Supernatural: Bobby Singer's Guide to Hunting Read Online Free

where I found a crumpled up heap of metal. What used to be two cars is now one tangle of steel and glass—totally jacked. One of those cars used to be my Chevelle. How I walked away from that wreck, I can’t even start to guess. I’d say I had a guardian angel on my shoulder—if I didn’t know for a straight fact that angels are all rat bastards. Castiel being the exception who proves that particular rule.
    That’s all mysterious enough on its own, raises some questions I don’t got answers to, but it’s just the tip of the damn iceberg. What’s really got me rattled is what I found next. Scratched out in big messy letters on what’s left of the Chevelle’s windshield—one word.
    “Karen.”
    This ain’t fair.

Karen
     
    I'M ALREADY PLAYING without a full deck, now they (or it, or whatever) are dragging my dead wife into things. My dead wife twice over, I should add.
    Damn it.
    “Karen” was written in giant letters on the windshield, and, as far as I can tell, I’m the one who drove the car back here. So what does it mean? Is it a warning?
    Karen. What can I say about Karen? Do I write down the hunter version of my life with her, all the facts about the terrible thing that happened to her? Do I treat this like a “case”? Or do I use what might be my last words to write down everything she meant to me? Do I tell you that she spent so much time on her hair, getting it just right? That she’d find me on the couch after she took a shower, smelling like some kinda flower that I could never place—and that it’s always the first thing I think of when I remember her? Or do I tell you that she taught me to cook, and that it changed my whole damn life? That she told me to get over myself when I was mad about some stupid thing.
    It all comes back to one question—do I think I’m gonna survive this? If not, then I may as well give you the sappy version. But I’m not near giving up. So I’ve gotta press on.
    I met Karen when I was still a young man. I had ambitions like anybody else, but not huge ones. I wanted to work on cars. I wanted to be comfortable and done at five and have a beer in my hand by five-thirty. Not asking for that much, in the grand order of things. A simple life. First time I saw Karen, I regretted all of that. I wished I could have been somebody interesting from the city, somebody with a fancy job and a fat wallet. None of that mattered to her at all. “I thought you’re giving us the non-sappy version, ya blowhard,” you say. Yeah, this is going somewhere important, so quit yappin’. She wanted the simple life that I had. We were happy together, which is damn rare, if you ask me. Karen didn’t want anything from me that I couldn’t give her.
    So when she came at me with a kitchen knife, I was surprised. Caught her hand just before she sank the blade into my chest; was so busy fighting her off that I didn’t notice the stink of sulfur on her. All I could see was the little engraving on the knife’s blade, near the hilt: “From Bobby.” Now there’s some irony or what have you—she was about to murder me with the knife set I gave her for Christmas. After I threw her clear I was able to get a good look at her. She was the same woman I’d loved for years, but her eyes were black as a hole in the ground. Wearing the same clothes, the same earrings, but something deep inside had rotted out.
    The thing that was possessing her didn’t have a reason for comin’ after me. It did it for the sick, lunatic fun of it. How it came to be in Sioux Falls, I’ll never know. Pit stop on the way to the Pit, maybe. What was damn clear was that the thing wanted to play games with me before it killed me. A cat with a mouse. I’d like to think that I could have handled myself, even then, before I knew anything about the supernatural, but I won’t lie to myself. I had no idea what I was facing, no clue what to do to protect myself. Kinda like my situation right now. The difference was, all I