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Title: Not In Vain Summary: Investigation of two rather odd murders in a supposedly haunted house. Note: it's more interesting than it sounds. I'd like to state here and now before someone says I'm racist that I mean no slander or racism against any Native American tribe; I don't want to hurt anyone's feelings(I know how it is; I'm part Cherokee). This is a *fictional* story. The Sac and Fox tribes, who were generally regarded as one, were actually slaughtered about fifty years before the Winchester rifle was invented; I couldn't resist using the name, with Fox Mulder and all...well...If you don't like it, mail me and I'll change it to some fictional tribe on a repost. For this reason I'm not posting the second part yet so if I get in trouble I won't have posted both parts and doubled my trouble(Pun?). When I post part two, I'll repost one, as well. I apologize. "I swear, Mulder, sometimes I think these cases make us a little too close for comfort." Scully complained, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Mulder looked up from his sandwich. "Ooreely?" he asked with his mouth full. He swallowed. "How is that?" "My neighbors begin to talk when they see a spooky looking man skulking around my door at all hours." "I wasn't skulking. I was...inspecting. And we couldn't have the neighbors talking, could we?" He put on a horrified expression. She turned her best disapproving look on him. "So what's going on?" "I got a tip, and I'm leaving on a case *right now*, and I figured I'd give you a chance to come along. Flight for California leaves in an hour. Need a few minutes to pack?" She was hooked. "Yeah, hang on a minute." She went back into the bedroom and got out her dufflebag. Mulder slumped into a chair in her dining room. He gulped the last of his breakfast (Peanut-butter) and pulled a pamphlet out of his pocket. *Visit the Winchester Mystery House!* the text read. Scully emerged, dressed, from her bedroom, semi-awake and ready to go. In the car he handed her the flyer. "The Winchester Mystery House? Mulder, you've got to be kidding." "That's just the ad. Read this." Keeping his eyes on the road, he pulled a file folder out of his bag. She flipped through it. "Two murders in the last week, both security guards. Note the unusual body positions." he pointed to the crime scene photos. The bodies were flat on their backs, impaled on what looked to be stakes of some sort. The each held an antique rifle in their hands. She snorted. "So some loony took advantage of the local tourist trap to get attention. Why are we interested?" "Because the Winchester Mystery house is more than just a tourist trap. Read the flyer." Scully skimmed it. "In 1884 a wealthy widow named Sarah Winchester began a construction project of such magnitude...tour 110 of the 160 rooms...look for the bizarre phenomena that gave the house it's name: A window built into the floor, staircases leading to nowhere...learn of her obsession with the number thirteen...It is believed that after the untimely death of her baby daughter and husband, the inventor of the Winchester rifle(the gun that won the west) she was convinced by a carnival medium that continuous building would appease the spirits that haunted her and give her eternal life...Certainly her 20 million dollar inheritance helped her to achieve her goal...This is crazy. She was an insane old woman." "But the rifles killed all those people..." "So what's your point? That the ghosts that haunted Sarah Winchester are back after fifty years, and are killing security guards?" Scully asked, sarcastically. "I don't know yet. But the autopsy on Matthew Guston-he's the first murder-could determine no clear cause of death other than the arrow, which shouldn't have killed him. Technically, neither of them should be dead. No excessive blood loss, no drugs or poisons in the toxicological." "And these 'arrows'?" "Made to resemble The Sac-Fox Native American design." He grinned at the look on her face. "Not a word, Scully." "Who me? Am *I* the one who found this case?" "I see that look. Anyway, they're one of the tribes that were all but wiped out using *Winchester* rifles-the kind the dead men are holding." "I still say it's a local kook who's using this as an excuse to kill people." The car pulled into the parking lot and up to the elevator as Mulder cut the power. Scully took her bag and climbed out. The airport was quiet in the early morning; they were catching the redeye four am flight. She sat down on the bench near the gate, Mulder next to her. He'd traded in his usual suit and black overcoat for jeans and a tee, and a short leather jacket. He looked great. *It's too early in the morning to be thinking about that.* She went back to the paperwork in the folder. They were working on identifying the serial numbers on the rifles; they hadn't even found them yet. It was like they just appeared out of nowhere. *Now who sounds crazy?* Scully wondered. The plane pulled up and boarding began. Mulder took the aisle seat-he'd need to get up more than Scully. She smiled at him, he already looked so pale. He pulled out a walkman and put on the headphones, pressing the play button. "Agh!" 'Shades Of Gray' pounded in his ears, leaving them ringing. He ripped off the headphones, reminding himself to check the volume control next time. Scully was trying not to laugh next to him. He was just like a little kid. *A little kid who chases ghosties and packs a gun.* Sobering thought. The plane began takeoff and he leaned back, concentrating on keeping that sandwich where it belonged. Mulder was sure he'd never been more lost in his life, and he suspected Scully felt the same way. After renting a car at San Jose airport, they set out for the House. It was only Seven am, California time, but the manager was waiting for them at the door. After being led through a back door, around endless twists and turns, through three trick doors, and up stairs that doubled back on themselves three or four times, they arrived at the sight of the first murder-appropriately called the Seance Room by the tour guides. The manager seemed eager to answer their questions; No, the guards had no history of mental problems-well yes, just about all the guards had seen something at one time or another, that was part of the Mystery house; No, no intruders had been seen on that night; They had no security cameras, they weren't a jewelry shop, after all. Here, here was a map of the house so they could find the other murder sight, she had to be going, if there was any trouble just pick up an intercom and call. She showed them the locked cabinets in the room, the only way in or out was through the door in and the secret trap door, for which she personally had the key; very well, here was the only spare, but they mustn't lose it. She left, finally, climbing out the trick door she had just shown them. Mulder bent down to examine the lock on one of the shelf doors. "Scully, take a look at this." He tugged outward at the lock and one side, carefully filed through, opened up. "It seems as if security is a little softer than they'd like us to believe." He yanked the lock off the door and it swung outwards. "Looks like *your* closet, Mulder." Scully cracked. "Thanks." He viewed the pile of candles, bags of home rolled cigarettes, and Playboy magazines with grim amusement. He used his shirt to pick up one of the magazines, slipping it into an evidence folder to be tested for fingerprints. "I suspect that someone's been using this as a rec room. Maybe your local kook, Scully." The light went out of his eyes; Scully was probably right, but still... "Anther theory shot down by reality, Mulder?" "Why be a realist? Fantasy is so much more fun." He grinned. They examined the other room, Sarah Winchester's bedroom, still furnished for display. No secret caches in there, not even a single candle, although Mulder commented on the delicious-looking wax fruit on her bed tray. He was starving. It took them twenty minutes to find a way out; Scully thought she'd go insane if they had to stay there much longer, wandering around without a clue. It didn't help that half the time Mulder had the map upside down. He really was trying to make amends. As the car pulled out onto the street he asked her, "Where to?" She looked out the window for a few minutes, watching three perfectly good greasy-spoons go by. Finally she pointed. "There." The restaurant had a large painted salad hanging over he door. "Come on, Scully. Veggies?" "Yeah, Mr. Nutrition. Got a problem?" "No, ma'am. None at all." *Never with you...* "All right, then, let's eat." After lunch they stopped at the police station to drop off the magazine for analysis. The officer on duty chuckled. "This might take the lab boys some time. Not every day they get to work on something like this." "Call us when you know." Scully cut him off. Mulder winked at his partner's stiffness as they left the station. Scully turned to him. "Mulder, you know that there's a huge chance that the prints won't be on record." "Yup, which is why we take the next logical step." "And that is?" He pulled a sideways smile at her. "Stakeout." His neck ached; he tried not to think about what he could be doing right now, at home, in his apartment...He was tucked in the shadows of the Seance room, knees under his chin. It was nine o'clock, and he wondered if Scully was trying as hard as he was to stay awake. *Scully* ooh, not a good topic to be on. He didn't know what it was; but he wished she knew the chaos she was making of his love life. His last three dates had all been redheads... A click at the door pulled him back to reality. He stood silently and picked up his gun. "Dude, man, that was great!" "Thanks. The guy's on a trip. I'm getting better with the picks, too." Three or four teenage kids entered the room, laughing and joking. Mulder inched towards the door as they set up the candles in the circle drawn on the floor. He slammed the door, bringing his gun up. "Freeze! Federal Agent. Hands against the wall! Now!" They stared at him openmouthed. He motioned for them to do what he ordered. They complied, still shocked. One of them started swearing as Mulder reached for an intercom to call Scully. The guard on duty had been drugged, a sleeping pill or four put in his soup before he ate it. The kids were sneaky, but not sneaky enough. They never considered that since the murders security might have tightened a bit...The prints of the kids matched those on the magazine; what a surprise, but no prints of any kind could be matched to the guns or those damn arrows... Mulder didn't believe the kids did it; he didn't think they had the guts or the desire to kill a man, however morally lacking they were otherwise. They would interrogate them later this morning. A strong smell caught him; he looked down just in time to save the bacon from burning. Swearing to himself, he took the pan off the heat and began to pick out the rapidly blackening strips of meat. Scully, wrapped in a huge robe, stood in the doorway, blinking. "I thought I smelled something. What happened?" "I stocked up while you were setting up the stakeout. You might say I brought home the bacon." Scully groaned. "I might, but the pun patrol might arrest me. I don't suppose you got anything halfway healthy?" She began to snoop around the kitchenette that connected the two motel rooms. "Dr. Scully, I am insulted! I cooked some scrambled eggs for you. I even used those low fat egg imitation things." His tone went from injured to wheedling. She dropped her stern pose. "Oh, uh...thanks, Mulder. I guess I've finally got you trained." He chuckled inwardly, happy to have gotten a rise out of her. Scully rubbed her forehead and stood up. "Thank you, Mr. Sym. We'll call you if we need to ask your son anything else." Mulder stood too, taking her silent cue. They'd spent the day interrogating the kids who had been involved in the break-in. They had to visit their houses; the kids were under house arrest. Most of the time they had to deal with hysterical parents who didn't know how their son/daughter had been involved in such a thing, and why was the FBI interested, their child certainly hadn't *killed* anyone. It was a royal pain. "One more to go," she muttered as they climbed into the car. "And no evidence they killed anyone. They weren't even there on the night those men were killed." "So they say, but there's this thing, it's called a lie-" "Funny, Scully. Who's the last one on the list?" "Kit Jordan. She was the one who picked the lock and let them in." At the Jordan household they encountered another frightened teen, who twisted a tissue nervously as she sat next to her parents. "We'd just like to ask a few questions. If you can help us, there's a possibility that the worst you'll get is a fine for what you did." Scully gave her a sympathetic smile. The girl gulped and nodded. "Were you in the Winchester Mansion on May 5th, the night Matthew Guston, the first security guard, was killed?" "No." "All right. Were you in the Mansion on the night of May 10th, when Aaron Jackson, the second security guard, was killed?" "No." "So you were not present in or around the Mansion at the time of either murder?" "No. I was at the movies..." "Yes, we've talked to the others in you group, they all provide an alibi. Is there anything you can tell us about the murders? Did you see anything unusual?" "Um...no." "You're sure? Very well then." Mulder was tired of this; he stood to leave. "Uh, wait...there is something." She looked down reluctantly. Scully jumped on the lead. "Yes?" The girl squirmed. "I'm not supposed to tell you...but the night before the first murder...we were in the Mansion, and we decided to have a seance..." Mulder sat down again. "A seance?" "Well, Alex suggested it-it was the seance *room*, so we set up some candles and..," she trailed off. Scully leaned forward. "And..." "Something-happened. We saw something, just for a minute..." "What did you see?" "We saw an Indian." "Isn't it proof enough for you? Their seance must have called back the ghosts, of whatever they are, and they started killing people. Just like Mrs. Winchester believed-when building on the house stopped, the spirits came back and started killing." "Mulder, that is the most ridiculous idea...so one of them got hysterical and said they saw an Indian, and from there you jump to ghosts. Really, you're losing it." "I'm going back there tonight and I'm going to wait for whatever it is. You can come with me, or you can stay here and watch pay-per-view. It's your choice." "You know damn well I'm not going to let you go in there alone with a psychotic killer on the loose." Scully cursed herself for going along with his crazy plan, but what could it hurt? Maybe they'd catch this guy... "Great. I'm going to stakeout the seance room again. You want to take the bedroom?" "Why not. But what about the security guard?" "What about him?" Mulder had no fear of the unknown. He had looked death in the face hundreds of times and managed to stay sane. So sitting on the floor of a seance room where four witnesses testified to seeing a Native American spirit, and where a man had been killed, didn't frighten him as much as it should have. Scully didn't believe in spirits-but she did believe in flesh and blood killers, one of whom she suspected was prowling around right now. She crouched in the corner of a crazy old woman's bedroom and watched the shadow on the walls shift. Neither of them considered themselves in as much danger as they should have. It was ten o'clock and Mulder was asleep. He hadn't meant to fall asleep; but he was so tired...he jerked himself awake for the fourth time, and wondered about the logic of what he was doing. Something creaked outside...and there was a whoosh as something passed his door. He stood up and opened the door, looking out to see if it was Scully. Light footsteps retreated into the distance. He took his gun out of it's holster and followed the slight sound. Scully looked up. One of the shadows had started to move in a very defined pattern. She could see *something* slipping past her. She waited until the door had opened and slowly crept after it. It was leading towards a study...furnished like the cabin of a ship, complete with circular windows and plush walls. One of the oddities of the house. Her gun in her hand, she lingered in the doorway, inspecting the room. Something came at her-she let off one round from her gun, then another. A face, dark hair and a bare chest, with a large wooden bow in his hand, she lashed out with her gun, using it as a club of sorts- but she wasn't holding a handgun anymore, she was holding an antique rifleMulder followed the footsteps, down the stairs to the den that had been furnished as a cabin. He swore later that he never heard gunshots, never saw Scully in the room. Something jumped out at him from behind a desk, he never noticed it until...the room faded, and he was standing in a field, surrounded by smoke. He held a gun in his hands, an antique rifle. He was dressed in some sort of uniform, military, maybe...and he was seated on a horse? On instinct he spurred it to a run, following others on foot, dressed the same, like a flood pouring down onto a beach made out of sun-darkened bodies, all who carried quivers of arrows on their backs, a few who carried guns...a man fell next to him, clutching an arrow embedded in his side. He urged his mount on, trying to clear his head-this was a battle, and those were Indians, and he was a soldier, and he hated them...but who was he? No more Mulder, he was a captain, under General Custer, responsible for these men, Jake Armstrong, and if he fell, they would be lost. A sharp pain in his leg, he looked down to see a large arrow embedded in his thigh. He hit the dirt, his mount running in terror. "Captain Armstrong! Are you all right? Captain!" a man in faded blue yelled. He gritted his teeth against the pain. "I'm fine, lieutenant. Keep moving! I'll survive." The man ran up to him...a woman? Since when did women wear blues and fight the Indians? But he knew her, she was... "Scully?" Her eyes unfocused for a minute. He remembered something... "And I'm...Mulder. Jesus, what's going on?" Scully busied herself with his wound. "Sir, you're delirious. I'm...I'm a lieutenant. George Mitchell, right?" He could see the uncertainty in her eyes. Then a loud crack, and a shock to her lower shoulder, blood oozing out- she collapsed on him in pain-no, she couldn't die...*This is not my reality, this was not my doing. You cannot blame me or her for the injustice done to your race...* Injustice! That was it, the keyword. A man appeared from nowhere, next to him. This man wore the blood streaking down his bare chest like a medal. He spoke calmly, distinctly. "You are a warrior, and for that I cannot blame you." Mulder/Armstrong stared up at him, as the gunshots snapped around him. Screams of men, and women and children too, rang in his ears. He lay on the blood soaked field, cradling an unconscious soldier in his arms. The man continued. "Injustice is done, and even if you are the only ones who have realized it, then our efforts have not been in vain." He gestured to the wound in Scully/Mitchell's chest."The woman is a warrior! I have never seen her strength in one like her before. You are two who will fight until you die, as we have done to protect ourselves and our freedom; It has not been in vain. Not in vain." The scene began to fade, and darken, and then to disappear entirely. Mulder held tight to Scully as the world went dark. He was lying on soft carpet-his leg wouldn't move. Scully was cradled in his arms, her back on his stomach. The blood was staining her blouse...but the memory of the vision was fading-he held onto it, and the memory of the man... Scully stirred, and cried softly in pain. Mulder sat up, gently shifting her to the floor. "No, don't move. You're hurt. Stay there." He pulled himself up with the desk next to him, biting his lip in pain. The intercom was just a few feet away...he managed to lift it and call the guard on duty before he slumped back down to the floor next to her, holding the stump of broken wood that was all that was left from the arrow in his leg. His pants were torn and bloody; Scully's shoulder was only punctured in one place, which he hoped was a good sign. She had to survive- The pain claimed him and he passed out. Waking in a hospital room, he lifted his head, trying to remember what he'd done *this* time, and what Scully had to tease him about now. But she was in the bed next to him, still asleep. He closed his eyes again for a minute, and the memory came back, his leg still wouldn't move, but at least he knew it was there. A nurse came in, checking his chart before she realized he was awake. "Good morning, Mr. Mulder. Feeling better?" "Compared to what?" he asked, grimacing. "Compared to having your leg impaled with a stone arrowhead and fractured in two places?" "Then yes, I fell better now. Will Agent Scully be all right?" "Prognosis is good. She was injured considerably more seriously than you. The doctors say if it had been one inch closer to her lungs...well, it wasn't. What happened to you, anyway? I mean, if it's not private..." "I'm not sure I know yet. Why can't I move my leg?" "It's splinted. You'll be strictly limited for a while, but it should heal up as good as new in a few months." Mulder sighed and sank back down onto his pillow. Scully sat in the hospital bed, working on her laptop. Mulder was trying to sleep in the bed next to her; she had a feeling the clicking from the keyboard was keeping him awake. Finally he rolled over and glared at her. "Can't sleep?" she asked innocently. "Not that you'd notice or anything. What's so important it can't wait?" "I'm just closing up the case." She smiled. He slid out of the bed and carefully hobbled over on crutches to stand next to her, hands on hips, glaring down. She shut down the program and closed the machine. "Much better. Now I won't have to hurt you." "What would you do, beat me with your cane?" "Haven't got one. It's crutches for me, I guess." She smiled, ready to surprise him. "Oh, that reminds me...I got you something." He grimaced. "If it's an arrowhead I'm going to use it to kill you." "No, better." She reached down the other side of the bed and pulled out a long package wrapped in tissue paper. "To help you get out more." The paper fell away as Mulder picked up the intricately carved walking stick. It came up to his hip...perfect as a cane. "Scully...It's great! And here I thought you didn't care." He grinned, testing it out. It was carved all over with intricate symbols, and pictures of men fighting. "I got it from a friend. But I'm glad you like it." She grinned. The little boy was back, happy to have gotten a new toy. His eyes lit up. "And I only got you something small." He reached under his pillow. Scully hadn't expected him to get her anything; it wasn't as if this case was anything special. He must have caught on that she was going to get him something... He pulled out a flat box, about the size of a book. "The nurses told me that you'd ordered something, so I decided to get even." He handed her the box gently. She pulled the lid off, expecting some outrageous gag gift. Instead a dream-catcher lay on the tissue, sparkling in the light from the hospital lamp. "Oh..." "To help with your nightmares." He smiled and swing the stick, chaplin style. She hung the small circle up on the wall extension, between the two beds. "G'night, Scully." He switched off the light. "'Night, Mulder." May 18, 1995 There have been no new murders at the Winchester Mystery house since the last murder, that of the man Aaron Jackson. The house has been opened to the public again and is doing a thriving business. The four teenagers involved in the case have been cleared of any wrongdoing involving the murders; they have been fined and received a citation for breaking and entering. The events on the night of May 14 remain a mystery to both myself and Agent Mulder. Though we both claim to have experienced some sort of hallucination, there is no logical way to explain the arrow embedded in his thigh and the antique bullet in my shoulder, or the multiple fractures to his right leg. Agent Mulder claims to have conversed with the man in charge of the killings, but this cannot be confirmed. It is still to be seen if the spirits he claims to have encountered are, in fact, real. The two rifles found next to us on the floor of the den confirm Agent Mulder's beliefs-I have no rationalization for them. Though I do not believe that we were attacked by Sac-Fox tribal warriors and fought in a battle that took place over a hundred years ago, I have no explanation for the wounds we received, or the lingering and almost overpowering smell of gunpowder in the den of the mansion, that could not possibly have been caused by two rounds fired from a standard issue FBI handgun. The case remains open. end report End -We are all connected in a web...what we do to the web we do to ourselves.- Chief Seattle(Um...used without permission?) So, whatcha think? I hope I didn't offend anyone out there(bite lip, smile tentatively). Mail me with comments!
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