The crunching of branches under heavy boots was muffled only by a muffled obscenity. Dean Winchester pushed through the thicket, throwing off branches that clung like evil spirits. The forest was pitch-black, the cold air chilled to the bone, and the only light in this darkness was the dim yellow square of the window ahead. His Baby, a faithful black Impala, treacherously choked and froze on a deserted forest road. This damn house is the last hope to find at least a wrench and a flashlight.

— Perfect. It's fabulous," Dean hissed, brushing cobwebs from his face. — What else is missing for complete happiness? Of course, the thing that suddenly jumped out from behind the tree! — In response to his sarcasm, another elastic branch smacked him on the forehead. — Holy shit! Holy shit... Karma is a bitch, instantaneous.

He walked up to the porch. The house looked old, but not abandoned. The curtains on the windows were clean. Dean froze for a moment, instinctively scanning the perimeter–there was no sound except the rustle of leaves, no dog barking, no footsteps. Silence. But need is stronger than caution. He resolutely climbed the creaking stairs and knocked.

— Hey! Is anyone home? His voice, hoarse with fatigue, echoed through the night. Dean waited, listening. Nothing. — Okay... He gently pressed down on the handle. The door, to his surprise, was not locked. "Just coming in for a minute. —.. to borrow a couple of pieces. I'll return it, honest hunting.

Dean stepped through the doorway, immediately looking around intently. The old floor creaked under his heavy boots. The house smelled of dust, rancid wood, and... something else. There was a faint, barely perceptible smell of ozone, like after a thunderstorm, which was strange for such a quiet place. The small living room was neat, almost sterile. No photos on the walls, no personal items on the shelves. "It's like the exhibition is a modest house, not a residential place," he thought, slowly moving forward.

He was about to turn towards the kitchen when suddenly his whole body tensed to the limit. Right behind him, in the doorway that he had just passed, there was a chilling chill, like from an open freezer. At the same time, the same strange, pungent smell of ozone** hit my nostrils, which suddenly became thick and distinct. Goosebumps ran down my forearms.

Instinct worked faster than thought. Dean's right hand shot like lightning under his jacket, gripping the butt of the Colt tightly. He spun on his heel, the pistol already half out of its holster, his finger on the trigger guard, his body braced for a shot or impact.

Emptiness.

The doorway was empty. Only the faint light from the living room fell on the empty floorboards of the hallway. There was no shadow, no movement. The silence was deathly, broken only by his own rapid breathing. The chill disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared, and the smell of ozone became barely discernible again.

— What the fuck?.. Dean hissed, slowly lowering the gun but not putting it back away. My heart was pounding in my throat. He had no doubt– something was there. Not imagination. Not the wind. It was a tangible, hostile cold, and the smell was too specific to be accidental.

He peered intently into the semi-darkness of the hallway, then slowly scanned the corners of the room and the ceiling. There are no signs of EVP – no sulfur, no frost, no traces of mucus. But this did not calm down, but only increased the anxiety. If it's not a demon, it's not a ghost in the classical sense... that what?

— Perfect evening," he muttered sarcastically to himself, feeling the adrenaline slowly recede, leaving behind a sharp wariness. — A broken wheelbarrow, a night forest, a welcoming house with invisible freezers. It's just a fairy tale.

His original goal, to find the tools, has not gone away, but now another, more important one has been added to it: to understand what is happening here. My instincts screamed that the house wasn't empty. That it is here. Playing with him. Watching.