20. Springdale, Washington

"I scrubbed for hours," says Mrs. Miles, the victim's mother. "I'll have to rip up the carpet. My daughter, Casey...She picked out the color herself."

Dean, Sam, and I are in Springdale, Washington. Mrs. Miles is very distraught, and I can't blame her. She lost her little girl. No parent should outlive their child, it's just one of those things you accept as a rule.

We're in Casey's room, where there's the blood stain that Mrs. Miles can't seem to scrub out of the carpet. What it must be like for her, I can't even imagine. I can't even try to put myself into a mother's shoes. I can't relate by any means.

"We're...very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Miles," I say sincerely, tucking a stray strand of blonde hair behind my ear. "You mentioned Casey had no known enemies. What about at home? Anything unusual you may have noticed? Uh...Electricity acting up or lights...flickering, TV on the fritz?"

"No, no fritzing. No cold spots, either."

"Sorry," Dean cuts in. "Out of curiosity, uh...Why do you mention cold spots?" He speaks the question that I've got in my head. Nothing from what I remember involves cold spots with any supernatural being.

"I'm sorry," says Mrs. Miles. "That must sound strange, but...it's been three days since...And the police have found nothing. I'd h—I'd have to sell my house to afford a private investigator, so when the Supernaturalists called—"

"Whoa, sorry, the...Um...Supernaturalists?"

"I know to the FBI it's not exactly orthodox. But these men had answers that no one else had, and I—I owe it to Casey...to listen."

"Now," says Sam, "they—they brought up cold spots in relation to...?"

"Signs of the paranormal, I suppose. They're coming by today to take a look."

"And did these Supernaturalists give you a name?" asks Dean.

"Yes. They called themselves the Ghostfacers."

Dean's subtle change in posture tells me that whoever these "Ghostfacers" are, my brothers have met them before.

"Ghostfacers," I say slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Are they—are they on the FBI's Most Wanted List or something?"

"No, no," I assure her. "I just wanted to make sure that I...I heard you right. Um, thank you, Mrs. Miles, for talking to us. And, please, if anything else important comes up, contact us." I squeeze her shoulder as I see a wave of tears about to fall.

As we leave the Miles house, I can hear Dean muttering things under his breath.

"Um, so, who're these Ghostfacers?" I have to ask once we're outside, heading for the Impala.

"A bunch of people who think they know everything that there is to know about what we do. We've run into them a few times before. They're not a threat to us, just more of an annoyance."

"Well, I guess when you have a name like theirs, it sounds like a nuisance."

We all climb into the Impala, and Dean kicks the car into gear.

Our drive is in silence, with low rock music playing in the car. I'm curious about these Ghostfacers. They sound immature, completely uneducated. If they're really hunters, they wouldn't just use their abilities to gain publicity. That's what their name feels like to me: a publicity stunt. Even though I've never met these people before, I already don't like them.

I decide to use up some data on my new phone (it took me forever to get one as my previous one never got recovered) to research these Ghostfacers. It's a group of kids way younger than me. They look like they have no clue what they're doing. I scoff. Amateurs. It looks like there're two main leaders, Harry Spengler and Ed Zeddmore. The rest of the gang seem to be more followers than brains of this operation.

After some time on the road, Dean pulls over in a diner parking lot. We climb out, still dressed in our FBI gear. I spot the white van from a mile away. "Ghostfacers" is written across the van in huge letters. Oh, yeah, publicity stunt.

"They sure like to brag, don't they?" I ask, grimacing.

"You haven't met them yet," Dean says.

"I don't think I want to, but I don't think I have a choice now."

We enter the diner. I'm behind my brothers, as I have no idea who I'm looking for. Dean does, though. He leads Sam and myself to one of the booths, where two guys sit. They both contrast each other. One looks baby-faced and mildly attractive, the other has facial hair and glasses. Both are on their phones like most people in the world are today. The one with the glasses I recognize as Ed Zeddmore and the other is Harry Spengler.

Dean and Sam slide into the booths with the boys, which leaves no room for me. I stand by the table, eyeing these Ghostfacers with narrowed brown eyes.

"Ah, the Winchesters," says Harry. "Yay."

"Says nobody," says Ed.

"Ever. And who're you supposed to be?"

"Their sister," I snarl, putting my hands down on the table.

Ed snorts. "Yeah, right."

"I'm not a myth." I snort. "I'm the real deal. Want me to prove it?"

"Jo, not now," Dean scolds me. I hold my tongue. "All right, shut up and listen. This is how it's gonna go. You two clowns are gonna get into that Mystery Machine outside, and you're gonna leave town or I'm gonna put holes in your knees."

I sidestep away as a waiter comes to the table. "Can I get you folks anything? Something, uh..."

"Uh, we're ready for the bill," I tell him shortly, offering him a sweet smile. The waiter gets called out by who I assume to be the diner boss once he leaves our table—something about washing dishes properly or something related to that.

"Ah, first of all," says Harry, "you guys don't scare us. Sorry, not even you." He looks at me.

"Not at all," says Ed.

"Don't do anything stupid," Dean mutters out of the corner of his mouth to me.

Harry lifts up his shirt, exposing a gun in his waistband. "Say, 'hola' to my little pistola."

I snicker. "Are we supposed to be impressed with that treasure trail or the lady gun you got hiding in your, uh, pants there?" I cough.

"Uh...Both? Look, whether you like it or not, we are handling this situation."

"Yup," Ed agrees.

"Really?" asks Dean.

"Mhm."

"'Cause I see a couple of fame whores who are pointing their camera at a mom who just lost her kid."

"Guys, we are investigators, and we have every right—"

"No. No, you don't. You know why? 'Cause you're just gonna get in our way."

"Or you're gonna get somebody else killed," says Sam.

"That's right," Dean agrees. "So, you can either walk out of here...or crawl. Up to you."

"Oh, my God, Menudo," says Harry. "Will you guys relax? We know what we're doing."

"Really?" I scoff.

"And what about the rest of the Bad News Bears, huh?" asks Dean. "Where's the—where's the fat one? And—and the girl? There was a girl, right?"

"They—we dropped them. They were—they were dead weight."

"Well, t-they're still alive," says Harry.

"They're—no, they're totally alive."

"Oh, God, just stop talking already," I mutter.

"I see," says Dean. "So, it's just, uh, the dumpy duo, then. Well, that's great. So, here's the deal. A ghost will land you two dead in five seconds flat."

Harry chuckles mockingly. "A ghost? Oh. They think it's a ghost. It's so not a ghost."

"No," Ed agrees.

"Okay," I say, annoyed. "We'll bite. What do you think it is?"

"Can I—can I do it this time?" Harry asks Ed.

"You got it," says Ed.

"Okay. I've waited all my life for this. Amazon me, bitches."

"I will shoot you...bitches," Dean mutters.

I roll my eyes. My brother has never been the Comeback King.

"Like we were saying, you were just going, right?" says Sam. "Great."

"Good talk."

The three of us leave the diner. I look at the Ghostfacers van with disdain. Those two idiots don't know what they're talking about, or what they're dealing with.

"They've got to be wrong, it's got to be a ghost," I tell my brothers. "I mean, what else can get away with a murder like that? Get through locked windows and doors without hassle?"

"Glad to know you're in the same boat as us about them," Sam tells me.

"Did you think I'd drool at their feet or something?" I wrinkle my nose. "I'm no expert like Dad was, but come on. Those two clearly aren't the real deal like we are. We know what we're talking about. They don't."

"For their sake, they better stay out of this."

* * *

"Oh, you're kidding me," I groan, looking at Sam's laptop screen. "Now I understand what Henry meant by 'Amazon me.'"

"Uh...Dean?" Sam calls.

"Yeah?" says our brother.

I frown. "Ed and Harry wrote a book. Those idiots wrote a freaking book."

"What?"

We've nestled down in a motel room. Sam and I have been doing some research on his laptop regarding the faux Scooby-Doo gang.

"Yeah," Sam says. "Uh, 'The Skinny on Thinman', by America's foremost Supernaturalists."

"What the hell's a Thinman?" asks Dean.

"I don't know. Um..." Sam pulls up a black and white photo of a runner. The same photobomber in Casey's photo is in this one as well.

"Whoa," I whisper. "Check that out, though. That does kind of look like whatever was behind Casey Miles, right?"

"Or Garth if somebody shaved his face off," Dean mutters. "Big whoop."

"Here we go," says Sam. "Uh, 'Thinman—an urban legend started on the World Wide Web—lurks in the background of his victims' lives until he's ready to kill them'"

"Yeah, because everything started on the Internet is true," I scoff. "Like, uh, oh, the shark attacking a helicopter—they write the book on that one, too?"

"Jo, real or not, thousands of people have posted to the site. It's like Thinman is the new Bigfoot or something."

"Or Thinman is just a ghost with a brand name," says Dean.

"You saying that 'cause you really think it's a ghost or because you don't like the Ghostfacers?"

"Hey, don't forget—we hit EMF in Casey's room."

"Right, but the house was next door to power lines, which can affect the read."

"A girl died in a locked room, Sam," I remind my little brother. "Spells 'ghost' right there."

"Maybe it got in there before it was locked up. Who knows, you guys? But how can people all over the world see the same ghost? Spirits don't exactly hop around."

"We know that," says Dean. "But right now, the veil is all kinds of screwed, okay? Ghosts could be popping up anywhere."

"Yeah, but, Dean, Thinman sightings date back a couple years. The veil's only been a problem for, what, the last six months?"

Dean grabs his laptop from his back and sits at the other table. "Well, you know, people still see Elvis all over the damn place. Look, all I'm saying is those douchewheels ain't experts on crap."

"Nobody disagrees with you there. What are you doing?" I ask Dean.

"I'm checking the local deaths to see if there's any candidates for ghosts. Here we go. Okay. All right, over the past six months, there have been three unnatural deaths in Springdale, none of them connected to Casey Miles, and none of them violent."

I purse my lips. "Okay, that's not exactly a recipe for a vengeful spirit." I look at the print on Sam's screen. "There have been a bunch of unexplained deaths pinned on Thinman. Um, a vic dies, then, a couple weeks later, a photo pops up of the vic with Thinman photobombing."

"So, Thinman's stalking folks?"

"According to the lore."

"According to the idiots. How come none of these vics pinged our radar?"

"I'm pretty sure the mysterious deaths can be chalked up to non-supernatural cases," Sam tells Dean. "That and, honestly, most of these photos look pretty fake."

"Even Casey's?"

"Except Casey's. Casey's photo wasn't doctored. Whatever was behind her was really there."

"Okay, well, that doesn't make any sense," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I mean, how could something be both real and fake at the same time?"

"Well, a girl is dead, and that's about as real as it gets."

"All right, so, the last thing she did was she took a photo on her phone." I begin pacing. "How did that photo end up online?"

"No clue," says Sam. "It was originally posted to a Thinman fan forum, but the I.P. address was blocked."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait," Dean cuts in. "This thing has fans? Of course it does. Okay, well, then somebody wanted this photo on the Internet, and I'm guessing that the ghost didn't hop online to post it."

"What are you thinking, Dean?" I ask.

"We need to go to the sheriff's office and take a look at Casey's phone."

**I considered not writing out this episode with the Ghostfacers. But I couldn't resist in the end.**