Resurrection

Chapter 1

Eureka Springs, Arkansas.

Mist shrouded the rugged landscape, the powerful scent of fresh rain filling the air. The sky was dark, and no moon could be seen — only the faint stars that peppered the sky. A single house stood alone, no others visible for miles in every direction. Its presence looming, watching over all that dared to come near it. This was the home of the now-extinct Loughlin Family. It dated back at least one-hundred years, determinable by the sheer amount of wear and tear on the brittle wooden walls and gabled roof.

There was a winding gravel road leading up to the entrance. A dark figure sauntered along the path with determination in each footstep, turning to approach the Loughlin home. The rotting door pushed harshly aside as the individual entered into the framework. Thin oak planks creaked under the slightest pressure, threatening to give way. Several rows of books lined each wall, drawing the eyes of the intruder. One slight movement of the hand, and every last one of the ancient novels crashed to the floor, leaving nothing but the dirt and dust in the fine crevices of the shelving. On the third shelf of the west wall, a silver handle that had been hidden by the books protruded from the flat surface. The person in black extended an arm to open the tiny cupboard, revealing an thick, hand-written, bedraggled book that looked as old as the house that contained it.

The Book of The Damned. An evil energy radiated from its pages as the figure thumbed through. There was no detectable pattern in the symbols studding the scaly paper — whoever wrote it must not have wanted anyone else to uncover its secrets. Despite this, The Book could be read by its current beholder. An early-morning breeze fluttered through the rafters, causing the burglar to look around, and after a moment of thought, snap and dissipate into the darkness.

-

Three days later.

Central London, England.

   It was an unusually busy, crisp Friday night in London, the noise and bustle of crowds flooding the city as the moon peeked through the cloudy sky. Tourists were unknowingly conspicuous, and made up the vast majority of the swimming sea of people. Whiffs of street food crawled through the atmosphere, giving all of Central London a homey feeling. Small puddles left over from a rainstorm filled every dip and crack in the brick sidewalks. Cars honked in the streets creating a cacophony of various notes.

Brompton Cemetery is located less than four miles away from the liveliness of London. Arthur Ketch, a rather distinguished Man of Letters, rests here after being murdered and betrayed by an associate named Mary Winchester. His body was sent overseas from America by her sons, Sam and Dean Winchester, to be dealt with by The British Men of Letters organization. He had no will, and little in the way of personal belongings because almost all that belonged to Arthur had also belonged to his superiors. Hunter's funerals are nonexistent in the English hunting culture, and when a hunter dies, he or she is merely given a fine grave and short ceremony in honor of their life.

Ketch was an old-fashioned kind of man with a strong British accent. A gentleman despite his tendency to be a bit of a show-off. Most people believed him to be a psychopath, or a killing machine. However, he simply knew what he wanted, and would let nothing short of death stop him from getting it. Clean, cut suits were his staple clothing choice, and he kept a tidy workspace. A closely shaved beard, styled hair, and eyes the color of an unpolished labradorite stone characterize his appearance. He's relentless, and knows he's a killer — often taking pleasure in his work — making him the perfect weapon.

From thin air, the sinister being materialized into the dark night, The Book of The Damned tucked in its arm and an assorted collection of items in a grocery bag in hand. Heavy steps made their way down the main trail of the cemetery, stopping when they reached the grave of Arthur Ketch. The figure began organizing the objects from the bag on the ground in front of the resting space. A number of candles, one large bowl, two medium-sized bowls, he heart of a newborn lamb, a vial of blood from Cain, a soul, and a lock of hair from the intended target, Mr. Ketch. The First Blade was also needed, but the angel Castiel's warding was no match for the power held within this being, no matter how well he had hidden it. It had been collected weeks before.

   Several strong sigils were drawn on the ground to protect against potential attackers by concealing the location of the person in black. The Book lay open, facing upward next to the large bowl, while the Blade rested above the grave.

When all of the pieces were in place, the figure sat down, and a ritual begun. The soul and blood of Cain congregated and mixed in the base of the dish, the heart of the lamb set in the center. Deep black smoke started to ascend from the bowl. The person rose from their seated position, picking up the tuft of Ketch's hair in one hand and The Book of The Damned in the other. A demanding, dark voice chanted in Latin, shouting the words of The Book, "Ex sanguinem cordis! De sanguine Cain abierunt! A anima mea de inferno liberabis!" A brief pause allowed enough time for the lock of hair to be dropped and land in the mixture beneath it before the voice finished, "Mei ad fusuro in aeternum! Maledicite habitatoribus huic homine!"

Sparks flew, and a large explosion corrupted the surrounding air with heat and the metallic stench of burning blood. Thick smog coated the earth after the show of lights ended. Minutes turned into hours without a sign of any effect of the spell. Suddenly, packed dirt shifted in place above the grave, a steady rhythm of pounding just barely audible. A fist shot up into the open, swinging wildly — angrily — desperately searching for something to grab onto. The second it found leverage on The First Blade, the attached body found the strength needed to follow suit, a phoenix rising from the ashes. Arthur Ketch was alive. Alive and well. His clothing remained intact except for a single, tennis-ball-sized spot on his right forearm where the fabric had been charred and crumbled.

Upon closer investigation and after brushing away the dirt from the area, the Mark of Cain was undeniably etched into his skin. It shone faintly, growing ever brighter as Ketch held the Blade in his right hand. A look of disbelief and confusion washed slowly across Ketch's face as he studied the Mark. Realizing the reality of his current situation, he quickly turned in an attempt to face the one who did this. Nobody was around; Arthur's only company were the dead men still sleeping peacefully in their beds.

He muttered under his breath, "Bloody hell...I'm back."