The patrol car's lights flashed red and blue, casting reflections on the murky river flowing beneath Jericho Bridge. The sky was gray, like the world had forgotten how to breathe. A quiet wind blew through, carrying the scent of wet earth and burnt oil.
An Impala pulled up a few meters from the scene. The silence around it felt heavier than the air. Three cruisers were parked nearby, and two officers were speaking with a woman whose eyes were swollen from crying. One of them gestured toward the river below.
Dean walked up, pretending to be a federal agent. The cop eyed him suspiciously, his voice firm but laced with exhaustion.
"The car was found right here. Driver's gone. No body. Just skid marks and blood on the steering wheel."
Sam studied the bridge — cracked concrete, grimy guardrails, and the river below.
Dean asked about other cases. The officer hesitated, then replied:
"This isn't the first. We've had three disappearances here. All men. All at night. But one of them… was different."
Sam turned, alert.
"Different how?" he asked, voice low but steady.
"A month ago. Same spot. Same time. But that time, the car wasn't empty. The guy was still inside — slumped over the wheel, covered in blood. Dead. But here's the weird part: no wounds. No cuts. No trauma. Blood everywhere, but his skin was untouched. Like he bled out from the inside… for no reason."
Dean frowned, his tone sharp.
"Who was he?"
The officer's gaze grew heavy.
"Rick Vixley. Twenty-one. Worked with his grandfather at the family bookstore. Lived alone."
Dean nodded, exchanging a glance with Sam.
"And the body? Is it at the morgue?"
The officer looked at the river, like he still expected something to surface.
"It was. But he came back."
Dean's brow furrowed. Sam flipped through their father's journal.
The officer continued, voice dropping:
"The coroner had already signed the death certificate. But then he showed up. Alive."
Sam watched the officer closely. There was something in the way he hesitated — like he was holding back.
Sam stepped forward, eyes locked on him. His voice was quiet, but urgent.
"What did he say? Did he tell you what happened here?"
The officer looked away. Took a deep breath. Eyes fixed on the murky water.
"He's still in a coma."
Dean looked at Sam. Neither spoke.The silence between them spoke louder than words. Sam closed the journal carefully.
He gave the officer a respectful nod.
"Thanks for your time."
The two walked away from the scene.
---
Dean pushed open the door to Room 207. Rick Vexley lay motionless, hooked up to machines. His skin was pale, his eyes closed. Beside the bed sat an elderly man with white hair and a tired gaze, gently holding his grandson's hand.
Sam stepped forward carefully.
"Good evening, sir…?"
"Alfred Vexley," the old man replied, never taking his eyes off Rick.
Dean leaned against the wall, watching the monitors.
"We're investigating what happened to your grandson. Were you with him right before the accident??"
Alfred hesitated, then nodded, guilt in his eyes.
"He left the house to deliver some books for me."
Sam moved closer to the bed, his eyes scanned every detail — loose wires, an irregular pulse, the faint tremble in Rick's hand.
"Did he mention anything? Somewhere he was going? Anything strange in the days before?"
The old man took a deep breath, voice trembling:
"He just kept saying life was hard… that things weren't right."
Dean stepped up, looking down at Rick.
"And since he came back… has he said anything?"
Alfred shook his head.
"No. Nothing."
The silence in the room was thick. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance.
Rick was there — not in flesh, but in the room. Watching everything with eyes that no longer blinked. He felt like a ghost of himself — present, but unseen.
"What do they want now?" he muttered. "Wasn't what happened enough?"
Tessa stood beside him. Silent. Her presence like a veil between worlds. She said nothing. She simply watched.
Rick stepped closer to the bed, staring at his own face.
"I'm still here… aren't I?"
Sam moved slowly, as if sensing something. But he couldn't see. Couldn't hear.
Rick looked at his grandfather.
"They shouldn't be here. This is going to hurt him."
Tessa remained quiet.
Dean touched the monitor wires. Sam looked at Rick's hand — still trembling.
Rick turned to Tessa.
"They think they can fix this. But they can't, can they?"
She finally spoke. Her voice was soft, like wind through dry leaves.
"You need to move on, Rick."
He looked at her, eyes full of questions.
"The things of the living… don't belong to you anymore."
"Oh sure, but no thanks. How many times do I have to say it?" he said sarcastically.
"Move on, Rick." "Accept it, Rick." "Let go, Rick." He mocked, bitterly theatrical. "Do you guys have a script or are you just winging it?"
Tessa didn't answer. Just watched him — like every word he spoke was a petal falling from a flower long dead.
Rick turned to his grandfather, still holding his hand with quiet tenderness.
"He still believes I can come back. And you want me to leave him?"
Silence.
Sam and Dean gave Alfred one last look before leaving the room. The old man stayed quiet, eyes locked on Rick, as if still waiting for a miracle.
The door clicked shut.
Rick hesitated. Looked at Tessa, who stood still — like a mourning statue.
Then he followed the two men.
The hospital hallway was empty, lit by cold lights. Rick drifted through muffled sounds, invisible but alert.
Dean flipped through a folder. Sam spoke in a low voice:
"The sequence doesn't add up. The crash, the vitals, the tremble in his hand… Something's off."
Dean kept reading, eyes dark.
"It's not just weird… it's different."
He paused, thinking.
"Maybe it's not like the other disappearances. Maybe it's something else entirely."
Sam raised an eyebrow.
"You think it's a different kind of case?"
Dean nodded slowly.
"Could be. We should talk to the girlfriend of the last guy who vanished. See if she noticed anything strange."
Rick stopped. The air around him felt frozen.
"They know…" he whispered.
Sam continued:
"If it's what I think, it might be connected to those deaths in Brookhaven."
Rick stepped forward, voice now burning with fear and fury.
"They know!" he shouted, knowing they couldn't hear. "They know about that bitch!"
The words echoed into nothing. Neither of them reacted. But Rick knew. He could feel it. They were getting closer.
Tessa appeared beside him, stitched into the silence.
Rick turned, eyes blazing.
"If they really find her… they'll go after her. And they'll die."
Tessa looked at him, calm. Like she'd seen this cycle before.
"Maybe that's what needs to happen."
Rick clenched his fists, powerless.
"No. Not like this."
---
The diner smelled like old grease and reheated coffee. Sam and Dean sat across from two girls — Troy's girlfriend and her friend. Rick sat quietly at the end of the booth, watching everything. Tessa was beside him, as always, silent.
"I was on the phone with Troy," said the girlfriend, fiddling with her necklace. "He said he'd call me right back, but… he never did."
Sam leaned in.
"Did he say anything weird? Anything unusual?"
She thought for a moment.
"No. Not that I remember."
Sam pointed at the necklace.
"Nice necklace."
She smiled.
"Troy gave it to me. To freak out my parents — you know, devil worship kind of stuff."
Sam chuckled.
"Actually, it's the opposite. The pentagram protects against evil. It's pretty powerful… I mean, if you believe in that."
Rick frowned at the necklace, a strange discomfort rising in him. A subtle repulsion.
Dean cut in, teasing:
"Thanks, Mystery Girl. Here's the deal — the way Troy disappeared… something's off. So if you hear anything…"
The girlfriend exchanged glances with her friend. Rick noticed.
"Just say it," he muttered.
Dean caught the look and asked:
"What is it?"
She hesitated.
"Well… since a bunch of guys have gone missing, people talk…"
Dean and Sam asked in unison:
"What do they say?"
The friend answered, nervous:
"There's this local legend. A girl. They say she was murdered on the highway decades ago. And she's still out there. Hitchhiking. And whoever picks her up… disappears. Forever."
Dean and Sam exchanged serious looks.
Rick lowered his head, his eyes locked on the table.
"She's still out there. And they're getting closer."
Tessa looked at him, finally.
But said nothing.
Later, in the library…
The room was silent, except for the frantic clacking of keys under Dean's fingers.
"Woman murdered hitchhiking…" he muttered, eyes locked on the screen.
"Nothing. Damn."
Sam stepped up, his shadow falling over Dean.
"Let me try," he said, nudging his brother.
Dean turned, annoyed.
"Dude, you're such a control freak."
—
Rick, leaning against a nearby shelf, watched them with a half-smile.
"They look like a couple in crisis," he murmured, amused.
Tessa glanced at him, expressionless.
"You're not funny, you know," Rick grumbled.
—
Sam ignored Dean's jab, focused and cold.
"Violent spirits… usually died violently, right?"
Dean nodded, more serious now.
"Yeah."
Sam paused, something forming in his mind. He typed slowly: "Woman suicide highway."
The screen blinked. A news article popped up.
"Here," Sam said, voice low.
"She called 911, said her kids had drowned. Before help arrived… she jumped off the bridge."
Dean leaned in, eyes locked on the photo of the bridge.
"That bridge… looks familiar, doesn't it?"
—
Rick stepped closer, smile gone. When he saw the woman's photo, his body stiffened.
"That's her," he said, voice sharp, almost a whisper. "That's the bitch who killed me."
Tessa looked at him.
Rick stepped forward, face twisted with rage.
"I can guess…" he said, voice low and venomous. "That psycho didn't lose her kids. She killed them. Then jumped — afraid of getting caught."
He clenched his fists, face burning with hate.
"Sick monster."
—
Dean frowned.
"Did you feel that?"
Sam looked around slowly.
"Maybe."
Rick watched them, chest heaving. The anger still burned hot inside him.
They stood up, ready to leave.
But Rick froze.
A chill ran down his spine. A touch. A warmth. A familiar voice, soft as a whisper in the dark.
"Rick…"
He turned, confused. The library dissolved like smoke.
He was back in the hospital.
White lights. The steady beep of machines. The smell of disinfectant.
And there, beside his body… was her.
Sara.
---
Sara stood beside the bed, her eyes locked on Rick. Tears streamed silently down her face, but there was something subtle in her gaze — something deeper.
Two friends were nearby. Susan, the blonde, chewed gum with indifference, a small dark cloth pouch hanging from her neck. Tifa, the Asian girl, held a book far too old to belong in any modern library — its leather cover marked with symbols that seemed to pulse under the fluorescent light.
"I found out recently. As soon as I knew, I came to see you," she said, Her voice shaky, but determined.
Rick moved closer, invisible, but feeling every word. A strange itch crept beneath his skin.
"Even though we broke up… you still matter to me."
The friends exchanged glances. One of them scoffed:
"You literally said you were only with him 'cause the sex was good."
The other added, with a crooked smile:
"Look at you now… acting like you lost the love of your life."
Sara turned, furious.
"Is this really the time or place for that?"
The two fell silent, embarrassed. Tifa looked at Rick with a strange expression — almost guilty.
"Sorry…"
Sara leaned over Rick, her fingers brushing his still hand. A whisper escaped her lips, barely audible:
"Ad ligare animam tuam…"
"Shit, something just—" Sara groaned softly, clutching her head like something had poked her brain.
Rick felt warmth rising through his arm.
He placed a hand on his chest, where the heat seemed to gather. No wound. No visible mark. But he knew. Something was there. Something that didn't belong to him. Something that didn't want Sara.
She tried to speak, but her voice failed. A dry whisper slipped out — maybe a word, maybe an apology.
She stood up, eyes still on his body. Her friends followed in silence. But before leaving, Tifa hesitated. She looked at Rick, then at Sara, and placed the dark pouch on the table beside the bed.
Rick watched, heart racing. Something strange had happened again. The heat in his arm still pulsed, like something was trying to latch onto his soul.
He looked toward the corner of the room.
Tessa was there. Still. But her gaze had changed. She wasn't looking at Sara. Not at Rick.
She was staring at the pouch Tifa had left on the table.
Then, slowly, her eyes shifted to Rick.
No words. Just that heavy silence, like the air itself was waiting.
Rick shivered. Tessa knew. She always knew when something didn't belong to this world.
The pouch seemed to vibrate slightly, like it was breathing. A thin, almost invisible wisp of smoke escaped from the stitching, snaking through the air toward Rick's chest.
Tessa stepped forward, eyes locked on the object.
"This shouldn't be here," she murmured, barely audible.
Rick tried to speak, but hesitated.
Tessa approached the table, cautious. She reached out, but didn't touch the pouch. Just stared.
"Mojo…" she said, as if recognizing the scent, the weight, the purpose.
Then she looked at him again. He knew — she wouldn't explain.
"What is this? What just happened?" Rick asked anyway, voice trembling, desperate to understand.
"Sara spoke some strange words I couldn't understand… and then…"
He looked at his arm.
"My arm burned."
Tessa just stared at him in silence.
---
The Impala glided down the empty road under the pale moonlight. Sam was driving alone, eyes locked on the darkness ahead. His phone was wedged between his shoulder and ear, his voice tense as he spoke to Dean — who had just escaped from the station, accused of the disappearances.
"We're dealing with the Woman in White…"
Dean cut him off.
"Shut up. I'm trying to tell you — Dad's gone. He left Jericho."
Sam frowned.
"What? How do you know?"
"He left a message. And coordinates."
"To where?"
"I don't know yet."
Sam gripped the wheel tighter.
"I don't get it. Why would Dad walk away from a hunt halfway through…"
"Dean… what's going on…"
He didn't finish. There, on the road — a woman. White dress. Standing still.
Sam swerved — but too late.
The car passed through her.
Like smoke.
Tires screeched. The Impala skidded and stopped on the shoulder.
Sam took a deep breath. Looked in the rearview mirror.
Nothing.
Just the road. Empty.
Still panting, Sam sat in the silent car. The air felt heavy.
A woman's voice. Soft. Whispered. From nowhere.
"Take me home…"
Sam didn't respond. Just stared ahead.
The voice changed. Rough. Angry.
"Take me home!"
"No," he said calmly, standing his ground.
The doors slammed shut with a sharp snap. The engine roared to life. The steering wheel turned on its own.
The Impala started moving. Sam frowned.
He tried the door. Locked.
Yanked the wheel. Nothing.
The car didn't care.
"Damn it…" he muttered, reaching for the handbrake. Frozen.
Sam scanned the dashboard, searching for anything — any way out.
Time dragged. The road stretched like a slow nightmare.
The sky darkened unnaturally. The trees bent slightly, like they were watching.
The Impala kept going, ignoring every attempt to stop it.
Until finally, the road ended in front of a house.
Rotting wood, swollen from years of damp. Broken windows, like empty eye sockets staring into nothing.
The peeling paint looked like old skin, revealing layers of a past that should've stayed buried.
The place didn't just feel abandoned — it felt alive. Like it had been waiting.
"Don't do this," Sam said, almost pleading. His voice carried a fragile hope.
She didn't answer right away. The silence pressed down.
Then, her voice cracked — like each word hurt to say:
"I can't go back."
Sam watched. And saw. It wasn't anger. It wasn't hate.
It was fear.
"You're scared…" he said, not accusing — just understanding.
Sam looked at the passenger seat. Empty.
She was gone.
Then she appeared — in his lap.
Her skin pale, almost see-through, like antique porcelain. Features too delicate to be alive — beauty frozen in time.
Dark hair fell like a veil over her shoulders. Her eyes, lifeless but deep, like wells that promised forgetting.
Her body pressed against his, slow and deliberate — like dancing with death.
Every movement was a sweet, seductive mistake.
Her half-open mouth moved closer, releasing a scent that didn't belong to the living.
She tried to kiss him.
Sam pulled back, horrified. His heart raced. It wasn't desire — it was survival.
"Hug me," she said sweetly.
Sam felt a chill crawl up his spine. He shrank back. Agony. Her touch was cold. Sharp.
He struggled, desperate to escape.
"You can't kill me…" he said, voice shaking but firm. "I'm not unfaithful!"
She pulled back just enough for him to breathe — then leaned in again.
She whispered in his ear.
"You will be."
Then again, softer. More venomous:
"Hug me."
She forced a kiss. Sam reached for the ignition. She stood. Vanished.
Sam gasped. Looked around, panicked. His breath short, sweat dripping down his temples.
He screamed — a raw, torn sound.Invisible pain — like blades carving him from within.
He ripped open his shirt, desperate to understand.
And then he saw.
A shadow. Her.
Five fingers buried in his chest — not outside, but inside, like his flesh had given way to her presence.
The skin around it pulsed, darkened — like her touch was infecting time itself.
Her face… wasn't the same.
Corpse-like. Eyes sunken, like holes carved by pain. Skin gray, cracked like dry clay. Mouth torn in an impossible grin — too wide to be human.
A gunshot. Glass shattered. Salt.
She screamed — a high, inhuman sound that tore through the air.
And vanished.
Dean stood on the road. Gun in hand. Jaw clenched. Eyes locked.
She tried to return. Dean fired. Again.
Sam seized the moment. Started the car. The engine roared — like it wanted to escape too.
"I'm taking you home," he said, voice steady.
The Impala surged forward.
The house loomed closer.
But before they crossed the threshold—
"Nooooo! I can't!" she screamed, voice torn, full of pain and panic.
The car screeched to a stop. Silence pressed down.
"Sam!" Dean shouted, running down the road, gun raised.
He got close. Took aim.
She raised her hand. Dean was thrown backward — like a rag doll.
"Dean!" Sam roared, panic in his voice.
She turned back to Sam. He was out of the car. Tried to run.
But she vanished — and reappeared, her fingers buried in his chest.
Sam howled, body arched in pain. Deep pain — like something was being ripped out.
"Ahhh… damn it…"
But then…
A hand shot out of nowhere.
It clamped around her neck with brutal force.
She was torn off Sam like a broken doll, lifted into the air with a sickening snap.
Her body twisted, eyes wide with shock and rage.
Rick.
Dark eyes. Crooked smile. Voice cold as buried steel.
"Hello, darling."
She thrashed, but Rick didn't let go.
He stared her down, mocking her with his gaze.
Sam dropped to his knees, gasping, chest burning — but his eyes stayed locked on the scene.
Rick held the woman by the throat. She struggled, but he didn't flinch.
With a savage motion, he hurled her like a shattered toy — her body flew through the air and vanished into the house.
Rick followed — no sound, no shadow.
Dean limped over to Sam.
"You okay?" he asked, breathing hard.
"I'm… yeah," Sam replied, still shaking. "You?"
"More or less."
Dean looked at the house. Then at Sam.
"What the hell was that?"
Sam stared into the void.
"I don't know…"
They exchanged a look. Then walked toward the house.
Inside, the air was heavy. The walls seemed to breathe.
Rick appeared and grabbed the ghost. He slammed her into the wall. Then the ceiling. Then the floor.
She screamed, but didn't fight back. She couldn't.
Tessa appeared. Her voice calm.
"Rick… stop. This isn't the way, and you know it.."
He hesitated. Just for a second.
Looked at her. Eyes burning.
"My revenge, Tessa…"
And that second was all she needed.
The ghost clawed at Rick's stomach. He howled in pain, staggering.
But then… Rick bit her.
Hard. Cruel. Brutal.
She let out a banshee scream — high, torn, impossible.
At that moment, Sam and Dean entered. And froze at what they saw.
They saw Rick — but he wasn't human. He was a hooded figure, wrapped in shadows, pulsing with dark, hungry energy.
And then… he began to absorb her.
Her skin peeled away. Her soul unraveled. Like it was being ripped out of the world.
Then… two small voices.
"Mom…"
Rick froze.
Two children — pale, with big, sorrowful eyes.
He looked at Tessa.
She smiled — but her eyes held sorrow. And then she vanished. Taking the children with her.
Rick turned back. Looked at the brothers.
Then, without a sound, he vanished.
The silence hung heavy — almost tangible.
Dean broke it with the only thing he could say:
"What the hell was that?"