Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The cold air nips at her skin, whipping through her hair and the old sweatshirt that has long since seen better days. The earthy, rough scent of John’s cigarette tickles Deanna’s nose. She eyes her father without turning her head, leaning against the car door as the want of sleep becomes merely a far-off idea. When did John start smoking again? Before Sam left, or was it after? Somewhere between the long stretch of the Mojave Desert and into the dense woods of Oregon, John never went longer than a few hours without a burning butt between his lips. She never thought she’d see the day he would risk the upholstery with bitter smoke.

They had been driving since the sun came up, only stopping for food and gas before John was itching to leave again. They had done two jobs in a matter of nine days and were already on their way to the third. Deanna longed for a deep sleep in some rinky-dink motel with thin sheets and a lump mattress instead of the hard frame of the Impala’s door. As much as the soft drizzle of rain against the car’s metal frame lulled her into the beginnings of sleep, it was not enough to hold her in it.

John shifts, flicking the cigarette butt out of the crack in the window and then rolling the window up in quick, easy motions. In the Impala, John was a man almost at peace. In the car, on the long winding strips of empty roads and noisy, dark highways, it was as if the rest of the world didn’t exist, and all the evil he chased was lost with it. This was the in-between that could not exist outside. John sighs softly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and blinking hard as the car bounces as it travels from the bumpy backroads to smooth asphalt.

Deanna looks away from John to stare out at the beginnings of a town through the haze of rain. There is familiarity wherever they go, from end to end of the country; all towns begin to look the same. The poor, outdated houses and buildings in the middle of nowhere towns look the same as the last. The dilapidated buildings look grim and black under the dull lamp light, a shadow in the trees. The town is quiet, empty of people. A second moon shines in the distance, its crescent curve glowing with blue neon light. John drives towards it, and the shadows begin to take shape in the form of a roadside motel.

It’s older and plain-looking even in the dark. Under the soft light of the streetlights, she can see the dull, faded baby blue paint and a mess of yellow stars painted on the walls of the office. It’s the kind of motel she would have loved as a child, its whimsical moon and stars dancing as they drove near it. Deanna startles, straightening up as she feels John’s rough hand slap against her thigh, fingers catching the frayed split just above her knee from a hard fall. His thumb slides across her bare skin, gentle and warm, before it stills. A shiver slides down her back.

“Let’s get some sleep, kiddo.” John’s voice is rough from lack of sleep. The hard edge that had punctuated every word these last few days had softened into something quickly becoming unfamiliar to her. John had become a wall since Sammy left.

He pulls off the main road, eyes weary as he maneuvers the car around a pothole leading to the main office. John doesn’t pull away from her; his hand is a heavy weight on her thigh. Deanna’s skin prickles where flesh meets flesh. Where her father had once given his love freely, when she was still a child at his knees, and the three of them would still share a single bed as they drifted from town to town in search of ghosts, it was now as infrequent as a blue moon. Deanna couldn’t help herself; she leaned into the warmth of him, soaking in as much of it as she could, before he would inevitably pull away.

John puts the car in park under the soft light of the street lamp and squeezes her thigh before letting go, taking the growing warmth with him as he opens his door and steps out. John leans down to look at her, face heavily shadowed.

“Stay here.” The car door shuts.

Deanna watches him disappear into the stream of light that floods through the doorway when he opens it, then he’s gone again. She shudders lightly as the chill settles over her. She shivers into her jacket, the brown work coat worn thin from its time with John, but still sturdy. John’s scent still lingers on it, a mesh of burnt gunpowder and his cheap, pine-scented bodywash. The coat was traded between their hands as often as a gun. She wants to sink into it, wants to drift off in the warm comfort of her father’s arms. Since Sammy, they were almost nothing but fucked-up co-workers. Her father yelled and drank, gave her orders, and Deanna followed through.

She was his best girl.

When was the last time he told her that? He had said it so often when she was a girl, picking her up and kissing scratchy kisses against her soft cheeks and nuzzling her hair. She couldn’t remember; it was another memory lost to her father’s growing rage and isolation. By the time Sam up and left, both of them had been walking on their toes to avoid the slightest trigger. Deanna has spent more time mediating Sam’s growing frustration and eagerness to push back against John’s orders, which she now knew was his growing restlessness to run off to Stanford.

Why are you always defending him? Stop acting like his dutiful wife. Sam’s face had been red with his frustration, his nose wrinkled in disgust as the words came out of his mouth. Deanna had opened her mouth to shout back at him, but stopped short when she realized the words spitting on her lips would only feed his point. Sammy didn’t understand. He hadn’t been old enough to remember the fire, the desperate panic in their father’s eyes as he gave Sammy to her to save. Deanna couldn’t leave.

She wasn’t like Sam; Deanna had learned the bare minimum in school would get her on well enough when all she wanted was to be by John’s side and help him, hunt with him. She had never allowed herself to linger on the idea of fucking off to some college, living in one place for so long–it seemed unnatural to be anywhere where their father wasn’t. Sometimes, it felt like they had been sewn together, the three of them, and now, just her and John. There was a wound in her side where Sammy had always been until he ripped himself away.

The sound of her father’s heavy boots smacking against the wet pavement pulls her from the jumble of thoughts ever tangled in the back of her mind. The Impala’s door opens, and her dad leans down to look at her, eyes shadowed with apprehension.

“Dad?” She asks, throat dry. She plucks at the frayed split on her knee.

“Got us a room, but it’s only a single, kid.” Her stomach tightens at what he leaves unsaid.

Deanna nods, swallows. “Yeah, fine.”

Her nerves light up, belly tight with them as they pull around to the end of the hotel. When had they last shared a bed? The closest they had come to sleeping next to each other in years was the rare times John would pull off into some brush after a long, grueling hunt, and they’d both pass out in the front and back seats until the sun came up. It wasn’t sharing a bed that made Deanna nervous, but the gruffness in her father’s voice, his barely tucked-down grief and anger over Sam. John had made it into her fault as he tugged her around, leaning down over her as he yelled fruitlessly, so close she could see the bloodshot white of his eyes and smell the whiskey on his breath. It was only when he pushed her into the wall of the whatever hotel they had been at that he stepped back, eyes wide with panic.

John had left for three days, and for three days, Deanna waited for him. Neither of them brought up where he had been, the bruises on her arms, or even the idea of Sam. The air between had been tense since that day, despite the few moments of laughter, a drink in some bar after a good hunt—a constant live wire rattled between them. John showed his need to apologize through anything but actual words, silent tokens with a heavy, uneasy stare that Deanna knew to be a fresh leaf. She could not fault him for it; the both of them are alike in that way.

Her duffle bag is a heavy weight on her still-tender shoulder, but the walk inside the small room is short enough, and as the familiar stench of stale, cold air and generic laundry soap fills Deanna’s senses, exhaustion pulls down over her. Deanna throws the duffle on top of the cheap wooden dresser across from the bed and shuffles out her shoes, the shag carpet soft under her socked feet. The door closes, and she looks back at John to find him already looking at her. His stare is heavy with something Deanna doesn’t recognize.

John eyes her as she stands there idly, hand still on her bag and her father’s canvas coat hanging off her shoulders. Her father had always been a man of few words and silent affection (no, that wasn’t true. Deanna still had the blurry, far-off memories of her father’s tenderness). She wondered if he was upset with her for getting hurt after all, or perhaps this was the moment he’d want to talk about Sam—

Her father opens his mouth, face shadowed with hair he hasn’t shaved in weeks, but then stops short before sighing and letting his bag drop to the ground. John rubs his face, features pinched into a grimace.

“Take a shower first, kiddo.”

Deanna’s stomach drops, her blood stops singing with anticipation. What had she been expecting exactly?

”Yeah. Yessir.” She nods, mumbling as she fumbles through the mess of clothes she had half-hazardly folded and tossed inside before grabbing the first pair of sleep shorts and a too-big t-shirt.

She can feel her father’s eyes on her back even as she closes the bathroom door, even as he messes about with the guns in his duffel. The bathroom is small and smells of mothballs and lavender soap, but Deanna treats it as nothing less than a five-star experience when she sees the heavy stream of clear water leave the showerhead. Deanna gingerly peels off her clothes, damp with rain and sweat and the general funk of taking nothing more than a whore-bath in the last gas station they passed. Her shoulder twinges with pain as she pulls the long-sleeved top over her head, the joint protesting with each stretch of it.

The skin around her right shoulder is a starburst of blues and purples now that the initial swelling had mostly gone down after her father had yanked the joint back in place. Deanna graces the tender skin with her fingertips, pressing into the edges of the bruise as it almost stretches down over her clavicle. She stares at her broken skin, the scrapes and cuts that never seem to disappear for long, the bruises that bloom down her hips and legs. Her blond hair is a tangled mess of dirt and oil, scraggly looking in the mirror’s reflection. People who knew her mother had often said Deanna looks just like her, from the shape of her eyes to the curve of her chin, and, of course, the blonde hair—just a shade darker when not bleached by the summer sun. Deanna did not see her mother’s face in her own; she only saw a mussed-up, tired girl.

When the air in the bathroom is finally warm and damp, and her reflection is fogged over, Deanna steps into the shower and pretends that the water is washing her away.

-

Deanna floats between the recesses of sleep and consciousness by the time her father settles into bed next to her. The television flashes over the room as the near-muted, old, black and white movie plays out. Deanna digs deeper into the emptiness of sleep. The remote clicks and shadows no longer dance across her eyelids. The mattress dips, the old springs creaking as John spreads out next to her. The scent of pine is strong, lingering on his hot skin.

It’s raining again. Without the low hum of the television playing the stream of the shower, she can hear it battering down against the window next to the door. John’s body heat drifts over her like an extra blanket. He’s so close, not that there is much space for a man his size to go. It’s a quiet comfort, a softness shared between the two of them for the first time in years. Deanna wants to turn around and bury her face into her father’s back, hands tucked between her and him as she sleeps warm and protected. It’s too much to ask for. This John is not the one who cradled her when she snuck into her parents’ bed.

A gentle, barely-there touch brings Deanna back from the depths of sleep, but she doesn’t flinch away. Calloused fingers, marred by years of labor and the grooves of a gun, drag across her arm. She opens her eyes to the dark of their hotel room. Only a single, thin stream of light splits the carpet from a gap in the curtain. Deanna focuses on keeping her breathing even, careful not to move as an electric chill runs through her body at her brazen touch. John slides his fingers up the sleeve of her top, pushing the fabric up and away to expose the bruised flesh.

Deanna thinks of the slick drop over the edge of a second-floor balcony as a banshee screamed loud enough to leave her ears ringing. She had barely registered tumbling over the broken railing. Only a brief moment of realization at the cold air seemed to cut through her skin as her stomach dropped. John had screamed out her name as she fell, followed by the bang of his shotgun. By the time her vision had finished tunneling and she could feel the sharp pain of her disjointed arm, John was pulling her up.

John had kept his hand on her knee, periodically squeezing her bruised flesh as he raced them out of the boonies and back into the small town they had been staying in. You’re fine, kiddo. You’re fine, baby. By the time he carried her into the hotel room, all adrenaline had worn off, and Deanna had bitten her mouth bloody trying to keep the pain in. John had sat her on the bed and shoved his bottle of whiskey into her mouth and made her drink until she felt the warm buzz of liquor warm her skin and make her eyes swim. When he tugged off her jacket and shirt, Deanna only felt a dull ache leech into her bones.

Down to her pants and bra, John gripped her tight and winced as he shoved her arm back in place. She had felt the heat of his hands long after he let go, sipping from the whiskey bottle as he collapsed in the cheap little chair across from the bed.

The mattress creaks again. Deanna feels John shift beside her until he’s close enough that she can feel the heat of his skin kissing her back. His arm reaches around her, fingers curling around hers. His knees knock the back of her thighs. John stills for a moment, as if unsure of himself. There’s a brush of rough beard against her shoulder and then the tender press of chapped lips against Deanna’s bruises. She lies in silence long after she feels her father’s grip go limp and hears his gentle snores muffled into her hair.

Tears prick her eyes. Deanna can’t help but scoot backwards until her back is pressed neatly against his chest and her head is tucked under John’s chin. Her heart pounds against her ribs like she’s doing something wrong. Deanna holds her father’s hand against her belly and falls asleep to the vibrations of his chest.

–

When Deanna wakes up, the sun is peeking through the curtain, and the smell of greasy bacon swarms her senses. For once, since the night Sam left, she doesn’t feel completely weighed down by grief and rage. If she kept her eyes closed, she could pretend that the last two decades of her life had been a long dream—that she had been dragged into the Labyrinth by Jareth and forced to go on and on until she found her baby brother—if she kept her eyes closed, Deanna would open them to her mother cooking and her father reading the newspaper just like in the shows.

Her father coughs, metal clinks against metal in efficient, practiced movements. Deanna knows the sounds like her own name. She opens her eyes to gaze sleepily at her father as he reassembles one of their many guns. There are two gas station coffees sitting on the small dining table next to John, one open and the other tucked next to a cheap breakfast burrito. John’s notebook is still open next to him, a flurry of details that he had yet to share with her. Deanna stretches and lets out a groan as her joints ache and her muscles protest. Her shirt slips up her torso, baring her midriff to the cool air. Goosebumps prickle her skin as she kicks down the tangle of sheets around her legs.

She glances back at her father to find him already looking at her. It feels eerily reminiscent of last night. More often than not, Deanna had been finding her father’s gaze pointed at her since Sam left. She had thought it was contempt, his anger at her for letting Sammy dream bigger than this life, or maybe it was remorse that colored his eyes so queerly. John isn’t staring at her face but instead the expanse of her bare belly, lingering on the freckles that splattered across her skin and legs. Her belly tightens. Deanna feels hot with an embarrassing urge to cover up, to hide from him, to open her legs wider.

“Come get this before it gets cold, Dee.” John looks away, clicks the chamber of the gun into place, but Deanna still feels her eyes burning into her skin.

She slides out of bed, disjointed and too warm to be comfortable. Deanna flattens the hem of the faded Metallica shirt and adjusts the sagging band of her shorts as she walks over, feeling overexposed for the first time in her life. John nods at her as she sits and tucks one leg up in the chair to rest her chin as she pours cream and sugar into the burnt coffee. It’s moments like these that Deanna finds herself wanting to fill the silence, wants to hear her father’s voice drone on about something unimportant—she wants him to look at her again. John wipes the oil from his fingers, and Deanna chugs the less-than-hot coffee. It’s a scene they’ve played out a thousand times.

“There’s a potential case up near Salem.” John leans back, reading his neat print on the open page of his journal. “In the past thirty years, there have been six deaths of three newlyweds. All in the same town, hotel, and the same damn room.”

Deanna speaks around a mouthful of rubbery eggs and a too-burnt tortilla. “Poltergeist?”

John leans back against his chair, rubbing his palms on her jeans. “Don’t think so. It doesn’t look like it’s the entire hotel, just the room. The first two didn’t make it past the local news, but the last one did.”

He slides out a folded newspaper from under a stack of papers, flipping it up so that she can read it. Deanna leans forward, swallowing down her food as she takes in the paper. Little rings from John’s coffee mar the headline.

NEWLYWEDS DEAD IN MURDER-SUICIDE

The black and white photo is of the couple in a courthouse wedding. The woman is young and beautiful, bright-eyed and gleaming, next to a much older man. Deanna huffs at the sight of his wrinkled skin and combover.

“Married for love, you think?”

A smile quirks at the corner of John’s mouth as he swallows down the rest of his coffee. Deanna feels warmed by the sight of it, chest full at the ease of the morning so far. She wants it to always be this way, soft and easy. She looks away from her father, ignoring the bubbling feelings of contentment and the stress-free laxness of John’s face. If she lingers on it too much, something would give. Deanna skims over the fine print below the dead couple’s photo, anything to stop looking at John.

“James Calvin, forty-one, and Elana Morris, twenty-six, married on a quiet Friday afternoon in front of family and friends. By early Monday morning, a mere three days into their honeymoon at the local Montgomery Manor Inn, both were dead.”

“You’d think the honeymoon phase would last until they got back home,” Deanna turns the page, unable to stop herself from peeking over her cup to watch her father drag his hand down his face. “Who killed whom?”

“Husband,” John says before she can even begin to read the second page. “All three husbands killed their brides in four days or less.”

Deanna blinks, swallowing down the lump in her throat. “Cursed room or a spirit haunting it?”

“Won’t know until we get there. I’m sure the locals will have something to say.” John is already getting up, tossing his empty cup into the small trash can under the table. “Finish up and get dressed. I’ll pack the car back up.”

John is out the door in a blink of the eye. The hotel room is colder for it. She tucks her other leg up into the seat of the chair and stares mindlessly at the closed door—one step forward, two steps back. There was a time when the two of them–the three of them! – would stay in a hotel for longer than a few days, doing nothing but watching shitty daytime TV and eating whatever the local fast-food chain had to offer. They’d be squished up on the couch, maybe Sam at their feet, as they ate and messed about. The rest of the world, and all its monsters, slipped right past them. She wanted that feeling back. She wanted the ache in her side to be stitched back closed. Deanna sighs softly to herself and downs the rest of her now cold coffee before standing to stretch. Through the slim crack in the curtain, she sees her father leaning against the Impala, cigarette between his fingers as he stares out at something.

Frustration comes quickly to her these days. It’s irrational and stupid how much she wants to rage at her father, pull at his clothes for letting Sam go, for being so cruel, and then it tumbles into something like a pit in her stomach. Deanna wants her father to comfort her, wants him to say sorry with more than gas station offerings. The feeling fades as quickly as it comes; she pushes it away and doesn’t let herself get worked up. John wouldn’t be like this forever. Eventually, they’d slip into a new normal, and Deanna could be all the things John needed her to be.

Deanna pulls her sleep-shirt over her head, leaving her bare and exposed as she turns away from the window and walks over to her clothes. Goosebumps prick her skin despite the warm air from the heater. She’s tempted to turn around to see if it’s her father’s eyes she feels burning into her back. It’s childish, wanting him to bicker at her like she’s a teenager again, looking abashed as he yells at her to put clothes on. But the door doesn’t open, and John doesn’t throw a towel or blanket at her. Deanna still feels the prickling sensation of eyes until finally retreating to the bathroom to brush her teeth.

Chapter Text

They drive through the long winding roads of barren towns and endless rows of woods that are perfectly burst into splashes of reds and oranges. Oregon is cold, wet, and something out of a movie on early October mornings. Sam would have loved a place like this. Deanna can't remember if the trees around their house in Kansas had changed colors, if she had played in piles of fallen leaves while her father and mother watched. Did the leaves in California change so wonderfully like these did?

"How's the research comin', Deanna?" Her father's rough drawl carries her away from the idyllic mess in her head.

She glances over, tracing her eyes from the patch of silver growing from over John's ear to his now clean-shaven face. He looks younger without his beard, less hard and mean. Deanna fingers the edges of the news article printouts they had gotten from the local library in the last town. Sammy was better at these types of things. Deanna often felt overwhelmed and bogged down by the end of each droning article, but Sam was gone, and her father needed her to be better.

"There isn't much on the history of the Inn itself, but I can guess none of the couples married for love." Each couple, no matter how many years apart from the last killing, each followed a pattern: an older man with a pretty, young wife. Deanna holds the three photos of each couple up as best she can. "I guess our creature of the week isn't fond of old perverts."

John laughs as he looks over the old, blurred photos. The sound of it makes her feel warm. "We'll just have to do some legwork in town. Nothing new. You up for it, Dee?"

He gestures towards her shoulder, eyes heavy on his coat she still wears. "Yeah, I've had worse."

John makes a face, his lips pressing thin as his nose wrinkles. Had she said something wrong? Deanna nearly startles as his hand makes its way to her thigh, heavy on her leg just like the night before. Her mouth goes dry, and she feels her stomach clench. John's thumb taps the side of her knee, unable to touch the bare skin in these particular pair of jeans. He opens his mouth and then shuts it just as quickly, unable to put into words whatever he was thinking about. Deanna leans into his touch, the warmth that spreads from the palm of his hand and up her thigh. John doesn't move his hand when she inches across the middle seat. The printouts fall to the wayside.

She leans against him, resting her head against his shoulder, and nuzzles into the smooth, well-worn leather jacket. She feels him lean into her, relaxing his shoulders, stiff from driving, under the weight of her head. Deanna watches his fingers drum against the steering wheel, the others still clasped around her knee. John tilts his head down, dragging his nose across her hair and then finding her forehead with his lips. It's a dry, chapped kiss, but Deanna wants to cling to it. Girls her age were probably off on road trips with their boyfriends, sitting like this and clinging together, not their fathers, but Deanna had never felt so comfortable with any boy or man holding her as John did.

She feels him sigh to himself, his breath giving her a second, fleeting kiss as he turns back to the empty road.

"I know this ain't easy, Dee." A pregnant pause follows as John seems to struggle with the heavy weight of everything he could say. "It's just us now…you're still my best girl, you know?"

Deanna, for a fleeting moment, is overcome with the urge to bare her teeth and sink them into John's shoulder. Her teeth ache with the need to latch onto something as her face grows hot and her eyes burn with unshed tears. She needs this moment to last; she needs the endless purgatory of unchanging roads and endless highways just so they can always be like this. It feels as if she has shrunk down ten times her size; she feels small and helpless when she is anything but. Something wreteched in dark lives in her belly, growing. She wants to rage as much as she wants to crawl into to her father's lap.

"I know," her words are so soft they are almost lost under the drum of the engine and Led Zeppelin playing on the cassette. She doesn't know why her next words spill out like a secret she never meant to share. "I'm your only girl."

John's hand squeezes her thigh almost painfully, then rubs the expanse of it as if trying to soothe himself. They sit in silence as Robert Page croons about all his love. Deanna wants to sink against him, melt into his jacket as a strange rush of shame fills her. John's hand is still cradling her thigh, holding tight as the silence between them grows wider. It feels like eons before the song ends, and John finally says something.

"You are, aren't you, baby?" His tone is strange, wistful, maybe. It is foreign to her ears, the softness and quiet of it. Her cheeks heat up at the pet name, another unfamiliar thing. "Come on, Dee. Let's get something to eat."

They drive past the city population marker— the wooden sign is decayed and in disrepair. Most of the town, outside the city center, is littered with small, cookie-cutter homes that Deanna has seen a hundred or so times now. Downtown Salem is a city bent on holding onto its retro buildings and historic architecture. Littered in the soft light of the evening dusk and the golden autumn leaves, Deanna could see why people might want to run off and get married here. John pulls them into a local diner that is already brimming with people. The locals hardly pay them any mind besides the rubbernecking of a few older men as they take notice of the Impala's shiny exterior.

She pulls away from her dad, a bit stiff from the long ride, and quickly pushes the door open to step out on stiff knees and with pins and needles in her feet. John walks around the car and urges her forward with a firm hand on her back as they shimmy through a crowd of people exiting the diner. Deanna sighs pleasently and smiles at her father.

"Nothing like a good ol' American classic, yeah?" She grins, mouth watering at the prospect of a cheeseburger and fries. Maybe something even sweet, if John was in the right mood.

He pats her back as they walk to a middle booth next to the windows. "You'd eat me out of a wallet, if I let you, Deanna."

Deanna slides into the retro red and white-lined seats, kicking her left leg up into her father's side of the booth to stretch out. While not as tall as her dad or Sammy, Deanna was no stranger to the stiff aches of her long legs being crammed into one position for too long. John makes a face at her, but doesn't push off her leg; he merely squeezes her ankle lazily as he pulls the laminated menus from the stand and tosses the other to her. It's the usual diner food that follows every local restaurant, no matter the state they're in.

Over the hum of chatter and the low melody of classic rock playing on the pay-by-the-quarter jukebox, their waiter shuffles over with a tired, fake smile and pen and paper ready.

"Evening, guys," the man is as old as John, but not nearly as lean or as full of hair. "Can I get you started with any water or drinks?"

John peers at her over the menu and tilts his head for her to go ahead. Deanna points at the little picture on the menu, leaning forward as she speaks.

"I'll have the double meat, double cheese, burger with extra grilled onions, a side of fries, and a Coke, thanks!"

Their waiter gapes openly at her as he jots her order down before turning back towards John with a conspiratory smirk. "Got you a girl who can eat, huh?"

John smiles back wearily through slanted eyes. "Whatever keeps her happy."

Deanna's belly curls, warm at the sound of those words. She often kept track of the kind things he let slip out, the fondness in his tone, and the warmth in his eyes when he said them. It made the hurt feel less raw when his mood would inevitably shift, and she would earn his disappointment and all his rough rage. John squeezes her calf, glancing back at the menu before ordering the dinner special and watching carefully as their waiter shuffled back behind the counter.

She drives the toe of her boot into his hip, dragging his attention back to her. "We staying in town tonight?"

The Montgomery Manor was only about an hour out from here, secluded away in a remote estate of perfectly arranged trees and flowers, a manicured lawn, just far enough outside of town to make it feel like a romantic getaway. The website had prattled on about its idyllic scenery and private gardens under each photo of the old house. Besides the latest murder, there was no mention of any strange happenings surrounding it. It was too perfect. Under all those pretty guises and fresh coats of soft blue paint, something evil lurked there.

"No use stumbling around in the dark until we know what we're dealing with. It's not like a place like that will just let us waltz on in." John traces her face with his eyes, tracking down from the ridge of her brow to the slight bump on her nose, and then, briefly, settling on her mouth before coughing and looking out the window.

Deanna prods his side again, teasing as much as she can. "Not like we're not used to a little breaking and entering."

He hums and smiles a little, fingers pressing into her calf. Deanna tenses, wanting to feel the warmth of his grip in its entirety. On hot summer days, she'd wear shorts that gave John pause as he looked her up and down wearily before deciding whatever fuss he intended to bring up wasn't worth it. Still, John would squeeze her bare thigh and pat her knee, unevenly shaven skin prickly under his touch, when they were out on the road. Over the years, she had grown needy for his affection, more so now than ever. The older she got, the less generous he was with his already fleeting kisses and gentle hugs. She had never shunned it from him, never like the girls in her middle and high schools who seemed embarrassed by the affection of their fathers as they were picked up or dropped off.

Her father had stopped giving it to them, and she had learned quickly not to bother reaching for it.

Lately, it was as if John needed it as much as she did, but he would never ask for it. It was a game of toeing the line, reaching for a hot pan on the stove, trying to figure out how close they could get before reeling back. They sit in familiar, heavy silence as they wait, watching the other customers come and go as a fresh autumn drizzle comes tumbling down outside. Deanna often thought of Sammy in quiet moments like these when they were off in another town, using another name to hide their tracks, and still playing at the same game. What was he doing now? Studying? She could laugh; he was definitely studying. She had drafted a hundred emails at one point, each one a messy flurry of thoughts and questions that would never be read, and then erased about twice as many texts.

Communication was a two-way street, or so they said, but their father had torn up that road, and Deanna could not find it in herself to be angry with Sam for not trying to go back down it. It would just be her and dad for who knew how long. There had been a time she could not imagine a life without Sam or their dad, but it was clear Sam had been.

The smell of seared meat, onions, and melting cheese tempted Deanna away from quickly growing thoughts. Her stomach grumbles at the scent of it, and if she had the shame of other girls, perhaps her father's chuckle would've embarrassed her.

"One dinner special for the gentleman and a double meat, double cheese burger for his lady!"

Their waiter takes care in placing down their plates, moving on to their filled-to-the-brim drinks before taking a lingering look at the two of them and back to the Impala outside the rain-streaked window. Deanna catches the leering look the man gives her before passing over to yap at her father, seemingly unaware of her father's off-putting appeal to conversation.

"So you two are from out of town? We don't get too many couples roadtripping this time of year."

Deanna eyes her father from over the rim of her drink, staring intently as he startles briefly at the assumption before schooling his face to an almost-easy smile. John reaches down to squeeze her ankle again, patting her calf in a beckoning to play along. The carbonation burns her throat as she swallows. Her muscles tighten as she anticipates John's next move. He waves his hand, flashing his old wedding band nonchalantly as he jumps smoothly into a lie.

"We just got hitched in Vegas." He plays idly with the edge of his napkin. "We had our fun there, but my girl here loves to see the leaves change, and I just can't deny my baby."

Deanna leans in, smiling a little too sweetly at her father as he goes on. If she were a bride and anything normal, she imagines she'd be a bit bashful at the implication of getting hitched in a city like Vegas to a much older man. Lucky for them, their waiter seems to enjoy the vicarious nature of living through John and leans in to hear all about how an old man picked up such a "fine, young lady". She purposely fiddles with the plastic straw in her drink, clinking the ice cubes together with it as she listens in.

Their waiter grins with too many teeth at her. "Can't say I wouldn't be able to deny a face as pretty as hers either."

She has to force down the grimace that quivers at her mouth. Deanna was long used to the lingering stares of men, young and old, and knew how to use them to her advantage since she was fifteen and just beginning to grow into her looks. Deanna catches John's eye, shifting subtly between him and the other man as she tries to gauge their next move. Montgomery Manor was just outside of town; surely the shock of the scene would still be lingering in the minds of every local. It had been over a month since the last deaths, the closing of their case making the news one last time before the clock started ticking again, and whatever lurked on that property stuck once more.

Deanna smiles until her cheeks ache and blinks slowly up at the man, tilting her head like she was something docile. "Someone we met on the way up here recommended some bed and breakfast nearby. What was it called again— Montgomery, I think?"

She nibbles on the crusty, seared edges of her burger as she pretends to struggle for the name. Their waiter pales and glances back at John as if suddenly this was a conversation just for the men in the room. He shrugs lightly, his name tag pulling across the tight plane of his shirt, Paul, she reads.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Montgomery Inn is just outside of town. Just an hour drive, or so."

"But?" John asks, voice gruff in the way it gets when he gets tired of playing charades. He could never play along for long.

Paul shifts his weight from one foot to the other, scratching at his chin uncomfortably. "Well, it's a nice play, typically very pricey, but, uh, what now? Over a month ago or so, there was the death of a couple out in the gardens."

Deanna lets out a polite gasp, covering her mouth with the tips of her fingers, curtly like she had seen old Hollywood actresses do a hundred times on late-night movie binges. Paul reaches over to pat her shoulder, not minding John's sharp look as his hand lingers briefly before falling back to his side.

"Sorry to dampen your meals. It is a nice place; they just opened back up, but word around town is that all their reservations this month have been canceled. Looking at hard times."

"The police ever say what happened?" John takes a bite of his patty melt, speaking between chews.

Paul sighs, looks around, and leans in a little closer. "They said it was a murder-suicide. Older man marrying a much younger bride? You two look happy, but some girls just want one thing, ya know?"

Deanna swallows down a handful of fries, watching her father think. She could tell he was itching to write something down in his journal.

"Hell, the whole place might be cursed."

John pauses, setting his food down. "What makes you say that?"

A bead of sweat pills at Paul's temples, making his already pink face glisten. "Old town rumors. They say the man who built that place did it all for a much younger bride, too. Didn't end well for them either."

Deanna lets out a huff, forcing out a girlish whine. "It looked so beautiful online…surely such a place isn't bad luck, right, baby?"

Before John can come up with a response, Paul butts in, eager to appease Deanna's worries. She could laugh at the sight of him stumbling over himself.

"It is a romantic spot…I'm sure the owners would be grateful for any business right now. Don't let me ruin your honeymoon with townie stories." Their waiter looks more than a bit embarrassed, his face now fully flushed pink like he stepped right into the Texas heat. "It's probably too late to get a room tonight, but I'm sure you'll be able to get something. Now, let me get back to the counter!"

Deanna watches him hurry away just enough to be out of earshot and takes another bite of her burger before turning back to her father. "Wow, old men really love to talk."

John pinches her ankle at the comment, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "Hey, I'm younger than that guy."

"Oh, yeah?" She wiggles her foot against his thigh. "Looks like we can cut some time on research now. You think we'll get a discount on our honeymoon suite?"

A light flush colors John's tanned face; he looks away from Deanna and coughs at the notion. She grins, mirth warm in her belly at her father's uneasiness at the ordeal of them playing husband and wife. God, Sammy would be having a heyday right now. Now she really was playing the role of dad's wife. At least there was the promise of luxurious sheets and full water pressure instead of the roadside motel variety for a day or two.

"You're fine with that?"

Her father's question catches her off guard. She couldn't remember the last time he gave her an out. The job always came first, no matter the ordeal it put them through.

"Yeah, it's no big deal." The words feel dry in her throat. Her skin prickles under the heady seriousness of his stare. John seems to be looking right through her, searching for something. "You'll have to get me a ring, though. What's the point of being with an old man if he isn't buying me blinding, tacky diamonds?"

She laughs and holds out her left hand, flexing her bare ring finger at him. John smiles, a chuckle leaving his mouth as he lightly squeezes her hand with greasy fingers before patting it away.

"We'll make a stop at a pawnshop tomorrow before we check out the place. We'll need to look the part if this thing is after couples like us."

Like us. The phrasing of it makes her feel as flustered as her father looks.

Chapter Text

Deanna wades through the last dredges of sleep, clinging to the thick weight of it as her body slowly unravels with the morning light. She drifts in the tide of blurring dreams, lingering in the dark as her father shuffles about the small room. Hurried scratches of a pen on paper are followed by the methodical clinking of metal against metal. They are familiar sounds, ones she has woken up to a thousand times before.

A quiet hush falls over the room. The ice box just outside their room hums through the wall. Socked feet shuffle across the floor. A warm weight settles on her lower back where her shirt had ridden up in her sleep. Deanna doesn't move away, doesn't flinch as the weight inches up her spine, palm settling in the dip of her back as rough fingers seem to count the notches in her spine. She doesn't want to open her eyes, doesn't want this dream to finish before she can sit with a bit longer.

Her father is never as gentle with her than the moments before he pats her back and tugs the short strands of hair at her nape to wake her. It is a comfort that has followed her throughout her entire life. Deanna counts the seconds, imagines the outline of John's hand colored into her skin like a tan even after he takes it away. She feels lips brush her temple, morning shadow tickling her skin before abruptly pulling away. A finger thumps her ear, followed by her hair being tugged. She smiles into her pillowcase before groaning and stretching out like a cat as sleep peeled away.

"Come on, Dee," John rubs his face, feeling the morning shadow against his palm. "Ain't no time to waste."

And just as the sun rises, her reality snaps back into place.

-

They drive to the far edge of town, where a small thrift store and pawn shop are sequestered away from the more uppity shops in town. It is another familiar sight that followed them from town to town. Deanna finds herself right at home as they slink in through the door of the pawn store and eye it up and down. It's a mix-mash of collectors' items, vintage and old—but maybe still new to someone—electronics, and a jewelry case filled with gold and silver that she imagines someone pawned in desperation and anger.

The old man at the counter barely looks up at them as they wander the stretch of the building, slurping noisily at the burnt-smelling coffee in his mug as he flips through the morning paper. Deanna moves over the jewelry case as John eyes the variety of switchblades and hunting knives displayed behind the counter on the wall. From time to time, in towns where strange happenings were the norm and time seemed to stand still for those in it, they would find strange weapons or knick-knacks with even stranger engravings. Her dad would buy them, the seller never knowing their worth or that they were the cause of their strange happenings.

The case glitters under the lights, diamonds and precious stones dazzling under her gaze. There are more gold and silver wedding bands to count. Deanna wasn't much for jewelry; all she had were the thin, gold hoops that she had gotten with her mother at some mall piercing booth way back in the cusp of her childhood memories. She tugs at her left lobe, running the smooth metal across her skin as she imagines what it would've been like to sit at her mother's vanity and sift through her jewelry. Maybe her hair would be as long as her mother's, just as soft and golden, woven into a braid while Deanna picked through her rings and earrings.

"Your old man finally getting you a ring?" The gruff, brittle voice of a lifelong smoker pulls her away from the thin veil of her fantasy. The store attendant had wandered over to her, coffee still in hand.

Her lip curls into a smirk before she has the right mind to put her hand over her mouth and play bashful. It was funny the way everyone seemed to think John was a cradle-robbing pervert. Deanna nods and smiles, glancing over at her father as he sifts through a catalog of old photos. The old man unlocks the counter from behind and gingerly lifts the velvet tray of rings onto the glass.

"I lost the first one in Vegas." The slips out as easily as the first one she ever told. Deanna stretches out her hand, flexing her bare ring finger as if lingering in the memory of what was once there. "Which ones are size sevens?"

"Good man to get you another." The old man flashes a rotted smile at her. "Can't let a pretty thing like you look available."

Her gut churns in revulsion. Deanna hums half-heartedly at his comment and fiddles with the rings the man pointed to. Most of the ones in her size are simple gold bands, beat-up silver, and a few with small, glittering stones. A silver band of white and gray diamonds catches her eye. Looks like salt and pepper, she thinks as she twirls it under the light. A few of the stones are missing, but even without them, it reminds her of a salt ring under the glow of a full moon. Deanna catches a glint of letting inside the band, she tilts it on its curve. 'Protect me' is scrawled in neatly stamped letters, a private request and prayer that would always touch its wearer.

Deanna slips the ring on until it sits perfectly at the base of her finger. Despite the cool metal, it almost feels warm against her skin. She wonders if it was designed by some superstitious individual, decked out in lucky numbers and wards, or perhaps it did once serve as a token of protection that actually worked. She hears her father's boots step heavily across the linoleum floor. She glances back, and he is warm at her back, a brick wall between her and the rest of the shop.

"What do you think, dad—"her tongue trips over the word as her mind races to catch her mistake. "…daddy?"

Her face burns as blood rushes to her ears, a rushing wave of shame curling in her stomach as the man behind the counter leers at the remark. Deanna only catches a glimpse of her father's wide, dark hazel eyes before quickly looking away to stare far too intently at the ring on her finger. God, she sounded like one of those girls now. She was sure they looked it, too.

Her father rests his hand at her waist, wrapping his arm around her back like he's done plenty of times before, but now, it feels like time has stopped, and her skin crawls with shame. Deanna clenches her hand, the ring glinting with its mismatched stones. John's other hand catches hers, holding her fingers up against his own like a lover might. Her heart thuds against her ribs. She feels the slight movement of her father's chest as he breathes. Is he angry? Did he catch her mistake?

"It fits you, baby." John murmurs, words a kiss against her scalp. "How much?"

It all feels like too much. She feels heavy, her body thrums with energy as she forces herself to lean back in John and pretend that this is normal, that she has done this a hundred times before. Deanna pretends not to notice the old man's heavy stare, his beady brown eyes crawling over her face from her eyes to her mouth. It's nothing she isn't used to, but now it feels unclean, as if she is being looked into instead of just at.

The old man hums, smacking his gums as he thinks upon a number. "It's been here a while on account of the missing stones. How 'bout an even one hundred?"

She stiffens against John as he exhales against her. It's too much. Why'd she pick it up? All they needed was a simple band, something cheap to play pretend with and hawk back to the next pawn shop they passed after the job was done. She had never bothered with anything more than earrings that she had had longer than she could remember, the necklace Sammy had gotten her, and the few rings boys in school would give her, snatched from their mothers' closets. John rubs his thumb across the shining diamonds, the ring of salt lining her finger like a ward.

"Sure, fair enough." His words float over her head. Deanna stands with her back tucked into her father's chest like a shrinking child, too startled to turn and stare at him in wonder. "You want it, baby?"

His question pulls her out of her tunneling thoughts, and she looks up, his chin grazing the top of her head. There is a strange look in her father's eyes. His hazel eyes shine and look softer, not cold and narrowed as they usually seemed to be. Deanna blinks rapidly, steadies her breath, and her racing heart before finding the nerve to nod her head.

"Yeah," her voice is raspy and soft, as if it is a confession of her want meant just for him. "I want it."

Deanna almost tacks on that god-awful "daddy," but it curls uncomfortably in her stomach at just the thought. The hand on her waist squeezes the soft flesh of her belly, a finger slipping under the warmth of her flannel. Deanna wanders off, ring heavy on her. John tugs her out of the store with a firm hand on her back, and the old man's slurring "congratulations" follows them out the door. The cold, wet autumn air is sharp against her skin and a refreshing chill in her lungs. Deanna breathes in deeply, skin still too hot.

The early morning fog had lifted and bled into another dreary day sometime between their morning drive over and their awkward exit. Just as she opens the passenger door, John tugs her to a stop by her belt loop. Deanna holds in the petulant sigh that sticks in her chest as her father forces her to look at him. She feels antsy as the seconds crawl on, nipping at her growing anxiety. She feels out of depth, lonely in a way she's never felt since they left Sam behind in California. John is looking down at her like he doesn't understand either. His freshly shaved face is flushed with the cold, his dark eyes pinched with whatever thoughts hang over him.

His hand reaches out, and Deanna steels her nerves. John brushes her hair back, tucking the short strands that taper around her face out of the way as a gust of wind makes a mess of it.

"Don't worry about it, Dee." Of course, he knows what's going through her mind. How could she hide from the man who had plucked and prodded her into being what he needed? "Pretend it's a birthday gift, if you want."

Deanna can't help but snort. When was the last time John had gotten her and Sam a proper gift besides a hot meal at some burger joint?

His fingers trail down her cheek until he can cup the groove of her head in the palm of his hand. Deanna looks up and finds her father's eyes again, searching for his anger and disappointment, but finds a stranger instead. Just like with Sam, she knew everything there was to know about him, and that turned out to be nothing at all. She doesn't know how to function with just the two of them. She had always played the buffer with John and Sam, filling the gaps that kept them from falling apart as the earth shifted under the wheels of the Impala. Deanna had been her father's partner longer than his daughter, and now she really was playing the role of his wife.

Sam was right. They were all seriously fucked up.

John tugs playfully at her hair. "I always thought you were more like me, but you act so much like Mary, it drives me a little crazy."

Deanna looks away. She doesn't want to hear that, doesn't want to remind John anymore of his dead wife than she already does. It's a confusing thing, wanting to know a woman who's been dead just about as long as she's been alive, and also escape from the weight of her shadow. Deanna was once a girl who wanted to know everything about her mother, to know if they looked alike, sounded alike, if her father looked at her and thought of Mary. Deanna soon figured out it was a curse to look like a dead woman. She could only dream of touching Mary Winchester, forever immortalized as a mother, forever perfect, and nothing more than a memory.

She forces out a stiff laugh. "Everybody else would say different."

John stares at her, eyes dark and heavy. She wants to squirm away. Despite the cold chill, the wind blowing in her face, Deanna feels hot. Who was he seeing now? Her mother, the little girl Deanna never quite got to be, or a woman who was a stranger to him? John traces her face, from temple to the slight dimple of her chin. She does not fight the urge to lean into his touch despite the panic that swells under her skin at the thought of him yanking his tenderness away.

"Don't worry about the ring, kiddo." His voice is as soft as she's ever heard it. John leans down and presses a dry kiss against her scalp. "It's yours."

Something unspoken lingers between them, words John won't finish. Deanna knows better than to push it and inhales sharply, letting the cold sting her lungs just to knock loose the mess in her head as John lets go and walks around to the other side of the car. The longer they were alone, Sammy gone, whatever relationship they had before seemed to split and shift into something unfamiliar. John, as much as she loved him and needed him, felt less like a father these days and more like a man she was unfamiliar with, but wanted around nonetheless. Did he see her as a daughter or a partner first, she wondered as the engine roared to life and the stench of the heater kicked on.

Montgomery Manor is tucked away, an hour or so drive from town. It is the type of place Deanna has only seen in lingering movie scenes or the bright, slick image of a postcard. After the long drive out of town and past what once were perhaps farms and groves, through the thicket of bushy woods (now becoming scraggly as their colorful leaves dropped), and down a long cobble path—there it sat, lonely and lovely. The house is a traditional Victorian mansion, bold in its architecture and the colorful stained-glass that patterns the silhouette around the front door. The website had gone on and on about its commitment to historical preservation, only going as far as to update the electrical system to a modern one when it was first sold to the current owners in the early seventies. Deanna didn't get the appeal.

John lets out a low whistle as he takes in the grandeur of the place. If it weren't for the murders that plagued the Manor's reputation, Deanna could imagine that this place would be much livelier and well out of the range of their stolen credit cards. Even with how well her father kept up with the Impala, its exterior as well loved as its interior, it seemed as out of place here as they felt.

"Good thing we changed," Deanna mutters as she takes in the massive display of a flower garden, now mostly all bush besides the few plants that seemed to take to harsher conditions. "It'll be lucky if we even make it through the door."

Changed, was putting it loosely. You didn't have many nice clothes when most of your life was lived on the road and spent chasing creatures through decrepit houses and muddy woods. While John could get away with dark-wash jeans and a buttoned-up flannel, Deanna was forced to spend time scouring the town's secondhand store. The best she had come up with was a dark blue cable-knit sweater with intricate details that ran up and down the torso. John had snorted and remarked that if she had taller boots, she'd fit in with a polo team. She had even gone as far as tidying up her hair, brushing and spraying the short strands into place until it looked somewhat less like the usual helmet hair she woke up with and more like Betty Boop.

Or, so she hoped.

"I already called." John twists the keys and the engine quiets. "Lady could barely hold her relief back that someone might still want to stay here. Guess our waiter wasn't lying about them being desperate."

Deanna takes another long glance across the endless woods that line the edges of the property, the ground a mix of gold and red as their branches become skinny and twisted along the skyline with the coming winter. Even with the lingering heat on her skin as they stepped outside of the safety of the Impala, the fine hairs on her neck and arms prickled with the sensation of being watched. They walk down the long stone path, each dark grey circle polished smooth and engraved with flowers. Deanna turns her eyes towards the second floor of the manor. A shadow flickers past the window.

The wooden door slowly opens as they are just at the porch steps, the mid-day sun gleams off the stained glass as it catches the light. An older woman steps out with a tepid, anxious smile as she greets them. She is older than her father; the woman's dark, greying hair is pulled back in a severe bun as nearly as conservative as her dark woolen skirt and turtleneck combo. If Sam were around, she would've already made a joke about a discount nun. Their shoes clack heavily against the wooden steps, too loud for such a quiet place. Deanna peeks back over her shoulder. The Impala looks impossibly far away. The cold air settles in her belly.

"Welcome!" The woman's face stretches into a wide smile, but the strain in her eyes remains. "You must be the Greens! We're so pleased to welcome you to Montgomery Manor in celebration of your honeymoon."

John reaches out a hand and smiles charmingly, the beginnings of crows' feet crinkling at the corners of his eyes. She smiles softly to herself, struck by the oddness of realizing how handsome he was playing this role—a new husband, skin still warm with a lingering summer tan, and the toothy grin that made it seem like nothing had ever harmed him in the past. Maybe it was easy to play pretend when you knew, apart from a murderous ghost, you'd at least get to sleep in fancy, feather-down beds. John tugs her a little closer, hand at her waist as he shakes the woman's hand.

"Yes, and this is my wife Dana," fingers squeeze her hip, reminding her to play along. "Thank you for accommodating us at the last minute."

She hated playing pretend. The most they had ever done before was have her play bait when it came to luring out vampires and other creatures that seemed determined to strike the lonely, pretty traveler. Deanna smiles anyway and takes the woman's warm, soft hand in hers before the woman ushers them out of the cold and off the veranda.

"Please, please, come in." Despite the sun, another rough wind rouses behind them and shakes the trees free of a few more leaves. "I'm so happy to have guests, especially this time of year! Most couples visit us in the spring and summer months. It can get quite lonely in these parts this time of year."

The warm, sugary scents of the typical fall variety blanket the entryway among with a hint of burning wood. It is rich and sweet and something like a pumpkin pie to Deanna's senses. God, she'd kill for a pie right now. The manor is pleasantly warm despite the massive windows that line the front of the house. It is as perfect and bright as depicted in the online shots, draped in mellow lights and richly colored linens meant for the colder months rather than the ones she had seen in the spring photos. From the foyer, Deanna can see the winding staircases that meet either wall, each decorated in garlands made of felt leaves and red berries. Directly in front of them lies the sitting room, which sits perfect and ready for guests, as if plucked from an ornate dollhouse.

"It's even more beautiful than the pictures," John tells their host, laying on all the niceties that must've once been instilled in him before his world shifted and warped into something else. "I can't see why anyone wouldn't want to spend this time of year here, Miss Holland."

The woman laughs bashfully, struck by her father's charm. "Please, call me Sherry, you two."

Deanna feels out of place here despite her eagerness to slip into a soft, warm bed with even softer sheets after her plan of taking a boiling hot bubble bath in the clawfoot tub she had seen. Deanna spins her head in all directions, trying to catch sight of any strange shadows or distorted, creepy paintings hanging on the walls that may give a clue to where their ghost transmuted from while it waited for its next victim. But there were no seemingly grim and cracked paintings, no broken mirrors that spoke of a curse. It was perfectly normal. The walls were dusted from corner to corner, and each painting was of a bright, pleasant landscape of gardens and woods. The few portraits that lined the wall were soft and romantic as one would expect for a place like this.

Sherry follows Deanna's line of sight to the center portrait of a young, light-haired woman along the hall. The woman hesitates, as if unsure to speak.

Deanna asks anyway. "Is this one of the original owners of the manor?"

Deanna knew it was, of course. Her brief time in the local library newspaper catalog had brought her face-to-face with an image of the young woman from her wedding day, just weeks before her murder. John had laughed in disbelief when she had brought home a print-out of it. 'She could be your twin,' was all he said before running over the articles for any clues. She hadn't seen the resemblances before in the grainy, black and white, snapshot, but now, it felt odd staring into the painted green eyes of a long-dead woman who looked so much like her. Annette Montgomery stared back at her unseeingly, the once vivid green of her eyes dulled by the passage of time as the varnish on her portrait yellowed with it.

Sherry clears her throat and walks up to the center portrait, its oval frame a gilded gold that encloses Annette like a halo. Sherry rubs her hands against her dark skirt, glancing between the portrait and Deanna.

"Ah, yes, this lovely young woman was Annette, the young bride of Author Montgomery, who was the last owner of his family estate. This portrait of Annette was an engagement gift from the young bride to her future husband."

The silence is heavy as their host trails off, swallowing nervously as if hoping not to be questioned even more.

"She was beautiful," John says, walking closer as if to inspect the portrait more thoughtfully, but Deanna knows he is looking for some sign of corruption—a curse that lingered in it. "Did you buy the estate from the family? I can't imagine giving a place like this up."

"After the untimely deaths of the couple…the estate sat vacant for quite some time. My father bought the property in the early seventies, and I've taken over since." Sherry pauses before continuing, eyes flickering between the portrait and the two of them. "There is a private library that we keep with historical artifacts that were owned by the family. If you enjoy local history, please help yourselves."

Deanna walks over and wraps an arm around John's. She presses her cheek into his bicep and smiles exaggeratedly. "Careful, John will gladly spend our entire stay in there, if you let him!"

Sherry smiles, relieved that their conversation was steering away from death.

"Please, right this way. I'll show you the honeymoon suite and then we can have a nice pre-dinner tea!"

The stairs don't so much as creak as they are led upstairs into the rest of the finely decorated house. No bloodstains mar the wood floors, the walls are clean—the wallpaper left untouched by gore, and there is no sulfuric stench to mark the taint of a haunting. It is perfect in every way. A weight curls in Deanna's belly as Sherry chatters on about each and every detail she thinks they're interested in. The sweet, damp smell of autumn follows them through the house.

Deanna looks down over the stairwell one last time before they round the corner. Annette's portrait hasn't moved, her eyes haven't followed her up the stairs, but the creeping sensation of being watched prickles at Deanna's skin. 

The honeymoon suite is a grand room that must have once been the main bedroom of the couple. In the center is a large four-post wooden bed frame with ornate details carved into each spindly post. A canopy of soft, sheer fabric hangs over it as if to play at privacy. As soon as their host leaves them to set up their evening tea and plates, Deanna gleefully plops onto the bed in a heavy leap. The too many throw pillows and comforter pillows around her in a soft cocoon. If her father wasn't in the room, she'd roll around atop the sheets like she had seen them do in the movies. Instead, she lets out a contented sigh and flips over on her belly to watch John case the room, peeking behind closets and opening drawers. 

Right, she should be doing that too. But John hadn't gotten on to her; he hadn't so much as patronized her since they got into town. Her chest is tight with the waiting, the waiting, and waiting for the other shoe to drop. When had John stopped treating her like the wild child he raised, gripped tight, and let loose on the world with a gun in hand? After Sam left, things had worsened. He had drunk more and smoked. John would go days without speaking to her. He had left her behind on more than a couple of occasions when he drowned himself in half-thought leads. Sometime between then and now, on itchy sheets and long drives, John had let himself be kinder to her. 

Deanna wishes it would only last. She had missed John in a way she didn't know how to put into words. It was a constant ache that she had grown used to, an open wound raw and exposed that only festered when she felt his disapproval and indifference. For now, the feeling had scabbed over—still there, aching, but not so awful. John lets out a sigh and turns back to her. He walks over in long, relaxed strides and reaches out to run a hand over her neatened hair. He doesn't say anything for a long moment, as if lost in thought, as he strokes her head. His normally tight mouth and narrowed eyes are softer, fine lines smoothed over. 

"You finish checking things out up here, Dee." He thumbs at the curve of her ear. "I'm gonna go check out that library and do as much of a sweep around the rest of the ground floor that I can."

John leaves her with the buzz of his touch still lingering on her skin. She turns to watch him leave, the long line of him filled out with slender muscle that shifts with each step. Deanna licks her lips, throat dry as she reaches up to touch her ear. Her chest tightens, thick with uncomfortable warmth. Deanna plops her face into the comforter and lets out a muffled groan. 

The sunlight shifts through the windows. Already, the sun was beginning to sink across the horizon, casting their room in dancing shadows. How long had it taken for the couples to be killed? Three days? Deanna watches slivers of light peaking through the clouds, wondering what set off the chain of events. The husband kills first his bride, and then, himself. Did the entity going after these people possess the man, re-enacting the same event over and over again? 

"Heh, maybe we should just burn this place down." The wind blows hard, and the house seems to groan in protest. 

Deanna pulls herself from the bed and takes a lingering look around the room. Everything looks as if it were out of a movie. Each step throughout the house feels like a step out of time. She opens the doors to the armoire and finds thick, plush white robes, and next to them, a silvery-white dress. Deanna runs her fingers down the length of it. It's dated, but not quite of the time to be an antique of the young Annette. A dress that one of the young brides never got to wear, left behind and forgotten? 

A bell chimes, and an awkward knock raps against the door. Deanna startles, shutting the door to the wardrobe much harder than she intended to. It was so strangely quiet, as if she had been pulled away from the rest of the house, and now she was flung back in. She shakes off the strange weight and moves to open the door only to find their host. Sherry smiles warmly, her hands occupied by a large tray. 

"Hello, dear. May I come in?" 

Deanna smiles back and steps aside to watch the older woman walk unshakeably to the small sitting table adjacent to the bed. 

She sets everything down in smooth, easy movements. "Alright, I have a nice Earl Grey tea along with a few cubes of sugar and milk, as well. I noticed Mr. Green was in the library; should I bring a cup to him?" 

Deanna shakes her head and walks over, eyeing the delicate teapot, painted with gentle blue flowers, set about with its matching cups and milk saucers. She feels almost giddy at the thought of drinking from them. "No, that's okay. My—my husband gets a bit tunnel-visioned when it comes to old books. It would go cold by the time he looks down again." 

She laughs, tongue still fumbling over calling John her husband. Deanna tries to slip into the role of a nice, normal girl, married to a nice, older man. How many times had their host watched this exact scene play out? Did she feel a tug in her gut? A sense of deja vu? Sherry laughs gently with her, tucking the now-empty tray under her arm. She looks over Deanna with a heavy, anxious stare in her dark eyes. 

"You're such a beautiful young woman. You look just like Annette, now that I'm thinking about it!" Sherry hums, as if holding her words in her throat before speaking again. "I hope your stay here is only blessed…this place needs a few more happy memories." 

She says it quietly, trailing off as if speaking more to herself than to Deanna. 

"Well, I'm just starting dinner, so I hope you have an appetite for a heart steak and potatoes! But please, feel free to walk around the manor and the gardens. We have lighting all the way to the gazebo, so it's perfect for a late-night stroll with your hubby."

Deanna could gag at the use of the word "hubby" to describe John. She smiles, biting back a shit-eating grin and unladylike laugh. "Thank you so much. That sounds nice." 

Just as the door clicks shut with a heavy thud, Deanna is already pouring herself a cup of tea with copious milk and sugar. She sipped on the still-too-hot liquid gingerly as she wandered over to the window, peering outside to find the path leading to the garden. From here, Deanna could make out the large, white gazebo just past the tall maze-like walls of perfectly trimmed bushes and winter flowers that somehow still bloomed. Each couple had been killed in the house. Only one had made it outside, just past the French doors into the garden. 

Was she drinking the same tea they drank, walking their very path? Deanna shakes the thought from her head and eagerly walks over to the bathroom, where her promised claw-foot tub was promised to be. She groans in delight as she cracks open the door. The porcelain shines under the soft, warm bathroom light. Soon, she was going to live out her dream, a bubble bath in a fancy tub, and sip tea like a Hollywood starlet! 

Dinner ends up being a quiet affair. Their host scuttles off from the dining hall as soon as she is done setting the table, with barely a word other than "enjoy" before disappearing behind the doors that must lead into the kitchen area. John sits at the end of the long dinner table and her to his left. The lights are dimmed, low and romantic, to give the candles room to offer proper mood lighting. Deanna snickers to herself before removing the silver dome from her plate. 

The smell of rich, brown gravy and caramelized onions fills the room. Deanna's mouth waters at the sight of her smothered steak and steaming mashed potatoes. Even the long-stemmed green beans looked good, and not out of a can for once. Sherry had left them with a bottle of some red wine that was supposedly a "good pairing", although Deanna didn't quite get what the point of coordinating your dinner with your booze was. The wine left her mouth dry, but filled her belly with a familiar warmth, and so she drank heartily.

"You find anything?" She asks, voice low between bites of steak. 

John had brought his journal to dinner. A familiar sight, one that often left Deanna feeling anxious. She supposed it was a good sign that it wasn't open. John leans back in his chair, glancing towards the kitchen door at the end of the dining room as he takes a long sip from his wine glass. 

"Lady wasn't kidding about them keeping this place stocked with historic artifacts. That library has record books dating back over a hundred years." He cuts into his steak. Blood bleeds into his mashed potatoes. "It'll be a minute before we find something useful, I reckon. If we're lucky, this guy may have left behind a diary." 

"You think it's Montgomery?" She asks, already pleasantly buzzed. She couldn't remember drinking wine before; it left her feeling warm and light. "Our host seems pretty tight-lipped. You think she knows more than she's saying?"

The candles flicker. There is soft music playing from another room. Deanna settles into the easy atmosphere despite the blood-hungry ghost haunting the place. 

"I'm sure she thinks this place is cursed or haunted. I'm surprised she hasn't bothered to just up and sell it."

"Who wants to buy a haunted house besides ghost-obsessed freaks?" John gives her a little smile, eyes warm with alcohol. "Well, we know it's always between three and five days before it strikes. You're not going to go crazy on me, are you, daddy?" 

It slips off her tongue, loose and quick, before she can even process what she's saying. Deanna blushes and kicks John's ankle lightly, an almost apology. Even in the low light, she can see the flush grazing his cheeks. 

"Deanna, you're making me look like an old lecher, please." John laughs, rubbing at his face in embarrassment. 

"You gotta play the part." She takes another bite. "Besides, all these other men were older…maybe that really does have something to do with it. Our ghost doesn't like pervs." 

"Let's just hope we get to sleep through the night. That mattress in that last hotel was killing my back."