From: JW <philiater1@yahoo.com>
Date: 30 Oct 2002 05:29:14 -0800
Subject: REPOST: Sycamore Hill-A Halloween Tale-SSR by philiater  1/3
Source: atxc

Title: Sycamore Hill-A Halloween Tale
Author: Philiater
Category:  Pure SSR
Rating: NC-17
Timeline: Post Triangle, but I'm pushing it back by a 
month or so.
Disclaimer:  These characters are not mine.  They belong 
to CC and 1013.
Feedback: Always appreciated: philiater1@yahoo.com 
for constructive comments.  
For Paige on her birthday.  She's helped make me the 
Skinner-slut that I am.


******************************

Oct 29

Dreaming.  I was dreaming again, and it wasn't like me to 
have such vivid dreams.  I saw it all before me, like a 
Technicolor photo from a Kodak Viewmaster. 

No matter how long I'd been asleep it always began the 
same way: in a darkened field in a place I'd never been. 

And I was running for my life.

Soft green grass stained with dew became silver in the 
moonlight when my bare feet tread upon it.  The slickness 
of dead fallen leaves clung tenaciously to my exposed 
skin, but I was determined to cross the field. Something 
behind pursued me with an angry and ferocious tenacity.  
I could hear nothing but the beat of my heart as I ran. The 
angled slope of a hill loomed in front of me, a necessary 
obstacle to traverse. The grass became more slippery as I 
ascended it, causing me to fall forward onto the chilly 
ground.

My pursuer was closer now, a dark shadow floating 
across the field toward me at an incredible speed. I 
scrambled frantically on all fours desperately trying to 
reach the top of the hill.  I knew I'd be safe on the other 
side if I could get there.  Mud began to appear under my 
hands and knees, making the journey harder, and more 
terrifying.

The white nightgown I wore became caked with mud and 
turned transparent from the damp grass and earth. My 
heart pounded even louder, causing a buzzing roar in my 
ears.  Under that I heard a screech as the black thing 
caught up to me and the sound of my name being called 
in an unearthly voice.

"Scully-"

And then I was awake, my heart pounding just as hard as 
it had in the dream.  I was home in bed, but it took a few 
ragged breaths to allow sharp reality to seep into my 
frightened mind.

It's just a dream, just a dream, just a dream-.

Going back to sleep was out of the question, the chance 
for rest long past.

As usual my pajamas were soaking wet, and I got out of 
bed to peel them off my trembling body. Despite the heat 
inside my apartment, I felt a deep and aching chill within 
me as if I'd physically been in the place I dreamed of.

 Not even a shower with water as hot as I could stand 
would drive that chill from my soul. After twenty minutes 
under the stinging spray, I gave up trying. In the kitchen I 
made coffee and watched the sun rise over the tall and 
dingy city buildings of suburban Washington DC. 

The urge to call Mulder was strong, but an odd reluctance 
to inform him of this dream had always kept me from 
doing it.  It wasn't that I thought he wouldn't understand, 
but it felt fundamentally wrong somehow. In the back of 
my mind was the wisp of a thought that I had to solve this 
on my own; that somehow he couldn't help me find the 
meaning behind it.  

When the sun came up I finally breathed a sigh of relief. 
A child-like surety that I couldn't be hurt by anything in 
the dream during the day flooded my heart. I knew the 
feelings were pure foolishness like believing monsters 
could live under my bed, but they came to me in any 
case.

I dressed for work, remembering an important meeting I 
needed to attend.


**********************************************
*******************

The meeting was with A.D. Kersh himself.  I assumed it 
concerned Mulder and his latest 'accident'.  If I was late, 
it would only reinforce his view that we were 
irresponsible.

To my amazement, I found Skinner sitting on the small 
sofa outside Kersh's office when I arrived. He looked 
uncomfortable, and frowned in slight confusion at my 
arrival.

"Sir."

"Agent Scully."  His formal tone and clipped voice hadn't 
changed since we'd lost the X-files and he was 
reassigned.  I realized it had been at least a month since 
I'd seen him last. It was strange and sad not reporting to 
him. 

There was also guilt hidden in the feelings I'd 
manufactured concerning him.  As bad a boss as I'd 
thought him to be in the past, Kersh made Skinner look 
more than noble.

As I wondered why we were both here, Kersh's door 
opened.

"Mr. Skinner, Agent Scully please come in."

When we rose in unison a feeling of deja vu hit me as we 
walked through the open door.  Except this time the man 
at my side was not Mulder, and Skinner was 
accompanying me, not the final destination.

We sat stiffly in the chairs before Kersh's desk, and watch 
him shuffle papers preparing to roast us both.

"I have asked you both here to discuss Agent Mulder's 
actions on his last case.  As you are aware, he terrorized 
citizens of another country necessitating diplomatic 
intervention. The Director found the situation untenable 
and was inclined to permanently dismiss all three of you. 
But - ", he said when I started an objection, "he was 
willing to give you another chance - if you are able to 
solve an X-file without disaster ensuing." 

"Agent Mulder has a broken leg, making that 
impossible."  Skinner's tone was careful.

"I'm well aware of Agent Mulder's condition.  It is my 
intention to send you and Agent Scully on the X-file."

I turned to look at Skinner, and he met my surprised eyes 
with his. He didn't know this was coming either.

"Since you've repeatedly asked for a show of leniency 
toward your former agents, I thought you might be 
agreeable to helping them out again." When Skinner 
didn't object Kersh moved on. 

"This X-file is located in Sycamore, Illinois at the home 
of Wayne and Helen MacDonald. An apparition has been 
seen floating across a field at night behind their farm. The 
next day a dead body is usually found miles from the 
farm with the time of death corresponding to the sighting 
of the apparition.  Each victim is an elderly male that has 
been suffocated. The killer leaves no clues, no 
fingerprints, and hair and fiber analysis has been 
disappointing. So far three bodies have turned up at 
various locations.  Nothing ties them together except their 
ages and manor of death.

"The MacDonalds are terrified to stay in their house and 
have requested help from the Bureau in discovering the 
truth behind this apparition. They have vacated the house. 
You are to live in the MacDonald house as their married 
niece and nephew from Maine. The cover story is that 
you are house-sitting while they take a long vacation. 
Through scientific and thorough investigation it is hoped 
you can discover not only the source of the apparition, 
but also the identity of the killer."

"You said married-" I began.

"Yes. The MacDonalds are very old fashioned and 
stipulated only married agents could occupy their house. 
Since I do not have any married agents to spare at the 
present, you two were chosen instead. They have a live-in 
housekeeper they wish kept employed while they are 
gone, so the illusion of a proper marriage will be 
important."

"And if we refuse?" Skinner asked with a deadly serious 
tone.

"If you refuse, you will be reassigned, and Agents Scully 
and Mulder will be dismissed from the Bureau. Consider 
yourselves lucky to be given this opportunity at all."

 He shuffled more papers, allowing the information to 
sink in.

"One more thing, if Agent Mulder shows up in Sycamore, 
or so much as speaks to any person involved in this case 
you will all be dismissed. In fact I have your dismissal 
papers here on my desk. All I have to do is sign them."

He'd thought of everything: every objection, every line of 
thinking, roping us in like cattle to the slaughter.

I sat frozen to the chair, unable to look Skinner in the eye.  
His harsh breathing was the only indication that he'd 
heard the same story that I had. Kersh let the silence 
linger between us, obviously enjoying the shock he'd 
induced.

"You have three hours to go home, pack, and catch your 
flight. That will be all." He dismissed us by picking up 
the phone and pointedly ignoring our continued catatonia.  

Skinner finally coughed and stood up. Without looking at 
me, he brushed by and walked quickly out the door.  I 
tried to follow him, feeling a rising panic and desperate 
need to speak with him about this case before we were 
forced to live in close quarters. 

I stopped suddenly in the crowded hallway; the 
realization hitting home at last.  I was just ordered to go 
on an X-file with Skinner. We had to pretend to be 
married. I had to live with him in the same house, sleep in 
the same -. 

Mulder was not going to take this well. 

******************************************

"What the hell do you mean you're leaving on a case?" 
Mulder hobbled next to me into the bedroom, the 
fiberglass cast on his leg and crutches making him slow, 
and klutzy. 

"Just what I said, Kirsch ordered me to take this case 
without you." I kept packing my little black suitcase, 
forestalling the inevitable like a coward. "Mulder, sit 
down before you fall down. Again."

"What's it about?"

"I can't tell you."

"Can't tell me?  Come on Scully, you tell me everything." 
He'd dropped by unannounced, taking a taxi and 
thwarting my attempt to sneak out of town. He was 
agitated, and trying to make his injury a source of guilt to 
slow me down and make me confess. And it could work 
if I let it. 

"Mulder-"  

I was cut off by a knock on the door.  Skinner was early.

"Expecting someone?" Mulder's question hung in the air.  
He saw me consider the door when the knock came again.

"Scully?"

Without looking at him I said, "Stay here. I mean it. "

I walked to the door and opened it to Skinner's scowling 
face. He was still wearing a suit, and seemed impatient to 
leave again.

"Are you ready?"

"Almost. Please come in sir."

He brushed by and stood in the living room assessing the 
area.  It had been nearly three years since he'd been here 
searching for a missing disc. I wondered if he would 
notice the new blue chair in the corner.

"If you'll take a seat I'll only be a few more minutes."

He looked around like the furniture was covered in land 
mines, and finally settled in an uncomfortable 
arrangement on the couch. He radiated unease like we 
were going to a funeral, not a case. If Mulder decided to 
make an appearance a funeral might be the place we'd all 
wind up.

Back in the bedroom I closed the door and met Mulder's 
incredulous gaze.

"Please tell me he's here to water the plants while you're 
gone Scully."

"I don't have any plants Mulder, and besides that would 
be your job if I did."

My attempt at levity fell flat as I'd assumed it would. 
Mulder seemed ready to launch himself at me, hobbling 
around the room in a weird form of disabled pacing.

I finally relented. "Kersh decided to send us on a case 
together.  An X-file, and if we want to keep our jobs you 
aren't allowed to come."

"What do you mean, I can't come?"

"Kersh said we were on probation and wanted Skinner 
and me to prove we can solve a case without any--- 
complications."

"And I'm one of the complications."

I turned my back and resumed packing, unable to answer 
him. "Mulder, Kersh says he'll dismiss us both 
permanently from the Bureau if you so much as call me 
during this case. You're on leave and he wants you to stay 
put. He means it Mulder, and Skinner could lose his job 
too."

"Since when do you care what happens to Skinner?" 

"Since he agreed to help keep us employed. He doesn't 
have to do this.  Kersh is punishing him for being loyal to 
us."

"You said he could lose his job."

"He only loses it if you show up there.  In that case we all 
get fired, and the Director is in agreement with him on it.  
They mean it this time Mulder, they really mean it." I 
said the last sentence softly, betraying the emotion in my 
voice.

Without turning around I felt Mulder deflate somewhat.  
He knew what this job meant to me, and what he meant to 
me.  I could lose them both.

"What do you want me to do Scully?"

"Stay here. Don't try to find us or follow us. We'll solve 
the case and come back. I'll come back.  To you."

I closed and picked up the suitcase. When I turned, I 
found Mulder sitting on my bed looking forlorn. I 
touched his shoulder.

"I need you to do this for me Mulder. I need you to stay 
away.  Do you think you can do that?"

He nodded silently, but wouldn't meet my eyes. I was 
using guilt for compliance, but he used it to remind me 
who he was. Guilt cut both ways it seemed.

"Just promise me one thing Scully."

"What?"

"You won't let him use the magic fingers."

****************************

Miles of dried cornfields swept past the window of our 
rental car. Leaves of every fall color blazed out from the 
trees that bisected individual farms. The occasional cow 
or horse could be seen huddled in corner fencing trying to 
stay out of the bitter wind. It was colder here than DC, 
and I was grateful to have packed thick cotton sweaters.

The flight to Chicago was short and silent. Skinner was a 
man of few words, and even fewer now. We still hadn't 
talked very much about the case or how we would tackle 
being married partners. Sycamore was sixty long miles 
outside Chicago, and a very long distance to ride in 
silence.

To my surprise Skinner broke the ice first.

"I've been studying the killer's MO, and I think we're 
dealing with someone who's taking revenge. He seems to 
be killing the same person over and over: An elderly male 
who lives alone on a large farm or house.  Each victim 
was small in stature, relatively well-off, and childless. 
And for reasons that elude the police, a white apparition 
appears near the farm the night before each murder."

 "How far from the farm are the murders taking place?"

"The closest is five miles, and the furthest is fifty."

"So they're occurring within the same community."

"Yes."

"Are there any suspects?"

"No.  The killer may have been known to his victims.  
They were all found outside their homes.  No signs of a 
struggle or any indication that the houses were broken 
into."

I sighed.  "Out here they probably never lock their doors. 
They've never had a reason to."

"Until now." Skinner's voice made it sound ominous and 
final.

Silence settled between us. Skinner shifted uncomfortably 
in the seat, obviously struggling to make a decision.

"Scully, about our agreeing to be married partners-."  He 
hesitated, visibly wrestling to find the right words. 
Something told me he'd been thinking about what to say 
all during the flight.

I waited patiently knowing how painful for him this was. 
It must have been humiliating to be sent off on a case to 
prove himself.  But to be placed in close quarters with 
someone of the opposite sex under his supervision was 
meant to mortify him further. 

Skinner could be articulate about many things but 
expressing deep emotions was not one of them. On 
impulse I touched the hand that gripped the steering 
wheel so firmly. He turned to me and I managed a small 
smile.

It's okay, I wanted to say.  I feel the same way. 

He echoed my tight smile and let it drop.  This was 
awkward, and was going to be awkward no matter what 
we did. Perhaps professionalism would carry the day.  
Perhaps pigs would fly.


*********************************

 Sycamore was the kind of place city dwellers pictured as 
the perfect small town.  White clapboard houses lined its 
streets under large oak and maple trees. The main street 
contained red brick buildings with storefronts and gingko 
trees waved their yellow waxy leaves in the wind.  There 
was a pharmacy, hobby shop, dollar store, and even a 
barbershop complete with an ancient pole.

City Hall sat at the far end of the street, pushed back with 
a courtyard.  Orange snow fencing wound around the 
sidewalk and trees.  A sign out front said it was all in 
preparation for something called 'Pumpkin Fest'.

Children were arriving with decorated pumpkins of all 
descriptions and sizes to place in the courtyard.  Near the 
front, a farmer was unloading a pumpkin the size of a 
small cow onto a patch of grass. We were stopped by a 
policeman as people crossed the street in front of us.

"You folks lookin' for something?"

"We're looking for the MacDonald farm."

"You must be the niece and nephew from Maine."

Skinner looked at me. There really weren't any secrets in 
small towns.

"Yes."

"Well, you just keep goin' down this road til you come 
across the old pump station. That's rural road number 7, 
and make a left.  Pretty soon you'll pass Resurrection 
Cemetery and the farm is about a mile down from there."

Skinner nodded, but before he could drive off the officer 
kept talking.

"We've never seen any relatives of Helen and Wayne's.  
They keep to themselves pretty much.  Only come into 
town for groceries and church."

"And Pumpkin Fest?"  I asked.

The officer frowned.  "No, they don't come to it anymore 
since that business with their daughter.  Real shame too.  
Never had any other kids either." He paused and looked 
at the children laughing and carrying their pumpkins as if 
they were made of gold. 

I looked at Skinner with raised eyebrows.  I'd skimmed 
the file before arriving, but couldn't remember anything 
about a daughter.

"But don't let it stop you folks. It's a real good time.  
Parade's on Sunday."

"We'll think about it."  Skinner's tone was polite, but 
distant; letting the officer know we wanted to move on.

"You do that. My name's Will, Will Masters if you ever 
need anything."  He backed off and Skinner drove 
forward past the courthouse and the parade of children.

It was going to be hard staying here and keeping a 
discreet distance.  Skinner had told me Kersh didn't want 
anyone to know we were FBI except the sheriff in town.  
Anyone could be a suspect, and there was at least 
circumstantial evidence that the killer knew ahead of time 
where the police had been and what their movements 
were on certain nights

As we drove out of town, houses and buildings gave way 
to cornfields again.  Near a forlorn intersection a 
dilapidated cement building stood on the southwest 
corner.  'Pump Building No. 5' was spelled out in rusted 
art deco lettering. Skinner made a left onto a black topped 
road that appeared little used.

As promised, Resurrection Cemetery was on the right 
among tall trees and shrubs.  A massive iron gate stood at 
the entrance with the same art deco lettering as the pump 
station. Cement and marble tombstones were decorated 
with faded plastic flowers, sad reminders of the dead.

I felt a sharp chill like an icy finger run down my neck 
when we passed the gate.  Something seemed familiar 
about it, but I couldn't place why.  I glanced at Skinner 
who seemed unaware of the cemetery's bleak and 
forbidding aura.

The MacDonald farm stood on a hill over looking town. 
The house itself was large, run down, and at the far end 
of a gravel driveway.  The ping of crushed stones 
bouncing off the car's metal hull reverberated inside the 
car. By the time we reached the house the sun had set 
behind it.

A single light burned in a downstairs room which I took 
to be the housekeeper's.  We did not yet have a key so 
Skinner knocked loudly on the cracked wooden door. 
Several minutes went by but no one emerged to answer it.  
When I tried the doorknob, I found it to be locked.

We walked around to the weed-infested back yard to try 
again at the back door.  As we rounded the corner I 
caught sight of the yard and cornfields beyond. I froze in 
place at the sight before me.

Even in the dark I could see this was the place I went to 
in my nightmares. The images always began here at the 
back of the house and played out with frightening clarity.

Behind me Skinner was pounding on the back door, 
oblivious to my catatonic contemplation of the area.  I 
wanted to leave. Immediately.  I wanted to get as far 
away from here as I could and never look back.

Skinner gave up on the back door and moved behind me 
to try the front again.  When I didn't join him, he called 
my name.  I heard it as if he was miles away and I was 
already standing in the green field on the other side of the 
dead fallen corn.

A touch on my shoulder made me jump.  

"Scully?" 

 I swung around, abruptly knocking Skinner's hand off 
my shoulder in the process. He was regarding me with 
suspicious eyes and I wondered how long he'd been 
calling me before I reacted.

"I-I'm sorry sir."

"Is there something wrong?"

"No," I said returning to myself, "Nothing's wrong." I 
walked past him toward the front of the house on shaky 
legs. How could I tell him I dreamed of a place I'd never 
been to?

He lingered behind me, taking in the view as if to 
ascertain my fascination with plowed up prairie dirt. I 
waited in silence willing him to leave it be. After a 
moment he followed me back around the house.

The front door stood open as if it had been expecting us. I 
felt rather than saw Skinner's eyebrows rise up his 
forehead. He ascended two concrete steps to the creaky 
porch and peer in through the screen door.

"Hello? Is someone there?"

"Yes," said an old woman, appearing from nowhere. 
Skinner hid his startled reaction well. "We're Sam and 
Dorothy MacDonald, Helen and Wayne's niece and 
nephew."

The old woman regarded Skinner with suspicious eyes. 
Deep frown lines traversed her face and disappeared into 
iron gray hair.  She wore a severe blue dress making her 
look like the housekeeper from hell.

"I see."  She let us stand outside a little longer as if 
asserting her authority over the house and who she 
allowed to cross its threshold. 

She backed away from the door and Skinner opened it for 
me to pass through ahead of him. I stepped into the living 
room and saw massive furniture stained dark by time. A 
natural stone fireplace dominated the far end with a blue 
braided rug at the hearth. It was the kind of room meant 
to be shared by the fireplace on cold wintry nights.

"I'm Mrs. Daniels the housekeeper.  I expect the 
MacDonalds would have told you about me."

"Yes."

"Are you hungry?  I'm afraid there isn't much in the 
kitchen."

Truth be told I was famished, but Skinner spoke up.

"Don't worry about us. I know it's late.  If you'll show us 
to our room I'll get the suitcases."

Mrs. Daniels regarded us with ugly eyes. "Follow me."

She led us to a wooden staircase that creaked underfoot 
with every step.  There would be no sneaking around in 
this house.

Without looking at us Mrs. Daniels asked, "How long 
have you two been married?"

I looked at Skinner.  We certainly should have talked 
about this before arriving.  Without missing a beat he 
said, "Five years."

"No children?" A caustic question.

"No, no children."

"By choice?"

I felt myself bristle under her interrogation.  It was none 
of her business; I didn't care if the marriage was a sham.

I felt Skinner place an arm around my waist and a hand 
on my shoulder at the top of the stairs.  Mrs. Daniels 
turned around when we didn't answer immediately.

"That's between my wife and me, Mrs. Daniels."  
Skinner's tone was firm and deadly; the one he used to 
subdue his subordinates.

She frowned even deeper and everything about her 
radiated disapproval. I couldn't for the life of me 
understand her attitude.  She didn't even know us, but was 
already bristling over our presence.

She turned sharply on her heel and led us down a dark 
hallway.  I counted four doors on either side and she 
paused at the fifth. Her left hand appeared with a skeleton 
key, and she used it to unlock the door. A small bedside 
lamp was turned on for illumination.

The room turned out to be a pleasant surprise. Walls were 
painted a soft beige with polished hardwood floors. A 
Jenny Lind bed was flanked by a dresser and table. The 
curtains were eyelet lace, but were badly frayed along the 
bottom. To my relief I noted the room didn't face the back 
of the house.

"This was Miss Donna's bedroom.  You'll have to make 
up the bed yourself.  The linens are in the dresser."  Mrs. 
Daniels left us to ourselves.  Over her shoulder she said, 
"I don't cook. You'll have to get your own breakfast in the 
morning."

"What *does* she do?" I muttered, swiping a finger 
through the dust covered dresser.

"Very little it would appear."  Skinner sounded as 
annoyed as I was. "I'll get the suitcases."

All the warmth seemed to flee the room when Skinner 
left.  I walked to the window and placed my hand on the 
heavy radiator under the window.  It was ice cold.

"She could have at least had the heat turned up if she 
knew we were coming." I got down on my knees and 
located the relief valve.  It was rusted shut, and no 
amount of straining on my part would budge it.

Skinner found me still trying to open it when he came 
back with the suitcases.

"Let me try."  He was no more successful than I had 
been.  He sat back on his heels. "I have a wrench and 
some lube in the car." 

He disappeared again, so I busied myself with making the 
bed.  Mulder would have made a lewd comment about 
my making up the bed while he went for 'lube'.  I missed 
him, missed his humor.  He had a way of making my fear 
seem ridiculous just when I needed it. 

Crisp white sheets were carefully folded in the top dresser 
drawer.  Thankfully they didn't seem stale or moldy when 
I pulled them out.  I was still tucking the sheets in when 
Skinner came back.  He attacked the valve with 
vengeance, and muttered a curse when the wrench slipped 
and hit his hand.

I heard dull thunk when the wrench hit the floor. I was 
treated to the sight of Skinner holding his hand and 
swearing a blue streak. I immediately went to his side and 
reached for his hand.

"Let me see."

"I'm fine."  His face was beet red and little drops of sweat 
had formed on his brow.

"No you're not, let me see."

He reluctantly let me pull his hand into mine.  I search for 
signs of injury along a palm so large it took both my 
small hands to hold it.  He trembled when I lightly traced 
the faint bruise that had begun to form near his thumb. I 
soon realized he was standing close, too close, and 
looming overhead. Heat enveloped me with the nearness 
of his body bringing with it the smell of cologne and 
fabric softener.  When I looked up, Skinner's face had 
gone blank.

I dropped his hand and stepped back breathing faster than 
I should have been.  Just then I heard steam rise and 
percolate in the pipes, causing them to bang and tremble 
like they were going to explode. The radiator began to 
shake, dancing on its four feet like a headless dog. Just 
when I thought it would fall through the floor, steam 
hissed through the valve to calm it.

I was starting to hate this house.

***************************************

I managed to find some canned goods in the kitchen to 
make a stew of sorts.  Skinner brought in wood to make a 
fire, and we read the case file in compatible silence while 
we ate.

Donna MacDonald was the sixteen year old daughter of 
Helen and Wayne.  She'd apparently 'taken up' with a 
local boy of dubious reputation named Brian Sweeney. 
On Halloween night twenty five years prior she was stabbed  
to death and her body left near the old pump station. 
Sweeney couldn't account for his whereabouts that night 
and some of her blood stained clothing was discovered in 
his car.  He was found guilty and executed only two years 
ago. The apparition didn't start appearing until this year 
and a rumor that it was his ghost looking to take revenge 
began to circulate.

After their daughter's death, the MacDonalds retreated 
from public life and sold off their land to other farmers to 
till. They were rarely seen in town and Mrs. Daniels 
moved in to help with the household chores. Nothing 
much more was known about them or their withdrawal 
from society.

To my surprise it was Mrs. Daniels who reported sighting 
the apparition.  So far it had only seen by one other 
person, Will Masters, the officer we met earlier.

I closed the file with a sigh.  It was such a sad story, and 
did nothing to lessen the mystery surrounding the deaths 
and ghostly sightings. I looked up to see Skinner still 
reading a document spread across his knees.

He had shed his suit and donned a checked flannel shirt 
and loose pants. His long legs were sprawled across the 
lumpy sofa in an attempt to find a comfortable position. 
I'd never seen him in casual clothing, and it was 
disconcerting to see him in it now.  It made him seem far 
more ordinary and---human.  There was no other word 
for it.

He looked up to find me studying him, and I blushed in 
heated embarrassment.

I stood up quickly. "I'm going up to bed. Goodnight."

He only nodded and returned to the paper in his hand. I 
climbed the stairs on shaky legs. It was stupid to feel this 
uneasy around him.  I'd known him for over five years, 
and we were colleagues of sorts.  He'd come to Mulder's 
and my rescue many times despite my mistrust of him in 
the past.

After cleaning up in the bathroom and changing into 
flannel pajamas, I lay in bed knowing sleep would elude 
me until I heard him come up.

It seemed like hours later when I heard his heavy 
footsteps on the creaky stairs. He stumbled a little in the 
dark looking for his clothes. I saw a light go on under the 
bathroom door and the sound of water running.

I turned on my side feigning sleep and hoped I hadn't 
picked a side of the bed he preferred. His weight made 
the old mattress sag and I was jostled slightly as he 
settled in. When he turned over his stomach, I suddenly 
found myself rolling toward the middle and into his side. 
I came to rest with my face buried in his raised armpit, 
and my limbs flung over his body in an awkward 
embrace.

"Sorry," I muttered and moved away from him.

I turned on my side again trying desperately to 
understand the absurdity of our present situation.  It was 
going to be impossible to ignore him.  Beyond his 
physical size Skinner's personality wound itself through 
everything in close approximation. I could feel his body 
next to me as if he were physically touching me; his wide 
muscular back and legs blazing with warmth.

He held himself so stiffly, I was sure to break my nose if 
I accidentally rolled into him during the night. A 
ridiculous picture of that occurrence sprung to my mind 
and the subsequent theoretic questioning by a doctor over 
my injury played itself out.

'How did you break your nose ma'am?'  

'I broke it on my boss's back.'

'I see.  But you know the back is not the area most 
employees break their nose on.  Usually it's another part 
of the boss's anatomy all together, something 
considerably lower-.'

At this thought, a bubble of hysteria threatened to surface. 
The urge to laugh was like an urgent itch in my chest, and 
made me breathe faster to keep control. The awful 
compulsion only intensified so I rolled my face into the 
pillow to smother any sound I made. A gentle shaking of 
the mattress began as silent laughter racked my body.

This would not do at all, I'd wake Skinner.

The touch of his large hand on my shoulder startled me. I 
squeezed my eyes shut in frustration.  Busted.

But when I rolled over, the pain on his face caused any 
humor to flee.

"I know this is difficult for you Scully. I'm sorry."  His 
voice was husky and contrite. This was worse than I'd 
imagined.  Somehow he'd mistaken my reaction for silent 
sobbing instead of laughter. The itch in my chest turned 
to a dull ache. He had such a way of making feel like a 
contrite child.

"It's not your fault. I'm sorry too." I said.

He looked at me silently, his eyes roaming over my face 
in assessing the truth of my statement.  Apparently 
satisfied, he gave a small nod of acknowledgment and 
rolled away again.

An odd feeling tugged at me with his show of concern. A 
warm and genuine regret had shown on his face. It flew 
in the face of how I wanted to think about him; stern, 
cold, and uncaring of me. He was jumbling the 
comfortable knowledge of my believing I knew him well. 
It was disconcerting having to reevaluate how he fit into 
my neat and orderly assessments.

It was a long, long time before I allowed sleep to claim 
me.


*******************************************

Oct 30, early morning.

I didn't dream of the field that night.  I had fitful, tossing 
dreams about love, anger and revenge.  None of it made 
sense, like a movie cut into pieces and rearranged in a 
haphazard fashion. I couldn't see any faces, or hear any 
distinct voices.  Escaping from them seemed paramount 
in my mind.

I suddenly found myself in the MacDonald living room in 
front of the fireplace.  Orange and gold flames still 
burned slowly through the massive oak logs Skinner had 
placed inside and lit earlier.

The realization that I was awake and downstairs without 
remembering how I got there made me shiver. The foggy 
effects of a dream-filled sleep still dampened my thinking 
process.  I didn't feel normal, didn't feel like I was myself 
yet, as if the populace of the dream still dwelt within me.

Strong, warm arms wrapped themselves around me 
eliciting a surprised gasp. A large hand with a bruised 
thumb came up to cradle my face. The other laid claim to 
one hip and pulled me backward. Fuzzy warmth began to 
bleed into my mind and body in spite of the shock of 
knowing who held me.  I closed my eyes, and leaned 
back into his hard body; feeling an alien, powerful 
arousal within myself.

I was turned around and lifted up and off the floor. 
Skinner's hungry face came into focus before me like a 
specter. The spare and fundamental arousal in me was 
mirrored on his face.  A longing that I hadn't felt in years 
burned brightly in my heart.

Before I could say or do anything, he pulled me into a 
greedy, soul-consuming kiss. This was no gentle kiss of 
first time lovers, but a bold seductive kiss of one who 
knows the other well.

And I did know him, not as myself but as someone else 
inside me, alien to my everyday persona. I could not stop 
myself; we were on a path already worn smooth by the 
feet of others. 

My mouth opened beneath his, allowing entry of his 
thoughts and feelings.

I've waited for you. For so long, so long - the sound of 
another man's voice echoed inside me.

Yes, my other self answered, for so loooong.

He placed me on the rug and covered me with his body; 
heat permeating through thin layers of clothing. My 
rational mind cried out to be heard, but was drowned in 
the flood of old and musty sentiment. 

His hands opened my top, exposing my breasts to his 
mouth.  Soft, wet lips blazed a trail down my neck to 
suck a nipple, inducing sound and liquid desire. His 
erection pressed hard into my thigh nudging insistently to 
be let in. Any resistance I had left as Dana Scully was 
shredded like the tattered curtains in Donna MacDonald's 
bedroom.

We would have done far more if Mrs. Daniels hadn't 
come in.

"Excuse me."  Her sharp, decrepit voice was like being 
dosed with cold water. Skinner and I sat up hastily, like 
two teenagers caught making out in their parent's living 
room.

"I thought I heard noises."  Disapproval radiated from her 
like an icy fog.

Skinner moved in front of me to block her scalding gaze 
while I hastily redressed. I watched his shoulders square 
up, and his back stiffen; becoming an A.D. once again.

"As you can see Mrs. Daniels, my wife and I are perfectly 
fine. Don't let us detain you any longer." It was a curt 
dismissal that caused her to deepen the frown-lines 
around her mouth. She turned on her heel and stalked 
silently back to her bedroom.

Skinner and I were left alone, back to our normal selves, 
and deeply embarrassed by the situation. He kept his back 
turned, giving me more than enough time to put my 
pajamas back in order.

I felt like I should say something, but I knew it wouldn't 
make any sense. That wasn't me. I didn't do those things, 
didn't want to feel his body next to mine --. But it had 
been me *and* him. And I had wanted him to touch me. I 
had wanted it very much.

"Sir -."  He flinched at the formal address.

Without turning around he said, "Dana, don't say 
anything. Let's just go back up stairs and try to get some 
sleep.  We have a long day tomorrow."

I watched him mount the stairs, slumped over once again.  
Had I done that to him?  Had I caused him to show a part 
of himself that he kept carefully hidden? 

I followed him slowly and reluctantly, knowing we'd 
have to get in bed together again. When I climbed in next 
to him, I brushed against his arm and thigh. But the 
urgent feelings from a few minutes ago were gone; lust 
and longing replace by indifference. What had happened?  
Were we both dreaming?

Sudden exhaustion kept me from exploring the idea any 
further.  I drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep, no 
longer concerned about my behavior. I'd tell him about 
the other dreams and the field tomorrow.

End Part I

Sycamore Hill-A Halloween Tale Part2
See Part 1 for descriptions and disclaimers.
Written for the IWTB list challenge.
Part 2 is dedicated to Donna 3 for her birthday.
********************************************
 
Skinner was gone when I woke. Bright, glaring 
sunshine greeted my bloodshot eyes. The pillow and 
mattress next to me still held the faint indentation from 
his head and body. As I crawled over the bed to get out, 
I could smell the rich, alien musk of him in the fabric.
 
A sudden memory from last night came unbidden; 'For 
so long, I've waited for you for so long'. The impression 
of a male voice not belonging to Skinner made a cold 
lump form in my stomach. What had happened to us? 
Who did the voices of last night belong to?
 
The memory of intimate caresses also came back with 
sharp clarity. The me that wasn't me had like it, enjoyed 
it and wanted it. In the light of day I still had difficulty 
processing what had been real and what had been 
fantasy. When I removed my shirt in the bathroom, I 
knew it had been real.
 
A trail of bruises along my upper arms from the grip of 
his hands stared faintly at me from the mirror.  My lips 
were swollen, and red. The right side of my upper lip 
bore the telltale marks of a stubble burn. Worst of all, 
my nipples were exquisitely sore from use.
 
Humiliation and heat flooded my face. I certainly bore 
the marks of a sexual encounter; that made it real 
enough. I wondered where Skinner was, what he was 
thinking. His sense of duty and pride would be 
damaged by last night, whether he believed himself 
responsible or not. A withdrawal into his most sullen 
persona would surely be his coping mechanism.
 
I took a hot shower and dressed in a soft sweater. My 
skin was so sensitive, every contact became painful.  
Makeup did little to conceal the burn above my lip, but 
everything else I could hide in dark places.
 
I wandered through the house to find it empty; no 
Skinner, no Mrs. Daniels behind closed doors. The 
kitchen was empty too; without evidence of breakfast 
having been made. It was as if they had just picked up 
and left me here. In a panic I opened the front door.  
The rental car was gone, too.
 
My heart started pounding as a familiar feeling that I 
associated exclusively with Mulder rose up like bile in 
my throat.  
 
Skinner had ditched me.
 
Fear was replaced with white-hot anger.  How dare he 
run out? Mulder and I were sure to be fired now. He 
could make up any excuse he wanted to; anything so he 
wouldn't have to face me this morning.  I took Skinner 
for many things, but a coward was not one of them. He 
could destroy a legion of killers, kidnappers, and enemy 
soldiers, but a small, solitary, red-haired agent could 
make him turn tail and run. Tears of defeat gathered 
and rolled down my face.
 
Suddenly finding the house suffocating, I put my coat 
on and went out the back door. The morning frost that 
coated everything was starting to melt under the glare 
of the sun.  Beyond the cornfield the grass field of my 
nightmares lay in serene mocking. It terrified me on a 
purely basic level, but perhaps the sunlight would keep 
the demons away.
 
I didn't hear the back door open or the sound of my 
name being called until he was on me.
 
"Scully?"
 
I turned around, startled to see Skinner standing behind 
me. His face held the look of alarm before he replaced 
it with concern. A hand reached out to touch my face, 
coming away with wetness on his fingers. He held it out 
to me, a look of puzzled worry asking why I was 
crying.
 
I looked at my feet. "I thought you'd left me."
 
He straightened up, angry now. "Why would I do that?"
 
I shook my head. "It's happened before."
 
"I'm not Mulder," he said flatly. I was surprised by the 
depth of anger in his voice.
 
"No," I said softly, "you're not." I felt shame that I 
would compare the two, and couldn't meet his eyes. 
"I'm sorry."
 
"I went into to town for groceries.  There wasn't very 
much in the house to eat, or coffee to drink." Out of the 
corner of my eye I could see him flex his jaw in 
frustration. "I should have left a note. It didn't occur to 
me you'd--" He didn't finish the thought, clearly 
uncomfortable in the admission.
 
"It's okay."  I started back to the house. "I am hungry.  
What did you bring?"
 
*************************************
 
We had a quick breakfast of cereal and phoned Sheriff 
Ringhofer.  Skinner arranged to for us to meet him 
outside the courthouse to discuss the murders. The 
sheriff wanted the meeting to  appear unplanned.  We'd 
circulate among the festival attendees so we could 
speak without being followed.
 
In the car I asked him, "Did you see Mrs. Daniels this 
morning?" 
 
"No. Her door was open and the bed was made, but she 
wasn't anywhere in the house."
 
"Where could she go so early in the morning?"
 
"I don't know. I ran into Deputy Masters at the grocery 
store though."
 
"The policeman who stopped us yesterday?"
 
"Yes.  He was very curious about us.  He wanted to 
know how I managed to have such a young and pretty 
wife."
 
"What did you tell him?"  I was suddenly curious.  This 
was yet another unseen side to Skinner.
 
"I told him you were wife number two, and I captured 
your heart with my cooking. I had to buy groceries and 
get back here to seduce you with my pancakes." He said 
it with complete seriousness, and stony face. Then he 
grinned, actually grinned at the memory.
 
I laughed out loud, unable to believe this playful man 
was Walter Skinner. "Seduced?"
 
He sobered quickly at my question, the mood passing 
swiftly. The mention of seduction was uncomfortably 
close to the subject of last night.
 
"Are we going to talk about it?" I asked with 
trepidation.
 
"There's nothing to talk about."
 
"I think there is. I don't understand what happened to us.  
It felt like we were --- being controlled by someone or 
something else. Like possession."
 
"I'm not going to hide behind the explanation of a ghost 
to excuse my behavior. What I did was wrong."
 
"I was there too," I said softly.
 
"But I'm your superior. I crossed a line I never should 
have.  It won't happen again."
 
It sounded final and cold.  It made my sore body feel 
cheap and used. I turned my head away to look out the 
window. His attitude hurt me more than I realized.
 
"Why do you keep staring at the backyard?"  His abrupt 
question startled me.
 
I paused, unsure if he would understand. "I've been 
having dreams for the past few weeks; before we came 
here. When I saw the backyard I realized it was the 
same place as in my dreams."
 
Skinner assumed a skeptic's frown. "You've been 
dreaming about the MacDonald's backyard?"
 
"Actually the grassy area behind the cornfields. And I'd 
characterized them as nightmares, not dreams."
 
"Why?"
 
I hesitated.  If he had trouble with the possession 
theory, then the idea of malevolent entities chasing me 
in my sleep was going to be impossible. I settled for 
something in between.
 
"I dream that I'm being chased by someone evil."
 
"Do you know who it is?"
 
"No."
 
"Do you think it's the white apparition that Mrs. Daniels 
reported seeing?"
 
"I don't think so.  I don't know what it is."
 
 That was a small lie.  For some time now I suspected 
that *I* was the apparition.  When I looked through the 
files, the nights of my dreams had corresponded to the 
nights the apparition was seen. But Skinner would 
never accept that, and my scientific mind screamed in 
rebellion at such a conclusion.
 
He finally let it drop, neither disputing my claim, nor 
supporting it. Mulder would have been jumping for joy.
 
Stop it, I told myself.  Stop comparing them.
 
 
We parked a good half mile from the center of town.  
Pumpkin Fest was in full swing with crowds of people 
milling about behind the barricaded main streets.  I 
could see carnival rides near the barber shop, and food 
venders were lined along the sidewalks.
 
We rounded the corner to the courthouse and beheld a 
wondrous sight. Hundreds of pumpkins of all shapes 
and sizes were setup in groups through winding snow 
fencing. Apparently a theme was selected each year and 
this year it was fairy tails and nursery rhymes. 
 
 Pumpkins decorated as Cinderella coaches, Peter 
Pumpkin Eater's house, and Little Red Riding Hoods 
were rendered in a comical, child-like fashion. As we 
circled the display Skinner placed a casual arm around 
my shoulders. I immediately tensed, uncomfortable and 
still angry with his attitude about last night.
 
He leaned close.  "Loosen up Scully; remember we 
have a cover to maintain."
 
I forced myself to relax.  He was right; he was always 
right. 
 
I turned to tell him I was sorry when I encountered his 
mouth. He'd stayed leaning down near my ear, and I 
hadn't realized it. The shock of his lips on mine 
reverberated inside me. Just when I decided to move 
away from the kiss, he deepened it.  This was no little 
peck for show; it was a real kiss, making everything he 
said in the car a sham.
 
"Are you the niece and nephew of Helen and Wayne 
MacDonald?"
 
We broke apart to see a silver haired man with a deeply 
wrinkled face.  He was probably sixty years old or 
more, but he was also wearing a sheriff's uniform.
 
Skinner recovered first, thrusting his arm out to shake 
the sheriff's hand.
 
"Yes. I'm Sam and this is Dorothy."
 
I shook his hand too, slightly embarrassed.
 
"I'm Sheriff Ringhofer. Helen and Wayne told me to 
keep an eye out for you when you came into town. Why 
don't I show you around?"
 
**************************************
We walked out of the courtyard to a large park with 
lush grass.  It was far less crowded here, and the sheriff 
made a show of pointing out local landmarks along the 
way.
 
We found a deserted picnic table and sat down to 
discuss the case. Sheriff Ringhofer went over the more 
salient aspects of the case, and then we discussed some 
'interesting' points, and discrepancies.
 
"Each of the victims was suffocated, but there were no 
signs of a ligature being used. No bluing of the mouth 
or tongue, or peticheal hemorrhages in the eyes."
 
"What about simple or chemical asphyxiates?" I asked 
intrigued.
 
"No. No toxins in the blood or signs of carbon 
monoxide poisoning."
 
"Then how do you know they were suffocated?" 
Skinner asked.
 
"At autopsy micro-hemorrhages and cyanosis of the 
lungs were found, which is consistent with suffocation. 
We just don't have a method."
 
"Which makes finding a murder weapon hard to do."  
Skinner's natural skepticism was showing.
 
"Yes."
 
"And there were no signs at all of a struggle?"  I simply 
couldn't understand how any of this could occur.
 
"No, no signs at all."
 
"Has anything new turned up to link the victims?" 
Skinner asked.
 
"Not so far."
 
"What do you make of the apparition that's been 
reported?" My curiosity about this was piqued.
 
"I don't know.  Mrs. Daniels is a serious and practical 
woman.  If she says she saw something, I believe her."
 
"Is there any link between Donna MacDonald's murder 
and these new murders?"
 
"No. In fact, the aspects of her murder are just the 
opposite.  She was a young female, living with her 
parents, and she died from a stab wound."
 
Skinner frowned. "Her killer was also caught.  It's an 
open and shut case."
 
 The sheriff sighed. "I'm not so sure myself.  The 
evidence was circumstantial, and Brian Sweeney's 
friends gave him an alibi."
 
"But the alibi was disputed." I said.
 
"There was also some potentially lost evidence," 
Ringhofer said cryptically.
 
"Such as?"
 
"Mrs. MacDonald said Donna kept a diary, but it was 
never found."
 
"Do you think it identifies the killer?"
 
"I don't know.  If Brian Sweeney didn't kill her, who 
did?"
 
**************************************
 
At the sheriff's suggestion, Skinner and I stayed at the 
Fest. He reasoned that we could ask around about the 
murders and not attract attention since we were new in 
town. 
 
 We met dozens of people who seemed to know all 
about the murders, but none of the 'interviews' turned 
up new information.
 
Towards nightfall we drove home exhausted, and no 
closer to finding out what was going on. Skinner made 
a light supper for the two of us, and we noticed Mrs. 
Daniels was still gone from the house.
 
We searched every room and even the attic without 
turning up a diary or the housekeeper.
 
"It's late Scully.  Why don't you go to bed. If Mrs. 
Daniels is still missing tomorrow, we'll report it."
 
I was fatigued.  "What about you?"
 
"I'm going to stay up and read."
 
"All right."  I was the one that felt defeated this time as 
I climbed the stairs.  Skinner was going to avoid sleeping 
in the same bed with me, even if he stayed up all night 
reading.
 
I took a shower and changed into a thin nightgown.  If 
Skinner was going to sleep on the couch there was no 
reason to encase myself in flannel.
 
My last thought as I drifted to sleep was of Skinner 
smiling about making pancakes.
 
**************************************
 
 
The disjointed dreams began almost immediately when 
I fell asleep. This time, as I stood in the field, the entity 
was much closer. A mask of dark evil hid its true 
identity. My feet were caught fast in deep mud; 
completely immobilized, and I was helpless in the face 
of the evil bearing down on me.
 
I screamed and screamed for help as the entity 
enveloped me and squeezed the life from my body. I 
was choking, dying a slow and painful death.
 
"Scully, Scully," Skinner was calling my name. I woke 
to find myself sobbing and trembling uncontrollably. I 
realized I was awake, and Skinner was shaking my 
shoulders.
 
I leaned forward and wound my arms around his chest 
trying to use his solid muscle as an anchor to reality. 
After some hesitation, He put his arms around me and 
pulled me gently into his lap. My face was buried in the 
crook of his neck, and I could smell the musky, sweaty, 
warmth of his skin.  I was rocked slowly, allowing the 
horror to dissipate.
 
He waited patiently for me quiet, crooning nonsensical 
words of comfort into my ear.  This was an 
unexpectedly gentle Skinner, and I suppose he found 
my behavior was just as surprising. I'd never allowed 
myself to be so vulnerable in his presence. 
 
It was several minutes before I felt calm enough to 
speak. By then, fatigue made my limbs rubbery and 
weak. I had no desire at all to move from the cocoon of 
warmth Skinner had encased me in. I thought then that 
he was the key to defeating the dreams. His strength 
could protect me. If he held me all night I knew the 
entity would stay away. 
 
"Was it the dream about the field?"
 
I nodded against his chest wordlessly. I turned to put 
my legs on either side of his waist so I could rest more 
fully against him, wanting to disappear inside him. 
What was it about this house that made us hunger to be 
touched?
 
I looked up to tell him I was fine, but the words dried 
up when I met his dark eyes.  Longing dwelt there, so 
bright it glittered in the moonlight. This wasn't caused 
by possession, but belonged to a secret part of the man 
who held me in his arms. No wonder he denied being 
controlled by outside forces; he'd felt like this before.
 
His bruised thumb came up and traced the stubble-mark 
he'd made on my lip with exquisite gentleness. The 
caress sent sparks of sensation down my spine. The 
other fingers came around to cradle my chin and I knew 
he wanted to kiss me. Had he wanted to do this for five 
long years? On some level I think I knew about the 
attraction he had for me, but I had refused to 
acknowledge something that could never see the light 
of day. The raw physical contact we'd shared last night 
opened up doors I thought I'd nailed shut long ago.
 
I should have stopped him when he bent his head to 
mine.  I should have pushed with the palm I held to his 
heart, but God help me, I wanted it too.
 
When he kissed me, it wasn't with the white hot 
obsession from last night. It was soft, wet and warm. 
He coaxed me with his lips and tongue; teasing and 
persuading with aching gentleness.
 
This was far more seductive than the mindless groping 
we'd done before, and no one was directing our 
movements but us. What Donna MacDonald and her 
lover had started, Skinner and I were going to finish. 
 
He trailed a hand down to cup my breast through thin 
cotton material. The palm was so warm and large it 
made me take a stuttering breath against his lips. My 
cold nipple tightened even further and I wondered what 
his mouth would feel like there.
 
As if reading my thoughts, he undid the long row of 
tiny buttons on my gown, and lowered his head. I 
gasped in anticipation as I was half lifted up to his 
waiting mouth. Seeing my inflamed breast, he tenderly 
lapped at the areola before sucking the nipple between 
soft lips. I felt an answering pulse of warm fluid 
between my legs. This couldn't be happening could it?
 
Skinner kissed a heated trail across to the other breast. I 
pulled his shirt off to stroked his head, neck, and back 
with greedy hands. Craving touch was one thing, but 
experiencing it was something far better.
 
I managed to delve into his loose fitting pants and 
boxers to find his erection.  The skin was warm, satiny 
smooth, and firm beneath my small hands. He groaned 
low in his chest and I looked to see his head tossed 
back, mouth slack as my hands moved on him. I felt a 
surge of power that I could make this particular man 
loose his composure so completely.
 
"God, oh God Scully -" he grunted.
 
I bent my head to his lap and ran my tongue over the 
head. He jerked and brought my face up with his hands. 
He shook his head no as if admonishing me for doing 
something bad. I felt the heat of embarrassment rise up 
and tried to pull away. He held me in place with a 
frown.
 
"No, Scully, no.  I want you, just you. I want to be 
inside of you," he whispered. And then he was kissing 
me again with heart breaking sweetness. I was jostled 
and maneuvered until my underwear was pulled off, 
and his soon followed. We were completely naked to 
one another in both body and emotions. 
 
A brush with his fingers between my legs told him I 
was more than ready. He then raised my bottom up and 
entered me slowly until I came to rest once again in his 
lap.
 
I couldn't help the low hiss that escaped my lips. It had 
been so long since I'd been with anyone and he filled 
me so completely. I held him tightly around his waist 
with my forehead leaning against his shoulder. Skinner 
rubbed my back trying to soothe and relax my tight 
muscles.
 
After a few moments he whispered my name with quiet 
desperation. "Scully?"
 
I leaned up to see an anxious expression and beads of 
sweat on his face. He pressed his lips to my forehead. 
"Scully, I'm sorry. Please, I- I need to-."
 
The pleading in his voice was heart-rending, and I 
understood what he needed. Leaning all the way back, I 
coaxed him to follow me down onto the clean white 
quilt. A low moan of satisfaction broke from his lips as 
he settled into me, and he moved with slow, measured 
thrusts. I gave myself up completely to his needs, to his 
control.
 
Tight pleasure began to wind through my belly, and I 
whimpered shamelessly. He brought a hand down to 
where our bodies were joined to rub the sensitive flesh 
there.
 
His voice was thick and husky. "Do you like that? Do 
you need more?"
 
I couldn't answer him. I was so close -. Without 
warning pleasure pure as rain broke over me, through 
me, fusing my body to Skinner's. My mouth was gaping 
open, and I was screaming without making sound as the 
spasms took complete control of me. He followed soon 
after, moaning my name with rasping abandon. 
 
He collapsed forward, his weight crushing me into the 
mattress. Still joined, I waited for the last of his spasms 
to subside. 
 
Finally, he rolled over bringing me close to curl against 
his body.  Lack of tension made me boneless, our limbs 
tangled floppily in the sheets.  Within seconds I was 
sound asleep.
 
*******************************************
Oct 31.  Halloween, early morning
                                               
The cool night air brushed my cheek in the dark 
backyard of Helen and Wayne MacDonald's house.  
How did I get here?  When I turned around the house 
was gone, hidden by apple trees that I couldn't 
remember ever seeing. 
 
When I tried to get through the trees, dense 
undergrowth prevented me from moving forward. Dry 
grass and twigs crunched under my bare feet scratching 
them painfully. My nightgown kept getting caught on 
the undergrowth, making me stumble. How did I get 
dressed and out here? This didn't make sense.
 
I was dreaming. I had to be.
 
I now believed I was in the MacDonald's back yard, 
giving final confirmation that this was the place I went 
to in all those dreams. Slowly, I turned around and 
walked away from the house.  My heart began that 
familiar rapid tripping because I knew what lay ahead.
 
Out beyond the decrepit slat fence and the smaller 
cornfield was open grassland. I was drawn to it like a 
magnet, unable to fight the urgent call that seemed to 
emanate from it.  
 
I was so focused that I didn't feel the cornhusks tear at 
my feet, or the sound of someone calling my name. On 
the other side of the cornfield the grass was softer and a 
lighter wind stirred my hair and chilled my skin. 
 
My skin.  Skin. Skinner. Fantasy became reality as 
awareness seeped into my mind, just as the chill had 
seeped into my bones.
 
I turned around and he was there behind me, anger 
clouding his face. When he caught up to me, I was 
lifted, and felt my arms crushed by his powerful hands.
 
"Scully, what the hell are you doing out here?  Didn't 
you hear me calling?"
 
I shook my head, unable to articulate sound or move at 
all. We were changing again, becoming the ghosts that 
inhabited the house. A man and woman in love; a love 
that was forbidden to them.  Crossing time and reality 
to remain together.
 
'Sweetheart.' ---- 'My love.'
 
Then I saw it, the floating cloud of death from my 
dreams. It moved towards us rapidly but cautiously, 
stealthy as a cat, stalking us, waiting for its chance to 
kill us.   
 
Run, my mind whispered, run.  They know they're here. 
We're going to die. We're going to die again. I don't 
want to die again.
 
I managed to scramble out of his grip, dropping down 
and running again. When he didn't come with me I went 
back and tugged like a child on his shirt. He was rooted 
to the spot, watching with horrified fascination as the 
black form moved forward with malevolent persistence.
 
I slapped his face hard, my palm flaming with the pain 
of contact. I slapped him again and again until he 
turned his face away from Death. Despite the rage 
evident in him, I pulled on his hand urgently.
 
Come on, we need to go. NOW.
 
Then we were both running across the field, becoming 
ourselves again with each step.  Without looking back, I 
knew it was still following with the persistence of 
decades-long rage. We were fully awake. This was 
reality.
 
The hill of my nightmare loomed large before us. We'd 
be safe if we got there and climbed to the other side. I 
tugged on Skinner's arm to change directions slightly.  
He came with me, not even slowing to ask why.
 
He knew. Somehow he knew as I did that we had to get 
to the other side. I started up first, but Skinner's long 
muscular legs carried him further and faster. He had to 
drag me the last few steps up to the summit. Before I 
reached the top, I looked back like Lot's wife wanting 
to see the destruction bearing down on us.  
 
The black entity swirled and gathered itself to form a 
hideous cloud of evil. As it reached out toward me with 
a tendril of death, Skinner tugged on my arm causing us 
to tumble helplessly down the embankment.  I came to 
rest inside a thorny bush that tore at my skin and 
clothing. I'd felt Skinner's hand leave mine as we came 
down, and I whimpered his name.
 
"Skinner." We should not be separated.
 
When I tried to move it only tangled me further and 
burning pain from innumerable scratches kept me from 
doing anything else. The entity was gone, unable to 
follow us into this place.
 
After a few minutes, I heard Skinner calling for me.
 
"Here,' I shouted, "I'm here." 
 
He reached in cursing at the thorns that pricked his 
flesh to extricate me. It took several attempts to get me 
unsnarled, and I had to bite back cries of pain. Skinner 
set me on my feet and swore again as he looked me 
over.
 
I looked down to see my nightgown shredded and 
stained with blood. Long thin scratches covered my 
arms and legs. Skinner traced a scratch on my face with 
his index finger, coming away with a red drop resting 
on the pad.
 
"Scully, you need a doctor."
 
Panic seized me. "No, we can't leave; not until sunrise. 
It can't hurt us if we stay here."
 
I saw him look around to see where 'here' was. His eyes 
fixed on a point over my shoulder.  I followed his gaze 
with my own to discover we'd landed inside 
Resurrection Cemetery. The massive iron gate and 
fencing only enclosed the front half, leaving the back 
portion open to the hill.  The designer must have 
thought the grass mound and thorny bushes would serve 
as natural barriers to intruders such as us. 
 
Skinner frowned, not liking the idea of freezing outside 
all night with a half-clothed and battered partner. But 
then the entity made a long wailing noise behind us; a 
sound of frustration and fury at not being able to get at 
us. I began to tremble from fear and shock. He gathered 
me into his warm arms and I felt him crane his neck to 
look for shelter.
 
He must have spotting something, because the next 
thing I knew, he'd swept me up in his arms. I could see 
weathered stone statues and tombstones as we passed 
them.  Some of the dates were so worn by time they 
could barely be read: July 1898, died August 1910 and 
so on.  Many were children sacrificed to the hard life of 
being pioneer farmers.
 
There wasn't a central office or even a caretaker's shed 
anywhere in the cemetery. Skinner finally located a 
small stone alcove at the entrance to a large 
mausoleum.  A wide marble bench was tucked in one 
corner out of the wind and elements.  He sat carefully 
on it, keeping me cradled in his lap.
 
I buried my face in the solid warmth of his chest, and I 
was so grateful for his presence. Any unease we may 
have felt subsequent to sleeping together vanished in 
the face of mutual need and comfort.
 
I wondered about the 'possession' we kept experiencing. 
If I was inhabited by Donna MacDonald who was 
possessing Skinner?
 
It couldn't be her boyfriend Sweeney; he'd been 
convicted of killing her. I hadn't felt any fear or malice 
in that presence, only the purity of love.  And who was 
the malevolent force trying to kill us/them? If Sweeney 
didn't kill her, could it be the true killer of Donna 
MacDonald and the elderly men?
 
Forbidden love. The irony wasn't lost on me.
 
Mulling over the case seemed to do no good.  I shifted 
in Skinners lap, wrapping my legs around his torso, and 
cried out when a deep scratch on my thigh opened 
under pressure.
 
"Scully?"  Skinner's husky voice asked instantly in 
concern.
 
I shook my head. "I'm fine. Just hold me. Hold me until 
the sun comes up." I had been right.  If he held me all 
night evil would stay away.
 
I slept fitfully against him, waking occasionally from 
cold or fear.  Skinner was wide awake, each time 
murmuring soft words of comfort and kissing my head. 
He waited patiently until I settled back against him. I 
shivered almost constantly even with his warmth 
pressed into me. Maybe the entity would win out after 
all if we died of hypothermia.
 
 
***************************************
 
Cold light finally made its way over the horizon, filling 
the cemetery with oblique and harsh shadows. I opened 
my eyes, but couldn't seem to keep them open or stand 
up. I could see a fine frost on the ground and knew I 
was literally freezing. Skinner's warm body was 
nowhere near me, but I didn't have the strength to call 
for him.
 
A dark shadow fell across my face. I whimpered and I 
tried to move out of the way.
 
"Good God almighty. Mrs. MacDonald.  What are you 
doing here?  What happened to you?" The voice of 
Deputy Masters filtered through my frozen mind. When 
I didn't respond he picked me up like a rag doll and 
carried me out. The last clear image I had was the 
interior of Masters' police cruiser as he placed me in it.
 
I woke sometime later to the familiar bleep of heart 
monitors. An EMS radio crackled in the background. 
Voices were close by, speaking in urgent, shocked 
tones.
 
"Blood and semen--vicious attack--sexual assault--"
 
They couldn't be talking about me.  With a supreme 
effort I opened my eyes and struggled into a sitting 
position.  The room spun and blackened for a moment 
before I gained my equilibrium.
 
An IV was inserted in my left hand, and the heart 
monitor picked up speed with my waking. White 
bandages coated with greasy antibiotic ointment were 
wrapped mummy-like around my arms and legs.  More 
bandages were taped on my face, abdomen and chest to 
cover ugly scratches. I looked around for Skinner, but 
no one else was in the curtained ER room with me. I 
began tearing the monitor leads off in an attempt to free 
myself of the electronic leashes.  Alarm bells shrieked 
in protest.  I nearly had the IV tape undone when a 
harried nurse burst through the curtain.
 
"What are you doing Mrs. MacDonald? That IV is to 
give you fluids, and we need to be sure your heart is 
beating correctly."
 
I wanted to tell her I was a doctor not a child, but 
Dorothy MacDonald wouldn't be able to say that. 
"Where's my husband?"
 
"I don't think you should worry about him right now; 
you're the one that needs to be taken care of."
 
I knew she meant well, but her condescending tone 
grated on my nerves. "I want to know where my 
husband is.  If you don't find him, I'm leaving AMA."
 
She pursed her lips.  "I'll get Dr. Erickson."
 
An older man with a Santa clause beard came in as I 
was removing the last of the plastic tape holding my IV 
in.  "Hello Mrs. MacDonald, I'm Dr. Erickson. My 
nurse tells me you're trying to leave."
 
"I am leaving.  I need to find my husband."  I couldn't 
tell him that I had a bad feeling about Skinner's well 
being.  Every minute I spent without him felt like 
another minute he was in terrible danger. I firmly 
believed that staying together was paramount to our 
safety. 
 
"Mrs. MacDonald, you've been injured.  We need to 
treat you properly." 
 
"I just have few scratches -" I stopped when he put his 
hand on my shoulder.
 
"Mrs. MacDonald, did your husband do this to you?"  
He spoke in a low and sympathetic voice.  He thought I 
was a battered wife.  If it hadn't been such a terrible 
accusation I would have laughed.
 
"No my husband did not do this to me."
 
"Deputy Masters says he found you unconscious in the 
cemetery.  Your clothes were torn and bloody from 
numerous scratches all over your body.  He also found 
your husband wandering on the road, incoherent with 
blood on his clothing.  He wasn't injured Mrs. 
MacDonald, but you were." 
 
I barely heard the last part.  What had happened to 
Skinner?  Had he left before sunrise and encountered 
the killer?
 
I looked at the doctor and spoke with my best agent 
voice. "My husband had nothing to do with this, 
nothing. It is important that I find him."
 
"Were you sexually assaulted by him or someone else?"
 
"No."  I could feel the heat rise in my cheeks. "I slept 
with my husband last night. He found me sleepwalking 
this morning in the cemetery. I'd fallen down the hill 
behind the farm into a thorn bush, and he got me out. 
That's how the scratches got on my body and my blood 
on his clothes. He'd gone for help when Deputy Masters 
found me."
 
"Do you sleep walk very often?"
 
"No, only since I came here," I said trying to make him 
understand. " Please, I need to find my husband."
 
I don't know if Dr. Erickson believed me or not. He 
didn't stop me when I ripped the IV all the way out, or 
when I demanded hospital scrubs I knew were usually 
kept in the ER department. My own clothes were 
ruined, and were probably in an evidence bag 
somewhere.
 
My nurse reluctantly retrieved the scrubs and found 
some shoes donated to the hospital for just such 
occurrences. After signing the AMA papers I phoned 
the sheriff's office and found out that Skinner was in 
jail for assaulting me.
 
I needed a ride to the sheriff's office, but didn't have 
any money or ID with me.
 
"How far is the jail from here?"  I had no idea where 
'here' was.  
 
"About ten miles."  Dr. Erickson wasn't going to let me 
go easily.
 
"How can I get a ride?"
 
He laughed at my bravado.  Not only was I signing 
myself out, but I was asking him to help me do it. The 
staff in the small ER conversed in whispers. A tall burly 
man with a brown beard and an EMT's uniform stepped 
forward.
 
"I'm Ben Masters, Will's brother.  I get off my shift here 
in five minutes.  I'll take you to the sheriff's office."
 
*************************************
 
End Part 2

Sycamore Hill- A Halloween Tale Part 3, SSR
Descriptions, disclaimers and ratings in Part 1
Part 3 is dedicated to the other listies with b-days near 
Halloween: so many
*******************************
During the short ride to Sycamore I learned a great deal 
about Will Masters from his older brother.

Will was an adopted child, younger than Ben by almost 
fifteen years. He'd been only four when Ben married and 
moved out of the house, essentially making him an only 
child. He was a shy kid, but had done well in school.  To 
his family's surprise, he went into law enforcement 
instead of banking or medicine like his father and older 
brother.

"Will always said there was no justice in the world, not 
even in a town as small as Sycamore."

"What did he mean by that?" I asked with surprise.

"I think it had to do with his being adopted. There was a 
family rumor that Will was the illegitimate child of a 
relative. I thought he didn't know about that, but lately 
I've been wondering."

"Why?"

"He's become obsessed with the MacDonald Farm. 
Somewhere along the line he got the idea that Brian 
Sweeney was falsely convicted of Donna MacDonald's 
murder.  He's been digging into court records, asking 
people questions, going over to the farm and harassing 
the MacDonalds. When this ghost business started and 
the killings began, he let it eat him alive."

Quietly I asked, "Do you think he has something to do 
with the murders?"

Ben whipped his head over to look at me and then back to 
the road ahead. "No, but -"

"You're not entirely sure, are you?"

He said nothing after that.  I was dropped in front of the 
sheriff's building, still deserted in the early morning. 
Before I left he called to me.

"Why are you here Mrs. MacDonald?"

"I'm trying to find out the truth behind the apparition and 
murders."

"Is that all?"  He sounded sad, fishing for information.

I leaned into the passenger side window. "Should there be 
more?"

He hesitated.  "Will may think he's your son."

"My son? He's at least--"

"Twenty five."

"I'm too young to be his mother."

"Yes, but your husband's not too old to be his father. He 
told Will that you were his second wife. He's the 
MacDonald's only living relative besides my family."

I let out a started breath with this information.  "Sam's 
related to you?"

"We're distant cousins. If Will believes the family rumor, 
then Sam is the only man who could be his father."

"Who does he think is his mother?"

"Donna MacDonald."

"Donna MacDonald?  She was sixteen when she died.  
She had a baby?"  I was flabbergasted.  

"She was a sweet girl, well liked by everyone.  She went 
'away' to school for a year out of state.  When she came 
back she was a changed person: angry, rebellious, 
hanging out with the wrong crowd. It's an old rumor 
around town."

"Why does Will think she's his mother?"

"I don't know.  I think he may have heard something, or 
found something out."

A cold feeling of dread ran down my back.  Will could be 
dangerous.

I looked back at the beige brick building.  "Is Will the 
only one on duty today?"

"Yes, all the others will be out for the parade.  Why?"

"Please, find Sheriff Ringhofer and tell him to come here 
immediately. I have a bad feeling about this."

He nodded and drove away. I turned to the door and 
opened it.  

********************************************

The main area was large and deserted.  A police radio 
crackled with static in the corner.  Several desks littered 
the middle and filing cabinets lined a wall along with 
photos of various police events and awards.

An eerie feeling permeated the room like Will was 
nearby, but not expecting anyone to arrive and interrupt - 
what?

I moved through the room looking for signs of life.  Near 
the back, a door was slightly ajar and a far distant light lit 
the dim hallway.  I eased the door open to hear a 
television blaring in the background.  

I wanted my gun.  Going down this hallway felt like an 
exercise in finding a hidden perpetrator.  But this was a 
police station, a friendly place.  Wasn't it?

"Deputy Masters?  It's Dorothy MacDonald. Are you 
here?"

My voice echoed off the walls, competing with the 
blaring television.  No other sound disturbed the hallway, 
so I called again. The television was in a darkened room 
with a cot.  I assumed this was the room they slept in at 
night when there was nothing to do.

At the end of the corridor a door was open, responsible 
for the only light at this end.  When I rounded the corner 
a terrible site greeted me.

Skinner was strapped to a chair in the middle of the room.  
His head hung down, covered in bruises and blood.

"Sir."  Protocol forgotten, I ran to him and pulled his face 
up.  More bruises covered his cheeks and forehead.  A 
quick check at his neck with shaky fingers, and I could 
feel he had a pulse. Temporary relief washed through me 
at the discovery, but I had to get him loose and get help.  

Gently I leaned him back in the chair and supported his 
head against me so he could breathe better. He was 
handcuffed through the seatback's metal bar, and his feet 
were also handcuffed. I felt a wave of despair.  Short of 
taking the chair apart, there was no way to release him.

I stood next to him, cradling his head trying to think of a 
way out of the tiny room. Skinner shifted and groaned, 
his head bouncing against me in an effort to move.

"Sir? Can you hear me?"

He groaned louder. "Scully?" came out in a croak.

"I'm here sir.  Do you know where they keep the handcuff 
keys?"

He shook his head. 

"Where's Masters?"

"He -- he thinks-"

"I know. He thinks you're his father. Do you know where 
he went?"

"No."

"Did you tell him the truth?  Does he know who we are?"

"No."

Skinner would rather die than blow his cover; a soldier to 
the last. A noise down the corridor made me freeze. 
Before I could hide, or even move, a gun came around the 
corner.

At the end of the gun was Sheriff Ringhofer. I sighed 
with relief.

"Sheriff.  Help me get these cuffs off him."

"What happened?"

"Deputy Masters arrested Skinner for assaulting me.  He 
brought him here and did this to him." I gestured to the 
black and blue marks that were growing larger. When the 
sheriff hesitated, I added: "You know very well he did 
*not* assault me, and he's not going to hurt anyone in this 
condition."

Reluctantly the sheriff agreed and stepped forward to 
release the lock on Skinner's wrists.  He swayed forward, 
and I had to catch him before he fell over. Purple bruises 
and deep red grooves were worn into his bloody wrists. I 
massaged the painful flesh in an attempt to restore 
circulation.  Skinner moaned in pain, and tried to remove 
his hands.

When the cuffs were removed from his ankles, Skinner 
struggled mightily to stand up.  Once on his feet, his eyes 
rolled back. It took both Sheriff Ringhofer and me to 
keep him from toppling over.

"We need to get you to the hospital."

"NO, no. Too many questions. Might blow our cover."

He was right about that, but I didn't know how badly he 
was hurt.

"If you can walk outside to the sheriff's car then we'll go 
home," I said believing he could never do it.  But as usual 
I underestimated him.  He staggered, and I had to let him 
lean on me, but he made it all the way there.
I managed to get him into the cruiser and sat next to him.

"Take us back to the farm."


*******************************

We drove in silence back to the farm. Sheriff Ringhofer 
helped me to get Skinner upstairs and change his soiled 
clothing. We hefted him into bed. He continued to insist 
that he didn't need the hospital, but I worried about 
internal injuries.

Once I made sure he was comfortable, I walked 
downstairs with the sheriff.  

"When you're finished looking for Will, could you come 
back and check the house? I'd feel better about staying 
here if you could."

"Alright."

"Also, we haven't seen Mrs. Daniels since yesterday."

"Doesn't she live here?"

"Yes, but when we woke up yesterday morning, she was 
gone."

"Do you think something's happened to her?"

"I don't know. She's a strange woman. She -- seemed to 
disapprove of us. I thought she might have gone 
somewhere until we left for good, but there was no note, 
phone call, nothing."

He nodded solemnly.  "I don't think I've seen her myself 
in a week or more. She was like the MacDonalds; kept to 
herself."

"How long has she lived here?"

"Goin' on twenty years now. She moved in to help Helen 
after Donna died, and then I think she stayed because she 
had no other place to go."

"Which is why I'm worried about her now."

He nodded.  "I'll ask around about her and come back 
later to check on you."

"I'd appreciate that."

I saw him to the door and watched the cruiser drive away.  
Despite knowing that he was coming back, I still felt a 
niggling fear. Will was still out there, and so was the 
killer. No body had been discovered today, but that didn't 
mean much.

I walked all over the house double, and triple checking 
the door and window locks. I hauled a heavy desk over 
the back door in the vague hope it would keep intruders 
out.  Or *me* in.

After showering, I changed into sweats and a t-shirt. I re-
wrapped the bandages over my scratches the best I could, 
lacking the dexterity and antibiotic ointment that were 
necessary. 

Padding downstairs in my stocking feet, I made Skinner 
some beef bullion and took it back up to him. I sat in an 
overstuffed chair next to the bed to watch his sleeping 
form.  A nearly bald teddy bear also occupied the chair, 
and I pulled it up into my lap. There was something 
terribly intimate about watching him like this.

"Should I wake him Teddy?"  I asked the sad little bear.

He'd been sleeping since getting in bed, and I was loath to 
wake him.  But he needed to drink fluids and also needed 
the nutrition. Guilt that he'd given me most of his strength 
and warmth last night at his own expense was also on my 
mind.

With a sigh I replaced the bear and gently touched 
Skinner's face.

"Sir?  Skinner?"

He stirred, and opened his eyes. The deep brown irises 
softened when he saw me. I smiled in relief and gratitude 
that he was alive and here with me.

"Scully?"

"I made you some broth. You need to drink it, and take a 
pain pill."

"I don't need-"

"Yes you do," I said cutting him off, "you're dehydrated 
and with the muscle damage from bruising you're in 
danger of developing rhabdomyolysis." 

"Rabbit-my-oh-what?"

"Never mind. Just do as you're told."  I smiled at the 
opportunity to boss him around a little.

With considerable effort he sat up. I touched his face and 
arms, inspecting the purpling under his skin. The bruising 
looked as if it had stabilized.

"He beat me while I was handcuffed to the chair.  He said 
I was his father and beat me until I was unconscious. He 
never asked anything at all, just beat me with a baton." 
Skinner's voice was quiet and bewildered.

It was a heart-rending confession. I put a finger to his 
lips.  "Drink."

 He drank the broth in two large gulps, and I gave him the 
pill to swallow.

"You said this was a pain pill?  Where did you get it?"

"I had some left over from when I had cancer.  I always 
bring them along just in case."

His face fell when I mentioned the cancer. I was in 
remission, but the specter of reoccurrence was always in 
my mind.  And his too it would seem.

Suffering was something we both did well.

"Come here." The command was back in his voice.

A familiar sensation fluttered in my stomach. I hadn't 
allowed myself to think about last night, or what we'd 
shared. He hadn't forgotten either. Here so far from 
Washington and the FBI, it was easy to forget who we 
were. Thoughts about fraternization, guilt and Mulder 
were far away.

He broke the pain pill in half and held it out to me.  "We 
both need this." 

As I took it from him and swallowed it, I thought how 
symbolic this gesture was of Skinner's true nature.  He 
was always sacrificing something for me; thinking of my 
comfort before his own. It brought a lump to my throat.

I sat gingerly on the edge of the bed. He reached out and 
stroked my face; his index finger gently tracing an ugly 
scratch I hadn't covered. I leaned forward to receive the 
kiss I wanted as much as he did. 

The tenderness of last night was there; his lips were so 
gentle and soft they made me ache. We sat for a very long 
time, only kissing; enjoying this simple intimacy once 
again.

"Lay down," he said in a husky voice.

"I don't think either one of us is in shape for that."

"I'm not talking about sex. Lay down."

I slid under the blankets next to him.  He rolled us both 
on our sides and wrapped his large frame around me. A 
lingering, open-mouthed kiss was placed on my neck 
making me sigh with satisfaction. He pulled me as close 
to his body as he could, draping me in warmth.

"*Now* I can rest," he whispered in my ear.

I smiled at his playfulness.  We were both bone weary 
and battered, but in the presence of the other it didn't 
seem so bad.  Within minutes we were sound asleep.

*********************
Oct. 31: Halloween Night

Darkness had fallen by the time I woke. A bedside lamp 
illuminated a small pendulum clock whose hands 
declared it was seven o'clock.  Skinner was making 
muffled snoring noises near my ear. Hours had gone by, 
but we hadn't moved an inch. I felt so safe and warm, I 
wondered if we could just stay like this; forget about 
returning to Washington, the Hoover and the daily cares 
they represented.

A giggle escaped when I thought of Skinner and me as 
farmers. We could trade wool business suits for denim 
and cotton, briefcases for chickens, laptops for cows. 
Skinner would wear a farmer's cap to protect his head 
from the sun, and I'd call him in from the field for supper. 
It was a sweet fantasy and completely unrealistic. We 
couldn't give up what we were anymore than we could 
sprout wings and fly.

I turned over on my back to regard Skinner.  I smoothed 
my hands over the supple skin of his chest and arms. His 
broad back was becoming a favorite spot.  I loved to 
touch him, and found it difficult to stop.

He stirred under my hands, waking to give me a lazy 
smile. His movements mimicked mine, pushing up under 
clothing to touch me with tender care.

"So soft," he whispered in my ear, "how can you be so 
soft?"

We kissed again, but this time our lovemaking was more 
intense, more urgent; as if there wasn't much time left. I 
think Skinner knew as well as I that our fragile bond 
could never survive outside this place. 

This time he entered me from behind, my knees far apart, 
and my arms pinned above my head in supplication: a 
sacrifice on the altar of his soul. I enjoyed the dominance, 
welcomed it. It allowed me to enjoy him without the guilt 
or strain of conscience. It was intensely pleasurable, and 
the most intimate, freeing experience I could ever 
remember.

Unexpected tears flowed down my face when I climaxed, 
and a strangled sob escaped from me.  Alarmed, Skinner 
abruptly stopped his thrusting. 

"Scully, did I hurt you?" Pain and regret were in the 
words he spoke.  He would rather die than hurt me.  The 
realization only made me cry harder.

He pulled out and gathered me in his arms.  I knew he 
was bewildered by this sudden change in behavior. I felt 
helpless to stop the tide of emotion that poured from me.

"It's n-not your fault," I stammered, my face buried in his 
neck.

"What then?"

"I-I don't want to lose you."

"You won't."

"No?"

"No."  He sounded so sure.  

I kissed his muscular neck, thanking him for 
understanding. He returned the favor; placing a trail of 
warm kisses across my collarbone. 

"Let me show you how you make me feel," he murmured 
against me.

The loud bang of a gunshot downstairs kept him from 
completing that demonstration. 

***********************************


Skinner surged across the bed to turn off the bedside 
lamp, plunging the bedroom into darkness. We dressed as 
quickly as possible, and retrieved our service revolvers. 
Skinner retrieved his glasses.

He was frowning, looking out through the bedroom door.  
I could see he was torn between remaining in the 
bedroom and proceeding down the hall.  The creaky 
staircase would make it impossible to descend with any 
stealth. But staying here made us sitting ducks.

More loud noises came from downstairs.  The sound of 
glass breaking and kitchen chairs being overturned could 
be clearly heard. Someone was ransacking the kitchen, 
and doing nothing to hide the fact.

I already knew there was no phone in the bedroom. When 
Skinner and I searched the house earlier the only one we 
found was in the kitchen. I checked the single window in 
the room.  It was painted shut with several layers of paint. 
It probably hadn't been opened since Donna MacDonald 
had occupied this room. Short of breaking the window 
out, this was a lost cause.

Suddenly the noises stopped as abruptly as they had 
started.  Skinner and I waited several minutes in gut-
wrenching silence for more noise. I'd walked over to 
Skinner and stood at his side.  When I started to tremble, 
he put a reassuring arm around my shoulders.

Together, I said to myself, we had to stay together.

When it seemed that the house was deserted again, we 
descended the stairs. Nothing seemed amiss in the living 
room; the heavy desk I'd pulled in front of the back door 
was still in place.

The kitchen was another matter.  All the food Skinner had 
purchased was strewn over everything: the walls, floor, 
table, and even the ceiling. Dishes from the cabinets 
appeared as if they had leaped from the shelves to shatter 
on the floor. The refrigerator door stood open and the 
light flickered like a haphazard strobe light.

Skinner picked his way across the kitchen and checked 
the door.  It was still locked.

Fear as cold as ice suddenly overwhelmed me. An almost 
blind terror was screaming at me to run, get away from 
here as fast as possible.

I looked up at Skinner's face and saw fear in his eyes too. 
I didn't have to say a thing because he made the decision 
for me.

"Let's get out of here."

**************************************

We hastily packed our cases and simply left the house. 
No X-file was worth the kind of danger we were in now. I 
had nothing to base it on, but I was sure the killer had 
been in the house. Before I left, I took the thread bare 
teddy bear with me.  I had another child-like need to have 
something to hang onto while we made our escape.

Skinner drove like a madman, putting as much distance 
between us and the house as possible. I refused to look at 
the cemetery when we passed, and the pump station's 
street light glowed an ominous yellow.

"He never came back." I said in a flat voice.

"Who?"

"The sheriff.  He promised to come back and check the 
house before night fall."

"When did he promise to do that?"

 
"This afternoon while you were sleeping upstairs.  He 
helped me get you to bed and then said he'd be back 
later."

"You think something has happened to him."  Skinner 
made it a statement, not a question.

"Yes."

"Then we'll have to go by his office to find out."

The sheriff's office was pitch black when we drove up, as 
if all the electricity had been shut off to it. I looked at 
Skinner.  This was more than unusual, it was a sign that 
something was terribly wrong.

"Should we call for back up?"

"Who can we call Scully? The state police are fifty miles 
away."

"I know, but I just don't want you to go back in there. 
You- -you could have died in there."

For the first time since we left the house, Skinner's face 
softened.  He leaned across and kissed me, and then kept 
his face close to mine.

"I know, but I didn't. If it will make you feel better, I'll 
call the state police before I go in."

Every alarm bell I had went off. "You are *not* going in 
there alone."

 "I don't have a choice."

"Yes you do and so do I. I'm going in with you."

"NO."  He nearly shouted it at me. He squeezed his eyes 
shut, realizing the harshness of his reply. "Scully, you 
can't go in there. If Will is responsible for all of this I'm 
the only one he'll want to see. He and I have unfinished 
business.  Anyone else will just be in his way."

"Including you. He almost killed you. You can't expect 
me to just sit by-" I stopped, clearly frustrated with his 
attitude.

Before Skinner could argue with me anymore the front 
door opened up.  Will Masters came out holding his arms 
up, and Sheriff Ringhofer was close behind with his gun 
trained on him.

I should have felt relieved by the sight: the sheriff had 
apprehended the murderer and was leading him away.

But there was something wrong about this.  If Will 
Masters was under arrest, why was the sheriff leading 
him *away* from jail?

One look at Skinner told me he was thinking the same 
thing.

He watched as they got into a non-descript black car and 
drove away.

Skinner was agitated. "We need to follow them, but these 
country roads are so deserted, they'll see us."

"It doesn't matter."

Skinner glanced over at me with questioning look.

I had a small leather bound book in my hands. While we 
were arguing, I'd twisted and worried the teddy bear in 
my hands until he'd come apart. Under the streetlight I 
could make out the word 'Diary' in faint gold lettering. 

I held Donna MacDonald's diary in my hands.

*************************************

We drove slowly and carefully along the roads out of 
town, using the parking lights for illumination.  Skinner 
shut those off as soon as we turned the corner by the old 
pump station. Resurrection Cemetery sat in total darkness 
against the moonlit sky.

The car Sheriff Ringhofer and Will Masters had driven 
off in was parked to the side behind a large oak tree. 
Skinner turned the engine off on our car and allowed it to 
coast to the edge of the road.

I was still reading the diary by moonlight, fascinated by 
the story Donna told.

At fifteen she'd had an affair with an older man she called 
Jim. In the typical language of a teenager, she spoke 
glowingly of her love for him.  He even had a rich 
girlfriend named Elizabeth at the time that he gave up for 
her.

When she became pregnant, however, he stopped seeing 
her. When she threatened to expose him, he told her he 
would kill her and she believed him.  Her parents were 
very religious, and strict in their dealings with her.  When 
she finally found the courage to tell them, they treated her 
like she was dirt. 

It had been their idea to send her away and make her give 
the baby up for adoption. She finally agreed to the plan 
only after they promised her the baby would be adopted 
locally so she could see it from time to time from afar.

 After she had the baby and returned home,  Jim wanted 
to resume their affair. By then Donna was a changed 
person; drinking, staying out late, and defying her 
parents.  She got a new boyfriend and told Jim she never 
wanted to see him again. He apparently started 
threatening her once more, and followed her around 
town.  Her boyfriend caught him one night roaming 
around the farm, and a fight ensued. The police were 
called, but both the boyfriend and Jim were gone when 
they arrived.

The last entry in the diary was heart-breaking in its 
description of Donna's despair.

'I have nothing to live for anymore. The man I thought I 
loved is evil, and wants to possess me in both mind and 
body. He made me pregnant and told me if I didn't have 
an abortion he'd kill me and the baby both.  When I came 
back he was still there, trying to possess me again. He 
will kill Brian, I know he will.  The look in his eyes 
tonight when he saw me with Brian was one of pure 
hatred.  I have decided to speak to Elizabeth who is 
engaged to him now to see if she can help.  She is my last 
hope.'

I wondered if she ever spoke to the girlfriend, or told 
Brian about the affair.  She was killed the same night the 
last entry was made.

Skinner looked over at me when I didn't move or speak.

"Scully? Does the diary give any more information?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"Sheriff James Ringhofer is Will Masters father."

Skinner let out long breath. "And Donna really is his 
mother?"

"Yes."

"But who's committing the murders?"

I looked at my hands and struggled to put the pieces 
together. "What was Mrs. Daniels first name?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"I have a feeling it's Elizabeth.  Someone named 
Elizabeth was engaged to Ringhofer when Donna died."

"You think she had something to do with Donna's death?"

"Maybe. She didn't marry him though. And she moved in 
with the MacDonalds."

"There's still too much information missing. The new 
murders are probably related but we still don't know 
why."

I looked at the cemetery.  All the fear and anguish 
Skinner and I had experienced over the last two days took 
on a new meaning. As bad as it had been, we'd had each 
other to depend on.  Donna had been alone, and died 
alone, making her a far more tragic figure.

"Let's go find out."

***********************************

The heavy iron gate at the cemetery entrance stood open.  
Skinner and I walked through and began the search for 
Will and Jim. The statues inside cast ominous shadows 
along the grass and sidewalks. It appeared completely 
deserted, and if we hadn't seen their car outside I would 
have been inclined to leave.

Somewhere towards the back the sound of digging came 
echoing across to us. As we moved closer I could hear 
voices arguing.

Skinner and I made our way across marble hurdles to the 
voices.  Will Masters was standing in a fresh grave.  
Sheriff Ringhofer had a gun pointed at his chest.

Skinner aimed his gun at the sheriff.  "Drop it 
Ringhofer."

Ringhofer swung toward the sound and fired, just missing 
Skinner's head. Skinner returned fire and caught the 
sheriff in the chest.  He staggered backward, and fell into 
the grave.  To my horror Will Masters picked the sheriff's 
gun up and fired into him until the gun was empty.

He was still clicking the empty chambers when Skinner 
grabbed him and put the handcuffs on.

Down in the fresh grave next to Sheriff Ringhofer was 
the decomposing body of Mrs. Daniels.

*************************************


Epilogue November 2

I watched as clouds covered over the cornfields we were 
leaving behind. The plane made a shuddering noise as it 
turned east towards DC, our final destination. Skinner sat 
next to me as implacable as ever. He'd withdrawn deeply 
into himself since we'd wrapped up the case.  My fear 
that I would ultimately lose him was finally born out.

Cases like this always seemed to take a little something 
out of me.  Hope for the future would tarnish just a little 
more when the misery of the people we investigated was 
laid out in ugly detail.  There wasn't a single person in 
this case that wasn't ultimately destroyed by the evil of 
one man and the homicidal jealously of one woman.

Will Masters confessed to helping Elizabeth Daniels 
murder three innocent men in an attempt to cover the 
planned murder of Sheriff James Ringhofer. She wanted 
it to look like just another in a long line of similar 
murders throwing suspicion away from her.

During interrogation Will told a story of befriending Mrs. 
Daniels and her manipulation of him and the truth.  She'd 
told him Brian Sweeney had not killed Donna 
MacDonald and she knew who had: Ringhofer. She was 
also the one who told Will that Donna was his mother, 
but neglected to tell him that Ringhofer was his father. 

She spun a tale of Ringhofer's betrayal of both she and 
Donna.  She expertly manipulated him into agreeing to 
help 'punish this evil doer'. She told Will that she had 
moved into the MacDonald household to help them get 
over their grief.  The simple truth was she probably did it 
to manipulate them as well, and keep the truth from Will.  
Twenty five years is a long time to plan.

She made up the story of an apparition to lend a 
supernatural element to the crimes, and chose to kill the 
men near Halloween. Will said he went along with 
whatever she wanted, and had never seen the apparition 
himself. Masters somehow found out about her plan and 
killed her before Skinner and I arrived in town. 

I believed he was the one who ransacked the kitchen 
looking for Donna's diary. Skinner and I had heard about 
the diary from him, and he may have believed Donna 
named him as her lover and father of her baby. He 
wanted to find it and destroy it before we did so that no 
tangible evidence of his involvement was left behind.

He did not know until Halloween night that her 
accomplice was Will, his son. He was trying to 
manipulate Will too when we thwarted his plan.

Skinner and I typed up a neat report that Kersh would not 
only buy, but also left out the 'stranger' aspects of the 
case.

It did not explain the feeling of possession we felt that 
first night, or why I would dream of an evil entity. It also 
did not explain why I felt safe from the entity in the 
cemetery, or why I dreamed of a place I'd never been. 
Most importantly, how could we converse with a woman 
who had been dead for twelve hours?

I didn't discuss it with Skinner; he seemed satisfied to let 
it be. I, on the other hand, devised some of my own 
theories.

I still believed there was an apparition. The MacDonalds 
had seen it too. I dreamed of standing in the field all in 
white, perhaps a premonition of the future. Donna and 
Brian were the lovers who occupied both the house and 
us. Mrs. Daniels' spirit had only occupied the house until 
her body was removed by Ringhofer while we were in 
town that first day.

Strange as it seems the evil entity was the essence or 
spirit of Mrs. Daniels, furious that her plan would not be 
carried out. Her need to destroy Skinner and I was simply 
misplaced rage. She couldn't enter the cemetery because 
it contained hallowed ground; a fact I learned from 
Mulder.  It would have made him so happy.

In all of it Donna and Will would appear to be victims, 
but even they are not without responsibility. Donna could 
have gone to the authorities, defied her parents, or 
confided in a friend.  Instead she helped Ringhofer cover 
his tracks.  Will was a policeman and was sworn to 
protect life, not take it. He has to live with what he's done 
for the rest of his life.


*****************************

Skinner and I sat before Kersh with the proper soberness, 
and gave our report.  He asked a few questions, but 
seemed satisfied by our answers.

"You see, with scientific investigation cases can be 
solved without resorting to," he paused and looked at me, 
"paranormal explanations."

"Good job. Agents Mulder and Scully will be taken off 
probation and reinstated.  Mr. Skinner, you will continue 
the duties of your division.  That will be all."

Skinner and I stood up and exited the office. In the 
hallway he turned from me without a word and I felt my 
heart crack into a thousand pieces. He was acting as if 
what we'd shared had been an apparition too.

At home Mulder called, but I begged off having dinner 
with him. He was due to get the cast off in two days, but I 
told him I was exhausted and needed at least twelve hours 
of sleep. 

"Hey Scully."

"Yes Mulder?"

"I never got a chance to wish you a Happy Halloween. 
Happy Halloween Scully."

"Happy Halloween Mulder."

I hung up the phone and felt a wave of sadness wash over 
me. It was back to business as usual for everyone but me.  
Skinner might be able to forget what happened, but I 
could not.

I took a long, hot shower and crawled into bed.  I reached 
out to the other side of the mattress and ran my hand over 
the empty spot. It was a long time before I could fall 
asleep.

*********************************
**Shippers skip this part***

I dreamed with vivid imagery again that night, but this 
time I was in my own apartment instead of Sycamore. In 
this dream Skinner came to me and asked for forgiveness. 
He said he loved me, and had been wrong to avoid me. 
He was wearing the red flannel shirt from our first night 
in Sycamore together.  I buried my tear stained face in it 
when I forgave him. 

I woke with a start and chastised myself for such wishful 
thinking. A pounding on the door interrupted my self-
imposed reprimand.

The bedside clock said two am.  Thoughts of avenging 
Sycamore relatives crossed my mind. Gun in hand, I went 
to the door.

"Open up Scully, it's Skinner."

I opened the door with astonishment in my eyes.  "What 
are you doing here sir?"

He barged past me, stomping to the living room and 
looking around. I was about to repeat my question when 
he took his coat off.  The red flannel shirt he wore 
became blurry as tears welled up and spilled over.

Skinner looked agitated and distracted.  "Scully --."

I cut him off by launching myself in his arms and kissing 
him breathless. With that first night's possession in mind I 
said: "Where have you been? I've been waiting for you 
for so looooog."

*****************************
End