I could feel curious eyes behind me, watching me. I turned around and Dean was standing at the breakfast table, a very cute confused look on his face.

"Dean!" I exclaimed. This was supposed to be a surprise. "Go."

"But I want to know what you’re-"

I shooed him with my hands. "It’ll be done in ten minutes max." I herded him out of the kitchen.

"Okay, okay," he relented with a pout, "I’m going." He disappeared back into the living room, and I returned to the stove to finish making the omelette.

"Where were these pictures taken?" I heard him ask a moment later. "The ones with you and your friend."

"On the road trips she and I have been on," I answered, working my way through the peppers. "We go on one every year."

"Where have you two been?” he asked.

“We’ve been to Banff, Alaska, we just got back from Kenora a month ago," I answered. "But that’s not including the trips with my family."

He came to stand in the foyer as I threw everything into the frying pan. "Where have you been with your family?"

"Vegas, California, Kansas–"

"Kansas?" he cut in. He poked his head into the kitchen, a questioning look on his face. "Where in Kansas? And can I at least stand inside the kitchen?"

"Lawrence." I turned around. "And yes you can stand in the kitchen."

"Lawrence?" he repeated. He stepped inside. "Really?"

I glanced at him over my shoulder. "Yeah, why, you know the city?"

"I was born there," he said. "But what took you to Lawrence? It’s not exactly a prime vacation spot. Unless you were there to see the Stull Cemetery."

"No, I wasn’t there to go to Stull. My aunt and uncle passed away last summer," I answered.

A hint of sympathy flashed across his face. "I’m sorry."

A sad smile was my ‘thank you’ response as I reached for two plates.

"But I guess you have other family there too?" he continued after a moment’s hesitation.

I nodded. "Most of my Dad’s family is there. He was born there and lived there until he met my mom and moved to Chippewa Falls." I turned to Dean. "What do you want to drink?"

"Coffee if that’s okay?" he asked.

"Do you mind if it’s instant? I don’t have time to brew a pot."

He shook his head. "No, I don’t mind."

I filled the electric kettle, then dished the omelette onto the plates. "How do you take your coffee?"

"Just the way it is."

I turned around. "No sugar or cream?"

"Nope."

I scrunched my nose. "Really?"

He nodded. "Wouldn’t have it any other way." He smiled. "I take it you like it with tons of sugar."

I chuckled. "Yeah." I brought the plates to the breakfast table. "Have a seat."

A relieved smile emulated from him and he made a beeline for the table as I got the coffee mugs out of the cupboard and the utensils out of the drawer.

"This looks good," he said. "It smells good too. What’s all in it?"

"Cheese, green, yellow, sweet red peppers and mushrooms." I handed him a knife and fork, then put the instant coffee, coffee mugs, salt, pepper and ketchup on the table as well as my own knife and fork. I heard him cut into the omelette as I got the boiled kettle.

"Wow." He sounded surprised. I turned around to read his reaction. "This is good… very good." His eyes told no lie.

I sighed inwardly, relieved he liked it. "Thanks. My mother taught me how to make it."

"Did she come up with it?"

I poured the hot water into the mugs and sat down across from Dean. "No, my grandmother did. It was during the Depression. She was fifteen, her father had run out on the family and her mother had passed away, so it was just her and her younger siblings. The only food left in the house was what’s in this omelette and they couldn’t get more until the next day. So, my grandmother cooked everything up and they didn’t go hungry that night."

"Wow, sounds like a lot of love went into this," he said.

"Oh, it did," I replied, "always did. Now, when I make it, it’s usually to cure a hangover or to help someone feel better."

His smile faded slightly. "Well, it certainly worked here." He passed me a grateful smile; his eyes looked into mine unwaveringly. "Thank you, Lyse."

"You’re welcome, Dean."

We ate in a comfortable silence, and I used the time to study him. His eyes – which I still couldn’t tell if they were green or hazel – held a high degree of experience; what that experience was from, I couldn’t tell. What had life dished out to him to warrant such a large amount of it? I wondered what those eyes had seen over the years of his life. Along with experience, thought and slight confusion added their own layers, but the fear had dissipated and the despair had vanished. I smiled inwardly knowing this simple meal had done what it had been intended to do – cheer him up.

He set his knife and fork on his plate, having finished, and looked at me, question resting behind his eyes. "Can I ask you something?"

I nodded. "Yeah of course."

"When you were telling me about the supernatural things you believed in," he said, "you said you mostly believed in Poltergeists. Can I ask why?"

I was taken aback by the question. Nobody had ever asked me that seriously. It was usually in a tone as to say, 'why the hell would you believe in something like that?'.

I set my knife and fork down on my plate, then pushed it towards the centre of the table and propped my elbows on the table.

I took a breath, bringing the memories out from what my then-child eyes had seen. "It was eighteen years ago, my family lived in Chippewa Falls. I was four when it all started, so I don’t remember everything, but there was a Poltergeist in our house."

"A Poltergeist?" Dean cut in. "What happened?"

"I guess it had been there all the time, but things didn’t start happening until Miriam – my sister – was nine or ten months old. It started off as small things, like my brother would say that he felt something or someone was watching him whenever he went into Miriam’s nursery. Mom, of course, told him it was just his imagination." I paused to take a sip of my coffee and to remember what else had happened. "But, then it started to make itself more known with the sound of scratching, the lights would flicker, the sinks would back up. Next, it would throw things at anyone who was in the room."

"Even you?" Dean asked. Belief was the only emotion I could see in his eyes, and his full attention was on me and the story I was telling. I was relived and grateful I’d finally met someone – other than Pageen, Tony and those who remembered it – who actually completely and seriously believed me.

I nodded. "Even me." I lowered my gaze, preparing to tell him the rest. "About a month or two after it all started, the Poltergeist got really mean and would shake Miriam’s crib. One night, I could hear Miriam fussing – my door was right across the hall from the door of her nursery –, and so I got up to check on her. When I got there, her crib was shaking so hard I thought either it was going to break or she was going to fall out." My eyes were fixed on my empty plate, but they weren’t focusing on it. My mind was working too hard to allow my eyes to focus on anything. "I don’t know how I did it, but I managed to unlock the side of the crib, and I reached in and pulled her out. By that time, Mom, Dad and Keith were there. Mom took Miriam and Keith grabbed my hand and we booked and stayed with my Dad’s mom for a couple of weeks."

"Was Miriam okay?" Dean asked. "Was anything done about the Poltergeist?"

Again, I nodded, my eyes returning to life. "Miriam was scared shitless, but she was fine. As for the Poltergeist, I don’t remember much, but from what I do remember and what my mother told me, this man helped us out. He seemed to know an awful lot about the supernatural like he’d been dealing with it for years. Anyway, he went to the house and got rid of the Poltergeist." I took a sip of my coffee and looked up at Dean. "I don’t know why, but the one thing that I’ve never forgotten, is the man’s last name."

Dean’s attention had never left me. "What was it?"

"Winchester."

I want more!
Whoa, whoa, back up!
Home James!