Clarke House by Laura Castellano Rated R for a bit of language Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be Archive: Not yet, please, it's still in process. Category: A haunting and some good old-fashioned MT. Spoilers: None that matter much. Blink and you'll miss the ones for Bad Blood and Chinga. Timeline: Mid fifth season Summary: "...silence lay steadily against the wood and tone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone." Want to see a pic of Clarke House? Go here: http://www.8op.com/laurita/standalone/clarkehouse.htm From 'The Haunting of Hill House' by Shirley Jackson copyright 1959 No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream. Hill House, not sane, stood by itself against its hills, holding darkness within; it had stood so for eighty years and might stand for eighty more. Within, walls continued upright, bricks met neatly, floors were firm, and doors were sensibly shut; silence lay steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and whatever walked there, walked alone. From the 'Clarke County Gazette' October 18, 1943 CLARKE HOUSE VACANT AGAIN The Jeremiah Clarke house went on the market again yesterday, this time for a greatly reduced price. The Runnels family, who lived there only six months after purchasing it early this year, decided to sell the house after the father obtained a job in California. When asked the reason for the unusually low asking price, Mr. Runnels would only say that the family was desperate to sell. The house, built by county founder Jeremiah Clarke in 1870, is in a state of disrepair. Sarah Runnels, youngest daughter of the vacating family, reportedly told her best friend that the house "didn't like" repairs. Apparently Mr. Runnels attempted on more than one occasion to paint the outside of the house, but the paint "wouldn't stick." Mr. Runnels dismissed this allegation, stating simply that the weather had not been right for painting. Built by county founder Jeremiah Clarke in 1870, the house is still known as the Clarke House although it has had numerous owners since the last of the Clarke family passed away in 1929. The Clarkes came to Texas from Tennessee shortly after the Civil War, and settled the area which would soon come to be known as Clarke's Station. The town of Clarke's Station later became Clarkeston, and the surrounding area was incorporated into Clarke County in the late 1880's. From the 'Clarke County Gazette' June 3, 1955 Local Boys Missing Two young Clarkeston boys, Abel Johnson, 13, and Frederick Mays, 12, have not been seen since yesterday morning. According to Henrietta Mays, Frederick's mother, the boys had been riding their bicycles to the town library when they disappeared. When Frederick did not come home for dinner, the mother became concerned and telephoned the library. The librarian, Miss Conrad, reported that the boys had not been in that day. A full-scale search has been launched by the Sheriff to find the missing children. From the 'Clarke County Gazette' June 4, 1955 Missing Boys' Bicycles Found Two bicycles, identified by Roger Johnson as belong to his son, Abel and Frederick Mays, have been located in a ditch near the old Clarke house. A search of the surrounding area, including the vacant home, revealed nothing to suggest foul play, but both the Johnson and Mays families insist their sons would not have run away from home. Henrietta Mays declared repeatedly that the boys had been "swallowed up" by the Clarke house. Local authorities dismissed her rantings as hysteria. The Clarke house, which has been empty for two years, has gained a reputation among the local children as being haunted. Some of the stories about the house stem from the fact that since Marybell Clarke, the last surviving member of the Clarke family, died in 1929, the house has had a long string of owners, none of whom have remained for long. Jason Garn, the realtor who is handling the sale of the home, stated that the poor condition of the home is the reason for the lack of long-term owners, not spooks. "There's nothing in that house except dust and some old pieces of broken furniture," he insisted. "I've been inside many times myself, and not once have I seen a ghost. The problem is, it would take so much money to repair the place that it isn't a good bargain. I don't know why the current owners don't simply have it torn down." From the 'Clarke County Gazette' August 7, 1955 Clarke House Slated for Demolition The Jeremiah Clarke home, vacant since 1952 and in a sad state of disrepair, will be demolished next week. Jason Garn, the realtor handling the unsuccessful sale of the house, applauded the decision by the owner. "I've said for years it ought to come down," he stated. "The land is worth more as a commercial property, anyway." There has still been no sign of the two boys who went missing earlier this summer. Their bicycles were found near the house, but no other evidence has turned up. From 'Stories of Genuine Hauntings' by Alexander Roberts copyright 1986 There is no question that the Clarke House in north eastern Texas is a genuine haunting. Many people have disappeared there over the years, including two teenaged boys in 1955. A young man hitchhiking home from college was reportedly dropped near the house by a trucker in 1982 and never seen again. His backpack was found on the dilapidated front porch of the Clarke House. In 1955, just after the two kids disappeared, the place was supposed to be torn down. Plans for razing it were abandoned when one of the workers went inside and never returned. A thorough search of the premises turned up nothing, but the other men were so spooked by the incident that they quit that very day. Word apparently spread quickly, and it became nearly impossible to find another crew to demolish the house. Once the owner heard what had happened, he immediately changed his plans and ordered the house left alone. People who lived there, many of them difficult to locate now--the house has been vacant since 1952--are loathe to talk about their experiences. One woman, Sarah Runnels Greenup, was willing the speak to me, and the story she told, while abbreviated, was nonetheless chilling. "My family lived in the Clarke House when I was just a little girl, about nine," she revealed. "It was me, my parents and my three older brothers. My parents are dead now, and believe me, none of my brothers will talk to you or anyone else about the house. The oldest, Joe, insists that nothing ever happened there at all, but that's just him being in denial. Believe me, plenty happened, and Joe knows it. "The house was a mess--Mother could never seem to keep it clean, no matter how hard she tried, and my mother was a wonderful housekeeper. It seemed no sooner would she sweep and mop the floors than there would be mud tracked across them. She always yelled at my brothers and me for doing it, but it wasn't us." Her face tightens a bit as she continues to talk, and I remain silent, letting her memories come as they will. "I remember once my daddy tried to paint the outside of the house. It was awful, you know--the paint all chipped and bad looking. I don't think it had been painted since it was new. Or maybe someone had tried and the house didn't like it. I know when my daddy tried to paint, the paint just wouldn't stick to the house. It slid off, almost like the boards were coated with Teflon or something, you know what I mean? Just slid right off. My father tried every trick known to man at the time to prepare the wood for painting, but nothing worked. The house just didn't want to be painted." "I understand your father told the newspaper--" "He said it wasn't the right time of year to paint," she interrupts, "but that isn't the truth. It was nice spring weather, warm and sunny, not wet or cold at all. It was the house." I showed her a photo of the house, taken recently with my own camera. The wooden posts supporting the balcony had been replaced by brick pillars, but the balcony still leaned forward slightly--it was as if the pillars had been too short and whoever had put them there had decided not to correct the problem. Or as if the house itself was biting down on the newness with the dirty white teeth of the balcony rail, protesting any renovation to its original form. "There," Mrs. Greenup says, tapping her fingernail on an upstairs window in the photo. "That was my bedroom." "Did anything unusual ever happen in there?" I ask. She fixes me with a bland stare, and I can see the panic of memory just below the surface. "There was no place in that house that things didn't happen." Agent Fox Mulder Federal Bureau of Investigation X-Files Division March 23, 1998 Dear Agent Mulder: I am writing to request your assistance in locating my twin brother, Alexander Roberts. He disappeared over two months ago while investigating a supposedly haunted house he had once written about. My brother is an author, and although the Clarke House was the subject of a chapter in a book he published several years ago, he has never been able to shake his fascination with the place. I know he had visited the house several times, and while he reported to me that he had felt a "presence" in the place, he never spotted any happenings that could be called paranormal. I am not at all certain I believe in these things, but the fact remains that my brother is missing after a visit to this house. Local authorities have been of little or no assistance to me, and when I finally contacted the FBI on my own, I was referred to you. I would very much appreciate your help in this matter. I feel certain something terrible has happened to my brother, but no one wants to listen to me. If you are interested in learning more about this case, please contact me at the number listed below. Yours, Alexis Roberts Stephens Mulder read over the letter a second time, then once more as his partner entered the office. "What've you got?" she asked curiously, heading immediately for the coffee maker. "Anything good?" "Maybe," he replied, still studying the paper. "A guy's gone missing, and his twin sister has asked us to help locate him." Scully sipped the hot liquid, closing her eyes in bliss as it slid down her throat. "Why us? Why not the missing persons division?" "Apparently she was referred directly to our office," he said, swinging around in his chair to face her. "Hope you brought your cowboy boots." Scully stared. "No." Mulder smiled. "No way, Mulder. I'm on a plane for California tomorrow evening, and I am *not* going to Texas instead. And if you tell me this case has anything at all to do with vampires..." "Not vampires, Scully. Ghosts." Scully was unamused. "Ghosts," she repeated flatly. "A genuine haunted house, in fact." Mulder turned to his bookcase, rooting through the shelves until he came up with a battered soft-cover book, which he held up for her inspection. "'Stories of Genuine Hauntings,'" she read aloud. The small smile that played around her lips belied her impatient tone. This was so like Mulder. Dangle a spook or specter in front of him and he was off like a shot to investigate, with his loyal partner trailing behind. Well damn it, she resolved, not this time. I'm officially on vacation as of five o'clock tomorrow afternoon, and I am not spending my time off chasing ghosts. "Come on, Mulder, you're not going to tell me someone read that book, went off to investigate a haunted house, and got swallowed up by the ghoulies and ghosties, are you?" "Not a reader, Scully. The author." Scully took the book from him and flipped through it casually. Taking note of the copyright date, she raised an eyebrow. "The author disappeared while researching a book published twelve years ago?" "Not at all. The author disappeared two months ago while visiting a house he wrote about twelve years ago. According to his twin sister, the house in question had always held a weird fascination for him." He handed Scully the letter, and she read it over quickly. "That's really odd," she commented. "Most of our cases are." "No, I don't mean the letter. I'm talking about the fact that the house mentioned in the letter--the Clarke House--is the subject of the chapter your book naturally falls open to. It's as if you've read this chapter a hundred times." "Or more." She glanced up at him, surprised. "You see, Scully," he told her softly, "the Clarke House has always held a weird fascination for me, as well." There was a strange silence, which she broke, finally, by saying, "I don't think I understand." "Look," he offered, taking the book from her hands and flipping to a section of black and white photographs somewhere in the middle. "Look at the photo of the Clarke House." Scully examined the picture. "Yeah? So?" "So doesn't it...I don't know, doesn't it *draw* you in some way? Doesn't it capture the imagination?" "Mulder, it's just a house. I'll admit it's creepy looking, but a good coat of paint would go a long way toward eliminating--" "It won't hold paint." "What?" "Various owners over the years have tried to make repairs, including painting the exterior. The paint reportedly slid off the house and wouldn't stick. It was supposed to be demolished in the 'fifties, but when one of the workers went inside and never came out again, the other men quit. The owner decided to leave the place standing." Scully sighed, handing him back both the book and the letter. "Mulder, there are thousand possible explanations for what might have happened to that man, completely rational ones. Naturally I sympathize with Mrs...." She searched the letter for the name. "Stephens," he supplied. "Stephens," she acknowledged, "but I don't see anything here that makes this case an X-file. As far as I can tell, it's a simple missing persons case." "I'd still like to look into it." "Fine, Mulder, you look into it. I'm going to California." "You're missing a great opportunity, Scully." "I'll live with the consequences." And that, Mulder concluded, was that. Once Scully made up her mind, it was set in stone. They shared a cab to the airport the next afternoon. "What did Skinner say when you requested time off so unexpectedly?" "He told me I probably wouldn't get much work done with you out of the office anyway," Mulder replied. "I think I'm offended." "I think he's right," she contradicted, amused. "Remember what happened when I tried to take a vacation to Maine?" "And that was only a few weeks ago. Scully, I think we should talk about this constant need of yours to get away." She fixed him with a stern glare. "Mulder, the very fact that I did *not* get away--that I did, in fact, get caught up in a case--" "Aha! So you admit it!" he crowed triumphantly. "--is the reason I am so determined to get away now," she continued, ignoring his apparent victory. Until now she'd refused to acknowledge that she'd been actually working on a case during that recent weekend. "So you'd really rather visit with your brother than investigate a genuine haunted house with me?" he asked after they'd paid the cab and retrieved their luggage. "You're missing a golden opportunity to prove the existence of the paranormal." "Mulder, haunted houses are fiction. I doubt you'll find anything more frightening than rats in that old place." He made a face. "Rats?" "Rats and spiders." "Okay then, you're missing a prime opportunity to prove me wrong." He juggled his suitcase and wiggled his eyebrows enticingly. "C'mon, Scully, whaddya say? Why not ditch old brother Bill and let's have a vacation for two in scenic, historic Clarke County, Texas." "They're calling your flight," she said dryly. "Right. Well..." Goodbyes were always awkward, and Mulder hated them. He wanted to give her a quick kiss on the cheek but didn't quite dare in front of this many spectators. Instead, he settled for a squeeze of her shoulder. "Be careful, Mulder," she told him seriously. "I mean it. I wish you wouldn't go down there alone. You always seem to get into trouble on your own." Mulder frowned. "I'm not incompetent, Scully," he objected. "I am a responsible human being." "I didn't say you were incompetent, Mulder. I'd tend to classify you as accident-prone." "Besides," he continued, "what kind of trouble could I get into with rats and spiders?" "Have you ever heard of rabies, Mulder?" "All right, all right, I'll be careful. And you do the same. I hear the--" He started to say "the ghosts in California" but that would bring back memories of Emily...and Melissa. "I hear the rats and spiders in California are some of the worst in the nation." Scully just smiled and waved pointedly at him as the last call for his flight was announced. He gave another awkward wave and ran for the plane. Mulder had flown into Dallas/Ft. Worth airport and rented a car. The drive north had been restful, mostly--except for that semi that had parked on his tail for the ten miles of construction they'd had to crawl through. By the time Mulder reached the town of Clarkeston, the afternoon had waned. Excellent, he thought with some amusement. What better way to catch your first glimpse of a haunted house than in the dim glow of twilight? His amusement disappeared rapidly when the house itself came into view. Temporarily losing all sense of humor, Mulder took his foot off the gas and allowed the car to roll to a stop. "Damn," he muttered beneath his breath, staring at the decaying monstrosity. It was everything he'd read about and more. Much more. Perhaps *too* much more. There was something very wrong here. After a full two minutes of staring at the peeling paint, loose shingles and off-kilter aspect that were the most noticeable features of Clarke House, Mulder shook his head as if to clear it. "Of course there's something wrong," he told himself aloud. "It's *haunted*." He could almost hear the words of dissent Scully would have spoken, had she been there, but Mulder was a little surprised to find that, after his first glimpse, there was no doubt in his mind that the house was indeed haunted. No way a place could look like that and *not* be haunted, he thought. Wouldn't be surprised to see spooks flying in and out the upper windows right now. There were, of course, no spooks flying in and out the upper windows--no visible ones anyway--but Mulder felt certain that the local police would no doubt be passing by at some point. Since he was, in truth, trespassing on the property, he thought it might be expedient to hide his car. He felt certain Skinner would be unamused to receive a telephone call notifying him of the arrest of one of his agents. The driveway, or at least what was left of the driveway--it was marked with rocks and growth but was still clearly visible--curved naturally around toward the back of the house. Switching on the car's headlights against the rapidly gathering gloom, Mulder followed it, and grinned in satisfaction when he saw an empty garage--obviously a later addition to the house--standing open. He pulled the car inside, grabbed his bag off the back seat, and stepped out. The atmosphere was decidedly creepy, but he shook off the feeling. It would be too easy to be drawn into his imagination in a place like this. He'd have to be careful, and try to employ some of the scientific thought Scully would use if she had accompanied him. For just a moment--a split second really--he felt a flash of genuine anger at her for deserting him. "What the hell?" he asked aloud, shocked by the foreign sensation. Oh, there were plenty of times he felt negative emotions concerning Scully, without a doubt. Frustration, yes, irritation, hell yes--actual, deep anger...no. After concealing his car with the garage door, which was surprisingly easy to lower, considering it appeared as dilapidated as the house, Mulder walked toward the house, taking in his surroundings with interest. Although it was late March--springtime in north Texas--and trees were already showing a return to their summer brilliance, those surrounding the Clarke house seemed as dead as the structure itself. There were a few blades of green grass bravely attempting to push their way up through the blanket of dead leaves that covered the ground, but very few. It was as if the newborn blades found their strength overpowered by the age and wisdom of the fallen leaves. Crunching through the leaves, Mulder climbed the two rickety steps that led to the back door. He pulled open a screen door that wasn't quite falling off his hinges, and with little optimism, twisted the doorknob. He'd brought his lockpick kit, just in case, but it seemed luck was on his side. The door opened easily. Mulder grinned at the standard creak the hinges emitted, and his grin grew even wider at the sight of the kitchen table. It was so cliche it was classic. What appeared to be a modest meal covered the table, which was set with four places. There was a pot of what might have once been baked beans in the center of the table. Next to it sat an iron skillet containing six pieces of petrified cornbread. There was brown liquid on the blue-checkered tablecloth, which he finally realized must be spilled liquid from the beans. Mulder supposed at one time the bean liquid had been a light brown, probably even aromatic and flavorful, but now it resembled nothing so much as dried blood. He wondered how many books about haunted houses he'd read where the murdered family's supposed last meal remained on the table, forever waiting for those who would never consume it. The thought of cliches made him remember the door, and he swung around, expecting to find it had closed silently behind him, perhaps even to find he was locked inside. To his surprise, it stood open, exactly as he'd left it a few minutes earlier. "Not much of a haunted house if the doors don't even close on their own," he muttered, walking over and shutting it himself. With the door closed, the light inside the house was somewhat dimmer, so Mulder pulled out his flashlight and shone it around the room. The kitchen appeared to be standard, old fashioned, furnished with all the necessities but none of the amenities. The sink was old, chipped porcelain--not a double sink, but one large one, like the one in which Mulder remembered his grandmother washing dishes. There were no cupboards beneath it, and the water pipes--rusted through in one spot--were clearly visible. Beside the sink was a wooden table that he supposed might have been used, at one time, for food preparation. Another memory flashed through his mind, of his grandmother kneading bread dough on a table very similar, when he realized with a start that he could actually *smell* fresh-baked bread. This was no memory. The aroma was real. Sniffing deliberately, as if to locate where the fresh bread was baking in this long-empty kitchen, Mulder continued his examination of the room. A large cupboard stood in one corner, its doors standing open. He crossed to investigate and discovered nothing more interesting than rodent droppings. To his left, along the opposite wall, stood an old fashioned stove, not the kind you had to light a fire in, not *that* old-fashioned, but the kind you had to get down on your knees and use a match to light the oven. The kind where the oven door opened to the side, like a clothes dryer, instead of downward the way they did now. The four iron burners on top looked like giant black widow spiders in the gloom. "Rats and spiders," he told himself confidently. "Nothing more dangerous than that." He ignored the little voice in his head reminding him that black widow spiders were poisonous, and that there had been more than one successful horror movie where rats devoured humans. "Well," he asked, comforted by the sound of his own voice, as if craving human contact after all, "what next?" The living room, his subconscious answered as he reached for the door next to the stove, but instead, Mulder found himself in a formal dining room. Moth-eaten velvet drapes covered the windows, plunging this room into almost total darkness, and what had once probably been nicely fringed edges now lay in rotted tatters on the floor. The large dining room table was surrounded by eight chairs, their rotting velvet covers apparently matching the drapes. Before each place was a formal dinner setting. This time, there was no decayed food present. Walking through the dining room to the door at the other end, Mulder at last found himself in what appeared to be a formal living room. The sofa and chairs looked French-style, but Mulder couldn't have said if they were Louis XIV or Napoleonic. In fact, he wasn't even sure they were French--they just looked like the impression he got in his mind when he thought of French furniture. Again, the furniture and windows were covered in rotted velvet. "The Clarkes were nothing if not consistent," he murmured. The huge brick fireplace still contained the charred remains of a fire, and on the mantle was the requisite clock, its hands set to twelve. This place was beginning to look more and more like some kind of haunted house a group of kids had set up for Halloween. In fact, he wondered briefly if it had been just that, several months earlier and if he was simply seeing the remnants. On the other hand, Alexander Roberts was still missing. Something in the fireplace caught his eye, and Mulder knelt beside it, shining the flashlight directly at the remains of the fire. There, in the very back--something white. He reached for it, then drew back his hand quickly. The ashes, dark, grey and without a single glowing ember, were hot. "What the hell?" he demanded aloud again, thinking it should become his mantra. Grabbing a poker from the set of fireplace tools conveniently placed, Mulder fished through the ashes, drawing the object towards himself carefully. It appeared to be a tiny baby shoe, covered in soot except for the toe, which was what had caught his eye. Mulder picked up the shoe to examine it, and nearly screamed when the desiccated foot fell out of it as he turned it over. He stared at the object on the floor in revulsion. It was apparently the foot of the previous owner of the shoe. The left foot. It had been severed--only severed wasn't the right word, he realized with growing horror. The remains of the tiny foot appeared to have been chewed from its leg. After regaining his equilibrium, Mulder fished around in the ashes some more, looking for further evidence of a body, but there was none. He bagged the tiny foot and shoe. Trespassing or not, it was time to call in the local authorities. Mulder felt in his pocket for his cell phone, then remembered he'd left it in the car on the portable charger. He lay the evidence bag on the mantle, swinging the flashlight around for one final look at the room, and started back the way he had come. When he reached the kitchen, he stood totally still for a moment, staring at the table in disbelief. If the meal had simply disappeared, he could have chalked it up to a number of things, including his own active imagination, but instead...it appeared the meal on the table had been consumed. Plates that had been formerly clean now contained crumbs from the cornbread, the ladle had been removed from the bean pot and now lay to one side, staining the tablecloth still further with the blood-like stains and, most confusing of all, there was now a half-empty gallon of milk beside it. Mulder knew with a certainty that the milk had not been there before. He slipped on one of the latex gloves he carried in his pocket, and picked it up. Out of force of habit, Mulder sniffed the milk in the open jug, and nearly gagged. It was soured. More than that, it was practically cottage cheese. It looked and smelled like milk that had been left sitting at room temperature for days. The oddest thing was that the door to the kitchen had remained partially ajar during his time in the next room, and Mulder knew, without a doubt, that there had been no human presence in the kitchen while he investigated the fireplace. There was no way four people could have sat at this table, consumed beans and cornbread and clabbered milk within the few minutes he'd been absent, without making a single sound. On the other hand, he reminded himself, he'd been pretty preoccupied with what he'd found in the living room. It was possible--highly unlikely but *possible*, he admitted--that one person could have stolen into the room and made it look like a family of four had eaten a meal. On the heels of that thought came another, a memory of his old partner Jerry Lamana, who had inadvertently sent an evidence bag to the cleaners, almost costing a judge his life and seriously hampering Jerry's own career. "Stupid!" he berated himself, remembering the bag he'd left on the mantle. "How could you do that?" He rushed back to the living room, half expecting to find the bag gone, and breathed a sigh of relief when he caught sight of it right where he'd left it. His relief was short-lived. When he reached the bag and shone the flashlight fully on it, Mulder could see that it was empty. "Dammit!" he said under his breath, looking quickly around the room. He was alone. Mulder picked up the bag and examined it, and his heart nearly stopped when he realized it was perfectly clean. The shoe had been covered with ash, and the foot had even crumbled a bit when he'd picked it up, but the bag showed no signs of having ever held such dirty contents. In fact, it didn't appear to have ever been used at all. "What is going on?" Mulder demanded aloud. It occurred to him that he was doing quite a bit of talking to himself. Naturally, a guy who lives alone is going to speak to the room now and then, he thought, but this was becoming completely out of character for him. "As long as you don't start answering yourself, Mulder," he mumbled, and then thought uncomfortably that that was exactly what he'd just done. Again, he thought he ought to retrieve his phone. Even if he didn't call the local police--because there was no way in hell he would ever convince them there had actually been a desiccated infant's foot in the fireplace--he should at least call Scully and tell her what was happening. He immediately changed his mind, feeling his anger at her surge again, more intensely than before. This time he didn't question it, which should have felt odd to him but didn't. She was his partner. She should have been here. She could visit her brother any time. The fact that his thoughts were a bit irrational, that she in fact *couldn't* visit her brother "any time" didn't cross his mind. Mulder had a digital camera in his bag, and he wanted to take it out and shoot some pictures, but first, he decided, he'd better explore the rest of the house and make sure he was really alone. Because he could believe--almost--that someone had changed the kitchen during the five minutes he'd been in the living room, but there was no way he could accept that someone had stolen the evidence bag containing the shoe and replaced it with a clean one during the minute and a half he'd spent staring at the eaten meal and sniffing a milk jug. Which left him with one solution that he could clearly see. Ghosts. He could hear Scully refuting this in the back of his mind, could almost see her rolling her eyes, and this only made him angrier. "Bitch," he said clearly, not even pausing this time to be shocked. From 'Hauntings and Their Effects on Human Behavior' by Grant Stallings, Ph.D. page 137 'It is clear then, from evidence I have already presented, that spirits, or presences as they may be known, can have a direct effect not only on human behavior but on our very thoughts of that behavior. The best example I have discovered of this is Clarke House in rural northeast Texas. 'The Garman family, who lived in the house for a period of only three months just after World War II, are an excellent example of this theory. The father, Frank Garman, had just returned from the war when he moved his wife and son into the house. The son, who is still living but refused me an interview, gave reports to friends and neighbors that his father had become abusive towards him and his mother. 'Although he gave only vague clues, since attitudes of the time did not allow for the open discussion of such matters, it was impossible for his friends and his teacher at school to miss the fact that Fred often sported black eyes or other bruises. One day, shortly before he moved out of the school district, his teacher notified the authorities that the boy had arrived at school with his arm in a cast. Local police, upon investigation, learned the boy had fallen down the stairs at his home the previous day and broken the arm. No charges were filed, because the family was united in their claim that the incident had been an accident, but there was suspicion in the neighborhood that the father had caused the injury. (See transcript of interview with teacher Peggy Farmer.) After the wife ended up in the hospital, again claiming the injuries had been caused by a fall down the stairs in her home, the family moved from Clarke House. Subsequent investigations of public records from their previous and future towns of residence reveal no signs of abuse. Apparently the behavior only occurred while the family lived in Clarke House. When asked by a friend why they were moving after such a short time in the house, the Garmans would only say the house "didn't suit" them, but Rina Garman's letters to her sister reveal a much more sinister reason. "Frank has started to hit me now," she wrote just a month before they vacated Clarke House. "At first, when he was so mean in what he said, I figured it was because of what he'd seen overseas. Then he started doing little things like pushing me around or grabbing my arm too tight. Last night he slapped me so hard I still have the mark on my face. At least he's not hurting Freddy. I can stand it as long as it's just me." (Letter written to Mable Stone, sister of Celia Garman, August 17, 1946, given to the author in 1973 by Mrs. Stone.) Other than a tiny bathroom, tucked away under the stairs and obviously added sometime after the house was built, the entire downstairs consisted of the three rooms he'd already seen. Mulder now turned his attention to the stairs. They curved gracefully up one wall between the living room and dining room, wide and sweeping for the first three steps, then narrowing, though still comfortably wide. He shone his flashlight into the gloom at the top, and seeing nothing but a few spider webs criss-crossing the way, tested the bottom step. It seemed sound. Making his way carefully, planting each foot deliberately and testing the integrity of the wood before putting his full weight on it, Mulder had gotten almost halfway up the stairs when he paused. He cocked his head, listening carefully--he could swear he'd heard footsteps in the kitchen. Drawing his weapon, he turned slowly. "Federal Agent," he called firmly. "Is anyone there?" Naturally, there was no answer. Mulder was about to descend the stairs to investigate when a streak of--a streak of *white* was the only way he could later describe it, although it looked nothing like what he imagined a traditional ghost would look--rushed past him. He felt a freezing cold blast of wind brush his body as it passed. Mulder turned, staring up into the darkness where the thing had disappeared, his mouth open in astonishment. If anyone had asked him, before he arrived, if he believed Clarke House to be haunted, he would have answered, "Probably." Had anyone demanded to know whether or not he expected to see a supernatural entity, his honest answer would have to have been, "Probably not." Before he was able to fully process what had just happened, another series of footsteps--and they were footsteps, of that he was now certain--crossed the kitchen floor. He turned again, this time to descend. The sound of the kitchen door slamming suddenly took him by surprise, and Mulder's foot slipped. Rather than tumbling down the stairs, he slid down, scraping his back and butt along the time-roughened wood. His right foot, the one that had betrayed him, caught between two of the railings supporting the banister and twisted, painfully enough to cause him to cry out. He landed on his side, bruising his ribs and banging his head against the floor, his ankle still caught between the rails. Lying quietly on the floor for a minute, Mulder took swift inventory: breathing hurt but wasn't difficult, which indicated broken ribs were unlikely, his arms were uninjured, his hands slightly scraped. The biggest problem was his right ankle, but although twisting it was excruciating, it was possible. His head ached where he'd banged it, but he hadn't lost consciousness. Altogether not a bad accident--at least not for Mulder. He'd dropped his gun, which had skidded across the floor, and his flashlight. Managing to locate the light, he switched it on and was surprised to find it still worked. His weapon wasn't so easy to locate, but after a few minutes he found it lodged against the sofa. Pulling himself carefully to his feet, Mulder tested his weight on his injured ankle. He bit his lip hard at the shooting pain, but after a few seconds of determined movement of the injured joint, decided he could walk. Now he turned his attention back to the kitchen, and the noise that had startled him. The slamming of the kitchen door, it had sounded like, although Mulder reminded himself that the kitchen door had already been closed--he had closed it himself. So there was no way it could slam, unless someone else had opened it while he was in the adjacent room, in which case they'd have had to be exceptionally quiet. His mind was, for the moment, ignoring the whiteness that had flashed past him on the stairs. Mulder entered the kitchen, examining the door, which was indeed tightly shut. Then he naturally turned his attention to the kitchen table, wondering idly if he would find it set for coffee and dessert this time. Instead, it was completely cleared of both dishes and food. He swung his flashlight beam toward the sink and spotted the dishes, neatly washed and stacked on a drain board. "Why can't my apartment have a ghost that does dishes?" he wondered aloud. He limped across to the kitchen door and looked outside, but was unable to see much. His flashlight didn't seem to penetrate the now complete darkness, but as far as he could tell, there was no evidence of anyone else having been there recently. Not in the last half hour, anyway. Mulder shut the door and, surprised to find what appeared to be a fairly sturdy lock, twisted it firmly into place. That would at least make it more difficult for any human visitors to gain entrance, he thought. When he limped through the living room to the stairs, he barely acknowledged that there was now a blazing fire in the fireplace. The upper floor of Clarke House consisted of a small square foyer at the top of the stairs, off of which opened four doors leading to identical sized bedrooms. Examining them one by one, Mulder noted that they were furnished in a style similar to downstairs: velvet drapes and velvet bedspreads, all rotting. One of the beds was neatly made up, the other three appeared to have been recently slept in. The bedspread on one was askew, and the other two had their covers thrown carelessly back, as if the occupant had just risen. Mulder had a suspicion that if he looked in the rooms again five minutes from now, the beds would all be made. Deciding to leave further investigation of the second floor for daylight, he backed out of the fourth bedroom. As he turned to locate the stairs, the beam of his flashlight illuminated another set of stairs tucked into the far corner of the foyer. He crossed to them and shined the beam upwards, but the stairs twisted almost immediately and all he could see was a blank wall. He decided they must lead to an attic. There was no banister here, only the wall itself to hang on to for support, and for a minute Mulder hesitated. His ankle was still very sore, and he knew he should go downstairs, lie on the sofa and prop it up. Maybe that fire was still lit. On the other hand, the lure of the mysterious, narrow staircase was strong. In the end, it won out. He knew there was no way he'd sleep without knowing what lay above him. Not that he expected to sleep anyway. The staircase was barely wide enough for Mulder to climb without turning sideways. He ducked his head instinctively, but soon realized he could stand up straight without a problem. Favoring his sprained ankle and testing each step carefully, as before, Mulder climbed to the top. He expected the stairs to end in an open attic, but when he reached the top of the stairs, after three turns, he was met by a solid oak door, securely locked. Now he had a choice to make--climb down two flights of stairs to where he'd left his bag, dig out his lockpick set, climb back up two flights of stairs on his rapidly-swelling ankle, and try to get past the door, or...wait until morning. At the thought of sleep, Mulder realized he was truly weary, and was surprised upon glancing at his watch to see that it was just after seven. It was so dark in the house, and he was so tired, he thought it must be nearing midnight. With one last fruitless rattle of the doorknob, Mulder turned around carefully in the narrow passage and began to make his way down. It took him nearly ten minutes to traverse both flights of stairs--for some reason, the nearer to the ground floor he came, the worse the pain in his ankle grew. By the time he placed his good left foot on the living room floor, Mulder was unable to support any weight at all on the right. He hopped over to the sofa with the aid of the banister and a convenient chair, and sank down gratefully. He expected clouds of dust to engulf him, but the furniture seemed surprisingly clean. "Maybe the same ghost who does the dishes also dusts," he remarked to the room. At his comment, the fire, which had still been blazing brightly, abruptly went out. Apparently the ghost of the nineteenth century Martha Stewart was unamused at his humor. "Sorry," he offered to the emptiness by way of apology, but the fire did not return. Mulder had dropped his backpack and sleeping bag near the sofa, and stretching out an arm, he was able to snag the strap on the sleeping bag. He dragged it over to himself, unrolled it carelessly, and threw it over his rapidly chilling body. He intended to stay awake as long as possible, to see if he could observe any other paranormal phenomena, but as soon as he was covered he again felt the heaviness in his eyelids that had struck him upstairs. It was similar to the lethargy he felt when he took cold medicine--no matter how badly he might want to stay awake, his eyelids would turn to lead, and as soon as he lay down he'd be out. Mulder forced them open for one more glance at the fireplace, and just had time to think it odd that, in spite of the fact that the fire had burned for probably half an hour, the room was no warmer than when he'd first entered. In fact, it was much, much colder.