From: "Denise A. Agnew" Subject: NEW: (1/16) Don't Go Down There by D. Agnew Date: Mon, 16 Jun 1997 11:24:15 +0100 kay to archive as long as you let me know about it first and my name is on the story. Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the television program "The X Files" are the creations and property of Chris Carter, Fox Broadcasting, and Ten-Thirteen Productions, and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended. Spoilers: References to previous cases, but this is an alternate universe. Rating: PG-R Classification: X, A, H, UST. Summary: Mulder and Scully investigate a house where it's Halloween year round, and Scully reveals a secret she's been hiding for years. Author's Note: This story stands on its own from The Reaper's Hand and Reaper's Hand II: My Deadly Valentine, but it happens after the previous two stories and does refer back to incidents in the other stories. So to be perfectly clear on the relationship between Moose and Squirrel, I recommend you read the other two stories before you read this one. Don't Go Down There (1/16) by Denise A. Agnew writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk Manderley Bed and Breakfast Washington Avenue District Denver, Colorado Room #2 Saturday, 6:00pm The black spider inched slowly along the baseboard, it's hairy legs progressing with the delicate steps of a ballet dancer. Wham! The newspaper landed with deadly accuracy, splattering the multi- legged creature. "Ugh!" Ten year old Lynna Buckles wrinkled her nose and stared at the mess her brother had created on their dad's Wall Street Journal. "Dad is going to kill you." Twelve year old Arnie Buckles smiled, his freckled face glowing with an excitement only a prepubescent boy could display after making a kill like this one. "Nah, he won't care. He already read it last night." Thunder rumbled low in the distance, and Lynna looked out the window of their first floor room. Dark clouds had been gathering all day over the mountains and had slowly crept eastward, settling over the city. For about an hour the clouds had grumbled, and small flashes of lightning brightened the dimly lit room. He tossed the deadly newspaper onto the table by the bed and flopped backwards on one of the twin beds. "Hey this is pretty cool. I always wanted to come with dad on one of his trips." From the moment they'd arrived at the large Victorian structure, Lynna had felt uneasy. Since it hadn't been a strong feeling she'd managed to ignore it. Now, however, her discomfort was increasing. She couldn't tell her brother. He'd think she was a fraidy cat. Unlike her brother, she wanted nothing to do with her father's strange work. But she'd wanted to go on this trip with her dad because Spring Break would be boring without... Tears welled into her eyes. Mom. It had been almost a year since mom had died, and although Lynna handled her grief well, sometimes little reminders wounded her heart and made her cry. Her dad was understanding and told her to cry whenever she felt the need. She took a deep breath and looked out the window again at the quiet street, wishing her dad would hurry. He'd promised to be back twenty minutes ago. "You don't think somethin' happened to dad, do you?" Lynna asked, biting her lip as a tendril of anxiety curled through her stomach. Lately she'd been feeling a little insecure, a tad on the edge. "Nah," her brother said again, drawling the word out. "He's late that's all. You worry too much about everything." Lynna brushed a long strand of blond hair from her round face and gazed at Arnie with sisterly contempt. "I do not." "Do to." "Do not." "Do-" A loud, groaning sound like tortured medal rumbled from earth directly below them, trembling and shifting the floorboards beneath their feet. Lynna stiffened, the hair on the back of her neck prickling as fear lodged in her throat. "What was that?" Arnie stared at the floor, his mouth hanging slightly open. He shrugged. "I dunno." She frowned. "Do they have earthquakes in Colorado?" He sighed and put his hands on his hips. "No. Don't you know anything? Sounds like it's coming from the cellar." She stiffened, her blue eyes round with sudden fear. She hated cellars, basements, or any other underground place. Even the mention of going underground conjured up horrific images of the nightmares she'd experienced periodically about dark, damp places where she had no hope of getting out. The dreams had been worse lately, and her dad had considered taking her to a child psychologist for treatment for her problem. She tried to hide her fear whenever she went into a basement at someone's house, and luckily her own home was a ranch style without a basement. Arnie grinned. "Let's go check it out." "No way," she said, flopping into an antique chair against the wall. "No way. I'm not going down there. Besides we'd get into trouble." "No we won't." "Will to. "Will not." Another horrendous groan emanated from the floor beneath them, and she shivered with dread. "I'm not going down there." "You're just afraid," he said, sitting up on the bed. "Dad should take you to the nutty doctor so you'd get cured." "I'm not afraid." "Then let's go." "No-" "I'm going." She launched herself off the chair and grabbed his shirt sleeve. "You can't. That old lady at the front will see you." Yanking his arm out of her grip, he laughed. "She looks like a witch. I wonder if she is?" Arnie's persistent habit of turning everything into something drove her nuts. "I don't care. I'm not going to the cellar." He headed for the door and opened it. "See ya later." "Arnie, don't go down there!" Eternally stubborn, Arnie didn't listen and before she knew it he was out the door and had shut it behind him. She waited for several minutes, sitting on the bed and staring at the wall. When Arnie didn't return after twenty minutes, her apprehension rose another notch and a half. She'd heard no more noises from below. What if he'd gone into the cellar and whatever was down there had got him? No. He was playing a trick on her. He was probably downstairs talking with that creepy old lady. For a moment a spark of courage, a sense of sisterly obligation propelled her forward. Despite her fear she left the room. As she walked down the wide hall, she glanced up at the water stained ceiling high above. The house was cavernous, and she was surprised that there weren't more people in the inn. Her shoes echoed on the hard wood floor, and as she approached the front desk, she peaked around the corner. No one was at the front. Trembling slightly, she rushed past the desk and into the next hallway. She stopped. The door to the cellar, at the end of the hall, was open. It yawned, like the open maw of a cave, pitch dark and silent. Hairs on her arms rose, and she shivered. Taking a deep breath, she walked slowly past the numerous doorways on either side of the hall, hoping that no one would suddenly open a door and catch her skulking around. When she reached the door she realized that she was shaking, and her hands were clammy. Her breathing had quickened and she felt like she might be sick. She looked down into the darkness passed the open door and could only see just past the first few steps. Darkness. Cold. Dank. The mouth of unspeakable terrors. She took a step back, gasping for air. She felt perspiration dampen her armpits and a trickle of sweat ran down her face. She took another deep breath. Fear threatened to send her screaming out of the house, away from the horror that gripped her throat and made her quake uncontrollably. But what about Arnie? What if he was down there? She couldn't just leave him if he needed help. Quelling her rising panic, she stepped into the cellar. End of Part One -- Denise A. Agnew Don't Go Down There (2/16) by Denise A. Agnew writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk FBI Headquarters Basement Washington, DC Monday, 9:00am Mulder held the Playboy Magazine up to the unflattering glow of the fluorescent lights above. He turned the magazine sidewise, then upside down. "Hmmmm." Scully had managed to ignore the variety of noises he'd been making for the last five minutes since she'd entered the office that morning. Until now. She looked up from the file she was holding and glared at him over the top of her reading glasses. When she saw the nubile proportions of the woman on the front cover of the magazine, her frown deepened. "Mulder, what are you doing?" Because of the angle at which he held the magazine, she couldn't see his face. "I think there's a UFO somewhere in this picture, Scully. I could have sworn I saw it last night." "Is that what they call them now?" He lowered the magazine and tilted his head slightly, one of his dark eyebrows cocked. "This is serious. Want to see?" When he held it out to her, she looked back at the file in her lap. "No thanks." "Oh come on. Langley pointed it out to me." Once again she looked up. "Langely reads Playboy?" "He's a growing boy." "What's your excuse, Mulder?" Closing the magazine and tossing it on his desk, he leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. "It's better than saying he reads it for the articles." She ignored his dubious logic and pressed on. "You were with the Lone Gunmen last night?" "They called me about a missing persons case in Colorado. I went over there to get the scoop." Scully felt her stomach do an unpleasant flip. "Not Colorado again?" "Hey, it beats going to Pennsylvania every other week, don't you think?" She smiled slightly, but kept her lips compressed so that it didn't turn into a full blown grin. Sometimes it was difficult to decide whether to laugh out loud at his irreverence or to launch the nearest rock at his head. "Langely has a good friend who owns a bed and breakfast in Denver," he said. "Apparently it's haunted." "I thought you said it was a missing persons case." "It is." She was afraid she knew where this was going. "And Langely wants us to investigate?" "He beat around the bush for awhile before he asked if we'd be interested." Aggravation stiffened her spine. "You didn't tell him we'd go there?" Mulder's brows drew together. "Yes." "You didn't ask me first?" she asked, her voice rising slightly in pitch. Looking clearly disconcerted, Mulder leaned forward in his chair. "I called Skinner last night and gave him the details. He may let us take the case." She sighed. "Why did you wait until now to tell me?" "I would have called you last night after I talked to Langely, but I thought I might be...uh...intruding." For such an articulate and intelligent man, Mulder could be amazingly murky when it suited his purpose. "Intruding on what?" "Didn't you have a date with what's-his-name? Goober? Gerber?" She closed her eyes for a moment and prayed for strength. Ever since she'd gone to lunch with the handsome new agent last week, Mulder had been taking pot shots at the man. "Gunner. William Gunner. And yes, we had dinner last night, but I don't know what that has to do with letting me know you'd accepted a case, or that you didn't consult me first." She knew she'd hit a nerve when his jaw hardened. "I didn't think you'd mind." His tone set off a spark deep with her, something that lay dormant most of the time but managed to emerge when the time was right. It wasn't the first time he had to be reminded that she wasn't one of his appendages. "You never think I'll mind, Mulder." He pouted, and she wondered if he knew how potent his baffled expression was on the average female psyche. "I didn't want to interrupt your date." She reached for the file she'd been reading. Without saying a word she went to the cabinet and put away the file. Then she turned to him. "It wasn't a date. We were talking shop. You could have called me." He nodded. "I'll remember that next time." He reached for a pen on his desk and began to tap it against the ink blotter. "I was going to tell you this morning but you were late." "I had that appointment." "What appointment?" "I-" She stopped, realizing that she'd forgotten to tell him she had an early morning doctor's appointment. "I'm sorry. I thought I told you. I had a doctor's appointment this morning." His eyes narrowed. "Are you sick, Scully?" She shook her head. "No. It was my yearly exam for the FBI." His expression relaxed. "Good. Don't scare me like that." Before she could ask him why it would scare him, the phone on his desk rang. He reached for the receiver. "Mulder. Hello, Sir. Great. Okay. Got it." He hung up a few moments later. "That was Skinner. We're good to go. I'll tell you all about the case on the plane." He retrieved the Playboy magazine from his desk and sauntered over to Scully. He held the magazine out to her. "You want to read it?" She glanced at the glossy magazine and then up at him. "No thanks. I've got a copy of Playgirl." End of Part Two Don't Go Down There (3/16) by Denise A. Agnew writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk Flight 238 From Dulles Int'l to Denver Int'l Monday, 8:30pm (Mountain Time) Scully stared at Mulder in disbelief. "Are you trying to tell me Mulder that you still believe the father's story that his children were taken away by ghosts?" The young woman in the seat to the left of Mulder snapped her gum, and he glanced at her. She smiled, showing her evenly spaced, pearl white teeth. He smiled back, then returned his attention to Scully. It was all he needed. A gum snapping woman on one side, and his sometimes inscrutable partner on the other side. "That's what he said," Mulder said. "Not only is that ridiculous, I'd say it's a poor alibi." "So you think the father disposed of the children and is trying to cover up his crime by declaring it's a paranormal event? He wasn't anywhere near the house when the children disappeared." "Two children just disappeared into thin air and no one saw them leave the guest house? Someone must have seen something and I'll lay odds it wasn't a ghost." "Initial interviews with the owner of the establishment, an Anita Carruthers, and with the other guests revealed nothing significant," Mulder replied. The woman next to him bumped his knee with her own. "Oh, sorry," she said, smiling brightly at him. He smiled and turned back to Scully. "In fact, very few guests were in the house at the approximate time the children disappeared. Only Anita Carruthers, her assistant Gerald Munson, her son Tad, and a guest by the name of Tanner Brulard were in the house at the time the children disappeared." "With that few people around it is possible that someone could have come in the house and removed the children. You said the father is a single parent? No disgruntled ex-wife who wants the kids back?" "No. In fact, his wife died a year ago. Almost one year ago to the date." He scrutinized the file again. "According to this the children probably disappeared around six or six thirty. Their father had left them at four o'clock and intended to return by five thirty but his recon trip took longer than he expected." Her eyes narrowed. "Recon?" "Dr. Carlen Buckles is a parapsychologist from Baskerville University in Vermont. He's a renowned authority on ghost photography and auditory documentation of the afterlife." When she didn't reply Mulder continued. "Dr. Buckles was at a local church graveyard recording the voices of ghosts at the time the children disappeared." She nodded. "Uh-huh." Knowing that his partner's indubitable skepticism was kicking in full blast, he said, "Recorded auditory evidence of voices from the ether occurring in graveyards, houses, battle fields, ships, and castles have been well documented by many researchers, including Dr. Buckles." Next to Mulder the young woman had taken out a emery board and was filing her nails. The noise grated on his acute hearing and reminded him of proverbial nails on a blackboard. "Recorded auditory evidence of voices from the ether," Scully said flatly. "My money right now is on the father. He knows where the children are. These cases happen all the time, and there's nothing paranormal about them." Scully put a pillow behind her head and levered her seat back slightly. "Wake me up when we get there." The girl in the seat next to Mulder snapped her gum again, and he glanced at her. She pulled out a pack of gum. "Gum?" Mulder shook his head. "No, thanks." "Sure? It helps when you're trying to clear your ears." He smiled. "No, thanks." She grinned and her baby blue gaze wandered from his fine leather shoes to his sharp-as-an-arrow creased pants and landed on his red tie. "Cool tie." Oh, God, Mulder thought. This is going to be a long, long flight. Manderley Bed and Breakfast Monday, 11:30pm Flashes of sheet lightning illuminated the night sky as Mulder and Scully drove along Pemberton Avenue in the Washington District of Denver. Seconds later thunder pounded over their heads. As the wind began to pick up, leaves scattered across the street and landed on the windshield of their rental car, sticking stubbornly to the glass. "We've got reservations to stay at least one night at Manderley," Mulder said, turning on the windshield wipers to remove the leaves. Scully's brow wrinkled. "I thought we were staying at the Holiday Inn. It's cheaper." "Skinner approved the Holiday Inn, but I thought of it as an investigative opportunity to stay directly at Manderley. Better access." "I think you were tired of hard beds and no room service." "I'm hoping they have better cable." As they pulled up to the Manderley Bed and Breakfast, the first thing Mulder noticed about the huge Queen Anne Victorian was the bright, cheerful lights that flowed out of the windows on the first floor. At night it was difficult to see all the details, but by the looks of the place it had been well taken care of over the years. "Not exactly a candidate for the set of Psycho," he said. He turned into the drive next to the house and followed the road to the small paved lot behind the house. Several cars were parked in the lot. He casually noted the makes and models. Most were middle-of-the- road, but one of them was a Mercedes. She unlatched her seat belt as he eased their car into a tight space. "Appearances are deceiving." "About what?" he asked. "Haunted houses. Not every haunted area is a creaking old mansion with shutters flapping in the wind, a graveyard in the back yard, and a sinister old retainer in residence." He turned off the ignition and stared at her. "I didn't know you read horror fiction, Scully." "I've read some Stephen King and Dean Koontz." He shook his head. "You amaze me. Every time I think I know you, you turn around and surprise me." She turned in the seat to look at him as he opened the car door. The overhead light came on. She cocked an eyebrow. "There's a lot you don't know about me." With that she climbed out of the car. Mulder didn't know whether to be dumbfounded by her statement, or simply curious. At times he knew he'd been guilty of seeing his partner as one dimensional, but the longer he knew her, the less he made this erroneous error. Dana Katherine Scully was a force to be reckoned with in more ways than one. The idea that she held secrets within her challenged him as none of his relationships ever had before. Skinner might keep secrets, the Cigarette Man might keep secrets, but Scully was as deep, as intricate as either of these men could hope to be. Sometimes, when he let himself think about this too much, he realized he'd spent a great part of four years ignoring the complexities of his partner. He was beginning to enjoy pealing back the layers. One thing he didn't relish was the glare he knew she was going to give him when he told her he'd only procured one room at Manderley's. Sighing he got out of the car and joined her at the trunk. "There wasn't much room at the inn." He bit his lip. "What?" "When I called this morning they had one room left." "One room? Where are you going to sleep?" Mulder took in a deep breath of the mile high oxygen and tested his low land lungs. "Don't worry, Scully, I'm used to sleeping in strange places. You can take the bed. I don't know about you, but I'm half dead." "Don't say that too loud, Mulder. The ghosts might hear you." "You're assuming they have ghosts here." Mulder opened the trunk so they could retrieve their luggage. "Even if they don't have ghosts there's a good chance they've made them up. One of my uncles used to own a place like this in Maine. At first he didn't do much business, then he concocted fake ghost stories and passed them around to the locals. Before my uncle knew it, everyone wanted to stay at Scully's Bed and Breakfast." "Scully's Bed and Breakfast," he repeated as he followed her around the side of the building to the front. "Quaint and original." Mulder noted the front door didn't creak hideously as they went inside, but the lady at the front desk made him take pause. He thought of all the cruel clichés. Wicked Witch Of The West. Long-in-the-tooth. Horsy. The sinister old retainer. End of Part Three Reaper's Hand III: Don't Go Down There (4/16) by Denise A. Agnew writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk Manderley Bed & Breakfast Monday, 11:45pm The woman's face was long and narrow with high cheekbones, large nose, and large chin. Her skin was paper white and delicate looking, the area beneath her eyes thin and veined. Mulder tried to think of another word to describe her appearance. Antique. Attired in a high-necked white blouse with long sleeves and a small ribbon tie at the neck, she also wore a long narrow navy skirt that hung almost to the floor. Her thick salt and pepper hair was piled on her head in an old-style pompadour. Apparently she was taking the Victorian theme seriously. "Mrs. Carruthers?" Mulder asked as presented his badge and Scully did the same. "Please, call me Anita," she said, and smiled, her small, blue eyes sparkling with friendliness. "Welcome to Manderley." Her slightly dramatic tone of voice made Mulder think of Dark Shadows. "Thank you." Mulder looked about the room, taking in the house's immaculate, well-kept appearance. Certainly not in the ball park of a creaking, dilapidated, stereotypical haunted structure. "Not exactly what you expected, is it?" Anita asked, her eyebrows arching. "It's lovely," Scully said as she looked around the massive foyer. Wall scones and the lamp on the front desk had difficulty penetrating the darkness created by green and dark red wall paper and the dark paneled walls. Anita smiled again. "It didn't always look this nice. Horace and I worked hard to get it where it is today." "Horace?" Scully asked. "My dear late husband." Mulder cocked one eyebrow. "Isn't he one of the ghostly inhabitants of Manderley?" Scully gave Mulder a speculative look, but he ignored her. Anita laughed, and her good humor brightened her countenance. "You're right. In fact he's haunted Manderley for about ten years now. But as far as ghosts go, he's a relative newcomer." "Newcomer?" Scully asked. "Oh, yes. Some of the ghosts in Manderley have been here at least a hundred years. The house was built in 1896, and there's been ghosts here for as long as anyone can remember, and then some." A door behind the front desk opened, and a frail looking young man of about twenty one, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a remarkable smile appeared. "Hello." Anita turned. "Ah, there you are. Agents Scully and Mulder, this is my son Tad." Tad's smile disappeared. "Oh, yeah. Mom said you were coming here. About those kids that disappeared?" Mulder nodded. "That's right." Tad came from behind the front counter, then leaned on it. "It's the weirdest thing." He shivered, as if a cold wind had brushed across him, or someone had stepped over his grave. "I sure hope you can figure out what happened." "I realize it's getting late, but is there somewhere we could talk in private about the case, Anita?" Scully asked. "We have some initial questions we'd like to ask you." Anita moved from behind the counter and gestured toward the back of the house. "Certainly. We could go to the dining room. Tad can you watch over the desk?" Tad nodded his agreement. "I'll watch over your bags," he said to Scully and Mulder. Mulder wondered if it was customary to loose things in Manderley. Like suitcases. And children. Scully and Mulder followed Anita to the dining room. The small dining room was deserted at that time of night, and Mulder looked around the room in curiosity while Anita went into the kitchen to fetch them glasses of water. There were six round dining tables, some with the ability to hold several people, others with room for two. Unlike the front lobby, this part of the bed and breakfast looked distinctly less well maintained. He noted extensive water stains on the white ceiling, and the wall paper was a morose shade of rust. Scully started to cross the room to one of the larger tables. "Hey, Scully." He pointed at the ceiling and she looked up as she took her coat off. "What do you see?" "Water stains," she said, looping her coat over the back of a chair. "No. That isn't it." She looked over at him, then back at the ceiling. "Peeling paint." "No." "A face." "Nope." She sighed. "A UFO." "No." "Hale-Bopp." "No." "Mulder, I'm running out of guesses." As she craned her neck looking up at the ceiling, Mulder moved to stand behind her. He grasped both of her shoulders and then leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Made you look." She jumped, then shrugged out of his grip and turned to face him, her brow furrowed, a combination of exasperation and reluctant amusement flooding her features. "You're sick, Mulder." He looked at her steadily as he reached for a chair at one of the tables and turned it around. Then he straddled the chair and leaned on the back of the chair with his forearms. "Have a seat, have a seat," Anita said cheerfully as she came back in the room with a couple of glasses and a pitcher of ice water. After sitting down next to Mulder, Scully retrieved her notebook and pen from her coat as Anita settled into a chair across from them. After Anita poured them water, Scully stared in on the questioning. "Anita, can you tell us anything that might explain what happened Saturday night?" She shrugged. "I wish I could." She linked her fingers and rested her forearms on the table. "It's so bizarre." "Where were you at the time the children disappeared?" Scully asked. She smiled. "I was surfing the net in the office. We have a new web page." "From the report we have, there were only four other individuals in the house at the time the children disappeared. Mr. Tanner Brulard, one of the guests, was eating dinner alone in the dining room. Your son Tad was studying in his room. And the desk clerk Gerald Munson was at the front desk." "Exactly correct." She reached up to pat her graying hair. "It's our understanding that Gerald left the front desk somewhere around 6:00pm and was gone for several minutes," Mulder said. She nodded. "That's correct. He wasn't feeling well and had gone into the restroom." "There wasn't anyone who could cover for him?" Scully asked. Anita frowned. "I could have." He knew the answer to the next question he was about to ask, since he'd read the file on the case thoroughly. But he wanted to hear what Anita would say. "Why didn't Gerald ask you to cover for him?" Anita gave him a tentative smile. "He should have, but he didn't. I didn't know that he'd left the desk uncovered." "How long was Gerald gone from the front?" Scully asked. She looked thoughtful, reaching out to touch the two heavy casters in front of her. "I'm not certain. About fifteen minutes, I guess." Mulder noted that Anita rarely looked directly at them as they questioned her. He knew from experience this wasn't necessarily a sign of guilt or hedging the truth. Plenty of people looked off into space our around the room as they talked, and they weren't murderers. Somehow, though, he was certain she wasn't telling them everything she knew. "Can anyone that was here that night confirm you were in your office at the time the children disappeared?" Mulder asked. Her eyes widened. She reached for the high neck of her collar and touched the bow there as if to make sure it was still in place. "It's getting rather hot in here, don't you think?" Scully and Mulder didn't think so, but they nodded in assent. "Can anyone confirm that you were in the office at that time of night?" Mulder asked again. Anita hesitated, and Scully wrote something in her notebook. Anita watched Scully scribbling on the notebook and then her glance shifted to Mulder. "Ah, no. No one could vouch for me being there. My son heard me say I was going into the office, and so did Gerald, but neither of them came in the office to see me." "Does Gerald work here full time?" Mulder asked, swerving his questions in another direction. "No. He works the front desk at night when I'm out or other times when he's needed." Anita reached up and fingered the small blue ribbon at her neck again, then pulled it so that the bow unraveled. "He's not in tonight because it's his wedding anniversary." "What about Tad?" Scully asked, leaning on the table and picking up her glass of water for a long sip. "Can you say for certain he was in his room that night, at that time, studying?" Once again Anita's fingers went to the ribbon at her neck, and she rubbed the material. "Yes. I checked on him about 5:55. Before I went into my room." "I thought you said you went to your office?" Mulder asked, leaning his chin on his forearms. She looked askance at him, and her neatly ironed, starched composure seemed to loosen by an inch. "I meant my office. My bed room and the office are on the second floor, side by side. I'm in my office so much I might as well sleep there." She smiled slightly. Scully flipped pages backward on her notepad. "Anita, it's my understanding that you did the cooking for Mr. Brulard that night." "Yes. Our cook, Dan Jetter, was ill. Had a bad cold and called in sick. Lucky for me most of the guests went out or they would have subjected to my cooking, and believe me, that isn't something I'd recommend." "Is Mr. Jetter back to work?" Scully asked. "Yes. In fact he should be in early tomorrow. You could talk to him then." "So when you went to your office, your Mr. Brulard was in this dining room alone and no one can say if he was there between 6:00pm and 6:30pm?" Mulder said. Anita nodded. "That's correct." She yawned, putting her hand over her mouth. "Oh, excuse me." Not exactly awake himself, Mulder nevertheless wanted to get a few more questions in before they went upstairs for the evening. "I understand Manderley has the reputation for being the most haunted place in Denver." "It is," she said as if it was a fact. "We have people check in here all the time because they want to see ghosts." "Do they?" he asked. She nodded. "Some do, some think they do, and some don't say." She chuckled and then poured more water into Mulder's empty water glass. "We have notebooks in everyone's rooms and we ask them to please write down their impressions of Manderley." "And do a lot of them write down ghostly impressions?" Scully asked. Anita looked down at the table, then she shrugged. "It varies from guest to guest." "Did Dr. Buckles come to Manderely to record the voices of the ghosts here?" Mulder asked. His unexpected question didn't seem to phase her. Instead she smiled pleasantly. "Yes and no. Originally, when he called to book rooms for him and his children, he said he was going to record voices in a cemetery not far from here. He was at the cemetery at the time his children disappeared." "Do you really believe the house is haunted, Anita?" Mulder asked. "We've been visited by over ten of the most renowned scientists in the paranormal field and some of them recorded some pretty amazing things." "Have any of them produced irrefutable evidence that your house is haunted?" Scully asked skeptically. "Nothing is irrefutable, Agent Scully," Anita said, her tone tinged with an inkling of irritation. Mulder glanced at Scully, fully expecting to see disapproval on her face, but she was writing in her notebook. He turned back to Anita. "Is the entire house haunted, or just a portion?" Anita's frown didn't fade. "The whole place is haunted. Sometimes I think every square inch. But there is one place that's the most infested." Scully looked up from her notebook, as if in anticipation of Anita's answer. When Anita didn't continue, Mulder realized he was holding his breath. Anita looked from Mulder to Scully, then back to Mulder. "The cellar," she said. She took a deep breath, then tried to smile again. She failed. "But then, we don't go down there." End of Part 4 -- Denise A. Agnew From writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk Mon Jun 16 11:54:37 1997 Path: msunews!news.mtu.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!newsxfer3.itd.umich.edu!howland.er ols.net!newsfeed.internetmci.com!europa.clark.net!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!a gnewdt.demon.co.uk!agnewdt.demon.co.uk!writer From: "Denise A. Agnew" Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: (5/16) Don't Go Down There by D. Agnew Date: Mon, 16 Jun 1997 16:54:37 +0100 Organization: agnew Distribution: world Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: agnewdt.demon.co.uk X-NNTP-Posting-Host: agnewdt.demon.co.uk [194.222.106.185] MIME-Version: 1.0 X-Newsreader: Turnpike Version 3.03a Lines: 283 Xref: msunews alt.tv.x-files.creative:43235 Okay to archive as long as you let me know about it first and my name is on the story. Disclaimer: See Part 1 Spoilers: References to previous cases. Alternate universe. Rating: R Classification: X, A, H, UST. Summary: See Part 1 The Reaper's Hand III: Don't Go Down There (5/16) by Denise A. Agnew writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk Manderley Bed and Breakfast Second Floor, Turret Room Tuesday, 1:00am A hush filled the room. Scully would have found the quiet relaxing, but as she sat in the bed, wrapped in her warm robe and listening to the wind battering the windows, she felt restless. Perhaps even apprehensive. The small, peach fringed candlestick lamp by the bed flickered, and for a moment she was sure it was going to extinguish. She watched the light fade, then regain strength as it cast eerie half shadows about the already dim room. With a clinical glance she looked around the octagon shaped room that was a part of the turret. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. It was a large room, but despite Mulder's expectation, they didn't have a television. A cool, whispering draft rushed through the fringe on the lamp as if it could extinguish the light. She waited, holding her breath as the wind bludgeoned the windows again. The radiator began to click and rattle as heat poured into the room. She let her breath out slowly, and felt some relaxation seep into her limbs. She tried the method again, taking deep breaths then letting them out slowly. Bundled into her warm flannel pajamas and robe, she usually could stay warm no matter what the vagaries of weather. Tonight, however, as she sat up in bed and read, nothing seemed to keep her warm enough. And nothing, apparently, going to put her to sleep. Glancing at the clock, she realized that she was going to be exhausted in the morning if she didn't nod off soon. After Anita had dropped the a hint that the cellar was haunted, Anita had asked if they were done interviewing her, and they'd let her go. Realizing it was too late to interview anyone else, they decided to wait until the morning to question the other suspects in the case. Once in their room, Mulder had settled down on the couch for what he called a nap, and he'd been snoring solidly for an hour. Mulder's chest rose and feel with each deep breath. She didn't know how he was staying warm. He wore only his boxers, and his blanket had slipped down to his waist. He was probably going to feel like hell in the morning because his feet dangled over one arm of the sofa. She sighed. Served him right for not booking two rooms at the Holiday Inn or Howard Johnson's. Another chill ran over her skin, raising goose bumps over her whole body. Maybe next time she'd have some chamomile tea before she went to bed and ignore Mulder's speculations about Manderley being haunted. All that talk about the cellar before they'd gone to bed, all of Mulder's endless speculations were coming back to haunt her. Few things frightened Dana Katherine Scully. That was, of course, until she'd met Fox Mulder. Now her life was full of the strange, bizarre, and unexplainable. And that was just Mulder alone. She wasn't counting the cases they studied. Where this late night trepidation originated she had no concept. She attempted to decipher her anxiety, analyze it, and package it away. Perhaps memories of prior eerie cases were far too fresh in her mind. But somehow she doubted that this was the answer to her disquiet. Possibly she could blame it on the creepy stories she'd been reading for the last hour. Only Mulder could dig up a book on Colorado ghosts at the last minute before they left Washington D.C. That the book was written by Dr. Buckles, the very man whose children were missing, was amazing in itself. She'd long since realized that Mulder's desk was the repository for all things alien and unusual. Including half eaten bags of sun flower seeds. From the depths of the house she heard a loud, creaking groan, as if a metal door had been opened and closed. She stiffened. Waited for what seemed an eternity before she relaxed, letting her breath out slowly once again. Where had the sound come from? Maybe from the cellar? She looked at Mulder and wondered how he'd slept through that awful noise. He moaned slightly, twitching and then suddenly shifting so that he lay on his side. He stopped snoring, and for that she was grateful. He was huddled into himself, and she wondered if he was cold. She got out of bed and reached for his blanket, rearranging it over him so that he was covered. Mulder's eyes snapped open. She practically came out of her skin. "God, Mulder," she gasped, putting her hand on her chest as her heart did wild palpitations. She sat on the bed. "You scared me to death." "Sorry." He smiled, and as he sat up the blanket fell to his waist again. He yawned and stretched, then gestured at the book she was holding. "Are you still reading Dr. Buckle's theories?" He looked at Scully's bedside alarm clock. "It's late." She sighed. "You're telling me." "I thought you didn't like ghost stories." "I don't. But you said you thought this book would be a valuable tool in determining where Dr. Buckles' children might be. So I decided to read it." He nodded. "What do you think?" "Very intriguing. But unlikely to help us with the investigation." "Why not?" "I fail to see how recording voices of the dead has anything to do with the disappearance of his children." He stood up, draping the blanket around his body and moving around the room slowly. "I think the answer to why his children disappeared has something to do with his research." "Ghosts snatched his children?" "Very illuminating idea, Scully, but not necessarily the right one." She closed her eyes. "Mulder, did anyone ever tell you that you sound like Sherlock Holmes?" She opened her eyes and watched him pace. He stopped treading long enough to look at her. "If it's any consolation, I think you're a lot smarter than Dr. Watson." "Thank you. I think." He said nothing, but resumed his stride, holding the blanket across his chest like a shield. "Okay, I'll bite. What do you think happened to the children?" she asked after a minute where the only sound was the clanging and clicking of the radiator. He pointed at the book lying on the bed. "I think if we keep what that book says in mind, when we run across the right evidence, we'll know it." Still no more enlightened, she retrieved the book and opened it to the section on Manderley. "According to Dr. Buckles, the house has seven ghosts." She ran her finger down the page. "One is named Christina, and she apparently died at age ten. She causes significant trouble by breaking dishes in the kitchen, and one time apparently caused the chandelier in the foyer to drop on one of the patrons." Mulder nodded. "Yeah, I read about that one. Christina fell down the cellar stairs in 1910." "One ghost is Anita's husband Horace who is mentioned on the last page. The others are-" Mulder snapped his fingers. "All children." She looked up at him, and she could see the wild theories zinging through his mind like fighter pilots with their hair on fire. Knowing Mulder he'd come up with an idea that had something to do with a black hole that sucked children into the neither regions of the cellar. "Mulder...let's not go there." "Why not? Maybe the cellar is a black hole." Scully's forehead knotted in a frown. "How did you know what I was thinking?" He waggled his eyebrows, then tilted his head down slightly and gave her an evil look. "You'd be surprised how much of the time I know what you're thinking, Scully." She was afraid to start him on another tangent. Once you got him going you never knew where you'd end up. Maybe she'd stick with the case at hand. "All of Dr. Buckles' theories are speculation," she said. "He's has been working in the parapsychology field for fifteen years, and he has yet to produce any evidence of ghosts acceptable to the general science community." "I doubt the science community would accept ghosts if one walked into the White House and had a news conference." He shrugged. "So you think the answer to what happened to the children couldn't be in this book because you don't think Dr. Buckles methods are legit?" "I've read through the section on Manderley and haven't drawn any definitive conclusions. I think we don't know a whole lot about anything right now. Our interview with Anita was fairly inconclusive." "I'm suspicious though," he said, taking the blanket off and tossing it onto the foot of the bed. "About Anita's whereabouts during the disappearance of the children." Scully nodded. "She seemed nervous. No one saw her go into her office, so she doesn't really have an alibi." "You got it." Scully watched her partner pace the floor a little longer, and realized his incessant walking back and forth was actually putting her sleep. Her eye lids were drooping. The only thing that kept her from falling over in a dead sleep was the site of Mulder's half clad body. She snickered. Mulder stopped walking, put his hands on his hips, and peered at her. "What's so funny?" Oops. Good thing he couldn't read her mind. She hoped. "Nothing. Just keep walking. I think you have me hypnotized." After giving her a puzzled look, he continued his slow tread. Scully reached for her notebook and flipped it open. "The cast of characters here is enough to boggle the mind." "I'll be interested in talking to this Munson guy, and Mr. Brulard." "The file says Brulard is from New Orleans, but apparently he's on a business trip here. If I remember correctly, he moved to a hotel the night after the children's disappearance." She looked up at Mulder. "The Holiday Inn." When he didn't reply she continued. "Might not be a bad idea. Have you felt the drafts in this place?" She shivered again and drew her heavy robe closer around her. Mulder's eyebrows cocked upwards. "Why, Scully, do I detect a bit of the heebie jeebies?" Before she could answer, a groaning sound like tortured metal echoed through the floorboards. They stared at each other and waited for several moments. The sound came again seconds later. "What the hell was that?" Mulder asked. "The house is settling?" she asked hopefully. "Try again, Scully," he said, reaching for his pants and slipping into them. "What are you doing?" He zipped and buttoned his pants, then reached for his shirt. "A little good ole' fashioned investigating." She got up quickly and grabbed her clothes from the closet. "Lead on Sherlock." End of Part Five -- Denise A. Agnew From writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk Mon Jun 16 11:55:35 1997 Path: msunews!news.mtu.edu!newsxfer.itd.umich.edu!feeder.chicago.cic.net!news.maxwell .syr.edu!dispatch.news.demon.net!demon!agnewdt.demon.co.uk!agnewdt.demon.co.u k!writer From: "Denise A. Agnew" Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: NEW: (6/16) Don't Go Down There by D. Agnew Date: Mon, 16 Jun 1997 16:55:35 +0100 Organization: agnew Distribution: world Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Host: agnewdt.demon.co.uk X-NNTP-Posting-Host: agnewdt.demon.co.uk [194.222.106.185] MIME-Version: 1.0 X-Newsreader: Turnpike Version 3.03a Lines: 181 Xref: msunews alt.tv.x-files.creative:43236 Okay to archive as long as you let me know about it first and my name is on the story. Disclaimer: See Part 1 Spoilers: References to previous cases. Alternate universe-Memento Mori, Small Potatoes hasn't happened. Rating: R Classification: X, A, H, UST. Summary: See Part 1 Don't Go Down There (6/16) by Denise A. Agnew writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk Manderley Bed and Breakfast Second Floor, Turret Room Tuesday, 1:45am She didn't want to go down there. Immediately after she'd acquiesced to the idea of investigating the cellar, she realized that she really, really did not want to venture into the darkness below. But she sure as hell wasn't going to tell Mulder. Mulder, in his normal oblivious style, hadn't noticed her reluctance. Perhaps he was chalking it up to a rebelliousness toward his ghost theories. Scully stared into the bathroom mirror and felt a chill ripple through her back and across her shoulders. Ridiculous. She was an FBI agent for God's sake. An FBI agents didn't go spineless at the mention of going into a cellar. Most didn't. Another shudder scrambled over her nerves like a dozen multi-legged creatures bent on traveling her epidermis. Pull yourself together, Agent Scully. You're acting like a damn wimp. Taking a deep breath she finished getting into her jeans and sweatshirt. She left the bathroom and found Mulder strapping on his shoulder harness. "Mulder, do you really think this is necessary?" He peered at her. "Of course. Why?" "It's probably just a drafty old cellar. The door is probably swinging around on its hinges. You know...rusty hinges sometimes make awful noises." "And you think I have a vivid imagination?" "Mulder, I'm serious." "So am I," he said matter-of-factly. "I'm going down there and see what's cooking." "What do you expect to find?" He cocked one eyebrow as he started for the door, making sure he had his pen light with him. "Maybe something that wants to get out." She really, really wished he hadn't said that. The groaning sound came from below once again, moaning like something dreadful and dead. Didn't anyone hear this hideous noise but them? Quietly they made their way down the staircase. "Where's the cellar?" Scully whispered as they walked slowly through the dimly lit front lobby. There was no sign of any of the guests or employees. Thunder suddenly rumbled over the house, then lightning flashed and was followed by more thunder. As she followed Mulder, they came to the hall way directly to the right of the front desk. A rush of arctic air blasted from the hallway and passed over her. She stopped and looked down the hall as her heart began to pick up a steady, increasing thump in her chest. At the very end of the hall was a dark, open area. Another waft of icy air drifted by her, ruffling through her hair like a light winter breeze. The cold air was coming from there. She swallowed hard. Trickles of apprehension tightened her stomach muscles and geared her to remain cautious. The blackness gaped like the orifice of a gigantic snake, and she half expected to see fangs suddenly sprout, ready to bite, sting, entrap. She sucked in a slow breath and let it out, then let the darkness of the aperture ahead of her draw her forward. She retrieved her gun from the holster and held it firmly in her right hand. "Scully!" Mulder hissed as she continued on. She ignored him, drawn to the blackness like a magnet, and she wondered, on the edge of her mind, if it really was a black hole. She proceeded, grateful for the dim glow emanating from a small lamp on a table halfway down the hall. She walked slowly, her running shoes making no sound. As she moved steadfastly down the hall, it seemed to stretch, stretch, as if she would never get to the end. Like a surreal dream, or something out of a midnight horror movie, she felt the tension in her body begin, and her palms began to sweat. A trembling ran over her limbs, and she felt every one of her breaths as they rasped through her throat. She felt a trickle of sweat forming on her forehead. Another frigid gust of air from the doorway reconfirmed for her she was awake. Run! Run! Run! Every muscle in her body protested, ached as she began to tremble in earnest. She wouldn't give in. She couldn't. Conquer the fear, destroy it before it surmounts you. She was drawn, drawn toward the darkness, drawn...drawn... "Scully," Mulder whispered behind her. He might have been ten miles from her, or only a few steps. She didn't know. She ignored him, unable to stop the automatic movement of her arms and legs. She licked her parched lips. Breathing faster now, she felt the pressure in her lungs, the demand for more air, and the fear was moving through her body like a carnivore approaching its prey. Relentless, without remorse. Rapacious. Escape, damn it. Oh, God. Escape. She came to the doorway and looked in. It was totally dark. Like a cave. A pit from hell couldn't have looked more intimidating. A dungeon. A whisper, like the barest sound of the smallest creature, reached her ears. "Help me." Hands dropped down on her shoulders, and she swung about, ready to aim with her gun. "Hey, take it easy," Mulder said softly, holding his hands out in front of him. She lowered her gun, and she felt the metal slip around in her sweaty palms. She saw the confusion in Mulder's eyes, the worry. "Sorry," she whispered. "Why didn't you answer me?" he asked. "I...there's someone down there, Mulder." His brow crinkled. "What?" She pivoted slowly so that her back was to him, and when she looked into the darkness again, she knew she couldn't break down now. Not when a child might need her. "Help me." It was so soft, so pleading, its tones that of a desperate child. Lighter than the draft that wafted from the cellar, the wan voice drew her another step forward and down into the abyss. End of Part 6 Don't Go Down There (7/16) by Denise A. Agnew writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk Manderley Bed and Breakfast Cellar Tuesday, 2:05am As she took the first step, she felt the cold grip the bottom of her leg like a hand reaching up from a grave. In her mind she heard a litany...a plea that came from the part of her brain that didn't rely on logic or other left-brained tendencies. Our father, who art in heaven... She wanted to cross herself, but she didn't want to lose her already tenuous grip on the cool metal in her hands. She sensed that Mulder was following her as she took another step, then another. His presence was somewhat a comfort, and perhaps that was why she had made it this far without bolting. As Mulder flipped the light switch, nothing happened. She retrieved her flash light. "Scully, we really ought to have more light down here than one flash light." She heard him, but only distantly, like she was listening to his voice come down a long pipe. Turning her head slowly, she saw he was right behind her, and she wanted to reach out for the warmth of his humanness. Anything that would stop the continuous rush of fear that now pushed through her capillaries, heightening her fight-or-flight response. She licked her lips and forced words out of her mouth. "Why...why don't you go and get the big flashlight out of the rental car. I'll check around and see what I can find." A perplexed frown crossed his features. "Are you sure you want to go down there?" No. No. No. "Yes. I'll be fine," she said automatically. His gaze remained steady on her for a minute, searching her features in his customarily thorough manner. He nodded. "I'll be right back." As soon as he walked out the door, she experienced the fear that has haunted humans since the beginning of time. Pure, unadulterated terror that threatens your peaceful, childlike world. Filling you with a fiery dread that knows no end in the dead of night. The type of fear that causes you to beg your mother to leave the night light on. The type of fear that bursts through the protective mantle of your cozy little bed and grabs you by the throat, strangling you until you wake screaming. Night terrors. She'd never had them as a child. But she could imagine, in this moment, that her feelings must be much the same. As she turned slowly so that she was looking down at the cellar stairs in front of her, she took another tentative step, holding the flash light's glow downward to cut a path. I can't. You can, Dana Scully. Her father's voice rang inside her head. What would her father think of her now? Wavering, shaky, virtually on the point of running like a ninny up the stairs and out of the house? He wouldn't be pleased. He'd never been pleased when this type of thing happened. Luckily for her it was a common condition and one that could be avoided for the most part. But she was an FBI agent. No time to start acting chicken-hearted. Still, the logical part of her brain overruled, and the temporary hold she'd erected against the fear she'd harbored for so long threatened to wreck havoc. How much longer could she stand here, trembling, tortured by the chills that raced with increasing frequency over her skin. "Help me." She stopped, one foot resting on the next step. Wait, wait. Mulder hadn't heard the voice earlier. Had he? No. She took another step, and then another, feeling her way down with each movement, as if the wooden steps might give at any time, sending her crashing down into the hole below. It made no sense. Why had she heard the voices, but Mulder hadn't? A thousand questions zinged through her mind, banging against the molecules and cells and electricity that allowed her mind to work faster than any computer. She'd reached the bottom of the stairs, and took a deep, cleansing breath. Nothing had happened. Everything was okay. She smiled slightly, relieved as some of the wobbly feeling subsided and she felt stronger. As she swung the flashlight around the room, she heard a thump and a hiss. She jumped slightly at the sound, and turned the light to the right. A gas heater hummed and clicked against the far wall as the pilot light ignited. She continued to look about the room, taking another small step, and then another, moving deeper into the blackness and farther from the stairs. Lifeline. Don't be an idiot Dana. The stairs are not your lifeline. What the hell was taking Mulder so long? As she trained the light about the cellar she noted that it was a clean area, and appeared to be very large. Three doors, closed, were in various parts of the room. One to her right, one in front of her, and one to the left. She took another step forward, her light shining in front of her. Something white and very large loomed in front of her. Panic hit her squarely in the solar plexus, and she took a step back, and straight into something else very solid. She whirled, ready to fight, every instinct bred into her from her training at Quantico pumping chemical stimulus through her veins. No one was there. How could that be? She had felt someone. Or... Something. "Help me." The sound was right behind her. She whirled again, holding her gun steady. That did it. She was sick and tired of this game. Someone was down here, whispering, calling out. Either that or there really was a child down here, entrapped. Could it be Arnie and Lynna Buckles? For a child she'd have to continue. If they were here she had to find them. She took a step forward. "Federal Agent. Come out where I can see you." And it did. End of Part Seven Don't Go Down There (8/16) by Denise A. Agnew writer@agnewdt.demon.co.uk Manderley Bed and Breakfast Cellar Tuesday, 2:20am Scully's calm left her. Her conscious hold to keep away fear dissipated like a wisp of smoke. It was here. No, it wasn't anything she could see, could physically touch. Yet it touched her. With tentacles of silence, it reached toward her, cold and still as a tomb, radiating a potent horror she remembered having felt only one other time in her life. She recognized the feeling that caused her to back up again, turning her head this way and that, searching frantically for any assailant. It knew her. It knew her. The cold seeped into her chest, and she felt it tighten like a vise, penetrating with a damp chill not unlike what one experiences standing in a graveyard, alone at night. Surrounded by the dead, by the souls of those whose time has gone before and can never be again. "Help me." This time the voice trailed off to a mere thread of sound that trickled over her ears like cold water. Amoral. Malevolent. Whatever was down here was not a child. Her legs began to shake, stress strangled her breathing until it became a harsh rasp in her throat. Her heart pounded relentlessly, making her dizzy. Adding to her terror was the realization that if she didn't move soon she would faint. Run. Oh, God. Runnnnnnnnnnnn. She bolted, turning away. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, a stream of intense light radiated from the top of the stairs and she stopped immediately, putting her hand to her eyes. "Scully?" "Mulder," she whispered, relief mingling with her continuing fear. She ran up the steps, plunging with reckless haste, her toe catching on the last step as she reached the top. Mulder dropped the flashlight and reached for her. She literally fell into his arms as his halogen flashlight bounced down the stairs, the beam of light sweeping in wild arches before it crashed at the bottom and extinguished. "Scully, what the hell is going on?" Twisting in his arms, she pulled from his grip and started past him. He turned his back to the cellar and watched her as she took one step back, then another, all the while staring past him at some unseen abomination. She clasped her arms against her body to rid herself of the unrelenting, penetrating cold. If she thought Mulder looked confused by her behavior earlier when he'd gone to get the flashlight, he looked even more bemused now. He walked toward her cautiously, as if approaching a frightened animal. Yes. That's what she felt like right about now. A bewildered animal caught in a cage with nowhere to go. The walls were closing in, closing in. "Scully, what is it?" he asked again, grasping her shoulders and peering into her eyes. "You've been acting strange since we first heard the noises. Did you see something down there?" Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, hoping it would reduce the frantic race her heart hammered out in her chest. "Yes. No." "Sorry, can't have both." He rubbed her arms. "Is it that cold down there? You're shaking." "I...no. It wasn't the cold, Mulder. There was something there. I can't explain." "Try." "Not here." "All right. We can go back to the room and talk about it." He looked over his shoulder. "I've got to get my flashlight. As he turned to go into the cellar she reached out and grabbed his arm with both hands. "Don't do it. Not now. Not while it's dark." Again he looked at her like she'd lost her mind, but then his eyes narrowed as if he were beginning to understand the full impact of her terror. "It'll only take me a minute," he said quietly. She closed her eyes and dropped his arm. Feeling the cold grip her with steel talons, she crossed her arms. Obviously if he wanted to go in the cellar he was going to it, with or without her assistance. She should go with him. He shouldn't be alone with...whatever was down there. But she couldn't. She couldn't go down there again so soon. Maybe never. Mixed with her fear was humiliation. Her father would be so disappointed. She felt warm fingers on her cheek, and her eyes snapped open. Mulder was close, invading her space. As he cupped her face in his hands a frown pulled down his wide mouth. "You're freezing. I may not be a doctor, but I think you're in shock." Strange as it was she had to concur. She was in shock. Medically it made no sense. Nausea roiled in her stomach for a moment, and for a few seconds she thought she might embarrass herself and be ill right there in the hall. For the most part, however, she didn't care. Maybe she'd just give up the ghost and pass out. Oblivion might be preferable to this horrible feeling. Evidently realizing she wasn't just terrified, but in physical distress as well, he released her face and put his arm around her. "Scully, are you going to pass out on me?" "Maybe," she said weakly. "Can you walk?" She nodded, not at all sure she could. He began to lead her down the hall. "Promise me, Mulder," she whispered as they crossed the lobby. "Promise me you won't go down there in the dark tonight." "I won't go down there tonight," he promised. As they ascended the stairs some of the permafrost in her bones thawed, and she began to feel a calm and assurance of safety penetrate the entrenched horror. No longer wobbly, she was fairly certain she wasn't going to give way like a heroine in an old movie and start screaming. And as they walked down the hall toward their room, she knew that she'd have to explain to Mulder what was wrong with her. She didn't like the taste of it, and for a moment considered concocting a story to mask her symptoms. For all she knew, he'd figured out what was wrong by now. He had a degree in psychology. It wouldn't take him long to get to the bottom of her secret. * * * Manderley Bed and Breakfast Second Floor, Turret Room Tuesday, 2:40am Mulder watched his petite partner as she sat on the bed, huddled into the blankets he'd piled around her. Dark shadows darkened her blue eyes to a thundercloud purple, and she stared at the dresser against the opposite wall as if it were the most fascinating thing she'd ever seen. She might try and deny it, as she usually did, but something unusual and uncanny had happened while she was down in the cellar. Hell, something bizarre had happened even before then. He hadn't given much thought to her statement about not wanting to go down into the cellar. As a scientist her generally skeptical attitude about the supernatural was the reason why she didn't want to go down there. At least that's what he'd originally thought. And she'd begged him not to go in the cellar alone and in the dark. Dana Scully never begged for anything. Once again the enigmatic Dr. Scully was showing as side of herself he'd rarely glimpsed. He'd seen her scared, cautious, but nothing like this. This fear was reserved for the kind of nightmares one experienced as a child. Although she was an excellent agent, and tough as alligator skin, she was human. Yet she didn't like to admit being human, and she held back a lot of emotions. He'd seen people like this before. Individuals traumatized by the death of a loved one, or witnesses to tragic accidents. She hunched into the blankets, and the occasional involuntary shudder ran over her body. Since they'd come into the room several moments before, she hadn't said a word. "If you don't improve soon I'm taking you to the hospital," he said. She didn't move. He sat on the couch and leaned forward, wishing that the kitchen was open so he could get her a cup of tea or something else hot to drink. "Are you feeling better?" he asked, his worry escalating the longer she was silent. She seemed to shake herself, breaking from the trance to look over at him. She nodded and pulled her arms out from under the blankets. "Yes." "Are you going to tell me what happened down there?" "I'm not sure I understand it myself." "Then just tell me the details and spare the understanding." She crossed her arms and looked down at the floor. "I lost it Mulder. Totally lost it." He couldn't think how to reply to her vague statement. "Mulder, when I was in the cellar...when we were at the doorway I heard a child's voice. They were calling for help. Didn't you hear it?" He shook his head. "No." She sighed. "Then it must have been my imagination. I was hoping we'd find the children safe, and I made it up in my mind." "Possibly, but I doubt it. Remember, I'm the one with the overactive imagination." "Whatever I heard...it changed from a child's plea for help to something...different." She continued, in slow, halting tones, to clarify the icy fear that had invaded her mind and spirit. "I knew somebody was down there with me, Mulder." "Yet you didn't see anyone. All you heard was a disembodied voice." She quivered slightly, and he wondered if his use of the word 'disembodied' had frightened her. "No, I didn't see anyone. It might have been dark, but unless they were hiding behind one of the other doors and whispering through the door, I should have been able to see them." He was formulating as many questions as he was answers to what had occurred. "Could it have been a ghost you heard? Remember, Manderley does have a reputation." She wrinkled her nose slightly. "Let's not jump to conclusions, Mulder." He nodded. "All right, then. You tell me what you think it was." For several seconds she seemed to mull over her answer, as if she had a multitude of alternatives from which to choose. "Maybe I was overtired. And, yes, maybe my imagination ran away with me. I had been reading that book before we heard the sounds." Mulder peered at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Come again?" Why couldn't she just tell him the truth? He was beginning to feel much as he had back in Salem, Colorado, when she'd brushed him off about Lucien. He'd felt this way when she'd avoided opening his Valentine card in February. She was switching into evasive action mode. Perhaps she realized that he was losing his patience, and she cleared her throat. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I don't mean to be obtuse." He knew this wasn't entirely true, but he wasn't going to get anywhere using vinegar. "Take all the time you need." He looked at his watch. "I don't know about you, but I'm wide awake and couldn't sleep if I tried." She pushed the blanket off her shoulders, and he was relieved to see that the color had completely returned to her cheeks. It appeared her shock had worn off. "I'd prefer to say that I don't know what happened in the cellar, but I can see you don't believe that. Maybe...perhaps...there is something evil there." He wasn't used to Scully speaking in terms of evil, but he knew that over her four years in the X-Files she'd seen and heard some very odd things and had to admit not all were explainable in mere scientific terms. When he didn't speak she said, "For a moment I was sure someone was playing pranks, or that whoever snatched Lynna and Arnie was hiding in the cellar." "But you don't think that now?" he asked. "I'm not sure." "But even if you believed that it was someone...something human down there, you never would have been as frightened as you were, Scully. I know you better than that." She flipped the other blanket off her legs and swung her legs off the bed. Rising stiffly, as if sore, she made a few tentative steps and walked to the dresser. She stood there, staring into the large mirror. "When I was sixteen I knew this girl who lived with her family in this big, old, scary Georgian with lots of nooks and crannies. We went into the cellar one night to have a seance." Mulder knew disbelief crossed his face. "You had a seance?" "Strange but true." She turned around and looked at him. "Anyway, the idea of a seance was just for fun, and I didn't believe in ghosts." "You were a skeptic even as a child?" She smiled slightly and continued. "We had her Quija board, and it was a dark and stormy night." He raised his eyebrows. "Seriously?" "We went into the cellar, Quija board in hand. We turned on all the lights in the cellar. It was a big place." She swallowed hard. "Like the cellar here. We started fiddling with the board." She stopped, and Mulder found himself leaning forward in anticipation. "And?" "Nothing happened." "What?" "Nothing happened. But then my friend dared me to sleep in the cellar that night. She was a born skeptic herself, and she didn't expect anything to happen. Well, before we could even agree to it, the lights went out. It scared us and we went running up the stairs. The door had locked somehow. We yelled for her parents and they got us out. Apparently there had been a power outage." "Are you saying that experience has made you wary of cellars, Scully? We've been in plenty of dark, damp, creepy places and I've never seen you react that way before. Were you as frightened when you were sixteen as you were tonight?" She looked at the floor, then back up at him. "No. You see, I'd already conquered that fear a long time ago. And I was damn proud of it. Tammy was trembling like a leaf. She never again asked me to stay with her in the cellar over night." He stood up, feeling the coldness of the room creep into his own bones. It had taken him a little too long to figure out what she was trying to say. Despite his suspicions, he didn't want to jump to conclusions. "So you're saying that you're not normally afraid of cellars?" As he came close to her she looked into his eyes. "It's more likely that my fear has returned." Her gaze remained steady on him for several seconds before she continued. "I'm phobic, Mulder." End of Part Eight -- Denise A. Agnew