Coming to you on September 11
The Mystery of Novak Manor
Written by @tanis-in-a-trenchcoat with art by @golby-moon
Characters: Castiel, Dean Winchester, Ed Zeddmore, Harry Spangler, John Winchester
Tags: No archive warnings apply, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Podcast Transcript Format, POV Third Person, Flashbacks, The Ghostfacers (Supernatural), Fast Burn, Domestic Castiel and Dean Winchester, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Homophobic John Winchester, Happy Ending
Summary:
[The Ghostfacers Theme - Intro]
Some people believe in ghosts, others… don't.
My name is Ed Zeddmore, and I've never believed in ghosts until I came face to face with one. So I set out on a quest to capture the sound of the paranormal in a podcast like never before, with no big crews following us around. Joined only by my fellow investigator Harry Spangler, the two of us will travel to the some of most highly active supernatural locations, where we will spend entire days being locked down from dusk until dawn, no cheating, no tricks.
Only us, the Ghostfacers!
And today we'll delve into the heart of an old colonial-style tenement house to unravel its mysteries and unmask its ancient ghosts! Its owner, Castiel Novak, and his sole tenant, Dean Winchester, are waiting for us.
And with them the poignant story of a man accustomed to solitude but who, by necessity or fate, was forced to share a house with a stranger at the age of fifty.
A change that was probably the catalyst for what Mr. Novak describes as "something strange is happening in my house."
[The Ghostfacers Theme – Intro - Ends]
Excerpt:
Around him, the wood somewhere in the library creaked with invisible footsteps, planks expanding and swelling to settle back into their spaces. The massive bookshelves breathed like living beings, with hollow, muffled creaks. The pipes running through the ceiling gurgled with the flow of who-knows-what water, and Castiel held his breath—his poor heart about to burst through his ribs, straining to free itself from its personal gallows—, convinced that at any moment someone would appear around the corner of the bookcase with yellow eyes and a gaping, fang-filled grin.
But the seconds ticked by, with all those creaks, the library closing in on him like hungry, greedy jaws, and absolutely nothing happened.
Castiel exhaled all the breath he'd been holding in one swift motion, feeling like an idiot once again. It's the house, he told himself, this old house straight out of an Agatha Christie book, with its crumbling ceilings, its dark combo of creepy basement and attic, and all the old furniture. Dean had mentioned it a few times too, that strange feeling in the few months he'd been living there. Suggestion, his imagination running wild when he was surrounded by these walls.
Castiel swallowed and put Moby Dick back in its place, retracing his steps to the desk. He sat down in the chair, dragging it across the wooden floorboards with a low creak, and took a sip of his coffee, his third of the morning. Maybe the caffeine was playing tricks on him, wasn't it? It was possible. Three cups wasn't much, in his opinion, but as he got older he'd have to start monitoring his blood pressure and all that. It had to be that too. He looked for the next packet of documents he needed to review and start correcting, then clicked quickly a couple of times, closing windows he no longer needed, and began to type.
The floor creaked again, further away.
Castiel turned his head at light speed.
He could see the open door from there as well as a tiny section of the hallway, the wall with the floral wallpaper, the painting with te pretty black clipper near the corner...
There was nothing there, of course.
Suggestion, Castiel, suggestion and imagination.
He resumed his work, taking notes in a separate notebook he kept for checking data and accounts. That was the only sound he heard: the pen scratching the paper, the gurgling of his own body, his guts uncoiling in the cramps of delayed digestion, the thumping of a heart on high alert. His restless breathing.
Somewhere in the library, the floor creaked again with heavy, slow footsteps.
Castiel swallowed hard, then took a sip of coffee without taking his eyes off the screen.
The wood creaked near his desk.
But he kept writing and typing, focused on the numbers and trying to ignore that disturbing, sinister feeling that someone was standing there watching everything he was doing.
