"Hmm... so this is Tracy's house," Henry said, looking up at the old home.
Dean checked the front door before forcing it open. "Yep. Spread out and see if you can find anything that points to witchcraft." He drew his gun and headed upstairs.
"I'll take the top floor."
Sam nodded. "I'll check the kitchen and living room."
"Then I'll take the rest of the ground floor," Henry said, walking down the hallway.
The house was eerily quiet.
Henry opened one room after another, finding nothing but ordinary furniture and family photographs.
Eventually he stepped into what appeared to be Tracy's bedroom. Neatly made bed, clothes in the wardrobe, books stacked on a small desk. No strange symbols, no jars, nothing suggesting witchcraft.
He opened the wardrobe and searched through it. "Nothing..."
He closed the doors and turned to leave. Just as he took a step, his foot struck the floor with a dull, hollow sound.
Henry stopped. "...Huh?"
He tapped the same spot again with his boot.
Knock.
Unmistakable. "Hollow."
He crouched down, pressing a hand against the wooden floor and tracing the area beneath the wardrobe.
Without another word, he grabbed the heavy cabinet and heaved it aside. It crashed against the wall with a loud bang. Henry raised his fist and drove it through the floorboards.
The rotten wood splintered apart, revealing a hidden cavity beneath the room. A foul stench rushed out immediately, filling the bedroom with the overwhelming smell of decay and rotting flesh.
Henry wrinkled his nose. "Well..." He looked down into the hidden space, expression turning cold. "...this girl's definitely a witch."
"What was that?" Sam called from the hallway.
Both Winchester brothers hurried in, stopping when they saw the shattered floorboards and the wardrobe lying on its side.
Dean looked from the broken floor to Henry. "You know, most people just check under the rug."
Henry pointed at the opening. "Anybody want to go into a witch's basement?" He took a step back. "Because I can already smell whatever's down there, and I'm not volunteering."
Dean walked over and glanced inside. Darkness below, matched only by the overwhelming stench rising from it.
He pulled a flashlight from his jacket, switched it on, and shined the beam down.
"Looks like we've got ourselves a secret basement."
Sam crouched beside him. "Witches usually keep the important stuff hidden. If she's been performing rituals, we'll find evidence down there."
Dean looked at Henry with a grin. "Guess you're out of luck."
Henry folded his arms. "I found it. That means one of you gets the honor of climbing in first."
Dean snorted. Without another word he holstered his gun, grabbed the edge of the opening, and carefully lowered himself in.
His boots landed on the damp stone floor with a dull thud.
The smell hit him immediately. "Ugh... that is nasty."
Sam climbed down after him while Henry followed a moment later.
Dean swept the flashlight around the room — shelves lined with jars, bundles of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, strange ritual symbols painted across the walls, a crude altar stained with old blood.
Dean's expression hardened. "Yep. We've definitely found the witch's workshop."
Henry searched the room from top to bottom and found nothing useful. Apart from ritual supplies and the remains of old spells, no clues pointing to where Tracy had gone.
"Well, there aren't any leads..." he muttered.
His eyes fell on a framed photograph lying on one of the shelves. He picked it up, brushed away the dust, and carried it over. "Except this." He held up the picture.
"Could this uncle be her partner? Another witch? Or a warlock? Wait, what do you call male witches anyway?"
Dean took the photograph while Sam leaned in beside him.
The moment Sam saw the man standing beside a teenage Tracy, his expression changed. "...I know him."
Henry raised an eyebrow. "You do?"
"That's Don Harding. Tracy's art teacher."
Henry looked back at the photograph. "Isn't that a little strange? Her art teacher has a picture with her that looks at least ten years old."
Dean studied it for another moment before handing it back. "Yeah... that's not normal." He looked at Sam. "Our teacher's hiding something. And whatever it is, I'm willing to bet it isn't pretty."
***
The Impala rolled to a stop in front of Don Harding's house as evening settled over the neighborhood.
Dean killed the engine and turned toward the others. "Be ready."
He opened the glove compartment, pulled out a box of witch-killing rounds, and loaded a fresh magazine. Then he handed another magazine and several loose rounds to Henry.
Henry checked the ammunition and loaded it with a satisfying click.
"Alright," Dean said, opening the door. "Let's move."
They approached the house quietly. Dean didn't bother knocking. He kicked the front door open and they rushed inside with weapons raised.
The house was silent.
"Clear left," Sam called.
"Clear right," Henry answered, sweeping his side of the living room.
Without warning, three glass bottles crashed onto the floor at their feet.
Smash. Smash. Smash.
Thick gray smoke instantly filled the room. Dean's eyes widened. "Cover your—"
He never finished. The acrid fumes burned his throat. He doubled over, coughing violently as his pistol slipped from his grip. Beside him, Sam collapsed to one knee, struggling to breathe.
A slow clap echoed through the room.
Don Harding stepped out from the hallway with a smug smile. "That's a nerve-breaking potion. In a few moments, neither of you will be able to move." He chuckled.
"It won't kill you... not for several hours, anyway."
His smile vanished.
Henry was still standing. Completely unaffected.
Don stared at him in disbelief. "W-Why isn't it affecting y—"
Bang.
The gunshot echoed through the house. The bullet punched straight through Don's forehead. His body dropped onto the floor before he could finish the sentence.
Henry lowered his pistol without changing expression.
"Here's a little advice." He looked down at the corpse. "Don't stop to explain your plan."
A faint smirk crossed his face. "It usually doesn't end well for idiots."
*****
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