First-Person POV (Marcus Hale)
The sheriff's flashlight beam cut through the dark like a spotlight, and I was the idiot center stage.
I sat up slowly, brushing dirt off my jacket, trying to look casual—like people regularly set graves on fire at midnight.
"Camping, huh?" Sheriff Rocky Shwact's voice was flatter than roadkill. His gun wasn't quite pointed at me, but his finger hovered near the trigger. "You got a real funny definition of 'camping,' kid."
I forced a grin. "Extreme camping? You know, survivalist stuff. Fire-building, ghost-wrestling—"
"Cut the crap." Rocky stepped closer, his boots crunching over salt and charred earth. His eyes flicked to the smoldering grave, then back to me. "You here to hunt Eleanor?"
My grin died.
Wait. What?
I stared at him. "You… know about Eleanor?"
Rocky's jaw tightened. He holstered his gun, but the tension in his shoulders didn't ease. "Yeah. I know."
Silence stretched between us, thick enough to choke on. The fire crackled, casting flickering shadows over his face.
Finally, I sighed and wiped my hands on my jeans. "Yeah. I was hunting her."
Rocky exhaled hard, like he'd been holding his breath. "Damn fool thing to do alone."
"Occupational hazard."
He studied me for a long moment, then muttered, "She's gone?"
I nodded. "Salt and burn. She's not coming back."
Something unreadable passed over his face—relief? Grief? "Good."
I hesitated. "You, uh… wanna explain how you know about vengeful spirits, Sheriff?"
Rocky's gaze turned distant. "Eleanor was my stepsister."
Oh.
That… explained a lot. And also raised about a hundred more questions. But the raw edge in his voice told me now wasn't the time.
I stood, brushing off the last of the dirt. "Well. Guess I'll be going then."
Rocky didn't stop me. Just nodded toward the trees. "Car's that way."
I took two steps—then froze as something shifted inside me. A weird, electric hum under my skin, like static after dragging socks on carpet.
I flexed my fingers. What the hell?
Then the shovel—still lying near the grave—twitched.
My breath caught.
It lifted. Just an inch off the ground, hovering like it was dangling from an invisible string.
No. Freaking. Way.
I jerked my hand back, and the shovel clattered to the dirt.
Rocky frowned. "You okay?"
"Peachy," I croaked.
I didn't wait for another question. Just grabbed my bag and booked it to the car, heart pounding like a drum solo.
I was quickly walking toward my car (actually Bobby car) and started entering to start the engine.
The Nissan's engine roared to life, but my hands were shaking too hard to shift gears.
I stared at them, half-expecting the steering wheel to start floating.
Telekinesis. I have freaking telekinesis.
And not just any telekinesis—power that kicked in after killing a ghost.
I replayed the moment in my head: the surge of energy, the shovel lifting like it weighed nothing.
Did I steal Eleanor's power?
The thought sent a chill down my spine.
Because if that was true… what else could I take?
I gripped the wheel tighter.
Okay. Don't freak out. This is good. More tools to survive.
But it was also dangerous.
If Bobby found out, he'd assume demon. If the Winchesters found out, they might stab first and ask questions never.
So. Rule one: Keep it secret.
Rule two: Figure out how the hell it works.
I took a deep breath and focused on the gearshift.
Move.
Nothing.
I gritted my teeth. Come on. Lift, you stupid—
The gearshift wobbled.
I yanked my hand back like it'd burned me.
Holy shit. It worked.
A giddy laugh bubbled up. I had superpowers. Actual, honest-to-God superpowers.
And I was gonna learn how to use them if it killed me.
---
By the time I hit the highway, the adrenaline had faded enough for rational thought. Mostly.
I dialed Bobby's number.
He picked up on the second ring. "You dead?"
"Not even a little."
"Then why you callin'?"
I smirked. "Missed your voice, old man."
A long-suffering sigh. "Case go okay?"
"Eleanor Pritchard's officially evicted from the mortal plane. Also, the sheriff knew about her."
That got his attention. "He a hunter?"
"Stepsibling drama. Didn't press."
Bobby grunted. "Good call. Some stories ain't yours to dig up."
I hesitated. "Hey, Bobby… you ever heard of someone getting, uh… weird after killing a ghost?"
Silence. Then, carefully: "Weird how?"
Abort. Abort.
"Just… nightmares. You know, spooky residue."
Another pause. "Salt showers help. And whiskey."
"Whiskey cures everything, huh?"
"Damn right."
I laughed, but my grip on the phone was too tight. "I'll be back tomorrow."
"Don't wreck my car."
"Your car?"
The line went dead.
Classic Bobby.
---
I pulled over at a rest stop, the kind of deserted place where no one would see me freak out.
Time for Science.
I held my hand over the passenger seat, focusing on my bag.
Lift.
Nothing.
I growled. "Work, you piece of—"
The bag jerked, then flew into my hand so fast I nearly punched myself in the face.
"Ow. Okay. Note to self: Rage fuels the telekinesis. Good to know."
Next test: weight limit.
A picnic table.
I squinted at it. Too much?
Only one way to find out.
I reached, mentally grabbing at it—
The table shuddered. One leg lifted off the ground.
Then my nose started bleeding.
"Ah, crap."
I wiped it away, dizzy but grinning.
*So. Big stuff = nosebleeds. Small stuff = easy.*
Progress.
Back on the highway, windows down, music blasting, I let myself enjoy it.
I'd survived my first solo hunt.
I had superpowers.
And best of all?
I wasn't helpless anymore.
The Nissan's engine purred as I pushed it faster, the yellow lines blurring under the wheels.
I had a lot to learn. A lot to hide.
But for the first time since I'd woken up in this world…
I was excited.