Chapter 7 - It’s in Your Blood

  27th of August 1971, London

  The unflattering changes to his body were most likely due to stress, Sam had concluded, and probably the guilt, too. Francis Dunkin had once been a handsome man, even recently so. Sam had seen as much in the wedding picture with Joselynn, but after what he did? The guilt and severity of it all? When his once dear Hills had come back from the dead to haunt him, had slowly started to tear away at him. Sam again struggles with the idea that Francis somehow deserves it, but that's a dangerous thought. And besides, who is Sam to pass judgement like that?

  “You do this a lot, kid?” Francis asks him cautiously, as Sam is reapplying a layer of salt in the windowsills of the kitchen.

  “Do what? Pour salt on windowsills in strangers’ houses?” Sam asks, knowing that’s not really what he asked of him.

  “I- I suppose I meant cases like.. like this one.” Francis swallows audibly, and Sam turns to face the despicable man. He’s not afraid, even though the man in front of him is a murderer. Sam just thinks he’s pitiful, really. He doesn’t know how much Francis knows that Sam knows, but he doesn’t want to make conversation anyways, so he just tries to act nonchalantly.

  “You’re not my first,” Sam lies casually, finishing up in the kitchen and walking out to the sitting room. He’d already done the upstairs, and was just missing the downstairs bathroom, sitting room and entry room. Sam had a shotgun in his bag, laid out on the table in the sitting room, with shells filled with rocksalt beside it. Sam knew how to handle a gun, but he’d never actually fired one. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  “How old are you anyways? Fourteen?” Francis asks nervously.

  “I’m eleven,” Sam answers lightly, pouring more salt in the first windowsill. He uses his fingers to even it out, ensuring no gaps. Sam was usually mistaken for being older, because of his height. Sam still thought he had a baby face, but was always pleasantly surprised whenever adults thought he was older than he actually was.

  “Blimey! You’re so young!”

  Sam doesn’t respond, just finishing the sitting room, before heading into the bathroom. Once inside, the door suddenly shuts by itself, and Francis yelps, if it’s in pain or just because he got spooked, Sam doesn’t know. He immediately sets the salt container down on the counter next to the sink, and his eyes go up to touch the door. He tries to twist the door handle, but it won’t budge.

  “Francis!” Sam says, voice raised, trying to maintain a calm tone. “You okay?”

  “No!” Francis replies instantly, it comes out like a pathetic whimper. “The lights are out!”

  That’s odd.. There’s still electricity in the bathroom where Sam is. He pushes harder on the door, trying to turn the doorknob again, to no avail.

  “It’s okay Francis, just ..” Sam clears his throat. “Just stay calm, okay?”

  “Please help me!”

  “I’m trying-” Sam cuts himself off, scoffing. He’s the kid in this situation. He should be the one crying-

  “Sam!” Francis yells again, frantically knocking on the bathroom door. “Sam, pleeeease…”

  There’s a loud thud then, and Francis screeches as he’s tossed across the room outside, Sam can tell by how his scream becomes more muffled the further he’s thrown, and the loud crash when he lands somewhere further away. There’s glass breaking, so perhaps the cabinet? Maybe the bar?

  “Francis!” Sam calls to him again. No reply. Sam starts banging on the door now, pushing hard, throwing his shoulder into the wood, trying to put all his weight behind it. It hurts, and he’s confident he’ll bruise for this, but he has to get through the door, the poltergeist is fighting back, Dean and dad must’ve gotten started on the digging. There’s an ear splitting scream just then, and Sam has to cover his ears. This must be the wailing, Sam thinks, and it indeed just continues. Sam pales then, worry spreading like ice through his body, what if … what if it isn’t a poltergeist at all.. what if.. no..

  The lights above Sam flickers as if in response. And then he knows. His breathing is uneven, he can’t seem to catch his breath. His palms are clammy, his heart beating faster, and faster, and faster–

  He steps back from the door, preparing to kick it open. He takes a deep breath and kicks the door hard, right underneath the door handle. It doesn’t open. He lets out an involuntary whimper, kicking the door hurt. Frustrated, Sam bounces up and down, on tippy toes, breathing quickly. He rubs his eyes quickly, clearing his vision. Sam tenses, and kicks the door again. And again. It still doesn’t break open. Sam wants to cry. He checks the doors for hinges, and when he sees them, he can’t help but crack a quick smile. Of course, the door doesn’t even swing open that way, kicking the door in would be close to impossible, even for dad! What’s plan B then?

  Francis has apparently regained consciousness, and Sam can hear him cry loudly, pleading and begging for whatever it is out there to leave him alone. Sam knows he has to hurry, so he uses the little stool in the bathroom to step onto, touching the hinges with his fingertips. Once he feels the little screws there, he quickly pulls out the pocket knife he had stuffed in a pocket a few days ago and begins unscrewing the screws with the sharp end of the knife. His fingers are shaking slightly, and the air around him feels cold, but he tries to even his breathing, and focuses on the task at hand. Francis screams, a loud, terrified scream. More glass breaks out in the sitting room, and the ghost is still shrieking loudly, painfully, it’s a mournful sound mixing with the petrified screams of her once husband.

  “Hold on Francis, I’m coming!” he calls out, but gets no response. The wailing doesn’t stop either. Sam then closes his eyes, incredibly frustrated, and the hinges just.. fall off. Sam blinks, incredulously. Magic. It has to be my magic! Sam thinks.

  Sam tosses the hinges hastily aside, still holding the knife in hand, who knows, might come in handy still. He firmly plants his left foot on the floor, keeping the center of his mass slightly in front of his back leg, which he intends to kick with. He scoots backwards a bit then, giving himself more room to work with, and then he stands about three feet away from the door. Hyping himself up, he prepares to kick it with all his might, aiming for the middle of the door. He kicks once. Door doesn’t open, but it does creak encouragingly, the wood no doubt splintering. Sam kicks again, throwing his weight behind the kick, and it starts to crack more, visibly this time! Sam can’t believe his eyes, and quickly kicks to door again, making sure his foot is completely flat, the entire surface making contact with the door, and– the door cracks open, falling to the ground outwards, and Sam is so happy and so proud, and– so.. so incredibly fucked!

  The woman in front of him is not only not a woman, but she is floating. Sam’s mouth drops open, but thankfully, he has a few seconds to act before the banshee turns her attention to him, too preoccupied at the moment with a whimpering Francis. Sam throws himself forward, but clumsy as he is, he falls over, face planting into the carpet. Shit. The banshee whips around, mouth so agape Sam is sure her jaw must be dislocated, if not entirely torn off. She has dark, flowing hair that seems to be defying gravity, and is instead floating midair, just like it would had it been underwater. Her eyes are sunken in and reddish, tear stains down her cheeks.

  Sam freezes, looks to the shotgun and stretches his hand towards it, willing it to come here, into his hand. He squeezes his eyes shut then, biting his teeth together, and– the shotgun flies into his outstretched hand, the force of it almost knocking him over. The banshee is omitted by dark mist, and she’s wearing dark robes. Sam fumbles with the shotgun, aiming it towards her. When she sees Sam do this, she doesn’t immediately attack, which is concerning, Sam thinks. But this is his chance. She floats closer to him, arms outstretched, her long, dark tongue hanging slack out of her mouth. He feels the trigger under his finger, and the barrel is aimed at the banshee’s chest.. all Sam has to do is…

  He pulls the trigger, and the banshee dissipates immediately in another loud shriek. Sam’s eyes are wide in both shock and accomplishment, and he hurries to Francis’ side, who is bleeding!

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  “Francis, hey, can you hear me? Francis, please,” he starts patting the man down, who is conscious, but unaware of what’s happening. Lights are on, but Sam doesn’t think anyone’s home. “Francis!” Sam says then, loudly, and slaps the man. No reaction, his jaw still slack, and eyes unfocused. He knows he needs to get Francis out, and he still has to salt the entry hallway and front door. He grabs Francis arm, and hauls him up, supporting his weight with his shoulder. Then, they start making their way to the front door. Sam hurriedly gets Francis down on the grass, and then rushes back inside. A million thoughts are all fighting to be heard inside his head, and he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to sort through the most pressing ones.

  Okay, so they’d been wrong, Dad had been wrong, it wasn’t simply a poltergeist, it was a freaking banshee! Sam tries to picture his Dad’s journal, and knows there’s an entry about banshees. He just needs to remember.. He knows, and has now also confirmed, that banshees, like poltergeists, have a weakness against salt. If he remembered correctly, they were even more vulnerable to salt, than other ghost types. Sam quickly grabs the salt container from the bathroom, and hastily secures the window in there before heading to the entryway. He pours an excessive amount in front of the door frame, taking no chances. There’s two windows left to salt, and he does so with a steady hand, surprising himself by how calm he is in this very stressful situation.

  There are two types of banshee, Sam recalls. Malevolent ones, which, if this one was a malevolent banshee, him and Francis would probably be dead by now. That leaves ghost banshee. Their weaknesses were salt, especially blasted out of a shotgun. Sam fondly remembers Bobby and him preparing salt shells together once when he’d babysat the brothers over the summer.

  But how did you kill a banshee? How did you get rid of them? Sam doesn’t know, and he curses himself for not knowing. This is stuff he should know, goddamnit! Dean would’ve known. Dad would’ve known. But Sam? Sam doesn’t know. He doesn’t. And he’s seriously starting to freak out. Sam finishes up the entry hallway, stuffs all of his things back in the hunter bag, and hurries out to join Francis on the lawn. He’s no longer conscious. He’s laying flat on his bag, gurgling. Sam drops everything and hurries to his side, hands flying over his body looking for the source of the bleeding. He’s got a narrow cut across his neck, stretching across his shoulder, and Sam is reminded of when his dad had come home with a similar injury. He tries to shove the mental image, the dread he’d felt, the hopelessness– all of that, he shoves it away. Francis is breathing, but his eyes are rolled back in his head, and there’s blood coming out from his mouth, in addition to the neck wound. Sam rips open the zipper of the hunter bag and quickly locates the gauze there. He bundles it up quickly, and presses it into Francis' wound, it’s gaping enough to force Sam to be a bit more evasive in his first aid. He then turns Francis over on his side, and in a moment, Sam has him sort of in his lap, holding his head steady, applying steady pressure to the wound. He tries to take a deep breath himself, feeling dizzy from holding it without noticing. He looks up to the house, and sees the banshee in the window, staring out at him miserably, her mouth still open, as if screaming, but not a sound comes out. Sam can’t rip his eyes from her, but makes sure to maintain the pressure on Francis’ wound. He’s still unconscious, and Sam really wishes his dad and Dean could hurry the fuck up!

  How long did it take anyway, to dig up a body and burn it? Sam thinks about it then, how absurd that sentence was. And here he sat, an eleven year old applying first aid to a man dying from a ghost attack after he killed his wife years ago. Sam was sure it was Hillary who was the banshee. She didn’t have her blonde hair anymore, and she looked about as lifeless as you’d expect, but there was something there, in her dead eyes maybe, when she laid eyes on Sam, who was just a boy. She hadn’t wanted to hurt her kids either, and their room was the only room untouched by the banshee. They’d been afraid, sure, but what kid isn’t scared of ghosts? Sam supposes he is one. He shakes the thought away, and thinks back to the picture frames. The ones with the boys hadn't been torn down, and none of the frames were damaged, meaning Hillary hadn’t smashed any of them. But every picture with Joselynn, the new wife, her replacement, had substantial damage done to them. Some of the glass had cracked in a few places, the frames were cracked, and a few even had what Sam now realizes, scratch marks.

  Sam thinks it’s been at least two hours, perhaps three, since his brother and father left for the graveyard just a few streets away, if he remembered correctly. He supposed he could run over there, and be back to Francis in twenty minutes or so, but he didn’t want to risk it. He needed to stay here, and apply pressure to the wound. That’s what his dad had taught him. Sam pushes Francis’ mouth open slightly then, and peers inside. Doesn’t seem to have any blockages inside. Good. His breathing had steadied too, and he wasn’t gurgling as much. Gurgling could mean.. Sam thinks for a moment, tries to remember. Did that mean a punctured lung? Or damage to the internal organs maybe? He doesn’t remember, and that stresses him out immensely.

  He also doesn’t remember how to get rid of banshees, no matter how hard he tries. Sam wants to cry, he’s so worried about Francis, what if he died with Sam in charge of his safety? What would John say? What would he do? Sam shudders, and realizes then that it’s really cold. He looks down on Francis, who is shivering too. Sam bites his lip, and makes a decision, shuffling out of his jacket, and laying it over Francis, who after a few minutes, stops shaking. Sam breathes out in relief, but the cold begins to creep in on him too, and then he’s the one shivering. Another ten minutes pass. Twenty. Sam’s teeth are chattering now, and still he keeps his hands on Francis’ wound. After another ten minutes, Francis blinks slowly, and looks up at Sam, who’s still holding him firmly in his lap. When he sees Francis awake, Sam smiles widely.

  “Francis, you’re–” Sam clears his throat, his voice hoarse. “You’re okay!”

  “What.. what’s going on, I - ouch!” Francis whimpers then, eyes widening too, no doubt from the pain.

  “Shh, shh, it’s alright,” Sam coos, and licks his lips, feeling very uncomfortable all of a sudden, remembering he’s comforting a killer after all.

  “What’s happening-”

  Just then, a loud shriek pierces the night’s silence and both Sam and Francis’ heads whip towards the house, where the banshee is … is.. ablaze. She’s on fire! Sam looks on, horrified, but then.. then he remembers, this is what happens to ghosts when you burn their remains! Oh, Sam is so relieved he could cry! In fact, a few tears roll down his cheeks, Sam is so cold he can’t even feel it.

  “Oh my god…” Francis mumbles, watching as his beloved house also catches fire. “My.. my house..” Francis cries again then.

  Sam watches as the flames lick up the ugly curtains, and the windows break, Sam doesn’t even flinch, as the small shards shoot outward towards them. A few even hit Sam, and now his cheek and forehead are bleeding too. The warm blood is so warm that it burns, but still, Sam doesn’t look away. He blinks, and the house keeps burning. He takes this moment then, to tell Francis what he’d planned to do since they left him that first day.

  “Francis, you’re going to listen to me, okay?” Sam’s voice is ice cold, and it’s eerie, how similar to John it was just then. Francis' eyes are filled with fear, and he nods, waiting for Sam to speak. “You’re going to turn yourself in. You will tell the police everything. Understood?”

  Francis doesn’t respond at first, he’s back to shivering - and not because of the cold this time. “I- I can’t d-do that..” he stammers. Sam tuts. And then? Then Sam lets go of Francis’ neck, and the blood immediately starts flowing out of the wound again, in steady beats. Francis gasps audibly. “Please, please don’t!”

  “Say you’re going to turn yourself in. Promise me.” Sam says, with no hint of hesitation in his voice, he fully intends to let Francis bleed to death if he doesn’t do as he’s told. Francis seems to grasp the magnitude of the situation and gasps out; “Yes, yes I understand, I will- I will turn myself in! I promise!” he’s back to crying now. “Please, please don’t kill me-”

  “Shh,” Sam says again, hand back to his neck, pressing firmly on the wound. Francis winces as he does so, undoubtedly in a lot of pain. Sam can’t bring himself to feel bad for him. Okay, that’s a lie, Sam’s stupid bleeding heart feels bad for just about anyone in pain, so fine, yes, he does feel bad for Francis. Even with how pathetic the man was.

  Another twenty or so minutes pass in silence, no words traded between the two, and there’s a mutual understanding of what will happen should Francis try to weasel his way out of the promise. Then, Dean pulls up and parks right across the street, hurriedly exiting the car, John coming out from the passenger's side.

  “If I find out you’re walking free, I will come back and finish what Hillary couldn’t,” Sam then whispers to Francis, who looks at him with a horrified expression. Sam doesn’t actually mean that last bit, and besides, how is he, an eleven year old, supposed to keep track of whether or not Francis will keep his promise? But Sam thinks it’s enough anyways, a coward like Francis will, no doubt, keep his word when it's his own life on the line. Sam just knows it. Dean and John jog across the street and as soon as John takes over for Sam, he sinks down, utterly exhausted. He just wants to sleep, he’s so tired. Dean is looking at Sam in disbelief, then at the house, then back to Sam.

  “Sammy, are you hurt?” he asks, voice breaking, worried eyes scanning Sam, even more worried hands patting him down. When Sam doesn’t respond, Dean takes his face in his hands and forces him to meet his eyes. John is working over Francis, muttering under his breath. Sam looks at Dean then, and the concern he’s met with makes Sam want to cry. And so he does. He’d been so scared he hadn’t even had time to realize he was afraid. He breaks then, and Dean holds him, and lets him.