From: "One Prana" <oneprana@hotmail.com>
Date: Mon, 15 Sep 2003 22:20:35 -0700
Subject: Entelechy by NonEssential and NonExistent
Source: direct

Title: Entelechy

Authors: NonEssential and NonExistent

Classification: MT, MA, SA, post-ep "Grotesque"

Rating: R for violence and themes

Disclaimer:  The characters in this story, both named
and unnamed, belong to Fox, 1013 and Chris Carter.
The situations were developed by the creative folks
at 1013.  We borrowed them because they are the best
characters around, and we lack the creativity to
think of our own.  Please don't sue us.  We are non-
essential and do not exist; therefore, we have no
money.

Authors' Notes: This story was written for Mulder
Refuge's June Challenge.  The order of authorship was
hotly debated.  Indeed, what comes first?  Essence or
existence?  As someone we respect once said,
"'Existence precedes essence.' (Jean-Paul Sartre) The
essence, or meaning, of life is secondary. It is not
inherent at all."  The second half of those thoughts,
however, were, "BTW, I happen to disagree [...].
Essence preceded Existence. My episode guide said
so."

Dedication: This story is dedicated to Becky, Doni,
Gayle, Karen, and Sheila for friendship freely given
and appreciated beyond measure.

* * *

For hours, Patterson stood with his face pressed
against the bars, begging them to understand that it
wasn't him, imploring them to save him, screaming
until his voice failed; his words rolling down the
hall like ocean waves, sound and fury, gradually
losing force and receding back to their owner.  If
anyone heard, they didn't listen.

Now he lay on his bunk in the small dark cell,
resigned to his fate.  Faint bars of light crossed
his body, filtering in from the bare bulbs
illuminating the hall with hard yellow light.  Time
had stopped; there was no window and therefore no
night or day.  He was only vaguely aware of the metal
supports pressing into his back through the thin
ticking of his mattress.  His eyes were locked on the
ceiling, his mind forming patterns in the
scrobiculate concrete ceiling.  He found his personal
demon in the corner, near a dark stain where water
had leaked through from the cell above.  He had
watched it for days, but now it had moved.  It was
directly above him, its eyes locked on his, looking
into every convolution of his brain.  He tried to
escape, focusing his thoughts inward, concentrating
on the rapid beating of his heart as the atria
contracted, followed quickly by the ventricles,
pumping the blood into his arteries in an unending
rhythm.  He could feel the valves opening and
closing, first the atrioventricular valves and then
the semilunar valves-lub dub, lub dub, lub dub.   The
rhythm was soothing.  He could feel the blood leaving
his heart and pulsing through his arteries, feeding
his cells, and then slowly flowing through his veins,
back to his heart.  Blood.

Time shifted to their first time.  His demon smiled
with him as they remembered how the blood had looked,
felt, and smelled: pulsing crimson rivers and
tributaries, thick with life force, tangy with the
metallic taste and aroma of iron.  His own heart had
beaten in tandem with the victim's and he had watched
with mixed revulsion and fascination as light slowly
dimmed in accusing eyes.  He had slashed those
offending orbs, spraying vitreous and aqueous humor
across his own face.  Recoiling in horror, he had
reached for sanity that was no longer there.  The
dead thing at his feet had once been a vital man, but
now it was something he could use.  In a macabre
parody of art, using flesh as his canvas, he slit its
face with brutal strokes, creating a hideous
caricature of the very demon that haunted him.  Could
this warped mirror image frighten the very real demon
inhabiting his soul, frighten it enough to drive it
away?  Compelled beyond reason, he encased the dead
thing in clay, creating yet another caricature of his
demon.  Strange that the demon seemed to both fear
and love its own image.  Stranger yet that he felt
the same way.

The respite he seemed to gain through the clay image
granted him a brief moment of near sanity.  He used
it to call AD Skinner and request that Fox Mulder-his
former protege-be assigned to the case.  Then he fled
in mindless terror, knowing it was useless, knowing
the demon owned him.  It hungered for pain and blood;
he was just a tool, skillfully wielded, to satisfy
that hunger.  Mulder would be his tool, his last hope
for salvation.

He saw now that he was a fool.  Mulder had not saved
him.  He had merely succeeded in locking him in here
where his demon visited at will and reveled in the
images stored in his brain.  But the demon wanted,
no, needed more, more blood, more pain.  He had
become useless to it.  It left him alone from time to
time with only its victims-humans wearing the faces
of grotesques-as company.  Strange that he felt
somehow bereft without its presence.  They were fools
to think he was the killer.  Mulder, of all people,
should have known better.

* * *

Mulder and Scully were out of synch.  She was in his
way, and he was making her uneasy.  Even the air in
the basement office seemed polarized.  It wasn't that
they argued, or even disagreed.  Disagreement between
the partners was the rule, but usually even their
arguments were harmonious-point and counterpoint.
Now there was no disagreement because there was no
communication-even the looks and glances that once
conveyed so much had disappeared.  They still talked-
they just didn't communicate.  A string of banalities
replaced communication: "Good morning, how about some
lunch, no thank you, good evening, good night, how
are you, fine thank you, could I get you a cup of
coffee, no thank you, where is the Smithson file,
look under P".

Underneath this calm facade of polite interaction,
Scully was terrified.  Mulder had become a dark and
gloomy presence.  He was thin and scruffy looking;
most mornings he arrived unshaven, shirt wrinkled,
tie askew, his GQ appearance gone.  His normally
bright and expressive green eyes were dark and
haunted-looking, the passion they usually exuded now
gone.  There was a dullness about him.  He came to
work, but he didn't really seem to work.  He shut her
out. He spoke only when directly addressed.  Scully
covertly studied him, though in reality she probably
could have set up a video camera and tape recorder
without him noticing.  Things had not been right
since the Patterson case.  Patterson had been placed
in an institution for the criminally insane pending
the outcome of his trial.  It had been a sad day for
the bureau, but at least the case was closed.  Mulder
and she had both received commendations for their
roles, although in her mind it was a reprimand she
deserved.  She shivered as she remembered how her
fear for her partner's sanity had decimated her trust
in him and nearly cost him his life.  He had left
that part out of his final report.  She wondered if
that was the reason for his withdrawal.  Trust was a
significant link in the chain that bound them
together.  She had broken that trust.  She had
suspected him of being the killer and he knew it.

For Mulder, Scully was central to his existence and
yet he had somehow relegated her to a peripheral
irritation.  He needed to focus.  He was profiling
evil, and she kept interrupting.  She was in his way,
always watching him, asking questions.  He tried to
keep up the pretense of professionalism, although he
suspected he was doing a piss poor job of it.  He did
not want her reporting him to Skinner.  He knew how
badly he had scared her during the Patterson case,
how badly he was still scaring her.  She needed his
reassurance, but he was unable to manufacture it.  He
certainly couldn't share his fears.  How could he
tell her that he wasn't entirely sure he was still
sane?  Strange and frightening thoughts were marching
through his mind like armies of ants crawling up and
down his neurons, creating waking dreams of blood,
terror and violence.  More and more he existed in
that gray area where he was unable to discern dreams
from reality.  She was his Scully, he trusted her
with his back, but he could not share this evil that
seemed intent on permeating every cell of his body.
He wanted to fight it, wanted to think he could win,
but was afraid he had already lost.  He needed to be
certain it did not see her.  Even if he lost his war,
he needed to assure that the evil did not find a new
home in her.  Let it find another a victim.  He was
looking into the abyss and the abyss was looking
back.  Patterson had lost this war.  What made him
think he could win?

The office phone rang, its loudness reverberating in
the silence and jangling the nerves of both partners.
Mulder snatched the receiver from its cradle,
effectively silencing it, and professionally
identified himself, allowing only the faintest trace
of irritation to show, "Mulder."  He paused,
listening for a second before responding, "Yes sir,
we will be right up".  He replaced the receiver,
clarifying in response to Scully's raised eyebrow,
"There's been a murder.  Skinner wants to brief us
immediately."  Mulder took a moment to straighten his
tie, put on his jacket, smooth the wrinkles in his
suit, and run his fingers through unkempt hair.

The short trip to Skinner's office passed in silence.
Kim announced the two agents and they entered, their
synchrony temporarily restored as they took their
customary seats and presented a unified front.
Without preamble, Skinner handed the case file to
Mulder.  He scrutinized but did not comment on his
agent's unshaven and ragged appearance; the wrinkled
suit, dark circles under the eyes, and lanky hair set
off alarm bells in his mind.  All was not well in
Mulderland.  He shifted his attention to Scully.  Her
bland expression clearly conveyed-ask me no
questions, I'll tell you no lies.

Mulder looked up from the case file and announced in
a flat voice, "So there's been another gargoyle
murder," tipping the folder so that Scully could see
the gruesome countenance of the victim.

Scully quickly asked, "Are John Mostow and Bill
Patterson still in custody?"

"Yes," answered Skinner.  "I checked on that before
you arrived."

"Then it's a copycat?"

Mulder didn't comment, but raised his eyebrow at the
suggestion.  Skinner noted the exchange and attempted
to categorize the haunted look he saw in Mulder's
eyes before responding, "Possibly.  That's what you
and Mulder are going to find out.  I'd like you to
get on the case immediately, check out the crime
scene, talk to the PD, and report back to me as soon
as possible.  For obvious reasons, the Bureau wants
this case solved quickly, and as quietly as possible.
The media will have a field day with this one, once
the details leak out.  The FBI does not wish to see
Bill Patterson's name all over the front pages
again."

The agents rose as one and filed from the office.
Just before the door closed, Skinner interrupted the
orderly retreat, requesting, "Agent Scully, could I
have a word with you-in private?"  The partners
glanced at one another; Mulder gave a barely
perceptible shrug before barreling out of the office.

Scully returned to Skinner's desk, looking uneasy
under his obvious perusal.  "Scully, I'm worried
about Agent Mulder.  He looks unprofessional, maybe
even ill.  Is there anything you would like to
share?"

Scully looked him in the eye before responding,
"Sir, if Agent Mulder's appearance concerns you,
perhaps you should assign a different agent to the
case.  You know the case with Bill Patterson was very
personal for him.  I am sure he was depressed by the
outcome.  This case is going to open up old wounds."
She didn't mention that in her opinion the wounds had
never closed and were instead festering.

"I'm sorry Agent Scully.  Mulder is an agent with the
FBI.  As such he will investigate the cases he is
assigned, unless he is either physically or mentally
unable to do so."

Skinner watched as Scully pulled her professional
mask into position before responding, "Of course sir.
Neither of us would expect any special
considerations.  Agent Mulder is fine.  We are both
fine.  Thank you for your concern."  Skinner
contemplated her back as she left.  Well, that went
splendidly, he thought.  He wondered why he bothered
with these little discussions.  They always seemed to
end the same, and yet, he seemed compelled to
initiate them.  He and Scully had their roles down
pat.  Perhaps he was attempting to salve his
conscience in the event things went horribly wrong.
That way he could at least say he asked.

Mulder was waiting when Scully returned to the
basement office.  By mutual unspoken agreement, they
did not discuss her conversation with Skinner.  He
had already gathered his things and was anxious to
leave.  His impatience was clear as he waited for her
to gather hers and join him.  She was mildly
surprised he had waited, a stunning insight into the
state of their partnership.  She stood by as he
requisitioned the car, dismayed when he handed her
the keys and climbed into the passenger seat.  "Crime
scene is at the corner of Euclid Street and 15th
Street," he brusquely announced before burying
himself in the crime report.  She made the trip in
about thirty minutes without incident, or for that
matter, conversation.  Before she finished parking
the car, he had leapt from the car and was striding
towards the cordoned off crime scene.  She watched
with concern as he ducked under the yellow tape and
disappeared from view.  She followed almost
reluctantly.  The crime scene was deserted; the
police, ME, and forensic specialists that had scoured
the scene yesterday were gone now, analyzing the
clues.  The crime scene was cold, the body gone, but
she knew Mulder needed to see it.  It was how he
worked.  He breathed in the ambience of the crime.
She watched as he worked the scene.  He seemed
jittery and distracted as he wandered around the area
ultimately kneeling near the chalk outline of the
victim.  She wanted to hear his thoughts, but knew he
didn't want to share.  She had once shared the center
of his world, but had now joined the rest of humanity
on its periphery.  She missed him; he didn't seem to
notice.  She perched on an overturned box near the
edge of the crime scene, making herself as
comfortable as possible; she might have a long wait.
She should have been doing the autopsy, not sitting
here watching her partner, but she was afraid to
leave him alone.  He wasn't himself.  She observed as
he removed the crime scene photos and placed them
adjacent to the chalk outline.  He ran his hands
around the outline, felt the texture of the dirt
where the victim had laid, compared the photos to the
outline.  Then he just sat quietly, his thoughts
hidden from her.  She had his back but wondered if he
remembered.

Mulder carefully reviewed the details in the crime
report, his imagination filling in the missing
details.  He looked deeper, visualizing the crime;
ever more detailed imagery filled his brain.  He was
horrified, but he couldn't look away.  This was his
talent.  He watched as Randy Kowalsky unwittingly
walked across the small parking lot towards his
death.  He saw the assailant stealthily creep out
from behind the small hedge, the knife gripped in his
hand.  He concentrated trying to see the features of
the assailant, but they were cloaked in darkness.  He
watched as the crime played out in his brain, a
tragedy in Technicolor.  He flinched as the perp
expertly slashed and carved his masterpiece in flesh.
Wasn't it strange that the only red he could see was
blood?  Then a passing car briefly illuminated the
crime scene, painting the attacker's face in cold-
white light.  Mulder exploded to his feet, nearly
running before bringing himself under control.  He
could feel himself gasping for breath.  The assailant
wore the face of the evil that lived within him, had
lived within him since he had captured Patterson.  He
was hyperventilating, vaguely felt himself slipping
to his knees.  Then Scully was there, helping to
support him.

He looked into her sympathetic blue eyes, his own
haunted and vacant. "Scully, tell me.  Where was I
last night at 10 PM?" he finally gasped, panic
evident in his voice.

"You were home Mulder.  You left the office early-
around 4.  You said you had a headache and were going
home to sleep it off.  Mulder, why are you asking me
this?  Mulder, answer me."  She feared his answer.

He pulled himself together, began to analyze the
data.  Was it possible that he was a murderer or
perhaps, more correctly, another victim?  Could his
profiling abilities, his ability to see into the mind
of the killer and empathize with the victim account
for his insight into the details of the crime?  Did
it explain his horrible dreams: dreams of murder and
mutilation, blood-soaked dreams?  What if they
weren't dreams?  He forced himself to consider that
thought.  He had to find out.  He would kill himself
before he allowed this evil to force him to take
another life.  He felt tainted.

"I-I just thought..." he trailed off, then said,
"Nothing.  It's nothing."  He told himself he would
not tell Scully until he had confirmation, one way or
another.  He glanced over at Scully's disbelieving
face, but he could tell that she would let it slide -
this time.  "Can we head back now?  I think I've seen
enough."

They walked in silence back to the car, now hidden in
the growing shadows.  Mulder entered the passenger
side, leaving her to drive again.  When she pulled up
to Mulder's apartment, he still hadn't moved to look
at her, still sat staring out the window.  He didn't
seem to have noticed the car had stopped.

"Mulder," she called.  No response - he just looked
wearily out the window.  "Mulder," she said, louder,
reaching over to push his shoulder.  He jerked
himself away, muttered "Thanks, Scully," and quickly
exited the car.  She stared after his quickly
retreating form, wondering what was bothering him
now.  She had expected-well, hoped-that he would want
to discuss the case.  But in retrospect, she realized
he hadn't wanted to discuss anything with her since
he had first started working the Patterson case.  He
was increasingly preoccupied, even haunted.  He knew
something, but he wasn't sharing.  Something had
terrified him at the crime scene, and he had briefly
reached out to her before again pulling up his
defensive walls.  She wished now she had pushed
harder, but he had a habit of clamming up when
pressured. Did he know who the killer was and what it
was that was scaring him so badly?  Hell, who was she
kidding?  He probably knew who the perpetrator was,
if it was indeed a copycat killing, where they could
capture him, and any other information she might need
that was relevant to the crime.  She reprimanded
herself as soon as these thoughts crossed her mind.
Yes, he was a gifted profiler, and sometimes he was
spooky-like now, if she was honest with herself-but
he wasn't a freak.  If he knew something, he had used
sound reasoning to figure it out, and he would share
it-eventually.  They were both tired.  If he didn't
want to discuss the case tonight, then there was no
reason they needed to.  She would go home and relax,
push this off until tomorrow.

* * *

He entered his apartment, dropping the keys to the
floor and pacing.  His thoughts were a mess: red
blood, slashing, death, fear, evil, madness, killer,
victim.  Was he a killer or a victim?   Randy
Kowalsky was a victim.  But what did that make him?
Was he Randy Kowalsky's killer?  He couldn't stay in
his apartment; the walls were closing in.  He grabbed
his keys and headed out the door.  Patterson.  He had
to talk to Patterson.

* * *

Footsteps approached, growing louder as a shadow
neared Patterson's lair.  Patterson remained
impassive, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling,
still contemplating the demon, his own failures, and
the blood-always the blood.  The shadow arrived and
briefly perused Patterson before keys jangled and the
cell door rattled open.  Patterson blinked, turning
toward the door, not all that surprised to see the
object of at least part of his introspection framed
in the doorway, light spilling from behind, outlining
his weary form.  Patterson swung his legs off his
bunk, but did not stand.  There was no need.  He knew
the purpose of the visit.

Mulder eyed Patterson warily and walked to the
corner, slouching in the shadow.  "You know why I'm
here."

Patterson smiled.  He might be insane, but he could
still profile.  "There's been another murder, another
killing.  You need to find out what I know.  The
demon has moved on, Agent Mulder.  It still haunts
me, yet it no longer needs my constant company.  Its
found someone else.  You were too late to save me.
You couldn't even save Nemhauser.  Maybe you have
progressed beyond your aliens and ghosts.  Then
again, maybe not.  If you truly want to understand
it, capture it, stop it, you need to become it.  It's
the only way.  But beware, lest the hunter become the
hunted.  You have no idea of its evil allure.  Or do
you?  It creeps into your mind, the tendrils of its
thoughts caressing your neural pathways, intertwining
with your essence.  At first you feel possessed and
terrified, but it soothes your fears and seduces your
soul.  Ultimately there is parabiosis.  You are it
and it is you.  You crave its company, are jealous
when it leaves you for another.  Then comes the blood
lust.  I was compelled to murder, not cleanly from a
distance with a gun, but up close and personal.  I-
we-needed to feel the dying breath on our cheek,
watch the light fade from the eyes, see life spill
from the ghastly wounds, and most importantly,
briefly bond with the tortured soul as it fled its
ruined mortal vessel.  My demon, myself, and the soul
of our victim, joined by blood in a perverted menage
a trois, a distorted, non-consensual sexual act that
became heroin to my soul."

Mulder's eyes glittered in the darkness.  He felt
sick listening to Patterson ramble on. Bile roiled
into his throat.  He swallowed convulsively.  Was
this his future?  Had he already become the very
thing he was looking for?  Had the madness consumed
him?  He let his eyes roam the small cell.  Evil was
lurking in the shadows and skulking in the corners.
He smelled it in the air he breathed, felt it
percolating through his pores.

"You look distraught, Agent Mulder.  Is it too late?
Have you already been seduced by the evil you so
righteously set out find?  Do you feel it crawling
through your mind?"

Hearing Patterson voice his own thoughts was too much
for the agent.  He spun out of the shadows and fled
the cell, hearing Patterson's words echoing in his
every step.

For hours he drove aimlessly through the city, trying
to profile the evil he felt dogging his path,
exhaustion finally driving him home.  Wearily he
climbed the stairs to his apartment.  Even the simple
act of unlocking the door taxed his nearly numb
brain.  He pushed the door shut.  Pausing to look
into the mirror, he was appalled at the ghoulish
image that stared back at him-sunken bloodshot eyes,
gray fragile-looking flesh pulled too tightly over
cheekbones.  He leaned forward trying to plumb the
depths of his pupils.  Weren't eyes the windows to
the soul?  Slumping in relief, he sighed as his
careful scrutiny revealed only fathomless pools of
black.  He was so tired, hadn't really slept in days.
But since Patterson's imprisonment, he avoided sleep,
fearful of leaving his mind unguarded against the
horrors that visited if he even momentarily relaxed
his tight control.  The phantasmagorias of blood,
evil, demons, and murder were indistinguishable from
reality.

* * *

Next Morning

She awoke with a start as the phone trilled.  Another
victim had been found.  Skinner wanted to know what
Mulder was busy doing - nobody could seem to reach
him.  She hung up and called Mulder's cell phone.
Impatiently she listened to a series of rings
followed by the message she was becoming increasingly
used to hearing: "The cellular customer you have
called..."  She jabbed the end button, a distinctly
less satisfying alternative to slamming the receiver
down.  Cursing under her breath, she grabbed her keys
and left in search of her wayward partner.

Calling would be useless.  She just had to show up in
person.

* * *

After banging uselessly for several minutes on the
door marked "42", she gave up and let herself in.
Her eyes scanned the room, quickly alighting on his
familiar form sprawled across his couch.  "Mulder,"
she shouted as she roughly shook his shoulder,
concern coloring her gaze as she noted his pallor and
the sheen of sweat covering his brow.  Finally he
opened bloodshot eyes.  "Skinner called.  Nobody can
reach you, and there's been another murder."  She
gazed worriedly at the form that had been sleeping
fitfully on the couch, noting the barely concealed
panic in his unguarded gaze.

He sat up and blinked at her in confusion, wondering
what the hell she was doing in his apartment now,
then snapped awake as the phrase "another murder"
sank in.  The professional FBI agent was back; even
as he surreptitiously examined his fingernails and
clothes for blood stains, he quickly outlined a plan
of action.  "Let's stop by the local PD office first
and then visit the crime scene.  Give me a minute to
get into some clean clothes."  He quickly disappeared
into the bedroom to change.  Once away from her
scrutiny he hurriedly changed and took care of his
morning hygiene rituals, while his mind tried to draw
lines between his horrific visions of the night
before and the here and now.  It felt so real, the
silence of the alley, the feel of the knife clutched
in his hand, the smell of blood and fear.  Surely it
wasn't him.  Surely he had not ventured back out last
night to maim and murder.  There was no sign of blood
on him or his clothes.  It had to be a dream,
tortures visited upon him by some otherworldly
connection.  He couldn't continue like this though.
If he was a murderer, he needed to take the necessary
steps to insure he was either dead or locked away
from the rest of society forever.  Death was his
preferred option.

She could tell he had gotten very little sleep.  She
wondered just how little.  Had he been up all night
obsessing over the case?  She wished Skinner hadn't
assigned it to them.  He had changed into a clean
shirt and suit and had even shaved, but he still
resembled the walking dead.  She needed to confront
him; but he had become the master of evasion.  This
situation had become intolerable.

As they walked out to her car, she summarized the
case from the sparse details she had been given over
the phone.  "Police found the body behind the
dumpster of the bar on 22nd street.  Twenty-year-old
male, same facial mutilations as seen in the other
cases.  Play nice with the PD, would you?"

"What else is new, Scully?  I always play nice."

"The Bureau wants this case resolved now.  The media
is having a field day commenting on the inefficiency
of the Bureau.  Three years spent working on a case
that, once resolved, leads to the jailing of a high-
ranking FBI official and yet doesn't stop the
murders."

He stared at her over the top of the car roof, then
disappeared as he opened the passenger door and got
inside. He made a split-second decision to share at
least part of his theory.  She had certainly heard
him voice more outrageous ideas.

"Think about it, Scully.  Mostow was drawing
gargoyles to drive off the demon that inhabited him.
Patterson said the demon has been leaving
periodically.  It's found a new host, Scully.  This
isn't a copycat killer.  Gargoyles traditionally ward
off evil, but at the same time, they are the physical
representations of the evils in this world.  What if
that evil somehow got loose?  Escaped from its stone
prison?"

She glanced over at him, away from the road,
resisting the eye roll that would have been her usual
response to this kind of idea from her partner.  He
was finally sharing, and she would be damned if she
gave him any reason to close her out again.
Carefully she probed,  "But then, Mulder, how do you
suggest we capture this escaped evil?"

"The gargoyle fears its own image, Scully.  Mostow
was drawing it in an attempt to keep his own demons
at bay.  He was compelled to draw it, to create it
over and over. The killers not only kill, but they
mutilate their victims, again trying to fashion the
ghoulish image of the very thing that is controlling
them.  Scully, we need to use this information to
find a way either to control this entity, or to
return it to its stone prison.  Its fear of its own
image is the key.  I'm positive.  Somehow, we just
have to figure out how to use that key to lock it
back up."

She pulled into the parking lot of the local PD and
killed the engine.  They exited the car and walked to
the building, Mulder holding open the door for
Scully.  Upon approaching the desk, Scully held up
her badge and asked for the files on the latest
murder, requesting also to speak to the detective in
charge of the case.

The clerk asked her to wait and disappeared into the
hallway, returning a few moments later followed by
the person Scully assumed was in charge of the case.
The heavyset, short man stuck out his hand by way of
introduction.  "You with the Bureau that wants the
case?"

Scully grasped his hand and shook it, nodding.
"We're here to pick up the files.  What can you tell
me?"

"A jogger found him early this morning.  Don't ask me
what a jogger was doing in that alley, but he found
the victim and gave us a call.  The body is in the
morgue now, if you want to take a look.  Face was
slashed from the mouth to the ears on both sides, and
the eyes were punctured.  The state of the body
indicates we found it not long after the actual
murder.  I assume it fits your profile of the serial
killer, which is why you want the case."  With this
summary, he handed over the folder he had grasped in
his left hand.  Scully reached out to take it as
Mulder nodded, stepping forward to say, "Yes, thank
you for all your help, sir.  We'll contact you if we
have any more questions."

* * *

Mulder ducked under the yellow tape surrounding the
area and took in the look of the alleyway.  The sun
was going to set in an hour, and the shadows were
lengthening, casting an eerie air around the deserted
area.  Scully was kneeling on the ground, inspecting
the scene of the crime while flipping through the
file Mulder had already skimmed on the car.  She was
also observing Mulder out of the corner of her eye.

He kneeled down, imitating her position, to get a
closer look at the ground where the body was found.
His mind reviewed the contents of the file and their
discussion with the detective.  He tried to see Tom
Manfred's last actions.  The bar.  The dumpster.  Was
he dragged to the dumpster?  There had been no
evidence that implied the victim was not killed where
the body had been found.  If so, then why was the
victim at the dumpster?  Was he there of his own
volition or was his presence the result of somebody
else's coercion?

He recognized the distance he was gaining from the
crime and waited as his mind worked through yet more
questions.  He saw flashes of incomplete images,
coalescing into the story of the crime he was trying
so hard to understand.  He watched as a drunken Tom
Manfred exited the back of the bar, intending to walk
home through the alleys.  The perpetrator attacked
from behind, disabling Manfred with a swift and well-
placed kick.  The knife strokes were vicious,
intended to cause visual damage, not just death.
Mulder could feel the need for blood coursing through
his veins.  The slashes of the knife sprayed the red
blood onto the dumpster, onto the ground.  The body
was dripping blood now as the attacker finished the
job, and the inhuman drive that had caused the brutal
murder diminished.  Mulder shifted his focus so that
he now looked into the face of the murderer-the
demon.  He recoiled from the look of unholy glee on
its face.  Then suddenly it was over, demonic
features beginning to morph back into more human ones
as the attacker, belatedly horrified at his actions,
turned to flee the scene.  Mulder gasped repelled by
the sickening scenario as it played out in front of
his eyes.  Once more that nagging sense of
familiarity clawed at him, scratching its way into
his consciousness.  He had been here before-but was
it in his dreams, or had he come here last night?
Was he the killer?  He nearly had his chance to know
for certain, if only the killer had remained just a
moment longer before fleeing.  Just a glimpse of his
face and he would have known.  Perhaps his
subconscious was trying to spare him a truth that
would destroy him.  Still, with the short glimpse he
caught, he was able to identify with the look of
madness, the scent of evil that the attacker had
carried.

Scully looked up from her perusal of the case file
upon hearing his gasp and watched as Mulder lost his
balance slightly and leaned against the wall.
"Mulder, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."  Standard answer.

"Something happened again, didn't it, Mulder?  The
same thing that happened at the last crime scene?
What are you seeing in your mind?  Do you know who
the perpetrator is, Mulder?"

Mulder glanced up, sweat coating his forehead, a
single thought thundering through his brain-it's me,
Scully!  Me!  I'm the killer.  Their eyes locked,
haunted green with sympathetic blue; finally he
whispered "Wh-what if the only reason I can see all
these crimes is because I've finally gone too far?"
He paused and scrutinized her face, searching for
absolution, fearing damnation, unable to voice the
condemning words-what if I'm killing these men?

Scully literally felt the blood drain from the
vessels of her upper body, leaving her feeling weak
and cold as she saw the naked fear behind his
question.  She wasn't sure if she were more
frightened for his sanity or because she feared the
answer to his question.  Did he believe the demon was
even now seeking to control him, turn him into a
murderer?  She wanted to ask, but couldn't say the
words.  She wanted to offer assurance, but couldn't
find the words.  Ultimately she took the coward's
path and sought more information, asking, "What is it
you saw, Mulder?  Describe it to me."

He relayed what he had seen at both crime scenes,
finding a certain distance in his flat, professional
recitation of the details of the murders.  When he
was finished, Scully asked, "You have a theory right
now, Mulder.  What is it?"

"Remember what I said earlier about gargoyles being
the embodiment of evil?  Legend has it that near the
Seine River, in Paris, there was a dragon named La
Gargouille.  It destroyed ships and killed many men
but was finally defeated by St. Romanis, at which
time the body was burned, but the head and neck were
chopped off and hung on the city walls.  It was meant
to ward against the evil while at the same time being
evil itself.  It has since been reborn into the many
gargoyles and grotesques you see today.  Technically
the name gargoyle is only used for the ones serving
as waterspouts; the others are grotesques.  Scully,
what if that evil has escaped?  Mostow believed he
could keep the demon away by recreating images of
gargoyles.  What if what we are looking at is not a
matter of individual people committing the same
crime, but rather people driven by the same force
committing the same crime?  The same force that was
once imprisoned in a gargoyle but has since been
unleashed?  What if that force is now driving me?"
The last was a horrified question, and Mulder paused,
afraid to hear Scully's answer.

Seeking calm and balance, Scully sought to view
Mulder's theory with the scientific objectivism that
was her strength, bringing her considerable intellect
and analytical skills into play.  Viewed through the
cold light of science, Mulder's ideas seemed
unsupportable.  Furthermore, her mind railed against
the unspoken corollary that if the evil did exist, it
might now be inhabiting her gentle partner. Doggedly
she pursued her scientific analysis, "How would it
get free, though, Mulder?  It's been dormant for so
long, and I don't see it just appearing out of
nowhere."

Mulder grimaced as she again avoided the question of
his guilt, responding, "It doesn't really matter how
it got here Scully.  The real question is how we get
rid of it.  I think the evil fears its own image.
It's been locked away so long that it recognizes what
once held it.  It fears spending too long in the
presence of other gargoyles, which is why Mostow
created his studio full of sculptures.  But these
artistic renderings were all imperfect images.  What
if it encountered its own perfect image?  What if it
can be forced to see itself in a mirror?  Not the
image of the person whom it has taken over, but the
image of itself - pure evil?  I think that's the only
way it can be stopped."

"But, Mulder, the demon has no corporeal form.  When
does the image of, as you put it, 'pure evil' take
over, as opposed to just the image of the killer?"

"This demon is real, Scully.  The first time I saw
the murder, the headlights outlined the killer's
face, and it wasn't human.  I swear to you, it wasn't
human.  I think the evil takes over during the
murders themselves, when the desire for blood
eclipses all other thoughts."

"Then how do you propose we stop it?  You really
think seeing its reflection will be enough to send it
into dormancy again?"

"If we can somehow approach a murder-in-progress, I
think we can stop it and end this string of
killings."

Scully turned away, still musing over Mulder's
conclusions.  Evil inhabiting people?  And not just
anybody, but Mulder.  Evil that escaped from a
gargoyle?  She watched the setting sun steal the last
vestiges of light from the crime scene.  Her science
and her heart rejected his thoughts, but still
seeking to reestablish a seemingly broken connection,
she softened the blow.  "I don't know, Mulder.  The
idea that an evil force could be captured in stone
for centuries and then somehow escape is pretty
difficult to accept, although you do have some
circumstantial evidence for it.  I need some time to
think this new information over.  I'll drop you off
at your place."  Finally she voiced the question she
was afraid to hear the answer to, "Do you have any
ideas as to who the current 'human host' for this
escaped entity might be?"

They walked towards the car, and after he entered the
passenger side, he said, "No.  I don't know who the
killer is."  End of conversation.  She didn't believe
him, discounted his ideas, hadn't even responded to
his nearly overwhelming fear that he was the killer.

They completed the drive to his apartment in silence.
Scully used the time to review the details of the
crime and the things Mulder had said to her.  Her
conclusions, coupled with his withdrawn behavior and
deteriorating physical condition, were setting off
alarm bells.  She feared leaving him alone.  As she
pulled up in front of his apartment she turned to him
and ventured, "Say, Mulder, I'm pretty hungry.  We've
barely eaten today.  How about we order a pizza,
watch a movie, and kind of decompress?  I'll even let
you pick the toppings as long as you promise not to
order anchovies."

Mulder turned to look at her with a slightly blank
expression, as if she were speaking some language he
didn't understand.  Finally he blinked and seemed to
review her request for hidden clues before
responding, "Thanks for the offer, Scully, but I'm
dead on my feet.  I need to sleep.  See you tomorrow,
okay?"  Then he dredged up a weak smile, quickly
exited the car, and strode into the building.  Scully
sighed and drove away, followed moments later by
Mulder's car.

* * *

He stood in the middle of the room and made a slow
circle, gaze trailing along Mostow's pictures of
gargoyles still covering the walls as a macabre form
of wallpaper.  Gargoyles drove off evil.  Maybe their
presence here would save him.  But was it too late?
His mind screamed at him.  The line between dream and
reality was too blurred now - was he responsible for
Randy Kowalsky's death?  Was he responsible for Tom
Manfred's death?  He needed to know.  He mused over
the questions he had broached with Scully.  What was
it Patterson always said?  "To know an artist, you
have to look at his art."  He sat down and let
himself drift away.

He was stunned out of his reverie moments (or was it
hours?) later by a sudden sound at the front door.
He glanced up.  The form that lunged through the door
was vaguely human, but all Mulder could see was the
evil that permeated it, the evil that skewered him
through flat-black eyes.  It was the same evil he had
seen previously, in the headlights, in Patterson, and
in Mostow.  It was the same evil that had haunted him
since Patterson's imprisonment.  He had a moment of
overwhelming relief as he realized he wasn't the
murderer.  Then it was on him.  He reached for his
gun but was too slow, his reflexes dulled by fear and
guilt.  He felt himself fly though the air, ribs
impacting with the table, head with the wall.  Blood
dripped down his face as the old cut on his forehead
reopened.  Lying amongst the broken remnants of the
table, he felt consciousness nearly desert him as he
gasped to fill lungs emptied of oxygen by the force
of his collision.  The possessed human slowly stalked
over to him, an oily grin of superiority enhancing
the terrifying effect of its already gruesome visage.
Still woozy, but completely terrified, Mulder
attempted to scrabble away from its relentless
approach, ultimately backing himself into a corner.
It towered over him.  He looked up at death.  The
demon-thing laughed, an inhuman clatter that jangled
his nerves.  Then it leaned over, lifted him with one
hand, and pinned him against the wall.  He struggled
uselessly, wiggling his appendages and arching his
body, absurdly feeling like an insect about to be
added to the collection of an avid entomologist.

Then, to his shock and horror, it spoke.  "Stop your
hopeless struggles, mortal; you are now mine, about
to be briefly joined with me in unholy matrimony,
your soul bonded to mine by blood.  It is truly a
pity that we will share only a single union.  I
hungered for so much more.  You were within my grasp
once before, but when I tasted the heat of your blood
and the darkness of your soul, I temporarily curbed
my appetite, thinking to take you as a more permanent
consort.  We would have wedded for a lifetime, but
you spat upon my intentions and rebuffed my
courtship.  You gave up a lifetime of unending
pleasure because you had already foolishly joined
your soul with another in a bloodless and sexless
union.  But that union is about to end, annulled by
death.  Your soul will now be mine in a short but
memorable joining, consummated in blood and lust."

With those final words, it dropped him and whipped
out the sharp knife-its weapon of choice.  Gathering
his feet under him, Mulder attempted to run.  All he
could make out in the dim light of the approaching
dawn was the flash of silver as the attacker bore
down on him with the weapon.  He struggled
desperately to escape the blade, one hand grasping
the attacker's arm and the other struggling at his
pocket to reach for his cell phone.  Mulder managed
to grab his cell phone and stabbed at the power
button, still fending off the knife.  He hissed as
the attacker redoubled his efforts, and the knife
slashed his arm.  Forced to drop the phone, Mulder
had to use both hands to fight back and dodge the
knife. The killer drew blood a second time as the tip
of the knife again deeply scored his forearm.
Finally able to place a kick that sent the attacker
reeling, Mulder grabbed at the phone and hit his
first speed dial, then dropped it, looking wildly
around the room for something with which he could
fight back against the attacker.  He grabbed the leg
from the shattered table, using it as a weapon of
both offense and defense.  He hoped Scully could hear
his struggle over the line.  He was already bleeding
profusely from his slashed arms and finding it nearly
impossible to breathe through the pain of his damaged
ribs.  This fight was not going to last long.

* * *

Scully jerked awake as the phone rang, cursing the
monotony of her days: sleep, phone, wake.  She
glanced at the clock, sighing as she saw it was just
5:03 A.M., knowing only one person would call her at
this hour. She picked up the phone.  "Mulder?"
Silence.  Then she could hear scuffling.  The sounds
of a struggle.  Instinctively, she knew Mulder needed
her help.  But where was he?  Home?  She looked at
the tiny display.  No - that was his cell phone
number.  All of a sudden, it clicked.  She wasn't
sure how she knew, but the sixth sense she had
wherever Mulder was concerned told her that he was at
Mostow's apartment, locked in a life and death
struggle with the killer.  She raced to the door, but
paused as she remembered Mulder's hypotheses
regarding the demon.  He had believed a mirror would
be enough to cage the evil, but was she ready to
believe in him?  To face down a murderer holding a
plane of glass?  Her mind a jumble of thoughts, she
grabbed a mirror from her bathroom and ran out the
door, gathering her keys, cell phone, and gun, hoping
she would make it in time.  She placed a call in the
car to the local PD asking for assistance, giving
Mostow's address.

* * *

Both of Mulder's arms had now been slashed, but thus
far, he had managed to keep the knife away from his
face by blocking and parrying with the table leg.
His hands slick with blood, Mulder knew he was
weakening.  He wondered how much longer his luck
could hold out, and he wondered if Scully was coming.
The demon was toying with him, carrying out its own
perverted form of extended foreplay.  His continued
survival could only be attributed to its desire to
extend its pleasure for as long as possible.  But
now, with its frenzy to mate heightened by the sight
of a blood-drenched victim, the demon was moving in,
slashing wildly.  Mulder could feel the pressure
growing in his mind as his proximity to the demon
increased.  The mental awareness of the evil infected
his neurons, and the knowledge of his imminent fate
eclipsed the physical pain as the demon's next slash
cut deeply into his side, the knife dragged medially
before thankfully being deflected by a rib.  The
blood soaked his shirt and the top of his pants.  He
backed away from the relentless onslaught, barely
able to maintain his hold on the table leg.  He tried
to think about the theory he had explained to Scully
earlier.  Evil.  Afraid of its own image.  It wasn't
at its strongest in Mostow's apartment.  There were
too many pictures of gargoyles.  That was why he had
been able to fend it off for so long.  His body a
mass of pulsating mental and physical pain, he
slipped to his knees.  The battle was nearly over.
Death, mutilation, and the rape of his soul were very
near.  The demon moved close, whispered something
incomprehensible in his ear.  Then both the victim
and the victimizer were shocked as the door to the
room exploded outward.  Scully appeared.  Mulder
looked up, the initial burning hope in his eyes
quickly overshadowed by the fear that she would join
him in this ignominious death.  Scully's eyes briefly
brushed over Mulder, then locked with those of the
demon.  Momentarily entranced by her passion, it
understood for a passing moment why Mulder had shared
his soul with this woman.  Her aura was pure fire,
and it was temporarily smitten by her ardor, but then
its unctuous grin reasserted itself as it saw her
reach for her gun.  Foolish woman.  Bullets-even
silver ones-couldn't harm him.  Its current symbiont
might be killed, but he had not proven to be a
terribly fulfilling partner anyway.

The demon, with its gaze still locked on Scully's,
lashed out with the knife, preparing to deliver yet
another wound to Mulder's bleeding and battered body.
Thoughts flashed through Scully's mind.  She had
ignored Mulder earlier when he had questioned his
innocence, unwilling to look too closely at his
fears.  Had she truly lost faith in him?  Then why
was she holding a mirror in her left hand?  Mirror in
left, gun in right.  Which hand would she use?  Show
of trust or lack of trust?  She had made the mistake
of questioning him earlier during the capture of
Patterson.  Would she make the same mistake now?
Without consciously making a decision, almost in slow
motion, Scully raised her left hand.  The
unsuspecting demon looked not at the expected gun,
but instead at the feared mirror.  The image of its
hideous countenance was instantly reflected back to
its eyes and, just as quickly, it was gone, banished
back to cold stone.  The now human murderer slipped
to the floor, unconscious as Mulder surveyed the
room, finally slumping to the floor in weakness and
relief as he realized that the blood was no longer
red, but had returned to its usual gray color.
Scully raced to her partner's side, simultaneously
pulling her cell phone out and punching in 911 to
request assistance for an officer down-even as her
subconscious noted the sounds of sirens in the
distance forewarning the imminent arrival of the
police backup she had requested.  She professionally
identified and categorized each of his injuries.  He
was badly cut up, but individually, none of the
injuries were life-threatening.  She was mostly
concerned over the amount of blood loss and the
difficulty he seemed to be having breathing.  Having
completed the rapid inventory of his injuries, she
noted he was trying to tell her something.  She
leaned over and smiled as he whispered in her ear,
"Thank you... for trusting me."

"Always," she returned.  But in truth, it had been a
terrible moment as she assessed the situation-not
sure until the final second which weapon she would
use.  In the end, she placed her trust in her
partner, knowing that if he were wrong, they would
die together in this room.

* * *

Two weeks later

Scully entered the basement office, seeing, as
expected, Mulder hunched over yet another case file.
"Welcome back, and congratulations on a second
commendation for capturing yet another suspect in the
Grotesque murder case, Mulder.  I am sorry the Bureau
didn't buy your possession theory, but the men
involved were rendered hopelessly insane by the
experience.  Even if the murders weren't their fault,
it is unlikely they will ever recover sufficiently to
be released back into society.  Does it really matter
whether the evil infecting them was a force generated
by their own mind or an external entity that
possessed and controlled their actions?"

He looked up, his eyes somber.  "Evil exists, Scully.
Its ramifications are madness.  It takes over a
person's sanity.  For a time-," he paused, "I thought
it had taken over mine.  I honestly did.  I never
want to experience that again.  This time, the evil
was incarnate, but many times, it is not.  I think
that the capacity for evil lives within each of us.
It is just a question of whether or not it ever gets
loose."

* * *

Epilogue

From the Journal of Fox Mulder:

Most of us move through life believing we are good
people, loving our family and friends, donating to
worthy charities, and even performing random acts of
kindness.  We know that evil hides in the shadows and
lurks just around the corner, but who expects to find
it within themselves?  I was stalked by evil that
infected my mind and courted my soul.  I escaped with
my sanity, thanks not to my own puny efforts, but
through the love and trust of a friend.  Bill
Patterson and John Mostow were not so fortunate.
They remain welcome guests at a high security prison
for the criminally insane.  Are we all susceptible to
the allure of evil, or does it seduce only those
rendered susceptible by specific circumstances, a
genetic predisposition, or those who make the mistake
of looking too long into the face of malevolence?
Prisons and asylums are full of evil people.  What
made these people evil?  How are they different from
those of us on the outside?  Does evil haunt us all,
seeking to recruit minions for the forces of
darkness.  Scully entombed one grotesque purveyor of
evil, but how many more remain free, haunting the
shadows of our minds?

* * *