Author's Notes: This was written for spookyhalloween. It was supposed to be five times Mulder was afraid of the dark, and one time he wasn't but it’s ended up being a little shorter. It hasn't been beta'd so if you spot any mistakes please let me know.

There are two kinds of things that go bump in the night. He learned this in school today, sitting on the top of the monkey bars with Billy and Walt. There are two kinds of things that go bump in the night. The good things, like Mom checking the latches on the windows downstairs before turning out the lights and climbing the stairs, like Sam stubbing her toe on the doorjamb before climbing into his bed and asking for a story, like Santa's reindeer bumping the sleigh onto the snow-covered roof on Christmas Eve. And the are the bad things, like the bogeyman hiding behind the closet door and making it creak, like the monster under the bed that rustles and bangs when he's just about to drop off to sleep, like the vampire that taps on his window pane when it's dark and the wind is whistling outside.

He laughed it off then, when the sun was shining and the yard echoed with the yells of kids dressed as ghosts and ghouls.

"I'm not afraid of anything," he'd said, and swung upside down with just the crooks of his knees holding him in place to prove it. His vampire cape draped itself around his face and he crossed his arms over his chest. "You should be afraid of me. I'll come and suck your blood."

Now, though, he curls into a ball beneath the blankets and counts from one to one thousand and back to one again. There is a tap-tap-tap coming from his window and he can feel the eyes of all the monsters he's ever heard of boring through the sheets into him.

"There's no such thing as ghosts," he says. "No such thing as ghosts."

But it's a long way til morning.

ii.

It has been three weeks, six hours and eight minutes since Samantha was taken. Three weeks, six hours and eight minutes of listening to his mother cry, his father pace. Three weeks, six hours and eight minutes of guilt.

He hasn't really slept since then. Every time he closes his eyes he sees the light and feels the fear paralyse him. Every time he dreams it's of Samantha calling his name, pleading him to sage her. It's easier to keep them open.

He comes up with new ways of staying awake. He is learning French now, practicing his verbs and possessives while elsewhere in the house his parents sleep.

"J'ai une soeur. Elle s'appelle Samantha. Elle a huit années."

He hasn't learned to say 'I miss her. I want her to come home.'

When he tires of French he bench presses. He's up to six books, three at each end of a dinner tray he's stolen from the kitchen. Dictionaries and thesauri on one end, Asimov and Clarke on the other. He pushes himself on even when his arms are shaking and his muscles feel like they're going to give out. Makes himself concentrate on just one more so he doesn't think of his sister, doesn't close his eyes.

iii.

They brought cheap champagne from the off-licence a five minute walk Christ Church and piled bread and cheese into paper bags. They spent the train ride quoting Conan Doyle - he Holmes, she Watson ("Naturally, Fox. You make the leaps, I explain them for the masses to understand.") - and sipping bubbly straight from the bottle.

They walked from Bagshot to Wendlesham, evening mist rolling in along the country lane, making spectres of the car headlights that passed. The cemetery gates, when they found them, were like something out of a Hammer Horror. Gothic wrought iron they loomed out of the twilight in front of them, chained and padlocked.

"Ladies first," he said and boosted her over the railings. The bags of bread and cheese landed with a dull thump and he followed them, dropping to the cold, wet grass with an 'oof'.

"Come on then," he called. "You know the way."

Silence followed.

"Phoebe? Phoebe?"

He glanced around the graveyard. The wreathes of mist that had followed them down the lanes had thickened, twining around gravestones and bushes, making them indistinct and eerie. He forced himself to breathe deeply.

"We are in a cemetery," he told himself. "Phoebe has decided it would be fun to hide from me. She's probably not far away and is waiting to jump out on me. Cemeteries are not scary places."

Somewhere an owl hooted. He shivered, picked up the bags and wrapped his arms around them. The damp grass squelched as he made his way to a nearby tombstone and settled down on it to wait.

iv.

It is dark. Noise is muffled. He can hear hums and moans, voices murmuring, the beeping of machines but they are far off and distant.

He tries to turn his head but he can't move. He tries to open his eyes but he is paralysed. He remembers Samantha and the night that she was taken and he wants to scream.

His hands grip the sheet, balling it between his fingers. His eyes struggle to open. He hears a chair squeak next to where he lies and he fights to turn his head. A smooth hand comes to rest on his, stroking the taut muscles of his arm.

"Mulder, it's me."

He relaxes.

The End

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