From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Sun, 26 Oct 2008 09:23:23 -0500 (CDT) Subject: The Brixton Witch (repost) by Kel and msk by michelle kiefer Source: direct Reply To: msk1024@yahoo.com Title: The Brixton Witch Author: Kel and msk Email: ckelll@hotmail.com msk1024@yahoo.com Rating: PG-13 Archive: Just ask. Spoilers: Post Redux II Summary: A hoax? A haunting? Only Goody Barton knows for sure. Author's Notes: Big thanks to MaybeAmanda and Syntax6. These girls give great beta. More notes at end. "Ice cream, Mulder?" "I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream, Scully." "And you believe this ice cream parlor is haunted." Goody Barton's Ice Cream Shoppe was closed, the sun reflecting off the windows, blinding them as they sat in a rental car across the street. Located in the historic district of Brixton, Connecticut, Goody Barton's was surrounded by quaint gift shops and restaurants and 18th century houses. No crass "big box" stores here; the Wal-Mart and the Home Depot were down the road two miles at the intersection of Route 1. "Something is happening. It may be a true haunting, though at this point, I'd be more likely to classify it as a poltergeist." "As in, 'they're here'?" she asked, smiling over the rim of her paper cup of coffee. "The Scovilles asked for our help, Scully," he said with a teasing smile, "and here you are making bad '80s movie jokes." "What else can I do? You've told me nothing about this case except 'grab your suitcase and a spoon and meet me at the taxi stand by the E Street entrance'." "I think I'll let the Scovilles tell you the story," Mulder said, nodding at the front door of the shop, where a young woman in jeans and a sweater was unlocking the door. Scully drained the last of her lukewarm coffee and climbed out of the car. She paused for a moment, one hand on the car door and waited for the lightheadedness to fade. Her hesitation wasn't lost on Mulder, who shot a concerned glance in her direction. She was sure it was nothing--just the slightest dizziness upon standing. Scully hadn't even mentioned it to her oncologist yet, much less discussed it with her partner. Her body had been through a lot--a few minor physical quirks were to be expected. It wasn't as if she could order her body to hustle that cellular repair because she was tired of feeling cold all the time. If it wasn't for her silk-blend long underwear, she'd be shivering in the late October breeze. She firmly shut the car door, and strode toward the shop. Mulder overtook her, reaching around to push the door open. "Mrs. Scoville?" Mulder asked. The woman nodded and Mulder continued. "I'm Agent Mulder and this is Agent Scully. We're with the FBI." Her round, pleasant face brightened with excitement. "Wow. I honestly didn't think anyone would come." "Jim! Jim! The FBI are here." A bearded young man emerged from behind a curtained door, wiping his hands on a towel. He reached out to shake the agents' hands as they recited their names again. "FBI? When Jenny told me there was a department at the FBI to investigate stuff like this, I didn't believe her." Mulder flashed a half-smile, and Scully could only imagine what he was thinking. Scully glanced around the shop, taking in the decor. The wallpaper was printed with black hats on a purple background. Corn brooms and other "witchy" decorations graced the room. The most striking item was a large painting of an old crone in traditional witch's dress, stirring a bubbling cauldron. "Why don't we sit down and you can tell us what's been happening," Mulder said. Jim Scoville showed them to one of the small wrought iron tables that lined one wall of the shop. "Can I get anyone some ice cream? Coffee?" Jenny asked. "The doctor said frequent meals and snacks," Mulder whispered. She craved sweets these days, and Mulder knew it. "No, thank you," Scully said. Her internal control freak wouldn't let her give in to that craving before a healthy lunch. With a sigh, Mulder declined and soon the four were crowded around the little table. "How long has Goody Barton's been in operation?" Mulder asked. "We opened this May," Jim said. "The shop did real well during the summer--lots of people come past on their way to the beach. Nothing odd happened for the first few weeks." "And then?" "It was little things in the beginning. I'd come back from the store room and find the candy bits and nuts tidied up. At first, I thought Jim had straightened them, but he said he didn't. Another time, the ice cream scoops in the buckets were all facing in the same direction." "It was almost like someone was helping us," Jim said. "Like elves or something. "One night, we were so tired, we didn't bother to clean up. The counter was a mess, all the scoops were dirty. The garbage hadn't been taken out. The next morning, we got in early so we could get ready for the customers and everything was clean. The garbage was in a bag by the back door, which was still locked tight. The tables were clean; the counter was wiped down." "We used to joke that Goody Barton came in while we were gone and fixed things. That maybe she had a touch of OCD." "Goody Barton?" Mulder asked. "Yeah," Jenny answered. "We named the shop after her. She was a witch back in the 1600s who got hung or burned at the stake...I can't remember which. Anyway, there's a lot of local lore about her in Brixton, so we thought we'd name the shop after her." "Is that Goody Barton in the painting?" Mulder asked, leaning back in his chair to better see the picture. "It's my interpretation of her, I guess," Jenny said. "Of course, I had to imagine what she looked like." "You painted it?" Mulder asked. "You're very talented." "She sure is," Jim answered. "Jenny was an art major in college, and then she was a designer for Young and Rubicam in New York." "I'm hoping I'll have more time to paint once we can hire some staff. It took me weeks and weeks to finish Goody." "And you thought Goody was a benevolent spirit," Mulder said. "We did at first. But then things changed," Jim said. "When was that?" "Let me see...toward the end of the summer. It must have been late August," Jenny said. "I'd put some 'back to school' decorations in the window--a ceramic apple for the teacher, some books, an ice cream dish full of pencils--that kind of stuff. One morning, we came in to find the apple smashed on the floor and all the pencils broken." "And that was just the beginning. Chocolate sauce poured all over the counter, jars of maraschino cherries smashed on the floor. Do you have any idea how hard it is to clean that cherry juice up?" Jim asked. "The floor is still sticky in places." "We thought maybe it was teenagers," Jenny said. "We had to chase out rowdy kids an few times and we thought maybe they were getting back at us. We called the police, but they didn't find any evidence of a break-in and there were no fingerprints. They said there was nothing they could do." "Is there anyone else who might have vandalized the shop?" Scully asked. "I don't think so," Jim said. "And vandals couldn't have done some of the stuff." "Like what?" Mulder asked, leaning forward. Scully could practically hear his heart beating faster. He lived for this kind of thing. "We make our own ice cream," Jenny said with pride. "Some shops mix their own flavors into ready-made vanilla, but we do it all from scratch. Jim is very picky about the cream. We buy it fresh from a local dairy, and he tastes it before he'll accept delivery." "This shipment was perfectly fine," Jim said. "I know what fresh cream tastes like and this was fresh. I put it in the refrigerator because the shop was busy. An hour later, when I got to the back room, it was curdled." "Do you mind if we take a look around?" Mulder asked, rising from his chair. "Go right ahead," Jim said. "Somebody likes the Halloween theme," Scully said, as she and Mulder moved around the seating area. "I think it's always Halloween here," Mulder said. Moving behind the counter, they inspected the work area. Scully was impressed by the cleanliness, though she could attest to Jim's comment that the floor remained sticky. Mulder popped a walnut into his mouth when the Scovilles' attention was turned to the front door. "We'll take a look in the store room," Scully said, pulling on Mulder's elbow. The Scovilles were occupied by a couple of young mothers with toddlers in tow. The store room was noticeably colder than the front of the store, and the decor was strictly functional. The first thing Scully noticed was the back door. "That's not much of a lock," she said. The ice cream shop probably represented the Scovilles' life savings, but the lock they had chosen was an economy model. Across the room, Mulder was examining a large commercial mixer. He pulled off the paddle and sniffed it. "It's not a high-crime area. Anyway, it must have satisfied their insurance company," he said. He replaced the paddle, which promptly fell from the machine and clattered onto the floor. "Has it occurred to you that this might be a publicity stunt?" Scully asked. "A Halloween appearance by the store's namesake." "The Scovilles graduated from UConn," Mulder answered. "And that puts them above suspicion?" Mulder retrieved the mixing blade from the floor and brushed it off against his suit jacket. "UConn students. . . are renowned. . . for their pranks," he said, his answer punctuated by his efforts to jam the paddle back into place. "Curdled cream is just. . .boring. And lousy publicity. . . for an ice cream store." "It was enough to bring us in to investigate. Maybe we're the main act," Scully said. Mulder shrugged, and laid the paddle on the counter. "We won't let it get out of hand," he said. Scully considered that it was already out of hand. The Scovilles themselves hadn't expected help from the FBI, yet here they were. Half a dozen serious cases awaited their attention, but Mulder had put them aside for this one. "Just how much do you like ice cream?" she asked. "Scully, what do you have against ice cream?" Mulder's blandness was as tiresome as his habitual secrecy. If he had been professional enough to brief her properly, she could have brought the right lab kits. An organism or an enzyme might explain the spoiled cream. "Are we finished here?" she asked. Scully hugged her arms around her. This bone-deep weariness crept up on her without warning lately. "Sure. Wait out front," he said. "I don't think so," she said. It wouldn't be wise to leave him alone among all the equipment. She hadn't brought the big first aid kit this trip. "Hold this for me." He took his coat from over his arm and draped it across her shoulders. Before she could protest that she wasn't cold, he surprised her further by leaping onto the steel shelving that lined one side of the room. "Now I remember why I gave up baby-sitting," she said. "There's a vent," he explained, climbing the rack as if that was its purpose. The shelves seemed sturdy enough, but she didn't think the Board of Health would appreciate Mulder's footprints among the cartons of sugar and spices. All in all, the Scovilles were probably better off with their poltergeist. "Something's wet," he informed her from somewhere near the ceiling. Mulder stuck his hand into the open ductwork of the vent, and gave a sudden shout. Not a word, but a sound. Something like "Yech!" "Bile?" Scully inquired sweetly. "Ewww," Mulder answered, a shudder in his voice. "Ectoplasm? Mulder, have you been slimed?" Considering that he was a grown man who had climbed up a rack of shelves to stick his fingers in some goo, he regained his composure with admirable speed. "Psychologically speaking, the cinema of the '80s seems to have captured a disproportionate share of your imagination. Don't you like any recent movies?" "What can I say, Mulder? I don't get out like I used to." "Anyway, it isn't slimy. It's sticky." Scully found a towel by the sink, but before she could toss it up to him, he did what any normal two-year-old would do. Now it was Scully's turn to utter one of those sounds that can only be rendered as "yech" or "ewww," although it didn't really sound like either. Mulder removed his finger from his mouth. "Butterscotch," he said. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Mulder, have you lost your mind?" Scully asked. It was not a rhetorical question. "It's the only hotel in town," Mulder answered. The Brixton Inn might be the only hotel in town, but it didn't come close to meeting the financial guidelines of the FBI travel office. The Motel 6 out on Route 1 was not technically in Brixton, but it was close enough that Mulder could have jogged there. Scully could have too, once. And she would again, she reminded herself. She just needed to give her body time to heal. "What makes you think we even need to stay overnight?" she asked, pointedly. "The lady from the historical society can't see us until 4," Mulder reminded her. "It'll be too late to drive back to DC after that." Scully frowned. She had only heard Mulder's half of the phone call, but she knew that it was he who had suggested the time. He'd even used the phrase, "we have to eat lunch first." "All right. Let's see what you get for $200 a night," she said. The bellboy led them onto a plush elevator that was too large and modern for the restrained, quaint decor of the inn. He showed them to their rooms and distributed their modest luggage. Scully saw Mulder tip him, but the young man stood by staunchly until Scully herself handed him some extra bills. Tucking the cash in his pocket, the bellboy shrugged and left. "Nice room," Mulder said. It was a silly, pompous room, full of quilting and lace and flowers. A huge armoire hid the offensive but necessary presence of the television set. The gas-powered fireplace would have been a waste of space, if the room itself wasn't so large. Across the hall, Mulder's room was just as over-decorated. "We should have a talk with the Scovilles' banker," Scully suggested. "Sure. After lunch," Mulder said. Mulder often reminded her of a force of nature, but usually it was a cyclone or a tsunami. Today he was acting like a glacier. "Great. We'll have lunch. Then, if we can spare a few minutes, we'll get back to investigating this ridiculous case," Scully said. "You're the one who wanted to get out in the field," Mulder said. "Yes, I wanted to get out in the field, Mulder. To one of the half dozen legitimate X-files you're hiding in your desk drawer. Why aren't we in South Dakota investigating the UFO sightings, or looking into the mutilated cattle in Colorado? Why are we investigating a *haunted* ice cream shop?" Mulder scowled as Scully made air quotes around the word "haunted." "Why can't you just enjoy a few pleasant fall days in beautiful Connecticut? This is a perfectly valid case, and I believe I have the experience to make that assessment." Scully narrowed her eyes and stared at Mulder, her hands clenched into fists. To his credit, Mulder didn't flinch and didn't turn away. "Damn it, Scully. Three weeks ago you were lying in a hospital bed, your body barely making a dent in the covers. You're supposed to be taking it easy. That's part of the deal with you coming back to work ahead of schedule." Tension crackled between them. Scully forced her hands to relax and drew herself up tall and looked into his eyes. "I feel fine." "It's hard to forget how you looked," Mulder said after several long seconds. "And... people are supposed to eat lunch." They had a hideously expensive meal in the Brixton Inn dining room. Luckily, the view from the window was pretty enough to distract them from awkward pauses in the conversation. "You're supposed to take care of yourself," Mulder said, quietly. "Are you suggesting that I'm not? That you know more about what I need than I do?" "I'm requesting that you don't turn on me for mentioning something that we both know is true." She wasn't unaware of how upset Mulder had been by her illness. She understood how he felt and wished with all her might that it didn't make her feel weak and powerless. If she were a different person, she could tell him that his strength was what kept her alive. In those last days, she'd begun to welcome death. It crouched in the corner of her hospital room, biding its time. Death was gentle and seductive, and Scully was so weary of the fight, but Mulder bullied them both and he wouldn't let her go. Mulder folded his napkin and placed it on the table. "The historical society is at 4. We have hours," he said. "And you're going to suggest a nap." She smiled, trying to reassure him. "But I feel fine, and I'm going to walk over to the Connecticut National Bank and look into the Scovilles' financial status." "Scully, I can handle that." "So can I, Mulder." She handled it easily, walking the three blocks to the bank. The Scovilles had agreed to open their records, and the bank officer was efficient and cooperative. "Hard workers," he said. "Nice kids." Very successful kids, Scully might have added. Jim and Jenny had started out in the corporate world, and they were doing an excellent job of holding on to their earnings. It was only later, when Mulder failed to appear at the historical society, that Scully realized he had manipulated her. She had been so focused on proving she could work alone, she hadn't thought to ask where he was going. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Don't," Mulder said, his index finger inches from her face. "Don't what?" Scully asked. As if she didn't know. "Don't. Say. Anything. And what are you doing in my room?" "Nothing, Mulder. Just waiting for you." He looked as if someone had used him to scour a barbecue pit. Soot covered his face and flaked from his hair. His jacket was ruined, with one sleeve shredded and a rip running across the front. His trousers were so tattered she suspected only his belt was holding the pieces together. "Aren't you going to ask me what happened?" Mulder shrugged out of what was left of his jacket and tossed it into a corner. "You told me not to say anything." Of course, Scully would have been unable to contain her curiosity if she didn't already know what happened. She had phoned the Scovilles looking for Mulder, and Jenny had told her the story. "I was trying to find a source for that butterscotch," Mulder said. "The butterscotch you found in the ventilation duct in the work room. So naturally you looked on the roof," Scully said. "A possible source." "I suppose. . . if butterscotch wasn't so viscous." "I found a chimney." "On the roof? How odd," Scully said. "An extra chimney. Unassociated with any part of the heating system, or any fireplace," he said. "An X-File! Except it turned out that there was an older fireplace, no longer in use," Scully said. "Then you know." He kicked off his shoes and unbuckled his belt. "You got stuck in the chimney and Jim Scoville had to pull you out." "I didn't get stuck. I had some difficulty dislodging my shoulders." "Then you decided to climb up the chimney from the secret fireplace." "I wanted to check the flue." "Find any butterscotch?" Mulder let his trousers drop to the floor. "And what did *you* learn?" he asked. Scully grew serious. Her interview with the historian had been sobering. "I learned that fear and greed can make ordinary people behave like devils--and I'm not talking about the witches," she said. "The Puritans themselves were horrified at what they'd done--once the hysteria passed," Mulder said. "Elisabeth Barton was a midwife. The mortality rate surrounding childbirth ran high in those days, and she was accused of causing the deaths. That would explain her bitterness, and why she might sabotage the Scovilles for borrowing her name," she said. "It might," Mulder said, heading for the bathroom. "But it wouldn't explain why she started out by trying to help them." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "It's so very sad," Scully mused. "Falsely accused, convicted and hanged. Now she's a quaint piece of history, a name on a shop. I can't help but feel we're part of it, Mulder, that we're exploiting her as well." "But you don't believe we'll really see her," Mulder said. They sat in the car, staking out Gallows Hill. In 1651, still proclaiming her innocence, Goodwife Barton was hanged on this very spot. Back then, this sad place was located at the edge of town. In the intervening years, Brixton had expanded and overtaken the hill. Homes had been built nearby, and Gallows Hill and the woods around it were now a town park. "The historian said she'd been spotted wandering around here, many times over the years." "I bet she doesn't believe it either," Mulder said. "There's a whole pattern to these executions, Mulder. The victims were usually wise, older women who had some prestige. A lot of the accused women were widows, women with a little money or some possessions of their own. Once they were convicted, the community seized their assets," Scully said. "So there was no Goodman Barton?" Mulder asked. "There was, actually. As far as records show, the Bartons were a happy couple, except that they remained childless. People said that was why she killed mothers and little babies." "Angry because she couldn't be a mother herself." "I wonder if it wasn't quite the opposite," Scully said with a yawn. "She didn't have children of her own, so she involved herself in helping women in labor and helping to care for their infants." "Scully, why are you here? You ought to be in bed," Mulder said. "The same reason you are, Mulder." "But you don't believe it." "Not yet. Not based on what we've seen so far. But it's my job, Mulder. This is what I do." "I could manage one night by myself," he said gently. "You're supposed to rest during the day, but you refuse. Now you're staying up all night, and you really don't need to." "But I do, Mulder. It's almost Halloween. What would it take for some kids to dress up in old clothes? Or the Scovilles--they're clever, and Jenny is an artist. They might find a way to rig an apparition." "So you're not on watch for the ghost. You're here to stop me from making a fool of myself over a fake." Scully stretched, willing herself to stay awake. "Don't want you falling in any more chimneys," she said, yawning. "For the record, I didn't fall in...I wedged up." "Mm-hm." She decided it wouldn't hurt to close her eyes for a few minutes. Mulder was expounding on the relative merits of "Halloween" versus "Nightmare on Elm Street." Scully couldn't follow his logic, but his voice devolved into a pleasantly seductive drone. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ She found herself at the edge of the woods, where Gallows Hill stood darkly outlined against the deep blue night sky. She didn't remember getting out of the car, or how she'd moved from where it remained parked on the gravel road that passed through the woods. The air was cold and crisp; the wind rustled through the leaves. Scully pulled her coat closer and looked around her. In the dark, the trees looked menacing, as if their branches were long bony fingers waiting to snatch anyone who dared enter the shadowy woods. Something was moving among the trees, walking along the base of the hill. She called out for Mulder, keeping her voice low enough that whoever was out there wouldn't hear. When no answer came, she took off toward the hill by herself. Maybe Mulder was right about her and the movies. Here she was, the lone woman stumbling through the woods, and she found herself thinking that the only thing missing was the sound track with the spooky music. The crunching of leaves under her pounding feet echoed in the silent woods. Her breath came in little puffs, the cold air burning her lungs. A year ago, she told herself, a year ago she'd have sprinted this distance in half the time instead of lumbering and wheezing along. If somebody was getting their jollies playing dress-up in the woods, they were going to reap the full benefit of her frustration. "Stop!" she called, gasping for breath. "Federal Agent! Stay where you are!" Ahead of her, the figure stopped and slowly turned. A woman's form shimmered before Scully, her face almost as white as the collar of the dark dress that seemed to float a few inches above the pine needles and leaves on the ground. If this was the Scovilles or local kids, the techniques they used were remarkable. Scully could just make out bushes and rocks through the fabric of the dress. "Elisabeth Barton?" Scully asked. The woman nodded, solemnly. Her face wasn't young, or pretty or remarkable in any way beyond the sorrow, but it was a kind face. "What happened to you was terrible," Scully said. "Unspeakable. You didn't deserve it." Goodwife Barton shook her head and reached up to pull at the white collar of her dress. A deep crease marred the skin, the impression of the rope visible. "And now they're using your name to sell ice cream. Does that upset you?" When Goody Barton shook her head this time, it was almost imperceptible, as if it was hard to explain how she felt. Her gaze was intense, level. Scully sighed, suddenly understanding. "The portrait." Barton nodded, and Scully found herself nodding too, suddenly understanding. Elisabeth had been happy, at first, to feel part of the fun and bustle of the ice cream shop, to contribute. Her anger hadn't started until the Fall. Until she'd seen that hideous portrait. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Scully? Wake up, Scully." "Mulder?" She rubbed her eyes and tried to focus. "Where were you? What happened?" "Nothing happened. It was a complete waste of taxpayer money, and now it's time for good little agents to go to bed." "But what about the ghost?" "No ghost, Scully. We're back at the hotel." He leaned over and unfastened her seatbelt. "I think I just solved the case," she mumbled. "That must have been some nap. Come on, out of the car." "It's the painting," Scully said. "The portrait that Jenny painted?" "She doesn't like it." Mulder looked at her with a combination of concern and amusement. He got out of the car and walked around to open her door. "So Goody Barton doesn't like the picture." Mulder's voice was soothing as he offered Scully his arm. "Elisabeth Barton was not some ugly old crone stirring eyes of newt into her stew," Scully said forcefully. As Scully shook off the inertia of sleep, the idea became clearer. At the same time, she felt more dubious about its source. "She's offended?" Mulder asked with a snort. "You'd think the hanging would have been the thing that really pissed her off." "I don't think it's vanity, Mulder. I think she just wants to be represented as an ordinary woman. A real woman, not a caricature or a joke." "But that's going to ruin the Halloween theme," Mulder said. "People insist on pointy hats and warty noses." "Of course they do. Because otherwise they would have to remember that innocent women had terrible things done to them for no other reason than fear or greed." Scully rubbed her hand over her face. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I think I know how to fix this." Mulder put his arm across her shoulder as they walked into the hotel. "I told you a nap would do you good," he said. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "The eyes need to be a little farther apart. And the eyelid crease needs to be a bit deeper." Careful not to drip ice cream from her cone, Scully leaned over Jenny as her pencil flew over the paper. Scully paused in her description to savor her *Brixton Blueberry Buckle*. It may have been 10 in the morning, but Scully had managed to stuff her inner control freak into her inner broom closet. When the Scovilles offered ice cream on the house, Scully ordered a double cone. A drip of ice cream threatened to overtake the rim of the cone. As her tongue darted out to catch it, she glanced up at Mulder who was watching her so intently that he didn't notice that his tie was in imminent danger from his own cone. "I don't get it," Jim Scoville said. "What's wrong with the other picture?" Mulder shifted his attention from her with apparent difficulty and turned to Jim. "It's a stereotype, full of years of prejudice and theatrical effects." A blob from his *Goody's Maple Walnut* slid onto his hand. Scully found herself fascinated as he licked it away. "But how does she know what Goody Barton really looked like?" Scoville asked, nodding toward Scully. "Elisabeth Barton was an ordinary woman who was caught in a wave of hysteria," Mulder said. Scoville shrugged. "As long as it keeps the cream fresh and the butterscotch off the walls. You think it will work?" "Only time will tell," Mulder said. "But isn't it better to show her as she must have been?" The face was taking shape. Elisabeth Barton looked out at Scully, wise, kind, a little sad. It was an honest face, and real. "Yes," Scully said. "That's her." The End Author's Notes: The inspiration for this story is a real life ice cream shop in my real life town named after a real life woman who was hanged as a witch in 1651. One day, my daughter and I were passing the shop and she wondered aloud how Goody B would feel about an ice cream shop named after her. Kel was as intrigued by that idea as I was and the rest is history. Happy Halloween, everybody!