(AN: This was written long before the series four Doctor Who episodes "Silence In The Library" and "Forest of the Dead" were transmitted. You're probably wondering why I mention it, but once you read a specific exchange, it'll make sense. I contemplated altering it, for the sake of honoring Who canon but eventually decided not to. I liked it too much. :) Thank ye.)

CHAPTER EIGHT

--

Dean reclined in the seat, draping his arms over its back and focused on the Doctor.

“Before settlers moved West, no one lived around here. For a few miles out from where the house is, none of the Native American tribes never set foot on it. Claimed it was cursed.” He paused. “The Cherokee called it 'A-yo-ho-hi-s-di Ga-to-hi', which literally translates into 'Death Land'. They said a great Evil lurked below the earth, an evil that ate mens' souls. After the panhandle opened legally to settlers in 1889, those dudes found out about it.”

“What happened?”

“A lotta motiveless murders, like people went nuts for no reason,” he answered with a shrug. “Evansville was founded in 1897, but nothin' like that ever happened there. No murders, no weird stuff. Even today, it's been relatively normal.”

The Doctor nodded, thoughtful. “When was this house erected?”

“Late 1910s. Just the Churchill family ever lived in the place, until the late 50s. When Frank Churchill cracked his wife's skull and killed her, then dismembered her corpse.”

His mouth quirked at the casual way Dean spoke of the woman's vicious murder, it was ... unusual. Almost as though the death of another human being didn't matter to him. “And what became of him?”

“Dude went to jail.” He sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Afterwards, he spouted off this lame-ass story that he didn't want to kill her. From what I heard, he beat the shit out of that woman for years before he killed her. Said a voice told him to do it. Maybe it did. Who knows? Maybe he was just crazy.” He paused as he shook his head. “Back in the early 60s, a couple of hunters tried to stop the murders and disappearances by salting and burning Monica Churchill's remains. Made sense she was doin' it. But it didn't work; it kept happening.”

“What prompted your father to investigate the house?”

He scowled. “A whackjob named Tommy Jacobs,” he grumbled. “Only non-hunter known to have gone into there and come out alive. Or at all. After Dad talked to this guy, he thought he'd figured it out.”

“What was his experience?”

“Not what he'd expected.”

“Which means ...?”

He sat up straight. “Look, Doc, a lotta guys have been in that house over the years, trying to solve the mystery. Some came back, others didn't. Those who did, they never found anything strange. No ghosts, no unusual EMF levels, no suggestion it was something we could deal with, and no one else ever saw what Tommy Jacobs claimed he did.”

“What did he see?”

“His friends had dared him to go into the cellar because, well, that's where Churchill dismembered his wife's body. Gotta be the scariest room in the place, right?” He let out a breath. “So, he goes down there and ... he said he saw a 'monster in the wall'. Heard a voice whispering, like it was inside of his head, telling him stuff. Never said exactly what that was or what the thing looked like.”

“Did your father have a similar experience?”

“No. He saw ghosts of people who'd gone missing, which wouldn't be unusual for a joint like that but ... “ He frowned as he stared at the console across from him. “Rock salt had no effect on them. Not even as a temporary distraction.” Off of the Doctor's puzzled expression, he explained, “Ghosts, in our experience, dissipate when hit with a rock salt round. These ghosts, though, they kept coming after him. And coming and coming. They ... almost killed him.”

The Doctor's brow furrowed as he frowned. Something was oddly familiar about the story, but he couldn't quite place it. He'd had so many experiences of his own over the centuries, they tended to get lost in his memory. For a while, he'd tried to keep a diary; eventually he forgot about that. “How did he manage to survive?”

Dean picked at a loose string on the seat. “A mysterious woman appeared out of nowhere. Her only words were 'come with me', then she took him by a wrist and led him out.” He shifted his gaze to the Doctor. “If she hadn't have shown up when she did ... “ Instead of finishing the thought, he added, “Tommy Jacobs said the same thing happened to him. Like with my dad, she disappeared as soon as he was outside.” He sighed as he leaned back. “That's all I know. If it helps, good. If not, I don't know what else to tell you.” A beat. “Doc?”

The Doctor blinked as he snapped out of his contemplative daze. “Hmm? Oh, yes! It helps a great deal. Thank you,” he quickly replied. As he turned, he hit a few buttons on the console panel. “Martha?” he called.

The door opened and Martha leaned into the room. She'd overheard the entire conversation, and she suspected the Doctor was well aware of the fact. “Yes?” she cautiously replied.

His eyes never left the screen as he spoke. “I'll need you to stay here while we investigate the house.”

“Stay here?” Martha exclaimed at the same time Dean nearly shouted, “What do you mean, 'we'?!”

The Doctor looked over his shoulder – each of the humans was annoyed with him, but for different reasons. “Is there a problem with my plan?”

“Yes,” Martha firmly stated as she stepped up beside him, arms crossed. “I won't sit here and do nothing.”

“You won't be doing nothing. You're responsible for the TARDIS.” Off of her scowl, he added, “I'm not certain what is inside the house; I need someone familiar with the ship to guard her.” He then focused on Dean. “And I'll need your help in searching.”

“Well, screw that! I'm not steppin' foot in there,” Dean declared as he pointed to the doors of the TARDIS. “I'll keep an eye out here.”

“You don't understand the controls, and I haven't the time to explain them.” The Doctor flipped another switch and studied the display on the screen. “Hmm. A concentration of unusual energy in the sub-level of the house.” His brow furrowed. “I've seen this before ... but where?” He ran a hand through his hair as he shook his head. “Where?”

“You'd better come up with a different plan,” Dean said as he sat down, a resolved look on his face. “I ain't leavin'.”

Slowly, the Doctor pivoted on a heel until he faced him. “It's quite difficult for me to believe you were ever in the business of fighting evil and saving innocent lives,” he coolly replied.

His eyes narrowed. “Are you insinuatin' I'm a coward?”

“I insinuated nothing.”

After he jumped to his feet, Dean jabbed a finger into the Doctor's left shoulder. “I've faced off with things any normal human being would've run screaming from. And you think I can't handle whatever's in there?”

“You said it,” the Doctor calmly replied. “I didn't.” He patted Dean's shoulder as his expression turned more sympathetic. “Bearing that in mind, perhaps it is better you stay here. No doubt your fear will be a hindrance.” He removed his sonic screwdriver from his inner jacket pocket. “I'm more than sufficiently prepared for whatever it may be.”

“Hey, hey! Not so friggin' fast, Doc,” Dean snapped as he grabbed his should before he could turn away. He smirked. “I'm goin'. We'll find out who's 'sufficiently prepared'.”

He smiled. “Brilliant!”

“But not without some protection of my own,” Dean added, not letting go of the Doctor's arm.

The smile vanished. “You will not carry a gun.”

“C'mon. What's rock salt gonna to do an alien?” Dean asked. A devious grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Unless you wanna volunteer to take a shot so we can find out?”

The Doctor's eyes slightly narrowed but, reluctantly, he agreed. “You're not to shoot without my expressed permission,” he stated.

Dean shrugged. “Whatever you say.” With that, he left the console room.

“Doctor?”

“Yes?”

Martha watched him study the screen at the console. “Is there another reason you don't want me to go with you?” she quietly asked. “More than simply needing someone to guard the ship?”

“I'd rather not put you in harm's way, Martha.”

“Isn't this what I came along for, Doctor?” She did her best to keep her voice in a calm, level tone. In actuality, she wanted to shout it. “Hasn't every other adventure we've been on together proven I'm capable of handling myself? The Plasmavore? The Carrionites? The Daleks? Nearly three months of protecting the human version of you from the Family?”

With a heavy sigh, he stood straight as he faced her. “It's not that I don't believe you're able to handle yourself, it just isn't necessary.”

“Because Dean's going with you.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Well, yes,” he admitted yet rushed to add, “But he has relevant knowledge.” He placed his hands on her shoulders, his face softened. “And, well, I do need someone to stay with the TARDIS. If this being is intelligent as well as evil, a powerful piece of technology such as this must be kept from it. Understand?”

“Yes.” It was almost a whisper.

He smiled, relieved. “As soon as we've left, secure the doors. Keep them secured, no matter what.”

Her jaw tightened. “Of course.”

The smile faded. “If something should happen to me, the TARDIS is programmed to return to the day we last left your timeline.” He looked up and she turned a little as Dean re-entered the console room, the shotgun tucked underneath an arm. “Use the button I showed you, the ship will do the rest.”

“And if you don't come back ... but he does?” Martha nodded in Dean's direction. “If the ship returns us to my timeline, his year will be up.”

The Doctor looked from Dean, who loaded his shotgun, to Martha's expectant face. “It won't come to that.”

“But what if it -”

“It won't.” As Martha opened her mouth, he repeated, firmly, “It ... won't.”

“Won't what?” Dean asked as he joined them. He flicked his gaze from one to the other. Martha did her best to smile, but he knew they'd been discussing something unpleasant. “What is it?”

The Doctor let go of Martha and headed for the doors. “Come along then!” he called.

Dean looked to Martha again. She regarded him differently than before. It was an expression he knew well – pity. Instead of asking about it, he said, “Don't worry about the Doc. I'm used to watching out for somebody else. It's second nature.” Her expression didn't change. “I promise you, he's safe with me. I'll keep an eye on him.” After an uncomfortable pause, he headed down the ramp.

Folding her arms across her chest, she murmured, “That's supposed to be my job.”

-

Outside, once the Doctor heard Martha secure the TARDIS doors, he turned his attention to the Churchill farmhouse. He raised the sonic screwdriver as he scanned the front of the structure. When finished, he shook his head.

“The energy level is fluctuating,” he reported as glanced at Dean, who was beside him. His brow furrowed. “It isn't massive, it's merely enough to register.” He glanced to his left again. “Are you all right?”

The sun had gone down. The early evening sky was brighter than usual, thanks to the full hunters moon; a moon so brilliant in luminescence, everything around them cast a shadow as though it were day. Because of the unusual light, the dilapidated two-story house before them was clearly visible.

Shotgun clutched in both hands, Dean stared up at the place. The white paint had almost completely chipped away to reveal the weathered grey wood beneath it. Half of the windows were broken out, mostly on the first level. Those that were, boards had been nailed over the holes left behind. The front door slowly creaked back and forth on its rusted hinges. Odd, as there wasn't the slightest breeze.

The Doctor snapped his fingers just in front of Dean's face. He lifted an eyebrow when Dean, startled, looked at him. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Sure,” he quickly answered. Inwardly, he shuddered as he regarded the house once more. “Place is just creepier in the dark.”

“Hmm.” The Doctor shifted his attention to the house.

His own view of it was much different than Dean's, more analytical. The age came through to him not in appearance but in feel. He could sense the amount of time passage in the wood, brick and mortar. In his terms, the house was new, just not well-tended. Fear wasn't present when he regarded it, either. His anticipation was rooted in curiosity – what – or who - was inside?

Dean noticed the contemplative expression on the Doctor's face. “You don't think that's creepy?” he asked, nodding to the house. “It's spooky enough during the day.”

He shrugged as he readjusted the settings on his device. “There's nothing in the dark which isn't there in the light,” he matter-of-factly stated. He removed a small torch from his inner jacket pocket and offered it to Dean. “See for yourself.”

He accepted the flashlight and watched the Doctor carefully ascend the unstable porch steps. “Not in my line of work, Doc,” he muttered.

Inside, the floorboards creaked and moaned as the two of the crept through the main room. The furniture, what was left of it, was broken and rotted. Red dust, pieces of wood and shards of broken glass littered the floor. The blue-white moonlight which streamed through the cracks of the boarded windows gave the room an even eerier appearance.

When Dean shone the beam to his left, he found a flight of stairs leading to the upper level. To the left of the staircase itself was a rather narrow hallway, which led to another portion of the house. Directly in front of them was an open archway, and beyond it looked to be the kitchen area.

“Where to first?” he asked in a hushed voice. “Upstairs? Downstairs?” A pause. “Next town over?”

The Doctor peered over his shoulder, his mouth quirked at the uneasy smile Dean gave in return. “Just a moment.” He flicked on the screwdriver and held it up. As he pivoted on a heel, he scanned the entire room. The pitch momentarily elevated when it passed by the doorway ahead. “It's originating from there.” He moved towards the kitchen area.

As they entered the remains of the kitchen, the Doctor came to a stop in the middle of the room. “It's below us, whatever it is.” The device flicked off as he turned to Dean. “There must be a way to the sub-level here.”

Dean panned the light beam around the far perimeter of the room. Nothing but barren, doorless cabinets, boarded up windows and an overturned wooden table with a leg missing on a filthy floor. He heard the Doctor's screwdriver's trill again. He watched as the Doctor moved away from him, to the far wall. “What exactly is that thing?” he finally asked.

“This?” The Doctor raised it a little. “A sonic screwdriver.”

“What's it do?”

“Bit of everything,” was the distracted reply. He stopped on the nearby closed door when the tone jumped up another octave. “There we are.” He flicked it off again then he placed a hand on the doorknob and gave it a turn. “It's locked.” He let it go. “Or jammed. Or ...”

“I'll get it, Doc.”

“Hmm?” The Doctor raised his head just as Dean prepared to put his foot to the door. “No! Wait, don't - !” he exclaimed as he reached out his hands. Too late. He quickly shielded himself from the splintering wood as Dean's foot made contact with the aged door. Slowly, he lowered his arms.

Dean smugly grinned as he gestured to the open doorway. “Aliens first.”

He glared as he brushed the slips of wood and dust from his suit jacket. “Typical,” he muttered.

His smile faded. “What? I didn't shoot it.”

“Why don't we announce on a loudspeaker we're here?” the Doctor snapped.

“Oh, come on! Whatever this thing is, it probably already knows we're here.”

“Well, if it didn't before, it certainly does now.” The Doctor practically snatched the torch from Dean's hand. “Stay behind me.” He paused then looked to him again. “And, for Rassilon's Sake, don't bloody shoot anything, either!” He shone the beam of light down into the pitch black and illuminated a set of wooden stairs.

Frowning, Dean asked, “Who the hell is Rassilon?”

Ignoring him, the Doctor focused on the lower level. The smell emanating from below was odd. Not the typical mildew odor to be expected in a house in such a condition. It was something else. Stronger. Another sniff. Then, he recognized it.

Dean noticed it, too. A scent he knew just as well as the Doctor - blood. He couldn't help but remember the last time he'd encountered it, and so strongly. Images of Sam, laying in that old bed – dead – flashed through his mind. His tension level rose. He felt a familiar sickness in his gut. Emotions he'd become an expert in controlling over the years, they began to control him.

Before he could take a step down, the Doctor squinted as he placed a hand to his forehead. Almost as soon as the door had opened, a noise – indescribable – filled his mind.

“Something wrong?”

Hand still pressed to his head, he leaned against the doorway for support. “Noise. Screaming ... “ he answered through gritted teeth. The intensity continued to grow. He'd experienced this before ...

Dean shrugged. “I don't hear anything.”

'DOCTOR!!'

The terrified, desperate shriek of one of his long past companions cut through the cacophony. In his mind's eye, there were quick, successive flashes of Tegan Jovanka ... Vislor Turlough ... then, finally, a small village in the English countryside. His hand dropped to his side as the noise subsided. His eyes flew open, his double-heart rate raced as he remembered. Everything.

“What's wrong with you?” Dean demanded. His anger and confusion masked his heightening sense of fear.

“We have to leave.”

“You won't get any argument here,” he eagerly replied. He saw the way the Doctor struggled to keep his balance. “You gonna be able to walk?”

Before he could respond, the Doctor cried out in pain as he dropped to his knees and doubled over. The torch and sonic screwdriver clattered to the wooden floor at almost the same moment he did.

“Shit! Doc?” Dean knelt down and put the light on the Doctor's face. He was in agony, an agony which was very familiar. Sam would get the same way whenever he had one of his visions. “What the hell's wrong with you?”

“Have .. to .. go ...” the Doctor ordered between pained gasps. Suddenly, he released an anguished cry.

“What is it?!”

He tried to focus on Dean, but the pain - and the torchlight - made it impossible. He shoved the light away from his face. “Focused ... psychokinetic ... energy ...”

Grabbing the Doctor by the upper arms, he shook him. “What's doing it?” The sense of confused panic fast overrode any other emotions. “What?”

“The ... Malus ... “ For a second, he clearly saw the human's face. He gripped Dean by his shirt, then hissed, “RUN!”

“Sorry, Doc. I'm not leavin' without you.” Dean took the Doctor by the jacket with one hand and tried to haul him to his feet. He'd promised Martha he wouldn't let anything happen to the son of a bitch. And that was a promise he intended to keep. “Get your ass up!”

Instead of doing so, they both collapsed to the floor.

-

End Chapter Eight