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Title: A Normal Halloween Name: Branwell E-Mail: COMBS-BACHMANN@WORLDNET.ATT.NET Date Finished: Oct. 30, 1999 Rating: PG-13, Innuendo Category: S, A, MSR, UST Story, Angst, Mulder/Scully Romance, Unresolved Sexual Tension Archiving permission: Please archive for Spookys. Anyone else may also archive this. Just keep my name with it. Disclaimer: Chris Carter, David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and Ten Thirteen productions created and own the characters you recognize. My writing is for fun, not profit. Thanks: I owe thanks, as always, to Pellinor's incomparable "Deep Background." I would also like to thank bugs for words of encouragement and advice. Summary: This is a stand-alone story of Mulder's and Scully's 'normal' 1999 Halloween. A few elements make it a loosely connected post episode story for "The Sixth Extinction" and a prequel for my story "Winter I: The Riddle" Spoilers: "Biogenesis," and "All Souls" Setting: The Washington D.C. area, on Halloween weekend, 1999. ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ During his early morning run Mulder enjoyed autumn. The dawn mist clung more tenaciously under motley colored trees. The sun poured a whiter gold over the landscape. He smelled the loamy smell of the world replenishing itself. Where the earth tipped away from the sun, death transformed living plants into more earth. Fall sent out an annual reminder that everything is on loan from the cosmos. The story of summer rustled across the drying grass, recorded and lost in thousands of crunchy, curled leaves. It wasn't a summer he wanted to remember anyway. Some of it he couldn't. What remained he could have spared---the sensation of his skull exploding with random electrons, a throat raw from screaming, a body bruised from flailing in seizure or too many intramuscular injections of antipsychotics. Then there was the long, slow climb back to a precarious stability. Today was Friday. Scully would be in the office. If he focused on the little things, the minute by minute small pleasures, he found himself at the end of the day before he knew it. After the run his muscles relaxed into an agreeable, slightly sore lassitude. His shower was hot and skin-tingling. There would be aromatic coffee to drink in the car. At work he could watch Scully prepare the final report on the Exsanguinated Cows of Mahem County. The PC screen gave a bluish cast to her face. She was so pretty, so serious. He'd ask her matter-of-factly today, prepared with a witty retort if she refused. Then it would be over with, one way or the other. Nothing to dread and something nice or nicer to look forward to. At noon he left the office to pick up lunch. The hot peppers and pungent garlic of his Szechuan Eggplant routed the tart, delicate scent of Scully's kiwi and chicken. He wasn't too proud to influence her decision in his favor with offers of hot food. He had too much integrity to pretend he didn't want his usual, even if she did dislike the strong, lingering food smells. When the cartons had been cleared away he linked his hands behind his head and gazed up at the ceiling. He was working for an air of relaxed contemplation. Scully looked up when he leaned back, aware that he was about to say something. Her face was unworried, free of that concerned, pitying look he hated so much. This might go very well. "Sunday night is Samhain, Scully. I'm sure you're well acquainted with its legends." "Hmm. Well, there's one that warns there'll be consequences if you don't have enough chocolate on hand. Toilet paper streamers will manifest themselves in your trees" "That's been proven so many times it's considered a scientific fact. There's another one that hasn't been sufficiently tested. Everyone agrees that the dead walk the earth that night. What most people don't know is that they can also see the ghosts of people who will die during the next twelve months. For a little while the past, present and future share the same world." "So, you might see yourself," she instantly rejoined. Trust Scully to go straight to the heart of the matter with a sharp instrument. "I prefer to think I won't. I propose it in the spirit of scientific inquiry. The legend says that the shades of parishioners who will die during the next year walk through their church at midnight. Do you want to come with me to test the theory?" Scully tipped her head a little to the side, and looked thoughtful. "I promised to help Mom give out the Beggar's Night treats. She doesn't like opening the door to strangers when she's alone at home. That's on Sunday night in her neighborhood. But it's over long before midnight." "Well, I don't want to interfere with your family's plans . . . ." He'd learned not to joke about other kinds of social engagements. Scully smiled tightly. "Mom won't mind if I leave when the kids have stopped coming." His grin reached out from deep inside and took control of his face. "Maybe your Mom can pick you up and bring you to her house. I'll come by and get you there. Do you still go to St. John's? I can get the keys. I'll tell them we got word of a plan by a local coven to break in and say a Black Mass." Scully's smile disappeared. "I belong to St. Dymphna's now. Go ahead and try. Father Giles is in his own little world. I don't know if there are witches in it." ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ After he met the priest Mulder understood what she meant. He left his number on Father Giles' answering machine many times on Saturday and received no return call. On Sunday morning he drove to the rectory. Confused but amiable, the aged pastor gave him the electronic code to the new security system within fifteen minutes of his arrival. Before he left, Mulder took the precaution of testing it. The gray, granite-faced church was at least a hundred years old. Its twin towers reared up in the approved gothic manner. In spite of its pastor's retreat into senility, or maybe because of it, St. Dymphna's had a timeless quality that transcended the mundane. The nondescript auditoriums that now passed for churches embraced the ordinary with calculated enthusiasm. This church made no concessions to relevance. It stood in proud refusal to change with the times. Mulder imagined white-robed Druids standing in their ancient groves with much the same pride, until they were murdered or driven away by members of an upstart new cult called Christianity. Brilliant blue day receded into the clarity and chill of a perfect autumn night. The crescent moon looked as dry and worn as a fossil embedded in the hard black sky. Mulder took a jug of cider and a bag of doughnuts from the car before he approached the Scully home. He noticed that the glowing jack-o-lantern on the porch had a strange shape. It was elongated instead of round, with a slight twist in the middle. Its grin had a touch of the lugubrious, wide under a long, broad-tipped nose. The eyes tilted a little at the corners. Mulder started as he stepped onto the porch and a chorus of tiny, electronic voices twittered in his ears. Someone had hung a multitude of sound-sensitive, talking decorations around the doorway. The small, senseless din recalled the weight of thousands of mental matrices pressing against his own, conducting shrill sorties into his brain. He rang the doorbell and tried not to make a sound. That would set them off again. The decorations, not the voices in his head. They were gone for good, he reminded himself firmly. Maggie Scully answered the door dressed like a gypsy. Her ordinarily pale skin had a ruddy, dusky tone suited to her fortune teller's garb. "Hello Fox. I see you're going around as James Dean this year," she greeted him. She jokingly offered him a goodie bag, and accepted the cider and doughnuts he held out in turn. The lamps were turned off and only a few candles lit the front room. Apparently the Scullys worked as hard at Halloween as they did at other holidays. Maggie directed him toward the hallway. "Dana's in the kitchen. She has to take off her makeup. I know it's silly, but when the children were little we got into a tradition of dressing up on Halloween to hand out the treats." She smiled self-consciously. "As you get older you start to value family and tradition more. On holidays like this I really wish I lived closer to my grandchildren . . . . Is it still nice and clear out there?" she asked quickly. "Very clear and cold," he answered, moving toward the candlelight coming from the kitchen. Scully sat with her back to the door. A black cape lay across the chair next to her. She adjusted a makeup mirror with her left hand, while she dipped a tissue into a jar of cream with her right. Mulder thought she must have heard him come in. He didn't want to scare her badly. He just wanted to see his self-possessed partner jump a tiny little bit when his face loomed over her shoulder in the mirror. At the sudden apparition her elbow sent a plate of apple slices crashing to the floor. Mulder was the more startled of the two, and cruelly punished for his childish prank. The face he saw in the mirror was white as hospital linen, with shadows like bruises around the eyes, darkness like hollows in the cheeks. It was the face Scully had worn while she lay dying of cancer, taken to its logical conclusion. His heart seemed to stop with the effort of pumping slush instead of hot blood through his veins. He stepped backward so fast he stumbled into the kitchen wall, bringing down a plaque that proclaimed "A messy kitchen is a happy kitchen." Scully jumped up and dropped the tissue. She advanced on him, a death's head drawn into the familiar look of pity and concern. His fumbling fingers found the light switch before she reached him. The artifice of makeup was revealed. "Are you feeling all right, Mulder?" she asked anxiously. "Better than you look," he returned shakily. She put her hand up to her cheek and a pink grin split the whiteness. "It serves you right for trying to scare me," she said. "It's lucky I didn't knock one of the candles over. Anyway, I thought you liked ghosts." "Some ghosts haunt better than others." "Did something break?" Maggie called from the front room. "I broke a plate, Mom. I'll have it cleaned up in a minute," Scully called back. Maggie walked in briskly. "Never mind. I'll clean it up. You and Fox go wait in the front room in case there are more trick-or- treaters." She took a paper plate out of the cupboard and shook onto it a few of the doughnuts Mulder had brought. "Here. Have some of these." They sat on the sofa and Mulder ate two doughnuts while Scully wiped off her ghastly makeup. The doorbell rang three times. Two Queen Amidalas, a Jedi master, a Darth Maul, a ghost and a skeleton received handfuls of goodie bags from a generous-minded Mulder. As he turned from the door the third time he recognized something. "This is normal, isn't it?" Mulder asked. "Sitting here on Halloween and eating doughnuts while we wait for trick-or- treaters?" He thought it must be, but it wouldn't hurt to check with Scully. She looked at him for several seconds before she replied. "Yes," she answered gently. "But don't let's forget what we're going to do later." "We don't have to do it. I don't care if we do." He realized he really didn't care. Maybe it was all an elaborate scheme hatched by his lizard brain to secure Scully's company outside of working hours. "Are you getting cold feet?" she teased. "Me? Spooky Mulder? Please." "Here you are." Maggie entered with two steaming mugs on a tray. "Cider mulled with cinnamon sticks." Mulder loved the heated spiciness of the cinnamon, but the cider got painfully sweet before he reached the bottom of the cup. "Why don't you have a doughnut, Scully?" he suggested. "I'm not that fond of doughnuts." "Some of these then?" he asked, after he swallowed the last of his cider. He held out a bowl of bite-sized chocolate candy bars. "I shouldn't eat that stuff. I'll get fat. You didn't like me when I was fat," she stated, with a hint of challenge in her voice. "When were you fat?" he inquired with a puzzled look. "I remember when you were rounder and softer---I mean you looked softer," he added hastily. He'd better quit talking right now. There were several reasons he shouldn't have said that. One reason was the mindlessly hopeful stirring in his groin when he considered the question of Scully's softness. Another was the possibility she would conclude her past self had been insulted. Or her present self. She had been softer when she was younger. That was before life had worn her to a whisper thin edge, like a brittle blade too often sharpened. The moment to protest that he'd always liked her had already passed. At least she didn't seem upset. This was a good time to change the subject. "That's a weird looking jack-o-lantern on the porch." "I carved it myself," she informed him with pride in her voice. "Oh. I guess the pumpkins were kind of picked over by the time you got to the store." "Mulder, they had hundreds of perfectly shaped, round pumpkins. All of them alike, very uninteresting, very uninspiring. That one appealed to me because it was different." "Well, it's certainly interesting." Maggie appeared in the doorway with her hands on her hips. "Dana honey, it's nine thirty. Trick-or-treating was supposed to end at eight-thirty. I don't think we're going to get any more kids. I'm going to take a shower and get ready for bed. You're welcome to stay as long as you like. Just be sure you lock up." "That's OK. We're just getting ready to leave. You can lock the door after us," Scully replied hastily. She rose swiftly from the couch and passed by her mother to get her coat from the hall closet. Mulder turned to Maggie to say good-bye. As usual, it was an awkward moment for him. He thought there must be some polite form that would cover "I'm still sorry about your dead daughter and lost grandchildren," but he hadn't found it yet. It was too bad he couldn't ask his own mother. She managed to come up with stunning banalities suitable for the most extreme emotional situations. "Thanks for the hot cider," he said. "Don't mention it, Fox. Thanks for bringing it." Mulder wondered if Maggie sometimes searched for the empty courtesy that contained secret code for "Please don't get Dana killed." "Good night, Mom, I love you." Scully gave her mother a hug, and then they were outside in the cold dark. Maggie must have turned off the decorative chatterers. Mulder enjoyed the silence. The moon had a mellower look now---more like a piece of honeycomb than a chip of stone. ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ Traffic was almost non-existent. It was still a forty-five minute drive to the church from Maggie's house. Mulder was curious. "When did you stop going to St. John's Church?" Mulder asked. "It's been more than a year." "St. Dymphna's is a long drive from your apartment and from your Mom's house," he remarked. "Yes." "I wouldn't have thought you'd choose Father Giles as your priest. He seems a little . . . ." "Out of it?" she finished for him. "Half the time he starts the mass in English and finishes it in Latin." "Why is he still running a parish in his condition?" Mulder asked frankly. "There's a priest shortage, Mulder. If St. John's wasn't the archbishop's pet parish it wouldn't have two priests in residence." Apparently Scully didn't want to discuss her decision to attend another church. He knew it was time to change the subject again. "I heard a funny story from Langly last week. He told me he, um, browsed some confidential files on the Vatican network. There was a draft of a report to the Pope on aliens. No, it's true," he added, sensing skepticism in her continued silence. "The Pope appointed a commission to study the impact of an extraterrestrial visitation on the Roman Catholic Church. You'll never guess the focus of the report." "OK, I'll bite. They laid out a process for determining if the aliens had souls." Mulder shook his head. "They debated whether the aliens would be redeemed by Christ's sacrifice." "Nope," Mulder said, with as little gloating as possible in his voice. "They discussed how the concept of original sin would relate to extraterrestrials." "No, you're getting colder," he replied, allowing a little triumph to sneak into his voice. "I give up," Scully admitted. "I can't think of anything more fundamental to Catholicism." He proceeded enthusiastically with his story. "The commission decided the first day that aliens were fair game for conversion. They devoted the next thirteen days to the problem of sexing extraterrestrials. They're pretty worried about inadvertently ordaining females or performing same sex marriages." "You're kidding," Scully said in a flat voice. Mulder let himself go. "Langly swore it was genuine," he crowed gleefully. "Yes, it's probably true," she sighed unexpectedly. At the next stoplight Mulder swiveled his head to look at her. She wasn't playing the game. They'd been sparring and she sounded as though a blow had connected. She sat with her eyes cast down, her hands folded neatly in her lap. He knew what he had to do. Change the subject again. At need, he could always hold forth. "It's hard for us to understand how clear it was to the ancient Celts that the past, present and future mixed it up tonight. They saw an endless cycle of seasons based on the solar year. It made perfect sense to them that the structure of the old year dissolved into chaos and the new year coalesced out of the disorder. During the process they were outside time, and every point inside time was equally accessible. For linear thinkers like us that makes no sense." "The never-ending story," Scully mused. Then she laughed without humor. "The symbol for it is the serpent swallowing its tail, isn't it? The Oroborous. I carry it around with me. You'd think it would remind me to not to repeat past mistakes." Her sucker punch jabbed wickedly into Mulder's unguarded heart. If Scully had gone out for another walk on the wild side with someone like Ed Jerse, he didn't want to hear about it. He couldn't find a safe topic tonight. "Repeat mistakes?" he echoed reluctantly. "You want to know why I switched parishes, don't you?" she asked. No, not anymore. But it wasn't exactly fair to tell her to shut up about it now. She didn't wait for an answer. "I had another chance to show what a bad judge of character I am. Do you remember Father Gregory and Dara Kernoff?" Of course Mulder remembered. He hated those cases where Scully mixed her superstitions up with unexplained phenomena. She'd told him about the seraphim and the nephilim as defiantly as though she were defending a secret vice. When her religion was involved she lost all perspective. "Father McCue asked me to look into that as a favor. He didn't believe me when I told him what happened He said I was imagining things. But I talked about it to Father Schumann, the assistant pastor, in confession. He was very understanding. I made him my regular confessor after that. He always spent a lot of time talking to me, getting to know me as a person, asking me to explain things. I thought he understood. "Then one day Mom called me. She told me Father Schumann had visited her and tried to persuade her to have me committed for observation. He told her I was clearly delusional, probably schizophrenic, and likely to continue to deteriorate without medical intervention." "Oh no. Oh no. Oh no." Mulder found himself repeating the phrase and shaking his head mechanically. He felt a thousand conflicting things. Long ago he might have taken a mean satisfaction in seeing his complacent partner gagging on a taste of his daily fare. Disillusionment. Disappointment. Humiliation. Betrayal. Loss. It had been a long time since he believed she was truly complacent, or he could stand to see her suffer. But what did she expect from an archaic institution that had never lived up to its advertising? Still, he ought to call on Father Schumann and show him what a really crazy person looked like. Scully continued talking. "I'm just lucky that Mom knew better. She told him I was as sane as anybody. But can you imagine what he did? To persuade her he told her things I'd told him in the confessional, like seeing Emily and the devil in that church. He broke his promise!" He heard all the pain of a child's first experience with treachery in her voice. How had she managed to retain so much innocence? "I went to Father McCue. He promised to talk to Father Schumann. I could tell Father McCue wasn't impressed. He put me off with excuses. 'We worry about the mental health of our parishioners. Father Schumann just got carried away. It wouldn't hurt you to talk to a therapist, would it?' That's what he said. A priest had broken the seal of the confessional and he didn't think it was any big deal! In grade school they told us a priest would die before he'd betray a confession." "I'm sorry, Scully. But it doesn't surprise me. How could he understand what you've been through? Parish priests learn to answer a question with a question, like any good little counselor, and to watch out for psychos. They're just people." "God's supposed to guide them," she said, in a voice so low he could barely hear. "Then I'd say God's long overdue for an independent audit of his managerial performance." She didn't reply. Mulder knew he hadn't convinced her. If he had any sense he wouldn't try to discuss religion with her. The faith tracks in her brain were laid down in babyhood. They were buried too deep to share a junction with a rational train of thought. He should pat her hand and be glad she had a source of comfort, illusory as it was. Perhaps hope couldn't exist without illusion. The combined area of his own blind spots probably stole half his field of vision. Scully's next deep breath had a telltale shake in it that made him feel as though he'd drop kicked a kitten behind a junk yard fence. "Father Giles understands me. No matter what I tell him he always gives me a penance of five Hail Marys and tells me I'm a good girl," she said, with a sad little laugh. "Well, that proves it. He does understand you. You are a good girl." He pulled into the church parking lot thankfully as he spoke. His swift exit from the car left no opportunity for a reply. In long strides he easily beat her to the main entrance, where he found the electronic lock with his flashlight. Above and around them the narthex extended into uncertain darkness. Scully used her own flashlight to search out a light switch. Mulder stopped her with his hand over hers before she could flick it on. "We shouldn't ruin the atmosphere by turning on electrical lights. It might discourage the spirits." "But they used to build bonfires out in the fields to draw the dead away from the villages. Light might attract them," she objected. "Not electric light. We need candles." He pushed at the heavy door to the nave. It swung easily on its hinges with a noise like a 'thwap.' A very dim light from the sky crept in at the highest windows. The dark made the arched roof seem miles away. In the sanctuary one small light burned. Every faint sound echoed hollowly from wall to wall. The gloom obscured any details. "There are candles," Scully acceded, swinging her flashlight's beam from one side of the church to the other. They walked down the aisle to the left side of the chancel. Ranks of unlit white votive candles rose on an elaborately worked metal stand in front of a marble Virgin. "You're supposed to make a donation," she said, pointing to a slotted box at the front. Mulder counted six twenty-dollar bills out of his wallet. "Is this enough?" he asked, displaying them in the beam from Scully's light. She gave him a startled look. "For all of them. Yes. I think so." He stuffed the money into the opening and took a thin wooden stick from the little bucket of fine sand beside the candles. Several books of matches lay on the donation box. Mulder lit the end of the stick and offered it to Scully. "Here. You do the honors. I'll bet you always wanted to light all the candles you could reach." At her quick smile he responded lightly. "Don't ever let them say Agent Mulder doesn't know how to show a lady a good time." While Scully methodically lit candles he memorized the effect of their gentle glow on her pale skin and clear eyes. When she finished, the array generated heat like a small campfire. They took seats in the front row of benches as though they huddled close for the warmth. The flickering lights reached the most prominent features of the nave, leaving black corners and encroaching shadows all around them. What Mulder noticed first were the eyes. Each pillar wore an angel head with wings pinned unreliably to its neck. They peered across the aisle at each other from under thick bangs. Windows set with stained glass like gems depicted swollen cherubs casting doubtful glances at ecstatic saints. A Christ Child bristling with satin, lace, and flashing jewels stared woodenly toward the back of the church. Behind the altar the Madonna rolled her eyes to the heavens. A bloodily realistic Jesus on the cross turned a suffering look earthward. The long-suffering dark eyes inspired an imaginary dialogue with their owner: Let's see. Three hours on the cross ended by a spear to the heart. Would you trade it for weeks of torture in a boxcar? How about watching your half-human three-year-old die of a necrotizing tumorous infection? No deal, huh. Could I interest you in a commitment to days of holding open house for the entire world inside your skull? What's that you say? You'll stick with the cross? Good choice. Of course I knew you were smart. You opted to take on the punishment for the sins of the world---not the guilt. He wondered what conversations Scully thought she carried on with Jesus. Perhaps she contented herself with the simple satisfactions of ritual, just as he turned on the TV automatically, knowing all the time there would be nothing good to watch. "Uh, Scully, you can go ahead and pray if you want to," he said in a low voice. He gestured toward the kneeler folded up in front of them. "Thanks. I went to mass this morning. I'll just sit with you." She looked heavy-eyed and cozy in her long wool coat. If he were really lucky she'd go to sleep beside him. He'd have the perfect opportunity to put his arm around her and allow her head to find a natural pillow on his chest. When she woke he'd tell her she snored, or drooled, or whispered sweet nothings to Frohike in her sleep. She'd never suspect that he sat and tried to take shallow breaths so his movement wouldn't wake her up. He dreaded, treasured and hungered for such fleeting moments of contact. Checking his watch quietly he found it was ten forty-five. If he concentrated, he could sit without fidgeting. The extreme jumpiness that followed his breakdown was subsiding into a manageable restlessness. Unfortunately, now that he was forced to sit still and think, he had nothing to do but question his reasons for bringing them out here on a wild ghost chase. He knew Scully didn't expect to see anything. That haunted house last Christmas terrorized her. Clearly she believed herself safe in this place. She had no qualms about drifting toward sleep an hour before the supposed arrival of disembodied souls. Did he really expect to see anything? >From here his motivation seemed laughably obvious. He came up with this pathetic excuse for an X-file so he could pretend to be normal---normal for him, that is. His prolonged recovery still didn't allow a strenuous trip across country to hunt down mythical wild creatures or human monsters. So he convinced himself there was a mystery worth investigating in his own backyard. Scully felt sorry for him and played along. She had drowsed off, unconsciously leaning into him for support. It was time to take a chance on easing his arm behind her. Church pews made this much easier than individual car seats. Pews offered no support above the back, making his chest much more attractive as a resting place. He rocked sideways a little, bringing his arm around her shoulders, angling himself into the corner of the pew. Yes, he admitted to himself, this eventuality had occurred to him when he let Scully precede him into the seat. Last summer her steely persistence and hard-won experience saved his life. Her vulnerability in his arms left him awed and uncertain. With her soft, light hair mussed across his jacket he could picture himself drawing the strands between his fingers. He could even imagine waking her with a touch on her cheek and then brushing his lips across hers. What eluded him was a vision of her reaction. In his mind he tried numerous expressions on her face---shock, disgust, horror, hilarity, contempt. None of them really fit. Scully cared for him. It would probably be a look of deep pity. His imagination had the agility to leap past this discontinuity to a scene of her writhing beneath him, frenzied with lust under his hands and mouth. But he could never bridge the gap satisfactorily with anything other than that disheartening return of sympathy for love. Of course he hadn't really believed there was anything to the folklore. He'd never heard the story told about an American church. There weren't even any rumors that targeted St. Dymphna's as a likely location for uncanny events. It was so quiet now. And chilly. Almost unnaturally chilly. His leather jacket seemed to be conducting cold to his skin instead of trapping warmth. The stone floor sucked the heat out of his feet and legs. A careful peek at his watch showed it was only eleven. An hour to go before he could leave with honor satisfied. There was a tiny sound from beyond one of the doors leading off the altar. It could have been the crack of a board expanding or shrinking with a temperature change. At the edge of audibility something rumbled below the floor with a drawn-out boom, like a balky water pipe. If Scully didn't wake up before midnight he'd tell her a tall tale about what happened. "I was sitting there debating about who'd win in a mudfight--- Wonder Woman or Cat Woman---when I noticed a sort of fog drifting in at a window. The window that shows the unfortunate woman holding her eyeballs on a plate. A little whirlpool of mist swirled around slowly. More and more was seeping in. It started moving faster, until it looked like it was boiling. Then, all of a sudden, it flung itself up like a snake striking. The mass of it stretched out about ten feet and then it snapped back into this ordinary looking geezer in pajamas. He looked through me like I was the ghost. "Then he glided reeeal slooowly on a path straight toward us. His body or whatever it was passed right through the pews. I wondered what was going to happen. If he didn't change his path, he'd go through us too, and I didn't much like that idea. He got closer and closer. He body looked solid when he wasn't halfway through a bench, but he was too pale. I knew he couldn't be alive. What could I do? There wasn't time to wake you up and run, and I couldn't leave you there alone. When he got to be about a foot away I held up my hand to signal 'Stop.' Instead of stopping he went . . . ." This was where he'd jump forward at Scully and shout "Boo!" He remembered getting a wonderful reaction from Samantha with a story like that. It was on the Halloween before she'd been taken. His jaw had been sore for days. It was true Sam hadn't been trained to deliver killing blows. He might not want to jump too close to Scully when he yelled. Or he could tell Scully he saw her in the ghoulish procession. This was her parish, after all. A more awful, stupid joke didn't exist. He'd give a lot to be able to unthink that thought. The dead face he saw earlier in the mirror mocked him from the back of his mind. An almost subliminal vibration thrummed through the wood of the pew they sat in. The legends didn't imply a change in the material world. According to folklore time shattered around the onlooker like a crystal lattice tapped by a hammer. The rest of creation stayed intact. Mulder wondered if he should expect a change in his surroundings. Then he remembered that nothing was going to happen, and attributed the movement to a passing truck. The candles had created a haze. Anything he focused on wavered slightly when viewed through the thicker atmosphere. It struck him as strange that the smokiness seemed denser around the windows, when any crannies that let fresh air through should disperse it. The story was a ridiculous mish-mash of Celtic superstition and Christian attempts to assert control over the old gods. Churches were dragged into it at a late date when the priests came up with the feast of All Souls. What if he actually did see Scully at midnight in a parade of ghostly shapes passing through the Church? If he wasn't careful he'd work himself into a state where he'd imagine something like that. Maybe he wasn't ready even for this baby-step back into the field. He remembered what it was like two years ago to believe that only days of life were left to Scully. It felt like the old doom of being pressed to death. The passing of each hour added another stone to the weight slowly crushing his chest. Eventually he would no longer be able to breathe. If there were only months left to them, he didn't want them poisoned by the despair of knowing the limit. He needed illusion and hope. Hell, even if all they had left was the drive back to her apartment tonight, he wanted the pure, innocent experience. Relax, he instructed himself. Probably it would be best to leave before midnight. He just had to figure out a face-saving way to do it. The door at the back of the church swung open with its distinctive 'thwap.' He turned his head as far as he could without waking Scully, but he couldn't see the door. Steps came down the main aisle slowly, shuffling and scuffling as though the feet were hobbled. Mulder had a wild vision of a livid corpse hampered by a clinging pall, compromised by disintegrating limbs. When he saw from the corner of his eye that it was only Father Giles he almost blacked out from the drop in his blood pressure. The small, shriveled figure of the priest wandered uncertainly toward the east transept, where the murk behind the pillars swallowed him. He'd never even glanced at the blaze of candles or the two agents sitting at the front of the church. Moments later Mulder sensed a rustling presence above and behind them. This time he moved as much as necessary to peer up into the inky spaces of the choir loft. He thought he could make out a slight movement at the very back of the balcony area. It was so dark he couldn't have seen anything if the form hadn't glimmered with a hint of iridescence. Or perhaps it was a reflection. When he turned back he noted that Scully still slept. The illumination around them had changed, shifting subtly from the yellow toward the blue end of the spectrum. Mulder watched in fascination as the sapphire heart of each candle flame expanded, and its golden crown diminished proportionately. The skin on his whole body seemed to draw up tightly, as though he'd been dowsed in an icy astringent. The back of his neck felt exposed to unseen eyes. It was only eleven-thirty. He still had time to plan a graceful exit strategy. Unless ghosts didn't recognize the standard time zones. He shook Scully's shoulder and then sat her up straight with brusque movements. "C'mon Scully. It's time to go." Mulder stood in the aisle before she'd thoroughly waked up. The main door seemed to beckon for his attention while he scrambled for options. If he looked at the door it would certainly open. He didn't know what would walk in or what might find its way down from the choir loft. If they stayed here one more minute he would find out. They'd have to walk through the somber shadows behind the pillars to reach the door in the west transept. It was the only door he wanted to risk. "We'll go out the side," he informed Scully, as he came close to levitating her out of the pew with the vigor of his pull on her arm. "What's the hurry?" she objected. He ignored her question, keeping a tight hold on her forearm with his right hand. With his left he took out his flashlight and turned it on. The beam made a direct path he could follow without lifting his eyes from the floor. He steered them across the church as urgently as if they were pedestrians defying rush hour traffic. The clatter of their footsteps pleased him. It was impossible to hear any other sounds. Just before he let go of Scully to open the door he stopped abruptly. There was no keypad to enter a code. It might be locked manually from the inside. At the same moment he registered the little 'thwap' sound that signaled the opening of the main door. At his hesitation Scully reached out casually and shoved the side door wide. He towed her through it with the firm purpose of a parent removing a toddler from a cutlery display. Afterwards Mulder didn't even remember descending the steps outside. There was a gusty wind now. The sliver of moon skidded recklessly through a grid of white, backlit clouds. Mulder froze in momentary panic when the muttering began in his head. Scully took one look at his face and began tugging him back toward the church. He realized suddenly that the tremulous sighs he heard were the movements of leaves stirring in the trees. With careful control he arranged a smile on his face. "Scully, stop. Don't worry. I was just trying to remember if I deposited my last paycheck. I have anxiety dreams about that." She looked at him quizzically. "Are you sure that's all?" He reversed their direction back to the parking lot, suppressing his urge to pick her up and run to the car. "Well, did you?" she asked, refusing to be hurried. "Did I what?" he replied distractedly, unlocking the car doors as they approached. "Remember to deposit your check," she rejoined. "Oh, yes. No problem. All taken care of. Let's get in out of the wind." He started the engine while Scully fastened her seatbelt. Before he put the car in gear he fussed with the clock settings. "This clock is wrong," he complained, covering the display with his hand as he changed the numbers from 11:35 to 12:15. "I guess I nodded off. Did I miss anything?" Scully asked. She gazed out at the church and gave an exclamation of surprise as he backed out of the parking space. "That's odd. The windows showed some light before. It looked like all the candles went out just now." He peeled out of the parking lot with more acceleration than he intended. His answer to her question was offhand. "Nothing happened. Except Father Giles popping in for a few middle-of-the-night prayers. There are two possible interpretations of the evidence. One is that the legend isn't true. I think it's more likely that no one in your parish is going to die this year." She answered him with a brief laugh. They passed a brilliantly lit billboard featuring a wolfman, a bug-eyed alien and a cloud of bats. The text read, "Come to the Mad Hatter for your Halloween costumes." Scully made a sound so much like a giggle that Mulder couldn't place it. He listened worriedly for more clues. "You know something Mulder? We own this holiday. It doesn't ask anything we can't give. It doesn't have any baggage. For once we fit in because everyone around us is thinking about the paranormal and the unexplained. We should celebrate it like this every year." "Maybe a cemetery at midnight next time?" he played along. "That might be too cold. Let's make it a mausoleum and bring stadium blankets." "How about a sleeping bag?" he suggested nonchalantly. After a beat she responded with another laugh. "I got an electric blanket for Christmas last year. That would be more efficient than a sleeping bag." He thought she might actually have enjoyed their outing. Maybe it wasn't entirely an act of mercy on her part. His improved mood lasted until they opened Scully's door. The face of her living room clock was clearly visible when she turned on her lights. "My clock only shows ten past twelve. I wonder if the power went out," she commented. Mulder braced himself to lie as he watched her check her own watch. "We must have left the church at eleven-thirty." "My watch must be wrong," he said, frowning at his wrist impatiently. She surprised him by seizing his hand and pushing his sleeve up to look for herself. "You didn't want to stay until midnight," she accused. "You should have woken me up and told me if you felt . . . uncomfortable." "Haven't the past two months given you enough chances to play keeper to my lunatic?" he asked, jerking away more roughly than he intended. "I enjoyed tonight. It was good to have you back." The sincerity in her voice brought him around to face her immediately, too quickly. His own anxious face would have given him away. She had already figured it out. "You were afraid you'd see me in the church---my doppelganger, or ghost or whatever," she asserted. "I didn't know you really believed in that legend. I don't believe in it." "I don't know if I believe in it either but . . . . Scully, I wasn't thinking when I suggested going to your church. I couldn't . . . I just couldn't." He moved toward the door, regretting that he had turned a fairly good evening into yet another demonstration that he wasn't the man he used to be. "Wait a minute. I've got some cider and cinnamon sticks too." She held out her hand to take his jacket. He wavered. She smiled firmly and moved between him and the door. He bargained for some self-respect. "How about decaf coffee instead of cider. That stuff we had at your Mom's---it was too much sweetness all at once," he said with a slight grimace. Scully looked at him thoughtfully. "Did you have anything to eat all day before those doughnuts and that cider? Maybe you had a hypoglycemic mood swing." "Thank you for the twinkie defense, doctor. I plead a serious drop in blood sugar. Unmanned by my own hostess gifts," he said with heavy irony. Ten minutes later Scully served coffee, with a side of re-heated pizza for Mulder. She seemed preoccupied with her thoughts. They talked a little about Monday's schedule. Mulder sighed at the prospect of another week at his desk with reports to review. When he stood to go Scully accompanied him to the door. As he fished for his keys in his jacket pocket she took an oddly formal stance in front of him. Setting her jaw, she bore into him with her most determined stare. He could see her swallow hard before she spoke. "I think I should tell you. Even though I don't believe the story, I wouldn't have agreed to sit in your church tonight. If you had one. I just couldn't," she said. He acknowledged her self-revelation with the restraint they always observed, in spite of the shining tears gathered in her eyes. "Thanks for telling me," he returned. "Good night, Scully." ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ ^v^ End of "A Normal Halloween"