between two of these shelves just as the Hook Man's feet hit the floor. Mark could hear him moving, slow and deliberate, the tap of the hook against the shelves marking his progress.

"I can smell your fear," the Hook Man's voice rasped, so close that Mark had to clamp a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp. "You can't hide from me, boy. This town, these shadows – they're mine."

Mark's mind raced. He couldn't keep this up forever. Sooner or later, the Hook Man would find him, and in these close quarters, Mark knew he stood no chance.

His eyes, now adjusted to the gloom, fell on a door at the back of the store. An exit. If he could just reach it...

Taking a deep breath, Mark made his decision. He grabbed a can from the shelf beside him and hurled it as far as he could in the opposite direction of the door. The clatter as it hit the floor was deafening in the silent store.

The Hook Man whirled towards the sound, and Mark made his move. He sprinted for the door, his footsteps thunderously loud to his own ears. Behind him, he heard a roar of rage and the sound of shelves toppling.

Mark hit the door at full speed, not slowing to check if it was locked. Pain exploded through his shoulder as the door gave way, sending him stumbling out into the fog-shrouded night once more.

He ran blindly, uncaring of direction, driven only by the need to put distance between himself and the Hook Man. His lungs burned, his legs trembled with each step, but still he ran.

It wasn't until the sounds of pursuit had long since faded that Mark allowed himself to slow. He bent over, hands on his knees, gulping in great lungfuls of the damp night air. When he straightened, he found himself in what appeared to be a park.

Wrought iron benches lined a winding path that disappeared into the mist. The skeletal forms of leafless trees loomed on all sides, their branches reaching towards the starless sky like gnarled fingers. In the center of it all stood a fountain, dry and crumbling, its basin filled with dead leaves.

Mark stumbled towards one of the benches and all but collapsed onto it. He was exhausted, physically and mentally. The events of the night seemed impossibly surreal now, in this moment of relative calm.

"It's not real," he muttered to himself, running a hand through his sweat-soaked hair. "It can't be real. I'm going to wake up any minute now. This is all just a bad dream."

"Oh, I can assure you, it's very real," a cheerful voice said from behind him.

Mark leapt to his feet, spinning around so quickly he nearly lost his balance. Standing there, as if she'd materialized out of the fog itself, was a woman.

She was dressed in a vibrant yellow sundress that seemed jarringly out of place in the gloomy park. Her blonde hair was styled in an old-fashioned bouffant, and her makeup was impeccable, almost artificial in its perfection. But it was her smile that truly caught Mark's attention – wide and bright, showing far too many teeth to be natural.

"Who-" Mark's voice cracked, and he had to swallow hard before continuing. "Who are you?"

The woman's smile, impossibly, grew even wider. "Why, I'm the welcoming committee, of course! We so rarely get visitors here in Shadowvale. I simply had to come and greet you personally."

She took a step forward, and Mark instinctively backed away. There was something profoundly wrong about this woman, beyond her anachronistic appearance and unnaturally wide smile. Her movements were too smooth, too precise, as if she were a marionette controlled by unseen strings.

"Stay back," Mark warned, holding up his hands. "I don't want any trouble. I just want to leave. Can you tell me how to get out of this town?"

The woman laughed, a sound like tinkling glass that set Mark's teeth on edge. "Leave? But you've only just arrived! There's so much more for you to see, so many more of us for you to meet."

As she spoke, she continued to advance, her steps measured and graceful. Mark kept backing away until he felt the edge of the fountain press against the back of his legs.

"Please," he said, hating the note of desperation in his voice but unable to suppress it. "I don't belong here. I need to go home."

"Oh, but you do belong here, Mark," the woman said, her voice taking on a hypnotic quality. "We've been waiting for you. All of us. Mary, and the Hook Man, and the Dancing Lady. We've been so lonely, you see. But now you're here, and we'll never be lonely again."

She was close now, close enough that Mark could see that her eyes didn't quite match her smile. They were old eyes, filled with a hunger that made his skin crawl.

"How-" Mark's mouth was dry, and he had to lick his lips before continuing. "How do you know my name?"

The woman's smile turned secretive, almost coy. "We know everything about you, Mark. We've been watching you for a very long time. And now, finally, you're here."

She reached out, her perfectly manicured nails glinting in the dim light. Mark tried to back away further, but the fountain blocked his retreat. He was trapped, caught between this unnatural woman and the crumbling stone at his back.

As her hand drew closer, Mark saw something that made his blood run cold. Just for a moment, like a glitch in reality, the woman's cheerful facade seemed to flicker. In that instant, Mark saw what lay beneath the yellow dress and perfect makeup – a thing of rotting flesh and exposed bone, ancient and hungry.

Then the moment passed, and she was once again the smiling woman in yellow. But Mark knew what he'd seen. He knew the truth behind her cheerful mask.

"No," he said, surprised at the steadiness in his voice. "No, I won't stay here. I'm leaving this town, and none of you can stop me."

The woman's smile faltered for the first time, a flash of annoyance crossing her face. "I'm afraid that's not an option, Mark. You see, once Shadowvale claims you, it never lets go. You're one of us now. Forever."

As she spoke the last word, her hand closed the final distance, her fingers brushing against Mark's cheek. Her touch was cold, so cold it burned, and Mark felt as if something essential was being drawn out of him, sucked away by her caress.

With a cry of mingled fear and defiance, Mark shoved the woman away with all his strength. She stumbled backward, surprise replacing the hunger in her eyes. Not waiting to see if she would recover, Mark vaulted over the edge of the fountain and ran.

He plunged into the fog, the world around him fading into a gray haze. Behind him, he could hear the woman's laughter, growing fainter with distance but no less chilling.

"Run all you like, Mark!" her voice called out, seeming to come from everywhere at once. "There's nowhere in Shadowvale you can hide from us. We'll be waiting for you. We'll always be waiting."

Mark ran on, blind and directionless, driven by pure animal terror. He ran until his legs gave out and he collapsed to the damp ground, his chest heaving as he fought for breath.

As he lay there, trying to gather the strength to move, to keep running, Mark became aware of a sound. It was faint at first, barely audible over his own labored breathing, but it grew steadily louder.

It was humming. The same haunting melody he'd heard when he first entered Shadowvale.

Mark's head snapped up, his eyes wide with renewed fear. There, emerging from the fog like a nightmare given form, was the Serbian Dancing Lady. Her tattered white dress swirled around her as she twirled and swayed, drawing ever closer.

From behind him came the rhythmic tapping of the Hook Man's approach. And from his left, he heard Mary's gurgling laugh, promising an eternity trapped in her hall of mirrors.

Ahead, the yellow-dressed woman appeared, her too-wide smile gleaming in the gloom. "Welcome home, Mark," she said, extending her hand in invitation. "Welcome to eternity."

As the horrors of Shadowvale closed in around him, Mark realized with sickening clarity that his ordeal was far from over. In fact, it might never end.

To be continued....

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