--------


Disclaimer:  Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Walter Skinner, the Lone Gunmen 
and anyone else recognizable all belong to Chris Carter 
and Ten Thirteen Productions. No infringement upon their copyrights is 
intended.  All others are copyrighted by me, for whatever that's worth.  

With apologies to the City of Baltimore, Tibetans, Tibetan Buddhists for any
inadvertant errors or inaccuracies or unintentional slights.

RATED NC-17 for violence, nasty people, bad language and general 
subversiveness

Stop here if you are under 18

No flames, although constructive criticism is not rejected, and all 
intelligent humane response will be answered....eventually. 

Dark of the Moon
by WickdZoot 

kassxf@aol.com


Alexandria:  February 25 3:00 am 
 
Morgan Grayson woke from nightmare and sat up, reaching toward the 
bedside lamp with one shaking hand.  This one had been bad, but 
already, even as her eyes adjusted to the light, the clarity of the details 
was fading, running like watercolors under a hard spring rain. 

She remembered fire and agony, and not much else, save for the 
images of three people, all men, only one of whom she had known.  He 
had been her teacher, back in the days when she had first begun to 
study the esoteric paths, a man whose name she had never known, 
who had been born in Tibet and fled to the West. 

Looking back now, it struck her suddenly as peculiar that she, who 
wanted to know everything and generally insisted on it, had meekly 
borne his refusal to give a personal name and had yet followed him, 
learned from him, and finally been sent from him to go out and fulfill her 
destiny. 
 
The other two men, she did not recognize: one dark haired, with oddly 
intense and changeable eyes; the other, pale of hair and eyes like ice, 
his whole bearing a threat.  He had frightened her in the dream, and 
something else, something that slid away from her before she could 
identify it. 
 
Pushing back the blankets, she got out of bed and padded down the 
hall, peered in at the small child asleep, his thumb in his mouth, his 
bear lying on the pillow above his head.  Aarin had nightmares, but it 
was evident that this one hadn't been his.  It was all her own, which only 
comforted her because it meant Aarin was sleeping well.  It had only 
taken seven months for that to happen.

Back to bed again, but she piled the pillows up behind her.  She wasn't 
going to sleep for a while.  Not after that.  Too much adrenalin still 
singing in her veins.  Sighing, she picked up the book beside the bed 
and found her place in it.  

The house was well warded, with a security system besides; 
nevertheless, she knew it would be a while before she felt safe enough 
to close her eyes.  If this was a message, the dream would come again, 
and more clearly, but she prayed it wouldn't.  She couldn't hunt 
anymore, she had Aarin to think about, had her own sanity to safeguard.  

Hunting monsters might be satisfying on one level; it also drained her, 
took her into the darkened places she never wanted to see again.  And 
didn't plan to.
 
************************************************************************
Washington DC:  March 05, 8:15 am 

"Mulder, this case file has been closed," Scully's her tone was rich with 
resignation.  She hadn't even had her coffee yet, but her partner had 
handed her the Carter case file with a look closely akin to the excitement 
of a child expecting Santa Claus.  He hated paperwork, she knew that, 
and it had been a slow few weeks in their division; any diversion would 
be taken, no matter how trivial or impossible, and she suspected the 
former in this case. 
 
But it did explain what he'd been doing the last few days. 
 
"But I've got some data the other agents and the police have 
overlooked," he told her reasonably.  
 
Overlooked?  "Why am I not surprised?" Scully muttered irritably and 
held up a hand to forestall his explanation.  "Okay, okay, Mulder, just 
give me a minute to get my coffee, okay?" 

He gave her that wounded, "What did I do or say" look that made her 
feel as if she'd slapped him.  "Sure thing." 
 
Still holding the open file folder, Scully read through the facts, most of 
which she knew already.  Jesse Carter, aged sixteen and the nephew of 
a fairly well placed State Department official, had vanished after going 
to the local haunted house, a local landmark known as Harcourt House 
since the city of Baltimore and the city's historical association had 
wrangled in a battle over whether or not it should be torn down.  

He had taken a dare, his friends had reported, but hadn't emerged from 
the house at 5:00 am as he had planned; when his friends had gone in, 
after 6:00 am, they had found nothing, not the least sign that he had 
ever been there.  Yet the three of them had sworn he had entered the 
house. 
 
"They investigated his friends," she told him absently, raising her cup to 
her mouth.  "Mulder, Baltimore PD wrote him off as a runaway."

Mulder sighed.  "Over the protests of his family."

She lifted her eyes, saw him gazing at her and sighed back.  "He was 
getting poor grades,  had been threatened with suspension for fighting, 
his parents had locked him out of the house, and he'd recently broken 
up with his girlfriend after she caught him, shall we say, flagrante 
delicto with another boy.  That sounds like a troubled boy looking for an 
out, Mulder."

"He and his dad were fighting about things, his dad was afraid Jesse 
was gay," Mulder told her, leaning back in his chair.  "And he was 
ignoring his curfew--it was tough love, so they tell me.  But his friends 
always put him up, Scully, he wasn't quite out of resources."

She sighed again, took another sip of coffee.  "You checked out the 
friends on your own?"

"Yeah, but they were clear, spending the night with a fourth friend, one 
with extra strict parents who checked on them several times."  Mulder's 
tone and expression were patient.  

She hid a grin.  He was only this patient when he wanted to convince 
her of something.   Although, any more, he was comfortable enough 
with her not to try convincing her of most of his theories, he knew her 
well enough that she'd go with him anyway, if only to find the scientific 
explanation. 
 
She read ahead farther, frowning faintly. "You went back and 
interviewed his friends and family again, I see."  

He nodded silently.  

"The stuff with Jesse's parents," Mulder had written in quotes, 
indicating it as verbatim, "Like, his father was having trouble accepting 
him, ya know.  He couldn't deal with his baby boy maybe turning out bi 
or gay.  I mean, we could relate to that, but it wasn't like he was coming 
on to us. He was still Jesse, ya know, still one of us.  And his dad 
wasn't, like, Godzilla or anything."   

Her frown deepened as she read.  Someone had done an incredibly 
sloppy job of investigating the boy's disappearance initially.  "Mulder," 
she told him, sipping at her coffee.  "I think I'm ready to hear whatever 
else you've got."   

Mulder gave her one of his rare, unselfconscious smiles.  She smiled 
back, aware that even when she didn't feel forgiven for her 
brusqueness, she was.  Idiot, she told herself lightly, he just wants an 
audience; but that wasn't true, for a man obsessed, he was surprisingly 
forgiving.  Too bad no one in his family had never realized it. 
 
"There have been five other disappearances under similar 
circumstances in the last two years, Scully.  All male, between sixteen 
and twenty-two, all gone without a trace, as if they'd never been in the 
house.  In all five cases, friends saw them enter the house, but they 
never came out again."   

"Mulder."  She gave him a mild look, playing devil's advocate.  "In my 
experience, houses generally have more than one door."   

He shrugged that off, as she had suspected he would.  "Of course, they 
could have come out unobserved, I'm not denying that.  But where did 
they go? And while all of these have been written off as runaways, kids 
taking off for greener pastures, none of the friends or family can 
corroborate this."   

"Friends and family aren't always the most unbiased of judges," she 
commented, but something about Mulder's interview of Jesse Carter's 
friends tilted her over onto his side.  "Still, it is odd.  Have you looked at 
the other cases?"   

"I'm going up to Baltimore this afternoon, have a look at the files."  He 
gave her another puppy dog look.    

"Good thing I don't have plans." She shook her head.  "You realize, this 
is probably a wild goose chase.  You've gotten deeper than the other 
agents, but there's still no indication of where Jesse Carter might have 
gone or what might have happened to him."   

"True." Mulder sighed.  "But I'm going to have a look at Harcourt House 
anyway.  And I'd like to talk with Jesse's parents again."   

Glancing down at the folder she held, Scully nodded.  Six young men 
vanished, all from the same house, and no one in Baltimore had 
wondered at that?  They were not going to be welcomed by the police, 
given that seeming indifference, but she found herself angry on behalf 
of the six and those who had loved them.   

And there were other worries rustling in the back of her mind.  "Mulder, 
if this turns out to be a serial killer, I think you should turn it over to 
VCS."   No more gargoyles, no more wondering where you are at night, 
Mulder--she couldn't go through that again, suspecting him of murder.   
And the stories--everybody had an old Spooky Mulder in VCS story, 
she'd heard enough of them.  

Giving him a meaningful look, she saw him glance somberly at the 
ragged piece of paper tacked on the wall--the last remaining portrait 
done by the killer.  The first killer. 
 
She had doubted him then, had suspected him of the unthinkable, and 
that still hurt down in her gut, never mind that he had never quite 
understood that he had been under suspicion. 
 
Despite the fact that she'd held a gun on him. 
 
Now, he gave her an unfathomable look.  Maybe he had understood, 
and forgiven her anyway.  

"I'm okay, Scully," he told her patiently, then addressing it directly, "I'm 
older, now, Scully, and wiser--hopefully, anyway."  A scant grin came 
her way.  "Besides, I have you to keep me balanced, right?  Anyway, I'm 
not completely convinced it's a serial killer. It could be several killers, or 
something else."   

Rolling her eyes, she grinned. "Something paranormal, no doubt.  
Mulder, if you tell me you really think that house is haunted and that 
ghosts are kidnapping young, Caucasian males in Baltimore, I'm going 
to finally have your head examined."   

His grin was infectious.  "Scully, I'm a psychologist, I can imagine my 
own head, thank you very much.  But since you listened so nicely and 
didn't give me any flak, I'll buy you lunch, how's that?"   

Since Mulder's idea of a lunch was something off a stand in the park, 
she demurred.    

************************************************************************
Baltimore:  March 05, 2:20 pm   

The neighborhood in which Harcourt House stood was no longer up-
scale, solid family neighborhood it had once been.  Trash littered the 
gutters--discarded condoms, paper cups flattened, even the occasional 
sparkle of glass from a bottle that had once held either cheap wine or 
beer. 
 
Standing on the curb, her toes a scant inch above an indeterminate clot 
of litter, Scully looked down the street.  The street was lined with 
Victorian homes, aging, and not prettily.  Still not quite attractive enough 
an area for full scale gentrification, but not quite crack city, either.  

A knot of small children played at the corner, too small for school, 
childish shrieks of laughter drawing Mulder's gaze.   He looked at them 
for a moment, his expression a little sad; at moments like these, she 
wished she could see inside his head, wished that just once he could 
see a scene like this and not feel sorrow, feel guilt. 
 
If wishes were horses, Dana Katherine, beggars would ride. 
 
"The last family to live in it held onto it, even after the parents were 
dead," Mulder turned away from the children, turning at last to the 
house in front of them.  "They leased it sometimes--nobody seemed to 
stay in it long, and it's huge.  Expensive to maintain." 
 
"The neighborhood went downhill, from the looks of things."  Scully 
lifted her chin toward the nearby houses.  "I'll bet those are all broken up 
into apartments, Mulder.  It's amazing this one hasn't been.  I wonder 
why they didn't sell it?" 
 
"Dunno."  He took a few steps forward and hesitated, eyes moving up to 
up at the third story.    "They kept the taxes until recently.  The city was 
going to condemn it, but the Historical Society got to rabble rousing, 
raised the money for the back taxes, and went to court to have it 
declared an historical site." 
 
Scully found herself put off by the house's appearance, and wondered 
why.  It was the kind of house she normally loved, big and rambling, 
with an old fashioned verandah, three stories--the windows gazed 
blankly down at them, like eyes, expressionless and unfathomable.  It 
made her uneasy, as if it held secrets she wasn't sure she wanted to 
know.   

"Mulder, what do you expect to find here?" she asked, noting absently 
that the house stood on a lot that encompassed half the block, much 
more land than any of the nearby houses.  It granted the house a certain 
isolation from its neighbors, and the wild, lush growth  of the trees and 
shrubbery gave it the look of a house in the woods.   

He stood on the sidewalk, gazing  the structure, frowning faintly behind 
sunglasses.  "Dunno.  But can you feel that, Scully?  There's something 
about it."   Another step forward, no more.   

She watched him, a little amused.  Now that he was here, he seemed a 
little reluctant to go in.  "It needs renovating," she told him, repressing 
her uneasiness as ruthlessly as she quelled his.  "Come on, let's look at 
it then.  Did you get the key from the Historical Society?"   

"Uh huh."  He walked slowly up the walk, like a small boy going up to 
the door on Halloween. 
 
She was no less reluctant to follow him.  It was an eerie place, she told 
herself, blaming it on the overgrowth in the yard and the air of 
abandonment.   

The door creaked open, quite satisfactorily contributing to maintenance 
of its reputation as haunted.   

Despite everything, Mulder grinned, taking his sunglasses off and 
sliding them into a pocket.  "Wow, this place would make great cinema."   

Scully grinned back.  "You mean, like 'Feed me, feed me'? Good thing 
you're over twenty two--but I'm watching your back, just in case it eats 
Caucasian males of any age."   

"Too much testosterone and exercise," he retorted, "I'd be too stringy.  
Now you, on the other hand...."    She made a fist and raised it 
threateningly.  "Are likely to be a toothsome morsel--ouch, Scully, your 
brothers taught you to hit too hard."  He rubbed his shoulder, still 
grinning.   

"You have a sick imagination," she told him and looked around the 
foyer.  It was a beautiful house inside, but something about the 
impression it had made lingered, refusing to let her see it as beautiful.  
"It's filthy."   

"Dust, mostly.  Actually, I'm surprised.  It's been vacant for a number of 
years, I'd have expected more vandalism. Or trash, given the number of 
homeless in Baltimore."   

"Maybe the creaking door scared them off."  Chuckling, Scully walked 
further into the foyer.  "Okay, what are we supposed to be looking for?"   

"Something that doesn't seem right," he told her helpfully, then grinned 
again when she turned to face him.  "I know, I usually have a much 
more detailed description, but I'm playing this one by ear."   

"Something that doesn't seem right," she repeated, rolling her eyes 
again.  "Not exactly compelling evidence of a crime, Agent Mulder."   

He rolled his eyes back at her.  "Give me time, Agent Scully.  I bet I can 
convince even you when I finally find it."   

But they found nothing in the house or on the grounds to trigger his 
profiler's instinct, and it was hard for Scully to decide if she were 
disappointed or relieved by that.   

************************************************************************
Baltimore:  March 12  1:15 pm 
 
The interview with Jesse Carter's mother had provided no more 
information than was in the file already.  Although she did seem grateful 
that someone cared enough to dig deeper, it was apparent that she was 
convinced that Jesse had been murdered; she was grieving for her 
child, and both Mulder and Scully had been entirely relieved to conclude 
the interview and go back to DC.  They had both suffered too much loss 
recently to be comfortable with the bereaved; the wounds were still too 
fresh. 
 
"I want to go to the Historical Society."  Mulder slid back behind the 
wheel and eyed Scully warily, expecting disagreement. 
 
She didn't disappoint him.  She groaned.  "Mulder, we aren't getting 
anywhere with this.  I know, I thought it was a shoddy investigation, but 
what else is there to go on?" 
 
He stared through the windshield, avoiding her eye, fingertips drumming 
on the steering wheel.  "I don't know," he finally admitted, sounding as if 
he wished he hadn't.  "But Scully, there's something going on there--
people just don't vanish." 
 
She looked sidelong at him and sighed.  His sister had.  "All right," she 
agreed, "But this time, I want lunch." 
 
He gave her an expressionless look, then grinned.  "Hey, you like 
seafood, Scully?  I know a great place, we can put it on our expense 
accounts." 
 
Her mouth twitched.  Stick it to the bureaucracy, she thought, resisting 
the military and parochial school heritage that made her first instinctive 
reaction a prim and proper one.  "Okay, Mulder, but it goes on your 
card.  You're the supervising agent on this case, *you* argue with 
Accounting." 
 
"Done." His eyes glinted wickedly.  "But you get to take the report to 
Skinner for his signature." 
 
She couldn't help it, she snickered--outfoxed, she thought and 
snickered again, earning herself a suspicious look. 
 
 ********************************************************************* 
 
Much later, over indulged and feeling it, Scully sat at a table in the 
building that housed the Historical Society and drowsily considered a 
pamphlet about the wonders of Historical Baltimore.  The late afternoon 
sun slanted through the windows, dust motes spinning in the gleam of 
filtered light, and Mulder glanced over at her, thinking that she looked 
like she ought curl up like a cat into those golden shafts and sleep. 
 
"Scully, listen to this."  He poked her and slid the accordion file over, 
peering over the top of his glasses as she sat up straight and looked at 
him.  "There have been a total of nearly sixty-five deaths or 
disappearances connected with Harcourt House directly or within its 
vicinity since 1900."   

Scully gave him a droll look.  "I didn't want to hear that, Mulder."   

He grinned at her; well, in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought and 
continued,  "No, I'm serious.  The man who built it, Julian Harcourt, 
vanished in December of 1900.  He must have been something of a 
prodigy, he was the architect of record and he was only twenty-four."   

"Remarkable." Her tone was dry, but her eyes danced, gentle mockery.  
"How old were you when you came back from England with your 
doctorate?"
   
He blushed, unable to prevent it.  "He went to Oxford, too.  Some 
coincidence, huh?"  And felt something chill brush his nape at that 
statement. 
 
"I thought you once told me there was no such thing?"  She cocked an 
eyebrow at him, grinning crookedly.   

He grinned again, looking down at his notes.  They had come a long 
way from their first meeting, he reflected.  If he had been asked then, he 
would have laughed incredulously at the idea that his partner could have 
become his best friend.  "Okay, okay."  He reached for the file again, 
thumbing through bits of paper sealed in plastic.  "Anyway, except for 
one girl of seventeen, widely believed to have eloped with a man of 
whom her family disapproved, they were all white, male, and between 
the ages of thirteen and twenty-four.  I'm counting Harcourt, by the way, 
but he was the oldest."     

"Mrs. Garvey over there," Scully flicked a look over his shoulder, "said 
the house was supposed to be tragically cursed." 
 
"Yeah."  He carefully retrieved the newspaper clippings in their 
protective sheets, laying them out in front of her, one at a time. 
 
Her eyes widened slightly as she saw how many there were.   "Mulder, 
we're talking more than ninety years, if this is a serial killer, he must be 
ancient." 
 
He looked at her, thinking of Tooms; he saw it echoed in her eyes and 
looked away.  "Well," he began, and felt that chill touch again.  "It isn't 
like we haven't seen something like this before--but I'm thinking more of 
a cult thing, right now.  I know that sounds nuts--" 
 
"No nuttier than little grey men," she told him and snickered.  "Mulder, 
maybe aliens took them." 
 
That *had* occurred to him, but he was suddenly embarrassed to admit 
it.  "I don't think so."  He peered into the folder as if he'd forgotten 
something. 
 
"Why not?"  Her tone was serious. 
 
Looking back, he saw she wasn't laughing now.  "I don't know," he told 
her honestly, feeling better about it.  "It just doesn't feel right.  There's 
something, ah, too furtive about it.  Besides, aliens don't hang fifteen 
year old boys in their parents' libraries."  He put another sheet down in 
front of her and regretted it; she flinched, reading at the headline. 
 
"Sixty-five." Her fingertips brushed the plastic sheet.  "If we're dealing 
with more than one killer, Mulder--we have no evidence at all.  Not even 
a crumb, let alone hair or fiber." 
 
He leaned back in the wooden chair, sighing.  "I know.  And I keep 
thinking that number's got to be less than the actual body count, Scully.  
Think of the homeless--that house has been empty since the late 
fifties."  Since Thomas Redfern had hanged himself.  

He flicked his eyes away from the faded newsprint photo of a smiling 
boy and looked back at Scully. 
 
"Shades of the Green River mess," she murmured and rested her chin 
on her hand, frowning at the clippings.    "Maybe the house is eating 
them, have you thought of that?"  She looked at him with one red-gold 
brow arched for a long moment. 
 
He grinned again; she was actually taking this very well, she hadn't 
once barked at him.  He was going to take a lesson from this, feed her 
well before pouncing with a theory he knew she wasn't going to like.  
"No," he grinned, wiggling his eyebrows, "But it is highly suggestive.  
Don't be ridiculous, Scully, houses don't eat people."  Looking down at 
his notes again he sobered.  "Besides not all of them were 
disappearances, remember?  There were a lot of suspicious accidents, 
suspicious enough that the Baltimore coroner didn't like ruling them 
accidents, during the late twenties to early thirties.  And one mysterious 
murder, a kid of fourteen, a friend of four of the other dead kids."   

Scully frowned.  "Where is this leading us?"   

He pushed his glasses up again and shook his head, sighing.  "I wish I 
knew."  His voice revealed just how much he hated to confess that.  
"But dammit, kids don't just die or disappear, Scully.  And if Jesse 
Carter didn't run away, where the hell is he? I want to go back to that 
house."  He slanted her a wary look, and braced himself.  "I want to 
spend the night there."   

Scully's expression changed.  "You are not going in there alone, Mulder.  
Americana aside, six people *have* disappeared recently in or around 
that house."  She gave him a level look designed, he reckoned, to lay a 
little guilt and remind him of his promise to her.   

"I'm not going to take off without telling you," he told her patiently.  "But 
how does next week look to you?"   

Her eyes glinted and one corner of her mouth curved upward.  "Like I'm 
coming back to Baltimore to spend a night in Harcourt House--don't 
even think about doing this alone, partner, whether it's one ancient 
UNSUB or a slew of 'em, you aren't coming back up here by yourself."   

He grinned again, amused and warmed by her insistence on keeping 
him from his own worst impulses.  "You wanna see how the week goes, 
or shall we set a date?"   The words left his mouth and he wanted to call 
them back, too suggestive--but he watched her eyes anyway. 
 
Scully laughed.  "Let's see how the week goes.  I hope you aren't 
planning to tell Skinner you're staking out a haunted house."   

He bent back over his notes again, trying to make sense of the pattern 
he sensed there.   "Nah," he told her absently, "I thought we'd surprise 
him."   



Baltimore: March 18 10:20 pm 
 
It was dark by the time Mulder reached the house, the trees rustling 
with the cold night wind of mid-March, a shivery sound that didn't ease 
his apprehensions about going in alone.  Sitting in the car, he looked out 
the passenger window at the louring shape of the house and shivered.  

Too damned many nightmares, pal, he told himself and shook his head 
ruefully.  

Scully had been unexpectly called away, a request by the prosecutor to 
go over her testimony for a trial next week.  That had irritated him: Paul 
Jameson was a pretty-boy hot shot prosecutor, aiming high in his 
career and he knew how good Scully was on the stand.  So it was, gee, 
Agent Scully, I really need to go over this with you tonight, the rest of my 
week is booked--and Scully, sucker for duty, was hooked.  

No, that was unfair, he'd have done the same, he was just spooked by 
the damned nightmares that had plagued him all week.  He hadn't 
realized how much he was counting on her being here with him; the 
house gave him the creeps, it had from the first moment they'd explored 
it. 
 
A skeptic, he thought, studying up at the house and suppressing the 
urge to shudder, would have been welcome tonight, never mind that she 
sometimes drove him crazy with her stubborn insistence on 
conventionally accepted reality.  If only he could remember those 
damned dreams, all fear and darkness and malignance.....

On the other hand, maybe it was better he didn't. 
 
"Come on," he gibed at himself, under his breath and got out of the car, 
opening the back door to grab his duffel and sling it over his shoulder.  
Briefcase, under one arm, arm hooked through the handles of the 
plastic bag of supplies, sleeping bag pressed to his chest--this was 
going to be tricky, but he didn't want to make more than one trip.  

He was half afraid he'd change his mind if he left the house for any 
reason.  
 
Somehow, he managed to juggle all his burdens up to the front door, 
and balance them  while he unlocked the door--oh, hell, his cell phone, 
no, there it was, in his coat pocket, thank you, Alexander Graham Bell. 
 
The key stuck for a moment--his belongings teetered for that same 
moment, before the key turned smoothly and the door opened silently on 
the darkness within.  Swallowing hard, he reached in and ran his hand 
over the inside wall, finding the light switch with enough relief to make 
his knees wobbly. 

Click. 

Nothing.  Darkness remained.   

Dammit, dammit, and triple dammit, that nice Mrs. Garvey had sworn to 
him that the power  was on, that contractors were coming in and 
working, assessing the damage done by the decades.   Standing on the 
threshold, irresolute, he finally lifted his chin and dropped his gear just 
inside the door.  Trudge back to the car for the latest in a series of high-
powered flashlights--Scully was insistent about replacing the ones he 
kept losing.  Now, he was glad she was, although it sometimes annoyed 
him that she thought him feckless and improvident. 

Sometimes he wanted to leave his shoelaces untied just to see what 
she'd say. 
 
Back in the house, he flicked the switch on the flashlight and 
investigated further; the water in the house was on, which was both 
relief and disappointment.  No backing out now, pal, you got a place to 
pee and to wash up.  

Sighing, he propped the flashlight on the windowsill and made himself a 
space in the empty front room, glad of the faint light of the streetlights, 
scattered by the dirty, streaked glass. 
 
Air mattress in the duffel--he felt like a kid again, pulling it out, the kind 
you floated on in the water.  Deep breath, blow the damned thing up--he 
needed to get one of those fancy ones, with the air pump, good thing 
he'd never smoked.  Pinching off the tube, Mulder grinned at himself, 
took in another deep breath and blew; it didn't take long, and the floor 
was damned hard. 
 
Unrolling the sleeping bag on top, he briefly wished he'd brought his 
pillow, grinned again at himself and pushed the entire thing against the 
wall.  Bed, easy chair, general security blanket--whatever.  Sitting down, 
he reached for the bag of goodies, opening it to retrieve his bottle of tea.  
The unsweetened kind, the only kind of tea that should be sweet was 
hot tea, and that with milk, a taste he had developed at Oxford, 
completely plebeian among the young aristos he'd known there.  

On second thought, he grabbed his pack of seeds and sank back on 
his bed, leaning against the wall, flashlight gleaming against the far wall, 
a circle of light that made him feel better.  Scully might be ready for a 
break from Jameson by now--reaching for his cell phone, he punched in 
her number. 
 
 "Scully," she answered and he grinned sheepishly.  She had told him 
that they could do this tomorrow night; but he had come ahead, and he 
fully expected her to be annoyed. 
 
So he didn't tell her right away.  

"Having a good time?" he asked and unscrewed the lid on his tea, 
raising the bottle to his mouth.
 
An exasperated snort.  "Mulder, I never trust a man who uses more hair 
care products than I do." 
 
Taken by surprise, he nearly snorted tea through his nose; coughing on 
laughter, he managed to assure her that he was fine. 
 
She sounded both amused and mildly concerned.  "That was an 
incredibly disgusting noise, Mulder, are you sure?"  

"I got iced tea in my nose," he confessed, "Hey, you surprised me." 
 
"Are you at home or still at the office?"  

Hmm, better evade that one.  "I left work hours ago--I take it Jameson 
isn't standing next to you." 
 
"He got paged," she sighed,  "I'm almost done, I should be out of here 
in about half an hour.  I didn't even get dinner out of it, Mulder--have you 
eaten yet?  I'll pick up some Chinese and you can tell me more ghost 
stories." 
 
Uh-oh.  Busted.   He grimaced.  Clearing his throat, he told her where 
he was.  The ominous silence lasted several minutes.  He could almost 
see the expression on her face and shifted uncomfortably, waiting for 
her to take a few layers of his skin off.
 
She declined to take the opportunity this time.   "Mulder, if I'd thought 
you'd do this--let me get changed, I'll be up in an hour." 
 
"Nah, Scully, it's fine, I'm a Federal agent, remember?"  He laughed 
softly.  "And all grown up." 
 
"Mulder, you jerk," she paused and sighed.  "Hot date tomorrow night, 
huh?" 
 
"Hottest on the block," he agreed, grinning--good thing he hadn't 
mentioned his nightmares, she got a little unreasonable about his 
nightmares.  "Scully, you wound me, I'm saving myself for you." 
 
She snorted again, a most unladylike sound of derision.  "Which part, 
your rational gland?" 
 
He lifted both eyebrows, grinning.  "Is there such a thing?" 
 
"Yeah, right next to the pineal gland." 
 
Leaning back on the wall, he snickered.  "Oops, I forgot to tell you, I had 
that removed when I was six, nasty fall from a tree ruptured it." 
 
"That explains a lot."  After a moment, she sighed, laughter gone.  "Be 
careful, Mulder, or I'll hurt you.  A lot." 
 
"Ooh, I'm excited now, Scully."  He laughed outright.  "I'll be fine, Mom, I 
promise.  Gee, I've been here almost forty minutes and no ghoulies or 
ghosties or things that go bump in the night.  I don't know whether to be 
relieved or disappointed."  His eyes tracked across the room; by rights, 
he should be checking the house. 

By rights. 

But it made his skin crawl to  think of doing it now.  His nightmares, he 
told himself, but couldn't make himself get up,  move past the circle of 
light cast by his flashlight.  Fox is chicken, a child's voice called in 
memory and he swallowed hard, slamming the door on that. 
 
"I'm not worried about the ghosties and ghoulies," she retorted, "It's 
those things that go bump in the night that make me nervous.  I'll be up 
in the morning, about 9:00, okay?  Don't be stupid and take chances." 
 
He rolled his eyes.  "I'm in an empty house, Scully, and I locked the 
door and all the windows are shut."  But his skin suddenly prickled with 
acute unease.  He *had* locked the door, hadn't he? 

In any case, he was armed--he rose and padded over to the front door 
to satisfy himself.  "Anyway, I'll look for you in the morning, you can 
bring breakfast, okay?  You've got your key?" 
 
"Yes, Mulder, marked on my keyring."  She sounded amused again.  
"Well, leave the lights on, okay?" 
 
"Ah, well, the power's off, after all."  He grimaced and went back to his 
corner.  "But I brought my flashlight."  She was silent again, thinking of 
his aversion to the dark, no doubt.  "It's a big flashlight, Scully.  You 
know how men can be about the size of their flashlights." 
 
She snorted again.  "Just be careful, okay?" 
 
"I promised, didn't I?" 
 
"Yeah, well, you led me to believe that tomorrow night was fine for you." 
 
He had, sort of, but wanted it over with, his curiosity warring with 
apprehension that had begun with the dreams.  "I didn't mean to, 
exactly, Scully.  There I was, all dressed up with no place to go--I 
decided to drive up anyway.  Sleep well.  I'll have a full report for you in 
the morning, complete with the ghost of Anne Boleyn." 
 
"Oh, right, did she come over on the Concord?  You sleep lightly, 
okay?" 
 
"Thanks," he told her wryly, grimacing again.  "But then, I always do, 
don't I?" 
 
She hung up, still laughing.  For that matter, he was still smiling when 
he  settled back to read by the light of the flashlight. 
 
************************************************************************
Baltimore: March 18 2:31 am 
 
Julian Harcourt was amused, the first real amusement he had felt in 
nearly a century.  

This man dared to challenge *him*--he studied the man's features, 
letting his power unfurl enough to taste the barest trace of his essence.  
In the night, he looked hopelessly drab until Julian beckoned a trace of 
light to fall across his features.   

No, he'd been wrong--servant of a faceless government he might be, 
but he was lovely, his features almost boyish, despite the aura of years 
that betrayed his age.  And he'd dared to seek the mystery at the heart 
of this house, Julian's house, had he?  This might well be interesting. 
 
Sitting in the dark, Harcourt closed the folder he had unearthed from the 
briefcase and smiled, unseen, in the dark.  This man, this Fox, had 
noticed a pattern that no one else had noticed--how remarkable.  Beauty 
and intellect--though neither rivaled his own, he thought and summoned 
his reflection from the shadows, admiring the classical lines of jaw and 
nose.  

No, nothing and no one could rival his own, a gift from his gods in return 
for the souls he gave them. 
 
Whatever else he gleaned was his doing, and the gods had never 
begrudged him.   

Turning back to the sleeper, he leaned closer.  This man dared think 
himself capable of ending the cycle of sacrifice that kept his beauty 
pristine, unmarred by time.   His mouth curved in amused speculation 
as his eyes traced the line of cheek and brow.  

He had always taken boys before, or young men not far past 
adolescence.   Now, standing in the darkness over the sleeping man, he 
smiled coldly,  wondering if a full grown man in his prime would be 
nearly as satisfying.   Moving closer, soundless in the darkness of the 
house, he leaned over the huddled shape on the pallet, tasting the 
dreams that made the dreamer whimper in his sleep. 

Oh, the unexpected richness, the unexpected strength of these  
dreams--his eyes widened in surprise at the almost voluptuous quality 
of the dreamer's emotions.  Fear, shame, guilt, terror, all layered one on 
another--inhaling as if it were the bouquet of a fine vintage, Harcourt 
began to smile again. 
 
One of his two sentinels, lesser demons he had bound in the first, 
bloody ritual, whined in the dark, smelling the blood that coursed 
beneath the sleeper's skin.  Not yet, he told them both silently and 
reached out, delicately tracing the dark line of one eyebrow with one 
fingertip, making the sleeper stir and mutter inaudibly.  

In times past, he had needed to use all his power to crush someone to 
his will, but the years had given him so much more--extending the 
barest tendril of it, Harcourt struck, crushing the awakening 
consciousness, leaving the man limp.   

Then, he bent to strip his victim, hands gentle, murmuring kindly under 
his breath.  Oh, this was lovely indeed--perhaps it had been a mistake, 
he mused, eyeing bare flesh with considerable appreciation, to confine 
himself to boys. 
 
************************************************************************
Baltimore:  March 19, 6:15 am   

Pain.  God, he hurt everywhere and he was freezing--wondering why, 
Mulder opened his eyes to see his hands above him, bracketed by steel.   

Panic cut through the pain, sluicing away the last of sleep--or 
unconsciousness.  

Like a trapped animal, he yanked hard against what held him, and found 
his ankles likewise imprisoned.  "Oh, fuck," he rasped, heart banging 
hard against his ribs, Panic starting to win over Reason in the race to 
the finish line--no, think, dammit, think while you still can--but he took in 
deep breaths, focusing on calm, on what didn't hurt, what didn't 
frighten, on the small give he felt at his ankles.   He was so damned 
cold--hardly surprising, since he was wearing only his watch; 
shuddering, he closed his eyes again, taking in deep breaths, trying to 
slow his breathing, to slow his pulse. 
 
One deep breath, then another--Panic still gibbered in the back of his 
mind, but he was winning this one, pulse slowing enough to let him 
breath in again, to let him take in his surroundings, to try and make 
sense of what had happened to him, and to try to find a way out.  

Linen, satiny smooth with age, beneath him, clean and smelling of 
lavender. Dark wood paneling the walls--but the smell of damp lay 
underneath the fragrance of lavender.  He was underground, he 
suddenly knew, recognizing the dank smell of a cellar--no windows, a 
completely nondescript door on the other side of the room, an elegant 
glass knob jarringly out of place.   

Looking up again, he saw the chain threaded through the wrought iron--
a fine example of nineteenth century furniture, he thought, deliberately 
allowing himself to notice it.  Another yank told him that the wrought iron 
was still as strong as it had come out of the fire, the discoloration of rust 
not withstanding.  No hope there--his heart thudded in complaint and he 
jerked his mind back to contemplation of the room.  What he could see 
of the floor was dark, not wood, no sour earthy smell--musty wool odor, 
some kind of carpet.  A dim lightbulb hung in an ancient fixture, the 
string dangling down unadorned, frayed, providing what light there was. 
 
No windows.  Damp, musty--a cellar, but not in Harcourt House.  He'd 
been down in the cellar in the daytime, last week, he hadn't seen 
anything like this room--Claustrophobia joined Panic and wailed that it 
was a subcellar, something he'd missed.  A part of his mind joined that 
chorus--you're fucked, you stupid asshole, you went to sleep--and he 
slammed down hard on that thought.  

He was smarter, cleverer than the killers he hunted. Okay, sleeping was 
a mistake, it generally was, but he could still think his way out of this.  
He had to.  And Scully knew where he'd gone, she was going to find 
him gone and raise unholy hell. 

He hoped. 
 
Turning his head, he saw a weathered sideboard against the far wall; 
the sight made his heart hammer again, though he couldn't identify why.  
On the other hand, what the hell was a sideboard doing in a room that 
was otherwise only furnished with a bed?  He didn't want to know what 
was in it, turned his head again and yanked hard, using the muscles in 
his back and legs to add strength and weight to the effort. 
 
Not a good idea--his wrists had begun to bleed a little.  From the sting in 
them, he supposed he'd scraped his ankles nearly raw.   

He couldn't remember how he'd gotten here.  He remembered talking to 
Scully, remembered reading for a while before going uneasily to bed, 
sleeping restlessly to wake from nightmare several times.   

Sixty-five people had disappeared or died.  And those who had 
disappeared had not been seen again.   

Turning his head again, he looked around the small room.  His clothes 
were nowhere in sight--no clothes, no gun, no nothing.   His stomach 
knotted hard, terror tugging at the knot to tighten it.  No,  dammit, no--
take another deep breath, calm, calm, smell the lavender, lavender's 
supposed to be soothing, breathe it in.....
 
The door opened. 
 
Lifting his head, he stared, saw only blackness for a few moments. 

A  young man appeared in the doorway, the darkness of his clothing 
blending with the shadows beyond.   

Licking his lips, Mulder swallowed hard, his thoughts racing.  "Hello."  
He managed to keep his tone even, almost pleasant.  "I'm Fox Mulder--
ah, would you mind giving me some help with these, they're pretty 
uncomfortable."   Make him see his victim as human, as real, not just an 
object, personalize the exchange.   All the standard teachings.
 
The pale hair was almost luminous against the blackness of the space 
beyond the door.  Botticelli face, so damned beautiful in perfection--a 
random thought flicked across his mind, this was surely too young, too 
angelic to be his killer and he swallowed again, knowing that for idiocy. 

"I know who you are."  The voice was young, too, light and almost 
uninflected, prickling gooseflesh to life on what he already had.  "I'm 
afraid you must become used to discomfort, Fox." 
 
Great start.  His stomach knotted even tighter--he felt faintly nauseated 
and swallowed hard again as saliva flooded his mouth.  "Why is that?" 
 
The man drew closer, the light from the bulb glinting off the almost ivory 
hair--how old was he?  He didn't look any older than twenty or so, 
Mulder thought and nearly gasped aloud when he saw the eyes--the 
color of dirty ice, older than sin, knowing and soulless. 

Breathe, commanding himself, his testicles drawing up in fright, 
breathe, dammit, stay calm, stay smart--a cool hand touched his belly, 
finger tips tracing the outline of his navel, the dark hair that led to his 
groin, those eyes fixed on him avidly, as if drinking in his revulsion. 
"You're going to learn so much about yourself, Fox." 
 
He was going to throw up--oh, God, the fucker was hard as a rock, 
turned on already--Panic gibbered again, too well informed by his 
education and experience as to what could follow.  The bastard was 
past stalking, past frightening, well on the way to acting out his 
murderous ritual.  Think, dammit, think--you're the fucking genius, you 
went to fucking Oxford..... 
 
Those cool fingers touched his sex lightly--no more than the faintest 
pressure--moved upward again, the hand like a pale spider crawling up 
his belly to his chest, toying with his nipples.  He fought the urge to 
snarl, to rage--calm, he told himself, trying to swallow the rising 
sickness again, trying to keep it together.  "Thanks, but I've already 
been in therapy."   His voice was shaky, hoarse--he steadied it.
 
The man's smile was sunny, almost merry.  "I am Julian Harcourt, but 
you may call me Julian," he confided, "And I, of course, shall call you, 
Fox." 



Baltimore: March 18 10:20 pm 

Harcourt.  Julian Harcourt.  Out in left field--this bastard thought he was 
Julian Harcourt.  Looking upward, Mulder swallowed hard again, 
remembering sepia toned photographs, dating from the last century.  
There was a resemblance, he admitted to himself and shook the 
thought away.  Extreme possibilities were one thing, one hundred year 
old serial killers-- 

Tooms' image rose up before him, taunting him.  Turning away from 
that, he insisted desperately, "I really prefer Mulder, if you don't mind." 

"Ah, but I do mind."  Harcourt's fingers traced his lower lip; he tensed 
his jaw, clenching it.  "You're really very pretty.  I hadn't expected you to 
be quite so pretty--the night doesn't do you justice.  But I'm forgetting 
your questions--I'm afraid our journey together requires a great deal of 
discomfort, Fox." 
 
His throat and mouth went dry.   "My partner knows where I am."   God, 
those eyes, chillingly disconnected from the sunny exterior.  "You can't 
expect to abduct a Federal agent without some consequences, Julian."  
Calm voice, uninflected by an iron act of will.
 
Completely untroubled, Harcourt laughed merrily.  "Oh, I do insist you 
keep hoping, Fox.  Hope is a wonderful thing, it lends so much spice to 
our time together.  And resistance--I do love a show of resistance, my 
dear, I hope you won't disappoint me." 
 
The clinical part of his mind, the part that had stunned VCS when he 
had first come out of Quantico, drily totted up the details of this scene 
and came up with an accounting that made him swallow hard again 
against sour sickness that wanted to rise in his throat.  God, he was 
scared, if only because he *knew* what this guy was like.  He'd seen 
the handiwork of others like him far too often.  "What is it you want from 
me?" 
 
Harcourt's hand patted his cheek, turning it into a caress that made him 
shudder.  "Oh, Fox, you're going to learn so much about yourself.  And 
I'll learn even more."   

Harcourt turned; Mulder watched him go toward the sideboard, dread 
weighting his gut.  Looking up, he pulled again, uselessly, fruitlessly, 
unable to prevent himself from trying.   

When Harcourt returned to the bed, his hands full of what he 
recognized as hi-tech S&M gadgets:  an anal plug with a metal core and 
collar, clamps that attached to electrical leads, a long, slender metal 
probe--as comprehension hit him, he yanked on the manacles again, 
suddenly desperate, muscles trembling with fear and the urgent desire 
to escape Harcourt's intentions.  His breath hissed in his ears, sobbing 
gasps as the panic he'd been fighting tried to overwhelm him. 
 
Harcourt gave Mulder a conspiratorial smile. "Modern technology has 
been such an improvement, you know.  I do love electricity and the 
wonderful toys that can be used with it." 
 
No escape.  Ofuckofuck--dammit, calm, breathe in, breathe out, 
dammit, oh, dammit,, how in hell was he going to keep his head with 
this?  He tried nonetheless, forcing himself to breathe evenly, slowly, 
even though his chest felt tight, too tight.  "If it's all the same to you, I'd 
rather be a top." 
 
Harcourt's laughter was almost musical, sincerely amused.   

"Ah, but you see, it's time for you to *learn*, Fox.  That means switching 
roles."  His teeth showed briefly, a predatory smile, and he held up a 
leather gag. "This first, I think. As charming as you are, I've found that 
it's best to allow you to focus on the initial experience.  We'll have time 
for talk later, don't worry."    

No way, no way--Mulder felt sweat pool on his belly, he was freezing, 
and sweat pooled on his belly.  If he lost his voice, he had no fucking 
chance at all.  Clenching his jaw, he shook his head, hands balled into 
useless fists, yanking hard against the steel that held him as Harcourt 
smiled and smiled and smiled.  

Pressure on his jaw brought tears to his eyes--making a sound like a 
growl, he tried to jerk his head away and nearly greyed out with the pain 
that brought him, *did* grey out when Harcourt pressed on his throat, 
hard.  The leather tasted of salt and copper, blood and sweat--he 
flashed then, seeing Jesse Carter's face, seeing Jesse Carter where he 
was now.  Despite terror, tears stung his eyes, that poor fucking kid had 
died down here--his skin crawled and he struggled again, knowing the 
futility. 
 
The nipple clamps hurt, were a small pain--Harcourt applied others, 
here and there, just for amusement.  One pinched the edge of his 
navel--it, too, was a little pain, compared to what the long metal probe 
caused.  Harcourt slid it into his penis roughly--he tried to think of 
catheters, tried to get past the violation and fear, but it made him gasp, 
breathing hard through his nose, tears of pain blinding him.  Harcourt 
was none too gentle, it hurt like fucking hell.   

Survive, he told himself, blinking to clear his vision.  Just survive this, 
you stupid asshole, you went to sleep, you knew better, just survive....

Smiling again, Harcourt held up the plug, glistening with lube--a small 
kindness, he thought, suddenly enraged through the all encompassing 
fear.  He fought again, tightening the long muscles in his legs--Harcourt 
only laughed softly and made a subtle movement, his hand too near 
Mulder's scrotum--he surrendered then, sweating, furious and dreading 
what would come. 
 
He couldn't give into the terror, he couldn't give up the chance to try to 
persuade Harcourt to loosen his bonds.  Survival was the first rule--red 
agony flared through him, rising from penis and ass and all the small 
clamps, burning every nerve he'd known he had and a few he hadn't 
known about. 

It hurt, ogodogodogod, he couldn't breathe, his body convulsing with the 
shock, his lungs just stopped until the pain ebbed, leaving the prickly 
not-numbness that was the aftermath of electric shock.   

His vision sparkled; he'd bitten down on the gag, tasted copper again 
and wondered dimly if it was his blood or someone else's.   Survival, 
survival was all there was now, he'd known that well before Quantico, 
please, Scully, please start the search, find him, ogod, please find him. 

Please. 
 
Fiery pain flared again, shocking him breathless, the convulsions tore at 
his belly and chest, tore a muffled scream that only hurt his throat.  
Ogod, nomorenomorenomore..... 
 
When it ended, he dragged air in, blinking to clear his vision, desperate 
to *see* what Harcourt was doing.   

Harcourt was smiling.  Bending close, he ran a fingertip from Mulder's 
collarbone to his navel, careful not to loosen the clamps, his finger cold 
as ice.  As cold as his eyes--those pale, soulless eyes.   

Rage and terror made him scream again, uselessly, helplessly.  Those 
hands--God, those hands stroked him, belly and groin, his thighs, 
stroking the insides like a lover would, like his lovers had, on occasion. 

He didn't think he was going to be able to let anyone touch him like that 
again. 

Leave me alone, you fucker, he screamed silently, tongue flattened by 
the leather, bound down as he was bound to the bed. 
 
Harcourt's smile only grew.  "I do love resistance," he murmured silkily, 
and leaned closer, the pointed tip of his tongue touching Mulder's 
eyelids.   

Jerking his head away, he was caught by a hand in his hair, painfully 
tight.  

""I know it's hard, Fox.  You don't understand yet, but I will tell you what 
I expect of you.  You're going to tell me about Fox, about every little 
thing that's ever happened to you:  your first steps, your first words, the 
first time you climbed a tree, made a friend--the first time you spent 
yourself in the body of a girl.  No secrets between us, Fox, I do insist on 
it.  And I'll know if you're lying or holding back, I promise you, and I'll 
have to punish you that much more severely."   

His hands caressed Mulder again, making his sickness that much 
worse--an acid sourness rose in his throat and Panic gibbered, 
reminding him that he'd drown, he'd suffocate if he vomited now.  

No, no, he had to fight the sickness, fight the fear--no one was 
supposed to die because they'd  investigated a haunted house.  No one, 
not the six who had gone before  him, not the boy who had undoubtedly 
died like this--please, ogod, please let him not be the seventh. 
 
************************************************************************
Baltimore:  March 19 11:21 am   

Turning onto Aversham, Dana Scully peered ahead, eyes searching for 
Mulder's car--it wasn't in front of the house, dammit, she knew she was 
late, but where the hell was he? 

His car was missing, when she pulled into the graveled drive and 
peered down toward the back she didn't see it.  Life had conspired 
against her this morning, her hair dryer had quit, traffic had been hellish 
getting out of DC--she was more than two hours late, cursing herself for 
an idiot, and where the hell was he?  

Worry prickled at the base of her spine--pushing it away, she told 
herself that Mulder, being Mulder, had probably gotten annoyed and/or 
hungry and gone out to get something to eat.  She just had to wait, be 
properly apologetic.... 
 
Looking in the front windows, she saw nothing and no one.  None of his 
things--fishing in her purse for the key he had given her--"Just in case, 
Scully"--she called herself and her partner a few uncomplimentary 
things and let herself in. 

Chillingly, the front room was completely bare of furnishing or any sign 
that he had been there.  But she was sure he'd said something the 
other day about staying in this room--she knew he'd commented that the 
rest of the house was too unnerving and--her mouth curved slightly at 
the memory--spooky, even for him.     

Well, he must have changed his mind after they'd talked last night, she 
told herself, it was a reasonable enough thought--except that the power 
had been off, she had heard the unease in his voice at that confession. 

The house had the same malign influence she'd noticed before, lovely 
and in decent repair, but she still didn't like it, still felt a cold spot on
the 
back of her neck as she walked through it, a sense that hostile eyes 
watched her every movement. 

Dining room, pantry, other assorted unidentifiable rooms, the bathroom 
and kitchen, still sporting fixtures that she dimly remembered seeing in 
her great grandmother's house, all were empty, no sign of Mulder.   

Walking back through the house, she fought the growing tightness in 
her belly--where the hell had he slept? 

Upstairs, maybe--she took the stairs slowly, looking back every few 
steps, hoping to hear the front door bang and his cheerful, "Scully, 
about time you got here!"   Despite optimism, she found all the upstairs 
rooms were as bare as those downstairs, the dust on the wooden floors 
thicker, completely undisturbed except for her footsteps.  

Afraid now, remembering the case files too clearly--not a trace, Scully, 
he'd said--she pondered a moment before going up to the third floor, 
clearly once intended for servants' quarters: the rooms were small and 
cramped, and the hallway uncomfortably narrow.  The ceiling was lower 
here, allowing more space for the attic, and she found herself 
contemplating the steps that led up there. 
 
He wouldn't have spent the night in the attic, but Jesus, Mary, and 
Joseph, where the hell was he?  The old Catholic school interjection 
came back with ease, a sign, she knew and refused to admit to herself, 
of how deeply afraid she was for him--Mulder, I'm going to slap you 
senseless when I see you, and then hug the life out of you--she pushed 
the thoughts away, her mouth dry and mounted the attic stairs with 
caution. 

The man was incorrigibly cluttered. It was completely uncharacteristic 
of him to clear away his things and stow them in the car to keep things 
neat; if she didn't find his sleeping bag upstairs....   

She still wouldn't allow herself to think past that thought--he's fine, he's 
just done something different and picked up his mess, that's all, he's 
gone to get coffee and those sticky fat pills he calls doughnuts--she put 
her hand on her gun and drew it, leaving the safety on as a sop for her 
rational mind.  The attic was festooned with cobwebs, and presumably 
inhabited by mice and spiders, judging by the webs and the faint 
scratching noises she heard from the far corner. 

No sign that Mulder had even explored this far revealed itself, and she 
went back downstairs, apprehension having a taken a firmer grasp on 
her otherwise sensible outlook and steady nerves--her belly was in a 
knot.  She doubted she could manage coffee, even if he showed up 
now, full of good cheer and more implausible theories. 
 
Please God, let him have a dozen.   Let him have a hundred, just let him 
show up.

This time, she went through the rooms with an investigator's jaundiced 
eye; cursing her own damned foolishness in walking carelessly, seeing 
faint signs of Mulder's passage even so.  There was nothing in the front 
room--not even dust.  The hair on the back of her neck prickled at that, 
too obvious a sign--oh, shit, where was he, God, Mulder, don't do this to 
me again, just don't-- 
 
She went back to the kitchen, her heart beginning to pound.  Finding his 
body would almost be worse than not finding him--not that any bodies 
had yet been found.  But she'd know, then--dammit, don't think like that, 
Dana, just don't... 
 
The door to the cellar hung open; the gaping shadowy rectangle beyond 
seemed  pregnant with malice and something darker.   Shivering, she 
pushed the safety off and stood for a moment at the top.  "Mulder," she 
called, "This isn't funny, dammit--if you're down there, I swear, I'll shoot 
you again."   

Dana Katherine, don't be a fool, her great grandmother's voice spoke in 
her head as it did at odd times, the voice of the old woman who had 
believed in the Faerie Folk and ghosts and all those things that go bump 
in the night, your partner's in trouble, keep your head and stay calm, 
you're a Scully and Scullys don't back off, they don't take a fright from 
an empty house.... 
 
Easy for you to say, Gran, she thought, bemused and started down the 
stairs, taking one at a time, turning slowly, weapon trained on thin air, 
checking all the angles. 

Nothing, no one, not even mice, so far as she could see.  At the bottom 
of the stairs, she pulled the string on the light bulb that hung above, 
shedding dim light on the damp, thoroughly ordinary cellar.  

She stared up for a moment--the power was on, she thought and shook 
her head, looking around--the power company must have turned it on 
this morning.  It was coming on close to noon, of course, that was it. 
 
But if the cellar was ordinary, why did her skin prickle with gooseflesh 
now?  

"Mulder," she called, not sure why, but needing to do it,  "Mulder, 
dammit, where are you?"   Moving forward toward the bulk of the 
ancient furnace, she kept her gun ready, moving as if she were in 
danger.  She felt as if she might be; the cellar extended some way 
beyond the furnace; the shelves suggested this part had been used as 
a fruit cellar, the wooden floor rough and unvarnished.  She stepped on 
it, felt it creak and wondered briefly if it was sturdy--get a clue, Dana, 
there's dirt under it--before shaking her head at her foolishness. 

For a moment, she had felt an unaccountable gulf yawning beneath the 
wood, beneath her feet.  Turning again, her back to the shelves, she 
surveyed the cellar again, darkly certain that she was going to have to 
work fast, that Mulder had gotten himself in trouble well past his 
capacity to get himself out of.   

She couldn't bear to think of anything worse. 

How the hell was she going to convince other people--namely, the 
Bureau here in Baltimore, that he *was* in trouble?  She needed logical 
reasons other than hunches. God, if she found out he'd gone out to 
breakfast, she was going to make him regret the day his parents met.   

If he didn't already.   

Hurrying suddenly, her heart banging unreasonably against her ribs, 
Scully found herself out on the front porch again, the door slammed 
shut behind her.   Her cellular was in the car; her first step would be to 
call a friend of hers in the Baltimore office--thankfully, Tom Colton was 
long gone from there--and get out a bulletin on Mulder's car.   

And, if she could talk convincingly enough, to get a forensics team out 
to this damned house.   

Her hands were sweaty and shaking, she noticed, and bit her lip in 
chagrin, looking at the blank windows of the house, so like the eyes of 
an idiot, seeing nothing, reporting nothing.  God, she was going to kill 
him for scaring her like this, for making her feel and possibly look like a 
fool.   

She desperately hoped he was alive so she could do it.   

***************************************************************** 
 
Mulder was shaking and crying silently, trying not to, hating Harcourt 
more than he remembered ever hating anyone in his life--don't turn it on 
again, he begged silently, but the sonuvabitch bastard would do it 
whatever response he made, he knew that, just as he knew he couldn't 
help trying to win, couldn't help trying to obey just far enough to win 
respite without giving in.  No surrender, dammit, just survival. 
 
Suddenly, Harcourt's face tilted up, eyes narrowing, looking upward.  
Mulder followed that look with his eyes, tried to stop making the sounds 
in his throat--held his breath and listened. 
 
Faint sounds could be heard, a woman's voice.  Scully's voice.

His heart hammered again, so hard it shook him.  Scully.  She had 
come after all, she was here, he was saved--she's here, she's here, you 
asshole, she's gonna find me and I'm going to rip your fucking heart 
out--but he heard Harcourt chuckle, heard the hunger in it, saw those 
pales eyes alight with something inhuman, something waiting to feed, 
waiting....waiting for Scully. 

Oh, god, Scully, he thought dimly and suddenly panicked, flat out terror, 
ogodogod, not Scully, don't let him get Scully, you fucker, god, if you're 
there, don't let him get Scully, please..... 
 
And Harcourt's mouth curved, the smooth features turning toward him.  
"Oh, she's a pretty little thing, Fox, just lovely."  He looked back at 
Mulder briefly before reaching up to pull the light switch. 

Plunged into darkness, Mulder's breathing sped, too fast, he couldn't 
*see* Harcourt, couldn't tell what he was going to do--oh, God, a hand 
touched him again, he was grateful for the gag, it kept him from 
screaming, from bringing Scully here.  At least, while Harcourt was 
touching him, Scully was safe; he bit down on the gag hard as the 
clamps on his nipples were tugged, a sharp pain jolting through flesh 
already hurting. 
 
As he took in another breath through his nose, he could feel Harcourt 
leaning closer to him.  Panic and Claustrophobia got together and woke 
Hysteria when Harcourt whispered, "So pretty," and put his tongue in 
Mulder's ear.  "As pretty as you, don't you think?  Ah, that's the way, 
Fox, let me feel what you feel for her, she's important to you, isn't she?  
Perhaps I should bring her down here, would you like that?" 
 
His heart hammered painfully hard, he swore he could feel it bang 
against his ribs, god, he couldn't breath, he'd hyperventilated.  A faint 
keening sound escaped him, in spite of his intentions, and Harcourt 
moved away, terrifying him--Scully, I'm sorryimsorryimsorry--but it was 
all right, Harcourt's hand trailed delicately down his body, fingertips 
moved across his penis and curved to cup his scrotum. 
 
"Mulder," he heard faintly and fresh terror nauseated him. 

Oh, he wanted her to come in here, come in and blow this fucker away, 
wanted it worse than he'd wanted anything, even Sam, but he was 
unreasonably sure  that wasn't how it would go, that Scully would end 
up just as dead as he was going to end up.  Tears leaked from his 
eyes--you went too far this time, asshole, say good-bye, that's the last 
time you're ever gonna hear her voice--a sob tore at his chest, the 
sound stifled by the gag.  

He didn't want to die, he had too much to do, he had to find Sam....oh, 
god, go away, Scully, he told her silently, wanting her to come in so 
badly he was crying like a little kid, equally terrified she would come in, 
that he'd have to watch her die first....all the while wondering how much 
fear he could bear before it failed to affect him.  Go, Dana, run from 
here, go before he comes after you, dammit, get away from this--her 
footsteps receded. 
 
The light clicked on again, blinding him for a moment.  Grief racked 
him, a sense of loss, of abandonment.  He was alone with the monster 
again. 
 
"Ah, well," Harcourt sighed, "I still have you." 

The agony flared again, white hot, making him arch against the bed, 
jerking him against the steel that held him.  He was still crying, the pain 
within as bad as the pain without.   He didn't want to die.  He'd danced 
often with death, that shadow lover, but he didn't want to die. 
 
But it didn't matter.  Scully was safe. 
 
And he was dismally certain that *he* dead.  If he could only accept that 
long enough to stop fighting, to stop breathing.   But he'd have to stop 
breathing before he could stop fighting--which meant that he was going 
to spend a long time dying.



Baltimore: March 19, 1:00 pm   

Agent Jack Taylor hung up the phone and shook his head at Scully.  
"The car's been located.  I've got a forensic team on tap to look it over.  
Evidently, they found his gun, his ID, a sleeping bag, an overnight bag, 
and his briefcase.  No signs of a struggle or violence, Dana, everything 
was pretty organized."  He eyed her warily. "Are you sure he just 
wouldn't take off?  I don't want you to take my head off, but he's got kind 
of a reputation."   

Her temper rose to keep the fear quelled; she bit her lip and kept silent 
until she could govern both.  "He's a good agent, Jack, whatever his 
reputation.  And he wouldn't just take off."  

He promised me, she thought, and he hasn't broken that promise, not 
really, not since he made it.  Stretched it, perhaps, but this was not one 
of those occasions, not with his car and belongings abandoned.  
"Where is it?"   

"They're towing it in," he told her, still clearly doubtful. "I hope you're 
right, Dana.  We're going to look stupid if he shows up somewhere, 
sleeping off a drunk."    

Her temper flared again, embers stirring to flame.  "What makes you 
think he would be? God, have they started saying that about him now?"   

Taylor held up a hand.  "Hey, Dana, it's not exactly a secret that he 
decked AD Skinner a while back.  Word was that he was drunk when 
he did it."   

"Well, he wasn't," she snapped, furious now, "And I should know, 
believe me.  If you don't want to help me, Jack, just say so, don't give 
me all this crap."   

"Did I say that?"  His eyebrows, as red as her own, drew together.  "I'd 
rather risk looking stupid than chance a dead agent, Dana.  What the 
hell else would I be initiating this investigation?"   

She cooled, thinking about it.  No, Jack was a good guy, she reminded 
herself.  "Sorry, I'm on edge.  I was supposed to meet him this morning, 
I was almost two hours late, bad traffic."     

Taylor nodded, his expression easing.  "Dana, he didn't disappear 
during those two hours.  Probably sometime last night after you talked 
to him, I'd guess.  At least, based on the other cases."   

It didn't make her feel any better.  She should have come up to 
Baltimore with him, but Jameson had called her about the trial next 
week, she'd thought it better to get it over with and out of their way 
before coming up. If only--no, thinking about the what ifs could make 
her crazy, but it was hard to avoid it--she bit her lip to keep it from 
trembling.  Stay calm, Dana Katherine, think smart, you can't help him if 
you panic.... 
 
"I'd better call Skinner." She could hear the reluctance in her voice, but 
it was the only thing left to do.  "God knows what he's going to say when 
he heard we came up here on the Carter case."   

Taylor slanted her a rueful look.  "What's he said when Spooky's taken 
on other closed cases?"   

Scully raked a hand through her hair.  "Don't call him Spooky," she 
corrected automatically, but from Taylor it was simply a Quantico 
nickname, lacking malicious humor.  "It depends. Usually, he barks at 
us in that drill sergeant fashion."  Her mouth quirked in spite of her state 
of mind.  "Having had a Navy father, I don't usually have too much 
trouble bearing up, but it makes Mulder furious."   

"I can relate to that, I've been on the receiving end of one of those 
conversations myself."  Taylor gave her a keen look. "C'mon, let's get 
some lunch.  By the time we get back, they'll have something to tell you 
about the car."   

Lunch?  She wasn't going to be able to eat lunch--but she let him lead 
her away, her mind still running that treadmill.

Mulder, give me a fucking sign, where are you? 
 
************************************************************************
Baltimore:  March 19  1:02 pm   
 
"Dear Fox," Harcourt murmured, leaning close, breathing in the scent of 
fear and pain as if he savored it, his hands unfastening the leather gag. 

Tears streamed down Mulder's face; eyes screwed shut, muscles taut 
in dread--resistance was a spice, the bastard had said, maybe it was 
time to cave in, maybe it was time to play along, to give himself time to 
breathe, to give himself a release from the pain....
 
"Open your eyes, Fox," Harcourt murmured and those cold fingertips 
flicked at one of the nipple clamps, hurting him, a small pain that he 
could manage, could think past. 

No, he wasn't ready to give in, yet, if he gave in, Harcourt might well kill 
him that much sooner.   

Keep his interest, he thought, a brief space of lunatic calm, keep him 
thinking, ohgod, I can't do this--I have to.  A moan escaped him as the 
electricity hummed again, just the barest kiss of pain, he hurt 
everywhere, one agonized nerve between his hips and nipples--the 
power increased, his muscles spasmed, the pain, oh fucking hell, the 
pain was so consuming, it swallowed him down whole, leaving no room 
for thought, for obedience--and jumped another notch. 
 
His eyelids flicked open, eyes staring blindly at the stained ceiling, 
seeing nothing, a thin whine making his ears hurt.   It ended; sagging 
back, he blinked back tears and kept his eyes on the ceiling, not 
wanting to see Harcourt's face. 
 
"Look at me," Harcourt leaned over him, sounding amused.  "Ah, see 
how much easier that is?"  A gentle hand cupped his cheek--his belly 
knotted.  

Not even Duane Barry had made his skin crawl like this, no one ever 
had, not even the tutor at Oxford who'd developed something more than 
affection for him--he could never let anyone touch him again, he'd be 
sick, oh, hell, the smiling face came closer and Harcourt kissed him, so 
gently, a friend's kiss. 
 
He stared, seeing affection in those eyes, shuddered at that and flicked 
his gaze away and back, uncertain.  Was it really that easy?  
Obedience, and Harcourt stopped hurting him? 

No, asshole, don't believe that, don't believe it, you'll end up groveling as 
he tears you apart... 
 
"Tell me the first thing you remember, Fox," Harcourt stroked sweat 
damp hair back from Mulder's forehead, his tone kind, 
interested....affectionate. 
 
Mulder blinked, a tear sliding down the side of his face; Harcourt 
touched a fingertip to it and tasted it, smiling faintly.  "Um, I think I was 
about a year old or so."   

His voice trembled, and Harcourt cupped his cheek gently.  "Tell me," 
he murmured, stroking Mulder's sweat damp hair again, smiling as 
Mulder haltingly obeyed. 
 
 ********************************************************************* 

But it just kept on and on, pain past agony, flesh burning between 
shoulders and hips--he couldn't lift his head to look to see if his flesh 
was still intact, he wasn't sure he wanted to know--if it was, it would only 
give him hope, and his last hope had walked out the door a while back. 

Tears leaked from his eyes as Harcourt leaned closer, his expression 
avid.  "Tell me, Fox.  Tell me what happened then." 

The fucker wanted to know about Sam, had taken the gag out so he 
could talk.   "They took her," he husked, having long since given up 
trying to deflect Harcourt's relentless questioning.  "They took her, and I 
never saw her again." 
 
"Who were they, Fox?" 
 
Harcourt's mind pulled at him, he could feel it stirring up things he had 
long since suppressed, draining him dry.  Every one of his memories, 
every emotion stirred to life by his memories, Harcourt consumed--eyes 
avid, greedy for it--he kept getting weaker, Harcourt was fucking 
devouring him, eating him alive, drinking his thoughts and fears and 
feelings....his belly knotted again as that fugitive presence strolled 
through his mind, as it pushed to the point of pain, tears blinded him 
again, it fucking hurt inside his head--"I don't know," he whispered 
helplessly, his voice a cracked rasp. 
 
"Yes, you do, Fox, tell me."  Harcourt's breath was warm on his cheek, 
that tongue flicked out and touched his skin, making him shudder.  "Tell 
me, Fox, or I'll have to punish you." 
 
"I don't know!" he cried, raging, wanting to kill--God, just *kill* him and 
get it over with, what did the bastard want? 
 
Agony made him convulse, another scream tore his raw throat--his 
heart stuttered in his chest and rage replaced the hopelessness briefly. 

No, goddammit, you have to live, he commanded himself, tears of pain 
and rage burning his skin, you have to live long enough to take this 
motherfucker down.  "They took her," he screamed, the words hardly 
intelligible as the power went off again.  "I don't know." 
 
Harcourt's cool hand touched his brow.  "Yes, you do."  He leaned close 
again, licked Mulder's cheek again, touched the point of his tongue to 
Mulder's cracked and bitten lips.  "Tell me." 
 
Another shock ripped through him, making his body arch against the 
restraints.  Time folded, reeled backward.  When he could breathe 
again, he inhaled raggedly, his wits shattered, thrown back into terror 
more than twenty years past....the alien shape, the light hurting his 
eyes, Sammysammysammysammy--

"The bogeyman," he rasped, his eyes refusing to focus, seeing only the 
past, paralysis weighting his limbs....And that bastard walking through 
his mind, rifling his memories.  Oh, god, Sammy, Sammy, it was the 
bogeyman.... 
 
"The bogeyman," Harcourt repeated, sounding interested.  He turned 
and paced away from the bed, giving Mulder a respite.  

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