Supernatural Oneshots | ✓

The Backyard Burial Service {Sam}

Prompt inspiration: 642 Tiny Things to Write About by The San Francisco Writers' Grotto

Prompt: I buried it in the backyard. (What?)

Summary/prompt change: "Hi, welcome to the fucking nuthouse, where we kill people and bury them in our backyards. What the hell do you want?"

"Um, what?"

"Never mind."

"It's been done." You stick your shovel into the ground and swipe at your forehead, smearing black dirt over the skin.

"Good." It's your mother. "Now that's one less thing we have to worry about."

Two days after you killed it and buried the body, and you were going mad. Don't tell anyone, your mother had said, we don't know if it was a person or something else.

She'd locked you up in her house, afraid that you'd go straight to the cops. You'd never do that, of course, but your mother is paranoid. She always was.

You weren't supposed to answer the phone, but something crazy possessed you to when it rang. "Hi, welcome to the fucking nuthouse," you said pleasantly, "where we kill people and bury them in our backyards. What the hell do you want?"

There were exactly three and a half beats of silence on the other end of the phone. "Um, what?" The voice was male.

"Never mind." You hung up fast.

Two hours later, your cell phone rang. Your mother had told you that your uncle would be calling from a number that would read No Caller ID, so you picked up the phone and answered it quickly. "I buried it in the backyard."

"What?"

It wasn't your uncle.

It was that same voice that you'd spouted your insanity to earlier. "Who are you?" You hissed, glancing around like you could be heard. Ha. Like there was anyone in the house to hear you. "And why the hell do you keep calling? More importantly, how do you have this number and my home phone number?"

There was the sound of shuffling, followed by another man speaking. He sounded distant. Man Number One must've put it on speaker phone. "Miss, we're with the–"

"Cut the bullshit now." You snapped. "I've been locked up in this house for two days, buddy. I'm going fucking nuts, and if you lie I just might fucking snap. Spill."

"We heard there's something in your house." Man Number One said. "Something not normal. We're, um. We're here to help you out with that."

You threw your head back and laughed. You sounded insane, even to yourself. "You're too late." You laughed. "I killed it. I killed it. Ran it through with a kitchen knife, and then a fire poker, and then I dragged the body out to the backyard and buried it."

Yep. You were definitely nuts.

Your mother was rubbing off on you.

"What?" It was the second man. He sounded both horrified and incredulous. "Sam, we need to go over there." That wasn't intended for your ears.

"You can't." You said. "Well, you can, but I won't open the door. I'm not allowed."

"Are you usually this insane?" Man Number Two asked. "Or is this a product of you thinking you murdered a person? Which, by the way, I can assure you that that thing you killed and buried was not a person."

"I'm still a killer." You said. "Still dangerous."

The line clicked dead.

Five minutes later, there was a knock on the door. You swung it open. On the other side were two men–tall, attractive, and so nice to see after the loneliness of the past couple of days.