The Witch and The Hunters

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

Page count: 11

Three days later...

"What the bloody hell was that?" Hermione panted, slamming the door shut behind her and bracing her back against it. Her chest rose and fell quickly, curls wild and sticking to her damp forehead.

Three days. Three nights.

And they were still stuck in the haunted hotel.

Yes, it was nicer than the motels they usually checked into—clean sheets, actual pillows, even room service—but all of that meant absolutely nothing when a homicidal spirit kept trying to carve them into furniture.

"That," Dean panted, leaning against the opposite wall, bar of iron in one hand, shotgun full of salt pellets in the other, "was a violent spirit."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Remind me to introduce you to the spirits in my world."

Dean snorted. "Why?"

"Because they're a lot nicer, and most of them don't try to kill you. They usually ignore you entirely unless you give them a reason not to."

Dean wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. "Yeah, well... if only it were that easy over here."

Hermione opened her mouth to reply, and shrieked when a ghostly head phased through the door right beside her shoulder.

She bolted behind Dean so fast that her hair practically left an afterimage.

"You okay there?" Dean asked, amusement dripping through the concern in his voice as she peeked over his shoulder like a startled kitten.

"Yes," she snapped, straightening her back and trying to pretend she hadn't just used him as a human shield. "He just—startled me."

The ghost, a middle-aged man with sunken, hateful eyes, drifted fully into the room and stared at them both in a way Hermione very much did not appreciate.

"What's taking him so long?" Hermione muttered through clenched teeth.

"Sammy's gotta dig up the bones first," Dean said, gun raised, eyes tracking the spirit. "And that takes time."

Hermione huffed. "Next time, I'll do it. You deal with the angry, recently deceased murder victim, and with a few spells, I can have the earth dug up, bones destroyed, ground put back—no evidence left behind. Ten minutes tops."

Dean shot her a look. "And you're just telling me this now because...?"

"Well, I'm sorry—I've been a little distracted by Freddy McCreeperson over there."

"McPeterson," Dean corrected, not even trying to hide his grin.

The ghost scowled at them, clearly offended by the nickname, and began to swirl into something more solid—more dangerous.

Then he lunged.

Dean fired instantly. The salt pellet shot through the ghost's torso and blew him apart like smoke.

Hermione sagged in relief—

"Ah! Merlin's beard!" she shrieked as the spirit reappeared at her other side, knife raised and aimed straight for her heart.

Before Dean could react, the blade burst into blue-gold flames mid-air, evaporating. The fire caught the ghost next, engulfing him completely. He let out a distorted scream before being dragged violently down through the floorboards, leaving only a scorch mark behind.