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Title: Reflections of the Unknown II Summary: Mulder and Scully are brought in to investigate a series of suicides in a Boston home, while dealing with the visibility of their emotions for one another. Story begins the morning after the events in Reflections of the Unknown. Note: Special thanks to Wolf for beta-reading, and encouraging me to write a sequel. Washington D.C. She rested her head on her arms. The sunshine felt warm on her hair and the glow of the sun illuminated bright splotches of light behind her closed lids. Opening her eyes slowly, she observed all the others taking advantage of this beautiful day in the park, many of them on their lunch hour. The heat from the sun released the smell of soap and perfume from her bare arms. She moved her head slightly back and forth lightly caressing her arms with her lips, stirring the fine hairs there. Children giggled and shrieked while their parents attempted to assert some control over them. A little girl of about five or six somberly presented her mother with a bouquet of dandelions accented with purple wildflowers. The mother proclaimed them beautiful and the child's face exploded into an expression of pure joy. Scully swallowed hard. The normality of this world the other park-goers inhabited seemed so far removed from her experiences. She came into work this morning believing that she and Mulder had passed a marker in their journey together, that they had shared an admission of sorts that signaled a change in the nature of their relationship, but in accordance with similar expressions in the past, no mention was made or emotion betrayed. It was status quo in their basement office. If anything, Mulder was even more distant than usual. So many instances in the past, she appreciated, even relied on, the consistency of their relationship. She liked constants and assurances in her life, she always had, but time marches on and our lives must accommodate the need for change necessitated by this. It is an irony of life that we cling to the familiar, yet if we don't recognize and act upon change, we become dissatisfied with our lives and ourselves. She was no different in her fear of change, yet no matter how hard she tried to rationalize the events of the other night, she couldn't. There in the false-safety of the mirror's reflected images their unchecked emotions were revealed. Just thinking about it sent a current of excitement from low in her abdomen erupting in a smile across her face and leaving her slightly dizzy. Well, even if she had to accept her own desire for him that didn't mean her feelings were reciprocated. Sure, he was aroused, but that was because of what she was doing to him, not necessarily because of her. "Scully?" his voice came tentatively from behind her. She lifted her head, turning her face into the sun to squint up at him. His somewhat perplexed expression caused her to smile again. "What're you doing?" he asked. "Enjoying the weather. I thought I could use some fresh air, so I decided to have lunch outside." As she spoke, she moved the jacket sitting on the bench beside her so he could sit down at the picnic table as well. "Oh" Mulder said taking the offered seat. Scully pondered him for a moment. He was intently watching an ant carry a pirated crumb of pita bread across the table. "Mulder?" she asked. "Hmmm?" he responded using available twigs and other debris to create obstacles in the path of the insect. "What are you doing here?" He stared straight-ahead continuing his survey of ant skills, "I, uh, came looking for you." "Oh" she said squelching a small, satisfied smile that threatened to surface. "Yeah" he said, finally turning to look at her. "Skinner wants us in his office to go over another case." He stood picking up her jacket and holding it out to her. "Turns out we're pretty popular lately." Scully rose wearily putting on her jacket, unenthusiastically. "Oh" she said, flatly echoing her previous response. A.D. Skinner's office "I'm sorry to have to send you out after you just returned from New Orleans," the Assistant Director said, motioning them to take seats in front of his desk. "What do you have, sir?" Mulder asked eying the files on the desk. It wasn't his express desire to head out on a field assignment so soon, either. He needed a little time away from Scully to regain his control. He could manage this at home where he could place physical distance between them, but it was more difficult in the field. Nevertheless, his curiosity about the case increased as he observed Skinner's uneasy body language. "A few days ago a Boston detective, much to the shock of several on looking neighbors, stopped mowing his lawn and walked directly into the path of an oncoming commuter bus." "Suicide?" Mulder questioned. "He was 30 years old, recently promoted and engaged in the last year. He had also just bought a home. There was no history of depression or emotional illness," Skinner offered. "But there's no evidence of foul play?" Mulder asked. The A.D. shook his head. "The eyewitnesses saw no-one other than the detective, and the autopsy showed nothing out of the ordinary." "Sir", Scully interjected, "Tragic though this man's death may be, I fail to see how this is a bureau matter." "Detective O'Brien is the fourth occupant of that house to 'die by their own hand' in as many years," Skinner said in a hushed tone. "One died from an overdose, one hung himself, and one jumped from the roof." Mulder glanced at Scully and then back at Skinner, his mind mulling over the possibilities. "What was their connection to one another?" he asked sitting up straighter in his chair. "None, apparently. The first three were from out of town without any local family. They all lived alone. Detective O'Brien may have known about the other deaths through the police department." "I'm sure the previous tenants heard about the history of the house from the neighbors. That could go a long way to explain the last three deaths. Suicide has a way of being contagious, like teen pregnancy," Scully suggested. Skinner nodded slowly at Scully's suggestion. "Normally, I would chalk this up to bizarre coincidence, but the local police have asked for assistance, and...considering some of the cases we've had in the past..."Skinner trailed off looking at Mulder. "You think this might be another case like Pusher?" He avoided Scully's eyes not wanting to see the alarm he knew would be there. "The thought did cross my mind," Skinner conceded "that, or some other kind of behavior modification. Regardless, I think you two should go check it out. I had my assistant book you a flight for 3:30pm...Just keep an eye on each other." Flight 106 When he touched her arm to get her attention, he couldn't help but notice how she jumped under his fingers. The flight attendant waited patiently to take her drink order. She obviously was extremely tense. He just wasn't exactly sure why. It could be the possibility of running into another individual like Modell on this case. She had been acting strangely before the assignment, though. Who was he kidding? He shouldn't have called her last night after buying that CD. He had made things awkward for her. Obviously, he had crossed a line, a line she had drawn when she left him on the bed the other night. She probably just wanted to forget it, and he'd embarrassed her by calling. Hell, he had embarrassed himself. Her tension caused a fear reaction in him. The last thing he wanted was to risk driving her away. Maybe he could lighten things up a bit. "Hey, Scully, if we find hundreds of tapes of CNN or Home Shopping Network don't watch them, OK?" She fixed a cold glare on him, opened her mouth to say something, but changed her mind. A second later she shook her head saying, "Mulder, I don't think we're going to find anything. Sometimes an incredible coincidence really is just that. The local police are looking for more because they lost one of their own. It's a natural response to suicide." "That may be true, but considering some of the precedents we've seen, we can't automatically deem these deaths as coincidence...even if that does seem the most plausible explanation," he offered diplomatically. She turned away towards the window, and he pretended he didn't know what it felt like to have her legs straddling his hips, her body pressed hot against him, or what her face looked like when she wanted him. Boston, MA Lieutenant Richard Straub held the door open for them leading them away from the noisy outer lobby into his private office along the back wall of the station house. He closed the door, shutting out the chaotic orchestra of ringing telephones, radio dispatches, and voices tinged with belligerence and impatience. "Give it five or six hours and it really gets crazy around here," he said amicably motioning the agents to sit down. "I can imagine" Mulder said. The lieutenant paused for a moment obviously dreading turning the conversation away from small talk to the matter at hand. He sat down heavily at his desk across from the agents, and leaned forward. "Look, I really appreciate the FBI's attention in this matter. I realize that our request seems unusual," he hedged. "What reasons do you have to suspect that Detective O'Brien's death was involuntary?" Scully inquired. "Michael O'Brien was not a suicidal man, nor was he under the influence of drugs, as you can see from the toxicology report." There was a slightly defensive edge to the lieutenant's voice, as if he had been down this path of questioning more than once. Neither Mulder nor Scully said anything, prompting the lieutenant to continue. "Fact is, I'm not a superstitious man," he paused sizing up the agents in front of him, searching for some reaction. Mulder gave a slight nod, and he continued, "but, I told Michael not to buy that house. Deal or no deal, three unrelated deaths in three years is just bizarre." "Could we see the case files on the other deaths?" Scully inquired. "Sure", Straub answered reaching for his desk drawer, "I've got them right here, but I can assure you that there is nothing out of the ordinary about them. I've poured over these cases time and time again, and have yet to come up with any viable answers." Mulder took the files from the lieutenant, and handed them to Scully. "What about Detective O'Brien's girlfriend?" "Arlene Davidson. They were in the midst of planning their wedding. Poor girl. And, no, according to her they hadn't had a fight or even a disagreement. Besides, even if they had Michael wouldn't kill himself over it. He's never run away from a problem in his life." "Sir, what is it that you think is going on here?" Mulder asked leaning forward in his chair. Lt. Straub gazed out the window for a couple of seconds, puffing his cheeks out and exhaling slowly before he looked back at the agents. "I don't know, but I'll tell you this, at this point you couldn't pay me to live in that house." His chair squeaked noisily as he rose extending a hand first to Mulder and then to Scully. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a 6:00 appointment. I'll have one of my men get you the keys to the house and help you in anyway we can." Back in their rental car, Mulder turned to Scully. "So, what do you think?" She sighed, flipping through the files in her hand, "I'm not even sure where to begin on this." She squeezed the bridge of her nose, "I guess we could run a more thorough background check on the victims, and see if we can find any common denominators." "You mean other than the house." "Right, well we can't very well question the house," Scully said glancing at him sideways. "No" Mulder said starting the car, "but I'd like to find out more about it." Traveler's Inn She hesitated a bit before knocking on the door to his room. She didn't want him to think she was making a pass at him in light of the other night in New Orleans. This was stupid. They had been in each other's room hundreds of times in the past. She steadied herself, and willed the slight flush rising in her cheeks to go away. She saw something flash in his eyes when he opened the door, but wasn't sure what it was-apprehension, excitement, or surprise. She held up the files and notes stating, "I've done some calling and found out a few things about our suicide victims." He stepped to the side, granting her entrance, "Well, do tell," he prompted putting another sunflower seed in his mouth from the stash in the palm of his hand. She settled into a chair next to the table. "The first woman, Brenda McKelley, was in a visiting faculty position at Boston University in the department of Anthropology. Turns out she had a lover she left behind in Berkeley to take this position, and it was a very painful separation." Mulder raised his eyebrows and sat down on the edge of the bed, "How'd you find that out?" "I spoke to one of her post-doctoral colleagues from Berkeley, Phoebe Johnson. According to Dr. Johnson, the choice to come here was very difficult for Brenda. Incidentally, she's not the only one who was unlucky in love. The next person to rent the house, Jim Garrison, was a chemical engineer who had just moved here after a very recent divorce from his wife of six years. The third, Sandy Moore, was a neurological trauma nurse. According to her sister, she had relocated to this area after the man she was having an affair with decided to reconcile with his wife." "So what are you saying, Scully?" asked Mulder. "I'm saying that reasons can be found in these people's lives to account for suicidal behavior." "Yes, but that could probably be said about all of us," Mulder interjected. Scully looked at him doubtfully, "Perhaps, but at least Garrison and Moore's situations would have been further compounded by a probable knowledge of the history of suicide in the house." "Maybe, but we don't even know if they knew of the other deaths. It's not exactly something realtors advertise. Besides, don't you find it strange that a neurological trauma nurse would commit suicide by jumping from her roof, knowing full well the possible states she could end up in if it was a failed attempt?" Mulder asked. "Love sometimes makes people do erratic things, Mulder" Scully said quietly. Mulder didn't say anything for a minute, then "The first three were renting, right." "Yes, from a woman named Colleen Brannaugh. There's no statement from her in these files, which is odd." "Maybe she sold the house because there is an environmental cause, and she didn't want to be held culpable," he suggested. "I thought of that," Scully said, "and it looks like Lt. Straub did, as well," she said rifling through some papers in a case folder. "He submitted water samples and soil samples to local environmental quality labs. Neither showed anything out of the ordinary." "Did all of the victims have toxicology work-ups?" Mulder asked looking at the papers Scully passed to him. "No, just Brenda McKelley and Detective O'Brien. The other two deaths were deemed as straightforward suicides with obvious cause of death...no autopsies or tests were performed beyond blood alcohol levels. "And?" Mulder asked. "Stone cold sober, all four of them," Scully answered, getting up and heading for the door. "That seems a bit surprising if they were all, in fact, suicides," Mulder mused. "What...that they were sober?" Scully asked. "Alcohol can play a considerable role as a catalyst in suicide, particularly with people who don't have a history of depressive or suicidal behavior," he pointed out. "That's just it, Mulder, we really know very little about the state of mind of the victims. It's a moot issue. Other than Detective O'Brien, they were all outsiders. No one knew them well enough to notice or care if their behavior was out of the ordinary or not. That's the biggest tragedy here-that three people could die, alone, without anyone caring. Their death inquests were merely exercises..," she trailed off. She knew her frustration seemed greater than the situation warranted. "Look, it's late, and we're supposed to meet with Detective O'Brien's partner early." She left him sitting on the edge of the bed, staring steadily after her. 423 Harvest Lane Stepping out of the car, Mulder gazed up at the house. It was a large, two-story, brick federal-style home with a full attic. The grass had grown up in the yard without anyone to tend to it. The air had the ozone smell that comes before a thunderstorm. It was a chilly morning, and the impending rain threatened to make it even more unpleasant. Scully emerged beside him, shoving her hands in the pockets of her coat. "It's a nice, old house," she said. "I guess I was kind of expecting a cross between Wuthering Heights and the Adams Family mansion or something." Mulder laughed, "Still, I have to admit the fact that four people died here raises its score a little higher on the old creep-o-meter." "Creep-o-meter? I didn't know we requisitioned a creep-o-meter," Scully deadpanned. "Yeah, didn't you know, it comes as a package deal with our aluminum foil anti-mind control deflection shields?" he asked, relieved that Scully seemed less upset than she was last night. Scully shook her head and smiled as an unmarked sedan approached the house, pulling into the driveway. A well-built man in his mid to late thirties walked toward them. "Agents Mulder and Scully?" he asked. "Yes" Mulder answered flashing his ID. "I'm Detective Trent Connor," he said extending his hand in greeting. "I'm Dana Scully and this is Fox Mulder" Scully said shaking the man's hand. "We're very sorry about your partner, Detective Conner." "Yeah, well, so am I...so am I. Look, I'm not technically supposed to be on this case. However, because Michael was my partner, I don't want to be shut out. I hope you can understand that." "Completely," Mulder said truthfully. "We welcome any insight you have, both on and off the record." The detective paused, and then handed Mulder a manila envelope he was carrying. "I've been doing some research of my own. I don't know how much help it is, but those are the results of the analysis I had run on the plumbing and paint inside. It showed nothing unusual." Conner ran his fingers through his hair, shifting uneasily. It was obvious to Mulder that the detective was near desperate to find something that would rationalize the death of his partner. "Detective Conner, did you notice anything unusual about Detective O'Brien's behavior before his death?" Scully asked gently. "Not really, short of buying this house." He glared at the building as if he wanted to tear it down brick by brick. "Jesus, we were the ones who worked Susan Moore's case. Poor woman jumped from the roof on Halloween night in front of a neighborhood of trick-or-treaters. She was laying right there when we arrived on the scene," he said gesturing to the ground about two feet away. His voice became quiet and his eyes remained transfixed on the image of Susan Moore's broken body he carried in his mind, "He was always so damn practical and optimistic. The real-estate agent had trouble selling this place because of the suicides, so the price was driven way down. He thought the deaths were tragic, but he never entertained them as anything more than morbid coincidence. He thought he could counteract all the bad things that had happened here by bringing a life of happiness to this house." "I take it not everyone held such a practical view," Mulder interjected. "No... rumors circulate, you know how people are," he shrugged. "What kind of rumors?" Mulder asked. "That this house is haunted or evil, or some people think it's contaminated in some way. Even though the whole neighborhood drinks the same water," he motioned to the papers he handed to Mulder. "I guess I've been leaning toward that myself." "So you don't think the circumstances of his death were...normal?" Scully prompted. "Mike was a happy guy. He was a very alert person, certainly not the type to absent-mindedly walk into the path of traffic. He did not die of his own volition, and he did not die by accident. Hell, his death, alone, is strange, but considering the history of this house..." the detective trailed off, staring at the house again. "The answer is here, I'm sure of it...it's something in the house. Something happens to the people who stay here." He sighed heavily, and looked behind him at his car, "Anyway, I have to go talk to Internal Affairs. You know, they're going to try to withhold his pension from his family if his death is ruled a suicide." He reached in his pocket and produced a set of keys, handing them to Scully. "Let me give you these, before I forget. I hope you have better luck than I've had." He turned and headed toward his car. "Detective Conner," Mulder called after him, "one more thing...the previous owner, Colleen Brannaugh, what do you know about her?" Conner stopped in his tracks with his back to the agents. "She's Arlene Davidson's grandmother" he said. "The same Arlene Davidson who was engaged to Detective O'Brien?" Scully asked incredulously. "She had been renting the house to single people with the understanding that they would act as caretakers for the house and her belongings, since she could no longer live there. She was very old and not well, so it was no surprise when Arlene's grandmother died several months ago," the detective said turning back around reluctantly. "She was so sickened by the deaths that she wrote in her will that she wanted the house including all of its contents sold, explicitly stating that it was not to stay in her family. Arlene and Mike thought it was ridiculous to let the house go to someone else for so cheap. I realize it looks suspicious, but it's not. They believed the deaths were coincidences. I guess we all did," he said sadly, once again heading for his vehicle. They watched him get in his car and drive away. "Strange that no one told us about Arlene's grandmother," Scully said pointedly. "I don't know, I think they're just worried about appearances. They're trying to protect his image, and, probably, keep our investigation from focusing on her. Think about it, Scully, what would they have to gain by lying? They knew we'd find out on our own." He dangled the keys to the house, "Shall we?" Scully felt it as soon as they entered the house, a chill tinged with vague feelings of uneasiness and sadness. She shuddered involuntarily, and tried to chalk it up to stress and the damp weather outside. Mulder let out a low whistle beside her. The house really was quite stunning. The doors opened to a foyer framing a large mahogany staircase. The banisters and wainscoting were elegantly carved. A chandelier, which had originally been designed for gas, hung from a 15-foot ceiling. The hardwood floor was covered in a deep red Oriental rug, still vibrant, although slightly worn and faded with age. To the left was a parlor and to the right was a library. Both rooms had pocket doors and the same mahogany wainscoting as the foyer. "All this was sold with the house?" Mulder said disbelievingly, examining an elaborately carved sideboard in the parlor. He opened a drawer to reveal table linens and doilies, some of them obviously very old. "I wouldn't even want to guess what an estate dealer could get out of this room, alone," Scully said running her fingers over the richly textured red and gold upholstery on a pair of armchairs. "I've seen fainting couches like this one sell for $2000...or more," she said gesturing to a deep mauve velvet and mahogany lounge with black fringe. The detail of the carved woodwork was amazing. "A fainting couch?" Mulder asked curiously, turning away from his exploration of the sideboard cabinets. "Yeah, women would wear their corsets so tight, that they would frequently become overcome by dizziness, or even pass out," Scully surveyed the room around her. "Mulder, the Davidson family stood to lose a fortune with the sale of this house." The chill she felt earlier intensified causing her skin to erupt in goose bumps. Her ears began to ring. Mulder had pulled out a rectangular box from the sideboard and unfastened the latches. It was filled with a formal silver set. "I see where you're going, but if Arlene was behind Detective O'Brien's death, why wouldn't she have waited until they were married? As it stands now, she still doesn't own the house." Mulder's voice began to sound hollow and far away. She couldn't make out what he was saying any longer. "I'm sorry Mulder" Scully said, cutting him off and walking unsteadily toward the foyer. "Scully? Are you OK?" Mulder asked. "I don't...I don't..," Scully murmured breathlessly, reaching blindly for the door frame. "Scully! What's wrong?!" Mulder crossed the parlor in quick strides, reaching toward her. His fingers barely grazed her coat as she hit the floor. He fell to his knees onto the floor beside her trying to put his arm under her head. "Scully! Scully! Can you hear me?" he shouted desperately. Her eyes fluttered, and her whole body tensed, and then convulsed in a climactic sob. She reached for him burying her face in his torso, her whole body shaking. Alarmed, Mulder put his arms around her, holding her close to his body. He was now sitting on the floor holding her as she lay in a fetal position. The wetness of her tears soaked through his shirt to his skin. "Shhh...What's wrong?" his voice sounded strange--panic masquerading as calm. Scully began to pull back, her eyes red from tears, but registering confusion. "What's going on?" she asked. Her breathing was still punctuated by the shivering aftershocks of her sobs. "You fainted," Mulder said reaching to pull her tear-dampened hair away from her face. She pulled back slightly, and he put his fingers back down. She started to sit up. "Hang on Scully, you're pretty disoriented," Mulder said. She was still shaking, her breath wavering with the after-effects of sobs. She swiped angrily at her eyes, wiping her tears away. "I never react this way" she whispered angrily to herself. "It's OK, Scully. You've been under a lot of stress. We're both tired from working two cases back to back. Besides, it's normal to be upset after fainting." He paused a minute. "What I'm more concerned about is why you fainted." The statement was loaded, and he knew it. His fears of her cancer returning and her not telling him were great. She flashed her eyes at him, irritated at the implication. "I'm fine, Mulder." She tried to stand up, wobbly. He took her arm and led her to the fainting couch. "You know, Scully, you don't have to wear your corset so tight just for me," he joked, although he felt far from lighthearted. There was a knock at the door. Scully started to get up, but Mulder gently pushed her back. "Just sit down for a minute, ok?" he asked, "I'll go see who it is." Reluctantly, Scully sat back down. Mulder opened the door to reveal an elderly woman with steel gray hair and thin features. "I'm Mrs. Browning. I live across the street. I couldn't help but notice you and the young woman over here. You're not planning on buying this house are you?" "No ma'am" Mulder said, producing his badge. "We're with the FBI, we're investigating the deaths that have taken place in this house. Do you know anything about that?" "I should think so, I saw two of them die with my own eyes, I did!" Mrs. Browning's voice still had a trace of an Irish accent. Scully had come to the door, "Hello, I'm Agent Scully, would you mind coming in and talking to for a little bit?" Mrs. Browning shook her head, "Not in there. You can come over to my place if you want to talk to me." Mrs. Browning's Residence The house across the street was smaller, but was elegantly furnished on the inside. Mulder leaned close to Scully's ear, "Are you sure you don't want to rest for a while? I can talk to her by myself." "No, I'm fine...just a little shaky," Scully whispered back. Mrs. Browning turned and eyed them sharply. "Are you not feeling well?" she asked Scully. "It's nothing, I just felt a little dizzy earlier...I probably just need to eat something," Scully smiled reassuringly at the old woman. "Let me just fix us some tea and cakes," she said leading the agents into a parlor only slightly less posh as the one they were just in. She told them to make themselves comfortable and disappeared down the hall. "Why do you think she came over in the first place?" Mulder asked Scully keeping his voice low. "I don't know, maybe to tell us about he history of the house, perhaps to scare us off if we were potential buyers. It would explain why they were having so much trouble selling the house." "Yes, but what would she have to gain by keeping the house empty? She certainly doesn't want the house for herself, she wouldn't even go inside." "Maybe she was just doing that for our benefit," Scully suggested. Mulder shrugged holding his response as Mrs. Browning returned with a tea service and cake platter. "I don't know what saddens me more," she said as she served the tea. "that Mike and Arlene were foolish enough to go expressly against Colleen's wishes, or that it took Mike's death, the death of a cop, for anyone to sit up and take notice that something is terribly wrong over there." "Did you know Mrs. Brannaugh well?" Scully asked. "I should say so. We grew up right here in these very houses across the street from each other. Colleen married my brother, Robert. Of course, he's been dead many years now, as has Mr. Browning." The old woman worked the delicate lace edge of the napkin she held in her fingers, "Now with Colleen gone, I'm the only one left." "Mrs. Browning, what do you know about the deaths across the street?" Scully asked. "Technically, I don't have any information that would effectively suggest that those people died against their will. I know a thing or two about how these investigations work, you know," she stared past the agents, out the window that looked across the street. "But I also know this. I was seven years old when my family moved here from Dublin in 1908. We didn't move into this house until 1911, but we didn't live far enough away not to hear the stories." "What stories?" Mulder questioned. "The stories about that house, and how all the people who lived there ended up taking their own lives. About the time we moved into this house, Colleen's family took the one across the street. We were like nervous cats as children, scaring each other with ghost stories and legends. Eventually, we forgot the stories of our childhood. They faded together like so many other elusive childhood memories. Of course, these days I remember those things more clearly than I remember last week," Mrs. Browning paused momentarily lost in thought. "Anyway, four years ago, Colleen became too ill to take care of herself. She moved in with Arlene, and that's when people started dying again." "And Mrs. Brannaugh felt responsible for these occurrences," Scully prompted. The old woman nodded slowly. Her eyes were watery with age and emotion. "Why do you think she felt that way?" Mulder asked quietly. "Guilt is an often irrational emotion, don't you think? Colleen's life was marked by tragedy, but she was strong, a survivor. Sometimes that alone can be enough to cause guilt. Colleen's parents both died before she was 20 years old, leaving her alone in that house. Robert married her shortly after. He wanted to sell the house, he thought it would be better for her to make a fresh start, but she refused to leave. They made a home there, and all seemed well for many years. Colleen had difficulties carrying children, and miscarried many times, but they had one daughter, Kathryn. When Kathryn was nineteen she married a local businessman, Booker Davidson, and they had Arlene later that year. Another year passed, and Kathryn and Booker were killed in a car accident. Arlene was raised by Colleen and Robert," Mrs. Browning looked from one agent to the other trying to gauge their understanding of what she was saying. "When we look back over our lives, sometimes surviving can seem the worst sin of all." Mulder nodded in understanding, "Mrs. Browning, why didn't you want to come inside the house to talk?" The old woman glanced downward, staring into her empty teacup, "I guess it's just too many painful memories." Mulder leaned in closer to the woman, taking the cup from her hands, "Is that the only reason? Didn't you come over to tell us not to buy the house? Haven't you been trying to keep people from buying the house?" "Something's wrong over there, Agent Mulder, and I can't bear to watch anyone else be destroyed because of it," her voice sounded shallow and pleading. "But, what do you think is wrong, Mrs. Browning?" Scully asked leaning forward and taking the woman's frail hands between her own. "I don't know," she whispered, a tear escaping down the wrinkled skin of her cheek. 423 Harvest Lane Mulder felt excited, although he was still concerned over Scully's fainting spell earlier. He had rarely seen her fold under stress, so he doubted that was the cause. He had no power or leverage when it came to discussing Scully's health. She was a medical doctor, after all. This case, though, was proving to be fascinating. If they had a chance of getting to the bottom of what was going on in this house they would have to stay here. Of course, this seriously threw a wrench in his plans to put distance between him and Scully. The prospect of them staying in this house together was causing a whole different kind of excitement to course through him. He tried to reason with himself that it was no different than sleeping in adjacent hotel rooms. Sure...nothing to it. He cleared his throat, "Scully, I, uh, think that if we're going to get anywhere in this case we should check out of our hotel and just stay here." Scully looked up quickly from the desk she was exploring in the library. "What do you hope to discover that way?" Scully asked. "I don't know. It would allow us to go through the house more thoroughly, and to perhaps glean some insight into what happened to the people who lived here. Think of it as a kind of participant-observation." Scully looked at him for a while, then the corners of her mouth twitched upwards slightly. "What?" he asked, laughing nervously. "You think this house is haunted, and you can't pass up the opportunity to stay in a haunted house," she accused. "Well, if you're scared, I could always stay here by myself," he said his voice carrying the slightest hint of a taunting lilt. "No!" she said sharply. "Mulder, regardless of what we think is the cause, people are dying here. You can't stay here by yourself." "So, you don't think these were coincidental suicides, anymore," Mulder said sitting on the edge of the desk and looking down at her. "I'm having some doubts," she admitted. He looked directly into her eyes, smiling faintly, "Then stay here with me." The fact that her face flushed slightly, and her hands trembled a bit was not lost on him. It caused his breath to quicken. He stood up and walked across the room toward the window, and ran his ringers nervously through his hair. "How about if we go talk to Arlene after we check out of the hotel." Arlene Davidson's residence The woman who came to the door looked like someone much older than her early 30's. Arlene was wearing a pair of pajamas and a robe that looked like they could use a break. Her hair had obviously not been washed in a long time, and hung lank and lifeless over her shoulders. He eyes were red and swollen from countless shed tears and sleepless nights. She looked at the agents and turned and walked back to her couch leaving the door open as her only invitation. Mulder and Scully followed her in, shutting the door behind them. Wads of balled up tissues surrounded Arlene on the couch. "Arlene, I'm Agent Scully and this..." "I know who you are. Trent told me you'd be coming," the woman answered. She motioned half-heartedly for them to take a seat. Mulder sat on a chair adjacent to the couch, and Scully sat on the couch next to Arlene amidst her collection of tissues. "It's my fault Mike's dead," she blurted out swiping at the silent tears that slid from the corners of her eyes. "I should have left the house alone like Grandma wanted." Her eyes pleaded with them for understanding, "I didn't believe that anything was going on. I didn't want to believe it. You have to understand, I was raised in that house. It broke my heart to see it and all our things be sold...and sold so cheaply, as if our family history was worth nothing." "Why do you think your grandma asked for everything to be sold?" Scully asked. "These last few years, Grandma wasn't well", Arlene said. "She lived in the past more than the present. When she started talking about the house, and how it was responsible for those suicides, I thought her mind was slipping. She said that the house was cursed, and that it thrived on tragedy. I figured changing her will was her way of dealing with her sadness over the suicides in the house. She said that it was the only way she could protect me from any more pain, that when she was dead, she wouldn't be able to shield me anymore," with this Arlene began to cry even harder. Scully stroked the woman's back to try to soothe her and handed her a fresh tissue from the box on the floor. "Did your grandma ever say anything else about the suicides?" Mulder asked. "She said that they sacrificed themselves to her pain," she answered, her voice deepened from the sobs still waiting in her throat. "Do you know who she was referring to?" Scully asked. "I don't know," Arlene said sadly, her shoulders slumping even further. "I guess I thought she was talking crazy talk, or talking about herself...but, now, I just don't know." "Can you tell us anything unusual about Mike's behavior before he died," asked Scully. "That's just it. He didn't act strangely in anyway. Don't you think I've been racking my brain trying to figure this out?" her voice was raising in agitation. "I've been over every detail of the days before he died. His behavior never changed. He never mentioned any problem he was having, and he would have told me," she looked at Scully desperately. "He would have told me," she repeated. Scully nodded which seemed to relieve Arlene considerably. "We were happy. We were planning our wedding, our life. I was never going to be alone...now, that's exactly what I am." "I know this is difficult, Arlene, but I just want to ask you one more thing," Mulder said. "Did you ever notice anything out of the ordinary about the house when you were growing up?" "No, that's why the things Grandma was saying seemed so bizarre. Whatever is in that house left me alone. I was oblivious. It's ironic, don't you think? It still managed to ruin my life." 423 Harvest Lane The storm that had bee threatening to break loose all day finally did releasing a torrential downpour of rain against the windows. "It's your lucky day, Mulder," Scully said handing him a cup of coffee she had brought from the kitchen. She had changed clothes and was wearing a pair of faded jeans and gray t-shirt with a black cardigan over it. "Why is that?" he asked warily. "Your haunted house experience has come complete with a thunderstorm. It doesn't get any better than that." "You sure about that?" he asked suggestively. She shrugged and turned toward the bookshelves to examine the books more closely. Mulder studied her from where he was sitting near the desk. She looked comfortable and dangerously approachable in these clothes. "Ok, Scully, I know you don't believe in ghosts, so what do you think is going on here?" "That's not entirely true," she said. "I believe that data such as sounds and images can be permanently recorded in time. If enough energy is expended at a given time, the natural electromagnetic field that surrounds objects can act as a recorder and capture the event. People can perceive this captured event at moments when they are more perceptually aware. What I do not believe is that these recorded images are conscious in any way. They don't have needs and desires and motives, anymore than a television image does." "So you're saying that you believe in ghosts, but they're more like holograms," Mulder said. He was impressed that she was saying this, because he knew how hard it was for her to make a constructive union out of their differing worldviews. "You could put it that way," Scully conceded. "You don't think that they can communicate to us in any way?" "Well, not in the sense that they have something new to say, but I think the very image presented to us is a communication of sorts." "Interesting, however, that still doesn't explain what you think has happened here." "I'm not sure yet," Scully said distractedly looking at an old volume from the bookshelf. "Mulder, look at this, it's a journal." She put the book on the desk in front of Mulder and leaned over him to read over his shoulder. The date in the front put the book at the turn of the century. Scully reached her arm forward to turn the page, and her chest briefly pressed into his back. "Elisabeth Sheridan," Scully said. "What?" Mulder asked, trying to concentrate. "That's the name in the front of the book. It must be her journal, and according to the address she lived here in this house." Outside, a deafening clap of thunder caused them both to jump, and then laugh nervously at themselves. Mulder stood up, "I'm going to find some candles and matches before it's pitch black outside. I wouldn't be surprised if we lost power." Scully slid into the seat where Mulder had been. "OK, I'm just going to read through this a bit." Elisabeth's journal proved to be engrossing. She was seventeen and the daughter of a prominent financier. Her primary obsession in life was a man named Jonathan Talbot. Elisabeth had begun to notice him when he became a part of her father's business circle. Elisabeth wrote with a raw passion that conveyed the exciting blend of naivet* and sophistication that marks a girl's sexual coming of age. "Scully, I found candles and matches in the kitchen." Scully jumped at the sound of his voice, putting the book down flat on the desk. "Do you think it's getting cold in here? I think I'm going to start a fire, there's some dry firewood stacked on the back porch," Mulder said. Scully went to gather some of the wood from the porch, while he arranged some kindling in the fireplace from the stack on the hearth. Walking through the kitchen, she felt the same extreme sadness overtake her that she had experienced this morning. It was grief of a near crippling magnitude, and she hunched forward from the intensity of it. Images passed through her mind in rapid succession--Emily lying on the hospital bed, the gravestone of her sister, her family on the pier mourning the loss of her father, Mulder intensely watching her reflection in the darkness, his eyes on her, a young woman falling back against her love, his fingers against her mouth, and her fingers still poised over a candle flame... "Scully, see if you can find some newspaper!" Mulder called from the library bringing her surroundings back into awareness. The emotional trauma passed as unceremoniously as it had begun. She was letting this case get to her too much. She needed to relax and remain pragmatic about this. They dealt with a lot of grief today, and she must be internalizing it. Besides, isn't this what everyone says happens if you keep your emotions bottled up? She came back with the wood. "You don't need any newspaper, just move the kindling farther apart." He pushed the sparking sticks further apart, and the flames gained strength. As he put the logs in the fireplace, another loud thunderbolt and flash of lightening culminated in the loss of power. "Just in time, huh?" Mulder said. Scully lit a couple candles on the end table and sank into the large couch picking up the journal along the way. Mulder nodded at the journal, "Did you find anything interesting in there?" "She had a secret love," her voice lowered teasingly. Mulder looked at her quickly, his eyes difficult to read in the flickering firelight. She felt brave and powerful in this setting, Maybe, part of her wanted to push him a little, make it more difficult for him to ignore the obvious. "Oh yeah? What's it say?" Mulder asked, momentarily not backing down. She paused for a minute deciding which direction to take, and chose to stay on the dangerous path. She began to read the journal to him.
Elisabeth Sheridan's Journal 14 November 1901 He was here again today. I stood at the top of the balcony, pretending to arrange the flowers I had cut from the garden this morning in a vase. He and Father were speaking very earnestly, but I caught him gazing at me over Father's shoulder. His eyes--this is what I focus on. If I can see his eyes, then he is looking at me, and I know that my interest is not in vain. He stares so intensely. It frightens and thrills me, leaving me breathless. 21 November 1901 Amanda and I went into town today to speak to the dressmaker about her new gown. She is quite concerned with seeming fashionable. I, myself, cannot concentrate on such things. Of course, I dare not write about what I do concentrate on lest someone find it and send me to a convent. Father would be so disappointed in me. Amanda asked me about Jonathon today. "Who is that man standing in the doorway of the cigar-shop?" she asked. "He keeps staring at you." I told her I didn't know, that he knew Father, but I couldn't keep the excitement from showing on my face. She looked at me so curiously. Is there something wrong with me that I experience such passion--others could not possibly know what I am going through. 24 November 1901 Tonight he came to me. He was here for Thanksgiving dinner. I could barely eat with his eyes taking control of my every movement; his gaze is intoxicating to me. I excused myself and went into the kitchen. I stood at the table at the far end, passing my fingers back and forth over the candle's flame. I felt his breath hot on my neck, and he brushed his lips as softly as possible across the nape of my neck and the hollow below my ear. My body had never felt so alive. I shuddered and whimpered falling back into him. He put his hand over my mouth. The pressure of his fingers against my lips was so exquisite, I couldn't help opening my mouth against his flesh. I pushed back farther, my body yearning for contact with his. His heated whisper fell across my ear, "It cannot be possible for anyone to want anything as much as I want you." Scully stopped reading. The only sound in the room was the rain falling in sheets against the window and the wind howling. "Mulder, I...saw this scene earlier when I was in the kitchen." He swallowed audibly, "What do you mean you saw it?" Scully shook her head, sighing in frustration, "I don't know, it was in my mind like a memory. I thought I was just letting this case get to me, and letting my imagination run away." "Maybe you read that part when you were looking at the journal earlier," he suggested. "No, I don't think so," but her body relaxed a bit-the rational part of her self was already seizing hold of Mulder's logic. "Scully, I'm sure you could still get a room if you went back to the hotel." "I'm not leaving you alone here, Mulder. Besides, did you see that bathtub upstairs? I'm not passing that up." "Really Scully, I'm flattered, but...?" Mulder said and grinned. "I meant for me, Mulder." Mulder laughed, "OK, why don't you go ahead and take a bath, and I'll order some dinner in--you want Chinese? I saw some menus in a drawer when I was looking for candles." "Yeah, that's fine, you know what I like." She took a couple more candles off the desk and took off up the stairs. Mulder stood staring after her. This felt good, and therefore frightened him. He knew her well, but not completely. He didn't know what she really wanted, or what he really wanted. Yes, he wanted her, so much sometimes that he thought he would die, and he loved her more than she could know. The problem was that he had spent so much of his life with his feelings compartmentalized and hidden, even from himself, that he didn't know how to break free. He was afraid of what would happen if he did. He went to the kitchen and ordered the food. Then, he sat back down in the library with Elisabeth's journal. Hearing Scully read these words in her sexy throaty voice about did him in. Did she know what she was doing to him? Thank God she stopped, he thought, as he skimmed over the next several entries. Elisabeth and Jonathon's affair gained in sexual intensity by the day. He flipped through the book and noticed that the entries ended abruptly less than half way through. He turned back to read the final page. 03 January 1902 I cannot bear this pain any longer. Why can I not have happiness? What cruel God would show me my life's love, and then leave me aching and alone? I cannot live in a world without Jonathon. I will not see others find happiness in this world when my heart was left to whither and die in agony. There is no end to my bitterness and pain. You have taken my love, and I damn you for it! I defy you not to take me! All in this house will feel my loss and know the pain that wrenches me apart! Scully closed the bathroom door and looked around. The Victorian claw-foot bathtub had its original porcelain fixtures, as did the pedestal sink. Built in cabinetry lined one wall, and a vanity and mirror was on the other. The cabinets were filled with towels and toiletries; no one had come to remove anything from the house. Scully turned the water on in the tub, and placed the stopper in the drain. Steam rose into the room and floated up to the impossibly high ceilings shrouded in darkness. She undressed and put her hair up away from her face with some pins she found in the drawer of the vanity. A ledge built into the wall alongside the tub held a collection of oils, shampoos, and body washes. Scully figured they were Arlene's and decided to indulge in some bubble bath. Soon she sank into the hot water and was surrounded by the scent of jasmine. The flickering candlelight added to the feeling that she had been transported in time. Mulder set the journal back down, and went into the kitchen to set out plates for their dinner. He debated on setting up in the dining room, but decided that was too much considering they were already eating dinner by candlelight. He was trying to keep his cool, after all. Times like this he really had to wonder about fate. Suddenly, a loud bang punctuated the storm, reverberating through the house. Cheeks numb and heart pounding he stood paralyzed for a fraction of a second, his mind trying to pretend it was thunder and not the familiar sound of a gun going off. In a blind panic, he ran down the hall and up the stairs. God, he should have never asked her to stay in this house. He ran down the upstairs hall through the darkness and burst through the bathroom door. "Mulder, what are you doing?" she yelled, shocked. She was in the bathtub with bubbles up to the top of her chest. She had one sudsy leg stretched out of the water, and a razor in one hand. The candlelight glinted off her hair and her wet skin. Mulder was panting, "I...I heard a gun shot. I thought..." He was so relieved and overcome from his fright that he let the door fall closed and sank to the floor with his back against it. He was sitting outside the circle of illumination provided by the candles, and she could see the outline of him hunched over and hear his labored breathing. "I didn't hear anything...maybe you imagined it." Scully's voice softened as she looked at him sitting there with his head in his hands, "Look, Mulder, there is a lot of pain involved with this case and it's easy to get caught up in it. I've been having a lot of trouble myself." "I think Elisabeth killed herself," he said updating Scully on what he'd read. "I think her situation is what started the cycle of tragedy in this house." "What are you saying, that she put a curse on the house?" Scully said giving Mulder her usual incredulous look. I don't know...something like that. Or maybe, like you said, the events that happened here were recorded in time. Maybe, instead of visual and auditory data, though, feelings were recorded too. Maybe people perceive these feelings with such intensity that it causes them to act upon these perceptions--in this case, Elisabeth's grief." Scully sighed and leaned her head against the back of the tub, causing the water to slosh around her and reminding her of where she was. His head shifted in the shadows. She could tell he was looking at her now. "OK, it's something to think about, but I'm in the bathtub, so get out of here," she said. "Oh, come on, you're agreeing with me way too easily," Mulder said in a low voice. "I'll argue with you later, just go," she shooed him with her hands flicking water at him in the process. He stood up to leave, but turned back towards her. "You sure you don't need any help," he teased. Scully looked at him for a moment. He couldn't read her expression, and started to get nervous. "Mulder, what would you even do if I took you up on that offer?" Mulder froze and the doorbell rang. "Food's here," he said, and promptly left the room. Scully came down the stairs and didn't see Mulder in the library or the parlor. She walked back to the kitchen, and found him putting food on their plates. He'd built a fire in the small kitchen fireplace and there were candles illuminating the table. Scully sat down, and inhaled the aroma of the food. "Mmmm, it looks good," she said. Mulder sat down across from her and they ate. "The kid who brought the food said the power probably wouldn't be on until tomorrow because over half the city is down. He also asked if I'd seen any ghosts in here." "Word travels fast. What did you tell him?" Scully said. "I told him, no, but that I'd heard some strange noises. I think he thinks we're like the Ghostbusters or something." "I think a lot of people think that, Mulder," Scully said and smiled at him with an equal mix of sarcasm and affection. "Scully, we have to talk," Mulder said suddenly pushing his plate back. "Fine, if everyone who lives here gets overcome by Elisabeth's suicidal tendencies, then why did Colleen manage to live out her days here, and Arlene, for that matter? Why wouldn't they have been affected?" Mulder crossed over to her shaking his head, "No, not about this case." This caught her attention, "OK, then what?" He stood looking down at the table as if standing on a precipice. "Scully...you're my life. You have to know that." He continued looking down at the table as he spoke. Scully stared at him, momentarily shocked, but countered "Your work is your life, Mulder." "Maybe at one time, before you came to me." He dared look up at her. "I want you to be happy, Scully. I do not ever want to be the one responsible for making you unhappy. I thought if we just left things as they were, then I could be with you every day, that I wouldn't ruin things." "It's fine Mulder, nothing happened the other night. We can forget about it," her voice was tinged with bitterness. "The want to talk about the other night? You left me the other night!" his voice rose in exasperation. "You didn't give me any reason not to," she challenged quickly. He stood there for a moment, clenching his fists as if trying to gain control. When he responded his voice was tight and even, thick with intensity, "A day does not go by that I don't want you more than I want to breathe, Scully." She covered her eyes with her hands, her fingers gripping her hair. He dropped to his knees in front of her, taking her hands and pulling them away from her face, "I don't know what you want." Her face contorted from holding back tears, "I don't either," she whispered. He looked away in frustration, and then looked back at her, "Yeah? Well, I know what I want." He leaned toward her grabbing her face in his hands and covering her mouth with his own. He kissed her fervently, expressing an ocean of desire. His fingers entwined in her hair, and he pulled her roughly toward him causing them both to land on the floor. He was trembling all over. Her tongue found his, and his body ignited. They breathed the same breath, and he felt more than heard her moan against his mouth because of the deafening sound of his heart in his ears. She tore at his shirt, her mouth like fire on his throat and chest. Scully broke away from him and kneeled with her back to the fire. She kept her eyes on him, and pulled her tee shirt over her head. "Oh Jesus" he moaned and fell towards her, his mouth devouring the flesh between her throat and shoulders, her body hot against his flesh. The softness of her body yielding against his contrasted with the hardness of her nipples teasing his flesh as she moved. Her head fell back, and his hands ran down the front of her causing her to gasp. She reached for him to undo his pants, and he practically ripped her jeans and underwear from her body. He pushed her back - kissing, touching, tasting her. Her fingers grabbed at his hair, and her back arched. He was insane with arousal from the taste and scent of her body, and was afraid he was going to come. He licked her nipples and felt her body shudder under his. She pulled at him, hands frantically squeezing his ass, guiding him closer to her. He cried out as her body slid around his. His whole existence focusing on the feel of her body hot, wet, and tight around him, the smell of her, and the intense love he felt for this woman. He felt her body convulse around him, and opened his eyes to see her face. One look at her, and his mind and body exploded into a thousand pieces. The popping and hissing of the fire brought her back to awareness. She lay there sweaty and wet from their lovemaking, her racing heart obscuring the conflicting voices of her thoughts. She reached for her clothes, not knowing what to say. Strong arms encircled her, pulling her back against him. He held her tightly against him, burying his face in her neck. "I love you, Scully," he whispered. "More than anything." She turned into him, and put her arms around him. "I love you, Mulder. I always will." She smiled at him, a full and brilliant smile. He leaned in and kissed her deeply. He was not able to wipe the grin from his face as he continued to kiss her forehead, nose, and cheeks. "So we're OK?" he asked. "I think we're way better than OK, Mulder." His chest rumbled with his laughter, and he traced the curve of her back in the firelight with his fingers. "You are so beautiful" he whispered. "I love you so much. God, it just feels so damn good to finally say it." Scully's eyes grew heavy and she began to drift to sleep in his arms. The sadness she felt before in this house was scattered. A wave of giddiness swam through her, mixing wonderfully with her exhaustion, and she smiled against his chest. His arms tightened and he kissed her softly on the top of her head. Their happiness on this night was stronger than Elisabeth's legacy of tragedy. 423 Harvest Lane Reaching up toward the surface of consciousness, he gradually became aware of his stiff muscles, a warm weight against his side, and the smell of her. He brought his hand to his face, running his fingers over his nose and lips and inhaling deeply, bringing for the events of last night in surrealistic detail. Love, arousal, fear...he felt all these things vying for predominance in his state. Fear began to win this contest as he opened his eyes to see the library illuminated through the heavy brocade curtains, dust motes spinning dizzily through the air. Ashes from the long neglected fire stirred in a small whirlwind from the flue in the fireplace. He felt insecure now in the starkness of daylight, away from the candlelit haze of his memory. His eyes drifted down and caught site of her sleeping face. Her cheek rested against his chest, her expression relaxed and peaceful, and a wave of love ran through him. Arousal quickly took charge again, however, when his eyes drifted lower taking in most of her bare back, just barely draped by the blanket that had been hung over the back of the couch. He ran his hand slowly down her back, and she moaned almost inaudibly against his chest. A thrill of excitement ran through him as his body responded to the sound of her, but something moved just outside his field of vision. He glanced up, and his quickening heart-rate quadrupled. A man hung from the chandelier in the foyer, swaying gently back and forth. Oh Jesus! He jumped up, knocking Scully off him to the floor. The hanging man swung around, revealing his own face. Oh Fuck. It was him. That was him hanging there! "Mulder! What's happening!" Scully said, frantically reaching around for her gun. Mulder stood staring at the empty foyer. "Nothing, I, uh, thought I saw something." Scully reached for the blanket pulling it around herself, and looked at Mulder warily, "God, you scared the hell out of me." "Yeah, well, I scared the hell out of me", he said sitting back down on the couch and glancing down at himself, "and I'm naked," he added nervously, his cheeks coloring a bit. "Yes, I noticed that," she said from her vantage point on the floor where she still sat. "I'll go get your pants...I think they're in the kitchen." She stood up and tossed the blanket to Mulder, walking to the kitchen totally nude. He grinned in spite of his recent fright. Reason #212 why he loved this woman. Scully came back with her t-shirt and jeans on, and handed Mulder his pants and shirt. "So, what did you see?" she asked as he pulled his pants on. "I saw a man hanging right there," he said pointing to the spot under the chandelier in the foyer. "That's where Jim Garrison was found," Scully said, frowning. "Yeah, well, it wasn't Jim Garrison hanging there," Mulder said buttoning his shirt. "How do you know?" Scully asked. "Because it was me." "Maybe you imagined it," Scully reasoned. "I wasn't exactly in that kind of mind frame," he said giving her a sidelong glance. She smiled shyly, and he continued, "Seeing that, and hearing the gunshot last night...I think Elisabeth is behind this. I think she's messing with our heads." Scully frowned and challenged, "If you believe that, then don't we have to face the possibility that what happened between us last night was the result of her, as well?" "No!" he said emphatically. "Scully, I didn't do or say anything I haven't wanted to for an insanely long time." "So why last night?" she asked. He sat down, and ran his fingers through his hair, considering his answer. "Because last night I sensed that you felt hurt or rejected by me after New Orleans. That changed my whole conception of our relationship," he paused obviously nervous with his own emotional honesty. "I realized that this wasn't just about my own denial or fears...that it was bigger than me." She placed her fingers on the back of his neck, pulling his head gently toward her until their foreheads were touching, and looked him in the eyes. "I'm glad you realized that," she whispered and kissed him softly on the mouth. She pulled back with a satisfied smile, and sighed, glancing around the room, "So, what should we do about this case?" "I don't know, exactly. Where are you at with all this?" he asked, pulling her back to him and stroking her hair away from her forehead. "I'll give you that something out of the ordinary is going on here," she said slowly, "and I will also admit that I've felt a kind of...presence, for what that's worth. Given the things we've experienced, it does seem that there may be some unseen connection to the suicides and Elisabeth...maybe." "Don't go out on a limb or anything," Mulder joked. She tilted her head up at him and made a face, "Let's go out for breakfast, and think about this a little more, okay?" Landshire's Diner The waitress cleared their plates and poured them more coffee. "There was a crucifix above the bed in the master bedroom," Scully said after a long silence. "So you're thinking what....vampires?" Mulder teased. "No, I'm thinking that they're Catholic," she said. "And?" he prodded. "People who experience the types of things that go on in that house may very well turn to the Church for guidance. I think we should find the church Colleen Brannaugh attended and see what we can find out. At any rate, I think the Catholic Church may be able to handle this kind of thing better than we can," she said looking at him carefully. Mulder grimaced a little, "I don't know Scully." "I'm not asking you to convert, Mulder, I'm just saying that the Catholic Church has a history of dealing with situations such as this, and they might be helpful in this case." "Fine, you call Arlene and find out which church they attended, and I'll go get the car," he said paying the waitress. St. Michael's Catholic Church "Poor Arlene," Father McGregory shook his head, his heavily accented voice reflecting much sadness. "First she lost her Ma and her Da, then Colleen, then Michael," he sat down in a reading chair across from them in the church library. "Father, did Arlene or Colleen ever say anything about their house?" Scully asked. "What do you mean?" the priest asked. "Well, you know about the deaths that have taken place there, and Agent Mulder and I experienced some...strange occurrences since we've been on this case." "I see," he said softly. "I had honestly hoped that those deaths were merely tragic coincidences. I did have my doubts, you know." "If you know anything that could help us, Father.," Mulder said. "When I first came to this congregation thirty years ago, there was an old priest here by the name of Father Martin Flynn. He was very old, a number of years past one-hundred, you see. He told me of the house you're speaking of. The truth is, I didn't really believe him. The Church does not support these kinds of things as it used to. Anyway, Father Flynn told me the story of a girl named Elisabeth Sheridan...Have you heard that name?" he asked them as he noticed the look they exchanged. "Yes, Father, we found her journal at the house," Scully told him. "Well, then, you may very well know more of her than I do. Father Flynn told me that the poor girl poisoned herself after the man she loved was killed in an accident while running an errand for her Da. It was a very slow and painful way for her to die, but perhaps the physical pain did not match the pain of her broken heart. This was before the days of modern medicine, and there was not much that could be done. She screamed and cried while she died, cursing everyone the whole time. Elisabeth's Da died a year after that of a heart attack, and her Ma went feeble-minded and lived out her last with relatives in Philadelphia. The next several years, the house saw its fair share of tragedy and death, much like it's been since Colleen moved out. It was Colleen who came to Father Flynn after her parents died. She said they died of grief--a grief that lived in that house. Father Flynn believed it was Elisabeth, and set out to quiet the poor girl down. He visited the house everyday for a long time, trying to minister to Elisabeth's spirit. Elisabeth did quiet, it seemed. She found peace in the company of Colleen, perhaps around someone she felt could identify with her own pain and emotions. Colleen eventually became to old to live there on her own, and moved out with Arlene. The rest you know." "What can be done, Father...an exorcism?" Mulder asked. "Do you believe Elisabeth is evil?" he asked. "No" Scully answered, "I think she's trapped in a state of eternal grief." "Then, perhaps we can release her," Father McGregory said. "Perhaps, now, she will be ready to let go." 423 Harvest Lane "Is this the first time you've ever been here, Father McGregory?" Mulder asked. "Aye, it is," he replied. "There is a sadness about this place, isn't there?" "Yes, it can become overwhelming. I suspect that's what happened to Michael and the others," Scully said. They had informed him of some of the things they'd experienced since they'd been here, including her fainting spell when they first arrived. Now, they sat in the parlor, while Father McGregory held the Elisabeth's journal. He began to pray quietly under his breath. Scully glanced up as Mulder stood up to leave the room in discomfort. "No," Father McGregory said, "you need to stay." "I'm sorry, Father, I'm not really a believer," Mulder apologized. "You believe in love, don't you?" he asked. "Yes, more than ever before" Mulder answered. "Then stay" the old priest began to pray again. After a time, Father McGregory began to speak to Elisabeth. "More suffering cannot end your grief, child. Only love and compassion will set your spirit free from this treacherous prison. Find your peace, girl, let this place go. You must surely see by now, that all creatures come and go in this world. There is no debt to be paid for these losses, for they are, themselves, a truth. Love, though, transcends all of this. Love is the Truth. Know this and let go, Elisabeth. It is time for you to rest." The door blew open and wind swept through the house, startling them. Mulder jumped up to shut the door, and the house was eerily quiet in the absence of the rushing wind. Father McGregory had dropped Elisabeth's journal. It lay open on the floor at Scully's feet. She bent to pick it up. The ink of her last entry was smudged by large drops of water, what looked to be tear-stains. Tears filled her own eyes, but not tears of grief, simply tears of sheer relief. Mulder sat next to her, holding her head against his chest. He looked over her head at the priest, "Do you think it's over?" he asked. "I think so", he said, nodding. "It is" Scully said, wiping her tears away and smiling, "I'm sure of it. I can feel it. Thank you, Father." "Thank yourselves," Father McGregory said, standing, "you're as responsible as I am." He winked to them as he turned to leave, "Good Luck to you both, now." "You ready to go back to D.C. today?" Scully asked Mulder looking up at him. "I think we can take a little more time", he said and leaned in to kiss her, pushing her back into the couch. -End |