Turn the Page -Sequel to More Than a Feeling

Chapter 1

Two flashlight beams swept the huge, high-ceilinged room: the dusty floor, the big metal saws, the stacks of freshly cut boards. Yellow crime scene tape crisscrossed one large saw. The steel semicircle above the cutting surface flashed in the focused light, its teeth still stained red. Dark drips striped the silver metal.

Sam turned his flashlight away. The scene he and Dean had witnessed here earlier today had been grisly, even by their standards. But it was definitely their kind of thing. One gruesome death at a lumber mill was an accident. Three in two weeks was supernatural.

Sam's light landed on a door. "Hey, Dean. Break room." The brothers headed in.

"What are we looking for, man?" Dean asked. "What part of Stu would still be left here after three months?"

Sam shook his head. They'd salted and burned Stu's bones the night before, but the shift supervisor had been found sawn in half this morning. Obviously, there was something here. They just didn't know what it was. Sam studied his side of the room: plastic folding chairs, two big coffee makers, three vending machines. No personal belongings.

"Anything?" he asked.

"Nada."

They left the room and continued searching. More big blades, more boards, more sawdust. Then Dean called from up ahead. "Sammy. Locker room." That sounded promising.

A row of dingy, beat up, gray lockers lined the far side of the room. Strips of masking tape, curling up on the ends, bore employees' names in black Sharpie. Dean started on the right and worked his way along the row. "Rawlings, O'Dell, Brown, Carter—Bingo." Dean's light illuminated a strip of tape with the name "Barker." He glanced at Sam before opening the locker.

Their two beams fell on nothing. The locker appeared empty. "Oh, come on," Dean growled.

Sam guided his flashlight around the corners of the shelf, then down to the bottom of the locker. "Hey, wait." He bent lower, and spotted a small, dark comb, nearly the same color as the metal. Stuck between its thin teeth and littered around it was what amounted to a small pile of straight black hair. Sam moved aside and motioned for Dean to look.

His brother leaned in, and quickly straightened again, nose wrinkled. "Seriously?"

Sam shrugged. "One of the employees I interviewed said Stu was sort of OCD about combing his hair."

Dean eyed the bottom of the locker. "That's disgusting." Then he pulled the lighter from his pocket and tossed it to Sam. "I call not it."

Sam caught the lighter reflexively. "Dean, how is that—"

"Not it." Dean had already turned his back and started for the door.

Sam sighed. He crouched down, and after a moment's hesitation, started sweeping the hairs into a pile with his fingers. He brushed the pile and the comb out onto the floor, then flicked the lighter open.

Its low flame illuminated a well-worn pair of work boots that hadn't been there a moment before. Sam looked up to see a large, sallow, black-haired man in overalls with a patch bearing the name "Stu." His right leg was black with blood, and nearly severed at the thigh. Next instant, the ghost planted a boot in Sam's chest. His lungs flattened with an oof as he flew backwards and crashed into a wall.

"Sam!" Dean fired the sawed-off from the doorway, but the ghost had already vanished. "Lighter!" Dean shouted.

Sam sucked in a breath of air, did his best to sit up straight, then held up his hands to examine them. The flashlight was still in his left, but his right was empty. He shook his head at Dean.