Supernatural: Night Terror Read Free Page B

“siphon gasoline from generator,” “bury body,” and “burn stable,” he’d written “burn” a second time before dropping the pen on the floor. Dean guessed that “burn farmhouse” would have been next, followed by “insert revolver in mouth” and “pull trigger.” Apparently old man Gillmer had grown weary of chasing thrill-seeking teens off his property, but not before somebody else decided to punch his ticket.
    A local newspaper’s piece on the five-year anniversary of the machete killings and the sudden, mysterious disappearance of Cletus’ murderous son, Clive Gillmer, had created an urban legend to test the mettle of a new crop of teenagers. From deranged serial killer to phantom bogeyman in five years. The old man tried to scare the kids away, garnering “crazy old coot” status, but some had gone missing nonetheless. Dean suspected the old man knew what the Winchesters did: bogeymen have teeth.
    On their way out of the farmhouse, Sam spotted the pink sneaker in the high grass beside the front porch steps, bathed in moonlight. Their flashlights had revealed the young woman with a broken neck stuffed under the crawlspace. And so the to-do list had led them to the horse stable...
    As Dean walked toward the second stall—duffel bag hanging from his left shoulder, shotgun loaded with rock salt cradled under his right arm—he heard Sam open and search one of the tack trunks under the table.
    “Dean!” he called. “Found a machete.”
    “Keep looking,” Dean said absently. “Junior’s body’s gotta be here.”
    He opened the next stall door with the tip of his shotgun. The eyebolt in this one was angled down. Dean grabbed it, wiggled it back and forth, felt the wood planking give, bits of rotted wood falling away like damp mulch. His flashlight flickered—
    A loud crash broke the eerie silence of the stable.
    Dean whirled. “Sam!”
    Looming over him was the six-foot-seven, three-hundredpound vengeful spirit of Clive Gillmer, in mottled whiteface, wearing the traditional black-and-white striped shirt under blood-stained bib overalls. “The Machete Mime,” as the press had dubbed him.
    Dean swung the shotgun up, but the Mime clubbed his arm away and rammed him against the back wall with enough force to split the weakened boards. The shotgun fell from his numb fingers along with the flashlight.
    “Sam! Little help!”
    Before Sam regained his soul, Dean was never sure when his brother would have his back. But that was before. Now...
    The Mime picked Dean up and slammed him against the wall to the right and then to the left. Both were in better shape than the rear wall, if the sharp pain in his ribs was any judge.
    “Marcel Machete here has anger management issues!” Dean yelled.
    He dodged a fist which punched a hole in the wall next to his head, but caught a knee in the gut and dropped to the ground, stunned.
    The crash he’d heard earlier, after Sam discovered the machete...
    “Sammy!”
    Face it. Sam’s out of commission .
    Dean heard a clanking of chains, then felt cold steel encircle his neck, bite into his flesh and inexorably tighten.
    He managed to slip his fingers under the chain and alleviate the pressure long enough to suck in some air and clear his vision. His other hand scrabbled across the matted straw of the dirt floor until his fingers closed around the barrel of his shotgun.
    The Mime’s booted foot kicked Dean’s arm against the wall and once again the shotgun slipped from his grasp. Dean’s vision began to dim again, fading to black at the edges, when he heard a shotgun blast from above.
    In an instant, the pressure of the chains around his neck was gone and he was stumbling forward onto hands and knees, coughing and gasping for air.
    Sam stood in the aisle, shotgun braced in his hands. His jacket was torn at the shoulder seam and a line of blood trickled from his scalp.
    “He surprised me,” he stated.
    Dean nodded. “Makes two of us,” he rasped.
    Dean