Title: Those Who Love  
Author: Sheryl Clay

Rating: This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat 
steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder 
and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - 
you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, 
however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding.

Disclaimer:  Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten 
Thirteen  Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and 
without any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of 
the characters are mine.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Colter farm is based on a real place, 
although the names have all been changed to protect the innocent, as 
they say. It's about five miles from the house where I grew up, and 
the ghosts are a bona fide local legend. I have been all through the 
house and property, and have seen the graves. And although *I* 
have not seen the ghosts, myself, I have talked to people who swear 
they have. David Bowman is fictional, however, and his 
"experience" is the product of my own imagination.

The references attributed to Dr. Hans Holzer are taken from his book: 
Yankee Ghosts. And the words to the song sung by Nicole White 
are from the ballad: "The Grey Silkie of Sule Skerry."  If anyone 
wants more background on what is behind Scully's reaction, this can 
be found in my story, "Sea of Desire." 

Summary: Mulder believes that three deaths in Connecticut may 
be the work of local ghosts, and Scully contemplates the consequences 
of unacknowledged love.

*****************************************************

THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 1


CUMBERLAND, CONNECTICUT


James Dolan swatted a mosquito on the back of his neck, and 
wondered, once again, what had possessed him to take his law 
degree to the bank, literally. True, it was fairly satisfying, if not 
very 
challenging, work, guiding young couples through the morass of 
legal mumbo-jumbo that surrounded closing on a newly purchased 
piece of property, or representing his employer in such transactions 
with other banks. He was not going to get rich doing it, but it paid 
the bills, and it did leave him plenty of time, and creative energy, to 
work on the novel that was his life's real passion. 

Most days he did not mind his job, but this task that he was 
about today made him long for a nice little private practice defending 
petty criminals and processing divorces. Temple Realty, one of his 
bank's biggest clients, had a bid on this parcel on behalf of some 
developer who wanted to put in more ugly contemporaries and 
colonial reproductions, and he, Jimmy Dolan, was out here "walking 
the land," looking for God knew what. As if there was any way this 
deal would not go through. 

Jimmy was a suburbanite, born and raised on a cul de sac in 
West Hartford, and the closest he had ever gotten to real wilderness 
was one disastrous encounter with summer camp when he had been 
in the seventh grade. He was not particularly pleased to be tramping 
around out there in the woods in jeans and work boots. He also 
doubted he was the appropriate person for this job, and the 
unfamiliar insecurity was worrisome. He knew more than he gave 
himself credit for, though. For one thing, he had recognized that a 
clump of weeds he had passed a little while ago as one of the primary 
indicators of a potential wetland; he would need to alert his superiors 
that the local Inland Wetlands committee was likely to have heyday 
with that, if they did not find a way to deflect them, or make them 
otherwise happy. He also knew that there was one old structure on 
the property that was going to have to come down, but there did not 
seem to be any problems there, no title disputes or other questions. 
In fact, it was more curiosity than anything that made him decide to 
go look at it.

The Colter farm had been a legend in Cumberland for as long 
as the natives could remember. Haunted, the old timers said with the 
same matter-of-factness that they used when they talked about the 
weather, or the latest crop of hay. It amazed him, sometimes, how 
these pragmatic, old swamp Yankees, most of them without an 
imaginative bone in their bodies, could accept so nonchalantly the 
idea of an actual haunted house. Dolan thought it was just plan silly. 
The idea of a house standing for over two hundred and fifty years 
intrigued him, though. If anyone had asked, he would have told 
them that he thought it was kind of a shame to tear it down. 

As Dolan came up over a rise, he found himself out of the
woods, in a brush filled clearing. There had been little undergrowth
in the forest itself, and after that relative openness, trying to
navigate through the tall weeds in the lot that lead up to the Colter
homestead was almost enough to make him change his mind. He really
wanted to see the place, though, so he forged on ahead, making
sarcastic remarks to himself about becoming Daniel Boone as he went
along.

The house was small, unimpressive, and deserted. Dolan 
found himself vaguely disappointed. Not much to it, really, just an 
old salt box, that looked about ready to come down on it's own. He 
pounded a piece of siding and heard the tell tale hollowness that 
indicated dry rot. And probably termites or carpenter ants, too. It 
did not look much like a haunted house, either. To Dolan, a haunted 
house should be a three story Victorian on a deserted street, and look 
like Herman Munster lived there. Still, the place was interesting, in 
its way, with its drooping roof line, and the oddly shaped windows 
that were obviously created and installed by hand. No factory built 
precision here, and the old glass, each small pane with a "bull's eye" 
from the blower's stem and ripples near the bottom the flow over 
time, was charming. Dolan stood on tip toe, and tried to look in, but 
it was too dark inside to see much.

The door was on the other side of the house, but he would 
need to come back with a key if he really wanted to see what was 
inside. He doubted it was worth it. He walked around the outside. It 
was not until he saw the old well that Dolan realized that he was tired 
and thirsty. He was unaccustomed to a lot of physical exercise and 
this hike through the woods had taken a lot out of him. He walked 
over to the circular stone structure, and flopped himself down on the 
well cover. He leaned back on his hands and gazed at the old house. 

From this side, he could see that there was really a lot more to 
the place than he had originally thought; the small, square, and 
probably original, front portion was followed by a large annex that 
Dolan knew contained a modern kitchen added by some more recent 
resident, and a covered enclosure that had probably housed a 
carriage or farm wagon at one time in the past. The place was really 
delightful, and Dolan felt himself regretting, again, it's ordained 
demise. He thought, rather wistfully, that maybe, if he ever got 
around to proposing to his girlfriend, Deborah, they could find some 
old place like this someday and fix it up. He sighed and leveraged 
himself off the well cover. Time to be getting a move on, he still had 
a long walk back to his car.

He was just brushing the dirt off his hands when he saw a 
movement back in the carriage house. Frowning, he stared into the 
darkness there. Strange, he could have almost sworn that a person 
had ducked into the shadows, out of sight, now. Terrific, just what 
he needed, vagrants. He tramped over, shouting loudly to whoever it 
was to get on out. No one answered him, and no one moved. 

Dolan stopped about ten yards from the house. The 
temperature had suddenly dropped with an abruptness that usually 
meant an incoming storm. The sky was still cloudless, but growing 
up in New England had taught him never to trust the condition of the 
sky. If a summer thunderstorm was on its way, he was damn sure he 
did not want to get caught out in it. Somebody else could come deal 
with this squatter, if there was, in fact, someone hiding back in those 
shadows. And anyway, it had just occurred to him that he, an 
unarmed, overweight, out of shape lawyer with no idea how to 
defend himself, really had no business trying to chase anyone off of 
anywhere. He was going back to his car.

Then he saw it, again. The temperature dropped still further, 
nearly arctic now. Dolan hugged his arms with cold, but he could 
not move. His heart was racing, and he felt a strange sensation 
paralyzing his legs, riveting him to his spot. He broke into a heavy 
sweat, despite the chill. Swallowing hard, he stared into the 
shadows, at the vague movement he sensed almost more than he 
saw. A creeping terror suddenly overwhelmed him.

"Who is it? Who's in there?" he demanded, in a weak voice.

No one answered. A shadow moved.

Dolan screamed. He screamed with a violence that sounded 
as if all the fiends in hell had just pointed at him and claimed him as 
their own. He screamed as if it were his very soul being wrenched 
from his body. And then he collapsed onto the ground.




FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION
WASHINGTON, DC


"I don't get it, Mulder," Special Agent Dana Scully frowned 
across the desk at her partner. She lifted the file in her hands. "All 
you've got, here, are three men who died of entirely natural causes. 
What am I missing?"

Fox Mulder nodded slowly.

"Three fairly young, relatively healthy men, two surveyors, 
and a lawyer. All who died of the same natural cause, all within a 
week of each other, while standing on approximately the same plot 
of ground. Doesn't that strike you as a little odd?"

Scully made a face.

"Yeah," she agreed, cautiously, "I will admit that the
coincidence *is* a little unlikely. Still, I don't find anything here
that would indicate that there has been anything out of the ordinary
in these deaths, other than strange coincidence. And the last I knew,
willful or unwillful participation in the perpetration of a
coincidence was not a federal crime."

Mulder smiled at the quip, but otherwise remained quiet, 
letting her stew. Scully scrutinized the closed file a moment longer, 
then blew out a breath.

"At most, I would suspect some kind of environmental toxin, 
since they were all out of doors when they died." She looked back at 
him. "But that is hardly a Bureau concern. And it's certainly outside 
the realm of *your* interests..." She cocked a smile at him, he 
chuckled. Mulder stood up and flipped on the light to his slide 
projector.

"Look at the pictures, again," he directed. "Tell me what you 
see."

She knew what he was doing. He was not teasing her, this 
was not some exercise in patronization. He saw something, 
something about which he was unsure, and he needed her to see it, 
too, on her own, to help him confirm his interpretation. She 
understood it, but it was still an exasperating process. She watched 
as he cycled slowly through the three slides of the three dead men, 
taken at the "scenes."

The slides each showed a man, lying in what looked like a 
field. It may also have been an overgrown barnyard, there did seem 
to be a ramshackle building in the background. Each man had a look 
of surprise, almost a grimace, on his now still features. Scully 
concentrated more closely on the expressions. Yes, she supposed, it 
could be some kind of death rictus, certain poisons *did* have that 
effect, but a poison would have turned up in a toxicological exam. 
And there was nothing out of the ordinary in any of these men's' 
reports. In fact, other than a severely elevated adrenal level in the 
blood, there was nothing out of the ordinary at all, in any of the 
exams. And the adrenaline surge could easily be explained by the 
fear associated with a heart attack. These men all died from simple 
heart failure. Period.

"I just don't know, Mulder. An airborne toxin, maybe?" she 
sighed, trying hard to give it the benefit of the doubt. She shook her 
head. "That could have caused this rictus, I suppose, and perhaps 
still not shown up in the tox. But nothing that I'm currently familiar 
with..."

She looked at Mulder and shrugged helplessly.

"Is it possible, Scully," her partner asked, "that these men 
might have been frightened to death?"

Scully sat back in her chair.

"Look, Mulder, I'm sorry, but I surrender. Give. What's 
going on here? What do you know?"

Mulder leaned over and handed her a map.

"This is a map of the grounds, and surrounding area, where 
those three men died. This piece of property is currently for sale; 
there is a bid outstanding on it, and it's earmarked for a housing 
development. Pretty straight forward stuff. It was being surveyed by 
two of those dead men at the time they died; the first man to die, 
James Dolan, was a bank lawyer taking a look around prior to the 
loan approval."

"You think someone is trying to block the sale for some 
reason?" Scully frowned at him. "But that still doesn't explain how 
these men might have been killed, if you're right and they men did 
not die of natural causes."

"I never said these men did not die of natural causes. But I 
am about to suggest that the natural cause was generated by an 
'unnatural' experience," Mulder replied. "Or rather, a supernatural 
one."

Scully sighed.

"This hundred acre parcel is mostly undeveloped woodland, 
and some pasturage," Mulder went on, ignoring Scully's expression. 
"It is free of any existing structures. Except one."

Mulder leaned across the desk and pointed. 

"Up here in the northwestern corner, where our bodies where 
found, is an old farmhouse, built in the mid-1700's. If you look in 
two of those slides, you can see it, right there, in the corners of the 
pictures. The house, as well as the adjoining twelve acres, is owned 
separately by the Bowman family, but is being offered as part of the 
rest of this parcel. Something to do with road access, I believe.

"Up until the last ten years, the house has been occupied, 
most recently by a Martha Bowman Jacobs, who passed away six 
years ago. Her nephews inherited the property. The house is 
currently empty. Except...," Mulder leaned back and looked at her, 
"reputedly, for two resident ghosts."

Scully sat back and looked at him over the tops of her glasses.

"Mulder..."

Mulder reached behind him, and removed a book from the 
place it was precariously balanced, under a pile of paperwork on the 
bookcase to the right of his desk. Scully winced. One of these days, 
she thought, watching him, that whole mess was going to come right 
down.

Mulder handed the book to Scully. She looked at the aged 
and torn cover. 

"Haunted Places in New England..." she read and gave 
Mulder a jaundiced eye.

"If you'll turn to page twenty-seven, I think you'll find our
piece of property there. It was called the Colter Farm, after the
family who built the place originally. It's still called that, as far
as I know."

Scully sucked in a smile, and turned to page twenty-seven. 
The chapter title leaped out at her - "Ghostly Lovers in Cumberland, 
Connecticut: The Colter Farm Ghosts. " Scully looked back up at her 
partner.

"So I ask you, Dr. Scully," Mulder went on, "could those men 
have been frightened to death?"

"I don't believe this." She closed the book and tossed it on 
his desk.

"Look at the pictures, again."

"Mulder, do you honestly expect me..." Scully sputtered. 
Mulder just held up a hand.

"Look at the pictures, again," he said, very gently. Then he 
smiled at her winningly. "Please?"

Scully blew out a breath. But his expression made her laugh, 
a little. She took the projector control from him, and cycled through 
the slides again.

"Three heart attacks," glossed Mulder, as she looked. "In one 
week. In the same place. Suffered by young men with no former 
history of heart disease, and no," he held up a hand again to ward off 
her protest, as she glanced up at him, "indication of early heart 
disease in the autopsies. 

"Could they have been frightened to death?"

"Mulder, that's very rare..."

He nodded. Then he raised his eyebrows at her. Scully 
sighed and looked back at the slide on the screen. She shrugged and 
nodded.

"Well, they did all show extremely elevated adrenal levels. 
Yes, I suppose they could have been frightened to death," she 
relented. "In the absence of other evidence to the contrary." She 
looked back up at him and finally smiled for real.

"Ghosts."

Mulder shrugged sheepishly. Scully shook her head.

"Look," she said, "I'll admit that the 'coincidence' is
troubling. And intriguing. But ghosts, Mulder? And anyway. This
still isn't a Bureau matter. No crime has been committed here."

"There are three bodies," Mulder replied. "And three 
unexplained deaths."

Scully did not bother to remind him that the deaths were too 
explained. She rolled her eyes a little.

"You gonna tell Skinner about this one?"

"Eventually," Mulder agreed.

"He's gonna be wild," Scully warned him. "Skinner cuts you 
a lot of slack on these investigations, but he still has people he has to 
answer to. He won't appreciate it much if you make him look like a 
fool."

"That's why I'm going to keep this little excursion to myself 
until I can figure out if there's really something there. Come on 
Scully, it's only Connecticut. We can be there in two hours. We 
should know inside of twenty-four whether or not there's anything 
worth investigating. We can be there and back before anybody even 
knows we're gone." 

Scully sighed. She really did not want to admit how much 
this little puzzle was starting to interest her. Not that she believed 
for 
a minute in Mulder's ghosts... But it *was* weird that three healthy 
young men should drop dead on the same piece of ground. She 
nodded slowly, relenting finally, and Mulder grinned.

"I'll pick you up at your place in an hour," he beamed.



HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT



J. (Jamal) Gallagher, got out of his car, and walked toward the 
entrance of a small neighborhood bar. His step was confident, his 
charcoal Grey suit and designer tie impeccable. His attitude was 
serene. He looked every inch exactly what he was: a successful 
man, completely in charge of his life and situation. 

Gallagher coordinated cocaine distribution in eastern 
Connecticut for the "family" in Springfield, Massachusetts, moving 
their product, making their deals, and negotiating a substantial profit 
for all parties. A business man by trade, Gallagher had risen up out 
of the ghetto in the north end of Hartford, fought his way through 
college and up the corporate ladder on brains, cunning, and a 
willingness to work obsessively to obtain his goals. He had finally 
reached the position in life where he could leave his childhood roots 
behind him. Unfortunately, however, Gallagher had expensive 
tastes: fine houses, fine cars, fine wine, and these tastes were not 
supported to his liking by the salary afforded a corporate executive in 
an insurance company. He could have gone into private consulting, 
perhaps, and made more, but his talent was for research, and political 
manipulation, not for the kinds of histrionics required for freelance 
work. It was perhaps ironic, then, that it was to his childhood roots 
that Gallagher eventually turned when the need arose to supplement 
his income.

Gallagher had no illusions about his role, or his importance to 
the overall organization he represented. He was a flunky, elaborately 
disguised as a player. His job was to make arrangements, to pick up 
the "shipments" of product that would supply his ring of local 
pushers, to negotiate the price, and pay for said product, and to 
collect from the "distributors," nothing more. He was strictly a 
middleman. He did not mind. The job "paid" well, and took up very 
little of his time, overall. And he found himself liking the excitement, 
and the element of danger. He was the connections man, he found 
the sources, organized the drops and the pick-ups, he paid for the 
goods. It was he who made the recommendations when certain 
"disciplinary actions" became necessary. But he made no decisions, 
and he liked it that way. He would be the "fall guy," he knew, if the 
organization ever came down, but Gallagher was careful and clever. 
He did not expect to get caught. He carried a gun, in addition to the 
switchblade he always kept in his car, and had trained himself in its 
operation, but the weapon was really just for show. J. (Jamal) 
Gallagher had no intention of ever putting himself in a position where 
he might need to use it.

Gallagher strode through the door and looked around. 
Except for two old men sitting by the jukebox, the place was empty, 
as he knew it would be at that hour. He nodded to the kid behind the 
bar. Larry was on his "payroll," not a heavily reimbursed retainer, 
but provided enough money to convince the kid it was wiser to keep 
his mouth shut about who Gallagher might have been seen with, and 
when. The gesture was more theatrics than anything. Gallagher 
generally met with other "businessmen" who were supplementing 
their incomes. No one in the least suspicious looking had ever sat 
across from him at the booth into which he now slid. It was one of 
his precautions. Larry brought him a beer while he waited. 
Gallagher was early for his appointment, which was another one of 
his precautions. He sipped his beer and waited.

Within fifteen minutes, the door opened again, and a second 
man entered the dark environs of the bar. Leslie Hendricksen had 
none of Gallagher's cool composure. Overweight, perspiring in the 
summer heat, he looked as rumpled and ineffective as the badly 
tailored suit he wore. Gallagher smiled to himself. This one would 
be easy. Hendricksen approached him cautiously.

"Mr. Gallagher?"

Gallagher nodded, but did not stand. 

"Mr. Hendricksen. Please have a seat." He gestured to Larry, 
as the other man sat down. "What are you drinking?"

Hendricksen looked up at the bar keep nervously.

"A beer, just a beer," he said. Gallagher nodded to the boy, 
indicating that anything would do, then waited until Larry returned, 
then left again, before he addressed Hendricksen.

"Terrible day, isn't it," he said, his voice soft and soothing. 
There was no hint of a street patois in his carefully pitched and 
controlled speech. J. (Jamal) Gallagher had spent long hours 
practicing to be sure that there never would be. "This heat is 
unbearable. I heard on the radio this morning that this is the worst 
heat wave the country has experienced in over ten years. Even worse 
than the summer of '88."

"It's a scorcher," Hendricksen agreed. He sucked on his beer, 
then gasped, the cold liquid stealing his breath. Gallagher could see 
his hands shaking, and smiled. Guy must be a virgin, he thought, 
and considered that he should be able to strike a very good deal here. 
He smiled encouragingly.

"You have some information for me, Mr. Hendricksen?"

Hendricksen nodded, but looked around worriedly.

"You have no need to be concerned, Mr. Hendricksen. We 
are quite safe here, and quite alone. Don't mind Larry."

Hendricksen did not look exactly convinced. He sipped some 
more of his beer, then leaned forward conspiratorially.

"Pete said to tell you there's a shipment coming in," he 
whispered. Gallagher nodded, and waited. When nothing was 
forthcoming, he prodded.

"How large a shipment, did Pete say."

Hendriksen told him. Gallagher nodded, pleased.

"When is the, ah, merchandise expected, Mr. Hendricksen?"

In two weeks, he was told. Gallagher sat back, and steepled 
his fingers before his face. The pause was theatrics, he had already 
decided where he was going next. But the allusion of consideration 
would put Hendricksen on a malleable defensive.

"Where will the drop be made?"

"Not here," Hendricksen said quickly. "This place is too 
busy. I want a quieter setting. Little town."

Gallagher pursed his lips. Amateur, he thought. Any fool 
would know that a small town was no safer than a large one, for such 
business. Often just the opposite; their type of transaction would 
more likely attract attention in some little hamlet than here in the 
city. 
Still, it did not matter all that much. Gallagher only dealt in small 
trade that was easily concealed. If it made the man happier, and 
more tractable to complete the transaction in some bucolic setting, so 
be it.

"Do you have some place in mind?"

Hendricksen nodded.

"Cumberland. Out by the university. I'll contact you as to 
where," he replied, relief giving him confidence.

Gallagher nodded. He knew Cumberland. He visited the 
town frequently, he had friends there. If he was recognized, his 
presence would not seem out of the ordinary.

"Very well," he nodded. He contemplated a little more. 
Then: "And are you prepared, Mr. Hendricksen, to negotiate a 
preliminary price? Pending examination of the product of course?"

Hendriksen took a deep breath, looking very nervous, again. 
But he nodded.

"Good," said Gallagher, and he leaned forward across the 
table and smiled. 

=============================================================
========
======

From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay)
Subject: New Story: THOSE WHO LOVE (2/7)
Date: Wed, 06 Sep 95 07:04:53 PST


This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat 
steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder 
and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - 
you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, 
however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding.

Thank you to Tish Sears for all the editing help!

Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted.

"Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on 
September 6, 1995.

Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen 
Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without 
any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the 
characters are mine.

*****************************************************

THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 2


CUMBERLAND, CONNECTICUT


"Ever been to Connecticut, Scully?" Mulder asked as he 
turned off the Interstate onto the exit for Rte 195.

Scully nodded.

"Once. A high school friend of mine went to college at the 
University of Connecticut. She married a guy from up here. I went 
to her wedding."

Mulder nodded.

"UConn, yeah. Great basketball teams! Their women were 
the 1995 NCAA national champs, did you know that?" he replied 
enthusiastically. "We're only about ten miles from the campus, right 
now." He stopped at the end of the exit ramp and signaled left at the 
light. Scully looked around her.    

Cumberland, Connecticut, looked a lot like a lot of towns she 
knew in Maryland and Virginia, rural farm districts recently become 
bedroom communities for the larger cities. As they drove through 
the rolling hills, she saw large, expensive, modern houses sitting 
incongruously on what apparently used to be pasture, with the 
occasional old barn, or out building providing a startling contrast, and 
a reminder of what used to be. Strip malls dotted what was 
otherwise wilderness. It was a town in transition. Scully found the 
idea a little bit sad.

"How are we doing?" Mulder asked, nodding at the map in 
her hand.

"Take a right at the next intersection, and that should be the 
road we're looking for. Randall Road." 

Mulder turned down what was little more than a paved trail 
leading off into the woods.

"Boy," he mused as the road pitched upward suddenly and he 
started to climb, "this is pretty isolated. I wonder what this place is 
like in the winter." He looked out the window. "How far is the 
house?"

"Map says three miles. On the right."

It was a little more than that. Mulder pulled over to the side 
of the road and parked the car. They could see the weathered brown 
structure there on a small rise across a heavily overgrown field. 
Scully made a face at the prospect of trudging through the weed 
filled lot.

"I'm really not dressed for this," she commented, looking 
down at her beige linen slacks suit and pumps. Mulder made a 
sympathetic noise.

"You can wait here in the car if you'd like," he offered 
helpfully. Scully shook her head. Fat chance she was going to let 
him wander off alone.

"No, I'll come," she sighed.

At least the ground was hard and dry. Scully followed 
behind Mulder, letting him tramp down the weeds a little bit before 
her. She tried very hard not to think about the spiders and snakes 
that had probably made homes all around her, just waiting there for 
her to rouse them. Mulder came to a stop before the front door of 
the old salt box house. He was smiling broadly.

"Hey, Scully, look at this," he said, pointing to the door. 
Scully looked. "See that pattern of nails there? Looks like a 
decorative design?"

"Yeah..." Scully acknowledged cautiously.

"That's a symbol of wealth. Back in the 1700's and early 
1800's, nails were extremely expensive because each one had to be 
made by hand. I remember reading accounts where during the early 
westward movement people would burn their houses down before 
they emigrated, so they could salvage the nails to take them out west 
with them. Using them for decorative art like this was very 
ostentatious. Especially on a front door. It was a means of telling 
your neighbors that you were so well off you didn't need to worry 
about such things. 

Scully gave Mulder an odd look, and smiled. The man never 
ceased to amaze her with the incredible collection of trivia he 
managed to store away in that eidetic memory of his. Still, it *was* 
an interesting, if not very useful, bit of data. She gave the door a 
nod. 

"Where were those bodies found?" she asked, bringing him 
back to the reason they were there. Mulder looked around. 

"I'm not sure, over there, I think," he considered. They 
walked around the side of the old house.

It was Scully who found the spot, recognizing the angle from 
one of the slides. She stood on the ground where Jimmy Dolan had 
collapsed and looked at the house, making small, thoughtful 
movements with her mouth as she did.

"What?" Mulder asked, watching her.

"Well, if I remember correctly from your slides, the way all 
three of those bodies were lying would indicate that they were 
probably looking at the house at the time they collapsed," she said. 
She walked straight ahead, along what would have been the probable 
line of sight of the three dead men, and entered the lean-to like 
structure off the back of the house. It looked like an old carriage 
house of some kind. 

It was noticeably cooler in the shade inside the lean-to. 
Scully turned around slowly. A chill passed over her and she rubbed 
her arms briskly. Amazing, she thought, how those old buildings 
kept out the heat. She moved to the side of the lean-to closest to the 
house, strangely drawn to the blank wall there. She eyed the flat 
surface, half expecting to see marks of some kind, or some tell tale 
evidence that her subconscious was registering before her eyes. She 
ran her hand along the wall. She felt something run up her arm, like 
an electrical current, and pulled it away. 

"Hey, Mulder, you seem to know something about the way 
these old houses were designed. What do you think is on the other 
side of this wall?"

Mulder frowned at her, but stepped back, anyway, and eyed 
the house from outside.

"Well," he began. "Judging from the size of the chimney 
back here, I would say the kitchen... " Scully walked over to join 
him. "See?" he pointed. "Little chimney in front to heat the 
bedrooms and parlors, only when necessary. Big chimney in back, 
because the kitchen is used all year round and the fire place will be 
huge. Now *that* wall..." he eyed the wall about which she was 
curious, "my guess is that's the borning room."

"The what?" Scully asked. She was not quite sure what she 
expected him to say, but that was not it.

"The 'borning room,'" Mulder repeated. "It was a room that 
was usually found off the kitchen because the kitchen is the warmest, 
most frequently populated room in the house. The borning room 
was used for childbirth, and nursing the sick. Most people who died 
of an injury or illness probably died in rooms like that. Why?"

"Just curious," Scully said. But the words "died in" were not 
lost on her. She hugged her arms. They were not lost on Mulder, 
either, and he knew Scully well enough to know she was never 'just 
curious' without good reason. Died in, huh? 

Scully glanced over at Mulder, and saw the sparkle in his 
eyes. She realized her question had played right into his theory 
about the ghosts, and she was almost sorry she had asked it. She 
was about to warn him not to start jumping to conclusions when an 
unfamiliar voice interrupted from behind them. 

"Can I help you folks?"

Mulder turned around to see a man approaching them across 
the overgrown "yard." He looked about fifty, balding and lean as a 
rail, with hawk-like features and horn-rimmed glasses.

"Hi," Mulder said quickly. "My name is Fox Mulder, and 
this is Dana Scully. We were, uh, just looking at this wonderful old 
house here." The man nodded.

"Dave Bowman," he said, extending his hand. "It is a nice 
old place, isn't it. Belonged to my aunt, before she died. Be careful 
walking around here, this place is pretty overgrown. No telling what 
you'll find buried in the weeds here."

"Snakes?" Scully asked uncomfortably.

Bowman smiled at her. 

"Well, could be, but I was thinking more along the lines of 
old rakes and boards with nails in them. Wouldn't want you to get 
hurt." He looked at Mulder curiously. "Mind if I ask what your 
interest is?"

Mulder gave Scully a quick warning look, and plunged into 
an explanation before she could reach for her ID.

"We were just looking the area over. We've been kind of 
thinking of maybe moving up here," he said, nodding at Scully. 
Beside him, Scully gaped, her eyes wide. "I sort of liked the idea of 
finding some old place and fixing it up. You know, a place with 
some history to it."

Bowman nodded.

"Well, the place *is* for sale," he agreed. "And it sure does 
have a history. It was supposed to be sold as part of another parcel, 
but I'm not too sure, now, if that's gonna go through. How did you 
folks happen to hear about it?"

"We didn't," Mulder lied glibly, "we were just driving by. 
But it's for sale, you say?"

Bowman nodded again. Mulder took a chance.

"Actually, we had heard that there was a house out here that 
was supposed to be haunted," he said, smiling winningly. "We were 
really very interested in it. This looked like a likely candidate."

Bowman smiled.

"Oh, yes, there *is* that," he agreed. "Well, since you're 
interested, why don't you come up to the house and have a cold 
drink. I'll tell you the story and let you decide for yourselves."

He started back through the weeds. 

"Get you out of this tall grass. Wouldn't want you to get bit 
by a tick and get Lyme disease, now... Just follow me, I live right 
down the road, here."

Scully followed Mulder back across the overgrown lawn, 
alternately glaring at the weeds batting her knees, and at the back of 
her partner's head.

She let him have it as soon as they were safely in the car.

"Mulder!"

"What?" he responded, all innocence.

"Mulder, you deliberately mislead that man into thinking that 
we were interested in *buying* his property. For ourselves, Mulder. 
I mean, for us, like we were a couple or something!" Scully made an 
encompassing gesture with her hand, and stared at her partner, 
openmouthed. 

"We'll it did get us an invitation to some information," Mulder 
countered, mildly.

"But you never told him who we were, you never said we 
were with the Bureau... "

"We're not, officially. At least, not yet. Come on, Scully, the 
guy's not likely to talk to a couple of cops unless he has no choice. 
But a nice young couple from the burbs, looking to get back to the 
land..." He smiled at her. Scully practically sputtered with 
indignation. Mulder feigned a hurt look.

"Gee, Scully, I never realized I was quite so unpleasant a 
prospect," he said. Scully made a face at him.

"It's not that, don't twist my words," she replied, relenting a 
little. He eyed her curiously, waiting for her to go on. "It's just 
that I 
don't like being here under false pretenses."

"Oh, come on, Scully," Mulder teased her. "Where's your 
sense of humor?"

Scully sighed with sheer exasperation. Then she chuckled 
softly.

"Well, since you mentioned it, I suppose it *is* pretty absurd, 
now that I think about it," she agreed mischievously. Mulder glanced 
over at her, his expression now truly a little bit hurt. Scully smiled 
at 
him smugly.

"Gotcha."

Mulder laughed.




"So where're you folks from?" Bowman asked as he settled 
them on the porch of his white clapboard farmhouse with a plate of 
cookies and a pitcher of ice tea.

Mulder had planned for this question in the car. 

"Simsbury," he replied, giving the man the name of a town he 
had pulled off the map, a considerable distance from where they 
were, but not so far that they could not have comfortably driven it. 

Bowman nodded.

"Pretty town. What do you do, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder was ready for that one, too.

"Insurance," he replied, feeling fairly safe. After all, 
Hartford, 
Connecticut, was the insurance capital of the world, supposedly. 
"For the Aetna," he glossed, remembering the last bill he had paid.

Bowman nodded again.

"And you, Ms. Scully?"

Scully gulped a little, still not happy with Mulder's charade. 
Well, she could hardly tell the man she was a forensic pathologist, 
and a Special Agent with the FBI. 

"Oh, the same," she replied quickly.  "And please, call me 
Dana." She smiled prettily. Bowman smiled back.

"What do you do, Mr. Bowman," Scully asked, to prevent the 
man from asking them any other questions they might not be able to 
answer.

"Me?" Bowman asked, as if surprised that anyone would care 
to know. "Oh, I teach agriculture up at the university. Use to dairy, 
some, too, but that got to be too expensive a hobby to be worth the 
bother. So now I pretty much teach, and write."  He smiled. "And 
lobby Congress for more support of the small family farm. It's a 
dying way of life. And my own experience has taught me that it's 
just too costly for most folks to continue. Even thirty years ago, the 
small farmer could at least expect to break even, most of the time. 
That is no longer true, today."

The two agents nodded politely and Mulder searched his 
mind for a way to turn the conversation back to the subject of his real 
interest. Bowman was an articulate speaker, and could no doubt 
spend the afternoon defending the plight of the family farm, but that 
was not why they were there. A screen door behind them slammed 
and another man walked out onto the porch. He was about as 
different looking from David Bowman as a man could get and still be 
the of same race. Short, broad, and round faced, it was only their 
eyes that identified the two men as relatives.

"Richard," Bowman said cheerfully. He looked over at 
Mulder and Scully. "This is my brother, Richard. Richie, Fox 
Mulder and Dana Scully. They're from Simsbury, out here looking at 
some property. Seems they're interested in the old Colter place."

Richard gave them a taciturn nod.

"Actually," Bowman continued, mischievously Scully could 
have sworn, "they're really interested in the Colter ghosts.

Richard Bowman's stolid expression turned sour.

"Oh, you and that nonsense. Don't pay any attention to him," 
he nodded at Mulder. "He's been out in the sun too long."

Bowman tipped back his head and laughed.

"Join us, Richard," he offered.

"Thank you, no," his brother replied. "Going to Agway. I'll 
be back in a little while."

He made his "pleased to meet yous" to Mulder and Scully, 
then clumped down the porch steps, climbed into a battered pickup 
truck and drove away.

"Richie doesn't think too much of our ghosts," Bowman said, 
unnecessarily, smiling after his brother. "Claims it's all just old 
wives' 
tales meant to frighten children." 

Mulder smiled with him.

"But you believe they are real?" he prompted. Bowman 
nodded.

"I've generally found old wives to be very wise," he assured 
them, merrily. "It's kind of a nice story, actually, if you like that 
sort 
of thing. Do you know it?"

Mulder had read it, but Scully had not. And Mulder wanted 
to hear the story again, from this man whose family had lived in the 
house, itself. He gestured for Bowman to go on. Bowman leaned 
back in his chair.

"We call the place the Colter farm, because that was the name 
of the family who built it, originally. I don't think there have been 
Colters in this town, though, for a hundred years or more. My aunt 
owned the place for forty five years, she was eighty when she died, 
and she lived alone in that house until the last four years of her life. 
 



"The place has two ghosts, according to the legend, Jeremiah 
Colter, who was the son of the original owner, and his fiancee, 
Catherine Hewlett. Colter was twenty four years old when the 
Revolutionary War broke out, and like many of the young men 
around here at that time, he went off to fight for the economic and 
personal freedoms that he felt were God given rights in this new land. 
The young couple put off their wedding, not knowing if, or when, 
Jeremiah would return. I personally think Colter senior probably 
may have had something to do with that, not wanting to run the risk 
of his son dying and leaving some young girl his heir.

"Anyway, within a year of his joining his regiment, Colter 
was wounded and taken prisoner. He was interred at the prisoner of 
war encampment on Long Island, to await the next prisoner 
exchange. That was the custom in those days, as you may know. 
Neither side could afford the upkeep on prisoners, so generally they 
just traded 'em back and forth. Unfortunately, there was a small pox 
epidemic in the camp while Colter was there, and Jeremiah 
contracted the disease. Since the British army had no particular 
interest in carrying the expense of treating the infirm, he was just sent 
home to die or recover as he may.

"Once Jeremiah got home, Catherine, who had moved into 
the Colter house during Jeremiah's absence, nursed her fiancee day 
and night. Her ministrations came to naught, though; Colter died 
about ten days after he returned. He didn't managed to die before he 
infected Catherine, though. She died, herself, within the month.

"They are buried in the yard beside the house, up by the 
stone wall near the pig run. However, because those two were never 
married in life, they could not be buried in the same grave, wouldn't 
be seemly, and they are actually buried about twenty yards apart. 
The spot's pretty much grown over, now, but you can still find the 
fieldstone markers if you look through the weeds.

"Now, the story goes, that, before he'd left for battle, 
Jeremiah, in his passion, had begged Catherine to give herself to him, 
but she refused him. In those days, for a girl to go to her wedding 
bed other than a virgin would have damned her, in both the eyes of 
man and God, and it was likely these two had not shared so much as 
a passionate kiss before Jeremiah left for war. When he returned, of 
course, it was too late for Catherine to change her mind. So they 
died with their love unconsummated.

"According to the legend, Catherine was so heartbroken at 
having refused that one true act of love that she now roams the house 
and grounds looking for Jeremiah so that they can be together for 
eternity. And Jeremiah, in his turn, seeks for her. But never 
together, they are condemned in their loneliness to search for each 
other forever, and forever to remain alone."

Scully suddenly exhaled, she had been unaware that she was 
holding her breath. She rubbed her arms, feeling a sudden chill. 
Mulder glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then looked back 
at Bowman.

"Your aunt lived in the house, you said."

Bowman nodded. 

"She loved that old place. Would have died in it, if anyone 
had let her. Should have, if you ask me."

Mulder smiled.

"Did she ever see the ghosts?"

Bowman nodded.

"She claims to have. All the time." Bowman smiled. "She 
used to tell me that Catherine, especially, was a fidgety sort of ghost, 
always moving things around. The aunt said she could never be sure, 
when she got up in the morning, if things would be where she left 
them the night before. As if the poor girl hadn't got enough of 
housekeeping while she was alive."

Both Mulder and Scully smiled, this time.

"Did you ever see the ghosts, Mr. Bowman?" Mulder asked.

Bowman just looked at him.

"I have seen her, yes. Catherine." He leaned forward and 
frowned down at his hands. "Once. 

"When I was ten years old, the aunt took sick, and went into 
the hospital for a few months. At the time we had a handy-man on 
our farm, and he was also responsible for keeping track of the aunt's 
place while she was laid up. One day, he came and got me. Asked 
me if I wanted to come out to the old house with him, he was going 
to check the wiring. I was just a little kid, I didn't think anything of 
it. 
Why would I?

"This part of town was even more isolated, then, than it is 
now. There were only two other houses on the street, neither one of 
them close to the Colter place. So there was nobody around to hear.

"Turns out, this handy-man was not a nice person, and he 
had a taste for little boys. He got me into the house, and well, things 
got unpleasant pretty quickly." Bowman glanced at Scully, as if 
gauging how much to say. Scully looked back at him impassively. 
The man looked back down at this hands.

"He had me down over the back of the sofa with my blue 
jeans around my knees and a knife at my throat, and that's when I 
saw her. She was standing over by the fireplace. She picked up this 
heavy old fashioned oil lamp that the aunt kept on the mantle, and 
she just hurled it. Hit that bastard right up the side of the head, 
knocked him out cold. Then she waved for me to run. I pulled up 
my britches and ran like a son-of-a-bitch, let me tell you."




"That was quite a story," Mulder said as they walked back to 
the car. They had thanked Bowman very much for his time, and 
gotten a recommendation for dinner. Mulder had also made 
arrangements to come back the next morning to tour the inside of the 
house. 

"Yeah," Scully said, a trifle sourly. "It's almost as good as 
the 
one *you're* weaving. I can't believe you're sticking to this 
masquerade."

"Does it really offend you that much?" Mulder asked, a little 
testily. Scully relented.

"No, it doesn't offend me," she replied. "But I don't really 
like 
lying to the man. And you were very glib, back there. I know you're 
enjoying yourself, but don't fall in love with your own fantasy, 
okay?"

She turned her back on him, and pulled open the car door. 
Mulder watched the back of her head as she slid onto the passenger 
seat.

"Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, under his breath, as the car 
door clunked shut. He walked around to the driver's side, and got in.

=============================================================
========
======

From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay)
Subject: New Story: THOSE WHO LOVE (3/7)
Date: Wed, 06 Sep 95 07:09:31 PST


This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat 
steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder 
and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - 
you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, 
however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding.

Thank you to Tish Sears for all the editing help!

Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted.

"Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on 
September 5, 1995.

Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen 
Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without 
any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the 
characters are mine.

*****************************************************

THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 3


J. (Jamal) Gallagher did not like waiting in parking lots, he did 
not like sitting there in his car. It was too suspicious looking, it 
smacked too much of the actual business he was there to perform. 
Hendricksen had insisted, however, that he would not speak to him 
inside the bustling restaurant. He was to wait outside.

Gallagher was already in enough trouble over the delays in 
this shipment, and he did not wish to antagonize his "superiors" with 
any further trouble, so he agreed to Hendricksen's condition. But he 
did not like it. The longer this whole transaction went on, in fact, the 
less happy he was. First there was the delay in delivery. He had 
examined a sample of Hendricksen's product, settled on a price very 
much to his liking, and had been promised delivery within two 
weeks. Those original two weeks, however, had stretched to three, 
and then four. Then Hendricksen could not make up his mind where 
the transfer should take place. That took another several days. If it 
was not for the fact that Gallagher had negotiated such an 
outstanding price on the "shipment", he would have called the whole 
thing off a long time ago, simply reported back that the deal was 
suddenly too risky. His "superiors" would have trusted his 
evaluation, and agreed, he was sure. But he had negotiated a very 
sweet deal, here, and he stood to make a lot of money. And he had 
bills to pay.

He glanced at the back seat, at the locked briefcase lying 
innocently there. The transfer would be simple. He and Hendricksen 
would park, car door to car door, the doors opened in such a way 
that no one would be able to see between them. He would hand 
Hendricksen the brief case, Hendricksen would hand him the leather 
backpack containing the packets of uncut cocaine. Neither man 
would count, or examine, the merchandise or the payment at that 
time. Gallagher had already approved the samples, and Hendricksen, 
the price. And this was no amateur street operation. While there 
might not be honor among thieves, or drug dealers, there was fear, 
and a healthy respect. The likelihood of a double cross was slim; the 
last man to try to cheat his "superiors" was still floating up in the 
Wethersfield cove, a piece at a time. And, for such an illegal 
operation, his superiors had a surprising reputation for honesty. It 
was good business, and they were not petty criminals, moving dope 
out on the streets. These were businessmen with whom he dealt, first 
and foremost.

Gallagher looked at his watch. When he turned his eyes back 
up to the road, a silver sedan was just pulling into the parking lot. He 
nodded to himself, and brought the briefcase up to the front seat. He 
waited until the sedan had pulled up next to him, facing the other 
way, so that their driver's sides were together. Gallagher rolled down 
his window, then waited for Hendricksen to do the same.

"Are we all set then?" he asked, with strained patience.

"Follow me," Hendricksen replied.

Gallagher frowned in astonishment.

"What do you mean, follow you!" he demanded in a harsh 
whisper. "I'm not gonna follow you! You have the stuff. I have the 
money. We make the transaction. Here. That was the deal."

But Hendricksen shook his head. 

"Not here, there are too many people," he replied. "I know a 
place not far from here that is completely deserted. We'll go there."

Gallagher struggled to contain his wrath. He had no intention 
of following this man anywhere; he was *tired* of this run around. 
Besides, one of the reasons he was confident that he would never 
need to use his gun was the fact that he *always* performed his 
transactions out in the open, in full view, cleverly, carefully, but 
always in settings least likely to encourage a "business partner" to 
take a chance and do something stupid. Something fatal.

"No way, man," he resisted, anger causing a hint of the old 
neighborhood patois to creep back into his voice. "No way I'm 
following you anywhere. The transaction happens here, or it doesn't 
happen. Now, let's get on with it." He took a deep breath, and 
struggled to calm himself.

Hendricksen just looked stubborn.

"I don't have the stuff with me," he explained. "I've got it," 
he 
continued, seeing the look on Gallagher's face, "but not here. I've got 
it hidden on this place. It's not far. Honest. I just can't do it 
here, 
man, somebody will see us for sure, here. Just come with me. It 
ain't far. Just a couple of miles, on an old deserted farm."

Gallagher was so angry he was shaking. He took a deep 
breath and tried to think. There was *no way* he wanted to follow 
this slime ball anywhere. This whole arrangement was starting to 
smell like nothing but trouble to him. He did not know what to do. 
Had he backed out of the arrangement before now, even a short a 
time ago as a week, his superiors would have understood, and 
perhaps even complimented him on his acumen. But to call it off 
now... They knew he was meeting Hendricksen tonight, to call it off 
now would look too suspicious. At best it would look like he no 
longer had the edge, or the nerve, to control these transactions, at 
worst like he had made some sort of a deal on his own behalf. He 
could not risk their ire. He would have to take his chances with the 
slime. He nodded.

"Where?" he asked shortly. Hendricksen nodded and gave 
him directions. Gallagher waited until Hendricksen's car was out of 
sight. Then he threw his corvette into gear and peeled furiously out 
of the parking lot, nearly taking out a blue Ford Escort rental car in 
the process. He headed down the street.




Mulder pulled into the restaurant parking lot just as the black 
corvette came flying out, nearly hitting him as it squealed around the 
corner.

"Jesus Christ!" he cursed, swinging wide. He looked back 
over his shoulder. "Guy must have just caught his wife with another 
man..." He glanced at Scully, who had been thrown hard against her 
seatbelt. 

"You okay?"

"Yeah," she sighed, shaking her head. They parked, and went 
inside.

The place to which Bowman had directed them for dinner 
was called "Cousins", and was more of a bar and grill than a real 
restaurant. Several tables were set in the middle of the floor, and 
there were a few booths, but the long mahogany bar that took up 
most of the far wall left no doubt as to the establishment's real 
function. Still, wonderful smells had met them in the parking lot, as 
they pulled in, and that promise was met when their entrees were 
finally placed before them. Scully cut a slice from her roasted 
chicken breast, and watched Mulder tuck into his rib-eye steak and 
fries.

She looked at him quietly for a moment.

"So, are you still convinced these deaths are actually murders 
by haunting?" she finally asked. Mulder looked up at her.

"The evidence seems to point in that direction, yeah," he 
agreed, eyeing her curiously. "I take it by the look on your face that 
you don't agree?"

"I guess I just don't see anything I could call evidence of 
anything other than exactly what this seems to be - a very strange 
coincidence. Nothing more."

"But what about Bowman's story?"

"About the two ghostly lovers? I thought it was very 
charming. Delightful, really, and he tells it very well. I got the 
distinct feeling that he's been telling that story to anyone who would 
listen, for years." She smiled at Mulder fondly. "My father used to 
call that 'local color'."

Mulder frowned at her. 

"His aunt seems to have had some personal experience with 

them," he countered.

Scully nodded. 

"I've got an aunt like that, too, only mine sees angels. 
Mulder, all's you've got there is an eccentric old woman who forgot 
where she put things, and blamed ghosts for it. It doesn't prove 
anything."

"What about Bowman's own experience. That was 
something less than charming, don't you think?" 

Scully sighed.

"Oh, come on, Mulder, look at it logically. You have a little 
boy, subject to a terrifying and heinous experience. A little boy who 
was brought up on stories about those ghosts, who romanticized 
them, whose own family member treated them like household 
companions. It's only natural to expect that the boy would 'see' one 
of these ghosts under the circumstances. Like an imaginary friend."

"Imaginary friends rarely throw heavy lamps across rooms to 
save you from being raped," Mulder countered. Scully nodded 
gently.

"And maybe this imaginary friend didn't, either" she 
suggested. "Did you stop to think that maybe Bowman did *not* 
escape that assault? That this 'ghost' is actually his mind's way of 
dealing with what was done to him?"

Mulder made a face, but did not argue further. She had a 
very good point, one that had occurred to him as well. He looked at 
her out of the corner of his eye, then sighed and nodded.

Scully ate her chicken, and let Mulder think for a moment. 
When he did not offer a counter argument, she ventured further.

"Anyway," she began, "I have done *some* reading during 
my, uh, sojourn on the X-Files..." Mulder quirked a lopsided grin at 
her, and she smiled back, "and I seem to recall reading that 
hauntings, for the most part, are generally pretty benign occurrences. 
Ghosts are suppose to be little more than left over energy from a 
consciousness that has not found peace in death, for one reason or 
another, often due to some unfinished business, or violence 
associated with the death, itself. But usually, this energy just sort of 
hangs out. It may, possibly, repeat whatever activity is associated 

with the reasons behind the 'haunting', but nothing premeditated. 
With the exception of certain kinds of poltergeist activity - which 
may not even be spectral - ghosts don't really affect their 
environments much. And even poltergeists usually only move things 
around, or make noise. Ghosts can be a nuisance, but they are very 
rarely intentionally injurious to human life. Most of that is a 
Hollywood interpretation.

"What you are suggesting, though, is that these 'ghosts' 
*intentionally* caused those men to die. Even given the possibility 
that you might be right about the *existence* of such entities, doesn't 
that theory pretty much fly in the face of the accepted thinking?"

By the time she finished, Mulder was grinning widely.

"You *have* been reading," he replied with a small laugh. 
"And yes, you're right. Most spectral activity is benign in nature. 
However, I think we have a particular situation here."

He put down his fork and looked at her intently.

"Let's take Bowman's story at face value for a moment, and 
assume that he is correct in his belief that Jeremiah Colter and 
Catherine Hewlett still haunt the Colter farm because of the depth of 
their love for each other. A love that was denied in life, and therefore 
cannot be denied in death. It could be postulated that the actual 
physical matter binding them to this Earth and to each other, is that 
house, itself. The house they lived and loved and died in. To lose 
the house would be to lose each other, which is something they 
cannot allow. They aren't really murdering. They are only defending 
themselves and their love. 

"As long as efforts go forward to tear down the Colter farm, 
I'm convinced that people will continue to die on that property."

Scully smiled warmly, and glanced down at her dinner for a 
moment. Then she looked back up at her partner.

"That was very touching, Mulder. Very romantic, actually. I 
didn't know you had it in you."

Mulder smiled, a little sheepishly. But Scully sighed.

"Look, I agree that coincidence isn't a very satisfying 
explanation, here," she admitted, "and, short of exhuming a body 
and looking for other evidence," she pointed a finger at him 
warningly, "which we have *no* grounds to do, so don't even think 
about it, your theory that those men were frightened to death makes 
as much sense as anything does. But I still fail to see what we can do 
about it."

Mulder looked at her earnestly.

"We either have to convince Bowman not to sell that 
property, or get him to bring in a parapsychologist who can contact 
the ghosts through a psychic, and convince them to leave the house," 
he said. "It's the only way to prevent further deaths."

Scully pursed her lips.

"And, you might even be able to convince Bowman of that, 
although his *brother* doesn't seem much like the 'parapsychologist' 
type to me," she agreed. "But what the *hell*, Mulder, are you 
gonna tell Skinner? This is *not* our job. Under no circumstances 
can we even justify *this* little junket, we can only hope that 
nobody has been looking for us, so we can get back to Washington 
tomorrow without having to explain our absence."

Mulder did not look happy.

"So what, we just let the deaths continue?"

Scully sighed, beginning to get exasperated again.

"Mulder, I don't know what you want me to say," she replied.

Her partner eyed her, then finally nodded in defeat.

"I'd still like to go through the house tomorrow morning, 
before we leave," he said, his disappointment clear in his voice. "Just 
to satisfy my curiosity."    

"All right, if we do it early," Scully agreed, knowing she had 
won, and not wanting to rub it in. "I'm kind of curious, myself."




J. (Jamal) Gallagher pulled off the road behind Hendricksen's 
sedan, and looked around. There wasn't much moon, but enough to 
see that he was parked beside an open, and overgrown field. He got 
out of his car and walked cautiously up to Hendricksen's. He peered 
in the windows and saw the keys still in the ignition, but the vehicle 
was otherwise empty. He peered up into the field.

"Up here!" Hendricksen called him distantly. In that vague 
light, Gallagher could just make him out on the boarder of the 
woods. "Bring the briefcase and come here!"

The hell he was going to do that. Gallagher tossed the 
briefcase full of cash into his trunk and slammed it shut. Then, hand 
over the butt of his gun, he trudged up the long incline to where 
Hendricksen was waiting. He could not see well in the half light, so 
he had several deep scratches and a wrenched ankle by the time he 
reached Hendricksen. He mood, never very good, was no longer the 
least cooperative.

"Hendricksen, what the *fuck* is this all about, man?" he 
demanded, frustration destroying the last vestiges of his carefully 
cultivated speech. "What the *fuck* is going on here?"

"Nothing, man," Hendricksen demurred placatingly. "I just, 
you know, didn't like to do the transfer in that parking lot. Too many 
people around." He looked at Gallagher. "Where's the money, man. 
I tol' you to bring it?"


"An' I don't take orders from no slime like you," Gallagher 
hissed. "It's locked in the trunk of my car, and that's where it's gonna 
stay until you tell me what the hell you're up to. Where's the stuff?"

Hendricksen kicked a backpack at his feet. "Right here, 
man."

Gallagher looked down, and nodded. 

"Let's get the fuck out of this field, then. Bring it down to 
the 
cars." He turned and started down the slope.

"I don't think so," Hendricksen replied, his voice firm and 
hard, all traces of whining vacillation now gone. "Turn around."

Gallagher turned around and found himself staring down the 
barrel of a .38 caliber revolver. He gaped in shock.

"Now give me your car keys."

"What are you *doin'*, man."

"The keys, Gallagher. Slowly. Now."

Gallagher drew breath slowly.

"Are you crazy? They'll kill you, man. I don't show up with 
the goods tomorrow, they gonna *know* you double crossed them. 
They'll find you, man."

But Hendricksen shook his head.

"You don't show up with the goods tomorrow, they'll figure it 
was *you* who pulled the double cross. By the time they pull your 
car out of the Cumberland marsh, I'll be long gone. With the cash, 
and the stuff."

"Man, you're nuts!"

"Give me the keys."

Gallagher dropped his hands to his waist, and thought 
furiously. He could not believe this was happening. It had to be a 
dream. His hand brushed the top of his gun butt.

Maybe it was a deer, or maybe it was just some rotten tree 
limb finally giving up and cracking to the ground, but the sudden 
sharp noise within the woods made Hendricksen jerk his attention to 
the left, just slightly. It was only a fraction of a second, but it was 
enough. Gallagher drew his weapon, clutched the butt in both hands, 
and fired. 

It took him a moment to realize what he had done. 
Hendricksen's body collapsed into a heap in the shadows. Gallagher 
could not see the extent of the damage his bullet had done, but 
Hendricksen had to be dead. Shit, the man had taken that bullet right 
in the face, no one could survive that! He kicked the body, and felt 
no movement, heard no response. Then it hit him. He had killed the 
man, *killed* him. For all of his flirtation with the underworld, for 
all that he had grown up on the streets, Gallagher had never killed 
anyone, before, had never even known anyone, intimately, who had 
done so. Panic took him. He had to get out of there.

Hendricksen's body had fallen over the backpack. Gallagher 
jerked it out from under him, then opened it quickly. He tipped the 
mouth of the bag to catch the moonlight, and shuffled his hand 
around inside. It collided with something soft, and he drew out a 
clear plastic bag filled with soft white powder that glittered in the 
faint light. Gallagher dropped the bag back into the backpack, and 
zipped it closed again. He had to *do* something. He had to get out 
of there. He could take the coke, he could be take the coke and the 
money back to his superiors, explain what had happened. But his 
superiors were tidy men, and serious businessmen. They would not 
like this little complication, not at all. There was not telling what 
they 
might do to "discipline" him for this slip-up. Gallagher shuddered at 
the thought.

He could always just blow. Take the money, take the coke 
and run. He could be a thousand miles away before the sun came 
up. But they would find him. He knew they would find him. He 
had to think. He looked around wildly. Hide the coke, hide it 
somewhere and go someplace where he could think. He had to get 
away from the body, get the hell out of that field. He peered into the 
woods, but it was too dark to see, and he was not going in there 
anyway. He turned around slowly, looking around him as he did. 
His eyes strained across the field.

He had not noticed the old house, at first, because it was 
partly hidden in the shadows of the surrounding trees, but his eyes 
had adjusted to the near darkness, by now, and he could see the 
outline clearly. It returned to him that Hendricksen had said this was 
an old deserted farm. He jogged toward the building, desperate to 
put as much distance as he could between himself and Hendricksen's 
body, sure he could find someplace in that ramshackle building to 
safely hide his burden. He ran, unmindful of the rough ground, and 
the brush clutching as his pant legs. He did not stop until he had 
reached the house.

The old well presented itself like a vision of salvation. 
Gallagher careened to a stop and bent over, gasping for breath beside 
the stone circle. He set the backpack onto the ground, and shifted 
the stone well cover to one side. Without stopping to think, he 
dropped his gun inside. Then he felt around the inside of the rim. 
Yes! Exhilaration filled him as his fingers found the iron bucket 
hook wedged in the wall of the well. He lowered the backpack over 
the side, and hung the straps over the hook. Then he pulled the cover 
back over the well. By morning, the trampled grass would be back to 
normal, rising with the dew. There would be no evidence that 
anyone had tampered with the well.

Gallagher brushed the dirt from his hands, and thought about 
Hendricksen's body. Leave it, his brain said. The farm was deserted, 
chances were no one would even find the body until the wild animals 
had decimated it. And even if they did, there was nothing to lead 
them back to him. He could drive Hendricksen's car into the marsh; 
it would be days before it was found. Even Hendricksen had been 
sure of that. He felt unreasonably better as relief flooded him. The 
money was in his trunk, the coke would be safe in that well forever, 
and he had all the time in the world, now, to figure out the best thing 
to do. He looked around, slightly disoriented, then saw the road. He 
strode purposefully back down the hill.

=============================================================
========
======

From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay)
Subject: New Story: THOSE WHO LOVE (4/7)
Date: Wed, 06 Sep 95 07:13:53 PST


This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat 
steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder 
and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - 
you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, 
however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding.

Thank you to Tish Sears for all the editing help!

Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted.

"Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on 
September 5, 1995.


Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen 
Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without 
any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the 
characters are mine.

*****************************************************
*
THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 4


Mulder sat in silent thought as the waitress came and cleared 
their dishes. As she did, a young woman carrying a guitar came out 
into the small cleared space at the far end of the room, and took a 
seat on a bar stool. The bartender set up a microphone for her, and 
plugged it into a dusty amplifier that looked permanently part of the 
decor. Mulder looked up and watched the goings on. The girl 
looked like she might be a local college student, she was certainly too 
young to *drink* in the place. Pretty girl, though, with bright green 
eyes he could see from where he was sitting, and longish ash blonde 
hair.

"Looks like we're going to be entertained," he said, changing 
the subject, and trying to bury his general annoyance at the turn 
events had taken. Scully was probably right. He would even admit 
it, willingly enough, in a little while. He was too disappointed, right 
at that moment, though, to feel reasonable. The distraction would do 
him good. 

"Want to stay for a while and listen?"

Scully watched as the young woman chatted with the 
bartender, and plucked at her guitar, making last minute adjustments 
in the tuning. Well, after all, they had no place else to be, that 
evening, there *was* no case to solve, and a little relaxation might 
not be a bad idea. Mulder was disappointed, she could tell, and a 
little annoyed with her. It would probably do them both good. She 
smiled and nodded at him, as the singer tapped the microphone.

"Hi everyone," the girl said, pushing her hair off her shoulders 
and smiling. "My name is Nicole White, and I'm going to sing a little 
for you, while you enjoy your coffee and dessert..."

"Dessert?" The waitress asked Mulder. He shook his head.

"Not for me. You want dessert, or a drink?"

"Just coffee," said Scully, "Decaf?"

The waitress nodded as Nicole White began the first of the 
ballads she would sing that night. Scully leaned on her elbows and 
listened. The woman was very good, and Scully smiled wistfully as 
the tunes shifted from ballad, to sea chantey, to old folk song. The 
waitress brought a coffee urn to the table with the cups, and left them 
on their own.

Scully glanced at Mulder out of the corner of her eye, and her 
irritation gradually dissipated. Sometimes he tried too hard to 
believe, it was true, but it was also that very single-minded devotion 
to his beliefs that she found most endearing in him. She felt a 
sudden rush of tenderness as she watched him fiddling with his 
coffee. He was such a strange, frustrating and exhilarating man, was 
her partner. And there were many occasions when she would have 
cheerfully wrung his neck. But no one had ever stimulated her mind 
and her imagination the way Fox Mulder had, no one had ever 
pushed her to the very edges of her credulity, then dared her to jump. 
She had not jumped, she would not jump. But there was 
something... attractive about the dare. She had never met anyone 
who could charge her with this sheer sense of adventure. 

Scully sighed inwardly. Even this charade of passing 
themselves off as a couple was more amusing than annoying, if she 
was really honest about it. It was silly, perhaps, and a little 
dishonest, 
but she had protested more from a sense of propriety that because of 
any real objection. She did wish he would not spring these little 
brainstorms on her without warning, but still, she had to admit, it 
*was* a pretty good ploy. She hoped she had not offended him by 
her reaction, or by her subsequent squelching of yet another wild 
theory. 

"She's very good," Scully ventured, nodding at the singer, 
trying to make amends.  "This was a good idea."

Mulder looked up from his coffee, and smiled at her.

"She *is* good," he agreed. "Enjoying yourself?"

Scully smiled and nodded.

"I've always enjoyed this sort of thing," she admitted. 
"Wishful thinking, mostly, I guess. I sound like something in pain, 
when I sing..."

Mulder laughed, friends, again. He watched Scully out of the 
corner of his eye as she relaxed into the magic of the music. He 
knew she had followed him on this little adventure as much of out of 
friendship as out of any burning desire to solve this puzzle, and that 
knowledge successfully dissolved any lingering irritation he might 
have had over the outcome of the trip. The truth was, Scully had 
*never* refused to help him, no matter what her personal feeling 
might have been about one of his theories or ideas. In fact, she had 
often put her career, and even her life, on the line to assist him and 
his work. As much as her skepticism frustrated him, sometimes, he 
relied tremendously on her clarity of vision and her point of view. 
He had also come to depend, emotionally, on her friendship, and 
support. He knew that, too.  

He leaned back into the corner of the booth and lifted his long 
legs onto the seat. He took a deep sip of the hot and aromatic coffee 
and sighed inwardly. They might not have accomplished what he 
had hoped in coming here, but this was still nice. He and Scully so 
rarely just relaxed together as friends. They needed to do this more 
often.

Nicole White stopped her singing for a moment. Mulder half 
expected her to announce that she was taking a break. Instead, she 
smiled, as if deciding on something, then struck a soft minor chord 
and closed her eyes. The ballad started slow, mournful and sweet. 
Mulder closed his eyes and smiled:



 "In Norwa land, there lived a maid


 Baloo, my babe, this maid began


 I ken na where your father is


 Nor yet the land where he dwells in



 "It happened on a certain day


 When this fair maiden fell asleep


 That in there came a grey silkie


 And sat him doon at her bed feet"



Scully frowned suddenly, and shifted in her seat. Mulder 
looked at her sharply, and watched memory play across her face. It 
had been months since their journey to Shelter Island off the coast of 
Maine and Scully's encounter with that extraordinary, seductive 
creature who had come out of the sea to bewitch her, but Mulder 
could see the beginnings of distress in Scully eyes. The being had 
manifested some magical power that had held Scully in a kind of 
strange, sexual thrall, leaving her helpless in the face of the 
creature's 
will. She had come close to losing her soul, and her life, to that 
enchantment, and apparently the effects had not totally faded, even 
after all that time. Mulder suppressed the urge to take her hand.



 "I pray come tell tae me your name


 And tell me where your dwelling be


 My name it is Gud Hein Mailler


 An I earn ma living oot tae sea



 "I am a man upon the land


 I am a Silkie in the sea


 And when I'm far frae every strand


 My home it is in Sule Skerry



 "Alas, alas, this woeful fate


 This weary fate that's been laid on me


 That a man should a come frae the West o Hoy


 Tae the Norwa lands tae ha a bairn wi me"



Mulder leaned toward Scully, this time putting his hand over 
hers. There was no doubt in his mind that it *had* been a selkie that 
Scully had confronted on Shelter Island. The creature had nearly 
lured her into the sea to her death, and he did not want to put her 
through the pain of remembering that encounter. 

"Do you want to leave," he asked gently.

Scully looked at him, her face stricken. 

"I'm okay," she insisted, struggling for composure. "I'm fine." 
 
She smiled at him. "It's just a song Mulder, I'm all right. Really."



 


 "Ma dear I'll wed ye wi a ring


 Wi a ring ma dear, I'll wed wi thee


 Thou may go wed wi whom thou wilt


 I'm sure ye'll never wed wi me



 "An she had got a gunner good


 An a gey good gunner, I'm sure twas he


 An he gae oot on a May morning


 An he shot the son and the grey silkie


Scully startled sharply and rose to her feet as Mulder reached 
out his hand to her again.



 "Alas, alas this woeful fate


 This weary fate that's been laid on me


"Excuse me," she said quickly, avoiding his grasp. She left 
quickly, as the singer finished her song:



 "And once or twice she sobbed and sighed


 An her tender heart, it brake in three."


Mulder signaled the waitress and settled their bill.  Then he 
followed Scully out. He found her standing next to a tree not far 
from the door, hugging her arms.

"Scully?" He came up next to her. "Are you okay?"

She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, and 
shook her head.

"Yeah. No. I don't know," she admitted. "God, Mulder, it's 
like it was yesterday. I can feel it like it just happened. I can feel 
that 
*thing* calling me..."

Mulder put his hand on her shoulder, sensing the depth of her 
distress, and remembering the reasons for it. He felt her trembling.

"It's okay," he comforted. "Just take a deep breath and relax. 
 
I'm right here."

Scully nodded and closed her eyes. After a few moments, 
she stopped shaking. A few moments more, and she straightened 
up. Mulder dropped his hand. She took a deep breath and nodded at 
him.

"I'm all right, now," she said, and he could see, this time, that 
it was true. "I think it was just the shock. I didn't expect to be 
reminded, and I wasn't prepared for the reaction." She shook her 
head. "I hope I'm not going to have to spend the rest of my life 
dealing with this," she sighed.

Mulder smiled.

"Well, it might be a good idea to stay out of bars with folk 
singers in them, for a while..." he teased, trying to get her smile. It 
worked. She laughed a little, and glanced up at him, then away 
quickly. He could see a shadow play across her face.

"What is it?" he asked.

Scully shrugged.

"It's just a little embarrassing, I guess," she admitted.

Mulder made a clucking noise at her.

"Oh, come on. None of that." He reached over and caught 
her chin with a fingertip, lifted her face until she was looking him in 
the eye.  "It's only me."

Scully gave him a strange look.

"No such thing," she said softly. Then she dropped her eyes.

Mulder frowned at her wonderingly. Scully cleared her throat 
and blew out a breath decidedly.

"I'm ready to call it a night," she said firmly, and the moment 
was broken.




Mulder said goodnight to Scully at the door of her motel 
room, but she could tell by his eyes that he was still concerned. She 
was grateful, and touched, but she was too tired, and frankly still too 
agitated, to want to talk further that night. She wanted to be alone, to 
think and eventually to sleep. Besides, she was in no danger. It was 
true that the encounter in Maine had come very close to ending her 
life, but the creature itself was long gone. Dead, probably. She had 
probably killed it herself.

"I'm really okay, Mulder," she said, giving him her very best 
reassuring smile. "I'm just a little rattled. It's nothing a good 
night's 
sleep won't take care of."

She reached out and squeezed his arm affectionately. Mulder 
gave her a searching look, then nodded.

"Okay. Good night, then," he finally relented. "But call me if 
you wake up, okay? Or if you have trouble sleeping?"

Scully smiled warmly. She nodded. Then she yawned, and 
Mulder laughed.

"All right, all right," he said. "I'll let you go. Get some 
sleep."

Scully merely covered her mouth and nodded. Mulder 
watched her until she closed her door, then he went on to his own 
room.

Scully might have been tired enough to call it a night, but 
Mulder was still wide awake. He made a face at the television; 
passive entertainment was not what he wanted. He thought about 
taking a run, but that was not what he really wanted, either. His eyes 
lighted on his brief case, and he sighed. The Colter ghosts were still 
heavy on his mind, despite Scully's reasonable contention that there 
was nothing they could do. He needed to think, and he often did that 
best with a pen in his hands. Opening the briefcase, he took out his 
field journal, and made himself comfortable at the small desk in the 
corner of his motel room.

Fox Mulder was perfectly comfortable with computers, and 
technology. He used them every day. Nonetheless, he still kept 
certain anachronistic habits from his college days, and from his early 
years with the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit; habits that relaxed him 
and helped him to think. One of those habits was keeping his field 
notes "in hand." Scully had teased him, at first, about this 
peculiarity, pointing out how much easier field reports were when 
one could cut and paste from a "word" document. But she had come 
to understand that writing and thinking were often synonymous to 
her partner. She stopped giving him a hard time.

Mulder opened the small loose-bound notebook he used as a 
field journal, and stared at the blank page, the end of his pen resting 
on the bottom lip of his mouth. Then he sighed, and started to write:



"Although nothing conclusive could be learned at the Colter 
farm this afternoon, the story told by David Bowman concerning his 
aunt's and his own alleged encounters with the spirit of Catherine 
Hewlett do agree with accounts of spectral encounters recorded by 
parapsychologist Han Holzer, as well as others. It is Agent Scully's 
contention that Bowman's alleged encounter is merely his mind's 
way of dealing with the trauma of his apparent rape as a child. While 
this contention is both valid, and likely accurate, I cannot help but 
feel that Bowman is completely sincere in his belief that he was 
'rescued' from this heinous attack by spectral intervention. 
Moreover, his story does resonate strikingly of other reported 
spectral rescues...


"I remain convinced that the deaths on the Colter farm 
property are the direct result of the attempts to sell this parcel toward 
the end of tearing down the house, and that they are the defensive 
reactions of the spirits of Catherine Hewlett, and possibility Jeremiah 
Colter.

"Phantoms, ghosts, spirits, by whatever names they are 
called, these phenomena are generally believed to be the emotional 
and psychological detritus of lives that have ended through some 
trauma, or with earthly issues left unresolved. They are, in effect, 
pieces of a consciousness left behind to re-enact the trauma, or 
attempt resolution of the issue, over and over, for eternity. While it 
is 
undoubtedly their great, though unconsummated, love that continues 
to bind Catherine Hewlett and Jeremiah Colter to this realm, I believe 
that it is the house, itself that provides the anchor keeping their 
spirits 
on this side of what Dr. Holzer refers to as "the veil". As long as 
attempts to transact a business deal that will result in the destruction 
of the house proceed, I am convinced that the deaths will continue.

"One must ask oneself, in all of this, if the ghosts, themselves, 
would not be 'better off' if the house was simply destroyed, and if the 
intervention of a psychic to assist them back across the line between 
life and death might not be the kindest thing. How terrible it must be 
to go through eternity seeking to reconcile a love that was never 
completely and fully expressed in life..."


Mulder put down his pen, and rubbed his eyes wearily. He 
stretched, then leaned forward against the desk and stared into space, 
his fist pressed thoughtfully against his mouth. It took him a 
moment to realize that he was not staring into space after all. The 
blank wall upon which he gazed was the one that separated his room 
from Scully's and he wondered if she had been able to get to sleep. 
He felt a sudden rush of tenderness and concern, and a restless desire 
to go check on her. He subdued the urge, guessing that it would not 
be too well received. Still, he hated the thought of her over there, 
alone, wrestling with whatever demons might have been stirred up 
that night. He shook his head in frustration at his own inability to 
comfort and protect her.

Protect her, he groaned to himself in amusement. She would 
undoubtedly *love* to know he was worried about *that*. He 
smiled to himself and picked up his pen again:



"I do not anticipate that Agent Scully's and my scheduled 
visit to examine the interior of the Colter farmhouse will yield any 
more conclusive evidence of spectral inhabitation than was gained 
today. It is extremely rare for persons not psychically sensitive to 
witness a spectral manifestation. The fact that both Bowman and his 
aunt claimed to have seen evidence of the ghost of Catherine Hewlett 
actually lends credence to Bowman's story, as psychic sensitivity 
tends to run in families. I make no claims to such sensitivity for 
myself, however, and I am equally sure that Agent Scully, were she 
asked, would insist, also, that she is free of any psychic powers..."



Mulder smiled to himself, imagining Scully's reaction to such 
a question.



"However," he finally concluded, "the opportunity to tour a 
bona fide haunted house is just to tempting to pass up...."




Despite her agitation, Scully had very little trouble falling 
asleep. She took her time with washing up, and got herself organized 
for morning. It was not particularly necessary that she do so, this 
was not a real case they were investigating, there was no need to be 
out the door at first light, but the routine was soothing. She thought 
about packing, but their plane did not leave until 2:00 pm the next 
day, and there would be plenty of time to do so once they returned 
from the Colter farm. Their plane. Scully sighed and shook her 
head, wondering what the chances were that their absence would 
remain undetected, and that a summons from Assistant Director 
Skinner, demanding an explanation, would not be waiting for them 
when they got back. She considered that it had, perhaps, not been a 
very good idea to follow Mulder up here. Except that God only 
knew what kind of trouble he would have gotten himself into if she 
had not.

Scully laid out jeans and a work shirt for the next morning - 
she was not going to get caught out in that field, again, in business 
wear - then glanced over at her laptop computer. It was her habit to 
spend some time each night before going to bed compiling her field 
notes from the day, but in this case there really was no need. There 
*was* no case, if they were lucky no one even knew they were there, 
and no report to Skinner would be necessary. In any case, Mulder 
would be making copious notes, she was sure, and if he needed her 
impressions, he would ask for them. She crawled into bed, switched 
off the table lamp, and was asleep as soon as her head touched her 
pillow.

*****************************************************
THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 5



The dream came up softly, drifting like a fog that slowly 
cleared to show a sunlit day. It engulfed Scully's sleeping awareness 
as it gradually came into focus until she was, herself, almost part of 
the scene. Scully saw green trees so sharp she could almost touch 
them; could almost smell the dusty dirt road and hear the chatter of 
summer birds. And although she could not truly "feel" it, some 
dream sense made her aware that it was late afternoon, and that the 
day was very hot.

A young man sat on the stone wall bordering the road. He 
was dressed in buff colored breeches and a white blouse. His black 
neck-stock was untied, and he used it occasionally to wipe the sweat 
from his face. He feet were clad in heavy brogans, buckled across 
the instep; his sand colored hair pulled back in a simple ribbon at the 
nape of his neck. Beside him lay the blue uniform coat of a 
Continental soldier. Dream sense bifurcated Scully's awareness, so 
that she simultaneously observed this young man, and also resided 
inside his emotions; was conscious of both his excitement, and the 
heaviness in his heart.

********

Jeremiah Colter sighed, and pushed a lock of sweat damp hair 
off his forehead. He stretched, easing the stiffness in his back. He 
looked at the uniform coat lying beside him, and knew that it had 
been both vain and foolish of him to put it all on, but he was so eager 
to join his regiment that he could barely wait the twelve hours left 
before he departed. The fact that he even owned the uniform was 
like a miracle, and had much to do with his father's position in town. 
Most of his friends would not receive theirs until they reached their 
regiments, if then.

The senior Colter had not been happy about his son's 
resolution to join the Patriot's cause. Though no loyalist, Colter was 
of the firm belief that the actual fighting in this war was other men's 
business, and that is was the task of him and his to stay on the farm 
and grow the crops that would eventually feed the American troops. 
He had no qualms about tapping into the fortune to be made 
provisioning the Continental army, nor was he even opposed to 
housing the Hessein prisoners that were occasionally brought 
through the area on their way to the prisoner-of-war camps, or 
prisoner exchanges, for a hefty charge per head, of course. But 
Colter's support of the war effort stopped well short of sending his 
eldest boy into battle for the cause.

Jeremiah Colter had other ideas. Fired by revolutionary 
rhetoric, he longed for war. Though old enough to be legally 
responsible for his own decisions, he was still heavily under the 
influence of his domineering parent, a fact as much as any that 
contributed to his fascination with calls to liberty and self-
determination. He had argued strenuously to be allowed to go, and 
the elder Colter had finally been worn down. The only condition the 
father applied was that Jeremiah postpone his marriage to Catherine 
Hewlett until after his enlistment was served.

This single condition had almost deterred him. Jeremiah 
loved Catherine Hewlett with a kind of encompassing passion that 
wiped out all other understanding whenever he saw her. His eventual 
marriage to her, the thought of bringing her finally to his bed, 
consumed his waking thoughts and haunted his dreams. The idea 
that he would have to postpone that moment for perhaps another 
three years was almost more than he could bear.

He had nearly backed down from his convictions when a 
desperate call for recruits came up from New York.  British General 
Howe had finally ended his siege on Boston, and New York was 
anticipated as the next target. Jeremiah's friends, many of them 
militia-men, where ready to march, and Jeremiah was once again 
determined to march with them. He would leave on the following 
morning. Colter senior's only consolation was the fact that he would 
not be leaving a mere girl from an uninspiring background behind as 
his wife and heir should anything happen to him.

**********

In the spirit of dreams, Scully knew all this, watching the 
young man. She could feel his terrible uncertainty, and his terrible 
longing, as if they were the products of her own heart. She also felt, 
with startling clarity, the young man's physical need for the girl who 
now appeared at the bend in the road. She was coming to prepare the 
Colter family's evening meal, as was her duty. Jeremiah's mother 
had been dead for two years, and the his father had not yet 
remarried. As daughter-in-law to be, many of those womanly chores 
now fell to Catherine. 


Catherine, pretty Catherine. Beautiful, beautiful Cat. 
Jeremiah physically ached for her, and Scully ached with him. She 
tossed softly on her pillows, disturbed by the intensity of the things 
she was feeling.

***********

"And there you are, lazybones, out here gathering wool in the 
sun while honest people work," the girl said pertly as she 
approached. Jeremiah jumped to his feet.

Catherine Hewlett was definitely a beauty. A slender girl, she 
nonetheless filled the bodice of her long dress invitingly, and 
Jeremiah knew, because he had seen their outline when the wind had 
blown her skirts against her legs, that her thighs were firm and 
rounded. Coal black hair peeked out from under her white cap, and 
black eyes sparkled more merrily than was proper for a young 
unmarried girl of her station. Jeremiah knew that his father did not 
wholly approve of Catherine, and he suspected that the older man's 
disapproval was based on this same hint of earthiness his son found 
so enticing.

At that moment, however, Cat's merriness was a sham. This 
would be her last few moments with Jeremiah until he returned from 
war. The fact that he was leaving was still not one she could deal 
with comfortably, but she stood in the road and smiled at him, 
pretending.

"Lazy am I?" Jeremiah protested. "I'll have you know I put 
in a full day in the fields before I came to watch for you. I was afraid 
father would not allow me this time," he added with a sigh, "but he 
merely nodded when I asked." 

He stood up self consciously, and put on his uniform coat.

"So? What do you think?"

Catherine sighed.

"I think you are the most handsome man I have ever seen," 
she replied, meaning it. She stepped closer to him, and he suddenly 
swept her into his arms. She laughed as he swung her around him, 
then demanded playfully that he put her down.

"Someone will see us, here in the middle of the road this 
way," she reminded him. It was not an idle warning. They were still 
an unmarried couple, even though publicly affianced, and such 
behavior was bound to bring censure should anyone see them. 
Father Colter disliked her already, there was no sense adding to his 
causes for disapproval. Jeremiah dutifully put her down.

"Come up by the house," he told her taking her hand. "No 
one will be able to see us there from the road." He lead her up the 
sloping yard to the far side of the house, then took her in his arms 
again, more insistently this time. Catherine squirmed a little. 

"Someone will see."

"They are all in the fields, there is no one in the house," 
Jeremiah assured her, holding her tight. Catherine sighed. For all her 
lush looks, she was really a demure and very chaste young woman, 
but she was also one who was very much in love. She finally 
relented, yielding to his embrace. The two lover held each other with 
growing desperation, as the realization hit home to them both that 
this might be the last time.

"Ah, Katie, the worst is leaving you, I can endure the rest of 
it," Jeremiah sighed into her hair.

Catherine loosened her hold on him, and looked away.

"Then don't go," she replied. "You have no obligation but 
your own desire in this."

Jeremiah looked at her sadly.

"But I must go, Cat, you know that. You said you 
understood."

Catherine nodded, and bit back her retort. He would go, 
now, whether she "understood" or not, she was woman enough to 
know *that*.

"I just can't bear the thought of losing you," she said softly. 
"That you might never return..."

Jeremiah took her into his arms again, and this time she did 
not resist him. 

*************

Scully tossed restlessly as Jeremiah's aching need rushed 
through her body. She moaned, almost feverishly, in her sleep. 
Then she settle down again, and the dream overtook her once more.

*************  

"Catherine, kiss me," Jeremiah begged her. She looked up at 
him shyly. "Kiss me. Sweetheart, I love you. I would never hurt 
you. I just love you so much." His lips closed over hers, hot and 
demanding. She struggled for a moment, then relaxed, then 
struggled again as his tongue filled her mouth. He let her go.

"We're not yet man and wife, Jeremiah Colter," Catherine 
told him angrily, "you'll take no such liberties with me!"

"Please," he begged, his voice a hoarse whisper. "I need 
you."

Despite her fears, and her sense of propriety, Catherine's own 
need was no less. She hesitated, then reached for him, and gave 
herself up as his mouth closed over hers. His hands wandered her 
body hungrily, and she was helpless resist him. He pulled her against 
him, and she could feel his need against her body. She struggled to 
free herself.

"Come to me Cat, tonight," Jeremiah begged. "Or let me 
come to you. We may never see each other in this world again, 
Catie, I cannot stand the thought that we might never lie together as 
man and wife. We are such in our hearts, let me come to you."

"No." Catherine pushed him away, hard this time. He let her 
go.

"Why not."

"It's a sin, Jeremiah. Because it's a sin. We are sinners 
enough without adding fornication to the list."

"It's not a sin if we love each other."

"That's the devil speaking in you now, Jeremiah Colter. I 
won't listen. Such an act is a sin against society, and a sin against 
God. I close my ears to it."

"Catherine, I beg you. I love you so much."

But Catherine shook her head.  

"Please Jeremiah, don't spoil our last moments together..."

Jeremiah glared at her, his pride and his thwarted need 
making him cruel.

"It is already spoiled," he told her, walking away.

Catherine watched him go, tears welling up in her eyes. He 
would forgive her, she knew, before the evening was done, he would 
not leave her in anger like that. At least she hoped he would not. But 
even still, the disagreement would overshadow their last moments 
together. The only thing that comforted her was the certainty that 
she was right, that she had saved his very soul from damnation by 
refusing to succumb to his temptations. She sighed and wiped her 
eyes. She looked up at the lowering sun, and reminded herself that 
there was still a family meal to prepare before the rest came back 
from the fields. She wiped her hands on her skirt, and walked with 
forced calm over to the well.

******************

Scully felt Jeremiah's anger and frustrated need for physical 
release with an intensity that was almost overpowering. She rolled 
over, and nearly awoke. The dream faded, slightly, as she rose and 
fell in sleep. Then she wrapped her arm around her pillow, hugging it 
close, and settled back down. The dream reasserted itself, sharper, 
now, but somehow changed.

The young woman still stood by well, but she was no longer 
the dark hairdo beauty called Catherine Hewlett. Even in sleep 
Scully felt both a mild shock, and a sudden thrill of excitement as she 
recognized herself in the long dress, her light auburn hair tucked 
demurely up under the ruffled white cap. There was a momentary 
sense of dislocation, as she both viewed, and experienced the scene, 
and then sleep deepened, and her consciousness surrendered itself to 
the dream.

******************

Dana leaned over the well, and felt the cool, moist air rising 
up from its depths, caressing her face. It smelled sweet and soothing.

"Don't fall in," a familiar voice, musical with barely contained 
laughter, warned behind her. Dana turned, and saw Fox, standing 
there, grinning at her. She smiled broadly.

"Hi," she said, sounding a little surprised.

He was wearing the uniform of a Revolutionary War 
grenadier, and Dana was startled to see how elegant he looked in it. 
She saw the bright sparkle of his hazel green eyes in the sunlight, the 
finely chiseled features of his handsome face. Saw too, the adorable, 
boyish charm that she knew could turn so quickly to capable 
manliness. Admired the lean, graceful body as he strode toward her.

Fox quirked an eyebrow at her merrily, then reached over and 
grabbed the stone well cover by its iron ring, pulling it back over the 
opening of the well. 

"Not that I don't trust your coordination, but I'll feel better 
if 
this is closed...," he said, laughing at her. Dana made a face at him, 
then leaned back so that she was half sitting against it. 

"Did you sleep all right last night?" Fox asked. Dana 
nodded.

"Yes, very well," she agreed. "Thank you."

A light wind teased an auburn curl out of Dana's bonnet, and 
Fox reached over, catching it and twisting it around his finger.

"Don't," she admonished, but not very sternly. She looked a 
little disconcerted, but not exactly displeased.

Fox clucked his tongue at her. 

"You're always so careful to be proper and correct," he 
teased. Then he sighed, and looked around.

"I'm going to miss all this, you know." He nodded around 
him. Dana touched his hand.

"You don't have to go."

Fox looked at her thoughtfully.

"I don't know what the future holds for me, Dana. But 
someday, I will have to go. We all will." He took a deep breath. 
"The question is, do we go with regrets, do we go leaving things 
unsaid..."

"Fox, I..." she protested.

He touched her mouth, silencing her.

"Does it offend you that much, the idea that I might have 
feelings for you?"

Dana dropped her eyes.

"No, it doesn't offend me..." she said in a small voice.

"What, then?"

She looked back up into his eyes.

"It frightens me. It... it isn't right. It isn't the way we 
should 
be."

Fox's eyes got hard. 

"Why not. Because of some stupid, archaic *rules*?" he 
asked her angrily. She shook her head sadly. Then she smiled a 
little.

"Well, you never were much of a one for rules," she sighed. 
Fox reached out his hand.

"I love you," he said softly, tracing her jaw. Dana dropped 
her eyes, and took a deep breath.

"And I love you," she replied, shivering slightly.

He touched her lips. Her eyes, her brow. 

"So beautiful..."

"Fox."

He lifted her face to his with a fingertip. He leaned close and 
she could feel his breath on her neck, feel his lips touch the skin of 
her cheek, next to her ear.

"Fox," she protested, weakly. He kissed her again, a little 
lower on her neck. She whimpered softly and turned her head a 
little, allowing him to run his lips down her throat and into the hollow 
of her shoulder. She shivered and pulled away.

"Don't." She meant it this time, and he let her go, a little.

"Why not?"

"It isn't right," she reminded him. He looked at her seriously. 
 

"I love you, Dana. With all my heart, and all my soul. I don't 
*care* what the others think..." He looked at her pleadingly. "What 
if something should happen to one of us. What if we died, without 
ever knowing..."

"Don't talk like that." She tried to push him away. Fox held 
her, but loosely; had she truly wished to separate herself from him, 
she could have, easily, and he would have let her go. Instead, she 
tucked her head into his shoulder, and he pulled her close.

"I can't bear the thought of losing you."

"I know," he sighed. "But we've already come so close to 
losing each other, and we never spoke." He brushed his lips against 
her forehead, then he looked down at her.

"Kiss me, Dana."

She looked up at him, and he saw the fear in her eyes.

"I won't hurt you, sweetheart. I would never hurt you. I love 
you so much. Kiss me. Please."

Dana smiled, and raised her lips to his, kissing him chastely 
on the mouth. He held her against his body, and pressed his lips to 
hers, not forcing her, but neither letting her move away. He felt her 
relax against him, and he touched her lips with his tongue. 

Dana drew back sharply. He continued to hold her, and felt 
her yield, her lips parting under the pressure of his. His tongue filled 
her mouth. No longer resistant, she wound her fingers into his hair 
and pulled him closer; he ran his hands down her body, cupping her 
under the ribs and stroking her with his thumbs. He felt her gasping 
and released her slightly.

She eyed him, at once wary and desirous.

"I love you," he said, kissing her throat. He reached up and 
caught his fingers in the strings that bound the bodice of her dress.

"Someone will see," she warned, panicking, glancing over at 
the house.

"There's no one home, they're all in the fields," he replied. He 
struggled with the ties, helplessly, as she watched his face. Then 
resolution came into her eyes, and she reached up, and moved his 
hands away. Without looking away from his face, she untied the 
ribbons. He smiled at her, tenderly, then slipped his hands under the 
fabric on her shoulders, and drew the bodice down. He touched her 
wonderingly, kissed her neck, her throat, his lips moving slowly, 
tantalizingly down her body. She whimpered as his mouth covered 
her.

"Oh, God, I love you!" she cried out softly into his hair.

Fox found her mouth again, kissed her deeply. He moved his 
hands down over her hips, and drew up the skirt of her dress.  For a 
moment, the panic returned to her eyes.

"No," she shook her head.

"Yes," he replied. "Dana, I want you so much. I want you."  
His mouth caressed her hungrily. Dana sighed and surrendered.

"Yes. I want you, too."

Fox grabbed her skirt again, and pulled the front of it all the 
way up. He pressed her back against the well, and she could feel 
him, feel his maleness pressing on her, wanting her. She swallowed 
hard, weak with desire. She felt his hand reaching down, touching 
her, stroking her thighs, grasping the buttons that closed his breech... 
 
He tugged the buttons loose, and she felt the fabric fall away; she 
felt him...

*****************

Scully sat up abruptly, gasping for breath.  She shook her 
head, and tried to remember where she was. She looked around 
helplessly.

 The memory of the dream was still potent, leaving her 
disturbed and disoriented. She looked at the clock on the night stand 
by her bed. It was only 5:30 a.m.

Oh, my God, she thought. Of course, there was a logical 
explanation. The song sung by Nicole White the night before had 
certainly triggered all those memories of the selkie who had come 
out of the sea and cast his seductive enchantment over her. She 
could still feel its pull, in unguarded moments. Perhaps she always 
would. 

Scully had reconciled herself to the fact that she, a rational 
human being, a doctor and a trained FBI agent, had nearly thrown 
everything away to some magical creature. She could not explain it, 
but she knew it had happened, and that it had been real. She 
accepted that it had not been her fault. Mulder had reiterated that 
over and over to her in those first few weeks afterward, while she was 
still wrestling with the terrible shame that was the aftermath of the 
selkie's visitation. Mulder. My god, Mulder, Scully thought. To 
have a dream like that about *him*!

But even that made sense, really. Obviously, she was still 
feeling the affects of her encounter with the selkie. That, coupled 
with the story she had heard the day before, about those ghostly 
lovers, was bound to excite her imagination. Not to mentioned the 
fact that there had not been a "real" man in her life in a very long 
time, she thought wryly, not in the romantic, physical sense, anyway. 
In fact, she had not had a love life in so long, now, that she wondered 
if she still remembered what that was.

Fox Mulder was the closest man to her. He was her partner. 
She smiled to herself; he was her best friend, in many ways, too. She 
trusted him more than any other man who was not a blood relative; 
more than some of her relatives, actually. She would risk her life for 
him, and trusted him, absolutely, with her own. And, of course she 
found him attractive. He *was* attractive, and she was neither blind 
nor oblivious. It was true that, sometimes, when his eyes would 
sparkle with amusement that certain way, she would feel a quick 
catch in her breath. Or when he was thwarted in some goal that he 
wanted badly and his bottom lip would tremble like a child's, she 
would feel a sudden rush of tenderness, even while she wanted to 
strangle him. It did not mean anything, but it was probably natural 
that her mind would focus on Mulder as the object of her unsettled 
thoughts, especially in a dream. It stood to reason. Of course.

So, then, what was this nagging ache deep in her belly; why 
did the idea of facing him in a couple of hours make her heart 
suddenly pound? Scully sighed, and got out of bed. Sleep was 
definitely done for that night. To the shower, Dana Katherine. Get 
over it.

She was fine until she saw him, two and a half hours later, 
waiting for her in the motel coffee shop. Her face must have 
mirrored her distress, because Mulder was suddenly frowning with 
concern as she slid into the booth across from him.

"You okay, Scully? You look a little... 'off', this morning."

Scully took a deep breath and nodded.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she replied, smiling brightly. "I just didn't 
sleep very well last night." She decided to tell him some of it. He 
would hear the truth, and not pursue too far. "I guess that song upset 
me more than I realized. My dreams where pretty unsettled. I was 
up and down all night."

"You should have called me," Mulder admonished. "I'd have 
come over and sat with you." Scully shrugged.

"There was not point in both of us losing sleep," she replied. 
"They were just dreams, Mulder."

Mulder nodded with understanding. 

"You know, you don't need to come out there with me, this 
morning. You can wait here and rest if you want to..." he offered. 
Scully smiled again, more warmly this time, and shook her head.

"No, I'm okay, really. It's nothing a good, strong cup of 
coffee won't cure." As if to illustrate, she suddenly yawned, then 
chuckled a little. Mulder smiled at her. "Anyway," she went on, 
"I'm curious, now, myself."

"Well, as soon as your ready, then," he replied. "Have your 
coffee. Bowman came by earlier this morning with the key; he has 
an errand, and will meet us out there later if he can. Otherwise, we're 
just to leave the key with the motel proprietor when we're done..."

"That's very trusting of him," Scully said, surprised.

Mulder shrugged.

"The place is empty, there's nothing for us to steal," he 
guessed. "Besides," he added with a mischievous smile, "the place is 
protected by its very own ghosts..."

Scully rolled her eyes, then grinned at him and shook her 
head. She signaled the waitress for coffee.

=====================================================================
======

From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay)
Subject: New Story: THOSE WHO LOVE (6/7)
Date: Wed, 06 Sep 95 07:22:59 PST


This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat 
steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder 
and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - 
you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, 
however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding.

Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted.

"Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on 
September 6, 1995.

Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen 
Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without 
any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the 
characters are mine.

*****************************************************
THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 6


Both Mulder and Scully had dressed more practically, in 
jeans and work boots, that morning, so the walk back out to the 
Colter house was a little easier this time. Mulder unlocked the side 
door with the key Bowman had given him, and they stepped into the 
cool passageway that lead from the back door to the kitchen. Mulder 
glanced up at a row of wooden pegs close to the ceiling and 
speculated that the passageway had probably been used to dry 
medicinal and cooking herbs in the late fall, for winter storage.

"You really *do* know a lot about these old houses, don't 
you," Scully commented. Mulder shrugged, running his hand along 
a ceiling beam. Much taller than most men from that day and age, he 
could reach it easily. 

"My mom has a passion for this stuff," he explained, 
gesturing her through the doorway. "I think I've probably been 
through ever Revolutionary period house in eastern Massachusetts. 
She knows a lot, and talked about it all the time. A lot of it stuck, I 
guess."

They stepped into the original kitchen. The room was very 
large, easily half the house, stretching across the whole back. The 
wide pine board floors were bare, and Scully could see the wooden 
pegs that held it secure. She thought again, of Mulder's story about 
the value of iron nails, and smiled. The ceiling was low, and open 
beamed, with rusted iron hooks still sticking out in places. Scully 
almost asked Mulder if he thought they were original, then let it go. 
Such bits and pieces of information might be interesting, but they 
were not the reason the two agents were there. Scully chuckled to 
herself at the thought. The god's honest truth was, other than 
humoring her partner, she was not really sure why they *were* there. 
She turned around slowly, looking around.

The dominating feature to the room was the fireplace. It 
stretched almost the entire length of the back of the kitchen, wide and 
deep, with a deep brick hearth, and two beehive shaped openings, the 
bread and baking ovens, on one side. One of the openings still had 
its iron door. To the right of the fireplace was a door. Scully stepped 
through into a small room and was immediately struck by a sense of, 
well, not foreboding, exactly, but the room definitely had a strange 
feel to it. She glance left and right.

This must be Mulder's "borning room," she thought. What a 
strange thing to call it. Still, she could understand why such a place 
would be convenient spot to house the infirm, or parturient women. 
The room actually stretched *behind* the fireplace, so it would 
always be warm, and, since most of the farm's indoor activities 
would have taken place in the kitchen, there would have always been 
someone around to help, without interrupting, unnecessarily, other 
chores. There were no windows in the room, she noticed, and it was 
very small, just large enough, really for a bed, and maybe a chair. 
She noticed some shelving built into the walls, and tried to imagine 
what it would be like for a doctor to try to work under those 
conditions. She shook her head. Then she thought about what it 
would be like to be a woman giving birth, and the thought made her 
shudder. 

This must have been the room in which Jeremiah Colter and 
Catherine Hewlett both died. Scully remembered the early part her 
dream the night before, and felt a little sad. Those two dream lovers 
had seemed so real to her, that she suddenly felt their deaths like a 
personal loss. A creeping chill settled over her, and she rubbed her 
arms. 

Scully walked back into the kitchen, and crossed over to the 
fireplace. Staring at the wide cavity, she could almost hear the clatter 
of dishes, almost smell food cooking there, and hear the voices of 
women talking amongst themselves. It was a strange feeling, but not 
unwelcome. She knelt down on the hearth, and looked into the 
fireplace cavity. She tipped her head to look up the flue. Dark as the 
inside of a pocket, she could not see a thing. She shrugged, and 
looked at the walls of the cavity. They were black from many years 
of cooking and heating, the soot impressed indelibly into the rough 
brick. She could see holes in those bricks, too, from the brackets that 
had held the cooking pots.

Scully settled back on her heels, and ran her hand over the 
hearth. She smiled softly, thinking about the generations of women 
who had lived and loved in that house, cooked at that hearth to feed 
their men and their children. Gave birth and died in that little room 
behind the kitchen. A warm, almost peaceful feeling filled her, and 
she sighed.

"Scully."

She turned and saw Mulder watching her from the opposite 
doorway.

"What are you looking at?"

"Nothing," she said with a smile. "I was just thinking about 
the generations of women who scrubbed this hearth, the hands that 
toiled, here, for their families. I don't know, life is so short, and 
yet, 
somehow, when I look at things like this, it just seems so timeless."

Mulder joined her at the hearth, squatted down beside her.

"I know what you mean," he agreed. "When I was in 
England, I can remember going to Stonehenge, and Glastonbury Tor. 
Standing in structures that was thousands of years old, thinking 
about the people who had stood there, once, to predict a harvest or 
anticipate the turning of the sun..."

He smiled at her, and for a moment the world around them 
faded, and they were just two people joined in the mystery of 
generations. Then Mulder stood up, and held down a hand to her.

"Come here a minute, I want to show you something."

Scully took his hand, and let him pull her to her feet. He lead 
her into one of the front rooms.

"I think this is the room Bowman was attacked in," he said.

"What makes you think so?"

"Well, he said there was a fireplace, and in the other front 
room, the fireplace is boarded over. And this is the larger of the two 
rooms, I guess it stands to reason that it would be used as the living 
room." He pointed up at the ceiling. "This was the original part of 
the house, you can see. This back part with the kitchen was added 
afterwards. See the seam?"

Scully looked into the room. She noted that the walls were 
bare and water stained, that faded patches in orderly patterns were 
probably from pictures that had once hung there. The fireplace itself 
looked crumbly, and there was a small pile of loose bricks by the side 
of the hearth. Scully looked up and duly noted the "seam" in the 
ceiling architecture. Then she smiled up at her partner and sighed.

"You know, Mulder, this has been fascinating, really, but I'm 
still not sure why we're here," she reminded him. "What is it we're 
looking for, anyway?"

Mulder shrugged. 

"I don't know, Scully, a sense of something. A feeling of the 
extraordinary?"

"That old paranormal bouquet?" she teased. He made a face 
at her.

"You have to admit that this old house does feel odd, 
somehow. Almost, well, occupied..." He shuddered a little, and she 
watched him curiously.

"I will admit that there is something strange about this place, 
yes," she agreed, surprising him. "There is something about this 
whole trip that has excited the imagination. It... it's a piece of 
history, 
it has a certain magic to it, a certain wonder..." She lay her hand on 
his arm affectionately. "I don't know, Mulder, maybe it even *is* 
haunted. God knows I've seen stranger things in your company. But 
that still doesn't prove a connection to those deaths. And it still has 
nothing to do with us."

Mulder just looked at her. Then he sighed, and nodded 
slowly.

"You're right," he surrendered, resting a hand lightly on her 
shoulder. "It's been fun, but it's time to go home, now, huh?"

Scully just cocked her head at him.

"Okay," he agreed with a sigh. Then he looked at her 
questioningly. "Can we at least look around upstairs, first?"

His expression was so hopeful that Scully felt a dizzying rush 
of sheer affection for this man. Her face split into a wonderful smile.

"Yes, of course we can look around upstairs first," she agreed, 
laughing. Mulder lead the way.

"Careful here," he said near the top of the stairs. "Some of 
the steps are missing." He spanned the missing planks with the wide 
reach of his long legs, then held his hands down to Scully to help her 
up. He steadied her on the landing for a moment, as she regained her 
balance.

"I'd be careful walking around up here," she cautioned him. 
"No telling how much else of this floor is rotted out..."

Mulder nodded, and guided her down the narrow hallway. 
There were three rooms on the second floor, all laid out around the 
forward chimney. He wandered into the largest of the rooms, in the 
front of the house, as Scully turned to the smallest. She stopped 
outside the doorway, and hugged her arms, suddenly overcome with 
a feeling at once warm and ice cold. She started to turn away, then 
something inexplicable made her enter the room. She gasped. For a 
moment, she could see it as it once had been, furnished sparely, but 
neatly, and with care. White curtains blew out the open window. 
Beside the window was a straight backed chair. Next to the chair 
stood a desk-like table with wooden baskets attached to both sides. 
A lady's sewing table, Scully, who had never seen one in her life 
before, suddenly knew. This had been the sewing room, Catherine 
Hewlett's favorite place. She had planned her future there, sewed the 
sheets and linens that would be part of her dowry. Mended 
Jeremiah's shirts with all the love she had in her heart, dreaming of 
the day she would finally be his wife.

Scully felt tears well in her eyes. 

"That was her favorite spot, there by the window in the sun."

"Scully?"

She turned. Mulder stepped into the room.

"Did you say something?"

Scully glanced around. The room was bare, old wall paper 
peeling from the walls. A window pane was missing and there was a 
huge water stain on the floor.

"No," she replied, unaware that she had spoken out loud. 
"It's nothing."

Something must have showed in her face.

"Are you all right?" Mulder insisted. She sighed.

"The truth is, I'm feeling a little light headed," she admitted a 
half truth. "I think I'm just feeling the effects of the lack of sleep, 
but 
it is awfully airless up here."

Concern for her overrode Mulder's disappointment at the lack 
of evidence, spectral or otherwise, that he had found. He took her 
arm.

"All right, let's go back down," he said. "Can you make it 
okay? Do you want to sit down for a minute?"

Scully assured him that she was all right, and let him help her 
back down the stairs. Once back in the kitchen, she went out 
through the narrow passageway to the back door and breathed 
deeply of the fresh air outside. She looked out across the overgrown 
yard. The old stone well crossed her line of vision, and she felt a 
sudden hot flush of emotion as her dream of Mulder from the night 
before suddenly came back to her with all its vividness. She gasped 
slightly, and felt a sudden desperate need to be away from this 
house. Everywhere she turned, it seemed, something waited to 
assault her senses, her emotions.

"There's a modern kitchen and bathroom way at the back of 
the house," Mulder called as he joined her in the doorway. "What 
are you looking at?"

Scully jumped a little at the sound of his voice, then searched 
the perimeter quickly for something to talk about, to deflect what she 
recognized as his growing concern for her state, and to cover her own 
agitation. She noticed a flock of crows bounding and diving near the 
ground in at the edge of the woods. Grateful, she pointed, feigning 
sudden interest.

"What do you think is going on with those birds over there?"

"I dunno," Mulder replied following her gaze. "Probably 
some dead animal. Want to go take a look?"

Scully did not, particularly, but now that she had made an 
issue of it, she thought they probably should. She nodded in 
agreement, and started toward the birds.

The crows lifted off their find in a black cloud as Mulder and 
Scully approached. It was an animal only in the sense that the 
human species is part of the animal kingdom. Scully looked down at 
the still form of Leslie Hendricksen, her eyes getting round for a 
moment, then looked over at Mulder. She did not bother the seek a 
pulse; the entire back of Hendricksen's head had been blown away.




David Bowman arrived on the scene at the same time as the 
local police.

"Agent Mulder?" he queried, coming up to Mulder's side, 
and emphasizing the "agent". Mulder looked a little sheepish.

"Sorry about that house-hunting story..." he began. But 
Bowman just waved his hand dismissively.

"Oh, I knew you weren't looking to relocate," he said, "I could 
tell that right away. Frankly, I thought you were a couple of ghost 
hunters, we get them up here now and then. I must say, I didn't 
expect the F.B.I., though. Surprised me, when I heard your call 
come in over the scanner." 

Bowman looked up, and nodded at Scully, who was 
approaching from behind Mulder.

"Mulder, Chief Rydell would like to speak to you?"

Scully looked at Bowman, gave him a rueful smile. 

"Mr. Bowman."

"*Agent* Scully, a presume?" Bowman quipped, his voice 
tinged with amusement. 

"Look, I really want to apologize about the charade," Scully 
began, giving Mulder an evil look. Bowman only laughed.

"No apology necessary, Ms. Scully," he assured her. Beside 
him, Mulder chuckled.

"I guess my acting job wasn't all that good, after all," he 
admitted. Bowman shook his head.

"Since you two are *not* here hunting ghosts," he went on, 
"then I assume that you think there is something suspicious in the 
deaths of those three young men, earlier this month? You think it 
might be related to whatever happened to that fellow out there?" He 
nodded out toward the circle of men standing around Hendricksen's 
body.

"Well, yes and no," Mulder replied. "Yes, I think there is 
something suspicious in those deaths, but no, I don't think they're 
related to this one at all. This was obviously some kind of gangland 
murder, maybe involving drugs. Those earlier deaths are a 
completely different cause. You see, Mr. Bowman, we really *are* 
hunting ghosts, you guessed right. I believe those three young men 
were deliberately frightened to death." He nodded politely. "Would 
you excuse me?"

Mulder turned and went to find Police Chief Rydell, leaving 
Scully to smile apologetically at the surprised and bemused 
Bowman. She murmured something that sounded like "excuse me", 
and followed Mulder across the field.

"The license in his wallet says his name is Leslie Hendricksen, 
but I doubt that's his real name. We'll have to ID him, but I'll bet my 
left nut that this guy is tied in with the Giacottis, one way or the 
other," Chief Rydell was explaining to Mulder as Scully walked up. 
"Guy took a 9mm to the face. I hope he's got some teeth left."

"The Giacottis?" Mulder asked.

"Yeah. I was explaining to your partner, earlier, that this 
whole area has become a hot bed of drug related crime in the last five 
years. It used to be, years ago when Cumberland was a farming 
community, that none of the big pushers, none of the "families" 
would bother with it. Just not enough money here, not enough 
interest, to make it worth their while. But in the last few years, 
Cumberland has become a big bedroom community for Hartford. 
Lots of executives live out here, now. Therefore, lots of money lives 
out here, and lots of unsupervised kids with time on their hands. The 
drugs just inevitably followed.

"Even worse, this whole area has become a central drop for 
the Hartford/Springfield/Providence triangle. Probably half the coke 
in lower New England passes through our little town, these days."

Rydell shook his head.

"I suppose I'm exaggerating, but it feels like that some days. 
The truth is, we just don't have the manpower, or the expertise, to 
deal with it. Cumberland County as joined a three county task force 
to try to combine resources, and we've still had no luck in cracking 
this ring. We just need one break. But that break doesn't seem to 
want to come."

"Maybe it just did," Scully replied, nodding at the draped 
corpse in the weeds. Rydell shrugged.

"Maybe, but I doubt it. This guy is probably pretty low on 
the totem pole. And even if he can provide us with a positive link, 
the guy's dead. He's not going to do us much good that way. We 
need to get the bastard who shot him, and we need to take him alive."

Mulder nodded, and glanced at Scully, but said nothing. 
Rydell eyed him speculatively.

"Might I ask what the FBI was doing here in the first place?" 
he finally asked.

"An unrelated project, actually," Mulder replied, more or less 
truthfully. "We're interested in the Colter property. We just got 
lucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time." He said 
no more, and let the man speculate about whether or not there was 
something illegal going down with the land deal, or the realty 
company behind it.  The air of secretiveness saved him. Actually, 
Rydell did not really care, as long as the Bureau was not treading on 
*his* turf.

"Well, I'll need the two of you to come down to the station 
and make a statement..." he concluded, his mind already drifting off 
their presence, and on to the task at hand. He turned to his men.

"We about buttoned up, there?"





"Making statements" turned out to be a lot more time 
consuming, and confusing, than anticipated, and it was not too long 
before Mulder realized that they were not going to make their plane 
back to Washington.

"Mulder, what are we going to tell Skinner?" Scully groused 
as her partner changed their flight until the following afternoon, and 
made arrangements with the motel to keep their rooms for one more 
night. "There is no way we can be missing for this long, and not 
have anyone notice..."

"The truth," Mulder replied. "Actually, now we've even got 
some truth to tell. We were up here doing preliminary investigation 
on a possible X-File, and we stumbled onto the murder. What's he 
going to say, come home anyway?"

"He's going to want to know what we were doing here in the 
first place," Scully replied, "And he's not gonna be too happy with 
your reference from 'New England's Haunted Places'."

Mulder just grinned.

"I'll call him. As soon as we get back to the motel."

That did not seem like it was going to happen any time in the 
near future. They were still sitting around the station at 2:30 pm 
when positive ID came through on the body.

"Victim's name really *is* Leslie Hendricksen," Chief Rydell 
told them. "The poor bastard's so small time he couldn't even afford 
an alias. And he's *not* connected with the Giacotti family, or any 
of the other mob families, that we can find out. Small time dealer, 
front man for another small timer named Harold Peters." Rydell 
shook his head in disgust. "So we've got nothin'."

Mulder shook his head, feeling for the man. It was not his 
area of expertise, or even a side bar of interest. He had little 
experience with drug related crime, his own training before the X-
Files having dealt primarily with serial killers. In fact, the only 
"mob" 
related work he had ever done was that wire-tap stint Skinner had 
stuck him on as disciplinary action while the X-Files had been closed 
down. On the other hand, he had nothing better to do while they 
were waiting to get out of there the next day, Scully was right that 
there was nothing they could do about the Colter farm, no matter 
what he personally believed, and he really did feel for this Chief of 
Police, who had been rather more decent to them than his ilk usually 
was.

"Look, Chief Rydell, I don't want to step on any toes here, 
but my partner and I are stuck here until our plane leaves tomorrow, 
and we've got nothing better to do right now. Our, uh, other project 
looks like a dead end, and we were on our way home, anyway..." He 
took a breath. "If you'd like, what if I take a look at that file for 
you? 
See if I notice anything?"

Rydell gave him a hard look, and Mulder raised his hands. 

"Off the record, of course. And you're free to say no. It's up 
to you. But we *are* here..." He shrugged benignly. Rydell looked 
at him for a moment longer, then slowly nodded.

"Thank you, Agent Mulder," he replied. "That's decent of 
you. I'd be grateful for anything you might turn up."

"That *was* very decent of you, Mulder," Scully quipped 
when he told her about the offer. "Are you feeling all right?"

Mulder gave her a dirty look, then smiled. But the truth was, 
he was restless, his adrenaline was pumping, and he just could not 
bear the thought of spending another afternoon and evening hanging 
around with nothing to do, while these officers struggled around him. 
He did not expect to find anything, but it would give him something 
to focus on. And one never knew. He made it clear to Scully that 
she did not need to consider herself part of this volunteer operation if 
she wanted to go back to the motel and get some sleep, but she said 
she wanted to stay. They spent the rest of the afternoon and well 
into the late evening with Rydell's files, and found nothing that 
would help Rydell with his task. It was sometime late in the evening, 
too, that Mulder realized he still had Bowman's key.

=====================================================================
======

From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay)
Subject: New Story: THOSE WHO LOVE (7/7)
Date: Wed, 06 Sep 95 07:26:52 PST


This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat 
steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder 
and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - 
you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, 
however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding.

Thank you to Tish Sears for all the editing help!

Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted.

"Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on 
September 5, 1995.

Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen 
Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without 
any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the 
characters are mine.

*****************************************************
THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 7


Finally calling it quits, the agents grabbed a quick supper, 
then headed back to the motel. Scully knew that Mulder was wired 
and wanted to talk, but she was frankly beat, and suddenly a little 
unnerved over the events of the last few days. Finding Hendricksen's 
body, and the attendant confusion that followed, had sufficiently 
subdued the memory of her dream the night before, and her vision in 
the upper story of the Colter house, but now that night had fallen, 
she found herself remembering, and she wanted to be alone to think. 
Besides that, what little sleep she had gotten the night before had not 
been very restful. She bid him goodnight at her door, and got ready 
for bed. Despite her weariness though, sleep was a long time in 
coming, and it was troubled when she finally did manage to drift off.

She dreamed, again, of the Colter homestead. Even as the 
dream rose up before her, some rational sense in her conscious mind 
acknowledged that she should not be too surprised at that; the place 
had been heavy on her mind, and her activities all day. Like a visitor, 
her awareness approached the house from the road, moving up the 
now mowed lawn, toward the front door, around to the back, 
opened, and went inside. That piece of her conscious mind that was 
still aware smiled wryly; she could not have had this dream the night 
before, of course, because she had not yet been inside.

Like a ghost, she drifted through the passageway, and saw the 
herbs hanging from the wooden pegs that Mulder had pointed out. 
Somehow she knew they had been drying there all winter, and that 
the supply was now almost depleted. She passed into the kitchen, 
and was aware, even though she could not really smell them, of the 
aromas of hot, savory food cooking. And the sweet, decaying smell 
of terminal illness. Scully's dream sense lead her to the room behind 
the fireplace.  The horror hit her almost as soon as she passed 
through the door.

The airless, windowless room was lit only by a single oil 
lamp. Jeremiah Colter lay on a narrow bed, pushed up against the 
wall of the room. His face was white, and covered with livid pox.  
His breathing was shallow, stuttering, and Scully knew he was not 
long for the world. He was delirious, now, barely conscious, and 
beyond suffering. That had not been the case earlier, and Scully was 
aware of the ravages of fever, of the horrible irritation of the pox, of 
the headache, muscle cramps and thirst that had tormented Jeremiah 
up until the day before.

Beside him sat Catherine Hewlett. No longer the fresh-faced 
buxom girl she had seen in her dream the night before, Scully saw 
that Catherine had lost weight, that her rosy complexion was wan, 
now, and sagging with weariness and despair. Her once shiny black 
hair was dull, and simply bound at the back of her neck by a cord. 
And Scully could also see what Catherine did not yet know, that the 
girl herself had contracted small pox from her fiance, and would be 
dead, herself, within weeks. 

Catherine was alone in the house, except for Jeremiah. It was 
spring, and spring planting could not wait on the dying. As could not 
the meal cooking in the next room; the men would be back from the 
fields in a matter of hours, and would need that fuel. Scully 
recognized sulfur burning in a bucket, which she knew had been 
believed to purify "putrid air," and a few salves and ointments, but 
there was nothing in the room that she would have identified as 
particularly effective in treating disease. She also recognized the 
cutting fleam and brass bleeding bowl for the inevitable bloodletting 
that she had read about, and seen examples of, in her medical 
training, but had never really wanted to acknowledge were actually 
used. Scully shook her head, and considered the miracle of anyone 
surviving the medical practices of that day. She considered further 
and it occurred to her that the real miracle lay in the fact that 
*anyone* survived a small pox epidemic, what with the dead and 
dying left so close to the living, to their quarters and their food.

For all of that, however, Scully was most struck by the 
sudden realization that Catherine had done well, in nursing Jeremiah, 
that she had done all that was humanly possible under the 
circumstances, and that, had she lived in another time, the girl would 
have made one hell of a doctor. She had good instincts and a 
genuine talent for healing the sick. Scully knew that the girl had 
fought strenuously against the barbaric, naive practices of the day, 
had refused to have Jeremiah bled, had thrown away the heavy 
blankets that made him sweat and caused the pox to itch and ooze 
unbearably. She had concocted drying poultices from the herbs 
hanging in the passageway, and had watched over him day and night. 

Scully felt a strange affection for the girl, an affinity for who 
Catherine Hewlett might have been. With a heartbreaking sense of 
shock, Scully realized that, had he been less weak from his overland 
journey from the prisoner-of-war encampment on Long Island, 
Jeremiah Colter would probably have survived his illness, given his 
fiance's watchful, and knowledgeable care. But as it was, he was too 
ill, and too weak, and he would not survive. And lacking the will to 
survive without him, neither would Catherine.

A terrible, gloaming despair descended upon Scully, in her 
sleep, pressing on her chest, and making it difficult to draw a breath. 
She pitched restlessly, and almost awoke. The dream faded, and 
nearly disappeared as she half sat up in semi- consciousness, and 
tossed her head. Murmuring, she lay back down, and drew a deep 
shuddering breath. Sleep closed over her again, and with it, the 
persistent dream returned.

Scully saw herself standing in the yard, beside the house. A 
terrible howl of agony, of grief, tore at her from inside, and she knew 
that Jeremiah was dead. She could hear Catherine's screams of 
denial, saw the girl tear from the house and throw herself down into 
the yard. Catherine wept for several minutes. Then she stood up 
slowly and walked toward the middle of the yard, where an iron bar 
hung suspended from a tree limb. She picked up a clapper and 
struck the bar several times, calling the others from the field. Then 
turning, she looked around, as if unable to decide what to do next. 
She walked to the well. Pulling the cover off, she gazed into the dark 
interior, and for a moment, Scully was afraid the girl would cast 
herself down. Catherine pulled a ring from her finger, the ring that 
Jeremiah had given her to symbolize their engagement, and threw it 
down into the bottom of the well. She sank down onto the ground, 
and sobbed softly. Even as she sat there weak with grief, Scully 
could also feel the fever burning in her, and knew that fever would be 
a full blown illness in a matter of days. In less than two weeks, 
Catherine Hewlett would be dead. The knowledge staggered her.

Scully became aware of a shift, a change in point of view. It 
was not as if she was suddenly transported, as she had been the other 
night, into the awareness of the dream. Rather she suddenly realized 
that it was not a dream after all, not in the sense of it being a figment 
of her imagination. She had not been not imagining Jeremiah Colter 
and Catherine Hewlett, she was being *shown*. The girl on the 
ground by the well head was not a dream image, but a manifestation, 
and Scully knew that she was being told the true story of events, as 
they happened, by one who had been there. Catherine Hewlett 
looked up, her eyes swollen from crying, and Scully felt a jolt as the 
girl's look went right through her. She heard Catherine's words echo 
in her head:

- Look at me, know me, know who I am. Thiss is what comes 
of fearful denial. This is what comes of complacent acceptance of 
society's rules. See me. Think of your own self, and consider *my* 
fate...




Scully opened her eyes and sat up. Her hands were shaking, 
and she was soaked with sweat. She felt as if Catherine's own fever 
burned in her. She got up and went into the bathroom, splashed cold 
water on her face. She returned to bed, but sat up for a while, afraid 
to fall asleep again. Nature prevailed, however, she was simply too 
tired, and she eventually fell asleep.

And dreamed. This time, however, the dream was benign. 
Merely a snap-shot of the Colter farm as she had visited it that day. 
Of the well. The well upon which she had dreamed of Mulder, the 
well down which Catherine had thrown her ring. The well, 
something about the well. She felt as if Catherine was still there, in 
the background, trying to tell her something, trying to give her some 
gift. To make her understand. The well. Something about the well.

The dream faded, slowly, and Scully sank into oblivion.




J. (Jamal) Gallagher never thought the day would come when 
he would be forced to live in his car, but that was exactly were he 
had spent the last twenty-four hours since he had shot and killed 
Leslie Hendricksen on the grounds of the Colter farm.

Disposing of Hendricksen's car had not proved too difficult. 
The Cumberland marsh was a huge body of water. It was also a 
watershed area, and so almost completely deserted. It had been a 
simple enough processes to take the keys Hendricksen had left in the 
ignition, drive the sedan down one of the dirt public access roads to 
the water, release the hand brake, and let the car slide into the marsh. 
 
He had debated, as he watched the vehicle sink into the water, that 
perhaps he should have thrown Hendricksen's body into it after all, 
but it was too late for that, and anyway, there was no way he had 
been about to carry that mutilated and bleeding corpse all the way 
down to the road. The body would just have to stay were it was, 
nobody was going to walking around up there, anyway.

That had been his first miscalculation. His second came with 
the realization, as he watched Hendricksen's car disappear into the 
murk, that he was six or seven miles away from his own vehicle, 
without any other means of transportation. He was going to have to 
walk back.

It took him hours, alternately walking, and hiding in ditches 
as the odd car came by, so when he arrived, dirty, foot sore and tired, 
back at his corvette, it was almost sunrise. He needed to find 
somewhere he could get some sleep. That's when his next problem 
occurred to him. He had no place to go.

He could not go back to his apartment in the city. By now, 
his "bosses" would be looking for him, he should have checked in 
hours earlier. There was bound to be someone sitting on his sofa at 
that moment, waiting for him to return. Neither could he check into 
some motel, not in the state he was in. He could have gotten into his 
car and just driven away, but he did not want to put too much 
distance between himself and the cocaine. He thought about 
climbing back up the hill and simply retrieving it, but the truth was, 
he was exhausted. He was a city boy, he was not used to the kind of 
physical effort he had exerted that night, and he had to rest, or he 
was going to collapse. So he drove around until he found something 
that looked like a deserted side road going up into the woods, and 
drove up it until he was sure he was out of sight. Then he dropped 
the seat back, and fell asleep. 

He slept for close to eighteen hours. When he finally awoke, 
it was pitch black outside, and he was starving.  He spent nearly an 
hour deliberating what to do. 

He would go back to that farm and retrieve the cocaine, that 
much was clear. He had been a fool to leave it. Then he would drive 
west, and south, and try to contact some old friends of his near the 
New York boarder. He knew people down there who would help 
him. He was sure of that. For a price, they would sell their own 
sisters. And then it was drive straight through until he drove right 
into the Pacific Ocean, all the way to California. That was the most 
distance he could put between himself and the Springfield mob.

But first he needed to eat. He put the Corvette in gear, and 
headed for the interstate, and an all night McDonald's he knew there. 
And that was where he learned of his forth, and perhaps most serious 
miscalculation. Somebody had already found, and identified, 
Hendricksen's body. He heard the two kids manning the drive-
through talking about it.

"What's that?" he asked the boy who handed him his burger 
and fries. "What are you talking about in there?"

The kid just looked at him. 

"Nothin'. Just another body found out at the Colter place, 
that's all," the boy replied. "Fourth one. Only this one had it's face 
blown off. Couple of cops found it this morning. Guy was some 
drug dealer."

The kid shrugged. Gallagher struggled to keep his 
composure, glad that it was night, and that his face was shadowed. 
He was sure his expression would give him away.

"They have any idea who did it?" he asked, as he handed the 
kid a twenty. The boy shook his head.

"If they do, they ain't sayin'. Just that it appears to be drug 
related, and may be a mob hit. Beats me. I would never have figured 
Cumberland to be anyplace the mob would bother with..."

Gallagher had heard enough. He threw the Corvette into gear 
and drove away quickly, leaving the baffled young man holding his 
change.

He drove around in circles for hours. The truth of the matter 
was, Gallagher was an amateur, little more than a school boy when it 
came to the real world of the drug trade. He had never considered 
the fact that he might someday need to get away fast, and therefore 
had no plans. Nor did he have the intestinal fortitude to deal 
rationally with his predicament. He was terrified, and terror made 
him stupid. He could not think what to do. He knew only that he 
needed to retrieve that cocaine, as soon as he could, and get out of 
there. Not only would he need it, now, to fund his get away, it was 
evidence against him with the cops, as well. His fingerprints were 
bound to be all over that backpack. He struggled to remember if he 
had touched Hendricksen's body. He did not think he had, but he 
had certainly touched his car. It would only be a matter of time, 
now, before the cops thought to drag the marsh for it. He wondered 
if the swamp water would wash fingerprints away.

He knew he needed to get the cocaine, but it was well into 
morning before he could work up the nerve to go back to the farm. 
He hated the idea of going back there during the light, but he also 
knew he could not wait another day. He had to get it, and then he 
had to get out of there. That was all there was to it. 

As a precaution, he parked the Corvette in the woods some 
distance away. Cursing his shortsightedness in throwing away his 
gun, he took the switchblade out of the glovebox of his car and 
shoved it in his pocket. Of course, he would not need it, there would 
be no one there, but it made him feel better, having it. He walked 
back, staying off the road as much as he could. Blessedly, there was 
little traffic.




"I want to go back there," Scully said over breakfast the next 
morning. Mulder just looked at her in surprise. 

"Why?" 

"I'm not sure," Scully admitted, looking distressed. "I just 
have a funny feeling about it." She sighed. "I had a dream last night, 
about that old well. I can't figure it out. But maybe I saw something, 
yesterday, that I didn't realize I was seeing, something that registered 
as important and is coming back to haunt my unconscious thought. I 
just feel that I need to go back there, and look."

Mulder smiled a little at her use of terminology, but he took 
the suggestion very seriously. They both knew that such things 
happened; cases *were* occasionally solved because some bit of 
data, otherwise disregarded, was sorted into sense in the unconscious 
mind. Some of his best inspirations came that way.

"Okay," he agreed. "Finish up, and we'll go."

Scully tossed back her coffee and stood up.

Laughing at her single-minded eagerness, Mulder signaled the 
waitress, and settled their bill.




J. (Jamal) Gallagher struggled up the weed filled little hill. It 
amazed that he had been able to negotiate the nasty undergrowth at 
night, in the dark; there in the morning light he was barely able to get 
his feet in front of him for the tangle of brush and creepers. He came 
up on the wrong side of the house, and could not see the well. 
Momentary panic took him, until he realized his error, and started 
around.

He heard the voices, long before he saw the two people 
heading up the hill toward him, a man and a woman walking at a 
determined pace. He struggled to control his panic, and tried to 
figure out what to do. Creeping slowly around the house, he moved 
his body until he could just see the two of them coming up the hill. 
Cops, he knew they were cops, some street instinct told him, deep in 
his gut. He truely cursed, now, whatever panic had caused him to 
throw his gun down that well. He was virtually unarmed, and unable 
to defend himself. Well, he still had his knife. He patted it, in his 
pocket, then froze in place, and watched the agents as they headed 
toward the well. 




Mulder watched Scully as she eyed the well, hanging back to 
give her room and mental space, trusting her instincts to bring her to 
whatever it was she remembered seeing. He did not have long to 
wait.

"Mulder, look at this."

Coming to her side, Mulder looked where she was pointing.

"That well cover's been moved. Recently. See how the weeds 
are torn around it, but they're still green?"

Mulder nodded, smiling at her in admiration. He pulled a 
glove out of his pocket.

"Let's have a look..." 

Drawing carefully, he pulled the stone lid to one side. Scully 
leaned over the well opening, ignoring a weird sense of deja vu that 
suddenly assailed her, and looked inside. The air was cool, but dry; 
there was no water in the well. Her eyes grew gradually accustomed 
to the darkness, and she saw the iron hook, and the straps hanging 
over it.

"There." She pointed, and Mulder reached in, grasping the 
straps and pulling the attached leather backpack out of the well. He 
raised an eyebrow at her, then dropped the heavy pack onto the 
ground and unzipped it. Reaching inside, he slowly removed a clear 
plastic bag filled with glittering white powder. He looked at Scully 
and smiled.

"Very good, Agent Scully," he praised, meaning it. Scully 
smiled.

"What do you want to bet there's a murder weapon sitting at 
the bottom of that well, too?" she suggested. Mulder nodded in 
agreement as he stuffed the bag of cocaine back into the backpack 
and zipped it closed.

"What do you guess this stuff is worth?" he asked.

Scully was about to offer speculation on the answer when a 
crash behind them made them jump and turn.




Gallagher did not wait until the agents had the well cover off 
before he sought more secure refuge. Creeping slowly back, he 
moved along the back side of the house, until he found a hatchway 
leading to the basement. He pulled slowly, and the rotten wood 
easily gave way. He slipped through the opening, somehow feeling 
secure that, once inside, he would be safer than while out of doors. 
Naive, perhaps, and foolish, but to a man raised in the city, indoors 
was safer than out in the woods. Gallagher dropped to the basement 
floor, and was immediately engulfed in darkness. He had dropped 
through a coal shoot. Cursing under his breath, he stumbled across 
the floor, and tried to adjust his eyes to the dim light that filtered 
through one or two small basement windows. His eyes did not 
adjust in time, however, for him to miss colliding with the small 
tower of old milking cans and buckets. The whole thing down with a 
loud crash.




"What the hell was that?" Mulder demanded.

Scully put her hand up to stem further questions, and they 
both strained to listen.  There was another sound of crashing.

"It came from inside the house. Someone's in there."

Mulder nodded, and drew his weapon. He still had 
Bowman's key, and, with Scully beside him with her weapon drawn, 
he unlocked the side door and the two of them went inside. Mulder 
gestured Scully back toward the rear of the house. He moved toward 
the front. 

Scully stepped carefully into the large kitchen. The bare 
room had few places to hide, and it took her only moments to check 
those places, including the fireplace flu, and she thought, almost 
smiling, the small bread ovens. Well, one never knew. She raised 
her weapon, and counted three, then ducked around the corner into 
the borning room. Empty, and she was too pre-occupied to even 
remember how she had dreamed of Jeremiah's last moments in it, the 
night before. Coming out again, she passed through the hallway into 
the modern kitchen at the far rear of the house. She was so intent on 
her destination that she did not see the man pressed back in the 
shadows of the alcove leading to the basement stairs. She never 
knew what hit her, when Gallagher brought the board down on her 
head from behind. Her gun went skidding out of sight, into a split 
between the floor boards, as she sank to the floor. Gallagher tried to 
reach it, could not, and cursed his luck again. He took a deep breath, 
and moved slowly toward the sounds coming from the front room. 




Mulder moved through the front parlor slowly, carefully, 
weapon at ready, but there was little need. The small front rooms of 
the house were completely bare, no cabinetry, no closets, no place to 
hide. He glanced up the chimney in the room where the fireplace 
was still open, but there was nothing to see. He was looking up the 
stairs toward the second floor when a movement caught him out of 
the corner of his eye and he turned his head just in time to see 
Gallagher careening toward him. 

He did not have time to react before the other man caught 
him in the chest, sending his gun flying, and bringing him to the 
floor. Mulder grunted, and rolled, getting himself free of Gallagher, 
and sitting up quickly. He just spotted his gun as Gallagher's fist 
connected with his jaw. Rolling away, he braced himself for 
Gallagher's pounce, and when it came, caught the other man in the 
belly with his knee, and sent him flying over his head, and down. 

Struggling to orient himself, Mulder stood up shakily. He 
heard the soft "shick" sound of the switchblade opening before he 
saw the knife gleaming in Gallagher's hand. He saw that his gun was 
too far away to reach, and looked around for another weapon as 
Gallagher struggled to his feet again. His eyes fell on the small pile 
of 
loose bricks, just two or three, that lay on the floor by the hearth, and 
he dove for one, but two late. Gallagher launched himself at Mulder 
once more, the momentum carrying them both across the room. 
They crashed into the wall and fell to the floor, Gallagher sitting on 
Mulder's chest. He hit him in the jaw hard, once, twice, Mulder was 
nearly unconscious, and totally unable to help himself as the third 
blow fell and knocked him senseless. Gallagher raised his knife.

In the back kitchen, Scully struggled to her feet. Rubbing the 
bruised spot on the back of her head, she looked around quickly for 
her missing gun, then raced forward into the front of the house 
without it, drawn by the urgency of the sounds coming from the 
rooms there. She came through the doorway just in time to see 
Gallagher's knife plunging toward Mulder's heart.

It happened as if in slow motion, like some bad movie 
technique meant to create suspense. The knife descended, and 
Scully screamed. And then she saw her, saw Catherine Hewlett 
standing by the fireplace, saw her stoop and pick up the brick. Saw 
the brick fly through the air and hit Gallagher in the side of the head. 
 
Saw Gallagher fall to one side, his knife dropping away, useless.

Scully stared at the ghost of Catherine Hewlett. The dark 
haired beauty merely nodded. She gestured at Mulder. Scully 
looked back at her partner, stirring helplessly on the floor. She 
rushed to his side, taking only a moment only to slam cuffs on 
Gallagher, and haul his body out of the way. She dropped to her 
knees beside Mulder, and took his face in both her hands.

" 'M all right," he mumbled blearily. She shushed him, and 
examined the bruises on his head and face. Nothing seemed too 
serious.

Scully was breathing hard, and although she did not realize it, 
tears streamed down her face. So close, bare fractions of a second 
and Mulder would have been dead. She looked back to the place 
where she had seen Catherine Hewlett, and was astonished to see the 
ghost still standing there, nodding serenely. She pulled Mulder 
closer, resting his upper body in her lap. The ghost nodded gently.

- Remember me, a voice said in Scully's heead, a voice she 
"recognized" as Catherine's. - Think about who you are and what 
you want, and remember me. Know thyself, Dana Scully. Don't be 
afraid to reach into your heart, no matter what the consequences. 
Remember *my* fate, and don't let my fate become yours.

And Catherine Hewlett disappeared.

Scully let out a short, stunned breath. She pulled Mulder 
closer still, and cradled his head against her chest. He stirred weakly 
as she stroked his hair. Then she wrapped both arms around him, 
and pressed her face against the top of his head.


EPILOGUE


When Chief Rydell finally arrived on the scene to pick up the 
assailant, he seemed wholly pleased by what he found. He told 
Mulder that the man's name was Jamal Gallagher, and that he was 
known to be a front man for the Springfield, Massachusetts, mob. If 
they could break the man into confessing, which was something 
about which Rydell seemed assured, he would provide a significant 
link to his bosses. Mulder left Rydell and his men to take Gallagher 
away, and went to look for Scully, who had wandered off after she 
had bandaged his forehead. He found her in the yard on the other 
side of the house, squatting down in the tall weeds.

"Scully. What are you looking at?"

He leaned down and looked over her shoulder. She had 
parted the grass, and was gazing down at an upright fieldstone 
marker. He could barely make out the words carved there, worn as 
they were by time: Catherine Hewlett.

"You found her grave?"

Scully nodded and stood up.

"Yeah." she exhaled softly. "It was right where Bowman 
said it would be." She hugged her arms, and looked down at the 
stone. Mulder nodded.

"I just talked to Bowman, he came up with the cops. The 
man must live by his scanner. I don't suppose this town has seen this 
much excitement in years," Mulder said. "Anyway, he told me that 
the Cumberland County Historical Society has made him an offer on 
the house, and he's going to take it. They are going to restore the old 
place, and open it up as a public landmark. So I don't think there will 
be any more deaths on the Colter farm. At least not ghostly related 
ones." 

He had meant the words to be lighthearted and reassuring, 
but Scully only nodded. Mulder frowned, watching her. He wanted 
to ask her what had happened inside the house. Somehow her 
explanation to him about hitting Gallagher with that brick just did not 
ring true. Something made him hesitate, though.

"You okay?" he finally asked.

Scully took a deep breath and nodded.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"No, you're not," Mulder countered, knowing better. 
"What's wrong?"

Scully shrugged.

"I don't know," she replied. She sighed down at Catherine's 
grave. "To love, yet to never have touched. To spend eternity 
searching, and regretting..." Her voice was soft, almost mournful 
with yearning. She shook her head.

"I wonder if they'll ever find peace," she said.

If Mulder was surprised at Scully's seeming acceptance of the 
reality of the Colter farm ghosts, he did say. He frowned at her in 
puzzlement, then his expression softed, and he smiled thoughtfully.

"Maybe peace isn't what they're looking for," he simply 
replied.

Scully looked up into his eyes. For a long moment, their 
gazes joined and held. Scully's lips parted slightly, as if in question, 
and Mulder inclined his head toward her, as if willing her to ask. 

One of the policeman called out to them. Scully smiled, and 
then she let the question go.  She nodded out in the direction of the 
road.

"You all set?" she asked. Mulder nodded in agreement. 

"Yeah, whenever you're ready," he exhaled, collecting 
himself. Scully sighed. 

"I'm ready. Let's go."

The End

-----------------------------------------

End Note: Thanks to Tish Sears for all the editing help!