By: Karen B.

Summary: Sam and Dean investigate a commercial haunted house that seems to be really haunted.

Disclaimer: Written just for the haunt of it. I own nothing. Thank you very much for your time in reading.

Sunny days,



"A haunted house on a hill." Dean trudged up the gravel-pitted pathway lit by the October full moon. "Lame, Sam, really lame." Dean shivered against the bleak and windy night air.

"Look, you know I don't like them either, Dean, remember..."

"Bro, I don't want to talk about that time."

"Yeah okay, but lame isn't the word I'd use. Most people think this sort of thing is fun," Sam offered.

"It's cold. It's two in the morning, I'm hungry and…" Dean breathed in the lingering aroma of buttery popcorn, hotdogs, cotton candy, and crunchy cheese fries. "…And… I don't like leaving my baby parked in some damn pumpkin patch. What's so fun about that?"

"Dean." Sam blew out a white puff of air into the crisp Autumn night. "Always with the car."

"Sam, you do know these attractions were created for one purpose and one purpose only -- don't you?"

"'Cause people like to be scared, yet safe," Sam answered, quickly sidestepping a pile of ketchup packets someone had obviously left on the ground as a joke.

"Scared and safe don't mix, Sam. Fact is haunted houses were invented by some poor bastard who needed a little fake blood, and spaghetti from a can masquerading as guts just to get the girls to hang on to him." Dean frowned in thought. "You know that guy made a ton of cash impressing the chicks with his bravery, on top of getting some action." Dean clucked his tongue.

"Dean!" Sam gave a tisk of disgust.

"What?" Dean shrugged.

"Guess haunted houses aren't so lame then, huh?"

"Still lame," Dean said. "But sure generates lots of bucks and lots of sex." He waggled his brow. "Instant gratification. We're in the wrong business, baby brother. You know they friggin' charge an arm and a leg to get into one of these phony-baloney places. Get it, Sam." Dean elbowed his brother in the ribs. "An arm and a leg," he chuckled

"You really do amuse yourself, " Sam grumbled. "Don't you, Dean." It wasn't a question.

"Yes, I do," Dean replied confidently, just as they came to stand in front of an old farm house.

"Welcome to Knotts Scary Farm," Dean said sarcastically, waving a hand toward the haunted attraction before them. "Grab your broomstick..." He adjusted his weapon's bag hiking the satchel high on his shoulder. " ...And hold on for the ride of your life."

"Whatever." Sam rolled his eyes skyward. "Be serious, man. I told you three teenagers over the past four weeks disappeared in there. They bought a ticket to ride, went in and never came out. Authorities think they are all runaways. But I got this feeling it's our kind of gig." Sam pulled his flashlight from his pocket, and flipped the switch to on. "Before its second wind as a commercially haunted house, this old farmhouse had one owner -- a Victor Boham. The attraction is so popular because of the urban legend surrounding the house's past. Story goes, this Victor guy, liked to dish out ghost tales to the neighborhood kids, gain their trust with free candy and send them on their way." Sam slowly let his flashlight's beam roam over the home. "When they'd come back for more ghost stories and candy, he'd lead them to a secret, hidden room in the house and massacred them in some sort of satanic ritual. Until the neighborhood caught on to what he was doing. Formed a sort of lynch mob, found his secret room, strung him up, then burned the body."

"So, you think this sick-o is still in there? Luring kids to some secret room and hacking them to pieces? How? No bones to salt and burn, dude."

"Something could be holding his spirit here." Sam shrugged.

"Haunted house -- haunted," Dean mumbled. "Sounds more like a Blockbuster movie that never hit the theaters." Dean retrieved his flashlight from his jacket pocket. "Too, bad. My kind of movie," he grumbled irritably.

Sam frowned, shaking his head. "Let's just check it out." His flashlight's beam now roaming over the front porch in silence as they neared the house.

The old place really did look creepy, blanketed in the light of the full moon and surrounded by thick, dark woods. All the windows were boarded up, and the once painted white clapboards were graying, warped, and moss covered. Sam read the dripping red- warning sign above the haunted house's entrance:









"Sam, look out!" Dean yelled, abruptly directing his beam of light into his brother's face.

"Wha'!" Startled, Sam jumped back away from Dean.

"Don't wet your pants, Sammy boy." Dean's beam moved from Sam's face to the house, then back to his face. " Ha!" Patting Sam on the arm, he headed toward the front porch.

"Also not recommended for jerk-off brothers," Sam mumbled, following close behind.

Coming to stand side by side at the front door, Sam swiped two fingers over a large red smear.

"You think this place is wired with an alarm?" Sam asked, studying the tacky residue. "Stage blood," he announced, wiping his hand against his thigh.

"Of course it's stage blood, Sam. Everything in this place is staged. "Look, wait here a second. I'm going around to the side of the house. Probably is rigged. I'd imagine they get a bunch of virgin teenagers breaking in to get their cheap thrills."


"Just wait." Dean bounded down the steps, disappearing into a misted curtain of grayish, black shadows.

Sam looked around getting that dark alley feel.




Sam hated Halloween. If normal people knew the things he knew. Saw the things he saw. Fought the things he fought. Places like this would send them running for the exits and give them nightmares, forever. Sam's nightmares of hunts gone wrong, and even not so wrong, always stuck with him for weeks. Causing him to lose sleep, weight, and just be plain old fashioned scared -- something he could never tell his Dad or Dean.

Normal people viewed being scared as fun. Pranks, paper skeletons hanging by threads, and horror films -- fun.

"Fun," Sam grumbled his disgust.

He knew being scared was anything but fun. Pranks were wielded by the hands of cruel, hyped up on sugar Demigods. Skeletons hanging anywhere, need only be burned. And horror films? For Sam, horror films weren't just a genre -- they were a way of life. The Exorcist -- a girl possessed. Jeepers Creepers -- a murderous scarecrow. Twilight -- vegetarian vampires falling in love? Sam shook his head. The fact vampires existed at all would and should send people screaming into the night.

Truthfully, for Sam, the truth mostly sucked.

What sucked worse about the truth was -- never being able to tell it. He could never tell Jessica or any of his schoolmates, teachers, or other innocents that they really should be afraid of the dark

Halloween was a sick and twisted holiday.

Sam turned to walk to the edge of the steps, the night wind ruffling his long, brown hair and sending a chill through his frame.

"What's taking you so long, Dean? Come on, already." He swiped the wayward strands out of his face, eyes firmly on the spot he'd last seen his brother. "That's it." Sam reached in his pocket for his cell to hurry Dean along, when the front door whipped open with a bang!


"Holy crap!" Sam jumped, turning to meet Dean's smiling face. "Dean." Sam sighed loudly. "What the hell?"

Dean held up two digits. 'Two points.' He wordlessly mouthed directing a stiff index finger toward his chest. 'For me.'

"Whatever," Sam deadpaned.

"Scared you, didn't I?" Dean asked enthusiastically, leaning against the open doorway.

Sam didn't look enthused, and Dean got no reply.

"C'mon, pissy pants, take a pill or something."

"Don't call me that, Dean!" Sam ground out angrily. "Where were you?"

"Took me forever to get the alarm off," Dean laughed lightly.

"Nice mask," Sam said, briefly examining Dean's chin as he brushed by entering the house.

"What!" Dean ran a hand over his face, following on his brother's heels. "I'm not wearing a mask…hey, do I have a zit or something?"

"Two points." Sam held up two fingers waggling his hand in the air, rounding a corner.

"Sam, is there a zit on my chin?"

No response.

"Come on, man, tell me. Hey, wait up."


They shuffled along the narrow hallway. The faint glow of security lights helping to light their way, the floor creaking and groaning with each booted step. Dean had the E.M.F. out, scanning each fake monster, bloody axe, and stuffed animal head reminding him of his first skinned deer.

"You sure that thing's working right?" Sam eyed the homemade meter in Dean's hand.

"Sam, my walkman can hunt down a ghost better than a vulture hunting down roadkill from fifty feet up."

"Oh, brother," Sam groaned.


"Forget it, Dean, just keep looking."

Dean shined his light on a human head hanging on a plaque on the wall. Long, shaggy brown hair hung over empty eye sockets, and it looked like the guy's face had been half eaten. Exposing muscle, blood and bone. Most disturbing was the scaly fish tail sticking out of the man's open mouth.

"Can you believe this? That's just nasty."

"It's fake, Dean.

"Could be your twin, Sam," Dean chuckled.

"Shutup," Sam hissed sourly.

Continuing to tour through the narrow hallways of the house, everything was as silent as a mortuary. Each room they passed through, full of nothing but props, posters, and fake blood trailing from end to end.

"Anything?" Sam asked.

"Nothing, yet," Dean answered, shrugging his duffle bag higher up onto his shoulder and holding the E.M.F. out in front of him waving the meter back and forth.

"Nothing?" Sam frowned.

"Yet," Dean repeated, sounding slightly annoyed. "You call this spooky." Dean waved the walkman over a girl's bloody head lying in an even bloodier basket. "I'd love to get my hands on the rest of her body," he laughed at his own joke.

"Hysterical." Sam shined his flashlight on a large, fake spider hanging from a thread.

The eight-legged bug wiggled, dropping down to the floor and crawled into a crack. "Real," Sam informed, just like the gut feeling whirling inside him was real.

"Not everything in this place is made out of wax, Dean."

"Your head is. Ha!"

"Dean." Sam stopped mid-step, pressing his lips together and counting to ten.

Dean smiled totally aware he'd pushed his brother's buttons.

"Come on pissy pants." Dean walked through an archway, leading into a larger room.

Sam let out the breath he was holding deep in his chest. "Don't call me that," he grumbled, entering the room.

"Huh." Dean stepped across the plaster-covered floor, to stand next to a glass chandelier sticking straight up out of the floor in the center of the room. Crystal shaped teardrops dangled upward, defying gravity. Dean glanced up, shining his light on the ceiling, noting the living room furniture bolted there. "Amazing, an upside down room," he said sarcastically, smiling at the white bear skinned rug lying in front of a fireplace.

"Just makes me dizzy." Sam swayed a little off his feet studying the setting above.

"Just makes me wonder who'd be on top," Dean said, seriously.

"Food and sex, is that all you ever think about, Dean?"

"Bro, give me a little credit. I think about a lot of things."

"Like what?" Sam shined his light on the fireplace, his flashlight's beam bouncing off the mirror above the mantel.

"Like how woud we vacuum a ceiling?" Dean offered curiously. "Would we cook Smores sitting around the chandelier, and put our underwear on over our heads?"

Sam shook his head. He had no words for his brother's musings, and would have rolled his eyes, but he already felt nauseous.

"Sam, there's no monster bash going on. I've got to get out of here, that damn Jackson Brown song -- 'Dancing on the Ceiling' is playing in my head and about to drive me over the edge." Dean eyed the red-velvet, flowery wallpaper that stretched from ceiling to floor.

"Lionel Richie," Sam corrected, moving to lean against a wall for support.

"Whoever. There's nothing real about this place."

"Spider was real."

"Sam, come on, man. There's nothing here. Let's pull out. I saw this cool looking sports bar down the road, could use a beer… and a burger, watch the big game on the big screen."

"Dean, maybe we should keep at it. I got a creepy feeling about this whole set up."

"Hormones, Sam. Just hormones. When was the last time you made a connection?"


"Dude, you know. Get it on. Ring your bell. Dip your stick. Free Willy. Bang some chitty-chitty as…"


"Yeah, that's what I thought. Sad man, real sad," Dean grumbled his disapproval. "Like I said, Sam, lame. We got nothing. Let's just file this place under Loony Tunes and head out."

"Maybe you're right," Sam resigned pushing of the wall, tottering awkwardly toward his left.

"Exits this way, gravity boy." Dean stuffed the E.M.F. into his duffle and turned, but the archway they'd come through was replaced by a matching red-velvet wall. "What the…we're trapped." Dean whirled around. "Sam?" he called not seeing his brother. He took in a deep breath to yell louder when he heard Sam's whispered voice.

"Dean." Sam sounded like he was calling him from another realm.

Dean didn't move. Didn't breathe, cocking his head to listen and glaring at the wall in front of him.

"How lame am I now?" a ghostly voice asked, ectoplasm seeping out from everywhere, dripping down the walls, and crawling across the floor/ceiling like a living entity.

"Sammy!" In Roadrunner-like frenzy, Dean crossed the room to the closest wall, slamming a hardened fist against the partition. "Sam!" He banged and moved, hitting every section of wallpaper he could reach.

"Dean." Sam's whispered voice came again from somewhere behind the wall.

TBC -- (Two shot only)