It's late when he comes, the sky a gun metal gray and the air wet. She knows it’s going to snow, she feels it deep in her bones. She’s just come from church – hung up her coat, kicked off her shoes, ready to settle in for the night – when the bell rings. Minutes before she’d heard the too loud rumble of a car stop in front of her house. Customers come at all hours on any given day.

She knows the Bible doesn't condone what she does but she knows if the Lord is responsible for everything, then he made her just as she is. 

 
Through the screen door she sees a tall man with wavy black hair that is perhaps a little too long. There’s a presence about him, something strong, intimidating if you can't hold your own. He looks tired, desperate, and sad. It’s reflected in his dull brown eyes, pale skin and a whiskered face. He seems unaffected by the icy wind as he stands on her porch, a blue bundle in one arm and a boy with dark blond hair half hiding behind the man’s leg, blue denim gathered in his small hands.

"Missouri Mosley?" he asks, voice deep and rough like sandpaper on glass.

"Yes?" she replies. The screendoor is wide open now. She stands at her full height, coming only up to about his shoulder, trying to be welcoming, voice soft and posture open. “What can I do for you?” She knows she has nothing to fear.

“I was told that you know things. That you could help me.”

The way he says it, the look he gives her, means she doesn’t have to make sure they’re on the same page.

“Hopefully, I can. Come on in.”

 

She steps aside and watches him move. Once inside, he just stands there in her foyer like he doesn’t know what to do. She smiles. “Well, first things first, your John Winchester and that’s Sammy.” John looks at her, stunned. He’d wanted to believe but it’s still a shock. “And that’s Dean.” She looks down at Dean, says “He doesn’t talk much.” She looks back up at John. “I don’t blame him. That’s a lot for child his age.”

Even without her gift, she knows about him, about them. She does read the paper and sometimes one can't help but hear the gossip that spreads though a place like Lawrence.

It’s not every day that a young mother dies in a fire. In her baby’s nursery no less. People around town whisper as if they know more than they should, that John Winchester killed his wife and that son-of-a-bitch is probably going to get away with it. Being in his presence, looking at him, she knows that’s not true.

She figured he’d left town. Maybe he did, maybe he didn’t. All that matters is he knows who she is.

“Don’t look so surprised. You wouldn’t have come over here so late if you didn’t think I was the real deal,” she tells him, smile still on her face. He’s still doesn’t say anything. “Let me hold him.” Dean moves at the same time she does, both reaching out for Sammy. John holds them both back.

“John, I have a feeling you’re going to be here a while.” She steps a little closer, pushing back some of the blanket to look at Sammy.

“Okay,” he says after Sammy smiles at her and then reaches for her.

“Hey there Sammy,” she speaks softly as she gathers him in her arms. Once he’s in her arms, she stoops so that she's eye-to-eye with Dean. “It’s okay, Dean.” She sees real fear in big green eyes. “Sammy’s okay but I tell you what. How about you hold my hand so you can stay with him and me?” She reaches out and, after looking up at his father, he latches on. John looks surprised and relieved at the same time. 

“All right, then,” she tells them as she straightens up. "You guys hungry?”

Dean sits in John’s lap, eyes cast down at his food unless his father asks him something or he’s looking at Sammy. He doesn’t answers his father with words. Not that it matters because John seems to be able to read him just fine like a father should.

She holds the baby, feeding him the bottle John brought. It’s been awhile since she’s held a baby but it quickly comes back to her. How heavy and light a baby feels at the same time. He feels comfortable in her arms. He coos and smiles up at her. He falls asleep with her shirt bunched in one of his tiny fist.

They don’t talk. The house silent except for the low hum of the radio that she listens to whenever she’s in the kitchen. Sunday nights it’s Motown songs that remind her of another time in her life. Not tonight though. She watches them eat and can only think about what’s ahead of her.

She’s been alone in the kitchen for a while, having shown John where he and boys would sleep before coming back down to clean up. She’s not surprised to hear footsteps on the stairs although she’d hoped he’d go to bed himself. He comes into the kitchen, dragging but wanting answers, thoughts going a mile minute.

Before he even gets a word out, she says to him, “There’s nowhere I need to be tomorrow. We’ll talk then.” As they stand in her kitchen, he wants to protest. She adds, “Trust me. Goodnight John Winchester.” Firm and final. She knows already she’s got to be that way with him. A hand on his arm to tell him it’ll be okay.

She hears his footsteps behind her because you can’t do much arguing when nobody’s there.


 

She doesn’t sleep, just lies in bed and listens for him and the children. She hears the shuffle of feet across the floor and the hush hush that one has to do with babies. Sammy’s been waking up every few hours fussing. She doesn’t hear Dean but she knows he’s not sleeping much either.

She’s not uneasy with him being in the house. It’s what he’s come for that’s got her mind racing even at this late hour.

It’s nearly midnight when she hears the shuffle of feet and the slow creak of the guest bedroom door. There’s no fumbling because she had left the hall light on. She listens until his footsteps fade.

She debates whether or not she should go down. Eventually, she does, thinking he might need something and have no idea where to find it.

“Everything okay?” she asks as she walks into the kitchen, hands in the pockets of her robe.

He sits her kitchen table, staring at his hands. “Can’t sleep.” He looks up at her. “Haven’t since…” His voice trails off, comes back to say, “Sorry if I woke you.”

“I couldn’t sleep either. Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks.”

She doesn’t leave but takes a seat across from him, tucking her legs under her.

“You don’t have to stay up with me.” He says but wishes otherwise.

“I know. It’s like I said, I can’t sleep either. I just keep thinking about why you came.”

His eyes don’t leave hers and his voice doesn’t waver as he says, “Something killed my wife.”

He’s looking for the truth not like most of the people that come to see her. They say they want the truth. They really don’t. All they want is good news. “I know.”

“What was it?”

She hesitates, thinking it can all wait till later in the day. “Let me get you something to help you sleep.” He stops her by grabbing her forearm.

“I haven’t slept in months.” He looks it, too – darkness around his eyes, the lines on his face. He’s not that old, twenty-nine if she remembers correctly what the papers said. She knows how grief has a way of aging a person faster than anything she’s ever seen. “Please,” he pleads without letting her go.

She could be firm and tell him no but the look in his eyes says he won’t comply, all pleas to the contrary. He wants the truth, needs it. She wonders though if he’ll be able to handle it. “Okay, okay. First, you have to tell me what you know, for starters, how did you find me?”

He did what most people do. He went to phone book. He started visiting psychics trying to find some answers. He didn’t know what else to do. The first couple of guys were a bunch of hacks. Parroting back whatever those poor suckers told them. Then he ran into Smitty Watkins. She knows exactly who he is. He’s an older guy that lives in town who knows a little about everything. He told John about her, said you’re the real deal.

Just like a few hours earlier, she doesn’t bother to ask if he believes. Smitty would’ve made sure John wasn’t going to be wasting her time. Plenty of people come, no matter what for, but they’re still skeptical. She always tells them to come back when they’re ready. She doesn’t have that kind of time to waste.

“Did you tell Smitty anything, about what you think happened?”

“Not really.”

“Well, tell me what you know what you think happened.”

“Like I said something killed my wife. Her name’s Mary. Something evil, I think.” He looks her straight in her eyes. His voice steady as he goes. “I hear things at night like whispering, like someone is whispering a name, under their breath, again and again. I feel like something is watching me and the boys. I don’t know why.

“All the forensics came back on the fire. They didn’t find a thing. Nothing. There’s no proof that my wife was even there. There’s nothing left of her.” There’s anger seeping into his words now. “They told me it was an electrical fire, a short in the nursery. I asked for proof and they couldn’t show me any. They said it was lost in the fire. I don’t believe them since they say the nursery ceiling was the flashpoint when even an idiot knows almost all electrical fires start in the walls.

“So I started digging around at the library. Trying to find out all I could about fires.” He stops there, pushing away from the table. “I’ll be right back.”

When he comes back, he’s got a brown, leather-bound journal in his hands. “I made notes in here about what I’ve found so far.” He places it on the table and opens to the first page. He stands beside her, pointing out this and that. “Some of the books I’ve read talked about fire being controlled by evil things. It sounded crazy at first but then I remembered how the fire seemed to leap out at me. It even growled at me.”

She looks up at him then. She’s never heard of anything like that before. “I need to go there. Tomorrow. I want to get a sense of what really happened. I might be able to feel the echoes of whatever it was.” He doesn’t respond right away. “You don’t have to go with me. Stay and watch the boys.”

He nods. They both turn back to journal and he continues reading off his notes. By the time he’s done, it’s nearly two am by the clock on the wall.

“I should get to bed if I’m going to do this.” She pulls herself out of her chair, muscles stiff from being in the same position too long.

“Missouri…”

“I promise, John, tomorrow,” she pauses, remembering what time it is. “Well, today. I promise I’ll tell you all I know.” He’s not happy, she can see that but if it’s possible there’s a change in him, as cliché as it sounds, a burden has lifted from him. She pats his hand before turning to go. She hopes he can sleep a little better tonight.

It’s a ten minute drive to John’s old house. This is the first time she’s ever gone to visit even though this isn’t really a visit. She’s only ever driven by on her way to someplace else. Since the fire, she’s been tempted to stop by and see what’s left but she never did.

The whole house isn’t gone, just about one-half of the upstairs. Once white siding now black and split, reaching up to the sky. She stands on the side that’s been burnt. She doesn’t feel anything until she is a couple of feet from the house. She feels it. Evil. That’s the only word for it. It’s the echo of whatever was there. Something she’s never felt before. It permeates the air over the charred remains. She doesn’t spend a lot of time, just walks around the house, shivering against the wind and the unknown.

John doesn’t let her get her coat off before he’s on his feet asking her all kinds of questions.

“Let me get my coat off first,” she tells him, shrugging out of it slowly. She finally gets it off and on the coat rack then he’s right at it again.

They’re standing in the foyer, Dean and Sam playing on the living room sofa. She looks over at them. When Dean looks at her, she smiles even though it’s the last thing she wants to do.

“You guys were okay here without me?” She asks, stalling, still looking at the boys. She was gone a half an hour at most.

“Missouri…” he begins.

She looks up at him before taking a deep breath, whispers just in case, “It was evil. Pure evil John. That’s the first time I’ve ever felt something like that. I have no idea what it was exactly.”

“I knew it.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “What do I do now?”

“Tonight. After the boys are put to bed, we're going to see if we can contact Mary.”

His eyes go wide for a second.

“Trust me. It’ll be fine. You came for answers. Hopefully, tonight you can get some.” 

He nods. “Okay.”

He goes back into the living room and pulls both boys into his lap. He whispers ‘I love you’ and kisses them both on the top of the head.

The rest of the day moves by too slowly for him, she can tell, but not slow enough for her. She’s not sure she’s ready to find out more.

He meets her at the foot of the stairs after having put the kids to bed.

“They asleep?”

“No.”

“Dean won’t be coming down?”

“No. He promised.”

“Okay. Follow me.”

She leads him to the front of the house. She explains they’re going to have a séance and he’s to do everything she says.

They approach a set of heavy, wooden doors stained a dark brown just off the front hall. She slides the doors open to reveal a room big enough for a table seating six, maybe eight but the round table only has four chairs. There are a couple of bookshelves on the far wall filled with books, candles and containers of varying sizes. The room is bright because of the light she’s just flicked on. 

She closes the doors behind them and then gestures to the chair closest to the doors. “Have a seat.”

He sits and watches her move to the far wall. She gathers up whatever she needs from the shelves then spreads them out on the white lace tablecloth. It’s her mother’s just like everything else in this house. In the center of the table she places a dish of water – in which she pours some salt – a white feather and some white candles. She doesn’t say anything as she works, the seconds ticking by on the clock directly above one of the shelves.

This is how she works, in silence, as her clients usually fidget and do everything but relax no matter how much she tells them to.

She lights candles, turns off the light then sits down across from him. “Ready?”

He nods. Most people are extremely nervous. She can see it in their eyes, in the way they hold themselves, in the energy they give off. There’s a determination in John's eyes that holds him stock still. It’s all in his head, the uncertainty about what he’s about to do.

“Just relax. It’ll be all right,” she tells him. “Okay. You need to hold my hands and don’t let go, not until I tell you to.” His hands are steady, warm and slightly damp against her own. “When it’s all over, don’t talk right away. You’ll have to come down. It takes about thirty minutes. Close your eyes now. Remember to breathe deep and remember why we are doing this. Don’t talk unless I tell you to. That’s important. I mean it. Okay?”

He nods again.

“Say this with me; ‘We are seeking Mary Winchester. In the name of Jesus, we beseech you, come to us, Mary Winchester and communicate with us.’ We’ll keep saying it until she comes. I’ll tell you when she comes. Now repeat after me.”

She doesn’t know how many times they say it before a spirit comes, a cold wind blowing through the room as if one of them had opened a window. It isn’t Mary but it’s one that can help, a guide. He’s a young man with light eyes and dark hair.

“Okay, John. It’s not her yet but it’s a spirit guide. He’s going to help us. I’m going to tell him what we want.” She focuses back on the spirit. “We are seeking Mary Winchester. We want her to communicate with us. In the name of Jesus, help us find Mary Winchester.” The guide smiles and nods.

A few minutes pass before she finally sees the image of Mary Winchester, the young mother and wife with pale golden hair and bright blue eyes. The nightgown she wears is white and long, drifting across the tops of her toes.

“Are you Mary Winchester?”

“Mary?” John asks, voice choked with emotion.

“Ssshhh. I told you not to talk.” She squeezes his hand to emphasize her point.

Mary nods.

“It’s her,” she pauses, lets him absorb her words. “I’m going to repeat what she says after I ask a question. Are you from Lawrence, Kansas?"

“She says yes. Are you married to John Winchester?"

“Yes. And you have two sons, Dean and Sam?"

“Yes. Do you have something you want to tell John?" Mary looks down, like a child that’s been caught doing something wrong.

“She says she’s sorry for everything. She didn’t think you’d understand. It’d been too long.”

He’s louder now, clearly confused. “What? Mary? What are you talking about? What is she talking about?”

“Don’t talk.” She can feel how the air in the room is changing.

“Don’t tell me not to talk.”

“John, calm down. You’ll mess this up. You get angry and I will end it right now.” Missouri’s voice is soft but firm, the threat clearly not an empty one.

She waits. If he can’t get himself under control, they’ll have to do this whole thing all over again. It takes a few minutes for the tension to leave his body, for his grip on her hands to loosen.

“She had to do it. She says she couldn’t let you go. She made the deal for you. It was make the deal or lose you. It was a demon that killed her. Killed her parents, too. She’s sorry.”

His hands are clammy now, shaking some. She can imagine him paler than before, sick at what’s he’s hearing.

“She says she thinks you’ll be fine now. He got what he wanted. She says she loves you. She says to take care of the boys, give them the life you two talked about.”

When Mary says nothing else, Missouri knows their time is up. “Thank you, Mary. In the name of Jesus, go and be at peace.” Mary fades away until there’s nothing but white light slowly darkening in the space of Missouri’s mind. Her eyes open, she slides her hands out of John’s and goes to turn on the light.

John blinks, his eyes readjusting to the light. His hair is plastered down from sweat. He breathes deep, trying to steady his racing heart.

She reminds him to not speak, to just relax. He gulps down the glass of whiskey she brings him. She sips hers. She sits across from him waiting until the thirty minutes is up. She can tell the need to talk is strong, strumming just under the surface of his skin. He stalks back and forth across the carpet waiting. She speaks softly and slowly, “You can talk now.”

“She made a deal with the devil. For me.” He says it but it seems less for her benefit than for his as if saying it aloud changes how it sounds in his head. He says other things. Then he asks her questions, questions she can’t possibly answer.

“John, sit down.” He doesn’t listen but she knows he heard her. “John Winchester, sit down and let me talk to you.” He looks at her first before he finally drops into the chair he’d occupied before. He stares at her with eyes that would rattle a lessen woman.

“Mary was like me,” she begins then takes a deep breath. “Well, not exactly like me. She knew things just like I know things. She was hunter. Just like her dad.”

“Hunter?” He looks incredulous. “What the hell does that mean?”

“Everybody’s heard about the things that go bump in the night. Like everybody around here has heard about the Eldridge and Haskell being haunted. Well, it’s true. Things really do go bump in the night. You know a little about that now. And there are people that try to stop those things. Mary’s Dad, Samuel, was one of those people. He taught Mary how to do it.” John looks at her like he doesn’t believe her even after all he’s heard, seen, felt. She responds to his silent accusation. “Why would I tell you she was if she wasn’t? Doesn’t do me any good to lie to you.”

As the seconds pass and this new found knowledge sinks in, he gets angry. He rages quietly. She knows he’s doing his damndest to be respectful.

“John.” She reaches across the table to comfort him. He pulls away and then he’s gone – footsteps heavy and fast – but not before looking back at her like Mary’s been taken all over again. She supposes she has. He comes back down the stairs with barely asleep children in his arms.

She doesn’t say anything, knows that arguing with him won’t do any good. He wants to leave so she just lets him go. She holds the door open and everything, shouting “Take care of yourself and those boys, John Winchester” at his form walking down her front walk, the still soft snow disturbed. She watches him finally manage to get Sam and Dean in the big, black car.

He doesn’t bother to come back in and take what little else he had brought with them.

She jumps a little at the sound of the car coming to life in the middle of the night even though she knew it was coming.

She knows he’ll calm down. He’ll think about the things that seemed weird at the time, things he brushed off. He might come back. He might not. At least now he knows the truth.

She knew Samuel Campbell. She knew that when he came to her mother, she was his last resort. Doesn’t really want or need help. Hates to come and see me her mama used to say. That kind of stubbornness never helped anybody.

She’d met Mary once.

She got tired of peeking around the front window’s curtain and watching the blond girl in the car so one day she stepped outside. Mary watched her leave the house and walk all the way down the front path. Missouri was halfway to the car when Mary began to roll her window down.

“Do you know what your daddy is doing in there?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you’ll come see me one day.”

“Maybe.”

And that was all that was said before they both heard the front door open. Samuel didn’t say anything to either one of them, the same grim expression he came with still on his face. Missouri waved until their car disappeared around the corner.

She saw Mary around town after, every once in awhile. Mary would smile a ‘we know each other but let’s pretend otherwise’ smile. Missouri would nod, imperceptible to anyone else but Mary.

Not long after Samuel and Deanna Campbell died. Only the Mosley family knew it wasn’t at all what the papers said it was. 

Mary never came to see her. She never knew if Mary ever needed her; if she had put that part of her life behind her. Missouri often wondered if that was even possible.

It’s three days before she sees John and the boys again.

It’s a Thursday afternoon and it’s going to snow again. It’s going to snow right up until Christmas so the weatherman says.

It’s like that Sunday all over again only this time nothing is said as she lets him in. He looks sheepish and more worse for the wear than before.

She feeds them again and puts them all to bed.

Christmas is the best that can be done on short notice. Usually the extent of her decorating is a wreath on the door and some candles in the windows. She usually goes out, to a fellow church member’s house. Or travels to see her brothers and sisters. She’d planned on it but cancelled just in case he would return.

So this year she’s at home with the only kind of tree one can find at the very last minute and homemade decorations. Dean had fun helping her make them, she knows he did. There are all kinds of things to fit into stockings and under the tree. Everything left over that nobody else wanted.

She knows it’s the effort that counts as she watches John and boys open presents. They could all use a little normalcy.

Two days later the official investigation into what happened to Mary is closed. John looks at her, says “What a Christmas present, huh?”

There's life in her house now. Well, more than there was before.

There's a myriad of feelings that come with sharing space with someone else, other people so unlike yourself. 

It’s easy to fall back into old patterns of getting up, making sure mouths are fed (John Winchester you get down here to eat right now!), bodies are clothed, tempers soothed, young and old alike (Sssh, Sammy. It’ll be alright.) It’s different though. Quiet. Not like the noise she’s used to when her family was whole or even when she was the woman of the house. Her mama having died of cancer suddenly the summer she was forty-five and Missouri was seventeen. It was the six of them then – her daddy, two older brothers, one younger brother and one younger sister, who looked too much like her mother for any of them to ever forget. After their grief had lessened, they talked and laughed again, filling up the house as if to still make it sound like it was still seven lives in the house.

It’s going to take John and Dean awhile to get there. They move about, their grief palpable. She doesn’t bother them. She waits for them to get out of it on their own. That’s all she can do. That’s what she knows how to do having done it before.

Sammy’s different though, which makes sense. He’s like the sun peeking from behind the clouds. All smiles and gurgles and other sounds that will one day will be words.

She didn't think she was lonely. But maybe she was, if only a little.