First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
A month.
That's all it took for me to go from "barely surviving Bobby's training" to "genuinely terrifying the old man with how fast I picked things up."
I twirled the silver knife in my hand, watching the morning light glint off the blade before flipping it and catching it by the handle—again, and again, and again.
Bobby eyed me from across the kitchen table, his coffee steaming between his hands. "You gonna do that all damn day, or you actually gonna eat?"
I smirked. "What, not impressed by my skills?"
"I'm impressed you haven't stabbed yourself yet."
I flipped the knife one last time before slamming it point-first into the table, where it stuck with a satisfying thunk. "There. Happy?"
Bobby sighed. "That was a good table."
"It's got character now."
He muttered something under his breath that sounded like "I'm too old for this," but I caught the faintest twitch of his lips.
Progress.
After that, we went toward the living room and eat breakfast there.
After breakfast, Bobby tossed a manila folder onto the table in front of me.
I raised an eyebrow. "What's this? Your secret chili recipe?"
"Case file."
I froze.
Bobby leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Vengeful spirit. Two deaths in the last week, same MO—victims found with their throats slit, no signs of struggle. Local PD's clueless, but the signs are all there. Salt burns at the scene, cold spots reported by witnesses."
My pulse kicked up. A real hunt.
I flipped open the folder, scanning the details. Blackwater Ridge, Colorado. Small town, dense woods, and a history stretching back to the 1800s.
"So," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "you're finally cutting me loose?"
Bobby's expression was unreadable. "You're ready. Or at least, you're as ready as you're gonna get."
I grinned. "Aw, Bobby. Is that pride I hear?"
"It's common sense. If I don't let you go now, you'll just sneak out anyway."
"You know me so well."
An hour later, I was packed—salt, iron rounds, a machete because why not, and enough junk food to fuel a small army.
Bobby stood on the porch, arms crossed, watching as I double-checked my duffel.
"You remember how to salt and burn?"
"Yes, Dad."
"And you've got your phone?"
"Yes."
"And you'll call if you run into trouble?"
I rolled my eyes. "Bobby, I'll be fine. It's one ghost."
"Famous last words," he grumbled. Then he jerked his chin toward the driveway. "C'mere."
I followed him around back, where something was hidden under a tarp.
Bobby yanked the cover off with a flourish.
My jaw dropped.
A Nissan 350Z, sleek and black with gold racing stripes, gleamed under the afternoon sun.
I blinked. "Is that…?"
"Yours. Temporarily." Bobby pointed a finger at me. "You scratch it, you die."
I didn't even care that he was threatening me. I was too busy staring at the car like it was the Holy Grail.
"Bobby, I could kiss you."
He took a deliberate step back. "Try it and I'll shoot you."
I ran a hand along the hood, grinning like an idiot. "Where the hell did you even get this?"
"Hunter auction. Won it off a guy who didn't know what he had."
I threw my arms around him in a bear hug. "You're the best, you grumpy old bastard."
Bobby stiffened, then awkwardly patted my back. "Yeah, yeah. Just bring it back in one piece."
I pulled away, still grinning. "Deal."
The engine purred to life under my hands, a deep, throaty growl that sent a thrill down my spine.
Bobby leaned in the driver's side window. "Remember—salt first, ask questions later."
I saluted. "Aye aye, Captain."
He scowled. "And don't get cocky."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I shifted into gear, the car rolling forward as Bobby stepped back.
One last glance in the rearview mirror showed him standing there, arms crossed, watching me go.
I couldn't resist. I rolled down the window, shouting back, "Love you, old man!"
His answering middle finger was the last thing I saw before the road swallowed me whole.
---
The drive to Blackwater Ridge took most of the day, the landscape shifting from flat plains to dense forests as I crossed into Colorado.
By the time I pulled into town, the sun was dipping below the trees, casting long shadows across the road.
I parked outside the local diner—because if there was one thing I'd learned from the Winchesters, it was that all hunting started with pie.
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped inside. A few locals glanced up, their eyes lingering just a little too long.
Right. Small towns.
I slid into a booth, nodding at the waitress who approached. "Coffee, please. And whatever pie you've got that's fresh."
She smirked. "Apple's good today."
"Then apple it is."
As she walked away, I pulled out Bobby's file, spreading the photos across the table. Two victims, both killed in their homes, both with the same eerie lack of struggle.
A voice cut through my thoughts.
"You're not from around here."
I looked up. A grizzled man in a sheriff's uniform stood over me, his gaze sharp.
I smiled. "Just passing through."
His eyes dropped to the photos. "That so?"
Shit.
I kept my voice easy. "Research. I'm a writer."
"What kind of writer carries a machete in his trunk?"
My smile didn't waver. "The prepared kind."
The sheriff studied me for a long moment before nodding toward the door. "Walk with me."
I exhaled. Well. This hunt just got interesting.
******
First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
Sheriff Rocky Shwact had the kind of stare that could peel paint off a wall.
He leaned against his cruiser, arms crossed, watching me like I was a suspicious stain on his otherwise pristine town.
"So," he said, voice drier than a salt circle in the desert, "you wanna explain why you're rolling into my town with a damn machete in your trunk?"
I grinned. "This is America, Sheriff. Land of the free, home of the heavily armed."
His eye twitched. "Son, I've been doing this job twenty years. You ain't the first city boy to come sniffing around with more weapons than sense."
"City boy?" I pressed a hand to my chest, mock-offended. "I'll have you know I'm a proud graduate of the Bobby Singer School of Charm and Etiquette."
"Never heard of it."
"Yeah, the dropout rate's pretty high."
The sheriff sighed, rubbing his temples like I was giving him a migraine. "Look. I don't know what you're really here for, and frankly? I don't wanna know. But if I catch you so much as jaywalking, I'll throw you in a cell so fast your head'll spin. Understood?"
I gave him my best who, me? look. "Wouldn't dream of causing trouble, Sheriff."
Nah, I just hunt ghosts. Totally normal trouble.
Rocky squinted at me like he could hear my thoughts. Then he jerked his chin toward the diner. "Get your damn pie and stay out of my way."
I saluted. "Yes, sir."
As he stomped off, I couldn't help but smirk.
Game on.
---
The diner's apple pie was good—warm, buttery, and just the right amount of cinnamon. I scarfed down two slices while flipping through Bobby's file, cross-referencing it with the local gossip I'd picked up.
The waitress, a sharp-eyed woman named Darlene, refilled my coffee. "You ask a lotta questions for a writer."
I shrugged. "Details make the story."
She nodded toward the file. "Those the Grady brothers?"
Bingo.
I kept my voice casual. "You knew them?"
"Everyone knew 'em. Mean drunks, the both of 'em. Nobody's too broken up they're gone." She lowered her voice. "Though the way they died… that got folks talking."
I leaned in. "Oh?"
Darlene glanced around before continuing. "Found 'em in their own homes, sittin' in their chairs like they'd just… froze. No blood, no fightin'. Just… dead." She shuddered. "Like somethin' watched 'em go."
I tapped the file. "Any idea what they did to piss off the wrong person?"
She snorted. "Where do I start? Cheated at cards, skipped out on tabs, and old Ms. Pritchard swore they burned down her barn back in '98."
My eyebrows shot up. "Burned?"
"Yep. Killed her prize stallion too."
Well, well. Vengeful spirits loved a good arson backstory.
I slid a twenty across the counter. "Thanks, Darlene. You've been incredibly helpful."
She pocketed the bill with a smirk. "You're trouble, ain't ya?"
"Trouble's my middle name."
"Mmhm. Well, Trouble—" She nodded toward the window, where Sheriff Shwact was eyeballing us from the parking lot. "—you might wanna use the back door."
---
The Blackwater Ridge Historical Society was about as exciting as it sounded—a tiny building stuffed with dusty ledgers and a receptionist who looked like she'd been there since the Civil War.
I flashed my best smile. "Hi there! I'm doing research on local legends. Any chance you've got records from the late 1800s?"
The woman—Mabel, according to her name tag—peered at me over her glasses. "You one of them ghost hunters?"
I choked. "What? No! I'm, uh… a historian."
She snorted. "Kid, I've seen your type before. You got that look."
"What look?"
"The 'I'm about to go poke a bear with a stick' look."
I grinned. "Okay, maybe I'm curious about the Grady brothers' deaths."
Mabel sighed but hauled out a ledger. "Fine. But if you get yourself killed, don't come cryin' to me."
Ten minutes of digging later, I hit paydirt.
Eleanor Pritchard.
Not just any victim—the Grady brothers' first. Her obituary listed her death in 1898: "Died tragically in a barn fire."
But the real goldmine? Her grave was unmarked.
Bingo.
---
By sundown, I was parked near the old Pritchard farm, loading my duffel with salt, lighter fluid, and a shovel.
Bobby's voice echoed in my head: "Don't get fancy. Salt and burn. That's it."
I smirked. "Yeah, yeah. Salt, burn, don't die. Got it."
The woods were eerily quiet as I trekked toward the property, the only sound the crunch of leaves under my boots.
Then—cold.
A sudden, unnatural chill swept over me, raising the hairs on my neck.
I froze.
Not alone.
A whisper drifted through the trees: "You shouldn't be here."
I slowly turned.
A woman stood between the trees, her dress charred, her eyes hollow pits of rage.
Eleanor Pritchard.
And she looked pissed.
I grinned, hefting the shovel. "So. Heard you've got a thing for burning people alive."
Her face twisted. "They deserved it."
"Yeah, yeah. Revenge is a dish best served eternally tormented, blah blah." I dropped the bag, pulling out the salt. "Listen, Eleanor—can I call you Ellie?—I get it. They were dicks. But you gotta move on."
She lunged.
I dove sideways, rolling to my feet as her clawed hands raked through where I'd just been.
Okay. No more banter.
I hurled a handful of salt at her. She shrieked, her form flickering like a bad TV signal.
"Salt and burn," I muttered, sprinting for the shovel. "Salt and burn—"
A force like a freight train slammed into my back, sending me face-first into the dirt.
Ow.
Eleanor's weight pressed down on me, her breath icy against my ear. "You'll burn too."
I wheezed. "Y'know, I really hate when ghosts monologue—"
I twisted, driving my elbow back. It passed through her, but the distraction was enough to roll free.
She screamed, the sound rattling my bones—
Then I threw the entire bag of salt at her.
For a second, she just… stopped.
I didn't wait.
Lighter fluid. Matches. Burn.
The flames roared to life, consuming the unmarked grave as Eleanor's form writhed in the firelight.
"NO!"
Then—silence.
The cold lifted. The air stilled.
And just like that… she was gone.
I collapsed onto my back, gasping.
Holy shit. I did it.
Then, from the trees:
"What in the hell are you doin'?"
I groaned.
Sheriff Shwact stood at the tree line, flashlight in one hand, gun in the other, looking very done with my existence.
I waved weakly. "Uh… camping?"