From: Humbuggie <san@sv-tales.com>
Date: 15 Aug 2003 07:51:47 -0700
Subject: xfc: Moose on the Loose: White Flag 1/1
Source: atxc

Moose on the Loose
White Flag 
By Humbuggie
(c) 2003
feedback san@sv-tales.com


Written for the Moose on the Loose challenge on Mulder's Refuge

This story is loosely based on a true story, and the testimony of
people's encounters with apparitions. Also, based on the lyrics of the
new Dido-song "White Flag"

Type: Angst, little bit of MT, ghost-story Rated PG 13

Spoilers: None


Part one

The basement bedroom contains a chill that's worse than anything I
have ever experienced in ghostlike-phenomenon.

Usually a cold hand grips your heart, warning you there is something
out there lurking. You feel the entity in the room, and you just know
- feel it in your bones, that you're being watched. You resist the
urge to flee the scene. Only the strong remain. The weak are long
gone, chased by the deadly fear that haunts us all, deep down inside.

In this case however, the chill is so acute that it makes you want to
flee out of the house, or even towards another town, afraid perhaps
that the coldness that rests in here is destructive and downright
murderous, and pursuing you.

It's common for ghostly appearances to want to chase us away. The
entities don't want you in their surroundings, disturbing their
ethereal world. All exorcists and paranormal experts will testify to
the account that, that's all they can really do. Poltergeists that
attack and kill are exceedingly rare. They haunt, move things around
and chase, but they have no physical means of destruction. I'm the
first one to admit that we had already encountered them and they can
kill.

However, are they really to blame? Do they have any mortal knowledge
left of what they do? Can we honestly say that these entities; these
apparitions, if you will, are angry with us? Sure, I would like to
believe all the stories about seeking revenge for wrongdoing, but in
the end I have to wonder if that's really the true basis behind these
paranormal activities.

I do understand. You see, their world collides with ours. They are no
longer a part of our universe, but desperately want to be. Or perhaps
they want to move in and observe us. In all facts, they're not happy
with their condition, being forced between that's netherworld of life
and death in a plain of existence that's inapproachable by us mortals.
They don't wave the white flag at us. They won't listen to any pleas
we might make to them. In the world of strengths, they top us all.

Only a few of us humans can enter that realm to see what it is like.

Like Vicky Stevens, for example.

Vicky doesn't want to leave her basement room, not even while the
chills run down our spines and the cold wind chillier than anything
you would ever think you'd experience surrounds us. She sits on the
bed, staring at us, but she doesn't really see us. I know she's been
in this state for a few days now, and I fear that her sanity might
already have been lost; by everything she's seen and done.

She is like the Poltergeist-girl: the conduit between their world and
ours. Only, she volunteers to be so. She has the sense to leave this
place, but can't bring herself to do so. The begging, the pleading,
asking and praying doesn't help to persuade her. She stays put.

At night, so she says, she dreams about the ghosts in this house. They
are everywhere and they are angry. She doesn't know why, or what they
want from her. She's powerless in her attempts to communicate with
them, yet she feels she is being swept away by them at the same time.
They suck her in and she wants to be there.

Vicky feels that her family is responsible for it. They brought it
upon themselves, she claims. She is only eleven years old, but bears
the mark of those who have seen too much for their tender age. She's
frightened, yet strong. She has already chosen the side of the ghosts,
believing their stories being revealed to her in her dreams. Although,
she cannot explain any of them, because she only remembers fleeting
parts of it.

And so she sits on her bed, refusing to eat or drink, or do anything
until someone, somehow, has found a solution for her 'friends'. When
we ask her whom those friends are, she points to the wall and says,
"That's who they are."

Last Saturday, she spent the day drawing an amazing sketch of a group
of four people. She used pencils and charcoal to create their faces,
and shoulders on the white wallpaper. It's a stunning image; so vivid
that you get the impression of haunting in their eyes.

The family looks strangely happy though. Their expressions are a
confusing mixture of pleasantries and joy. Four faces, gathered in
that picture stare back at you. There's a husband and wife: I'd say
they would be around forty-ish, and two children: a very young boy and
a girl. The girl looks startlingly like Vicky, but her hair and eyes
are different. They could have been siblings.

And strangely enough, Vicky has drawn a huge X over the man's face.

"Who are they, Vicky?" I ask her when I finally manage to tear my eyes
away from the drawing, and she glances up at me. She's not happy to
see me, even though she has no idea who I am.

"They don't like you," she says coolly. "You have driven away their
kind before. You shouldn't be here."

I'm shocked by her words. I kneel by her bedside and try to touch her,
but she shrugs me off. "Get out of here now before you get hurt. They
don't like you in their house."

"I want to help you," I tell her. "And I want to help them."

"I have my friends. Get lost."

She's obviously not normally the type of girl who would be unfriendly
towards her peers. She seems nice enough. Only today her face is
distorted in scornful anger.

She wears a cute T-shirt with a cartoon moose on it, and the words
'Moose on the Loose' dance underneath it. It seems old somehow, and
torn.  I look at it a moment, then look up into her eyes and see
something strange in there. She doesn't like my open curiosity.

I feel we can't push Vicky. She's not quite in this world right now,
and certainly not eager to talk to us. She will not be of much use,
and even so, as a child, she would have to be handled very, very
carefully. We have to find other means to get past her facade.

I glance around at Scully, whose weary expression betrays the fear she
also feels. Even though she will never admit to it, she senses the
ghostly pressure in this room too. Goosebumps on her arms prove attest
to that. She's happy to leave the room.

The girl cannot be persuaded to leave her bedroom, so we step outside
together. I know that these entities are strong, and probably have
complete control over the house. We need to talk somewhere, but not in
here.

"Can we step outside?" I ask.

Her parents nod.

Vickie's mother and father, Detective Giles, Scully and I, all walk
into the garden. They all look at me for comfort and reassurance, even
Scully. I guess sometimes it helps having a paranormal reputation. At
least the knowledge I have built up over the years might help us.

"What the hell is wrong with our daughter?" Mr. Stevens asks. "I don't
recognize her anymore. She's completely changed since we moved in
here. Damn it, I don't believe this is happening!"

"She's possessed, isn't she?" her mother voices fearfully, placing her
hand before her mouth. "Oh god."

"Can we help her?" The father again.

"I will have to ask you first to remain calm," I say gently. "We need
to focus on the situation at hand, and we don't have much time, so it
seems. Yes, I agree that there is an entity in this house, and that
your daughter is influenced by it. I don't however believe she's
possessed. Her head's not spinning on her shoulders at least."

Well, that lame joke got some shrugs at least.

"But there are ways to deal with it," I continue. "Often we need to go
back in time to find out where all of this started. In this case, it
obviously began with the disappearance of this family, twenty years
ago after their claims of being haunted as well."

"They're are dead," Mrs. Stevens comments. "What else could have
happened to them?"

"They most likely are," I agree.

"Does that mean that we are next?" Janelle Stevens has tears springing
into her eyes now. I know she's terrified that history will repeat
itself, and that she too will become the victim of whatever is
haunting this house. Moreover, she's horrified that her daughter's
life might be destroyed.

Detective Giles, touching base with strong and familiar ground again,
nods. To our surprise he has not once commented on the paranormal,
making us believe he must have been here before. He was working in
this area twenty years ago too, starting out as a rookie.

"I've explained to you what happened twenty years ago," he says. "The
McLain's bought this turn-of-the-century house, from an old American
friend who moved to the West Coast. It needed remodelling, but Peter
McLain was a carpenter and decided to do everything himself. During
the renovation, he claimed to have freed some sort of spirit. After
that, strange things happened in the house. Mrs. McLain had several
accidents and the children were often in danger too. After three
months or so, they'd had enough. Theresa McLain, who was a rich
heiress, decided to sell the house again and return to the Boston
area, where she came from. Before that happened, the entire family
disappeared without a trace. The neighbours spotted something amiss
after two days because the lights kept on burning day and night, but
and there was no activity in the house. Not a trace could be found of
them. They never showed up again."

"Nobody vanishes without a trace," Scully states.

"Well this family did. I personally checked into everything: we even
did some digging in the backyard. Nothing."

"But Vicky drew their images on the wall," I say. "So she is not
possessed by the old entity, but by the ghosts of the McLain's. The
truth behind their disappearance must lie in this house."

"Perhaps it's a sign that we're all going to die too," Janelle blurts
out, as she bursts into tears. "I'm terrified, Jack. I can't stay here
any longer!"

"My wife is right," Mr. Stevens replies coldly, gripping his wife. "We
are in danger, aren't we?"

"I don't know," I say truthfully.

Scully steps in. "I think it would be wise to take this family to a
hotel for the time being. We can do a proper investigation of the
house then."

"Just one more thing," I say, "why did your daughter claim you are
responsible for the ghosts?"

"Oh, we dug up some old pictures from the McLain's while doing our own
renovation," Jack Stevens says. "I accidentally burned it with the
rest of their old things. Since then all this started."

"Do you have other photos left?"

"Sure, I can get them if you want."

"Much appreciated."

As Jack Stevens walks back up to the house, the door to the
neighbour's house opens, and a man in his sixties or seventies steps
out. He looks tired and walks with a cane. Jack raises his hand and
waves at the man. He waves back, and retreats onto his back porch.

"That's our new neighbour," Mrs. Stevens explains wearily. "He doesn't
like it in our house. Says he can sense the danger. Good thinking huh,
buying this house so cheap? I should have known there was a catch. We
could have built a new place, but instead found this one so charming,
we just had to renovate it."

"It's not your fault, Mrs. Stevens," Scully replies calmly, placing
her hand on the woman's shoulder. "It's no one's fault."

"Then why do I have a possessed daughter and a house from hell?"

"Your daughter is not possessed," I reassure her, "and we will help
her."

A loud cry from within the house startles us all. God no, I think, as
we run up to the house. Suddenly we're standing shocked in the
hallway.

Lying on the bottom of the staircase is the body of Jack Stevens. He's
lying on his belly, one arm underneath him and the other next to him.
His eyes are open, but he is alive. He's breathing.

"Call an ambulance!" Scully shouts and immediately takes charge of the
situation.  I look up to find the girl standing on the bottom of the
basement staircase, her eyes directed at us. They are sad and filled
with tears.

"I told you they were angry," she says and slams the door, shutting us
out very effectively.


Part two

Even though Vicky Stevens may look like a spoiled little brat to you,
she's not. She's a girl under the influence of something stronger;
something more powerful than any of us, and all has to do with the
history of this house.

As I have explained before: in order to find the present, we must go
to the past. And the past, in this case, is the family history of the
McLain's, the four people who vanished from this house. But first, in
order to help the girl, we must get her out of that room, and away
from the influences that haunt her.

Nothing helps to get her to leave the room. Neither promising things.
Or threats. Nor the cries and screams from her mother, and the fact
that her father is now in hospital having surgery to mend his broken
arm and leg.

He was very lucky: he could have easily broken his neck or back, but
he didn't. It almost seemed as if the gods looked fortunately upon
him.

The staircase showed that the two top steps were cracked. They could
have fallen apart at any time. Underneath him lay a stack of older
photos. The box in which they sat rested against the wall. After they
moveed him onto a stretcher, and while Scully is trying to plead with
the girl, I start picking them up.

I see photos of a very happy family: father, mother and two children.
They all laugh into the camera, obviously held by a friend or family
member. Some photos featured mother and just kids; others had father
and kids too, even though those were rare.

The woman seemed very nice, but sad: she has a friendly look about
her, yet a fearful too. I can't help but wonder if underneath that
faade, there was more going on than just love and family life. Every
family has its problems. I for one know that by heart.

So what was this family's secret?

Finally we have no choice but to break open the basement room door,
and retrieve the girl who kicks and screams, refusing to be removed.
She bites the detective in the hand and doesn't listen to reason when
Scully and her mother try to talk to her. She is furious with me. They
finally sedate her, and take her to hospital. Her mother goes with
her.

We are left alone inside the house, the chills still running down our
spines. "Mulder, I don't believe in ghosts," Scully says, "but there's
something inside this room that just creeps me out. I can't explain
it. Strange."

"I know," I say. "I haven't felt this way in a long time. It's pure
anger that resides in here, Scully."

"And what now?" my partner asks when she walks over to the wall where
the family's picture is. "How to proceed?"

"Now, we have to find out what they want. Come on, upstairs the
atmosphere there's not so bad."

She walks upstairs first, and I shut the mangled basement door,
somehow hoping to leave the darkness in there. I know they have free
access, but that particular room seems to draw them more intensely.
Why?

We sit in the kitchen where Detective Giles makes us coffee. We almost
have an air of normality, but we can't deny an atmosphere doesn't
exist in this house. I shuffle the photos, putting them in stacks and
place them on the table.

"They're all mixed up, but I'm sure we'll get a good overall image of
the family."

"They were decent people," Giles says, "even though the guy was a bit
of a weirdo."

"Oh? How so?"

"He spent most of his time in the city, even though he was a
carpenter. His wife said he worked on huge construction buildings too,
because the big money lay there. She wasn't too happy with it, because
she had enough money to support them for a lifetime. She would have
preferred it if he had just stayed here all the time."

"So, the husband had no money and the wife had it all?"

"Yep."

"Could he have killed her for it?"

"I don't see how. He just had to ask to get anything he wanted. She
adored him. And they did seem happy enough."

"But it could be a possibility?" Scully asks.

"If he did do it, he would have had to pull a great Houdini," I say.
"Besides, what good would it have done him? He still wouldn't have her
money. At least being married to her, he could benefit from it."

"That's true all right."

I flip through the photos. Most of the man's faces are kind of blurry.
It's difficult to make out what he really looked like. Assuming they
were killed by an entity, their bodies would have to be buried in, or
around the house somewhere. Even ghosts can't make corpses vanish.

"At Disneyland," Scully reads out loud, turning some photos. "Cape
Canaveral. Cape Cod. At the old house."

Suddenly I freeze.

"What is it?" Scully asks.

I show her the photo of Ellie McLain. The girl, resembling Vicky
Stevens in more ways than one, is shown laughing into the camera. She
wears a T-shirt that reads Moose on the Loose'. It is exactly the same
Vicky was wearing earlier.

"That's her connection to the spirits," I exclaim. "That T-shirt. It
belonged to Ellie McLain."

"Her mother just told me she's nuts about that old T-shirt," Scully
replies. "She found it in a box somewhere. She refuses to take it
off."

" That's the key to this. Let's make sure that she does."

Vicky Stevens lies resting in a hospital bed. She is totally out of
it, finally being calmed down by her mother and the nursing staff.
Even now she dreams restlessly.  In a plastic bag Scully holds the old
Moose T-shirt. It's torn and ready for rags. The hospital removed it
soon after Vicky fell asleep.

It's definitely the same one as I saw on the photograph. I wonder what
else has been left behind as evidence to the family's legacy.

"She constantly talks about someone named Ellie," Janelle Stevens
explains nervously and in tears. "I don't know who that is. She
doesn't have any friends with that name. I cannot understand any of
this. I think we're going crazy! But I know that I'll never go into
that house again. It doesn't belong to us. I don't care if it costs us
all our life savings to find another one."

"Has she said anything else?" I ask, trying not to force the woman too
much. She's upset and agitated as it is. Pushing her over the edge
will only destroy what's left of the family's sanity.

"No, she just keeps on talking about that Ellie, and the wall. And she
said that 'dad was in the house'. She hated it that 'dad was back'.
But her father is still in recovery. He wouldn't be able to leave this
hospital if he wanted to. What does that mean?"

I look at Scully, building up a theory in my mind. I think I might
have found the clues that we need. But we're a long way from freeing
this family of their fears.

It is nighttime when we arrive back at the haunted Steven's residence.  
The porch light is burning, as is the one of the old neighbour's
house. We can see a shadow of the man sitting relaxed on his sofa.
He's smoking a pipe and doesn't seem to care for us.

Scully hardly pays attention to him. It's just her and I now, because
Detective Giles stays with Mr Stevens until he wakes up after his
surgery.

I switch on all the lights in the house. Scully smiles. "Afraid of the
dark, Mulder?"

"No," I leer, "and if I'm right, I don't think that the Stevens family
should be either."

She raises an eyebrow. "Do explain."

The photos lying on the kitchen table are of the family smiling at us.
But I know there's more now. I could tell it the first time we touched
them. They too represent the awkwardness of being in this haunted
house, of being surrounded by apparitions that need solace.

We had the images stacked by genre. Most family photos had a short
referral message on them, like "Cape Canaveral" and "Cape Cod". But
what about the others? I didn't study the back of any of the other
pictures, forgetting about them when we found the Moose T-Shirt photo.
What if there is a message on them too?

In my early days on The X-Files, I read up on a ghost case where a
priest exorcized a Victorian house in Boston. A family found some
photos of the people who used to live there, and on the back it had
messages like "Dad killed mom, and he's going to kill me too." Lovely,
isn't it? But twenty-five years after the fact, it helped trace the
truth on one of the most horrid ghost cases ever.

Boston ... I think. Peter McLain came from Boston too.

"Mulder, what are you doing?" Scully asks. "You haven't said a word
about your theory. I want to know how we can release these entities,
or whatever the hell they are. Your expertise in the matter, could
come in handy right now. Listen to me: I'm willing to believe."

"That, in itself, is quite an accomplishment," I smile.

"Ha, ha."

"Scully, Jack Stevens said all of this started, when he accidentally
burned a photo of the family McLain. A lot of experts theorize, that
the start of an entity's attack lies in the destruction of a valuable
object. In this case, a photo. But what if those photos carry an even
greater secret?"

Frantically I start turning over the photos and suddenly we see it.
Some of photo backs have writing on them. Sometimes one, sometimes
many words, but never a full phrase. It all begins to make sense, when
we spread out all the photos upside down, across the table.

"It's a puzzle, Scully. Look at this," I exclaim excited.

Scully stares at me in awe.

"I'm a good puzzler," she smiles and her fingers swiftly go through
the pictures, until we have several possible sentences formed. And the
one marked "at Cape Canaveral"-messages suddenly make sense.

"Daddy hit mommy at Cape Cod."

"Daddy is up-set."

"Daddy is angry."

"Daddy kills."

"I think 'daddy' is still alive," I say slowly as Scully turns the
photos over behind the phrases, only to reveal they are connected too.
We figured it out. Almost. "Daddy killed mommy, he killed his
children, and he got away with it."

"So where is the family then?"

"Buried in the basement," I imagine. "Wanna bet? The ghosts aren't
angry with us for being here. They're angry because their killer is
still alive and out there somewhere."

I rush out of the kitchen, and head down the staircase into the
basement bedroom, that now belongs to Vicky Stevens. Both Scully and I
stop dead when the coldness returns. However, it's not filled with
anger this time. There is something else. A relief, that we realise
the truth.

I look at the wall that has pictures hanging on them that seems to
move, and then to the ground where as if waiting - faces appear.

"My god," Scully whispers, placing her hand over her mouth as we both
stare down at the faces, which seem embedded damningly in the stone
floor underneath our feet. They seem engraved into the ground and so
clear, as if someone has printed a photo on them. They could see the
faces momentarily before they fade again back to the stone.

There are three faces.

Not four.

I study the wall again. Vicky marked the father's face with an X. So
he is still alive.  But then why would revenge follow only now?

"Let's have the house sealed," Scully says. "I'll call in help to dig
up the bodies."

I almost smile.

"What?" she asks.

"Good thing you're already used to working with me," I grin wryly.
"You would have thought I was spooky."

"You are spooky. Always have been."

"Thanks."

She smiles and leaves the room to make her calls upstairs. I sink down
on the bed and look at the faces on the ground. They vanish slowly. I
smile.

"It's okay now, we found you," I say out loud, knowing they can hear
me. "It's over. We'll find him too."

A new peace enters the room, surrounds me like a blanket and warms me
up.

I walk to the small basement window, overlooking the grassy meadow
stretching past the house. You can almost see the neighbour's porch.
In fact, you can see all of it. The old man's not there.

My mind flips into action. It's him. When we left for hospital, I got
a good glimpse of his face. I didn't recognize it, but those eyes were
very piercing and cold, just like the ones on the photographs. You can
change your face a thousand times, but you can never change the true
pose of an eye.

Scully!

I take two steps at a time the concrete staircase going up, noticing
that several lights have been switched off, cross the hallway and go
for the front door, only to be smacked soundly on the side of the face
by something extremely hard. Whatever it is, it leaves a gash on my
temple. I land on my back on the ground and lie motionless. In the
living room, I can see Scully lying on her side, out cold.

An old man walking with his cane steps into the light. He raises it
aloft as a weapon. In his face I notice nothing of the Peter McLain he
once was. I have difficulty staying conscious while he steps over my
legs and glares at me. I'm still numbed by the blow to the head, not
able to move, or do anything.

"I planned on having her drown in the bathtub," the old man grunts.
"Or electrocuted in the garage. Instead, the nosy bitch started
threatening to divorce me, because I wasn't nice enough to her. You do
understand I couldn't allow her to live after that. I took all the
money I could get my hands on, while spreading the rumor that ghosts
were threatening us. I waited long enough without arousing suspicion,
while listening to her constant whining about our marriage, and then
killed her and the brats with a sledgehammer. They weren't mine
anyhow. I adopted them because I had planned on killing her first. It
was the only way to get my hands on their money too. Burying them was
the easy part. The floors were ready for replacement. I had already
fetched enough wood for the isolation layer. Then it was a matter of
burying them and covering them up. Took me little over six hours. You
know that it shouldn't even have had to happen? I offered her a white
flag. I told her I wouldn't kill her, if she would just hand over her
money. She refused."

"W- why ba "? I stumble dazedly.

"Why back in town?" The old man sighs. "I dream about them constantly.
Even after twenty years, they're always there. Despite all the
surgery, a new marriage and new kids, they're still there. And when I
heard someone finally bought the old house, I knew they would come
back to haunt me. I admit my curiosity drove me back here. I wanted to
see them, to know what kind of people they were. I came in here a few
times. She was always so careless with her backdoor. I knew I had to
get them out of here, afraid they would find the bodies."

He laughs. "I've lived just two blocks down for the past ten years, do
you know? I often came back at night to see the house. To sense if
they are still here. I thought their souls had been put to rest after
all these years, but I was wrong."

"You c can't "

"You shouldn't have butted in. It's your own fault I have to finish
you now. I can't have you telling anyone about your discovery. I knew
you would be smart enough to figure it out. Sorry. Nothing personal."

I stare horrified at the cane rising up in the air, ready to reign
down one me with a whack hard and vicious enough to send me into
death. Will Detective Giles discover Scully and me? Will we be
labelled the apparition's next victims? The photos will no doubt
disappear. The evidence will be gone.

As the cane comes down, I force my body to react with my last bit of
will. I roll on my side, unable to lift my head from the floor,
sending stars into my world, stabbing my eyes. He goes for the third
round, still looming over me. Then he looks up and sees Scully. She's
coming out of it. She's alive! He kicks me with his foot and I close
my eyes, fighting off the nausea that surges through me.

He leaves me suddenly and goes for her, grabbing her by the sleeve and
forcing her down on her back. He raises his cane again, ready to kill
her off. I manage to shift an arm down until my hand connects with my
gun. I pull it out, forcing myself to stay alert long enough to aim
the weapon blurry and all at his upper body.

"D Don't -!" I hear myself say. He turns and sees me. He ignores me,
going back to Scully. I shoot him once. He falls backwards as the
bullet hits flesh, after making a little leap, he drops the cane. He
ends up on the ground. I want to crawl to Scully and help her, but I'm
so weak that I can't do a damn thing anymore.

I see Peter McLain opening his eyes because I obviously just wounded
him and staring at the ceiling. He sees what I see: a black cloud
entering the living room. It swirl's down and surrounds him. It leaves
Scully alone. It's made of entities, of creatures, .. of visions
maybe. They are everywhere and they are angry. He cries out.  "No!
Theresa, no, I didn't mean to - ! Don't. Touch. Me! Don't !"

The cloud is all over him now, smothering his body. I manage to sit up
straight. And then crawl towards the living room, towards Scully who
is gathering her dazed thoughts. I feel ready to puke my guts out, but
I need to make it to her. By the time I reach her, the cloud is gone.
In fact, the house suddenly feels very empty. And calm.

Before us, lays McLain's body. This time I want to throw up on the
spot. His body is rid of all clothing, flesh and skin. All that is
left is pure muscle and nerve and intestines. Only his face has
remained intact. It stares into nothingness with an expression of pain
and fear.

I look at Scully and she looks at me, and I sink forward, falling
deeper and deeper until I reach a place where there is only blessed
pain free sleep.



Epilogue

Vicky Stevens stands before her parents, and is the one placing
flowers on the new grave that holds three bodies. The remains of Peter
McLain have been buried in another cemetery far from this one. His new
family refused to pay for it. The town however, adopted the grave of
the victims and vowed to remember them.

Vicky's father is currently in a wheelchair, his leg and arm mending
properly.

"I still believe I was protected by Theresa and the children," he said
yesterday. "I fell and then I was held back by something. But they
couldn't hold me."

I still suffer from post concussion headaches and dizzy spells, but
they're getting better all the time. Scully still has the bruises to
prove that Peter McLain made a nasty swing at her, having too much
strength for a man his mature age.

We say goodbye to the family, who have vowed, despite it's history,
not to leave the house, but to make it a happy home again, just as
Theresa McLain had intended it to be. The graves are gone, as is the
drawing in the basement room, which will never be used as a bedroom
again. They have no fear now, because the anger has vanished. If there
is something like peace for ghosts, they have finally found it.

"So," Scully says as we step into the car. "What do you want to do
now?"


"There's this new pub in town," I smile tiredly. "It's called The
Loose Moose. Wanna check it out?"

If looks could kill, I'd definitely be a dead man right about now.


End