Embedded Files
Some stories don’t end when the fire goes out. They linger, stitched into the walls, waiting for someone to pull the thread. And when Nellie follows it, she finds the kind of silence that doesn’t comfort — it warns.
Word Count: 11.6k
TW: canon-typical violence. very brief depiction of choking. use of mild language.
- - - - - -
The McKinney Mill looms like a carcass against the night sky. The once-proud windows are nothing more than jagged sockets, staring blankly into the dark. Maggie shoves her hands deeper into her hoodie pocket, following close behind her three friends as they scramble up the loading bay’s rusted steps. The air carries that smell: charred wood and old smoke. Even after all these years, the building reeked of the fire that had gutted it back in the late ’70s. Not the best place to visit after an evening at the bar.
“You seriously wanna do this?” Maggie asks, her voice thinner than she meant it to be.
“C’mon, it’s a dare,” Tyler says with a grin, flicking his flashlight on. “Five minutes. That’s all. We go in, take a picture, post it. Boom. Easy.”
She forces a scoff. “Yeah, easy. Until the Rag Man shows up and drags us off.”
That earns a round of nervous laughter, because they all know the stories. Everyone in McKinney did. The hum of machines in an abandoned mill. A night watchman who never left. A mask of rags staring from the rafters. But tonight, the four of them are “proving” it was just a story.
The metal door screeches as they shoulder it open, and the noise echo like a scream through the cavernous dark. Dust motes swirl in their flashlight beams as they step inside, the floor littered with broken glass and rusted nails.
The air is heavier in here. Still. Too still.
“Creepy,” Emily mutters, hugging herself.
Maggie’s beam cut across the blackened walls, catching the charred skeleton of a staircase. She swallowed hard. “Okay, picture and we’re out.”
That’s when she hears it.
A low vibration — humming, mechanical. It rolls through the rafters and settles into her bones. She freezes. The others don’t seem to notice until it grows louder, steady and unnatural, like machines grinding to life in a building that hadn’t had power in decades.
“Uh—guys?”
The scrape follows. Slow. Deliberate. Like rope tightening.
“Shut up,” Tyler hisses, spinning his light toward the shadows.
But the sound comes again. Scrape. Drag.
The air shifts, and the heavy door behind them slams shut with a metallic crash. All four of them whipped around. Chains rattle, thick and taut across the handles, though no one has touched them.
“What the hell!” Tyler yanks, but the door holds fast.
Emily’s breathing hitches. “This isn’t funny—”
“Quiet!” Maggie whispers. Her heart hammers so hard she swore they can hear it.
Then something brushes her ankle.
Cold. Coarse.
She gasps and looks down. Threads. No, not threads, cords; thick, fibrous strands snaking up from the floor, winding around her shoes.
“Get it off me!” she shrieks, kicking, clawing. But the more she struggles, the tighter they coiled. Her friends lunge forward, trying to tear them away, but the threads whip violently, lashing at their arms.
The chains on the door clang loose and the heavy slab swung wide as if granting mercy — but only for them. Without a word, Tyler and Emily bolt, dragging the last boy with them. Their footsteps pound away, swallowed by the night outside.
Maggie sobs, thrashing, her flashlight tumbling from her grip. It rolls across the concrete and spins, its beam sweeping wildly before tilting upward.
And there he is.
High in the rafters, hunched in shadow. A tall silhouette. The mask: stitched from rags, its edges blackened, seams crooked, empty holes staring. The Rag Man tilts his head, watching her with a patience that makes her skin crawl.
The threads yank hard, dragging her across the concrete. Her nails scrape uselessly against the floor, leaving crescents of blood. Her scream cracks, echoing up the walls as she is pulled toward the stairwell swallowed in black.
“No! Please! Don’t—”
Her voice cuts out, strangled by the tightening cords. The flashlight beam flickers once more across the mask, the stitched smile frozen in place, before the light sputters and dies.
• • •
The Impala rolls down the highway in long, low growls, Kansas farmland flickering past in the pale dawn light. Nellie sits cross-legged in the passenger seat, a folder of printouts balanced against her knees and a lukewarm coffee in hand. Sam has already underlined parts in red pen, but he hadn’t said much, just let her read aloud as the road stretched ahead.
“McKinney Gazette, August 14th, 1979,” Nellie begins, affecting a reporter’s serious voice. “Fire Engulfs Abandoned Textile Mill. The blaze started late at night, destroying the loading bay. No confirmed casualties, though officials noted vagrants might’ve sheltered inside. Cause of fire: faulty wiring.” She lowers the paper, squinting at Sam. “This doesn’t scream ‘vengeful spirit’ yet. Just… tragic accident and lousy maintenance.”
Sam nods, eyes steady on the road. “That’s how it usually looks at first. Keep going.”
She scans further. “Local man said the place was haunted even before the fire, not long after the mill went bankrupt. Machines humming after dark. Great. Creepy soundscape with your arson.”
A corner of Sam’s mouth twitches. “Ghosts sometimes cling to places tied to work. Mills, factories, mines… places with strong routine. If he were still around, he’d be tied to that noise.”
She flips to the second article, rustling the pages dramatically. “Lingering Mystery at the McKinney Mill, May 3rd, 1984. Ooh, five-year follow-up piece. They bring up Franklin Morris, the night watchman. Solitary guy. Apparently, spent more time in the rafters than at home. He disappears the night of the fire, no body found.” Nellie’s brow knits as she reads further. “And this is the fun part: Morris wore a stitched-up rag mask to scare kids away from trespassing.”
She glances over at her uncle. “That’s… nightmare fuel. Forget Bloody Mary. A guy sewing himself a mask from scraps just to chase teenagers? That’s horror-movie dedication.”
“Or desperation,” he counters quietly. “Sometimes people get so isolated they’ll do anything to keep control over their space.”
“Sure,” Nellie says, though her nose wrinkles. “But the kids weren’t wrong. Now we’ve got our Rag Man. Urban legend officially born.” She taps the line in the article. “‘Tall figure in a ragged mask watching from the rafters.’ That’s the image people carry forward for decades.”
Sam lets out a breath, steady and thoughtful. “Nobody. Odd personal item. Both big flags. If he died in the fire, the mask could’ve become his anchor. Especially if it was personal enough.”
“Wait.” She sits back, folding the paper in her lap. “I thought ghosts usually clung to something they loved. Or hated. Not just… a prop.”
“True,” Sam said, his voice calm, teacher-like. “But sometimes the line blurs. If the mask defined him — became who he was — then it’s more than cloth. Its identity. And identity’s powerful fuel for a spirit.”
Nellie chews on that. Then she flipped to the modern printout, her voice turning wry. “From Heartland Shadows: Legends of the Midwest, March twelfth, 2022. Wow, they could’ve come up with a creepier blog name.” She reads on: “The Rag Man of McKinney Mill. Same basic legend — mill closed in the seventies, fire a few years later, watchman missing. Ghost stories: machine hums, shadows, footsteps. Dares gone wrong. Teens being idiots. Usual.”
She lowers the sheet, narrowing her eyes at Sam. “So, basically, a boilerplate salt-and-burn ghost story. The mask is probably the anchor. Find it, burn it, case closed.”
Sam gives her a small side glance. “You’re catching on.”
“I mean…” She smirks. “Paranormal YouTubers wish they had content like this. One ex-hunter, one rookie, on the road, solving mysteries between diner stops.”
He chuckles under his breath. “Except we don’t get ad revenue.”
“Or a camera crew. Hey, at least we have matching flannel,” she teases, but then sobers, fingertips brushing the edge of the paper. “It just feels… different. Reading the lore in the bunker is one thing. Driving toward it? Knowing there’s a spirit who might actually rip into us tonight? That’s… real.”
Sam’s hands tighten briefly on the wheel. “Yeah. It is. But you’ve been training for this. And I wouldn’t bring you along if I didn’t think you could handle it.”
For a moment, she doesn’t answer, just turns her head to watch the blurred rows of trees outside. The articles slide back into her lap, the black-and-white photo of the ruined mill staring up at her. Ragged mask. Empty rafters. Smoke and fire.
Finally, Nellie glances back at Sam. “So… what’s the cover? I want to make sure we’re on the same page before we roll into town and start asking questions. I can fake polite small talk, but I don’t wanna trip over you and blow it.”
He keeps his eyes on the road, but there is a faint tug of pride at the corner of his mouth. “I was thinking we go with blog writers — the kind who collect small-town legends. It’s believable, easy to back up, and people are usually more willing to talk when they think you’re just curious outsiders.”
She leans back, thoughtful. “Makes sense. Easier than FBI agents or reporters. Small towns get real cagey with outsiders flashing badges.”
“Exactly,” Sam replies, approving. “You’ll play up the writer angle. I’ll back you. I’ve done this dance a hundred times.”
She looks out the window, then smirks faintly. “Guess it beats the last cover we pulled.”
He shoots her a quick, sidelong glance, her brows knitting.
She gives him a knowing look. “Remember? The hospital.”
He lets out a breath through his nose, almost a laugh. “Yeah. That one wasn’t planned.”
“Worked, though,” Nellie says, almost defensively. “The doctors bought it.”
He nods, serious again. “You did good. Covers are about commitment. Believe the lie enough that everyone else does, too.”
Her fingers brush the edge of her amulet absently as she thinks back. “Guess surviving Eleanor’s house trained me for that. Pretending. Playing along so no one saw how bad it was. Now I get to use it to make people talk instead of to stay alive.”
Sam’s hands tighten on the wheel just a fraction, but his voice stays steady. “Difference is, now you’re not pretending for survival. You’re pretending for the hunt. And you’re not on your own. I’ll be right there with you.”
Nellie looks back at him, seeing the certainty in his profile, jaw set, eyes fixed ahead, and lets out a breath she hasn’t realized she is holding. “Okay,” she says softly, almost to herself. Then, a bit louder: “Traveling blog writers. Got it. Just let me do the talking at the diner. I know how to make people spill without realizing they’re spilling.”
That earns her another flicker of a smile from her uncle. “Alright. You lead.”
• • •
The bell above the door gives a tired little jingle as Sam and Nellie push into the diner. It is the kind of place that hasn’t updated its wallpaper since the ’80s — cracked vinyl booths, the smell of bacon grease embedded into the walls, coffee pots that look older than Nellie. Exactly the kind of place where gossip travels faster than the waitress could top off your mug.
Sam gives a polite nod to the hostess and follows her to a corner booth, his long frame folding into the seat across from his niece. He slides the worn folder of articles to the side, making room for the menus. Nellie tucks her hair behind her ear and looks around like she is already cataloging the room — the handful of farmers at the counter, the two old ladies nursing pie and coffee by the window, the waitress with a notepad tucked in her apron.
He leans across the table just slightly. “Remember, you lead. I’ll back you.”
She takes in a slow breath, giving him a quick, nervous half-smile. “Got it. Blog writers. I’ll keep it casual.”
The waitress, a woman in her fifties with tired eyes but a warm smile, comes over with two chipped mugs. “Coffee?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Sam says, polite as ever.
“Please,” Nellie adds, sliding her menu closed. “And maybe two breakfasts? Something hearty. We’ve been on the road since sunrise.”
The woman nods, scribbling. “You folks traveling through?”
She leans into the opening like she’d been waiting for it. “Kinda. We run this little blog — stories about small-town legends, urban myths, that kind of thing. McKinney came up a lot when we were digging around. Thought we’d stop in, grab some food, maybe hear it from the locals.” She smiles — not pushy, just curious.
The waitress hesitates. Her eyes flick toward the farmers at the counter, then back. “You mean the mill.”
Sam stays quiet, sipping his water, letting his niece do the work.
Nellie tilts her head like she wasn’t sure. “The textile mill, right?”
“Old textile place off the highway,” the waitress says finally, lowering her voice a notch. “Burned back in the ’70s. Folks around here say it’s haunted.”
“Haunted,” she echoes, like she is amused, but her eyes are sharp. “That’s the Rag Man story, right?”
The woman frowns at that. “Don’t like saying his name. But yeah. People claim he’s still in there. Mask and all. My brother used to sneak out there when we were kids. Said he’d hear doors slam, machines start up, like somebody was still working the floor.”
“Urban legends love an abandoned building,” Nellie says lightly, sipping her coffee. “But yours has… teeth.”
The waitress glances around again, then leans in. “There was a girl last week — Maggie Dawson. Early twenties. They found her half-conscious at the mill. She’s in the hospital now. Said her legs were tangled in cords or rope. Looked more like burns to me.” She shakes her head. “Police say she fell. Locals don’t buy it.”
She keeps her face even, though her stomach knotted. “She’s still in the hospital?”
“Yeah. Over at St. Luke’s.” The woman straightens when another table waves her down. “Anyway, that’s what folks say. Drink up, honey. Food’ll be out in a minute.” She gives them a look that is half warning, half motherly concern. “Best you two stay out of that place.”
Nellie gives her a quick, grateful smile, then glances at Sam once the waitress moves off. The weight of the new lead hangs between them. She’d pulled it off — the waitress had talked freely, never once suspecting they were anything but curious writers.
He lets out a quiet breath, lips curving at the corner. “Nice work.”
It’s not long before the plates arrive. Eggs, bacon, toast, the kind of no-nonsense breakfast that soaked up the hours on the road. Nellie toys with her fork for a moment, her mind still caught on the waitress’s warning.
Sam breaks the silence first. “Three options.” He ticks them off with his fingers. “We hit the library, see what the paper trail says. We try to talk to Maggie, get her account before it gets buried under rumors. Or…” His eyes lift, steady, “We scout the mill. Daylight’s the safest time if we’re just looking.”
She frowns, stabbing at her eggs. “If Maggie’s willing to talk, she’s the only living witness we’ve got. But walking into a hospital as a couple of bloggers might not get us very far.”
“True,” he replies, sipping his coffee. “Hospitals tend to ask questions.”
“What about the library? If we don’t know what Franklin Morris was really like, or if there was more to the fire, then the mill could just swallow us whole with no answers.”
He nods, pleased she is thinking like a hunter. “That’s what I was leaning toward. Always better to have the background before you walk into the lion’s den.”
“But,” Nellie adds slowly, “if the Rag Man really is getting nastier, like she said… Maggie’s story might give us something we can’t find in a stack of newspapers.”
Sam studies her, the way her brow furrows, how carefully she weighs each choice. Dean would’ve just charged the mill with a shotgun. Nellie is all deliberation and nerves and a spark of grit. “So,” he says carefully, “what’s your call?”
She looks up, surprised. “Mine?”
“You’re the one this is about, Nell. You need the practice. The call’s yours.”
Her fork clinks softly against her plate as she sets it down. “Library first. If we go in blind, that thing will eat us alive. Then we try Maggie, if we can figure out a way in. The mill can wait until we’ve got more than goosebumps and campfire stories.”
His mouth curves, not quite a smile, but close. “Good choice. That’s the hunter in you talking.”
Nellie picks her fork back up, cheeks warming. “Guess we’ll see after the library.”
For the first time since walking into town, she feels like they’re on the right track, like she isn’t just following Sam but standing alongside him.
• • •
The library’s archives don’t just hold microfilm of newspapers; tucked away in the back stacks are slim town record books and faded employee logs from the years when the McKinney Textile Mill had been one of the town’s lifelines.
Nellie runs her fingers across the yellowed spine of a personnel ledger. “Here we go,” she whispers, carefully sliding it free. She brings it to their table, flipping through rows of typed names and handwritten notations. “Franklin Morris — hired 1959. Worked night security by 1965. Says here he lived alone.”
Sam leans in, studying the neat, fading ink. “No next of kin listed. That’s unusual.”
She frowns. “And no emergency contact either. Everyone else has at least someone written in. Family, friends, even a neighbor. But Franklin’s page is empty.”
They dig deeper, cross-referencing census records on the library’s creaky desktop terminal.
Nellie types quickly, her researcher instincts sharp, and reads off what little she can find. “Born in ’33, McKinney local, both parents dead by the time he was twenty. No siblings. He worked at the mill his whole life, it looks like.”
Sam sits back, thoughtful. “So, a man with no ties, living where he worked. That explains why people saw him as strange.”
She pulls a thin folder of police blotter summaries closer, flipping until she finds Morris’s name. “Here— a few mentions. ‘Reported for frightening trespassing teenagers, 1974. Wore a makeshift cloth mask. Chased them off with threats.’” She looks up at him, eyes questioning. “So, the mask wasn’t just a fire rumor. He really wore one.”
“Could’ve been practical,” he answers. “Smoke, dust, maybe even to stay anonymous. Or maybe…” He gives a slight shrug. “Maybe he liked being the ghost story.”
Her pen hovers over her notes. “If he already had that reputation, then when the fire hit, it makes sense the legend would stick. People already thought of him as this ragged figure in the shadows.”
He taps the page where Franklin’s address should have been. “And since no one came forward to claim him after the fire, it’s like he just… vanished.”
Nellie feels a small twist in her chest. “That’s kind of sad, isn’t it? A whole life, and when he’s gone, no one notices but the kids he scared.”
Sam doesn’t say anything for a beat. He’d seen too many spirits start with stories like this: lonely, forgotten, then twisted by death. He finally says, quietly, “It’s usually the ones who had no one in life who hold on hardest after.”
She nods, scribbling the thought down. Her neat script filled half a page: lonely, rootless, mask = identity/protection? Possible anger at trespassers turned lethal after death.
Only then does Sam push a stack of 1979 newspapers across the table. “Alright. Now let’s see how the fire fits into it.”
Nellie adjusts the pile of newspapers, the brittle pages crinkling under her fingertips. The headline Fire Engulfs Abandoned Textile Mill stretches across the top in bold black type.
She reads aloud in a low voice, tracing the columns with her pen. “Cause of fire suspected to be faulty wiring left behind when the plant closed. Officials couldn’t confirm casualties, but they noted vagrants sometimes sheltered in the building.” She glances up. “So Franklin could’ve been there when it happened.”
Sam leans forward, his eyes narrowing on the paragraph she is pointing to. “But no bodies were recovered. That part is important. Fires that hot can destroy a lot, but they don’t erase a person completely. If he’d died inside, they’d have found something.”
She flips to another issue, dated days later. “Here’s a follow-up: ‘Full inspection confirms no casualties discovered.’” She taps her pen against the words. “So officially? No one died.”
He folds his arms, thoughtful. “That doesn’t mean he wasn’t there. Just that no one found him. And considering no one cared enough to keep looking—”
“—he just became part of the rumor mill,” she finishes for him, writing it down.
The next newspaper she pulls bears a local op-ed, a column thick with opinion more than fact. Nellie scans the lines and smirks. “Listen to this: ‘The fire was no accident. The mill was cursed long before the wiring failed. People reported humming machinery in the empty halls, and one man claimed Morris still patrolled the rafters. Perhaps the blaze was simply the building reclaiming itself.’”
She rolls her eyes, but Sam catches the weight behind her sarcasm. “Some of that could just be superstition—”
“—or part of the legend forming,” she concludes.
He nods. “Right. Even if the fire was just an accident, people already had the Rag Man in their minds. The timing sealed it.”
Nellie pulls the last folder across the table, the 1984 article that had cemented the lore. She reread the familiar lines: Franklin’s disappearance, the stories of a masked figure watching from the rafters, parents warning kids not to go near the ruins.
She sets the page down slowly. “So, if it was just an accident, why did he stay?” Her voice is quieter now. “I mean, usually ghosts are tied to anger, unfinished business. But Franklin… it feels more like he just never left. Like the mill was all he had.”
Sam glances at her notes, then back at her. “Sometimes the anger isn’t about one big injustice. Sometimes it’s just being forgotten.”
She swallows hard, writing: No family. No home. Mill = only tether. Mask = identity. Died in fire. Stayed.
She looks down at the papers again, frowning. “So… the fire itself doesn’t look like murder or sabotage. But the timing, and the fact that he disappeared right when it happened, makes it the perfect storm for a legend.”
He leans back, folding his arms. “Yeah. Accident or not, it gave Franklin Morris exactly what he needed to become the Rag Man.”
She taps her pen against the notes one last time. “And now… he’s not just a story anymore.”
Nellie shuts the last folder and leans back, rubbing at the corner of her eye. The smell of dust and paper ink clings to her, the weight of hours spent buried in dead men’s stories pressing on her shoulders.
Sam slides his pad closed. “Alright,” he says softly. “We’ve got enough to know who Franklin Morris was and how this legend got legs. But if we want real confirmation…” He tapped his pen against the table once. “…we need a living witness.”
She looks up, catching the edge in his voice. “Maggie Dawson,” she murmurs, piecing it together.
“Exactly.” He nods. “She’s the only one who’s made it out of that mill recently and lived to talk about it. If she saw anything — if she felt anything — it could tell us how strong he’s gotten. Maybe even what’s keeping him here.”
Nellie folds her notes into the manila folder, her brow tightening. “But we can’t exactly walk into a hospital and say, ‘Hey, we run a spooky blog, can we chat with your patient about a ghost?’”
He gives her a wry half-smile. “No, we can’t. Which means we change the cover.” He leans forward, lowering his voice though no one was around to hear. “Bloggers won’t cut it in a hospital. But law enforcement will. We check into a motel, get changed, and go in wearing the badges. Maggie’ll be more likely to open up if she thinks we’re investigating what happened, and the staff won’t turn us away.”
She throws him a skeptical glance, then smirks faintly. “So, we go from Buzzfeed Unsolved to Law & Order. Smooth.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Something like that. Point is, we need her account before we walk into that mill ourselves. Whatever’s happening in there… It’s escalating. And if Franklin’s gone from just scaring kids to physically hurting people, we can’t afford to go in blind.”
She nods in agreement, gripping the strap of her bag a little tighter. “Alright then. Motel first. Suits, badges, whole nine yards.”
“Exactly.” Sam rises, gathering the folders into a neat stack. His voice softens as he glances down at her. “You did good in here, Nellie. You’re getting the hang of this.”
Her chest warms at that, though she covers it with a roll of her eyes. “Guess we’ll see how convincing I am in a blazer.”
He chuckles, and together they gather their things, leaving the archives behind. Next stop: the motel — and then Maggie Dawson.
• • •
The motel room smells faintly of lemon cleaner and stale smoke, the kind of place where the wallpaper has seen better decades. Sam tosses their duffels on the bed nearest the door and starts pulling out his own suit, already moving with the easy rhythm of muscle memory. For him, putting on a cover was second nature — jacket, tie, badge.
For Nellie, it is different. She unzips her bag and pulls out the suit Eileen had handed her days ago —the navy blazer and slacks are neatly pressed. She runs her fingers over the lapel, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face before she ducks into the bathroom to change. When she comes out, the clothes fit better than she’d expected. A little stiff, sure, but Eileen’s tailoring had done its job. She tugs at the collar of the white button-up, frowning at the way it sits so formally against her throat.
Sam looks up mid-tie knot and stills. For a moment, he just stares. It is almost disorienting, seeing her standing there, sharp and serious in the same kind of outfit he and Dean had worn on hundreds of hunts. A hunter in the making, but more than that: family stepping into the life for the first time.
Nellie shifts under his gaze. “What? Too obvious that I don’t belong in this thing?”
He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “No. You look… like you belong.” His voice dropped softer, almost to himself. “Dean would’ve said you looked the part.”
Her throat tightens at that, but she forces a small smile, fussing with her cuff. “Guess I can fake it well enough. Waitresses get pretty good at that.”
He lets out a quiet laugh before reaching into his duffel again. He pulls out a slim leather wallet and flips it open, revealing a freshly minted badge and ID. He hands it to her. “Made this for you a few days ago. Figured we’d need it sooner or later.”
She blinks at it, a fake name paired with a clean professional photo, the badge gleaming under the cheap motel lamp. She takes it carefully, as though it might break, and for a second, she can’t speak.
“You’ll do fine,” Sam insists gently, watching her with the steady patience of someone who knew the weight of firsts. “Just remember — confidence is half the cover. People believe what you tell them if you believe it first.”
Nellie nods slowly, slipping the badge into her blazer pocket. “Law enforcement, huh? Never thought I’d play cop for a day.” She smirks, though her voice carries the tremor of nerves.
His hand comes down briefly on her shoulder, grounding. “You’re not playing. You’re working the job. And you’re ready for it.”
For the first time since she’d put the suit on, she feels like maybe he is right.
• • •
The hospital’s fluorescent lights are harsh after the muted glow of the motel room. Sam walks with that practiced, quiet authority he always slips into when wearing a suit, his badge already clipped to his belt where it could catch the right eyes. Beside him, Nellie matches his stride as best she can, the blazer lending her shoulders a kind of gravity she isn’t used to carrying.
At the front desk, Sam slides his ID forward with an easy confidence. “Agents Cole and Parker. We’re here to ask a few follow-up questions regarding Maggie Dawson.”
The nurse, a middle-aged woman with a skeptical squint, glances between the two of them. Nellie fights to keep her expression smooth, resisting the urge to fiddle with her cuff. Sam’s calm presence anchors her.
The woman purses her lips. “She’s still recovering. Not sure—”
He leans just slightly closer, lowering his voice. “It’ll just take a few minutes. We appreciate your cooperation.”
Something in his tone makes the nurse relent. She huffs and hands him a visitor’s badge, then turns to Nellie. “You too, Agent?”
She slides her own badge from her pocket with as much casual ease as she could muster, laying it flat on the counter. “Yes, ma’am,” she says evenly, her voice steady. Inside, her heart races, but her face gives nothing away, at least she hopes.
The woman studies her for a beat too long, then sighs. “Third floor. Room 314. Don’t tire her out.”
“Of course,” Sam says, collecting both visitor passes. He passes one to Nellie as they head toward the elevators.
Once the doors slide shut, Nellie exhales a breath she hasn’t realized she’s been holding. He gives her the faintest of smiles. “See? Nailed it.”
She smirks faintly back, adjusting the badge clipped at her hip. “Guess I can fake authority after all.”
“What did you find out about Maggie on our drive over?” he asks, adjusting his sleeves.
“A twenty-three-year-old college dropout moved back to her hometown and is living with her parents. She seems like a typical young adult. Nothing out of the norm.”
“Explains why someone her age would be at the mill.”
She cocks her head. “How so?”
“Sounds like someone who is still living in the past,” he explains. “Sometimes when you move back home, you think that everything is still the same. Makes you feel like a teenager again. Maybe that’s all she thought she could be after dropping out of school.”
She nods slightly.
The elevator chimes, the third floor stretching with quiet and antiseptic. The hallway smells faintly of disinfectant and flowers from a nearby nurse’s cart. They stop outside Room 314, the door closed, but light spilling from the crack at the bottom. Nellie’s nerves flicker again. This isn’t research or pretending over breakfast. This is talking to someone who’d been face-to-face with a violent spirit.
Sam glances at her, reading her hesitation instantly. “You ready?”
She swallows, then nods. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”
He opens the door, and together they step inside the hospital room.
Maggie Dawson looked younger than twenty-three, lying there in the hospital bed, her hair thrown into a messy knot, a thin blanket pulled high against her chest. A faint line of bruising peeks out from the edge of her hospital gown; angry welts that look like someone had wound a cord around her wrists and yanked tight.
Sam steps in first, his posture neutral but carrying authority. “Miss Dawson? I’m Agent Cole. This is my partner, Agent Parker. We’d just like to ask you a few questions about what happened at the mill.”
The young woman’s eyes dart between them, suspicion and exhaustion mingling in her expression. “I already told the police everything,” she mutters, her voice hoarse.
He gives her a slight, reassuring nod. “We’ve read the report. Just a few follow-ups. It won’t take long.” He gestures to the chair by her bed but doesn’t sit until she gives a hesitant nod.
Nellie lingers near the foot of the bed at first, letting Sam lead this time. She can feel Maggie’s guard: that wariness of people in suits, of authority pressing in too hard. It reminds her of her own younger self, cornered and skeptical.
Sam asks gently, “You said you went into the mill with some friends. Was it a dare?”
Maggie scoffs, shifting uncomfortably against her pillows. “It’s always a dare. Everyone does it at least once. We didn’t think… we didn’t think it was real.”
“And what did you see?” he asks.
Her throat works. Her gaze drops to her hands, twisting the blanket. “I don’t know.”
Nellie steps forward, then softens her tone. “It’s okay if you’re not sure. Sometimes… when something scares you that badly, it’s hard to put into words. But we need to know what you saw, so no one else gets hurt.”
Maggie looks at her properly for the first time. Something in Nellie’s eyes — steady, unflinching, but not judgmental — seems to ease a sliver of her tension.
“It was dark,” she whispers, her voice faltering. “But I heard it first. Like—like thread pulling through fabric. That scratching sound. Then… the doors. They wouldn’t open. We pulled, we kicked, but it was like they were… sewn shut.”
Nellie feels her stomach turn at the phrasing, but she nods. “And that’s when you saw him?”
The young woman nods tightly. “He was tall. Taller than you,” she says, glancing at Sam, “and wearing this—this mask. Like… just rags stitched together. His eyes were the only thing you could see.” She shudders. “He came out of the dark, and these… threads, or cords, I don’t know — they wrapped around my legs. Burned when I tried to pull free. I thought—” Her voice breaks, and she presses a shaking hand over her mouth.
Sam leans forward slightly, his voice calm, grounding. “But you got out.”
“My friends… they ran. Somehow, the door just opened again for them. But not for me.” Maggie’s eyes well up, and she shakes her head. “I swear, he wanted me. He dragged me toward the stairs. I—I blacked out. Next thing I knew, I was here.”
Silence stretches for a moment, heavy with the weight of the truth.
Nellie eases into the chair opposite Sam, her voice quiet but firm. “You survived something most people wouldn’t have. That’s not weakness, Maggie. That’s strength.”
The young woman blinks at her, startled, like no one has told her that yet. “It doesn’t feel like it.”
“It never does at first,” Nellie replies softly. And she means it.
Sam lets the words hang, then pulls the conversation back. “Miss Dawson, you said you saw his eyes. Did anything about them stand out? Color? Shape?”
Maggie frowns, trying to remember. “Dark. Hollow. Like smoke was pouring out of them. Not human. Not anymore.”
He exchanges a look with Nellie, a silent acknowledgment. That tracks.
“Thank you,” Nellie tells her, her tone warm, the kind she wishes someone had used on her years ago. “You’ve helped us more than you know. We’ll make sure no one else gets pulled into that place again.”
The young woman’s shoulders sagged with something like relief. “You… you really believe me, don’t you?”
Her lips curve in the faintest, sad smile. “Yeah. I do.”
Sam rises, giving Maggie the space back. “Rest up. You’ve been through enough. Thank you for your time.”
As they step into the hall, Nellie glances back once. Maggie sinks against her pillow again, but for the first time since they walked in, her face looks a little less haunted.
The afternoon air is cooler than the hospital’s recycled sterility, carrying with it the faint smell of rain on asphalt. The two hunters walk side by side toward the Impala, their suits drawing a few curious looks from people in the lot. Sam waits until they are close enough to the car before speaking.
“Well,” he says finally, exhaling like he’d been holding the weight of Maggie’s story. “That confirms it. He’s not just lingering anymore. He’s escalating.”
Nellie hugs her arms across her chest, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. “Those burns… that wasn’t just a scare. He was going to kill her, Sam.” Her voice drops, haunted by the memory of the young woman’s trembling hands twisting in the blanket. “If her friends hadn’t gotten out…”
He unlocks the car but doesn’t open the door yet. He turns to her, expression grave. “Ghosts get violent when they’re tethered to something strong. An object, a place. But the threads? Sewing doors shut? That’s more than just your average salt-and-burn.”
She frowns, chewing on her bottom lip as her brain turns over the puzzle. “So, the mask. It’s gotta be the mask. All the stories mention it — scaring kids, people still seeing it after the fire.” She hesitates, then adds, “But if it’s that powerful, why isn’t it just… stuck to the building like most hauntings?”
“That’s what we need to figure out,” Sam agreed, his tone measured but proud of the way she’d jumped to the lore. “The library records were a start, but Maggie just gave us firsthand confirmation. He’s using those threads to trap people. That’s a pattern.”
She leans against the Impala’s passenger door, her posture finally softening. “She trusted me, Sam. Not you.”
He raises a brow. “And you handled it.”
Nellie’s laugh is quiet, humorless. “Handled it? I was terrified she’d shut down. But… she looked at me like I actually understood.” She shrugs, gaze flicking away. “I guess I did.”
Sam studies her, the corners of his mouth tilting upward in that subtle, fatherly way. “That’s because you do. You’ve been through things that make you see people differently. It’s not something you learned in a book, Nell. That’s instinct. That’s what makes you a good hunter.”
The compliment catches her off guard. She tries to cover with a small smile. “Well, I did manage to keep a straight face while lying through my teeth in a suit, so maybe I’m not hopeless.”
He chuckles, unlocking the car fully now. “Not even close. Dean would’ve said you pulled off your first fed routine better than I did at your age.”
Sliding into the Impala, Nellie lets that sink in, a warmth chasing away the chill of Maggie’s story.
Sam starts the engine, the familiar rumble filling the silence. “The mill’s next,” he says, half to her, half to himself. “Let’s see what else Franklin Morris left behind.”
She nods, fastening her seatbelt. “And then,” she adds quietly, “we end it. For Maggie.”
He gives her a quick, proud glance before pulling out of the lot.
• • •
The sun sits high enough to bleach the world into sharp contrast as Sam eases the Impala off the cracked road and into the lot beside the mill. What remains of the McKinney Textile building rose like a broken spine against the sky. Brick walls blackened at their edges, windows either blown out or boarded haphazardly. Weeds swallow the gravel lot, and the heavy silence presses even in the daytime.
“Looks worse up close,” Nellie murmurs, hugging her blazer tighter around herself.
Sam kills the engine, scanning the building with a hunter’s practiced eye. “Loading bay took the worst of the fire. Roof’s gone in that section.” He points toward the skeleton of rafters hanging above the charred scar. “Rest of it’s still standing. Barely.”
They walk carefully toward the yawning doors of the main factory. Even in daylight, the shadows pool heavily in corners, the silence broken only by the occasional creak of old metal settling.
Nellie glances around, her eyes catching the soot-stained stairwell leading to the upper floor. “It doesn’t… feel empty,” she whispers, surprising herself with the words.
Something about the place gnawed at her, subtle but insistent, like a pressure behind her ribs. She drifts closer to the brick wall, trailing her fingers over the rough, soot-caked surface. The instant her palm touches the stone, it hits her.
A rush of emotion not her own.
Anger, hot and pulsing, like a furnace stoked too long.
Underneath it, a cavernous loneliness.
The kind that seeps into marrow and hollowed out bones.
Her breath catches.
“He’s angry,” she murmurs before she can stop herself.
Sam turns sharply. “What?”
Nellie blinks, pulling her hand back like she’d been burned. “I don’t know. I just… felt it. Like it was coming through the wall. Anger and… and being alone. Empty.”
He studies her, surprised but not dismissive. He says nothing at first, just gives her the space to keep going.
She hesitates, then, almost against her better judgment, presses her hand back to the wall. The sensations swell stronger this time. For a heartbeat, it isn’t just feelings; she sees it, threads like dark wires tangling around her thoughts, tugging, pulling, trying to reel her deeper. Panic spikes in her chest, and she jerks back, gasping.
Sam is there in an instant, steadying her by the shoulders. “Nellie?” His voice is low, calm, but his eyes are sharp.
She swallows hard, nodding. “Yeah. Just… it wasn’t only emotions. I think he—he felt me. Like he tried to pull me in. With… threads.” She touches her temple, unsettled. “It was strong.”
His expression tightens, but instead of scolding or shutting her down, he lets out a quiet breath. “That wasn’t nothing. You’re picking up on him in ways I couldn’t.”
“You’re not… freaked out?” she asks cautiously.
“Freaked out? No.” His mouth ticks into something between a frown and a smile. “Surprised? Yeah. Proud? Definitely. You’re finding your own way, Nellie. That’s what hunting’s about.”
Nellie looks back at the gutted rafters, the shadows that seem too dark even in daylight. For the first time, her abilities don’t feel like a curse dragging her down. They feel like a weapon she can wield.
Sam releases her shoulder gently. “Tonight’s going to be rough,” he admits, gaze still locked on the bay. “But whatever happens, you won’t be facing it alone.”
She nods, letting her hand drop to her side this time, resisting the urge to test the wall again. “Good,” she says softly. “Because I don’t think he likes company.”
• • •
The motel’s little table is crowded with gear: salt rounds stacked like poker chips, matches beside canisters of accelerant, blades and brass catching the weak lamplight. Sam moves with the rhythm of long habit, checking supplies with the precision of a soldier.
Across from him, Nellie lines up shells for her shotgun, trying to mimic his efficiency. But her mind isn’t on the ammo. It keeps circling back to what she feels at the mill. The sharpness of emotions that weren’t hers, the threads winding into her thoughts.
Finally, she breaks the silence. “Sam… I’d done that a couple of times with objects. But only when I was trying.” She looks up at him, brow furrowed. “Today? I didn’t even try. It was just there. Like I touched the wall and suddenly it was in me.”
Sam sets his knife down and leans forward, listening.
She swallows. “And then… I realized he noticed me. Like Franklin knew I was reaching, and he reached back. Threads around my thoughts, pulling.”
His expression darkens; concern edged with something protective. “That tracks. Sometimes psychics… they’re like middlemen between the natural world and the supernatural. Ghosts, demons, hexes — all of it runs on a frequency most people never pick up. But someone with your sensitivity? They stand out. Which means things on that frequency can see you back.”
Nellie blinks, sitting with that for a moment. “So, what? I’m walking around with a neon sign over my head?”
“Not exactly,” he says gently. “You didn’t call him. You didn’t open a door. He just noticed the difference.” He hesitates, then adds, “Most psychics don’t hit that level without years of trying. The fact that it came this easily — without you meaning to — that’s rare.”
She runs her thumb along the edge of the shell casing in her hand, grounding herself in the physical. “It didn’t feel rare. It felt… like I was drowning in somebody else’s loneliness.”
He exhales, quiet. “That tells us one thing for sure — Franklin Morris is strong. Strong enough to reach for someone like you, strong enough that he’s not just lingering. That means we have to end it tonight, before he does worse.”
She nods, sliding the shell into the row with the others, her expression hardening into resolve. “Then let’s finish it. I don’t want him reaching for anyone else ever again.”
Sam gives her a long, steady look. He can see the nerves there, but beneath them is the fire, the same Winchester steel he knows so well. “You’re ready,” he says, quiet but confident.
The clock on the nightstand ticks closer to eleven. Sam zips the duffel close and slings it over his shoulder. “Come on. It’s almost his hour.”
• • •
The Impala’s headlights cut across the broken shell of the old McKinney Textile Mill, painting the warped siding in harsh, fleeting light before Sam kills the engine. The night swallows them whole again, leaving only the faint rustle of dry weeds and the creak of the gutted building standing against the sky.
Nellie sits stiff in the passenger seat, her gear bag across her lap, fingers fidgeting with the strap. She’d been fine on the drive here — joking with her uncle, even humming along to the radio — but now that they are here, staring up at the very real ruin that supposedly holds a very real ghost, her throat feels tight.
Sam notices, of course. He doesn’t call her on it, just leans forward, resting his arms on the wheel as if giving her space to breathe. “Alright,” he says quietly. “We sweep first, salt and iron at the ready. Once we know where the EMF spikes, we go from there. Standard procedure.”
She nods, though her hand trembles as she shoves the duffel over her shoulder. She’d done the drills, memorized the steps, but standing on the edge of an actual hunt is something different entirely.
The mill looms ahead, its windows gaping like hollow sockets. A faded KEEP OUT sign clattered in the wind against the rusted gate behind them. Nellie swallows, trying to mirror Sam’s calm stride as he leads the way, but her boots scuff too loudly against the gravel.
Inside is worse. The air feels damp and heavy, as if the walls themselves are holding their breath. Sam flicks on his flashlight, the beam cutting across broken machinery and blackened rafters. Nellie’s hand fumbles with hers, nearly dropping it before managing to click it on. Sam gives her a brief look, not annoyed, just watchful.
“Stay close,” he murmurs.
She nods again, a little too quickly. Her grip tightens on the iron crowbar she had pulled from her bag, her knuckles pale. It feels heavy in her hand, heavier than it had during training.
The EMF reader in Sam’s other hand began to tick faintly. Nellie leans closer to look, misstepping on a piece of loose rubble; the sound of her stumble echoes like a gunshot in the silence. She freezes, heart hammering, convinced something had heard. Sam’s steady hand catches her elbow, keeping her upright.
“Easy,” he whispers, his voice more grounded than the flashlight beam. “It’s alright. That’s why I’m here.”
Nellie forces a shaky breath out through her nose, trying to steady her racing thoughts. She wants to look capable; to prove she isn’t just playing at this. But every creak of the rafters, every rustle of wind against the broken walls has her shoulders jerking tight.
“Anything?” she whispers, mostly to break the soundless press of the air.
Sam shakes his head once, calm as ever, and angling the EMF toward the far end of the hall. “Spikes are stronger this way,” he murmurs back.
They move deeper, the EMF clicking sharper now, almost urgent. Sam’s flashlight sweeps over blackened walls and rows of abandoned looms half-buried in ash. The farther they go, the colder it feels, like the air itself is tightening. Nellie’s steps echo in uneven rhythm with Sam’s steady pace. She tries to keep her breaths even, but her chest feels tight, nerves working under her skin like static.
At the next hallway junction, Sam pauses. The EMF needle jumps, then drops again, sputtering like it can’t decide where to point. He frowns, lowering it, eyes scanning the gloom ahead.
She peeks around his shoulder, her own light catching on jagged doorframes and collapsed beams. It is impossible to tell if anything is lurking there. “It’s… messing with it?” she guesses quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. He shifts, turning his head to look at her. His expression is calm, steady, but she knows that look. Testing her.
“Sometimes the gear only tells part of the story,” he says softly. “Other times, it’s more about what you pick up.”
Nellie’s mouth goes dry. He doesn’t say the word, but she knows what he means. Her… abilities. The ones she still isn’t sure how to name, let alone control. Her first instinct is to shake her head, say she doesn’t feel anything. But she catches herself. That isn’t true. The whole time they’d been inside, she felt a pull, a wrongness that wasn’t just nerves. The building has weight to it, like invisible strings tugging her deeper, whether she wants to go or not.
She swallows hard. “I… I think he wants us to keep going,” she admits, her voice a little shaky.
Sam gives the faintest nod, like he’d expected that answer. “Alright. Then we follow.”
They press on, and the corridors grow narrower, more claustrophobic. The sound of their footsteps seems swallowed whole by the shadows. Once or twice, Nellie glances back over her shoulder, sure she’d heard the faint rustle of fabric dragging across the walls, but the beam of her flashlight shows nothing.
At the end of the hall, a heavy door groans in the draft. Sam reaches for the handle, but as soon as his hand brushes it, the sound snaps shut. Not slammed. Stitched. Threads, black and glinting faintly in the light, have sewn the gap between door and frame shut in seconds.
Nellie stumbles back, eyes wide. “What the hell—”
He grabs her shoulder, steadying her. His voice stays calm, measured, even as his flashlight sweeps over the unnatural threads tightening. “He’s trying to box us in,” he says. “Stay close.”
The EMF screams suddenly, louder than before. And with it, Nellie feels it. That heavy pull again, stronger now, pressing like a hand against her chest. Her flashlight jitters, beam swinging upward. For just a moment, she thinks she sees the outline of a figure in the rafters.
Watching.
Waiting.
The air seems to shiver, that hum of wrongness crawling up the back of Nellie’s neck. She opens her mouth to say something to Sam, but the words catch in her throat.
Then it hits.
Something cold and fibrous snakes around her ankle, so fast she barely registers it before it yanks. Nellie cries out, stumbling backward, flashlight beam jerking across the walls. She goes down hard on one knee, crowbar clattering against the floor.
“Nellie!” Sam’s voice is sharp but controlled. He moves toward her.
The threads tighten, black and glinting in the flashlight beam, dragging her across the cracked floor toward the dark hallway branching off from theirs. She claws for her crowbar, fingers slipping once before catching the handle. Panic flares hot in her chest, her body freezing for a heartbeat too long. She remembers Sam’s training, the drills. But this isn’t practice. This is real. And the threads are pulling her away from Sam.
“Cut it!” he barks, stepping after her, shotgun raised toward the dark.
She fumbles her grip on the crowbar, the weight feeling awkward and slippery in her hands. Her first swipe misses, clanging uselessly against the floor. The threads constrict tighter, the pull stronger. Her breath hitches, and for a terrifying second, she feels like a kid again, small, helpless, dragged where she doesn’t want to go.
No. Not anymore.
Her second swing is sharper, angling down hard. The iron edge bites through one of the threads, snapping it. The pull lessens just enough for her to scramble upright, still tangled but not completely bound.
That is when she sees him.
In the flicker of Sam’s flashlight beam across the rafters, the Rag Man steps into view — tall, charred, the mask of stitched cloth covering his face, its seams twitching as though alive. His head tilts toward her, a predator recognizing prey.
Nellie freezes, crowbar gripped tightly in her hands. Every nerve screams at her to run, but she forces herself to lift the iron anyway, breath shallow.
Sam moves between them, shotgun raised, his stance steady. “Stay behind me!”
But Nellie knows the threads aren’t finished. They coil again, ready to yank her deeper into the dark. Sam braces himself, shotgun raised, ready to bark her name and pull her out of it—
But then she moves.
She slashes down at the writhing cords again, the iron edge cutting through the strands. The snap echoes like a gunshot in the silence, the pieces curling away into nothing. She staggered back to her feet, jaw clenched, chest heaving — but her grip is steady now, her stance wider, like something in her has decided she isn’t going to be dragged. Not again.
The Rag Man doesn’t flinch. He only tilts his head, that stitched mask twitching at the seams, as if the thing itself is breathing. Threads coil from his hands, twitching and flexing like spiders’ legs. His presence presses down on them both, heavier than before.
Sam fires, the shotgun blast booming through the mill. The salt round tears through the apparition, ripping his outline apart — but within seconds, the scraps of his form knit back together, the mask snapping into focus first before the rest of him follows.
“Damn it,” he growls, pumping the shotgun. “He’s anchored too strong.”
The spirit lurches forward, threads lashing across the floor. Sam shoves Nellie aside, firing another round to slow him down. The apparition staggers, but only for a moment before reforming, mask gleaming wet in the beam of their flashlights.
Nellie’s grip tightens on the crowbar, her chest hammering. For the first time, she understands: this isn’t just about surviving. If they don’t get that mask off him, he’ll never stop.
Her instincts scream at her again, not just with fear but with clarity. She must get the mask. Somehow.
The Rag Man advances, threads spilling across the ground like living ropes, stretching toward them again. Sam pumps the shotgun, ready to fire again, but Nellie’s hand shoots out, catching his arm.
“Trust me,” she says, her voice tight but sure. “Wait for my signal.”
Sam blinks, thrown off. He opens his mouth to tell her no, to hold her back, but in the next breath, she steps forward, loosening her stance. The threads snap toward her instantly, wrapping around her arms, her waist, her legs.
“Nellie!” his voice echoes in the cavernous mill, but she doesn’t fight. She lets the cords yank her off the ground, dragging her closer to the Rag Man.
The world spins as the spirit’s threads hoist her upward, toward the looming, charred figure. His mask glints in the flashlight beam, its seams twitching like writhing snakes. For a heartbeat, her nerves almost break, but she forces herself to meet the smoky eyeholes, to hold on to the rush of clarity beneath the fear.
“Sam!” she shouts, voice cracking the heavy air. “Now!”
Sam freezes, shotgun locked on the apparition. His heart stutters. She is too close, the salt rounds would hit her, tear through her—
“Do it!” Nellie screams.
For half a second, he hesitates. Then he pulls the trigger.
The blast rips through the Rag Man, the spirit tearing apart in a shriek of smoke and sparks. The threads snap loose from Nellie, flinging her downward. Her back slams against the floor, the air whooshing from her lungs, but her hands are locked tight on something solid. The mask: heavy, reeking of ash and old cloth.
The room tilts around her as Sam hauls her upright, his face pale with both fear and relief. He steadies her, one hand on her shoulder, the other carefully brushing at the edge of her torn shirt on her side. The fabric is singed; small holes burned through where stray salt had caught. The skin beneath is mottled with new bruises, angry but shallow.
“You okay?” His voice is low, urgent, his eyes scanning her for anything worse.
Nellie nods, still a little breathless. “Yeah. Just… rattled.”
He exhales hard, some of the tension in his shoulders loosening. Then he catches sight of the mask in her grip, the stitches moving faintly like something alive even without the spirit attached.
“How did you even—” he starts, then stops, shaking his head. “What made you think that would work?”
She shifts the mask in her hands, her knuckles pale from the tight grip she had on it. Her voice is rough, but steady. “Only way to get close was to let him take me. I figured… if I wanted the mask, I had to let him think he was winning.”
Sam just stares at her for a beat, torn between exasperation and awe. He huffs out a breath, something like a laugh but tighter, pride burning through his worry. “That’s… reckless,” he says, “but smart. Dean would’ve—” He stops himself, jaw tight. Then softer: “I’m proud of you, Nellie.”
Her grip on the cloth tightens. She doesn’t trust her voice to answer, so she just nods.
He glances around the ruined mill, then back at her. “We can’t torch it in here. Too much risk of the whole place going up again.” He motions toward the dark exit. “We take it outside. Finish the job properly.”
She pushes herself to her feet, still shaky but determined, and follows him toward the exit, the mask heavy in her hands, thrumming faintly like it hated being taken.
They burst out of the mill into the night air, the damp wind hitting like a shock after the stale heaviness inside. Sam glances over his shoulder, shotgun already up, scanning the shadows.
“Alright,” he says quickly, voice clipped. “You salt and burn it. I’ll keep him off us. Once he realizes you’ve got the mask, he’s coming hard.”
Nellie nods, her throat dry but her grip steady as she digs into her bag. She scatters a ring of salt across the cracked concrete, then drops the mask in the center. It twitches against the ground, like it was trying to crawl out of the flashlight beam.
“Move fast, Nellie!” Sam barks, firing a round into the dark as the threads began to seep out of the mill’s doorway, creeping across the ground like roots. The Rag Man reforms in the open air, his maskless face charred and twisted, one eye socket collapsed. He shrieks, the sound shredding the silence.
Nellie fumbles with the lighter, hands shaking. She can feel him coming, feel his rage pressing down on her skin. She flicks the wheel — once, twice — but the flame sputters out.
Then the threads hit.
They coil around her throat, yanking her upright. Nellie chokes, her feet leaving the ground, the lighter nearly slipping from her fingers as the Rag Man drags her closer, his deformed face twisting in fury.
“Nellie!” Sam’s voice cuts through, raw and fierce, but this time, he can’t shoot — not without hitting her. He fires at the threads instead, trying to sever them, but more sprang up, the spirit pulling her higher.
Her vision blurs, her lungs burning, but her grip tightens around the lighter.
One more flick.
A spark, a small flame.
With the last of her strength, she lets it drop.
The flame lands squarely on the salted mask.
It catches instantly, the cloth hissing and curling as the salt flares white-hot. The Rag Man’s scream splits the night, deafening, threads thrashing wildly before dissolving into smoke. His grip on Nellie vanishes all at once, dropping her hard to the ground once again as his form burns away into nothing.
Sam is there in a second, hauling her up, his arm around her shoulders. She coughs, gasping, but the air is clean again, the crushing presence gone. At their feet, the mask disintegrates into ash, the last seam unraveling in the flames.
The Rag Man is gone.
Nellie presses a hand against her throat, wincing at the soreness where the threads had coiled. Her knees shake, but she stays upright, eyes locked on the pile of ash.
It is over.
Sam keeps his arm firm around her shoulders, grounding her. “Easy. Breathe.” His voice is steady, low, the same tone he’d used in training drills, but there is a heat in his eyes; relief, pride, maybe a touch of fear he doesn’t want to admit.
She nods, swallowing hard. “I… I did it.” The words tumble out in disbelief. Her gaze flicks to her scraped hands, the bruises forming under her shirt, then back to the smoldering ash. “We actually—” She huffs a shaky laugh. “We won.”
His mouth twitches into the ghost of a smile. “You did more than win. You kept your head, trusted your instincts.” He glances over her shoulder, scanning the area one more time before holstering the shotgun. His eyes catch on her throat, and he frowns. “How bad?”
“Just sore,” she rasps lightly. “Feels like I lost a wrestling match with a clothesline.”
That pulls a short, surprised laugh out of him; the kind that comes more from relief than humor. But when Nellie’s gaze drops lower, she catches something else: a tear in his jacket sleeve, dark red smudging the fabric underneath.
“You’re bleeding,” she says quickly, shifting to face him.
Sam looks down like he’d only just noticed. A shallow gash scores across his forearm, probably from when the threads lashed out. He flexes his fingers, testing it, then waves it off. “It’s nothing. Just a scratch.”
She gives him a look. “That’s what people say before they end up stitched shut in some haunted mill.”
He shakes his head, amused. “I’ve had worse making breakfast.” Still, he lets her look, sees the way her hands hover like she wants to check the wound. His smile softens. “We’re both walking away, Nellie. That’s a win in my book.”
Her chest tightened at the words. She’d expected to feel terror, maybe even shame for fumbling through it, but instead, what washes over her is something steadier. She’s faced it. Fought it. Won.
Sam studies her, the faintest trace of a smile still lingering. “You did good, kid. Better than good. I’m proud of you.”
For once, Nellie doesn’t feel the need to argue or downplay it. She just nods slightly, letting the words sink in, the pride warming against the bruises. Behind them, the last of the mask’s ashes scattered in the night breeze, leaving nothing behind but the echo of victory.
• • •
The motel door clicks shut behind them, muting the hum of the neon sign outside. The air conditioner rattles in the corner, blowing stale air around the small room. Sam sets his bag down with a sigh, the kind that comes from years of hunts ending the same way: alive but worn.
Nellie hovers by the table, still buzzing with a mix of nerves and pride. Her first hunt. Her first real fight. She can’t stop replaying the moment she’d struck the lighter, the rush of adrenaline when the Rag Man’s scream had torn through the air. She’s done it. Really done it.
But when her gaze catches Sam rolling back his sleeve, she notices the cut on his forearm again. The cloth around it is dark and sticky, the wound shallow but still bleeding sluggishly.
“You’re still bleeding,” she says, a little firmer this time. Before he can brush it off again, she crouches by her duffel and pulls out a small med kit from Eileen.
He gives a faint huff of amusement as she snaps it open. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do.” She cuts him off, sitting down across from him and grabbing the alcohol wipes. “You and Eileen have been taking care of me nonstop for the past two months. Let me return the favor.”
He hesitates, then sets his arm on the table, watching her with a mixture of curiosity and something gentler, almost proud.
Nellie works carefully, her hands steady despite the thrum of leftover adrenaline. The wipe makes him flinch, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Sorry,” she mutters.
Sam shakes his head. “You’re fine. You’re good at this.”
A small smile tugs at her mouth. “I have had to do this plenty over the years. Besides, I promised Eileen that I would patch you up, even if it was something as small as a splinter.” She wraps the bandage snugly around his arm, taping it down with precision. Then she sits back, satisfied. “There. Good as new. Well… hunter new.”
He chuckles, flexing his fingers to test it. “Not bad, Nurse Winchester.”
She rolls her eyes, but her chest warms at the title. She puts the med kit aside and meets his gaze. “We take care of each other. That’s what partners do, right?”
The word hangs between them — partners. Not teacher and student, not uncle and niece, but hunters side by side.
Sam’s smile softens, and he nods. “Yeah. That’s exactly what partners do.” He leans forward, his eyes narrowing. “Hold still a second.”
She blinks, confused, until he gently brushes her hair back from her collar and tilts her chin up. Thin bruises bloomed along the sides of her neck, faint corded imprints where the Rag Man’s threads had dragged her up like a puppet. His jaw tightens, but his touch is careful, fatherly.
“Not too bad,” he mutters, mostly to reassure himself. “It’ll fade.”
Nellie lets out a breath, her fingers brushing the amulet at her chest, grounding herself, before she says softly, “Sam… when I burned the mask — it wasn’t just gone. It was like… something came through with it. A memory. His memory.”
Sam freezes, brows knitting. “What kind of memory?”
She swallows. “The night of the fire. I saw him — Franklin. He wasn’t some monster back then, not yet. Just… tired. Worn down. Kids kept sneaking into the mill after it closed, treating him like a joke. That night, a group of them came in again. He put on the mask to scare them, chased them out, just wanted them gone.” Her eyes flicker with something like guilt, though it isn’t hers to carry. “But one of them must’ve knocked over a lantern or something. The rafters caught. It spread fast. I could feel the heat, the smoke choking him. He screamed for help… but they ran. They just left him there, figured the fire department would handle it.”
He exhales, his expression heavy. “And they didn’t get there in time.”
She shakes her head. “No. He burned. Alone. That’s why he stayed. Why he got meaner. It wasn’t just the mask, Sam — it was betrayal. They left him to die.”
His hand lingers a moment longer at her shoulder, steadying her. “That explains why he lashed out at anyone who went inside. Why he turned violent. Anger like that — it festers.”
Nellie nods, voice small but certain: “He wasn’t just scaring kids anymore. He was punishing them. Punishing anyone who reminded him of being left behind. Except for Maggie. He could have killed her. But he didn’t. Because her friends left her behind, just like how those kids left Franklin behind in the fire.”
For a moment, the room goes quiet but for the hum of the motel AC unit. Sam finally leans back, his expression softening. “Your dad would’ve been proud of you tonight.”
The words hit harder than Nellie expects, landing like a weight and a gift all at once. Her chest tightens, and she stares down at her hands for a moment, willing the heat in her eyes to settle.
“Yeah?” she asks softly.
“Yeah.” His voice is steady, sure. “You trusted your instincts. You didn’t let fear stop you. You saved lives tonight, Nell. That’s the work. That’s what he lived for. And you…” He gave her a small, proud smile. “You carried it.”
Her throat wobbles, but she smiles back, the pride warming her from the inside out.
He leans back a little, studying her. “So… first hunt in the books. How do you feel?”
She thinks about it. Her nerves still haven’t fully left her system, her hands are sore, her throat aches, and her head still buzzes with images of threads and smoke. But beneath all of that is something else. Something lighter.
“I loved it,” she admits, surprising herself with how easily it comes out. “Not the choking part, obviously. But the… the work. The chase. The fact that we stopped him before he hurt anyone else.” She sits up straighter, her eyes meeting his. “I want to get better at this. I know I’m still a rookie, but… I want to be good. Not just for me, but for the people we save.”
Sam watches her, pride and something gentler glinting in his eyes. “That’s exactly what makes a good hunter. Wanting to be better, not for the hunt itself, but for the people you protect.”
She smiles, small but certain. For the first time, she doesn’t just feel like a tagalong or a trainee. She feels like she belongs.
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse