All X-Files characters copyright Fox Broadcasting
All other characters copyright 1995 by Cindy L. Hutchins



Clara's House
by
C. L. Hutchins

	23:42 pm, 29Oct29, Hartman House, Meade, California

	A dreary, steady drizzle soaked the house by the sea. The windows
were soulless eyes, staring vacantly into the darkness of the
California night. The clouds blotted out the stars.
	Inside, three people sat a vigil by the bed of another star, one that
was blazing it's way into eternity.
	Clara Hartman, so young, so beautiful, was breathing her last. At age
ten, she burned her way into the heart of America, taking the
vaudeville stage by storm. By twenty, she had three silent movies, and
a fortune which she proceeded to invest wisely. Soon, her wealth
rivaled her beauty. By twenty nine, she had just made her first talkie,
and the future looked brighter then ever.
	Now, on the eve of All Hallows, she lay dying in the pretty little
cape cod she'd built on the edge of the California sea. The sad part
was no one knew why.
	Her priest was there, for she was a staunch catholic, not given to
the excesses of her peers. Father Shaunessey, an irishman of unshakable
faith and pragmatism, had come up to be at her side lest she pass away.
He counted rosary after nervous rosary for her quick recovery. 
	Frank Price, Clara's manager, intermittently paced and hovered,
wringing his hands the whole while. 	
	The third member of the vigil party was young Abigail, Clara's
daughter. She sat in a small rocking chair swaying back and forth
calmly, as if in trance. There was no sound in the silent room save the
breathing of dying Clara, and the repetitive sound of the rocking
chair.
	Abigail had been admonished to go to bed many times that evening but
would not be moved from her little chair at the end of the bed.
	The room sweltered with heat, and neither the night breeze or the
rain was cooling it off. 
	The door opened behind them all and they turned, the spell broken
by the sudden interruption. Dr. Krestfield entered looking wet and
tired.
	No one spoke as the doctor made his way to the side of the bed, the
air was a vacuum, sucking out all the sound except the breathing and
the rocking. The rhythmic sounds filled the air, becoming louder and
louder, maddeningly.
	The doctor looked up, shook his head and nodded to the little girl.
Price wiped his beading forehead, felt a moment of claustrophobia and
push down the impulse to make the girl stop rocking.
	"Abigail," The priest said in a whisper, "Time for bed."
	The child didn't acknowledge him in any other way. Instead, she kept
her eyes focused at some distant point ahead of her, and moved gently
back and forth.
	"Abigail." The priest repeated, and all at once, she stopped. The
room fell deathly silent, like a tomb.
	"It's over." Abigail said, and looked around at the men. Her words
seemed to echo in the dead night.
	"What is, honey?" The father asked, taking her hand.
	"Mommy's gone."
	Krestfield leaned over again and took Clara's pulse. His face fell.
	He looked at his watch. It was midnight.




	14:07 pm 22OCT95, FBI Headquarters, Quantico, Vir.

	Agent Sculley knew she could find him if she just thought about it
right. It was 2 o'clock, all the higher ups and official types would be
coming back from luncheons and conferences. Mulder would be avoiding
them. 
	His office would be the first place anyone would look, next, filing.
He would be in neither of those place.
	She knew if she dialed his cell phone or paged him, he would tell her
where he was. Yet she could give up this game she played with herself
to keep her senses sharp.
	So where would he be?  Well, where is the last place you'd look for
him. The forensics lab? No, he'd been there last week. The gun range?
No, she knew he hated the noise of the place. 
	It was a nice, autumn day, she thought looking out of the window. The
running path. Near it, but not on it. Lurking in the trees like
Bigfoot.
	She walked determinedly to the running path, perusing the woods
casually. If not for the conservative suit, she would have seemed for
all the world a fairy princess in an enchanted glen caught in silent
reflection.
	A movement in the brush caught her eye and followed it like a hunter
flushing game.
	"Mulder?" She called. She paused. "Mulder?" She waited again. The
name had become a litany to her. She had once figure out that she
needed to say it 2.5 times before he would answer.
	"Mul..."
	"Yeah, Sculley." he called back. "Over here." The sound of his voice
told her he was deep in thought about something.
	"There you are. I finished the report. Would you like to read it or
should I just forge your signature?"
	"Does it matter?" He said. He didn't look up, but a grin curled his
lip.
	He was sitting at the top of a gentle rise, obscured from the running
path by a copse of saplings. He held a file in his lap and was reading
it while eating an apple. Beside him was his cell phone and a half
eaten bag of sunflower seeds. He looked like God at the office.
	She sat down beside him and reached for the file.
	"What's this?"
	"A haunted house."
	"Really?" She asked rhetorically.
	"The house was built by a woman named Clara Hartman. She was a silent
film star in the twenties. A very clever woman by all accounts. She was
a staunch catholic who invested well and survived the crash of '29.
Healthy, wealthy and beautiful. Then, later in '29, she just died. They
called it melancholy which is early medical code for "we don't know". 
	"After her death, a family from Kensington, Mississippi bought the
house and lived in it for a while. They sold it in the sixties to a man
who turned it into a bed and breakfast which is when the haunting
reports begin. Eerie noises at night and two people fell down the
stairs to their deaths. It was closed for a while, then purchased by a
real estate developer who wanted to tear it down. He fell down the
steps. Then, in '86. a family bought the property from a savings and
loan. They said they felt uncomfortable there and had the house blessed
four times. The forth time, the parish priest got so ill they had to
take him to the hospital. He developed asthma and had to transfer to
Arizona."
	"What's our interest?"
	"The house now belongs to the Historical sites registry. Miss Hartman
entertained a lot, Hearst, Fitzgerald, and I think even a president are
said to have stayed there. They've opened it as a museum..."
	"So?"
	"Three people have fallen down the stairs in the past three months
for no reason."
	Sculley's eyes fell on the still photograph of Clara Hartman. "She
was beautiful."
	"Very. Long, red hair and big blue eyes. Her family was Irish
Catholic, she was born Clara Muldoon. She was smart, too."
	"Why, Mulder, you sound smitten..." She chided.
	"When I was ten I stayed up all night to watch a movie of hers. It
was an old silent, called "The Night of the Werewolf". When my folks
found out they grounded me for life. Ya know, Sculley, you look a
little like her."
	She smiled, and shook her head. Yet she could see the resemblance.
The eyes, a little, you really had to look for it.
	"The eyes, I think, same shape, and the cleft in your chin." He
commented, as if reading her mind.
	"So, California?" She said, changing the subject.
	"California."
	

	09:45 AM 24OCT95 Hartman House, Meade, California

	The door hardware was new, Mulder noted, maybe six months old. There
was no wear on the brass but the key turned easily in the tumblers.
	And the house faced the ocean, not the road which was queer until you
realized that the road was put in after the house was built. Clara
Hartman came here to get away from it all. 
	Dust motes floated on the indirect light that reflected through
mirrors into the living room. The sun was still low in the east, the
back of the house. They'd entered from in the front.
	The place smelled of age and dust, like his grandmother's house in
Massachustes. He associated the smell with dying.
	"I used to think it was ridicules, too, Agent. The locals doddering
on, and all that, and maybe it is. But, I'll tell you, at night, no one
stays here very long alone. It's like... Something is watching you."
Mrs. Slocum prattled. He nodded, only half paying attention.
	"Something?" Sculley said from behind him, at the edge of his
perception.
	"Yes, someTHING. Something not quite human."
	"Is there any wildlife in the area? Wolves, Mountain lions?" Mulder
asked.
	"Some deer, maybe, sea lions. But it isn't exactly like that." She
stopped for a minute, grasping for the right words, then flicked on a
switch, illuminating the room. "Something... malicious. No one stays
here long after dark. Not alone."
	"So the site is empty after dark?" Sculley interjected.
	"I live right across the street Agent, and this is a tiny community.
Every one knows everyone's business. And this place is a local
interest. It's better guarded then Fort Knox. You couldn't get in here
without being seen."
	"What else do people say about this place, Mrs. Slocum."He asked, his
eyes ferreting out every detail of the room.
	"Oh, some of it's hooey, what with bleeding walls stories, but they
do say that on rainy October nights Clara Hartman stands at the window
of the room she died in and looks out, balefully."
	"That's very romantic." Sculley interjected, and only someone who
knew her well could have picked out the edge of sarcasm.
	"It says in our files that Miss Hartman had a daughter. What can you
tell us about her?"Mulder asked.
	"My late sister Cornelia and Abigail were play friends. I think
that's why I got the job. Hum, she said that Clara married young, at
twenty, to a man named Geoffery Koelher. He was a wonderful man and to
all reports, she loved him more then life itself. She kept her stage
name, of course. The studio bosses insisted. Pretty single women made
more money in those days. Anyway, he died in 19 and 24, if I'm not
mistaken. Abigail would have been two."
	"What did he died of?"
	"He fell down a flight of stairs. Clara was heart broken, took a year
off from work and just plain grieved. She never remarried, So, Abigail
inherited her mother's fortune and went off to boarding school. I heard
later that she married some banker from up, San Francisco. A
May-September romance, he was older then her. After he died, she went
to Europe and no one heard from her again."
	"Is there any way to get in touch with her?" Sculley asked.
	"Abigail had a terrible life. She lost her father at two and her
mother at eight. She was in the room when Poor Clara expired they say.
Anyway, she was never very...stable. She was institutionalized several
times in her life, depressive, poor thing. They looked for her, hoping
she might come to the dedication ceremony, but couldn't find her. She
might be dead."
	"Thank-you, Mrs. Slocum. Do you mind if we have a look around?"
	"Not at all, you just take you time. There will be hot coffee in
about ten minutes in the kitchen if you'd like." and with that, she
disappeared down the hallway into the sunny kitchen.
	"What do you think?" He knew she would say that.  He knew she was
turning towards the wall to look at pictures of Clara Hartman from the
sound of her footsteps and the sound of her voice.
	"Maybe it's Clara's vengeful spirit returning from the grave, killing
people as her Geoffery died." He turned to face her as he finished the
sentence. She chuckled mirthlessly and looked at him.
	"Maybe it's a loose step." She retorted.
	"Come on, Sculley, isn't this just a little creepy?" He chided.
	"Lets just say I can see why no one stays her at night. There could
be a rational explanation."
	"Then explain that." He said, his eyes rising over her shoulder as
his hand moved to point. There on the wall in a shaft of reflected
sunlight was a clear message.
	"Run away, Fox" it said.
	He heard her draw her breath and felt her hand reach blindly for him,
her fingers wrapping around his wrist.

	12:47 PM 24 OCT 1995 The Hickory Pit, Meade, California

	The cole slaw was foul and she wondered how anyone who could make
such wonderful ribs could miss so horribly on coleslaw.
	"I told you you'd hate it." Mulder said, reacting to her grimace,
"Too much sugar."
	She swallowed hard to spite him. It was juvenile, she knew, but his
grin could be so infuriating, especially with an "I told you so" tacked
on.
	He grinned at her reaction, then said, "So, are you convinced?"
	"There are a few more tests I'd like to run, it could be anything."
	He nodded and took another bite of the horrible cole slaw. "I'm going
to call a guy I know at CSICOP, see if they have the case files on the
house."
	"CSICOP?" She asked.
	"The Committee for the Scientific Investigation of Claims of the
Paranormal."
	"That's a mouthful." She smiled.
He grinned back. "I'm certain they have something on it. Can you run
Abigail Koelher?"
	"Already in progress. I'll wait for you at the house." It occurred
to her that she wanted to go back there, she was tired and it would be
like going home after a hard day at the office.
	"I thought you said the house was creepy?"
	"Well. it is, but it's better then the hotel." She said almost
believing it.
	"Meet you there, then"


	13:24 PM 24OCT95, Hartman house, Meade, California

	"Mrs. Slocum?" She called as she stuck her head around the door.
There was no answer, so she let herself in. The sun was now coming in
the front windows, illuminating the room with a rosy glow. It was quite
cheerful. 
	She wondered idly what kinds of parties went on in this house.
William Hearst might have had tea here with Fitzgerald and Zelda and
Clara Bow. She could almost hear the tinkling of china, and John
Barrymore's sultry voice filling the room with banter.
	She moved to the stairs and ascended, still deep in her reveries. Men
in evening jackets and women in beautiful gowns wandered up and down
the stairs, giggling, talking. Someone sat on the landing, strumming a
ukelele, singing popular tunes of the day. Why was it, she wondered,
that parties always end up on the steps or in the kitchen?
	She walked up the stairs and noticed that one of the dowels in the
banister was loose. She leaned down to check it and noticed that she
could see the whole room from up here. The rails, though freshly
painted, seemed worn, thinner in the middle. She reached out her hands
and touched them. Little hands made this impression. Maybe Abigail sat
here and watched the parties, dreaming of her own parties and lovely
gowns.
	There was a scream from upstairs. 
	Before her mind could react, her gun was in her hand and she was
moving up the stairs in a crouch. 
	The air was still and musty, and somehow too hot. She entered the
corridor with the bedrooms on it. Sweat beaded her brow and the utter
silence wrapped around her like a blanket. 
	She turned into the first bedroom, gun leveled before her. An icy
blast of air hit her face, freezing the beads of perspiration, making
her skin stand in goosebumps.
	When her mind recovered from the temperature shock, she saw a woman
standing before her. It could be no one other then Clara Hartman, her
eyes were the blue of robin's eggs sad. They were almost painful to
look into. She mouthed something and reached out to Dana, pleading.
Dana reached back, wanting more then anything to help this poor,
trapped woman.
	The cold was now almost unbearable, a shiver ran down her spine and
she heard in the back of her mind the distinct sound of ice breaking.
She remembered it from her childhood. Walking on frozen puddles,
listening to the ice crack under her feet. There was a deeper memory, a
more frightening one attached to the sound. It mercifully didn't
resurrect itself.
	Then, after one of the stretched moments that seems to last eternity,
in which your mind works perfectly, calmly, catching all detail,
ignoring the panic welling in your stomach, the woman vanished and
Sculley saw a long darkness speed towards her.


	15:25 PM 24OCT95 Hartman House, Meade, California

	"Agent Sculley?" She heard her name again, in a voice she recognized
but couldn't place. She tried to find the source of the voice, but she
was in total darkness.
	"Sculley, wake up. I know you can hear me so pretending to sleep
won't help." That was Mulder's voice. It was so real and strong it made
her smile. She felt a tear, warm and salty trickle down her face.
	If she could open her eyes, she would see him standing near her,
concerned but smiling. There was a moment of panic. She knew she
probably could open her eyes, but wasn't sure she wanted to.
	"Open your eyes, Sculley." The voice was still mild, but there was
a distinct air of authority behind it. It reminded her of Sgt.
McCormick, her PE instructor from Quantico. McCormick was a strong man
whom Sculley greatly admired, a surrogate father, almost. Mulder had to
know that and she wondered if he were imitating the sound.
	Her eyes fluttered open and the light hurt. She was lying on the bed
in the room, the white comforter soft and crisp beneath her, the
feather pillow nestling her head reassuringly. She could see the dark
wood of the bedpost out of the corner of her eye, a vivid contrast to
the whiteness of everything around her.
	"What happened." She blurted. Mrs. Slocum was sitting beside her, a
cool cloth in her hand. She reached out for Mulder's hand
unconsciously. Mrs. Slocum saw it and smiled knowingly. That irritate
Sculley. She drew her hand back from Mulder. His grip on her hand
tightened and looked into her eyes, telling her with his own that it
was ok, forget what she thinks, it isn't important. She understood the
unspoken message. She kept hold of his hand.
	"I was going to ask you." The wry smile crept to his mouth.
	"I think I got over heated, I passed out." She suddenly remembered
the tortured visage of Clara Hartman, and her face sank. Mulder noted
it, she noted him noting it.
	"Mrs. Slocum, could you get her some water?" He asked quietly and
Mrs. Slocum nodded. She stood and hurried off, grateful for something
to do with her hands.
	"What?" He asked, the tone telling her not to skip details.
	"I was walking around and I went upstairs I guess I got over
heated."
	"What did you see?"  He astounded her again. She wondered briefly
if maybe there was some psychic link between them and discarded it.
Mulder had the observation powers of Sherlock Holmes and a good
knowledge of her psyche. It was an educated guess. Of course, it also
meant she was busted and might as well confess.
	"I saw her."
	"Clara?"
	She hesitated for a moment, "Yes, she looked so sad and frightened.
Tortured.
	"Was the room cold?" He asked. She wondered how he knew.
	"Yes, there was an icy draft from somewhere." He nodded "Why?"
	"There's always an icy draft that accompanies spirit
manifestations."
	"Mulder..."
	"Can you stand?" He cut her off without acknowledging her voice. She
nodded, puzzled and he took her other hand, pulling her up.
	She settled herself on her shaky legs and followed him to the stairs.
Once at the top, he hesitated, turning to her.
	"You ok?" He asked. She nodded. "Ok, where did you notice the
heat?"
	"Here on the stair. I was looking through the banisters. You can see
the whole room from there. Then I thought I heard something."
	"What?"
	"A scream. I followed it back down the hall."
	Still holding her hand, he took her back down the hall. A small dread
manifested in her stomach, but she followed obediently.
	"Where was the cold spot?"
	She pointed just inside the doorway. The heat was still oppressive.
	He dropped her hand and for a moment. She missed the human contact.
He took out a book of matches and struck one. The flame sputtered,
danced for a second and then grew, holding it's head erect and
unwavering.
	"No breeze." He muttered. She wasn't exactly sure what he was
thinking, but she knew she would hate it when it touched his lips.
	"Maybe it was just a wind that's died down."
	"You said it was icy. It doesn't get icy in California. At least not
this far south."
	"The air conditioner."
	"Is this house air conditioned? It's 90 on the stairs."
	"I got over heated, my body reacted violently, my cooling system went
into overdrive. A tactile hallucination."
	"Why are you so determined not to believe in this?" He asked,
slightly irritated. It struck her wrong.
	"Why are you so sure everything exists?" She sniped back.
	Mrs. Slocum came up short in the doorway, water in hand.
	"Am I interrupting something?"
	"No," Mulder said flatly, taking the water from her and handing it
to Sculley. "Thank-you, Mrs. Slocum. Could you excuse us for a minute?"
His irritation was bitten away at the quick. Sculley flinched a bit.
	"Of course. I'll be downstairs if you need anything."Her eyes said
"Oh, lover's quarrel." She retreated down the stairs. There was silence
as they listened to her footsteps on the stairs.
	Sculley took a deep breath, pushing away he anger. "Look, Mulder, I'm
sorry." She said and she meant it. She hated loosing her temper and
wasn't sure why she had.
	"Yeah, me too. It's just that this place is so creepy."
	For some reason, the statement made her temper rise again. Why, she
wondered, was she always the one to apologize first. To give in. Why
couldn't he say the words, damnit. And this was a beautiful place...
	"I don't know, I kind of like it." She uttered, just to get the last
word.


	16:00PM  24OCT95 Hartman House, Meade, California

	The CSICOP reports had come in over the car fax and he sat at the
kitchen table reading them. Sculley was in the other room, he could
hear her wandering and humming. She was still mad at him and he wasn't
sure why. She never stayed mad at him for very long and he usually knew
at least what he'd done. Now he was clueless. He figured she'd get over
it soon.
	"Maybe my charm is wearing thin?" He thought idly and then looked
back over the reports. It took all of his concentration. His mind kept
wandering back to the arguement. It was so odd. Mulder would be the
first to admit he was a bit dysfunctional in the relationship
department. He had dozens of acquaintances, but only one real friend.
He understood why Sculley did things. He didn't understand this at all.
He focused on the reports.
	CSICOP went over the place with a fine toothed comb and found no
explanation for the phenomena. They had taken most of the plumbing
apart, sonagraphed the walls, called in an exterminator and tested for
radon. 
	Their report stated that there was a cold spot in the room upstairs,
where Sculley passed out and Clara Hartman died. There was a mention of
one investigator who thought he saw patterns in the light, but couldn't
make out anything comprehensible.
	At night, spectronometers went nuts with electrical activity. An
electrician was called in, the house was deemed sound.
	The tune Sculley was humming was itching at the back of his mind.
He looked up to ask her what it was when he stopped cold. In front of
him, there was a message in the reflection on the wall.
	"Window, Go- listen," it said. He rose obediently and moved to the
window in front of him. His senses went into overdrive.
	He saw a car, and old Bentley, driving down the road away from the
house.
	He got the plate number.

	19:17 PM 24OCT95 Hartman House, Meade, California

	He held the NCIC report in his hand, scanning it quickly. The paper
was still warm in his hand from the fax machine.
	"What have you got?" Sculley asked from behind him. 
	"Abigail Koelher." He offered.
	"Hun? Did you find her?"
	"She found us. Her car was outside. I got the plate number. I'm going
to see if she's at the motel. A Bentley should be out of place in the
parking lot." He edged his voice with good humor and watched her face
out of the corner of his eye to see if it softened. The professional
mask didn't crack. "Ah, worth and try." He thought. "You coming?"
	"No, I'm staying here, I think. It'll be dark soon and I want to see
if I can feel this presence."
	"Could just be suggestion." He offered. If looks could kill, he'd
be meat on a stick. "I meant..."
	"It's ok, Mulder." She said, finally softening. "I'm sorry, I'm just
edgy. Go on, I'll tell you what I find. Come back for me when your
done."
	He nodded and chewed on his lip for a minute. "I'm sorry. I know I'm
a fanatic..." 
	"Careful Mulder, your starting to sound sensitive. Next thing you
know, you could be getting in touch with your feelings and weeping
openly in public." She said, and smiled faintly. He rolled his eyes and
touched her shoulder. 
	"Sorry." He wanted to say something witty, but there was nothing to
say. 
	"Go on." She touched his shoulder and he went out to his car.



	19:45 PM 24OCT95 Sleepy Time Motel, Meade, California.

	He found the car easily enough, and a flash of a badge got him the
room number. Now, he was knocking on the door of room 16. His palms
were sweating.
	The door was opened by an oriental man in a black Chauffeur's
uniform.
	He said nothing, but watched Mulder, sizing him up.
	"Agent Mulder, FBI. Is Abigail Koelher here?"
	The man's body posture suddenly changed, became defensive.
	"It's alright, Mr.Kwai, Mr. Mulder is expected. Let him in." The
voice was slightly weak with age, but still melodic and sweet. He moved
past Kwai and saw her.
	When she was younger, she'd had her mother's looks. The eyes were the
same, blue as the Med.
	She sat in her chair with impossible bearing, and, though she
couldn't be more then 5"2', she seemed a giant, filling the room with
dignity. She sat straight in the chair, her head high and regal. She
wore a black dress and pearls at the neck that she touched lightly. Her
silver hair was pulled back in a tight bun, giving her a severe look.
	"Please, have a seat." She offered flatly. She made a grandiose
gesture to a chair and dismissed Kwai with a wave of her hand. He moved
out the door almost without thinking. "So, what can I do for you, Mr.
Mulder."
	"I'm investigating the phenomena at your mother's house. What can you
tell me?"
	"That place is evil." She hesitated to see how he took this and
apparently approved of his reaction. "When Father was alive, it was a
wonderful place, always sunny and quiet. After Father died, the quiet
turned into silence. Mother felt it. She filled the house with people,
beautiful, intelligent people. But it never quite filled the void in
her life. She was very sad, to my recollection. And I recall a great
deal. 
	"Mine was not a typical childhood. I saw things. They say you
remember best things connected with strong emotions, and all my
childhood was like that. Mother was an actress, always on stage, always
demanding strong emotions of people.
	"Being a child, I was excluded from a great deal. I remember the evil
came in about 1928. It came through the door like a visitor, sat down
and made itself at home. I saw it. She felt it.
	"There was some problem. I remember mother was very upset. Whispered
conversations about "the man". Barrymore saying he would protect us
from the scoundrel. Some altercation. She was very upset. Then, one
day, it all changed. Mother seemed relieved, I assumed the man had
stopped... whatever he was doing. But just after that, the evil came
in. Mother became nervous and snappish. She had never been so before,
not even when Father died. She was always so consoling and attentive. 
	"Then, she got sick. I could see the evil at her bedside, day and
night, and finally he took her hand and they went away. And the silence
went with them. For a while. It's like the air in the house is dead, do
you feel it?"
	"Yes, Too quiet. Stale."
	"Exactly. I don't know much about the evil, Mr. Mulder, but I do know
this. He pulls away what you love most. He uses your best qualities to
get in, your compassion, your love, your goodness, hoping you'll fall
back on your baser instincts. Then, it has you. The soul understands, a
little bit, what the eye cannot see and tries to protect itself. It
thinks love won't help, so it uses hate. It seduces, rather then
terrifying. Do you understand?"
	"No, I'm not sure I do."
	"But you will. The evil wants something from you, Mr. Mulder, may
have already taken it. You must take it back, or loose it forever."
	"I don't..."
	"But you will. I'm an old woman, Mr. Mulder, and very tired. I have
nothing more for you. Except, maybe these two things. I think the man
actually died in 1928, it would have been in the autumn. And you have
an ally you can't see."
	She leaned heavily back in her chair, like an oracle, falling out
of trance. "I'll be leaving in the morning, Mr. Mulder. I wish there
was more."
	He stood, feeling the dismissal in her voice, and moved to the
door.
	"Would you send Mr. Kwai back in." He turned to her and nodded,
leaving the room lost in thought.


	20:04 PM   24OCT95  Hartman House, Meade, California

	Sculley wiped her eyes tiredly and looked at her watch again. Maybe
it was mass hallucination, Dana'd been here alone for an hour and felt
nothing. She wished Mulder would get back. She was very tired. Her mind
set to wandering again.
	With the lighting and period furniture, it was easy to imagine it was
1925 again. The house was silent, there was a faint chirping, like a
cicada or cricket, and the ticking of the grandfather clock. It was
restful. She leaned back on the couch and put her feet up.
	She looked up, heard keys in the hasp and thought it was Mulder.
Instead, the door opened and there was a man, dark haired and slender.
He was very handsome, she noted, in a sort of Rudolph Valentino way. He
had a sweet smile curling, ever so slightly under a pencil thin
mustache.
	"Hello?" she asked.
	"Lovely lady. It is my great honor." He said, again, gently. His eyes
narrowed a little, giving him a man of the world expression. It was
almost rakish, but still pleasant.
	"Who are you?" she asked.
	"Christian. Christian Tomlinson." He bowed very theatrically. "You
look so tired, why don't you sleep."
	"Do you work in the house?"
	"You could say that. Don't ask too many question, I don't have much
time. I've been watching your friend, what's his name? Mulder?"
	"Yes, what about Mulder?"
	"Mr. Mulder has a problem. Maybe you can help him." She was concerned
now, sat up and faced the man.
	"What, where is he?"
	"So you do have feelings for him? I thought so. He's a handsome
man..."
	"Not like that, he's my partner." It was important to her that he
understand, though she wasn't sure why.
	"More I think. A friend, perhaps. Please, I didn't mean to insuate."
She nodded. "Mr. Mulder is obsessed. I know, I was once obsessed. But
he isn't obsessed with something he can possess."
	"What are you talking about?"
	"Your Mr. Mulder, he's looking for something. He is a seeker after
knowledge. If your goal is to love a woman, or get a job, you have the
job to keep your mind occupied when the pursuit ends. Have you ever
read El Dorado?"
	"In college, I think."
	"Mr Mulder is searching for El Dorado. An answer, a place where he
can put his fears to rest. Do you know the problem with perfection?"
She shook her head, grave dread rising in her stomach.
	"It's boring. When you live your life in pursuit of something, once
you get it, there's nothing left of your life. What will Mulder do,
when he has his answers?"
	 "I don't..."
	"He'll fade away, like a rose left without water for too long. He'll
die, at least on the inside. There's nothing to him but the pursuit,
and when it is done, there will be nothing."
	She suddenly felt so uncomfortable, so frightened. "Who are you, how
did you get in here? What do you want?" It was a reflex, the anger, the
questions. It was an interrogation and she knew it. She heard the fear
and anger lace her voice with acid.
	He smiled, stood, bowed again.
	"It has been enchanting, Miss Sculley. Until we meet again?" He took
her hand and kissed it with icy lips. She jerked her hand away and
snapped awake.
	"Sculley, you alright? Wake up." Mulder was leaning over her,
checking her pulse.
	"Yeah, I just had a bad dream."
	"What happened to your hand? It looks like a burn." He took her hand,
and looked at the back of it.
	There, in a burn, was the shape of a kiss.

	09:28 AM 25OCT94  The Alison Cafe, Meade, California.
	
	"You feeling better?" He asked. She nodded, but it was obvious she
didn't. She hadn't slept any better then him last night. He had been
haunted by the old woman's words and tossed all night. He wondered who
was haunting her.
	"I talked to Abigail last night. She's odd." He said. Her eyebrow
raised and she smiled at him impishly.
	"As compared to?" She said, in a low, poking voice.
	"Ha,ha." he said sarcastically, but the joke was really needed and
he appreciated it. "She says the house is evil."
	"I didn't feel anything, Mulder. I think it's group hysteria."
	"But you did dream. What was it?"
	The look on her face said that she didn't want to tell him.
	"I dreamed about you." She blurted, Then looked bewildered, as if she
didn't know why she'd said that. "I'm... sorry." She stammered,
blushing furiously.
	"Was I that bad?" he thought, but caught his tongue before it formed
the words. "What did you dream about me?" 
	He watched her face. Something was going on in her head, something
unusual. Her face fought with itself for a while and he wished he could
climb into her head and see the struggle. Telling him finally won out
and she cleared her throat, took a sip of coffee.
	"Not really about you, per sa. You weren't there. I dreamed about a
man. I don't remember his name, thought I'm sure he told me. You know
how dreams are. He was tall and slender. dark haired, brown eyes. A
mustache. I think there was a mole on his cheek, but it could just be
my memory. 
	"But I remember what he said. He asked me what you would do when you
found what you were looking for. Talked about obsession." She stopped,
took another sip of coffee and waited for the words to clear the air.
then, "What did you find?"
	"Apparently, shortly before her death, Clara Hartman had some kind
of trouble with a man. Then, he died. Abigail says that's when the evil
came. She said it entered through the front door and just stayed. Then
her mother took sick. She said the evil took her mother's hand and took
her away."
	Sculley looked like she was going to be sick. "Mulder. The man in
my dream, he came in through the front door." 
	"Look, we're both tired. It was probably some manifestation of your
sub-conscious..."
	"Who are you and what have you done with Fox Mulder?" She grinned
impishly, thought it looked forced.
	"He was kidnapped by aliens. I'm his clone. He's doing Vegas with
Elvis, even as we speak." They both grinned.


	11:50AM 25OCT95 Hartman House, Meade, California.

	Sculley was going over Pathology reports. She didn't know what was
wrong with her. She was the skeptic and she was letting this get to
her. There were explanations, she just had to find them. 	She'd
already gone through the CSICOP reports and Hartman House's long
history. 
	Mulder was off chasing the unknown man who terrified Clara Hartman
in her life. There was nothing about him in any of the reports they
had. He'd gone to LA to look him up.
	She looked at her fourth cup of coffee and sighed. She was tired and
the caffeine wasn't helping. "I'm gonna sleep like the dead tonight."
She thought and caught her breath. "Like a log" her consciousness
corrected. Better.
	She looked over the various names of Forensic Pathologists in the
records, Bridger, Sellman, Cants. All good competent people. Bad,
incompetent people didn't work for the Bureau. 
	It seemed to all these collective minds that all these people had
simply fallen down the stairs and broken their necks. The only anomaly
seemed to be that they fell within weeks of each other on the same
staircase.
	Ahe looked closer. Their necks. Something there. She compared the
diagrams, and felt a chill of realization. All the breaks in the neck
were identical. The bones broke in exactly the same way, in exactly the
same place. 
	She dropped the reports and rummaged through the other paper spread
on the table beside her. She found it. Geoffery Koehler's autopsy.
	The same break. The same place. 
	The same fall, over and over again, replayed with different
victims.



	11:32 AM 25OCT95  Residence, Wm. Toddson, Los Angeles, Ca.

	"So you were a fan of Clara's?" Mr. Toddson asked as he got up from
his chaise lounge around the pool. "Hey, Frank, take a break."
	The man who had answered the door nodded and went back in the
house.
	"She was a babe, man. One of those people who takes over a room by
entering it. Every man in Hollywood courted her, and she turned 'em all
down. She played the ingenue, but she wasn't. Ever. Woman had a mind
like a steel trap. She had this dignity and elegance about her, some
called her the ice queen behind her back. 	"But Clara Hartman was a
saint. She do anything in the world for you. Course, that was if you
were her friend. Her enemies didn't last to long in this town, if you
know what I mean. Parts dried up, friends took a step back. Clara was
an iron fist in a velvet glove. And subtle. You always knew where the
ax fell from, but you couldn't prove it. She hung out with my father.
This was back before the big studio bosses. Remember Lawrence
Kirkland?"
	"No, I can't say as I do."
	"Nobody does. Kid had real talent. Did three real good movies.
Crossed Clara, suddenly, no one would talk to him. He was a little
jerk, honestly. There was a rumor at the time that he raped one of
Clara's friends. They were both drunk, you know how it is. Young and
beautiful and stupid. I think he became a Real Estate developer in
Georgia. Every body called him the next Barrymore. Then, he couldn't
get arrested. All this is from my father's lips. He'd tell me this
stuff when I was a kid. They were his friends."
	Mulder smiled, timing it just perfectly.
	"What do you know about Clara's death?"
	"Hum, I was just a kid, but I always wondered about that. Clara had
some kind of a tado with a guy, what was his name? Wait, I got
something about it here. An article my father wrote and never
published. Clara asked him not to. He was a gossip columnist for years.
Until, 1960, when his heart gave out." He strode into the house, more
like a man of 45 then a man of 65. His silver hair beaded with sweat,
and his breath became a little more hoarse, but those were the only
signs of age.
	He rummaged through a roll top desk for a minute and Mulder looked
around at the well appointed room. There was no California tacky here,
the furniture was all Art Deco, nice pieces, comfortable looking. On
the walls were framed covers from Tattler, with Betty Grable and Rock
Hudson. There was an autographed copy of the James Dean cover.
	"Here," He said, suddenly. "Here it is. I don't know why I keep this
stuff. I guess it's all I've ever had, you know?"
	Mulder nodded and took the piece of paper. 
	His eyes moved over the paper quickly.
	"Hello, Faithful readers... The scoop is... Christian Tomlinson, a
young actor is in very much amour with America's sweet heart.
Tomlinson, a strapping young thing had been seen in Miss Hartman's
company many times. But there may be trouble in Paradise. Last week, at
Stan Rosenthal's party, Miss Hartman was heard screaming at the young
man, telling him to leave her alone. What could this be? Maybe the
attraction isn't mutual? After all, Clara is almost always seen in the
company of established men..."
	"Today, they'd call the guy a stalker. He sent her presents, followed
her around, made grand declarations. When that didn't work, he started
sneaking in her house, stealing things and the letter's turned
threatening. I think I got some of them, somewhere. My old man kept
everything. 
	"Clara tried everything. No one would talk to Tomlinson, and I think
he got beat up a number of times by over-zealous friends. I doubt Clara
knew. She never used violence. She thought it was base. Clara's mother
worked two jobs to make her daughter a lady. Clara took those finishing
classes and stuff. Voice training, acting lessons, the whole nine
yards. Clara acted like an Aristocrat, though her parents were potato
farmers, just off the boat. She bought 'em a nice house in New York, so
nobody'd see 'em."
	"I see. What happened to Mr. Tomlinson?" Correcting the old man's
train of thought.
	"There was a mistake. Really, it had to be an accident."
	"What happened?"
	"He got Appendicitis. The doctor at the emergency room misdiagnosed
and he died when it ruptured. He'd gone home to visit his family, in
Michigan. We heard about it when they came to get his things. Clara
wasn't a murderer, and if she was, she'd have made it a lot quicker
then that."
	"You liked her?"
	"Hell, I never really met her. I was only five when she died. But
my father did. He was the kind a guy who called 'em like he saw 'em.
And he loved Clara Hartman. I told you, every guy in hollywood wanted
her. Even the happily married ones." Some memory was conjured up in the
old man's mind and he looked very melancholy.
	"Thank you, Mr. Toddson. You've been very helpful.
	"Do me a favor, would you?" Mulder nodded. "Clara wasn't a murderer.
I'd hate to see her painted that way, even in some "Eyes only" file..."
	"That won't happen." and he smiled. The man returned the gesture,
gratefully. "Why does it matter?"
	"My dad worshipped her. and I worshipped him. Just doesn't seem
right, you know? Honor among thieves, I guess."
	Mulder nodded again. He wasn't sure he did understand, but it did
seem important.
	His cell phone rang. He excused himself and flipped the phone on as
he brought it to his ear.
	"Mulder." He said.
	"Mulder, it's Sculley. I think I found something you might find
interesting. All the deaths, they were exactly the same. The bruising
patterns were identical."
	"So?"
	"Come on, Mulder, What are the odds? Bruising patterns are as
individual fingerprints. You'd have to work at this."
	"So, it's like a replay of Koelher's death?"
	"Yes." She said thoughtfully. "Like a replay."
	"I'll be back in a few hours. I got a connector flight to San
Francisco then an hour in the car. Hey, the guy in your dream, was his
name Christian?"
	She stopped. "Yes, Christian Tomlinson. Yes."
	"He was a stalker. He stalked Clara. Sculley, go back to the motel,
would you?"
	"Why? There's a rational exp..."
	He suddenly felt a flare of panic and anger run down his back. "Look,
I don't want to discuss Jungian group consciousness, I want you out of
that house."
	"Look, don't yell at me. Who do you think you are?!"
	A cold thought crept over him and he breathed deeply.
	"The soul understands a little and tried to protect itself... I know,
but you will. It's taking something from you Mr. Mulder..."
	"Sculley, I'm sorry... Sculley..." But the line was dead. 
	He dialed back quickly but she didn't answer.
	"Agent, I found some of Clara's letters from Christian. Here, take
them. Keep them. Time I let go of some of this junk, anyway. Your a
fan, right?"
	"An admirer. Fan is short for fanatic." He turned determinedly and
headed for his car.

	12:00AM 25OCT95 Hartman House, Meade, California.

	The phone quit ringing. She couldn't talk to him right now.	
	She was crying and she knew it. She hated to cry, it was hard enough
for a woman in the FBI. You had to be twice the man anyone around you
was. And crying was just not acceptable. Nor was feeling lonely,
isolated, empty. 
	But she did, and she also felt tired and very sorry for herself. She
just wanted to sleep and upstairs was that big, comfortable bed. She
ascended the stairs.
	Once in the room, she drew the drapes  The the sun was coming in.
It was too bright, to cheerful. She lay down, took a deep breath. The
room grew cold, but it was too much effort to slide under the covers.
And there might be a tour group. There weren't many people who came
through here, but a few.
	She opened her eyes again, and Christian was standing there. His eyes
were wet with tears, too. She tried to speak, but he moved to her
quickly, almost to quickly. There was a surreal quality to everything.
There was a sound, on the edge of her perception.
	"Sh. It's only a dream," He whispered, and kissed her gently. His
lips were soft, his breath sweet. He stroked her hair, ran a finger
down her cheek. "Don't talk, it's ok. I know how you feel. It's so
lonely, isn't it. You long to hear the laughter of your children, not
to sleep alone every night, to feel someone move beside you under the
covers, to hold you, whisper your name dreamily. Someone real."
	"Yes." She cried openly and he held her to him, coddling her,
breathing in her ear.
	"Dana, your so beautiful. So lonely, and that's a shame. I love you.
I've been watching you. I understand. Your a passionate woman, Dana,
and you need a passionate man." He hesitated for a second, then, "Would
you like to dance?"
	She smiled and nodded. She hadn't danced with anyone in a long time.
Her tiredness left her, and his arms were warm and solid, he held, her
played with her hair. It was sweet and innocent. It was only a dream.
	He was humming in her ear.
	"What is that song?" She asked. She'd been hearing it her mind for
days.
	"It called, "Have you ever seen a dream walking?" He took a deep
breath, put his lips close to her ear and sang " Have you ever seen a
dream, walking, well I have." It made her smile.
	"You know, sometimes a dream is better then reality. And it can be
as real. Forever, like this, you and I, here. I love you, Dana, I've
waited for you for years. Eternity." He bit his lower lip, looked at
the floor. It was a wonderful gesture. "May I kiss you?"
	She nodded and he did, he leaned forward, and kissed her, gently,
sweetly.
	She heard Mulder's voice very far away and her ire returned. 
	"Ignore him, dear. Stay with me."
	And she wanted to.


	15:15PM, 25OCT95  Hartman House, Meade, California.

	"Sculley" He yelled as he walked in the house. Mrs. Slocum came out
of her office and looked at him.
	"She's sleeping, upstairs, wha..." He pushed past her and walked
toward the stairs.
	He glanced sideways, another message in the light playing off the
mirrors.
	"Quickly, almost gone." It said.
	"Clara?" He called.
	The message became indistinct then reappeared "Give him to me." it
read. He nodded and took the stairs, two by two.


	"So, your a doctor." Christian whispered into her ear. "It takes a
compassionate person to give up so much of their lives for others. I
thought about being a doctor. But the stage called to me."
	"What was it like? Hollywood, I mean." She asked, sitting on the edge
of the bed, playing with the rose he'd given her. He was next to her,
she could feel his breath on her cheek.
	"Amazing. The street were lined with gold. The women were beautiful,
the men Gallant. It was a dream, really. Cars were new and they could
go 60 whole miles an hour, some of them." He stood and moved as he
talked, the whole thing a performance. He wheeled and gestured and
smiled. She could watch him for hours. She felt slightly drunk, more
the a little dreamlike herself.
	"The world has changed, hasn't it. Your cell phones and fax machines.
Sixty miles an hour isn't anything any more, is it?" She shrugged and
teirled the rose. "Maybe I don't fit in it anymore. Useless, a
dinosaur." He seemed so melancholy. She stood and put her arms around
him. It was a dream, after all, and what could a dream hurt. 
	"Don't be sad, Dana. The world is a funny place." He touched her hair
seductively, kissed her again. "I'm falling in love. They call me a
fool for giving my heart so easily. But other men have given blood and
life for less. I couldn't believe it when you walked in. I've been
listening to Slocum babble endlessly for so long. I've been so lonely,
so trapped in this place. I think you've set me Free, Dana."
	"I'm glad, where will you go?" She asked, and realized she didn't
want him to.
	"I don't know, wherever dreams go." He looked down for a minute, "I
wish you could go with me. Now that I've found you, I can't bear the
thought of loosing you."
	"I can't come with you." She said.
	"Sure you could, it would be easy. And we could be together forever.
I can't imagine there's a heaven without you."
	She giggled like a school girl, and kissed him.
	"What about Mulder, and my family?"
	"Mulder has his quest, and your family, well, they'll miss you, but
they'll know your happy. Isn't that what counts? We could go see your
mother, tell her. You can talk to people if your a dream."
	"I don't know..."
	"Dana, isn't it wonderful here, us, together?"
	"Well, yes, but..."
	"Then what's the problem. I love you..."


	"Sculley, wake up." He shook her again, but there was no response.
	"He's stealing something from you, something you love. You must take
it back, or lose it forever." The voice in his head nagged.
	His anger grew, and his desperation.
	"He uses your best qualities against you, hoping you'll fall to your
baser instincts." Clara used the word base. Apparently a lot. He took
out the letters and untied them.
	"Dear Clara,
	"Have you ever seen a dream walking?' Well, I have, and it's you."
Those words, so familiar. It was a song. The song Sculley had been
humming. "I want you, forever. To own you, and I will. Someday,
somehow."
	He tossed the letter to the floor and read through a few more. Always
the song started the letter.
	What is my best quality? he wondered, dropping the rest of the
letters. He looked at her.
	It was a bad time for soul searching, he couldn't think of a single
good quality about him.
	"Careful, Mulder, your starting to sound sensitive." He heard her say
in his mind.
	He leaned over on impulse and took her hand.
	"Hey, Sculley, Can you hear me? I hope so."

	She saw Mulder, standing in the doorway.
	"Can you hear me?"
	"I hear you." She replied.

	"I hear you." She said aloud. He felt relief. Across from him, on the
wall was another message from the Ally he didn't know he had.
	"Draw him out." There was a power in the air, almost palatable.
	"Hi, how are you?' He asked, trying to maintain the facade of calm.
She wasn't awake, but he could talk to her.
	"I'm fine. Christian says he loves me and wants me to go with him."
	"Are you going?"
	"Well, It's tempting"
	
	"Well, it's tempting," She smiled and took Christian's hand. He
smiled back.
	"So, how long have you known this guy?"
	"Eternity," Christian whispered.
	"Stop. Not very long, but he's wonderful."
	"I'm sure he is. Look, before you make up your mind, I want you to
know something. At risk of sounding sensitive, I need you. Your the
only friend I've got, Sculley, and you keep me sane. And I need you."
He wiped his eyes, pushed back the emotions that rarely stirred in him.
"Hey. I'd like to meet him, before you decide. You know, give him the
seal of approval." She could see him, his eyes wet, the heroic effort
to keep it together.
	"Oh, Mulder." She turned to go to him, but Christian gripped her hand
tightly. His face had taken on a slightly maniacal glare and it scared
her. Something in the back of her mind told her that this wasn't a
dream and the consequences were fatal.
	Then she heard the thing on the edge of her consciousness. That sound
of breaking ice again. It dragged a scene from her sub-conscious, one
she had buried. 
	It was Pennsylvania and she was visiting relatives, She couldn't have
been more then ten. They went skating. She was never much of a skater,
but she could stay up. Her cousin, Lauren, was an angel on the ice,
born to it. She had been skating along, watching Lauren in envy, not
paying attention...
	She heard the cracking of the ice beneath her feet. Felt it rattle
her bones and felt a yelp of terror escape her lips. There were screams
of adults, her mother calling her name with desperation and true fear
in the words. The ice was splitting, slowly, painfully and she was
frozen with fear. She went into the water, it was cold and she felt her
heart stop, for just a second.
	Then, some amount of time later, she couldn't tell how long, hands
lifting her out of the water, an embrace. It was her father.
	The ice was cracking around Sculley now.
	"Is that possible? Can I get a look at the guy?" Mulder asked. His
voice seemed so real, like hands pulling her from the water.
	"Why?" She asked, forcing a smile to her face.
	"I'm curious about this guy. Your don't generally fall in love at
first sight and I was just wondering..."
	"Can you?" She asked Christian, biting her lip flirtatiously.
	"I don't know..." He frowned.
	"Well, I couldn't run away with someone Mulder didn't approve of."
	"Alright, but then you come with me."
	She shrugged, smiled brightly. She secretly prayed that Mulder had
a plan.
	
	There was a shimmer beside Sculley's sleeping form, Mrs. Slocum
passed clean out. Mulder caught her and lowered her to the floor. When
he looked back up, there was Christian, tall and solid.
	"She's mine." He hissed. 
	"I don't think so." Mulder said.
	"I'll kill you for her." Christian said and smiled evilly. He didn't
move, but Mulder felt something impact with the back of his head. There
was a blinding pain and a bone shaking thud. He felt blood course down
his neck. He turned, a picture frame from the wall lay on the floor.
	He heard a sound behind him and ducked in time to avoid collision
with the mirror from the dresser. It shattered against the wall.
	"Clara!" Mulder called.
	

	An Icy wind struck him from behind and he turned and saw her
manifest. It was quick and she looked very angry. It was a cold anger,
psychopathic.
	He wondered if he'd made a tactical error.
	"There you are." Christian said. "I've been looking everywhere for
you. 
	"I've learned something in seventy years. Hiding from you is easy."
	"Yeah, well, I don't need you anymore. So shove off."
	"Come on, Christian. You know it's me you want. I know your just
trying to make me jealous. Well, it worked." She was flirting, throwing
everything she had at him. There was a coy smile, a seductive walk, a
shake of the long, red hair.
	"Really?" He seemed astounded "What happened to "I hate you"
	"You always were clueless about women, Christian." She vamp walked
across the room towards him, her arms outstretched."
	"What are you up to, woman?" Christian was cautious, moved back a
second too late. When she touched him, he howled with pain.
	"How dare you. How dare you appear as me to this girl, How could you
kill all those people, Push all those people down the stairs? Seventy
years of torture, Christian. And I only have a few seconds to pay you
back." She growled. His howling grew deeper, the pain seemed to deepen
and intensify. Mulder almost felt sorry for him. Her touch seemed to
draw the solidity out of him. A wind kicked up slowly, Swirling, moving
faster and faster. Mulder lost his feet and hit his head on the rail of
the bed. He clawed his way up furiously, pulling himself to the side of
the bed just in time to see them both vanish from existence. Then, the
room fell absolutely silent. 
	Sculley awoke, sat up.
	"Mulder?" She said.
	"It's ok. You fell asleep." He offered, tiredly.
	"I must have, I needed it. I feel better. Oh, my God! What happened
to your head?" And she began to check him out.



	17:02 25OCT95 Hartman House, Meade, California.

	She had bandaged his head and was now imploring him to go to the
doctor. 
	"I'll be fine, Sculley, How's Mrs. Slocum?"
	"Fine, she fainted. I'm going to suggest they get air conditioning
in this place. That probably why people fall, they faint from the heat
on the stairs.
	The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he turned. Mr. Kwai
was in the doorway, holding an envelope.
	"Mr. Mulder?" He said, and handed Mulder the envelope, then turned
silently and left the room.
	Mulder opened it with Sculley looking on curiously.
	"Mother says thank you." The note read, and he smiled.
	"What does it mean?"
	"I don't know." He whispered but his smiled said he did. 
	"Come on." He said and rose. He moved into the corridor and began
down the steps. Suddenly, his heel caught on something and he felt
himself pitch down the stairs. His mind told him all was lost, then
soft hands grabbed him, righted him.
	Mulder?" Sculley called out from behind him and grabbed his
shoulder.
	"I'm fine, just lost my balance."
	"You could have killed yourself."
	"No, I don't think so." He said and continued down the stairs.



	Private journal, F. Mulder written 31OCT95  23:50pm
	
	Our ancestors believed that on this night, the dark and forgotten
things, the loved ones laid to rest and the Fairfolk roamed the land.
This was their one night to wander in the world of men.
	Is it possible that a young man, twisted by desire, managed to find
some foothold in the House in Meade, California? Some way to cheat
death and have what he wanted most?
	And in return, was he cheated? She learned to hide from him, and then
to defeat him. Clara Hartman was a woman of great strength.
	Sculley doesn't remember any of it. I think it's Trauma amnesia. She
doesn't remember Christian Tomlinson, or the things I said to her.
Maybe it's best that way. She can't believe, because to believe is to
give up her reality, and that's just to much to ask of anyone.
	Christian Tomlinson died of October 27th, 1929. It was a ruptured
appendicitis and infection. But the events we lived through occurred
before the original dates, before the power of Samhain came to apex.
This is very uncommon in a spirit manifestation. So I ask myself why,
over and over again, and I can't help but come back to the only
evidence that makes sense.
	Sculley looks a little bit like Clara, and I look a little like
Tomlinson. Did they see some symmetry in this? Possibly. That and that
we, through our previous investigations, have opened our minds a little
bit more then most people. 
	There is a theory that humans can't see things to far removed from
their reality. A ghost just doesn't belong in a comfortable parlor by
the sea shore, so people discount it, the mind edits and insulates. But
the safety of reality doesn't exist for me. And the edges of Sculley's
reality are slowly cracking. Our minds don't edit like everyone else's.

	"The soul realizes, a little bit, what the eye cannot see and tries
to protect itself."
	Maybe it's synchronicity that we happened upon that place and the
truth that lay there. 
	I did realize something, though. Somehow, Sculley grounds me. Just
a little. I need that.
	Nietche said, "When you look into the abyss, the abyss looks back
into you." To open oneself to the realms of possibility as I do is
dangerous. You can fall into the abyss. I understand, Abigail.
	But the truth is still out there.