The Haunting of Lockwood Estates | Nancy Drew x Supernatural Crossover 01

Chapter 17 - Dean

Ashwood Parkway

Blackridge, New Hampshire

Monday 10 March 2008

"Thank you, Sheriff Reeves," Sam says into his cell phone. "You've been a great help," he concludes before ending the call.

I drive down a narrow stretch of road and glance at Sam. "What did he say?" I ask. "Are there any Woodburys left?"

"Just one," Sam informs. "Nora Woodbury."

"Great. Where is she?"

He doesn't reply.

"Sam?"

"Blackridge Senior Living," he finally answers.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me. The only thing worse than a cemetery is a nursing home." I glare at the road. There is nothing worse than seeing old people wasting their last years alone and confused. They are basically walking corpses, already left behind and forgotten by their family. No one wants to deal with them, so they're just stuffed somewhere nice until they finally keel over and die. I guess one upside about being dragged to Hell in a couple months is knowing I'll never live in a place like that.

"It's not that far from here," Sam says, ignoring my complaints. "Just take this road until we get downtown. The sheriff said the signs are pretty obvious, so it will be easy to find."

"Yeah, okay," I say bitterly. I glare at each perfectly blanketed lawn and nice car we pass. I didn't want to go into a nursing home. I reach the end of the neighborhood and see a sign pointing towards downtown and follow it left.

The downtown area is crammed with short, aged buildings. The architecture is old with a couple modern buildings thrown into the mix. But it's easy to see this place is the usual tourist trap. Most buildings are shops selling antiques and souvenirs with a few local restaurants thrown in between. A pie shop catches my eye. We'll have to stop by later.

"Dean!" Sam nags me.

I turn my attention back to the road and slam on my brakes. "Son of a bitch!" I exclaim. A small car is inches in front of us. It crawls at the slow twenty-five mile per hour speed limit. I think maybe he's trying to turn, but he keeps going. At twenty-five miles per hour. I grip the steering wheel angrily and inwardly curse this one-laned road. I'm about to really start tailgating this guy when I see the glowing sign "Blackridge Senior Living" off to my right. Following Speedy here, we slowly pull into the small parking lot and easily find a spot near the entrance. The little snow that got past the thick ceiling of trees has been cleanly shoveled, with salt spread for extra security. There are only five other cars here, no doubt belonging to the staff. I glare at the building in front of us. It's in great condition, but I knew it was only a facade for the depression and death on the inside.

"Here," Sam says in his soft, reassuring voice, handing me my FBI badge. I take it and put it into my inside suit pocket. "Just let me do most of the talking, and then we'll be out before you know it."

"Yeah, okay," I say with a sigh. I get out of the car, expecting more cool air but don't get it. The sunshine is nice and warm as we make our way inside. I open the door and am immediately bombarded with the smell of cleaning chemicals. Great. A younger guy is sitting at the front desk, looking at a computer screen. He glances up as we get closer.

"Hi." He flashes us a small smile. He glances over our suits, and his smile falters. "How can I help you guys today?"

We both pull out our badges.

"We're looking for a Nora Woodbury?" Sam says. "You know where we can find her?"

The receptionist stares at Sam's badge before pulling his eyes away. "Uh, yeah. Let me just check her schedule real quick. Is she in trouble?"