Work Text:
Shadows Over Sykesville
Old Mill Lodge, Sykesville, Maryland 1990
Through the dusty back window of the Impala, the town of Sykesville rolled out like an old storybook, pages yellowed at the edges and corners curled. Dean squinted, shifting in the seat, feeling every pebble and crack in the road vibrate through the car’s frame. There was something about this place—a sense that it had lived a hundred lives before he and Sam had come trundling in, dragged along like excess baggage.
Brick buildings with faded paint lined the narrow main street, each one huddled close, whispering secrets they’d kept for decades. Old shops displayed sun-bleached signs, scrawled with names that no longer mattered to anyone but the people who owned them. A general store’s window boasted fishing lures and newspapers, the kind of place that smelled like salt and wood shavings. Next to it, a dusty thrift shop held ancient relics—some as old as the town, he’d bet—things that should’ve been buried but lingered instead, holding on like the ghosts that probably haunted them.
It was a place with history, he could feel it—hell, anyone with half a brain could. The town creaked with it, every loose shingle and broken streetlight telling a tale of hard winters and quiet tragedies, the kind folks around here probably preferred not to speak of. The people walked with that look, too, as if they knew all too well the stories whispered beneath their feet.
Dean could almost sense it, the way their eyes followed the Impala as it rolled by, suspicious or just plain curious. He leaned back, watching a man in overalls pause in front of the barber shop, wiping his hands on a rag, squinting at them as if he could guess exactly who they were and what they were up to. These were the kind of folks who knew each other’s names, their family’s names, their sins. People who kept secrets tight, passed down like heirlooms.
The Impala rumbled on, passing the last of the storefronts before the houses took over—crumbling Victorians with chipped paint, a few scattered trailers with peeling aluminum sides, little cottages that looked like they might collapse in the next stiff wind. Here, the trees leaned in close, branches twisting like they wanted to reach out and claim a piece of anyone fool enough to get too near.
And there was something else, too—a feeling that prickled just under Dean’s skin, making him shift and stare hard at the road ahead. Sykesville had the kind of quiet that sat heavy on your chest, like a blanket that stifled more than it comforted. A silence that suggested that maybe, if you listened closely, you’d hear something you’d wish you hadn’t. Something that was better off forgotten.
But Dean had never been one for listening to warnings. Not from towns, not from people, and sure as hell not from the things lurking in the shadows.
The Old Mill Lodge squatted on the edge of town like it had grown up from the earth itself, stone foundations sunk deep into the dirt, like roots that didn’t plan on moving anytime soon. The building looked as old as the hills around it, with thick, weathered logs forming the walls, chinked together with something that had probably crumbled to dust decades ago. The roof sloped low, shingles patched over with mismatched pieces that made the whole thing look like a jigsaw puzzle thrown together by someone half-asleep.
Dean stood just outside the office door, feeling the weight of the key John had dropped in his palm—cold, rough, a little like his dad’s voice as he gave him the rundown. John’s eyes barely lifted from the map he was folding back into his jacket, his tone all business, all command. He rattled off the usual orders in that gruff way of his, the way that let Dean know there wouldn’t be a second chance if he messed them up. Watch Sam. Stay out of trouble. Go to school. Don’t make a scene. Dean repeated them back, one after the other, words coming out quick and sharp like he’d drilled them into his own bones.
John nodded once, satisfied, then turned and headed for the car without so much as a glance back. No goodbyes. No promises he’d be back soon. Just a vague, over-the-shoulder grunt about when he might return, like he couldn’t be bothered to narrow it down. He climbed into the Impala and fired it up, the engine rumbling low, a growl echoing through the trees that leaned in close around the lodge like they were listening, waiting for something. Then he was gone, tires kicking up a thin cloud of dust that drifted back toward Dean as he turned to look at the lodge’s shabby porch.
Sam was struggling with their bags, hauling them up the narrow steps that groaned underfoot. The front door hung at a crooked angle, its paint peeling away to reveal the warped wood beneath, and the windows stared back with a hollow, vacant look, like they’d seen too much to care about who came or went anymore.
Dean stuffed the key into his pocket, brushing past the loose slats of the porch rail as he took one of the bags from Sam, giving his brother a quick nod to follow him inside. There’d be no fussing, no unpacking. They’d learned that much by now. A place like this wasn’t for staying; it was for passing through, leaving no trace.
There’s nothing quite like slogging three miles through swampy September heat with a kid brother glued to your side, the sun beating down on you like it’s got a personal vendetta. That’s what it felt like anyway, hoofing it back from insert generic Dead White Guy name here Elementary, where I’d just spent seven hours in hell, and all I’d gotten out of it was a headache and some stale cafeteria fries.
We hit the room and I dropped my bag with a thud, not giving a damn if half my crap broke in the process. I collapsed onto my bed—closest to the door, of course, because that’s where Dad always put me. Gotta protect Sammy. That’s the job. I kicked my shoes off, leaving them where they landed, and reached for the remote. MTV flared to life on the beat-up TV in the corner, filling the room with a welcome blast of guitars and some guy in tight jeans screaming his heart out. Good. I needed that. A little noise to drown out the day.
Meanwhile, Sam had barely shrugged his bag off before he was fishing something out of it. He jumped onto his bed like it was a springboard, all wide-eyed and jittery, clutching this giant, ancient-looking book with a cover that practically screamed “Free Candy.” It was huge but thin, the kind of book you’d find in the back of a library covered in dust, and he looked at it like it was Christmas morning.
“Dude,” I said, not even glancing his way, “you seriously couldn’t wait five minutes before turning into the world’s biggest nerd?”
Sam didn’t even look up, already lost in whatever weird shit he’d dug up. “It’s about local legends!” yeah, wow, fantastic… long as it kept him from interrupting my MTV I really couldn’t have cared if it was Penthouse Forum or the Declaration of Independence.
Janie Got A Gun was just getting good when Sammy piped up, “Dean, get this! There’s a monster around here called the Snallygast.”
I raised an eyebrow at the TV, flipping through the channels. “The what now?”
“The Snallygaster,” he repeated, as if he hadn’t just said the dumbest word in existence. “It’s a local legend. A mythical creature from Maryland is said to have a bird-like body, a metallic beak, and claws, along with the ability to suck the blood of its victims. It was famously described as terrorizing the area in the early 1900s, leading to multiple dark tales of encounters.” He read the summary to me then flipped the book so I could get a look at the woodcarving.
“Dude,” I rolled my eyes and went back to the video. “That looks like the bastard child of the Jabberwokky and Chthulu.”
“Get this,” he began to read outloud and I gotta say, for a 7 year old he was remarkably good at it. “First reported in the early 1700s by German immigrants, the Snallygaster is a creature of fearsome reputation that has stalked the skies of rural Maryland for centuries. Described as part reptile, part bird, it possesses an enormous wingspan, sharp talons, and a metallic beak lined with razor-sharp teeth. Some accounts claim it has a single, glowing red eye in the center of its forehead, while others describe tentacles sprouting from its mouth.
According to legend, the Snallygaster is a bloodthirsty beast, swooping down from the mountains to snatch livestock—and occasionally, an unlucky traveler. Farmers often discovered animals drained of blood, with strange puncture marks left behind, leading to a flurry of sightings and panic. The creature’s screech was said to echo through the valleys, a haunting warning of its approach.
In the early 1900s, newspapers reported a resurgence of Snallygaster sightings, with headlines sparking public hysteria. The legend grew to mythic proportions, claiming that U.S. President Theodore Roosevelt himself had considered postponing an African safari to hunt the beast. Though no Snallygaster was ever caught, the creature remains a powerful part of local folklore, with modern sightings still trickling in from Maryland's isolated farms and hills.”
“That’s cool Sammy,” I nod absently as Paula Abdul comes on. Damn, she has some amazing curves! “Does it say how to kill it?”
“Some tales suggest the Snallygaster has only one true weakness—seven-pointed stars, which can supposedly ward off the beast. Many old barns in Maryland still bear painted stars on their roofs, remnants of a time when the Snallygaster’s shadow was feared above all else. While skeptics have dismissed the creature as nothing more than exaggerated folklore, the mystery of the Snallygaster endures. To this day, locals still tell tales of strange shadows in the night and blood-curdling screams echoing through the mountains, warning travelers to stay far from the secluded places the Snallygaster calls home.”
“Stars? Like as a warding. Makes sense. But no special way to kill it? Bummer.”
The old stove wheezed as it struggled to keep a flame under the skillet, but I’d coaxed worse into cooking a meal. I stirred the Manwich mix with a half-rusted spatula, the smell of cheap meat filling the crumbling little kitchen. From behind me, Sam sat hunched over the table, scribbling furiously on a piece of lined paper, his tongue sticking out in concentration. It looked like he was wrestling with his multiplication tables, and from the look on his face, the tables were winning.
My mind drifted somewhere else entirely—specifically, to a certain Straight Up music video I’d seen earlier. Paula Abdul. Damn, she had moves. And those legs—seriously, she could make a guy wanna learn how to dance just for the chance to get within five feet of her. The kind of daydream that’d make the whole world a little brighter if I could just hold on to it long enough.
“Dean,” Sam said, his voice breaking into my fantasy and shoving it out the window. I blinked, stirring the skillet a little more aggressively as I brought myself back to the dingy kitchen. “What?”
“Nothing.” Sam sighed, and I could practically hear him rolling his eyes. He turned his attention back to his paper, muttering the answer to whatever problem he was on. I grunted in response, which was all he was gonna get right then.
I gave the Manwich mix one last stir, then turned off the burner, grabbing two plates from the cupboard. The ceramic had seen better days—hell, everything in this place had seen better days—but it’d hold. I piled some of the mix onto each plate, slapped them down on the table, and dropped into the chair across from Sam.
Sam pushed his homework aside, eyes lighting up as he grabbed a fork and dug in. He barely took a bite before he started in on the Snallygaster again, talking around his food. “Did you know people have been seeing it since the 1700s? Some guy said he saw it snatch up a calf right in front of him. And there was this other report—”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, shoveling some Manwich into my mouth, the taste about what you’d expect from dinner in a can. I was only half-listening, my mind still dancing somewhere with Paula Abdul, watching her spin and move with that easy grace.
Sam’s fork clattered to his plate, and he leaned forward, his eyes big with excitement. “Wouldn’t it be cool to see it, though? I bet even Uncle Bobby hasn’t hunted one. I mean, a Snallygaster, Dean. It’s got a beak and wings and tentacles.” He paused, his face getting that dreamy, far-off look he got whenever he imagined himself in the middle of some grand adventure.
I glanced at him, chewing slowly, trying not to let my own grin slip out. “Yeah, sure, Sammy,” I said. “Real cool. Right up there with getting mauled by a grizzly or eaten by a shark.”
Sam huffed, rolling his eyes. “You’re just jealous ‘cause you don’t know anything about it.”
“Nah, I just think getting turned into bird food is a crappy way to go,” I shot back, but there was no real bite in it. Sam’s enthusiasm had a way of making even the dumbest things seem almost interesting.
Almost.
Waiting outside a school for your little brother is about as thrilling as it sounds, which is to say, not at all. I leaned against the chain-link fence, staring out across the playground, watching kids flood out of the building like ants spilling from a broken hill. Everyone had somewhere to go, some bus to catch, some parent waiting. Everyone except me. Three miles of cracked sidewalk and faded houses stood between us and the Old Mill Lodge. I sighed. Of course, Dad left us in another town where buses were a luxury we couldn’t afford.
My fingers fidgeted with the last dollar bill in my pocket. Great. Our funds were down to fumes again, and I’d already told the lady at the gas station we’d pay for those Slim Jims later. Later was becoming a word I hated. Later never seemed to arrive, except for Dad.
Speaking of him, there was no telling when he'd show back up. Maybe in a day or two. Maybe longer. Maybe never, if the hunt went sideways. The thought slipped in before I could shove it back out. But worrying about Dad was as useful as worrying about the weather. He’d either come back or he wouldn’t. That was the deal.
I kicked at the dirt, glancing around. The other parents and siblings waited by their cars or crowded around the buses, talking about PTA meetings, soccer practice, and whatever normal kids did after school. It was always the same scene. No matter what town we rolled into, they were all playing by a rulebook Sam and I weren’t allowed to see. Hell, we didn’t even know what sport they were playing. This whole thing—normal—was a game we were never going to win.
The school bell rang out again, and here came Sam, book bag bouncing against his skinny back, hair sticking up like he’d been wrestling with a damn hurricane all day. And, of course, in his arms was the biggest, oldest book I’d ever seen. Looked like he raided the archives of some historical society instead of the library.
“Where’d you find that, nerd factory?” I asked, pushing off the fence as he trotted up.
Sam just rolled his eyes and held up the book. “Historical registry of news articles since the town’s founding,” he said, all proud, like he’d just won a prize.
“Fantastic,” I deadpanned, pushing off the wall and starting the long trek back to the Old Mill Lodge. “You gonna read me some bedtime stories about Mr. Snally-whatever while we hike three miles in the heat?”
“Snallygaster,” he corrected, falling in step beside me.
“Right,” I said, trying not to roll my eyes so hard they’d get stuck. “Did you happen to find anything useful in that doorstopper of yours? Like maybe a mention of where we can get a cold drink or a burger?”
Sam ignored me, flipping open the book and starting to read aloud as we walked. “The first recorded sighting of the Snallygaster dates back to 1735. German immigrants settled in the area and described seeing a strange beast stalking the skies. They called it Schneller Geist, which means ‘quick ghost.’ The creature was known for swooping down from the hills to snatch livestock. Some people even claimed it tried to carry off children.”
I let out a low whistle. “A ghost dragon that eats kids. Nice. What a lovely bedtime story. Got any others? Maybe one with puppies and rainbows?”
“Laugh all you want,” Sam shot back, barely looking up from his reading. “It was spotted in the 1900s too. The papers even claimed it was terrorizing local farms, draining the blood from animals. Like a vampire bird.”
I couldn’t help but smirk. “A vampire bird with a metal beak. Sure, sounds totally legit. Why not throw in a chainsaw for a tail while you’re at it? I’m sure that’d make it even more ‘terrifying.’”
Sam just shrugged. “You’re the one who’s always complaining about being bored, Dean. Figured this might be interesting for once.”
I ruffled his hair, snatching the book out of his hands for a second to get a look at the ridiculous drawing. Some scratchy old woodcut of a dragon-like creature with talons outstretched, looking ready to pounce. I handed it back, grinning. “Yeah, well, if this thing’s still hanging around, maybe it’ll come after you first. ‘Cause honestly, Sammy, I’m too pretty to get eaten.”
He rolled his eyes, but I could see he was trying not to laugh. “Pretty annoying, maybe.”
We walked in silence for a minute, the sound of gravel crunching under our shoes the only noise between us. The road stretched out ahead, long and empty, and I glanced at the town receding in the distance behind us. All those kids with their buses and their safe little houses, heading home to moms and dads and hot meals. Meanwhile, we were hauling it on foot back to a run-down lodge in the middle of nowhere, our only company a book about a blood-sucking ghost dragon and a head full of questions about when or if Dad was coming back.
Sam broke the silence, looking up at me, his eyes bright with that dangerous curiosity that always spelled trouble. “Wouldn’t it be cool to actually see it, though? I bet even Uncle Bobby hasn’t hunted one.”
I snorted, shaking my head as we trudged on. “Cool, yeah, that’s the word I’d use. About as cool as puking on the Tilt-A-Whirl. Tell you what, Sammy—if we see it, you can be the one to wrestle it down. I’ll be right behind you, holding the camera.”
Sam just grinned, clutching his book tighter as we walked on, and I felt a small smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. Kid’s got no sense of self-preservation, but hey, that’s what big brothers are for.
Sam was sprawled out on his bed, the enormous library book open wide —ready to swallow my brother whole. A brand new spiral notebook was next to him, and he was scribbling like he was getting graded on this. The kid was serious about his monsters.
“You doing a book report over there, Sammy?” I asked, stirring the sad excuse for mac 'n cheese I was working on. No milk, no butter—just hot water and whatever radioactive orange dust they put in the packet. I peered into the pot and sighed. I’d eaten better in gas station bathrooms. Hell, I’d seen better in gas station bathrooms.
Sam barely looked up, his nose still buried in that giant book. “Nope. Just taking notes.”
“Notes,” I muttered, tasting the word like it was a foreign concept. “Of course you are. Why wouldn’t you be?” I gave the pot another stir, hoping to God I wasn’t about to glue my stomach shut with whatever this was. Maybe I should’ve added something. Tabasco? Peanut butter? Hell, anything to make it taste like more than soggy cardboard. Could probably drop a cigarette butt in there, call it ‘smoky flavor.’ At this point, it couldn’t make it any worse.
I tossed a glance over my shoulder at Sam, who was still hunched over like some kind of scholar, completely absorbed in his world of cryptids and legends. Kid was all-in on the Snallygaster now, like it was gonna show up and ask him for an autograph. He’d been reading nonstop since we got back from school, barely taking a breath between flipping pages.
“You know, they make books with less than a thousand pages, right?” I teased, hoping for at least a grunt from him. Nothing. Not even a smirk.
“I’m telling you, Dean,” he said, finally glancing up with that look of intense, scholarly excitement. “There’s a lot about the Snallygaster. It’s been around since the 1700s!”
“Uh huh, and there’s a lot about the Loch Ness Monster too,” I sighed.
“Uncle Bobby says Nessie is real,” he said it automatically, no real heat in his voice. All his attention was on the book.
“Where’d you get that notebook, Sammy?”
A guilty flush flooded his cheeks, his ears a brilliant pink. “I nabbed it from a kid in class. She had a different notebook for each class!” Hard to believe. We don’t even have a different notebook for each school. Poor kid, I wish I could give him more. “It’s gonna be my hunting journal. Just like Dad’s.”
“Really?” I perked up a bit at the idea. I’d never considered Sammy as a hunter, not really. I mean, sure, we have to do the drills and training Dad gives us. And he’s not a bad shot with his .22, for a seven year old. But a hunter? All official with a journal and shit? Huh.
“Get this,” he dropped the pen he was writing with and sat up, hugging the enormous book to his lap. “Sykesville Sentinel
June 15, 1890
Dreadful Encounter with the Snallygaster!
By James W. Proctor, Sykesville Resident
It is with a heavy heart and trembling hand that I set down the account of a most dreadful event, which befell me on the evening of the 13th of June, as I made my way homeward from town along the lonely and winding road that traverses the hills of Carroll County. I write not as a man given to fanciful flights of imagination or idle tales, but as one of sound mind, and I swear upon my honor as a farmer and a man of this town that what I witnessed is no product of mere fancy. Indeed, I have seen with mine own eyes the monstrous creature of which our forebears have spoken in hushed and fearful tones: the Snallygaster.
The night had been still and uneventful, the rhythmic clop of my mare's hooves upon the packed dirt the only sound that accompanied me on my journey. Daisy, a fine and noble bay, had been my loyal companion for nearly five years—strong of spirit, and as dependable a beast as any man could hope for. We were but a mile from home when I became aware of a strange and unnatural stillness in the air. A weight seemed to settle upon me, though I paid it little heed at first, attributing it to the gathering twilight.
Then, in an instant, it was upon us—a shadow vast and terrible, descending from the sky with such speed that I scarce had time to comprehend what had occurred. The stillness was shattered by a sound unlike any I have ever heard—a screech so piercing and unearthly that it seemed as though the very heavens themselves had been rent asunder. I scarcely had the presence of mind to pull back upon the reins when the beast appeared—a creature so ghastly and unnatural that words can hardly do it justice.
The wings of this fell being were broad, casting a shadow that blotted out the moonlight. Its body, covered in scales that gleamed faintly in the gloom, appeared to shimmer as if wrought from iron or some otherworldly substance. But it was the eye—singular, glowing like a malevolent ember, fixed upon us—that filled my heart with terror. It seemed to see into the very depths of my soul, a baleful and wicked intelligence burning behind it. The creature's beak, long and cruelly jagged, was lined with teeth sharp as any sawblade, and its talons, black as pitch, gleamed with murderous intent.
Before I could act, the beast descended upon us with frightening swiftness. Its talons sank deep into Daisy's flank, and she let out a cry—such a terrible, pitiful sound, one that will haunt me for as long as I draw breath. With a strength that defies comprehension, the creature lifted her from the ground as though she were naught but a feather. In that moment, I was thrown from the saddle and struck the ground with no small force, managing to escape the same fate only by Providence.
I lay upon the earth, stunned and bruised, watching helplessly as the creature bore my beloved mare into the sky, her cries fading into the distance until all that remained was the oppressive silence of the night. By the time I had gathered my wits and struggled to my feet, both the Snallygaster and Daisy were gone, swallowed by the darkness as though they had never been.
Upon my return home, shaken and disoriented, I recounted my harrowing experience to my family, who received it with wide eyes and troubled hearts. There will, no doubt, be those who scoff at my tale, dismissing it as the ravings of a man overcome by fatigue or some base superstition. Yet I swear, before God and my fellow man, that what I saw was no figment of the imagination. The Snallygaster is real, and it stalks the hills and valleys of this region, seeking out those who are unwary or ill-fated.
I pray fervently that no other soul should suffer the loss that I have endured, but I fear the Snallygaster's reign of terror is not yet finished. To my fellow farmers and travelers, I offer this solemn warning: keep a sharp eye to the skies, and if you should hear the beast's terrible cry, waste no time in seeking shelter, for it may already be too late.”
I passed him a bowl of crappy-mac and a fork before sitting on my own bed, “Wow. Fuckin Shakespear and shit.”
I’m lying in the dark, listening to my own heartbeat, thinking about Dad, thinking about that freaky bird-monster thing Sam can’t shut up about, and thinking about how much I hate this busted-ass motel bed. The mattress springs dig into my back like tiny little metal fingers. Not enough to hurt, but enough to keep me awake. It’s a reminder of everything we’re missing, everything we’re never gonna have.
Then, from the other bed, a tiny voice cuts through the dark. “Dean?”
And there it is. No peace for me tonight.
“What, Sam?” I mutter. I try to sound pissed, but it’s not like I’m actually mad at him. How can I be? He’s seven. He’s got these ideas in his head that maybe life is something more than just scraping by. And he doesn’t realize that for us, it probably isn’t.
He fidgets. I can hear the sheets rustling. “Do you think we could go look for it? Not, like, hunt it. Just… you know. Reconnaissance.”
I laugh, quiet so he can’t tell if it’s real or not. “You want to go do ‘reconnaissance’ on a bloodsucking, tentacled monster. Yeah, great idea, Sammy.”
There’s this pause, like he’s letting me think about it. Like he’s already won. “It’s just… we don’t really have anything else to do this weekend,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
I had considered going door to door this weekend, looking for anyone who needs cheep labor. Dog walking, weed pulling, window washing… anything to put something resembling real food on Sammy’s plate.
I want to tell him we’ve got plenty to do. I’ve got a lifetime of work just keeping us both alive. But he’s right, too. Saturday’s just another day in the endless stretch of them we’ve got to wade through. “Fine,” I say, finally, because what else am I gonna say? “We’ll go on Saturday. But if that thing’s real and it eats you, I’m not helping you get out.”
He chuckles in the dark, and I can tell he’s smiling like he just won the lottery. “You won’t regret it, Dean.”
Maybe I will. But maybe I won’t. And that’s about the best I’ve got to look forward to right now.
From the Journal of Sam Winchester.
First entry.
Date: Saturday, September 29, 1990
Location: Sykesville, MD
Mission: Find the Snallygaster
Today, I decided to go on a super serious investigation of the Snallygaster. It’s a really old and important legend that lots of people have talked about for years. So, I figured we should check it out. I brought Dean with me because, let’s be honest, he would have freaked out if I went alone. We walked all the way down Mill Hollow Rd, from the edge of town to where Mr. James W. Proctor’s farm used to be. He was the guy who said the Snally almost carried him off with his horse!
Dean says it’s all junk, but that doesn’t make sense. If it wasn’t real, why would people talk about it for hundreds of years? You don’t just make up something that big for that long. Dean also wouldn’t agree to go at night, even though I bet that’s when the Snally hunts. I’ve read that night is usually when monsters like to come out.
He kept kicking rocks and making fun of me, so I told him I was doing reconnaissance, which is a fancy word for research that hunters do before they go after something. He just laughed, but I didn’t care. He even brought his gun, but tried to keep it hidden like I wouldn’t notice. I think he really believes the Snallygaster might be out there, and he doesn’t want it sneaking up on us.
Evidence We Found:
- Scratches on Trees: We found some scratches that were as high up as Dean’s shoulder—and he’s 11, so that’s really tall! There were three long lines in the bark, like claw marks. Dean said they were from a bear, but he didn’t even check. He just shrugged and said, “Sure, Sam, a bear. Or Bigfoot. Or, you know, anything with claws.” I took a rubbing of them with my notebook, just like real researchers do. (See enclosed.)
- There were also some huge tracks in the dirt near the trees. They didn’t look like normal animal tracks. They were really big and kind of smeared, like something heavy was dragging its feet. Dean said they were just old boot prints from a hiker, but I think the Snallygaster probably dragged off a deer or something. I really wish we could afford a camera. Even a cheap orange disposable one from the drugstore would work. Maybe I should pocket one the next time we go on a supply run. I’d still have to save up to pay for the film to be developed. It wouldn’t be too wrong if it advances science, right?
- We heard this crazy screech way off in the distance. It didn’t sound like any bird I’ve ever heard. Dean said it was a hawk, but I don’t think so. I’ve seen hawks on TV, and they don’t sound like that. This was louder and kind of echoey, like it came from something really big. Probably the Snallygaster.
- We didn’t see any feathers or scales, but that totally makes sense. The Snallygaster is probably super smart and knows not to leave anything behind. It probably hides really well, too, so people don’t catch it.
- Tomorrow, I’m going to ask some of the older people in town if they’ve seen anything weird. Maybe go to an old folks’ home or something. I bet they’ve seen lots of stuff.
- Questions for Locals
- Has anyone seen the Snallygaster recently? Where?
- Do farmers still put seven-pointed stars on their barns? What does that even do?
- Have any animals gone missing? (We should probably check the feed store or ask the guy at the gas station.)
- Are there other places around here where people have seen the Snallygaster, like rivers or mountains?
- What did people used to do to keep it away? Is there any way to call it? Or does it just come out when it feels like it?
We didn’t find anything definite today, but I think we’re close. I can feel it. Dean says I’m imagining stuff, but he’s wrong. The Snallygaster is out there, and we just have to keep looking. Real hunters don’t quit just because they don’t find proof right away. I’m going to be just like Dad one day. I’m going to know everything there is to know about monsters.
Sammy wanted to head off and chase his Snally-bitch again today, but I put my foot down. Sure, his little monster obsession keeps him busy, but we need cash. Bobby called this morning, said Dad’s laid up with a busted foot and wouldn’t be back anytime soon. He offered to wire us some money, but I know how Dad feels about charity—last thing I need is Bobby bailing us out. I told him we’d hold off and save that as a last resort.
So, today, I’m on a mission to rustle up some work, which means dragging Sam along for the ride. He didn’t seem all that torn up about missing his cryptid hunt, for once. Instead, he suggested we hit up the local old-folks home and offer to mow the lawn or whatever. Smart kid. Maybe we’ll get a few bucks, maybe some pity from the manager, which I’d gladly trade for a paying gig right about now. And if they say no, I’ll leave him there to chat up the old-timers while I do the real work.
The old folks’ facility is about a ten-minute walk, which Sam fills with his usual chatter. Something about the Snallygaster and ancient German legends, mixed in with random facts he’s probably only half-remembering from a book. I half-listen, grunting where appropriate, mostly focused on our surroundings, watching for anyone who might look like they’ve got a job they need doing. Sam’s practically bouncing beside me as we walk, his mind clearly somewhere between cryptid-hunting and whatever nonsense he picked up in school this week.
We get to the place, and it’s about what I expected. A tired-looking building with faded signs and a yard that’s seen better days. There’s an old sign by the entrance—Clearwater Retirement Village—and a handful of people in wheelchairs scattered around the lawn, parked in the shade like they’re on display.
Inside, the air smells like a mix of cleaning supplies and something stale. I walk up to the front desk and lean in, flashing my best “trust me” smile. The receptionist is a tired-looking woman with graying hair and eyes that say she’s seen every scam in the book. I introduce myself and Sam, tell her we’re looking to make a few bucks doing odd jobs around the place. Mowing, raking, whatever needs doing.
She glances over her reading glasses, looking from me to Sam and back again. “We don’t usually hire kids.”
I shrug, flashing her a grin. “I’m stronger than I look, ma’am. And I work cheap.”
She sighs, probably thinking about how much easier her day would be if she just got us out of her hair. “Wait here.” She pushes herself up and disappears into the back.
I look over at Sam, who’s busy inspecting a dusty rack of magazines by the door, probably trying to find something about cryptids in Reader’s Digest. A minute later, the woman returns with a grizzled old guy in blue coveralls. The name patch says Lou, and he looks like he’s got as much enthusiasm as a wet mop. But he sizes us up, shrugs, and hands me a pair of thick gloves.
“Follow me,” he grunts, already heading toward the door. “We need some branches cleared out back. Storm came through last week, and nobody’s picked up yet.” Lou gives Sam a once-over, noticing how small he is. “Kid’s better off indoors. Some of the residents could use a little company. Old folks get tired of looking at the same four walls all day, y’know?”
Sam’s face lights up. “Really? I’ve got a ton of questions for them!” I catch him starting to pull out that spiral notebook he’s been scribbling in lately, the one he calls his “journal.”
Lou raises an eyebrow, looking mildly amused. “Well, alright then. Long as they’re good questions, kid.” He looks at me. “You good with that?”
I nod. If Sam’s up for talking to strangers and not getting into trouble, it works for me. “Sure. Keep him outta the way. He’ll be alright.”
Sam skips off down the hall with Lou pointing him in the right direction. Meanwhile, I’m out back, hauling tree branches and muttering to myself. It’s not glamorous, but it’s work, and it pays better than sitting around waiting for Dad to come back. I focus on the rhythm of the work, picking up branches, dragging them to the dumpster, and keeping an eye out for any nails or broken glass in the grass. It’s nothing heroic, but it’s steady, and it makes me feel like I’m holding things together, even if it’s just for today.
About half an hour later, I hear Sam’s voice coming from a window above. He’s probably talking to one of the old ladies up there, asking about monsters and getting way too involved in whatever story she’s telling him. I shake my head, trying not to laugh. He’s already asking if they’ve heard about the Snallygaster, and I can hear the eagerness in his voice.
Another hour passes, and Lou comes back out to check on my progress. He grunts approvingly and hands me a grimy rag to wipe my hands. “Good work. You got a solid back on you, kid.”
“Thanks,” I say, shoving the rag into my pocket. “Anything else you need done?”
He scratches his chin. “Windows up front could use some cleaning. If you’re up for it, that is.”
“Yeah, no problem.” I grab the bucket and fill it with soapy water, glad to be doing something that at least feels productive. Meanwhile, Sam is still inside, probably entertaining the residents with every monster story he’s ever read. Kid’s got a way with people, even if he’s not always aware of it.
I’m working my way through the windows when Sam finally appears, his notebook clutched in his hand like it’s the most precious thing in the world. He looks excited, his eyes bright as he runs over to me.
“Dean! Mrs. Henderson said she saw the Snallygaster when she was a kid! She told me it came down from the hills and she saw it snatch up her neighbor’s chicken!” He flips open his notebook, scanning the pages. “She said it had a beak and giant wings, just like in the article.”
I shake my head, half-smiling. “Sounds like you’re getting all the good stories. Think she’d pay us for listening?”
Sam rolls his eyes. “It’s important research, Dean.”
I laugh, but there’s a knot in my chest. For him, it’s still a game, and as much as I want to keep him out of this life, I know that he’s already on the road. Maybe I can’t stop him from caring about monsters, but at least I can keep him grounded. “C’mon, let’s finish up here. We’ve got work to do if we want dinner tonight.”
He nods, slipping his notebook back into his pocket and grabbing a rag to help me with the last of the windows. We work in silence, and I watch him out of the corner of my eye, that same eagerness still in his face. The kid’s got a fire in him, and maybe I can’t snuff it out—but I’ll be damned if I don’t do everything I can to keep him safe.
The sun was dipping below the horizon, casting the last bits of daylight in long, golden streaks as Sam and I trudged down the road back toward the Old Mill Lodge. I could feel the grime caked on my skin, like a layer of filth that had fused itself to me after mowing half the damn town, picking up dog crap, cleaning gutters, and raking leaves. I was beat. Filthy and tired didn’t even begin to cover it. But hey, we’d earned nearly $50 today—practically a miracle in our world.
Sam, of course, was still jabbering away, though he was slowing down now, the edge of excitement starting to wear off. He’d spent the day inside, pestering every old-timer at the retirement home for monster stories while I did the actual work. And now, even after all that, he still had energy to spare, though not as much as usual. I wasn’t surprised. The kid had been on his feet most of the day, too.
“So, Mrs. Finch said that when she was a kid, she heard this weird screeching out in the woods. She said her grandpa told her it was the Snallygaster, trying to call up a storm! Can you imagine, Dean?” Sam was flipping through his notebook, trying to find the exact page where he’d written it all down, like I hadn’t heard the story already. Twice.
I just grunted, too tired to reply with anything clever. The sun was dipping low, casting an orange glow over the fields, and the town was starting to look like something out of a postcard. Even the crappy, rundown buildings seemed prettier in this light. But we were still a ways off from the Old Mill Lodge, and the thought of collapsing on that lumpy mattress was the only thing keeping me moving.
The crickets had started up their nightly chorus, and the warm breeze carried the faintest hint of rain. The sky was turning that deep purple color you only get just after sunset, when it’s still light enough to see, but dark enough that the shadows start to stretch and shift. Lightning bugs blinked lazily across the field next to us, and for a second, everything felt… normal.
But then something prickled the back of my neck. A tension, like there was something—or someone—just out of sight. I couldn’t place it, but the road suddenly felt too quiet. Empty.
I glanced behind us, trying to keep it casual, but there was nothing. The town had already gone to bed. The houses we’d passed were dark, their windows blank, no signs of movement. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling.
“You ever notice how quiet it gets here?” I asked, trying to act like I wasn’t completely paranoid. “Like, weirdly quiet.”
Sam glanced up from his notebook, finally noticing that my tone had changed. “It’s just crickets, Dean,” he said, though he sounded less sure of himself now. “And it’s always quiet in small towns, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I muttered, my eyes still scanning the road ahead, the field to our left, the woods to the right. But I didn’t see anything. No cars, no people. Nothing but the distant hum of insects.
A soft breeze rustled the trees, and I caught the scent of rain on the air, just faint, but there. I picked up the pace, hoping we could make it back to the lodge before the storm hit. But the feeling of being watched hadn’t gone away. If anything, it was stronger now, like something just out of sight was tracking us.
The sun had dipped below the horizon completely now, and the road was shrouded in twilight, that weird in-between where your eyes can’t quite trust what they’re seeing. Sam was still talking, something about Mrs. Henderson’s other stories, but I wasn’t paying attention anymore. I was listening. Watching.
Then I heard it.
A screech—high-pitched and sharp, cutting through the crickets’ steady hum like a knife. It echoed across the empty fields, sending a shiver down my spine. My hand went to the back of my jeans, where Dad’s knife was stashed, out of habit more than anything else. I stopped in my tracks, holding up a hand to silence Sam, who immediately froze.
“You heard that?” I asked, my voice low.
Sam nodded, his eyes wide. “That wasn’t a hawk, was it?”
“No,” I said, my heart thudding in my chest. “No, Sammy. It wasn’t.”
We stood there in the growing darkness, neither of us moving, the air suddenly thick with tension. The breeze picked up again, stirring the leaves, and somewhere, far off in the distance, I thought I saw a shadow move. But when I looked again, it was gone.
“C’mon,” I said, tugging on Sam’s jacket. “Let’s get back to the lodge.”
We started walking again, faster this time, the $50 in my pocket forgotten. All I cared about was getting us off that road, back to the safety of four walls, even if they were in that dingy, old motel. Because whatever that screech was, it wasn’t something I wanted to run into in the middle of the night.
We hadn’t even made it halfway back when we heard it again, closer this time. The screech cut through the fields, shattering the still air like glass breaking. And that’s when I knew—we weren’t alone out here. Not by a long shot.
Then I saw it. A huge form, almost like the pictures in Sam’s book, silhouetted against the orange sunset. I told myself it was just a cloud. But clouds don’t flap enormous wings.
“Dude,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady for Sam’s sake, though I’m not sure I managed. “Run.”
“But—” he started to argue, probably wanting to interview the damn thing, whatever it was. But I grabbed his arm and hauled him with me, full speed, not stopping until the lodge door slammed shut behind us, and I twisted the lock.
I wasn’t scared. No way. I’m a Winchester. I just didn’t want Sammy to get hurt.
From the Journal of Sam Winchester
Entry #2
Date: Monday, October 1, 1990
Location: Sykesville, MD
Mission: Find the Snallygaster
We saw it.
I can’t believe it, but we actually saw the Snallygaster. Dean thinks I’m crazy, but I know what I saw. We were walking back from town after a whole day of working. Dean was tired, probably too tired to pay attention, but I was still thinking about everything I learned from the interviews. Then, out of nowhere, we heard that screech again. It was louder this time, closer, and it sounded just like how Mrs. Finch described it—like glass breaking. The air felt weird too, like everything had stopped, and then I saw it.
There was this huge shadow, almost like the pictures I’ve seen, but even bigger. It had wings—massive wings—that flapped against the sky, and I swear I saw claws too. It looked like it was swooping down, maybe hunting something. Dean says it could’ve been anything, but clouds don’t move like that, and birds aren’t that big. I know what I saw.
Dean grabbed my arm and told me to run. He tried to play it cool, but I could tell he was freaked out. We ran all the way back to the hotel, and I didn’t even get a chance to look back. But now I know for sure—it’s out there. The Snallygaster is real, and it’s hunting around here.
Plan for Next Weekend:
- First Objective: Go back to the same spot around sunset. The Snallygaster seems to be more active then, just like in the old stories.
- Second Objective: Bring supplies. We’re going to need flashlights, the notebook, and a tape recorder. I’ve seen Dad use one, and it’ll help us document what we hear or see without missing anything.
- Third Objective: Track patterns. I’m going to use a map and mark the places where the screeching has been heard. If we can figure out its hunting grounds, we might be able to predict where it’ll show up next.
- Fourth Objective: Talk to more locals. I didn’t get a chance to ask everyone. There’s got to be more people who’ve seen something weird. I’ll try to get more details, especially about those seven-pointed stars. If they really do protect against the Snallygaster, maybe we can use one as bait.
- Final Objective: Document everything. I’ve already got notes and sketches, but we need more evidence. Dean says we can’t afford a camera, but maybe we can find something cheap before the weekend. Even a blurry photo would be proof that the Snallygaster exists.
Dean’s not too thrilled about this plan, but I think he’ll come around. He was the one who saw it too, after all. I know he wants to keep me safe, but we’re hunters, and hunters don’t run away from monsters. They learn everything they can about them, and they make plans to take them down. I don’t think we’re ready to kill it yet, but if we can track it, we’ll be one step closer.
I can’t wait for the weekend. This is going to be huge.
I swear to fuck, if I have to hear one more dumbass “fact” about the damn Snally-bitch, I’m gonna murder us both. Sam will not shut up. Morning to night, it’s all “Did you know the Snallygaster has tentacles?” and “I bet it’s nocturnal, Dean!” Yeah, thanks, Sam—I got that from the fifth time you told me. I even tried bribing him, offered him ten bucks if he could go a whole day without saying the word “Snallygaster.” No deal. If anything, I think it made him talk more.
If I had a Walkman, I’d have my own theme song by now. I’d blast it on full just to drown out his constant blabbering. But no, I’m stuck with my own thoughts, and they’re almost as annoying.
This town sucks. The kids are dicks, the teachers don’t even bother learning my name, and the hotel manager keeps sweating me about “Where’s your father?” and “It’s $200 for another week.” Like I don’t know that. Dude, I’d love to have $200 to give you. I’d also love to have a dad who’s in the same fucking state. But that’s not how our world works.
So I’m just sitting there, half listening to Sam as he rambles on, when the door suddenly swings open. And there he is, like some kinda one-legged savior. Dad’s standing there, foot in a cast, one crutch under his arm, looking like he’s been through hell. His face is rough, stubble coming in thick, and he looks ten years older than he did last time we saw him.
“Boys, get your shit. Time to go,” he says, his voice as sharp as ever. It’s music to my ears. I’m packed and out the door before he’s finished speaking, my duffel slung over my shoulder, ready to hit the road. Anywhere is better than here.
But Sam’s dragging his feet, trying to get Dad to look at his dumb book and the notebook he’s been filling with all his “research.” He’s standing there, practically beaming, like Dad’s going to give him a gold star for effort. He should know better by now. You don’t bother Dad with stuff like that, especially when he’s hurt.
“Dad, look, I started a journal, just like yours—”
I don’t have to look to know what’s coming next. The smack echoes through the room, quick and brutal. Sam’s gone quiet, and I feel my stomach twist. He doesn’t say a word. But then I see him, trudging out of the room, his bag slung over his shoulder, a red handprint blazing across his cheek. Poor kid. But he really should’ve known better.
I just nod to him as he walks by, hoping he’ll catch the meaning: I’m sorry, but we gotta get out of here.
He brushes past me without a word, his face set like stone. And as we climb into the Impala, I take the front seat without a second thought, slipping back into that role that’s as comfortable as it is exhausting. I’ll sit here, I’ll watch Dad’s face, I’ll play the good son, and I’ll hope Sam’s too wrapped up in his damn book to see what this life is already taking out of him.
We pull out of the parking lot, leaving Sykesville and the Snallygaster behind. I wish I could say I was sad about it, but all I feel is relief. Another town, another hunt, another chance to keep moving.
But in the rearview mirror, I catch a glimpse of Sam. He’s still got that damn journal in his lap, his fingers tracing the edge of the pages. And even though he’s quiet now, I know it’s not over. Not for him.