The next evening found you standing outside of an old, mint green house. It was three stories high, with a small porch on the front, and a wooden sign proclaiming to be the famous Lizzie Borden house. 

"Who would turn a murder house into a bed and breakfast?" Dean asked while removing your bags from the trunk. "Isn't that a little gross?"

"A lot of people want to stay where history happened." Sam argued as you followed him up the concrete steps into the foyer. Warm cherry wood steps were off to the right, leading up to the second floor. To your left was what was now the office, but what had probably been the parlor at one time. It was full of artifacts, and a small gift shop, with shirts stating the fact you survived the night at the famous Lizzie Borden Murder House.

A balding man with a thin, reedy body stood behind the counter, his thick wool sweater pulled tight around his bony frame. Big, black framed glasses were perched on his beak like nose, and he had a thick paperback book in his hands. Sam strode over to him, a friendly smile on his face. "Good evening, we'd like a couple of rooms please."

The guy looked up through the top his glances, first taking in Sam, then Dean, before finally landing on you. His gaze stayed on you, his thin lips turning up at the end in an unnerving smile. You felt a shudder go through you, as he looked you up and down, from your toes to your hair, settling on your chest for seconds longer than necessary. Dean noticed and stepped closer to you, placing a possessive hand on your lower back. It didn't seem to deter the guy any, he just licked his lip before turning back to Sam.

"Sure, how many? I have three available." He said, his gaze slipping back to you.

Sam shook his head as he pulled out his wallet. "No, two rooms are fine. Preferably close together."

The man frowned, but took the money and handed Sam room keys. "Oh, and we were just wondering about the deaths that have happened here recently."

The man finished writing in his book to look up at Sam. "Bad luck, that's all it is. Nothing to worry about. We may have ghosts, but they haven't caused trouble before."

Dean left his hand on your back as you made your up the narrow stairs, to your rooms. They were side by side, at the end of the hall, rooms two and three. "Wow, that guy gave me the creeps."

"I know what you mean." You agreed, as you opened the door to your room. You didn't think you would be going anywhere without Dean, or at least a knife. You stopped dead in your tracks at the sight in front of you. The room was smaller than you had imagined, and every square inch was covered in lace, or something floral. The bedspread had roses, the nightstands were covered with lace doilies, the dresser was too, with vases full of fake pink roses. An antique grooming set was laid out on the dresser, along with small picture frames. A door on the far end led to a small bathroom, painted a rose pink, with flowered towels hanging from the gilded towel rack.

"I think I might throw up." Dean grumbled as Sam picked up a vintage perfume bottle. Holding it out in front of him, he squeezed the bulb, and a cloud of vile smelling perfume wafted your way.

"Ew, Sam!" You complained. "Now I'm going to smell like a grandma!"

"Yeah, and I'm not into that type of thing." Dean teased, and you shook your head at him.

"I'm going to take a shower, get rid of this smell. Then we can start checking for signs of the ghost that did the killing." You said, shutting the door behind you.

Fifteen minutes later, you were smelling once again of (your favorite smell), dressed in a fresh pair leggings along with one of Dean's flannels. It was getting late at night, and you figured you would be comfortable while working. Sam must have gone to his room, and Dean was lounging against the headboard, trying to find a comfortable position.

"These iron headboards suck. You fall through, you can't lean against them. And they groan, a lot." He complained, before climbing off. 

"If they groan when you're just laying there, think what they're like during extracurricular activities." You said, and he frowned.

"We'd probably break the poor thing." He said, winking at you, just as the lights started flickering. Sam knocked on the door as Dean pulled out his EMF detector. You opened the door, watching as both men went to work. Soon, between the two of them they had the ghost theory debunked. Speakers behind the pictures, a timer messing with the lights, just simple, tricks of the trade.

"Well, that's disappointing." Sam said, as you plopped down on the bed. "But I still have a feeling the murders weren't human."

"Listen, can we leave this place for a while? The flowers and the lace are creeping me out." Dean said, and the three of you decide to leave for dinner. But as you walk down the stairs, you hear someone scream, then a big thud. Sam and Dean rushed down the hallway, following the clerk as he rushed into one of the rooms in the back. You stayed to the back, as Sam and Dean flashed out their FBI badges. A woman lay on the ground, an axe sticking out of her, blood sticky on the floor. Dean kneels down next to the body, checking for her pulse as Sam talks to the distraught clerk. You turn around, looking for anyone else in the building, and that's when you see him. A man staring in the front window, a camera flashing going off, before he runs to the side.

Without thinking, you rush out the front door, to the side, looking for him. He's trying to push his way through the thick rose bushes, and you could hear him cussing as they pulled and ripped at his skin and clothes. "Stop! Please, I just want to talk to you."

Surprisingly he does stop, and you cautiously make your way towards him. "Why were you taking pictures?" You ask him, your hand towards the back of your hips, where you have your knife in a case.

"Please don't tell them I was here. I don't want to go to jail." He pleaded with you.

You squinted your eyes in confusion. "Why would you go to jail? Did you kill her?"

He shook his head so fast he almost lost his balance. "No, of course not! I'm just not supposed to be here, that's all."

"But you've been taking pictures? Were you here when the other deaths happened?" You asked him, and he nodded his head. 

"Yeah, there's been this little girl here, both times too. I figured she was the ghost of Lizzie, and I was trying to find her, to capture her on film." He explained.

You considered your options. Sam and Dean were both encased in the death inside. But you had a feeling this guy could help you out, a lot. "Can you show me your pictures?" You asked him, and he nodded. Hoping you weren't signing your death warrant, you sent Dean a quick text message, before climbing into the small hatch back car the man drove.

As he headed down the road, he talked constantly of his infatuation with Lizzie, how he wanted to be the one to capture a picture of her ghost, to prove that she was still haunting her old home. You listened with half an ear, while pondering who exactly was doing the killings. You had already disproved the fact that it could be ghosts, and you weren't sure this man could kill a fly. But then, could it be the clerk? He seemed really distraught that the old lady was dead, but maybe he was a good actor.

Before you had come to any conclusions, Len as he had told you to call him, was pulling up in front of a small apartment complex. Sending Dean another text with the address, you followed him into a messy and crowded apartment. He had pictures up everywhere, books spread across every available surface. He started rummaging through things, and you wandered around, seeing picture after picture of the Borden house. 

"Here, these are ones I took the night the couple died." He said, handing you a stack of photographs. You flipped through them as he talked about meeting the girl, and how he felt cold and indifferent after. "I think that girl did something to me. I just want to find her, and have her fix me."

As he said that, you found a picture, and your blood ran cold. Between what Len said, and the girl standing in front of you, you knew what you were dealing with. "This girl, you said she did something to you?"

He nodded. "She must have. Because now I don't care. About Lizzie, about my chat room. Anything. I don't feel."

You grabbed your phone, cussing when it went straight to Dean's voicemail. "Dean, call me back. I know who's doing the killing."

As soon as you hung up, someone started pounding on the door to Len's apartment, yelling your name. Len glanced at you, his eyes blown wide with fear. "It's okay. Let me answer it."

You opened the door, and Dean came storming in, his eyes scanning every square inch of you to make sure you were okay. "Y/N, what the hell? Don't take off like that again!"

You nodded, and he pulled you into his arms. "So, who is this, and why did you head here with him?"

So you explained, about the photographs, the fact that you thought Len's soul was missing, which made the other man faint, to the fact that it was Amara doing the killing. You even showed him the picture, the one showing a young girl with the Mark of Cain on her shoulder.

"I don't think it's Amara. Why would she pick up an ax and start killing people? It was probably one of her last victim's." Sam said from the doorway. 

It made sense, more sense than for Amara to be killing when all she had been interested in before was souls. Dragging a now woken up Len with you, you quickly made the trip to the latest victim's house.

After making sure Len was handcuffed to the car, the three of you snuck into the house, splitting up. You knew the wife was home, her car was in the driveway, and you could hear muffled sounds coming from the basement. Without waiting for back up, you took the stairs, wincing when one creaked under your feet. The door was partially closed, and you gently pushed it open, taking a step inside before feeling a blinding pain on the back of your head. As you tumbled to the ground, you let out a weak cry for help before you knew no more.