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ghstandpucks · 5 years ago

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Misguided Ghost Ch.4

A.N: So my story just went to #9 on the Zak Bagans tag on Wattpad! I’m so excited I had to share! Also.. if anyone knows how to like the chapters onto a story without putting the whole url, I would be appreciative of the help! I hope you all are staying safe and healthy! Enjoy!

Ch.3: https://ghstadventuresgrl.tumblr.com/post/622599346097160192/misguided-ghost-ch3

Truce

I walked into the office Friday morning feeling more comfortable than I had the day before. Sure it was only my second day on the job, but Zak seemed a little more accepting of me toward the end of the day so I figured I was off to a good start. Aaron’s office was still empty, but Nick had his door open. “Good morning Nick,” I smiled as I walked past his office.

“Morning Y/N. Hey, come here a second.” I walked into his office tentatively. Nick looked away from his computer screen and smiled gently up at me. “Zak showed me the research you did yesterday. I have to say, I was impressed at what you found for those places and how much you got through.” I smiled and looked down, a bit embarrassed by the praise.

“Thanks. I’m glad that it was what you guys wanted,” I responded. Nick chuckled.

“That and more.” He went back to his computer screen and I took that as my que to leave his office. I walked back to where mine and Zak’s offices were. His door was shut and I frowned slightly. Why was I disappointed to not see him?

I opened my door and started setting up. I had grabbed some of my mythology books that I had from school and put them on my bookshelf. I had also ordered a white board and cork board that should be at the office later today so I could hang some things up and write down info about upcoming lock downs. In other words, I had to be organized or I would lose my shit. I had also brought in a few picture frames to set on my desk. I had one of my family at Disneyland, one of my two best friends and I at our undergraduate graduation with our cap and gowns, and another of the three of us that showed us all laughing standing on top of a couch in some random San Diego club when we all turned 21. I had handed my phone off to some random person that had gotten us into the VIP section and free drinks. Girls just want to have fun right? I was standing with my back to the door reminiscing about how fun that evening was when there was a knock on my door. I jumped slightly and turned around, smiling when I saw it was Zak and Aaron. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” Aaron chuckled as he walked into my office.

“It’s fine. I was in my own little world for a second,” I explained. Zak walked in behind Aaron and handed me a Starbucks cup. It was my passion tango tea and read ‘lil sis’ on the side. I gave Zak a quizzical look.

“Aaron ordered” he said softly, knowing what I was questioning. I looked at Aaron and he showed me his coffee cup, which said ‘big bro’ on the side. I laughed.

“Thank you for this, big bro,” I winked as the guys laughed and looked around. Zak eyed my books and walked over to them as Aaron started to look at my pictures. He picked up the San Diego one.

“Wow, you actually have red and black in your closet?” He asked, acting astonished. I laughed and looked down at my green knee length dress. In the picture I was wearing a red lace crop top and a short black skater skirt with black heals. Zak looked over quickly to see what Aaron was talking about, and I watched his eyes look me up and down. Blushing, I took the picture back and started to explain the events of that evening.

“Didn’t think you were a party girl,” Zak mumbled after I was done explaining, finally looking away from the picture, even though I had set it back down.

“I’m not really. But don’t judge a book by its cover. You hardly even know me,” I shot back. What was with him judging my appearance? Zak and I stared at each other for a second, I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. Probably that he was about to fire me. Aaron broke the silence.

“Are you still friends with them?” I looked at Aaron and nodded my head.

“Ya, still best friends. We met freshman year Fall quarter and have stuck together ever sense. They’re the best,” I smiled. “Also, I hope its ok that I have a white board and cork board being delivered today?” I looked back over at Zak.

“That’s fine. Make the space your own,” he said and walked into his own office. I made a face and looked at Aaron who was looking back and forth between Zak and I. “What?”

“I can’t tell if you two are going to be like the best of friends, rip each other’s throats out, or be that annoyingly cute opposites attract couple,” he said in a low voice. I gawked at him.

“More than likely one of the first two. I highly doubt the last one,” I whispered, making sure Zak couldn’t hear us.

“I don’t know, he likes to talk about you. Wouldn’t shut up about how great your research was when we went to get the coffee this morning.” I blushed at that and turned away from Aaron. “Oh, so there is a feeling there!”

“I didn’t say that. Beside I just met you guys and I work for him now so it will be strictly professional.” I muttered, sitting down and opening my laptop to start my work for the day.

“You aren’t denying it though. And technically you work for Travel Channel so it wouldn’t be like you slept with your boss to get a raise or anything,” Aaron winked as I shooed him out of my office, not even wanting to respond to that comment. I looked across at Zak and he had his head down in his own work. I prayed he didn’t just hear all that.

~ ~ ~

After my boards were delivered and I acquired the help of Aaron to put them up, I found myself walking down the hall to make a copy of a paper of a place I was researching. The paper had a few numbers and extra sources for articles on the place, so I wanted to keep a copy for myself before handing my research over to Zak. As I walked back to my office to grab all the papers and my notes of the 3 places I was able to get through today, I noticed all the guys were in Zak’s office. I kept to myself and started gathering my research when Zak called me over. I walked in with the papers and smiled at the guys. “Are those for me?” Zak asked motioning to the papers.

“Yup. There was a lot of information on that one ghost town, so I only was able to look at 3 places today. But everything should be in there,” I explained as I handed him the heavy stack of papers. At least it was heavy in my opinion, Zak’s large frame took them easily from me.

“Are you doing anything tonight Y/N?” Aaron asked. I looked at him and shook my head.

“Not really. I was probably just going to cook dinner and watch tv,” I shrugged. I had really just planned on finishing unpacking this weekend. The exciting life of Y/N Y/LN.

“Well we’re all going out tonight to get a drink and dinner. Would you like to come?” Aaron smiled at me. I wasn’t sure what to say.

“Um… you know I don’t want to impose…”

“You wouldn’t be. You can meet my wife. Plus, Billy is coming so you can meet him too,” Nick interrupted my poorly planned excuse. I really didn’t want to intrude on a night out for them since they hardly knew me. As if he knew what I was thinking, Nick spoke up again. “And it would be nice to get to know you and you us since we’ll all be going on a lockdown next week.”

“Oh, I’m going on that?” I questioned.

“You’re our historian. We kind of need you there,” Zak answered with a nod. They all looked at me expectantly.

“Ok. And that sounds fun tonight, if it’s alright with everyone?” I glanced at Zak specifically. He smiled softly and nodded.

“Awesome! I’ll text you the address of the place. It’s kind of like a dive bar off the strip, so it’s never too busy, especially on Friday nights,” Aaron explained. I smiled and nodded, saying good bye to everyone and leaving the office for the day.

Once I got home, I showered and did my hair. I curled it in a beachy wave, then did my make-up. I stood in front of my closet, trying to decide what to wear. It was dinner, but still a bar. I wanted to look nice, and a bit more grown up. Being 5’2 and a petite 112 pounds, people often did not believe I was old enough to drink, let alone be out of high school. I’m sure that’s how the guys saw me, and for some reason I specifically wanted to show Zak that I wasn’t some little girl who always wore dresses. I tended to have a closet that reminded people of Jessica Day on New Girl. The fact that I was a substitute teacher for a few years while I worked on my master’s and after didn’t help that goody two shoes image I had made for myself either. Not that I minded it, I just kind of wanted Zak to notice me. What Aaron had been saying kept replaying in my head. Zak was the first one to say they should hire me; he likes to talk about me and my research. Was he not as intimidating and judging as he’s appeared to me over the past week?

I shook my head to try to get those thoughts out. I was just going out with the people I work with, and that was that. I ended up picking out my ripped skinny jeans and a black chiffon top that showed a strip of my stomach. I put on my black healed ankle boots and grabbed my leather jacket. Aaron said they would be there around 7:30, and it was 7 now. I looked up the place and saw it was about 15 minutes from me. I made sure my hair and make were in place, then called an uber. I am a bit of a light weight. Even though I was just planning on having a single beer, I don’t really trust myself to drive after. Better safe than sorry. My uber came and dropped me off at exactly 7:30. I was really hoping someone was already there so I didn’t have to wait by myself. I walked in and looked around. The place had a fun vibe, with a dance floor off to the side. There were tables and booths that took up most of the place, then a bar next to the dance floor. The music was turned up, but still at a volume that you didn’t need to yell over. I imagined that it got louder as the night went on and the dance floor got crowded.

I looked to my left and saw Aaron and Nick waving me down. I smiled and walked over to them. “Hi guys,” I said as I slid in next to Aaron.

“You made it! Y/N, this is my wife Veronique,” Nick introduced us.

“Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I smiled at her. She returned it and shook my hand.

“You too! I’ve been hearing about all your research. You have these guys all impressed,” Veronique stated. I laughed and thanked her.

“If you want something to drink, you have to go to the bar,” Aaron informed me. I saw that they already had their drinks and got up, excusing myself. I walked up to the bar and leaned against it, waiting to get the attention of the bartender. I was never very good at inserting myself at bars. He came over after a minute or two, and I ordered an Anchor Steam beer. A rum and coke sounded good, but I didn’t want to get too giggly with everyone just yet. As the beer was pushed toward me and I was about to hand over my card, an arm reached over me.

“I’ll pay for hers, and an O’douls,” a deep voice said. I turned and saw Zak, who was smiling down at me. “I have to say Mia, I almost didn’t recognize you in jeans. You look good,” he said as the bartender handed him back his card and his drink. I stood there, not knowing what to say for a second.

“I could have paid for my drink.” I blurted out. Zak chuckled and leaned against the bar next to me.

“I know, but I got it. Think of it as an olive branch,” he stated. I quirked my eyebrow.

“An olive branch?”

“Ya. I know I keep making remarks that bother you and I honestly don’t mean to. You really do just seem like this bubbly person so I guess it was just my way of trying to get used to you. Aaron told me I was coming off a bit rude and I just want you to know that it wasn’t personal,” he tried to explain himself.

“Well if it was about the way I look and dress then it was personal. But ok,” I looked down at my beer. Zak huffed.

“What I mean is that we’ve all gone through some pretty serious shit together, and you just seemed like this ray of sunshine bouncing in…in a good way. I wanted you to know that I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. And if I have then I apologize for that. I think you are doing a great job,”

“Aaron told me you were the first one to say you guys should hire me. If that’s true, then why the attitude the past two days?” I questioned him. I was curious. He smiled at me and looked back toward the table. I followed his gaze and saw the guys pretending to seem like they weren’t watching us. I blushed slightly, hoping the dim lighting would hide it.

“You’re smart Y/N. I saw that in the way that you presented yourself. You’re also very passionate about history, and it was intriguing. Plus, you didn’t come to the interview asking about being on tv and our lockdowns, or asking for an autograph after,” he answered me. I tilted my head to the side a bit.

“People really asked for an autograph after their interview?” he nodded. I laughed slightly. “And I don’t really care if I’m on the lockdown.”

“I know. You were refreshing to talk with. And after the past two days you seem to be exactly what we needed. So, what do you say we start over and I try not to be such an ass with my remarks? Truce?” He smiled at me, but I didn’t miss the way his eyes looked me over. Maybe this was the right outfit choice after all. I bumped my drink into his.

“Truce,” I responded, smiling at him. I turned to then walk back to the booth with Zak following closely behind me. Aaron scooted over in the booth as I slid in next to him, and Zak by me. Once we had sat down I was introduced to Billy Tolley, the audio-visual tech who showed up while Zak and I were talking at the bar. We all ordered our food and enjoyed the evening. I was laughing with everyone and feeling more comfortable then I had since I moved in last week. Zak stole a French fry off my plate and I bumped him with my elbow. Life might turn out to be good here.

#Ghost Adventures #ghost adventures imagine #zak bagans #zak bagans imagine #gac #ghost adventures x reader #zak bagans x reader

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myhauntedsalem · 5 years ago

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The Cosmopolitan Hotel San Diego, CA

The Cosmopolitan is a hotel and restaurant located in Old Town San Diego which is registered as a National Historic Landmark. The history of this building goes back to 175 years. It all started with a pioneer named Juan Lorenzo Bandini. He settled the area in the 1800s. Between 1827 to 1829, he built a magnificent and extended residence with the idea of proving maximum comfort to his wife and two daughters. The result ended up being the largest residence in San Diego at that time. The house was built in a Spanish Colonial style. It included abode walls, muslin ceilings and brick lane patio.

When Bandini died, a man named Albert Seeley acquired the property. His dream was to build a place where travelers could rest, eat and get some entertainment. In order to do that, Seeley added a second level to the originally adobe structure. He was able to create a hotel with 20 rooms. The new edification was built in a Greek Revival style. Seeley was able to keep the hotel full because he was also in the transportation business. He used to run coaches between Los Angeles and San Diego three times a week.

There were 10 small rooms and 10 large rooms. You are not going to believe this but the smaller rooms were rented for 50 cents. The bigger ones were rented for 1 dollar. Another interesting fact is that bathrooms, like we know them today, didn’t exist at that time. All guest had to go to a communal area outside the hotel which contained a pile of water and a hole on the ground for you know what.

Once the city of San Diego started to expand, business began to slow down and Seeley ended up selling the hotel. The building played many roles in the upcoming years. It was an olive factory, a motel and a restaurant. In 1968, the State of California acquired the building and the Old Town Historic Park was created. Last year, the hotel reopened and recuperated some of its old glory.

The interesting part of the story is that since the remodeling of the place started, strange things have started to happen. Last weekend, my husband and I took a free tour of the property and the hotel manager told us a lot of ghost stories. According to him, spirits roam the property. He narrated his own experiences and he really believes that the place is haunted. Once the hotel opened, guests started to share their own stories. Each room has a journal where they can write their experiences.

All the rooms still have the same journal that was there when the hotel was opened (last year). All the rooms, except one. This particular room is given a new journal every couple of months. The manager said is the most haunted room in the property. He does not go to the room alone because of the many experiences he has had. The room I am talking about is called the Isadora Bandini room. Once the building was converted to a hotel, Bandini’s daughter used to go there to remember her childhood days. She used to stay in the same room at every visit. A lot of people believe her spirit is still in the room. The ghost likes to open the curtains, move the position of the mirror and put the bathroom robe on the floor (this is what guest and hotel staff has experienced). Guest can also hear a cat purring at night. Paranormal activity experts have examined the room. When they started to get readings and ask questions, they weren’t getting anything. Then, they realized that Isadora spoke Spanish when she was alive. They started to ask questions in Spanish and, at that moment, she told them her name. They also caught the cat and some Indians who lived in the area way before the adobe house was constructed.

#The Cosmopolitan Hotel #haunted locations #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits

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lepus-arcticus · 5 years ago

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HALF-MOON DINER 4:00 PM

The Half-Moon Diner was a relic from the 60s, with cracked cream tile and flaking red leather stools lined up at the counter. Strains of tinny bluegrass harmonies scrolled forth from an old antenna radio behind the bar, filling the air with a lament about whatever happened down by the banks of the Ohio.

Even under the weak fluorescent lights, Hugh was a presence. In the grimy throng of farmers scarfing down gelatinous heaps of scrambled eggs and reheated strawberry pie, he appeared to Scully as a beacon, lit from the inside by the glow of tragedy. She sat across from him in a corner booth, her shoulder pressed up against the window. Sheets of rain melted her reflection into the glass, blurring a ghost of her into the dark sky outside.

She felt warm and sullen, cupping a chipped china mug of tar-black coffee between her palms. People stared at them, caught themselves, turned away, glanced back for more. The young, pretty waitress in her lemon-yellow uniform had been polishing the same plate for ten minutes, gawping at them from over the bar.

If Hugh noticed, he didn’t seem to care. He hunched over the table, the very picture of tortured, contained passion.

“Hugh,” Scully began, conscious of their audience. His hand, splayed on the Formica, was brown and dusted with sun-bleached hair.

“How’s this. I’ll tell you everything… anything you need to know, Dana,” he said quietly. “Anything that’ll help. Ask away. I’m yours.”

Scully looked up from the table and found him gazing intently at her. Under the beam of his spirited eyes, she found herself somewhat at a loss for words, for strategy. “Um. Well I suppose you can start by telling me about your wife. About your marriage.”

A sad smile pulled at the corner of his lips. “I guess that would be the place to start, now, eh?” He picked up his cup and sucked down a mouthful of coffee, appearing to gather his thoughts. “Em. Well. I bought the farm in ‘94. Met Anna the same year. Met her here, in fact. She was a waitress.” His voice faltered, and he looked over at the bar, as if he could still see her there. The girl cleaning dishes blanched, and seemed to remember something pressing to attend to in the kitchen. “Nineteen. Loveliest thing I’d ever set my eyes upon,” he continued. “Sweet as the sunrise.”

Scully blinked and pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “And why Horizon? Why leave your home behind for such a faraway and isolated place?” She imagined the lack of anonymity, nowhere to run or hide, and suppressed a shiver of revulsion.

“You’ll think I’m a langer,” he offered, chuckling self-consciously and scrubbing his chin with his hand. “Ehm. I, eh, I guess I watched The Hangin’ Tree a few times too many. Staying in Ireland just wasn’t as… romantic of a concept as the call of the mythical Old West.”

Scully couldn’t help but smile a little. “If it’s any consolation, I think Gary Cooper had that effect on a lot of people.”

Hugh grinned at that, full-on, a disarming flash of brilliance that he swiftly pulled back into submission. “God, I love that bastard. Anna loved him, too. She, ehm, she grew up in that religious colony, without television, you know, so films were quite a thrill for her. The novelty, I suppose.”

She nodded, sipping her coffee. It was burned and bitter, and it coated the roof of her mouth.

“Now… now I know what you must be thinkin’, because everyone was thinkin’ it, but she and I really did have a lot in common, despite... the age difference. When you’re… when you’re not with your family, even if it’s by your own doing… well, there’s a loneliness there that I’m not sure can be described. It’s something you don’t understand until you’ve experienced it. I left a lot of people behind to come here. Not all of them were supportive of it. Of me.”

Scully thought of Bill in San Diego, of Charlie in Canada, of her father scattered in the sea, of her sister in the cold ground. “But Anna had Rhiannon, didn’t she?” She said. “And Marion, too. I’ve been given the impression that the three of them were quite close.”

At the mention of Marion’s name, Hugh clenched his jaw. “Ah. Well. Don’t let folks lead to you believe that it was all sunshine and rainbows up at Kicking Horse. That Rhiannon is a strange and fiery woman, and certainly no great admirer of mine. And Marion… well, if you happen to have sisters, I’m sure you can imagine how it could be. Especially when it became clear that Anna and I were of a mind to be married.”

Melissa at fourteen leapt to her mind, her eyes brown as pondwater and lined with crumbly black. Her scalp tingled with the memory of her hair in her sister’s fists. She didn’t even remember what the argument had been about. She pushed the image down, and continued. “And when did you begin your affair with Marion? After the wedding, or before?”

Hugh exhaled sharply and looked away, out the window, staring down the soaked smudge of his reflection. A fork of lightning darted down into the fields in the distance. “Jesus,” he muttered. “Did Marion tell you that?”

“In as many words,” Scully replied.

He turned his palms up in a gesture of helplessness, and then dropped them again. “I mean, what on earth could I ever say to defend myself? It was never supposed to go that far. Anna had these moods, and she’d been so distant, and Marion was always around, always had a listening ear to lend, that girl, and I⁠—we⁠—just got wrapped up in the… in the forbidden excitement of it all, I guess. The hiding. The secrets. The passion. But I ended it as soon as it begun. It was nothing more than a few weeks of foolishness.”

Scully looked him over, trying to gauge the honesty of his words. She found herself wishing for Mulder’s powers of insight. “When, Hugh?”

He swallowed. “This is going to look bad. But it was a few months ago. Shortly before… well, when the omens began. But you mustn’t think that… I mean, who could… I still loved Anna, I wanted to make it work, and Marion loved her as a sister; we didn’t want to hurt her, neither of us could ever…” He stared hard into her, releasing a shaking sigh. “You have to believe me. About this, about the signs…”

The shrill cry of Scully’s cell phone cut into the air. She dug it out of the rumple of her coat and shut it off.

“Dana… you don’t believe me about the omens.” It was a statement, not a question.

“My partner does,” she replied with a sigh. The bell over the front door of the diner tinkled.

Hugh nodded, chewing his bottom lip. “This town… Horizon… it’s a strange place. Was strange long before I put down my roots.” He was getting worked up, a tremor easing into his voice, his eyes beginning to glisten. “This is a fucking nightmare. Whatever is here killed my wife. Killed our child. Killed her goddamned horse. It’s not done. I’m next. I know it.”

“Hugh,” she said softly, and reached over to cover his hand with her own, just to soothe him, just to draw him back into calm, clear conversation. Marion’s words of warning leapt to her mind, but now that she’d heard the full story, she was less inclined to take her seriously. She remembered sneaking around with Daniel, how she felt as though she was helpless to resist him, too.

Hugh took a breath and closed his eyes, sliding his other hand over hers. His skin was rough and warm, and it sent a flush of sweetness through her.

“And just what’s goin’ on here?”

Scully turned to see the thick slab of Theo’s chest. Above them, his eyes were indignant, bright with suspicion. Behind him, a dozen faces turned to follow the drama. Scully ripped her hand away from Hugh’s.

“Sherriff Gladstone,” she said, arranging her face into a practiced professional scowl.

“Dana was just asking me a few questions, Theo,” Hugh said in a bristly tone, as she gathered her coat. This was ridiculous, she’d done nothing wrong. So why did she feel so exposed?

She stood and shouldered past Theo. “We’re all done here, Mr. Daly. Thank you for your candour. Theo, I’ll send you those autopsy notes once I go over them with my partner,” she said, wrapping herself in her overcoat, and without a goodbye to either of them, she marched out of the diner and into the cold downpour of rain.

KICKING HORSE B&B 6:23 PM

The bed was littered with crime scene photos.

Mulder squinted into the bright laptop screen at the rolltop desk in the dim of his room. The connection was crummy, and the going was agonizingly slow. There was little public information about Horizon, even less about the Bishops or the colony or even the reservation. Nothing about homicidal behaviour in crows, mythological or otherwise. He lingered around thoughts of ghosts, of signs, of family, of loss, trying to find a path.

He hoped there were records in town, old newspapers, anything that would help him discern a pattern. He had a few ideas, but he needed Scully's perspective, needed her to eliminate the mess of avenues he laid out for her until they came to an agreeable trail to follow. He needed her to disagree with him, to make him work for it, so that he could gauge the depth of conviction he carried about the hunches he was nursing.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, slamming the screen closed. Where the hell was she, anyway?

He was just about to reach for his cell to try her again when he heard footsteps on the stairs. At first, he thought it was Rhiannon, armed with either a peace offering or another scolding, but then he heard the door of the next room shut.

He stood, briefly stretching his arms behind his back, and followed the sound.

“Scully?” he asked, with a gentle knock.

There was no answer but the sound of her movements inside—a shuffling of clothing, a muffled sniff. He rapped his knuckle against the wood again. “Hey, Scully, you okay in there?” He placed a hand on the door, trying to sense her inside of the room.

It swung open abruptly.

Scully’s hair was wet with rain, and she’d changed into her robe. There were black smudges of mascara clinging to her eyelids, and she looked so small and vulnerable that he had a sudden, dire urge to scream at her.

“Where were you?” He asked tersely.

She walked over to her briefcase and flung it open on the bed, gathering loose papers and Polaroids and thrusting them towards him. “Here are your initial autopsy notes,” she said. “I'll transcribe the rest tonight.”

Mulder stared. She shook the papers a little when he didn't take them, then tossed them back to the bed.

“You can't just not answer your phone,” he pressed, lodging his hands on his hips. “We’re on a case.”

She turned to look at him, expression neutral, but she couldn't hide the redness at the tops of her ears, the stiffness in her shoulders. “And what about all the times you've ignored my calls, Mulder?”

Silence yawned between them, punctuated only by the slap of rain against the windowpane.

“... Scully, look⁠—” he continued, trying to diffuse the situation. “You're right. I'm sorry. I was just concerned, okay? You sounded upset earlier, and I just—I know that Daly makes you uncomfortable.”

She blew a huff of air from her nose, and turned away.

He forged ahead. “I, uh, had an interesting day.” He was expecting her to take the bait, but she remained quiet, clearly distracted. “I don't think Abel Stoesz is involved... he's a nasty piece of work, but I can't see it coming down to him. But Scully, Marion knows something. We need to talk to her. When she's cooled off a bit.”

She nodded.

“...Uh, any luck with Daly?”

Scully fidgeted with her fingers, twining them together and rubbing at her thumbnail. “Mulder,” she said, and the pit of his stomach dropped. “I don't want you hearing this from anyone but me.”

Taken aback, he waited, searching her face.

“After our initial interview, Hugh and I decided to continue our conversation in town.” She paused, bracing him with her eyes, daring him to say something. His lips were suddenly very dry, and he darted out his tongue to wet them.

“And?”

“Well, the fact is… to onlookers, we may have appeared a little… familiar. Our demeanor may have been construed as inappropriate.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mulder, it was nothing.”

Something sour and vile filled his chest. “If it was nothing, why the little confessional here?”

“I was comforting him, that was all. I don’t want Theo putting ideas into your head.”

An itching heat prickled over him. Scully was slipping away from him, literally and figuratively, wasting away, fucking murderous psychopaths and getting inked in sleazy Russian tattoo parlours and getting all cozy with sketchy farmers while they were supposed to be conducting a goddamn investigation.

“Oh, like how you comforted Ed Jerse? What, you got a bucket list number you need to fill or something?”

She looked as though he’d slapped her. “What is your problem?” she asked through her teeth, her voice low and deadly as a viper.

“My problem is that your decision making skills have been severely compromised since your diagnosis, Scully. You can’t even keep a professional distance from a good looking suspect?”

“Hugh Daly is a victim, not a suspect.”

“Did you happen to conveniently forget about Marion’s warning? Scully, listen to me here, she knows something!”

“Marion is twenty two years old, Mulder, and highly emotional, and she and Hugh⁠—”

“Scully, I need you with me on this, not having tea parties with⁠— ”

“⁠—If you’re going to crucify me every time I show a shred of human decency to someone⁠—”

“⁠—Oh, come on! That’s not what you were doing, and you know it.”

She snatched up the papers again, and shoved them towards him. “Mulder, take the damn notes and get out. Just leave me alone.”

Alone. She always wanted to be alone. But only when it came to him.

He ripped the papers out of her hands, fixed her with one last searing gaze, and left.

1:33 AM

Darkness. True darkness, and then a swift, startling awareness unfurled through her body.

The inky miasma of the room pressed into her, trapping her, locking her down. She tried to move her hands, but found that she couldn’t. Things were strange, and wrong, and the only thing she was sure of was that she wasn’t supposed to be here. There was a tingling buzz in the back of her head, growing, getting louder, becoming more and more insistent… and then perfect, eerie quiet.

A presence.

There was a figure at the end of her bed. She couldn’t quite see it, couldn’t quite focus on it, but she felt it, as real as gravity, and it was singing, in a voice so thin that it sounded more like a thought passing through her mind.

I cannot get o’er…. and neither have… I wings to fly…

Her heart seized in terror. She knew that she was dreaming. She had to be. She struggled against the oppressive gauze of sleep, fighting for air, and then she was there, and it was real, and she was sucking breath into her lungs, chest heaving and chilled with sweat. As she struggled and failed to move her limbs, she realized she still felt someone, something, there with her, and became suddenly and painfully alert. She mentally located her gun on the nightstand. Feeling gradually bled back to her, and she carefully wiggled her fingers, staring at the ceiling, willing there to be nobody there when she looked.

She took a deep breath, counted the punches of her heartbeats, and glanced down. Nothing.

Of course there wasn’t, she reprimanded herself. She was just having another nightmare. The case was just wearing on her. Anna’s body, Mulder’s accusations. Hugh.

Her pulse began to settle. The rain had cleared, and as she glanced over to the window, she could see a freckled arc of stars through the glass. She took a few more steadying breaths, struggling to sit up, thrusting her hands through her sweat-damp hair. She tuned an ear to listen for Mulder’s snores, but there was no sound.

She wanted to get up, to go to him, to make things right between them. But her mind went blank when she thought of what that might entail. What it could lead to, here in the dark in the middle of nowhere.

Instead, she kicked off the fluffy summer comforter with still-shaky legs, and went over to the window. A gentle breath floated up from the radiator. It wasn’t too hot to lean against, so she did, luxuriating in the comforting flood of warmth through her pajamas.

Her reflection stared back at her from the window glass, and she reached out to trail her fingers along the surface. For months, she’d avoided the thin, tired, sombre woman in the mirror, that horrible, consumptive apparition of herself. She remembered last night’s dream, her own face poised above her, pale and waxy in death.

Soon, she thought. I’ll be dead soon.

She passed the word through her mind over and over again, like fingering a strand of prayer beads, one for each of the countless cadavers she’d cut open in the course of her work. Sometimes they’d just been part of her day, barely human, interesting arrangements of flesh on a slab, and she a 20th-century haruspex, reading entrails.

But it had to be that way. It wasn’t that she was unfeeling⁠—she just preferred to keep her own emotions locked away, muzzled and collared like dangerous, mythical animals. Despite the popular opinion of the grunts in the bullpen, she wasn’t cold. No, she burned too hot for comfort. Melissa had been the same, but she’d embraced that heat. Harnessed it, rode it into battle. Made it work for her. In this and in so many other ways, Melissa had been the stronger one of them, the one that knew how to listen to her heart, to her gut. The one that knew what bravery was.

Did she see the gun, the hand in the dark? Did time slow to a crawl? Did Missy know, did she suspect, even for a second, that she was going to die?

Scully hoped not. To be aware of your own mortality was strange, too strange for her to fully grasp. There were other lives she’d wanted to lead, other paths she might have taken. She wanted to be a doctor. She wanted to be a mother. None of that would ever happen⁠—this was it for her. And what was the legacy she would leave behind? A few files in Mulder’s cabinet labelled with Scully, D.? A family torn apart, both of her mother’s daughters dead in the name of her work? A trail of unavenged victims and half-solved cases that no court of law could begin to prosecute?

Grief and helplessness rose like water in her throat, drowning her from within. Was this really God’s plan for her? What good had she ever really done with this life? What would Missy think? What would her father have to say?

And Mulder… Oh, Mulder. There was just too much there to contemplate. She wondered if she would ever have the courage to even begin to tell him what he meant to her. She wondered if, even worse, he already knew.

She clipped the latch of the window and shoved it open, forcing her breath to slow and deepen before the tears spilled over.

Fresh air met her skin with a gentle kiss, a whisper of wind pushing its fingers through the wheat outside. The clean country air was thin and rejuvenating. She closed her eyes against it, inhaling, sending a filament of prayer to whoever would listen, a prayer of peace for Mulder, peace for her mother.

And then she heard it again. Warm breath in her ear.

Both shall row… my love and I...

A shock of fear electrified her, and she flung her shoulders around. And then she heard a heavy swoosh, like a baseball bat cutting through the air.

Blood rushed into her ears, and she felt a razor-sharp heat open the skin of her shoulder.

She staggered backwards, instinctively covering her face, the pain and surprise of it trapped in her chest, so that she couldn’t cry out. The bird screamed at her as it ripped, a shrill harpy caw filling the room. She tasted blood in her mouth, felt the creature’s beak scraping and tearing viciously at her back as she stumbled away⁠—

CRACK⁠—

The door nearly splintered with the force of Mulder’s kick, and then Scully did cry out, in the terror and rage of it all. She expected to hear a gunshot, but none came⁠—just the heaving thump of Mulder’s body on hers, tackling her, rolling on the floor so that he was above her, shielding her. Black wings beat around his face as he reached up and grabbed the comforter from the bed, lunging at the dark and screaming bird, trapping it against the floor with his body.

Scully whipped her eyes around the room⁠—the crow appeared to be alone in its attack. She scrambled up and slammed the window shut, shaking fingers working the latch closed. Mulder was hunched over the struggling, squawking, blanketed lump on the floor. He fumbled around it as she ran back to him, and with sure, angry hands, he gained purchase on what he’d been searching for.

He grasped and twisted, and there was a sick, muffled crack. Flinging the dead bundle away from himself, he knelt in front of Scully, who had fallen back against the footboard. He ghosted his fingers down her cheek, looking deeply into her eyes as she struggled to gain control of her breath. “Scully, you okay?” She touched his wrist, trying to speak, taking in the scratches on his face, the blood beading along a deep cut across the tendon of his neck. “Had to tackle you. Couldn’t get a clear shot, you okay? Did I hurt you?”

She was beginning to feel the hot, white pain of it, blood trickling down the back of her pajamas. “My back,” she said.

“Let me see.” He tugged at one of her shoulders, and she swiveled obediently, pulling at the neck of her shirt. “...Shit, Scully, you’re all torn up.”

“Go get Rhiannon,” she breathed, every moment becoming more and more cognizant of the pain. Mulder scrambled up to a crouch, grabbing his gun from the floor and placing it in her hands, cupping her face. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” He grounded her with his battle-worn monotone, the planes of his face blue in the night.

Scully closed her eyes and nodded, willing her heart rate to go down. Blood streamed from her, plastering her pajamas to her back. She was dizzy, raw-nerved. She heard Mulder’s movements downstairs, his voice bellowing for Rhiannon, the creaking and slamming of doors, the rattling of cupboards in the kitchen. She breathed through her mouth, settling into the pain, eyeing the bulge under the blanket.

When Mulder entered the room again, he had a large white metal first aid kit under his arm and a serious look on his face.

“Where’s…?” Scully asked.

“She’s gone. Her truck is gone. The dog is gone. I found a field kit, but Scully, from what I can tell, you’re going to need professional medical attention. You’re bleeding. A lot. Rhiannon’s gone. The closest hospital is hours away. Talk me through this, here. What do we do?”

“Get me to the bathroom,” she rasped. He ducked out to toss the kit with a clang into the bathroom, and returned for her. She reached for him, and he gently helped her up. They staggered clumsily together across the hall, Mulder careful not to touch her ruined back, the eyes of the Bishop women on the wall following them.

Mulder flicked on the wall switch. The wan, metallic light flickered to life above them, the buzzing from it echoing off the bathroom walls. The bathroom was longer than it was wide, and housed a clawfoot bathtub, no shower, a tiny black square of window, and a kilim rug rough under her bare feet. The ceiling was slanted, and so low that Mulder had to stoop his head.

Scully caught sight of herself in the pockmarked mirror. She was pale, her hair wild, and dark splotches of blood were soaking through her robe. Mulder loomed above her, looking guilty. “Scully. What do I do? Tell me what to do. Tell me what you need.”

“I need to get this shirt off.”

Mulder exhaled unsteadily as she peeled her robe off and tried to lift her tank. The fabric stuck painfully to her lacerated skin. “A little help here?” She managed to ask. Mulder visibly swallowed and helped her lift her shirt, averting his eyes politely as she brought the tattered, sticky fabric around to cover her bare chest.

The bathroom was cold against her skin and the heat of her blood. She glanced over her shoulder to survey the damage. Her naked back was lashed and streaked, and there was one deep, seeping cut that ran three or four inches from the inner curve of her shoulder blade to the base of her neck. Mulder’s face in the mirror was drawn as he surveyed the damage as well. The gash on his neck was bleeding into the collar of his shirt.

“Scully, fuck. Okay. it’s gonna be okay. What do I do? What do you need?”

“I can’t reach. These need to be cleaned. Water. Clean towel,” she managed, beginning to feel faint.

Mulder sprang into action, rooting around the squat wooden armoire for fresh towels. Scully slumped onto the fuzzy cover of the toilet seat, clutching her bloody shirt to her breasts. The rug was already spotted with her blood. She flashed on the photograph of Anna in the field, her intestines curled in the dirt.

Mulder, jaw set, rinsed the towels in warm water from the sink. He dropped to his knees in front of her⁠—“Here, can you turn a little?”⁠—and scraped the towel over her back.

She sucked air over her teeth. “Mulder, gentle...”

The towel was uncomfortably rough as he cleaned her, murmuring comforting nothings that would usually infuriate and humiliate her, were she not sick and scared and half-naked in a stranger’s bathroom.

“Scully…,” he said, “this one is bleeding pretty seriously. It looks bad.” Fuck.

“It… needs pressure. Clean towel. 15 minutes,” she breathed.

He discarded the wet, bloody towel and rummaged around for a clean one, pressing it into her back and shoulder with a comforting, firm hand. His other hand rested on her arm, caressing her almost unconsciously, sending tiny shivers up to her neck. The slanted walls of the bathroom seemed to crowd in on them, pressing them closer together.

After a few minutes, when the sharp edge of shock had worn down, Scully spoke, her voice shaking and tenuous. “It was a crow. Dammit, Mulder, it was a crow.” He nodded, chewing the inside of his lip.

“Good thing you weren’t out taking a midnight stroll in the wheat.”

“Don’t joke about that,” she said, haunted by Anna’s shredded face. He had the good sense to look vaguely ashamed.

“Scully… this can’t be a coincidence. What’s the common denominator here? Hugh Daly gets you alone, maybe shows a bit of interest in you, and bam, birdfeed.”

“Maybe there’s… maybe there’s a disease here. Maybe that’s why the animals are acting strange, attacking people. That might explain Hugh’s horse, not to mention the one on the highway… and, and Anna. And the crow that flew into my window tonight.”

“Then why haven’t we seen other animals affected? There are literally thousands of cows and horses in Horizon, don’t you think Rhiannon would have noticed something, would have mentioned something?”

“Well, she’s grieving, maybe she hasn’t thought to…”

“And where is she? What is she doing out in the middle of the night?”

“Maybe there was an emergency.”

“Well, these walls are pretty thin, and I didn’t hear a phone ring or anybody knock on the door, did you?”

They fell into another uneasy silence. Scully was weak with residual fear, the pulse of her blood hot on her back, the pain clarifying her thoughts. “Mulder…”

“Yeah?” He answered, his voice just above a whisper. He was so, so close, the scent of his skin all around her.

“Um... check if it’s... stopped bleeding.”

He peeled back the towel, gently stroking the skin next to the cut. “Oh, Scully,” he breathed.

“Do you see any white? Any muscle tissue, subcutaneous fat?”

“Ugh… um. Maybe.”

“Let me look…” she said, turning and placing a hand on his shoulder, using him for balance as she pushed herself up. His hands went to her elbow, to her hip, and he followed. She went to the mirror and turned her back to it, squinting at the cut. It wept fresh blood. “Mulder… I’m going to need stitches. I can’t reach to do them myself.” She looked over her shoulder and regarded him with as much sternness as she could muster. Comprehension and horror overtook his face.

“No. No, Scully. Wait for Rhiannon.”

“And what if she’s not back soon? Or ever? This needs to be closed up, ideally within the next six hours, and it’s a simple process. One you’re fully capable of performing with my instructions.”

“...Can’t we just wait?”

“Mulder,” she said, growing frustrated. “Buck up. I just want it over and done with.”

“Scully! No, Jesus, what if I⁠—?”

“Shut up and get that first aid kit. I need to see what’s in there.”

He blinked at her helplessly, then resigned himself and leaned over for the white tin, bringing it back and opening it. Luckily, it was well-stocked, something Rhiannon might bring with her on a call.

Scully rifled through the case one-handed, unearthing thread, a curved needle that resembled a fish hook, a roll of gauze, and a bottle of iodine.

“Should I.. do you need ice? I can go get ice,” Mulder ventured.

“That might be a good idea,” she conceded in a strained voice, the pain radiating hot and sharp across her back.

He blinked up at her, his eyebrows slanted in concern. “Okay. I’ll be right back. You stay here. You scream if anything happens. Loudly. And stay away from the window.” Scully nodded and watched him as he disappeared through the doorway, closing it swiftly behind him.

The moment he was gone, she sank back onto the toilet seat, and let loose one single, silent, wretched sob, clutching at her tattered shirt so hard that her nails bit into her palms through the fabric. She hated herself for it. For her weakness, her fear. Hated herself for needing him. Hated that he might be right.

She pulled herself together quickly, biting her tongue hard, blinking back tears. Minutes slurred onwards, and soon, Mulder’s voice sounded beyond the door. “Scully, it’s just me,” he warned, before rattling the door knob and letting himself back into the bathroom. He cradled a dusty bottle of Glenfiddich under his arm, and toted a few handfuls of ice tied into a kitchen cloth, already melting into his shirt.

“Thought this might help too,” he said, liberating the bottle from the crook of his elbow with his free hand and sloshing it around a little. She looked up at him as he unscrewed the cap and handed it to her.

Oh, Mulder.

She adjusted the arm that was holding her shirt to her chest, took the bottle from him, and pulled deeply. Liquid fire swished down into her chest, into her sinuses. As she drank, she met Mulder’s eyes, and found something in them that was suspiciously close to admiration.

“Alright, Anne Bonny,” he said, taking the bottle back and taking a short, scowling swig himself before screwing the cap back on and clanging it down next to the base column of the sink. He kneeled in front of her again, helped her turn around, and brought the dripping ice pack to her back. After the initial jolt of it, numbness swept through her slowly, both from the drink and the cloth. Rivulets of melt trickled down her back, sweetening the rhythmic throb of fading pain.

“I’m ready,” she said, once the bite of the ice had faded into a blunt gnaw.

Listening carefully to her instructions, Mulder washed his hands and clumsily sanitized the needle, threading it with some difficulty. He soaked a cotton pad in iodine, and guided it slowly over her skin in strokes so soft and careful that they could have been mistaken for a lover’s touch.

“Scully, I can’t do this,” he pleaded, when everything was prepared.

“Mulder,” she countered patiently. “You know how to sew, right?”

“I mean, I can do a button, but… this isn’t the Indian Guides.”

“Please… I trust you. Just do it.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said.

“I need this. I need your help.” She looked over her shoulder at him, and saw determination return to his face.

“God, Scully. Okay. You let me know if you need to… if you need a break, or if something feels wrong, or…”

“Make sure you catch enough of the flesh, okay? Pull it open a little. It’s a rotation, remember, not a stab. Just keep your hand steady.”

He sucked in a breath, and then she felt the first pinch of the needle invading her skin, the slow, tense curve of of it, then the tug of the thread as it slid through her, the tight pull as he knotted her skin back together.

“One down,” he murmured in concentration, and then he entered her again. She gasped quietly.

“Am I hurting you?” He asked with infinite tenderness. “Am I going too fast?”

“It’s fine, you’re… it’s fine,” she said.

“We can take a break if it’s too much. You’re the boss.” His hot palm swiped over her shoulder, and she glanced down at her knees.

“No, it’s… it’s not that.” She realized she didn’t know quite what it was. “You’re doing fine. Thank you, Mulder,” she added as an afterthought.

“S‘okay,” he said, and continued, but even more slowly, more gently than before.

“I’m going to need antibiotics as soon as possible,” Scully said, more to herself than to him. “And the swelling⁠—did you see any Motrin in the tin?”

“No, but I’m sure Rhiannon has some kicking around,” he replied softly. “You sure that was a normal crow, though, Scully? I feel like an exorcism is more the order of the day than antibiotics.” He said this with flat humour in his voice, but she didn’t think it was very funny.

Six stitches, and then there was gauze and tape, and then it was done.

He swiped a warm, wet cloth over her back one more time, avoiding the dressed wound. His hand continued downwards, knuckles bumping over the ridge of her spine, and the pads of his fingers came to rest on her tattoo.

“I’ve only seen it in snapshots. The red is really…”

Scully pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and leaned forward, just a little, a silent invitation for a closer look. Mulder bent down further, tracing it with his fingers. She could feel his breath on her skin.

His voice was coarse and close. “It’s nice.” His fingers brushed in a spiral over the snake, sending chills up her spine, heat rising between her hips.

“Mulder⁠—”

His hand leapt off of her skin, as if the snake had bitten him. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay⁠—I just… let me look at you.” She swiveled, holding her shirt to her breasts with one arm and bringing her hand to his face with the other. He was far better off than she was, just a few scratches across his cheek framing his rocky nose. She tilted his chin in her hand, and examined the cut along his neck. It had stopped bleeding on its own, but left a trail of rusty red down into the scooped gray collar of his shirt.

Their eyes locked together and held, and a stroke of energy went through her, something undeniably foundational, something as deep as love. But then the light in his eyes shifted.

She felt a hot trickle of blood spill from her nose and pool between her lips. Self-consciously, she brought the back of her hand to her face to catch it, and turned away.

“Scully…” Mulder gently grasped her wrist and tugged her hand away, turning her face to his, tenderly dabbing the blood away with a clean corner of the towel.

“I’m fine, Mul⁠—”

“⁠—STOP that,” he seethed, suddenly intense, inches away from her face. “Stop it with that, Dana, you are not okay. I’m sick of this shit. Stop it. It’s me, for fuck’s sake. It’s me.”

She tongued the corner of her mouth, tasting blood, and felt the hot sting of tears forming behind her eyes again, the twist of humiliation and anger in her belly. Mulder sighed deeply, his shoulders heaving.

“You’ve got to trust me, Scully. You’ve got to let me in. I’m right here with you. You’re not… you’re not fighting this thing alone.”

Despite her efforts to keep it at bay, a tear welled, crested, and rolled down her cheek. Mulder seemed to hesitate momentarily, then leaned forward and pressed his lips against it, sweetly, lingering. He pulled back, and then, as if surprised by his own audacity, he launched himself up, his bum knee cracking. “I’m… uh, do you have anything to sleep in? I’m gonna…” He disappeared without finishing his sentence, and reappeared a moment later with a clean t-shirt, which he tossed in her direction before leaving again.

Scully closed her eyes, willing them to dry. She dabbed at the sticky blood that had transferred from the shirt to her chest, and careful of her injuries, she slid the shirt over her head. It was soft, smelling of Mulder and laundry soap.

“Scully?” Mulder appeared in the doorway again, wide-eyed, his voice urgent, gun in hand. “Scully⁠—the crow is gone.”

“What do you mean the crow is gone? I thought you killed it!”

“I did, but it’s gone.”

“How can that be possible?” She stood, bracing herself against the sink.

“I have a few ideas,” he said darkly. “But… I don’t want you in that room tonight. I think you should come to mine so I can keep watch.”

“Mulder, I’m⁠—”

“DON’T⁠—start with that again. I’m gonna get cleaned up, and you’re coming to my room.” Something about his tone of voice reminded her of her father, and she found herself unable to protest. She followed his orders, watching him strip his shirt off and dab at his chest with a wet cloth, and then following him to his room. It was a mirror of hers, with the same sloping roof. “Take the bed,” he said, closing the door behind him.

“Where are you going to sleep?”

He nodded towards the small armchair in the corner.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Mulder. The bed is big enough for the both of us.”

He seemed to consider this, chewing his lip, hands on his hips. “Okay, but I’m taking the side closest to the window. Just in case.”

Scully curled into the cool sheets in the dark of the room, favouring her good side. The sleepy smell of him rose to meet her from the pillow, a scent that was dark with dreams. Mulder was pacing, checking the locks, peering out of the window, the floor creaking under his feet.

She watched him quietly as he slowed and then finally stopped.

“I, um. I think your room was Anna’s,” he sighed, leaning his forehead against the window glass.

“I think it was, too,” she said, and was grateful that he didn’t ask her to elaborate.

He turned, his long, lithe silhouette approaching the bed, the moonlight glancing off of the curve of his shoulder. Carefully, he crawled in beside her. The grandfather clock in the corner ticked contentedly on. Scully felt as shy as a teenage girl; she was careful not to touch him, but she yearned to all the same.

Mulder tentatively reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and rested his palm on her cheek, thumbing just below a scratch.

“Why is it always me?” she whispered, indulging in a fit of uncharacteristic self-pity.

He scooched towards her without a word, his knees knocking her shins, and kissed her sweetly between the eyes as he threaded his arm under her neck. She rested her cheek on his chest, sucking her tongue nervously, submerging herself in his heavy, warm aura. He nosed her hairline.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “We’ll figure this out. All of it. You’ll be fine.”

#omens #txf fic #the x files fic

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detectiveguapo · 5 years ago

Text

A couple of days ago, I came out of Tumblr hibernation to say that I was working on something and here it is. As per usual, it’s a drabble that turned into a 3486-word one-shot. Featuring Miguel Galindo (duh) and YOU (or a character of your choice; I have one in mind but I’ll keep her a secret for now).

Warning: Sexual Content

---

Arouse

Summer of 2009 - Santo Padre, CA

A blur of neon lights swirl across your eyes as the brass and accordion swell with the sounds of Santo Padre’s annual summer fair. The desert air tastes like cotton candy with a heat that surprises you in the back of the throat. It’s customary when La Feria’s in town that you and everybody’s cousin come out to gorge on elote and tacos, ride rollercoasters on rickety tracks, and watch people in this dying town momentarily forget they live in this dying town.

Your best friends are all about tradition, and as much as you hate to admit it, so are you. So you indulge and join them, because, really, anything is better than spending another Friday evening home alone, wallowing in sadness over your cheater of an ex-boyfriend. It’s been six months, but it still stings — like a papercut that refuses to heal. Why would it when you insist on picking at it with questions of whether you should have followed him to San Diego instead of staying here to work at your tío’s restaurant? You think moving out there would have solved the distance problem, which caused the unwanted celibacy problem, which made every college-aged girl an irresistible temptation in your ex’ eyes. He can’t help it; he has needs. It’s tough when you know he’s wrong, but you still blame yourself for not doing enough to keep him happy.

You’ve never been at your best when threatened with the fear of being alone.

—

The crowd grows denser as you pass through the stretch of colourful carnival games. Desperate for cool relief, you wrap your hands around your hair sticking to the back of your neck. A cool breeze rushes up the length of your spine, and you close your eyes, savouring the sensation before it’s gone. When you open your eyes, the first and only thing in focus is a face so sharp and crystal clear that everything else blurs into the background. You hold his smouldering gaze. You follow every line and every curve of his face, memorizing the slope of his nose and the mischievous curl on the corner of his lips. That steady thrum of a heartbeat drowns out the noise, and time has conspired to stand still for just the two of you.

Until you hear your name. You break the stare, ducking your head as hair falls over your flushed face. Someone takes your hand, and it takes a second before you realize it’s your friend dragging you farther into the crowd. “What’s wrong with you?” She laughs, totally indifferent to what had just happened. “It’s like you’ve seen a ghost.”

—

As the night deepens from a haze of purple to black, you go through the motions of listening patiently to stories you’ve heard before. You love your girls, but your head’s not present in the moment. You try not to give yourself away, but you’re searching through the throngs of people, hoping to catch a glimpse of that man in the blue shirt. Maybe your eyes were playing tricks on you; maybe it was just a mirage of a gorgeous man. God knows you’ve been thirsting for affection from the opposite sex. As much as you hate to admit it, your ex-boyfriend had a point — long distance relationships are nearly impossible because you lose that ability to have sex whenever you desire. It’s frustrating. And ever since you broke up with him and blamed yourself for simultaneously not doing enough and doing too much for someone who didn’t deserve it, the frustration has only grown tenfold.

You’ve tried. You’ve gotten close with your own fingers, but you’ve just never gotten to that place. Last week, you agreed to go on a date with an old acquaintance from high school before you chickened out when he asked you if you wanted to cap off the night in his apartment. You’ve always been known to go after what you want but, lately, it all feels as if there’s nothing worth wanting.

Except a strawberry-chile raspado.

—

The man scoops shaved ice into a plastic cup and prepares your treat right in front of you. Your mouth waters at the mere thought of the sweet and spicy flavours on your tongue and the refreshing ice down your throat.

“Dos piñas, por favor.”

The voice is warm and deep like thick honey poured into a glass of intoxicating amber. A flash of blue creeps into your periphery, and you find yourself standing shoulder to shoulder with, what you thought was, your desert mirage.

He looks straight ahead, just as fascinated as you were moments earlier, but this time you’ve got something new requiring your utmost concentration. You study him from the corner of your eye, noting his clean-shaven face and his genetically-blessed bone structure. He’s well-dressed — almost too well-dressed for La Feria — but he carries himself with so much confidence that he doesn’t look out of place. He’s got a boyish charm to his features, but the lines on the corner of his eyes suggest he’s older than you, but not by much — maybe in his late 20s.

“Aquí está su fresa y chile, señorita.”

He smells really good, too. Like being cloaked in expensive leather while sitting in front of a crackling fire in a log cabin nestled deep in the Northern California woods.

“Your raspado,” the stranger says, while handing you the plastic cup with the domed scoop of red shaved ice.

“Sorry. Thank you.” You say quickly, taking the cup from his hands, skin stirring upon contact. A little bit of the ice falls onto the back of his hand. “Shit. I’m so sorry.” You grab a stack of paper napkins on the counter to help wipe it off, but he’s already ahead of you, placing his hand to his mouth and licking the trail of sweet, red juice. Not once does he stop staring at you.

Suddenly, the thought of submerging your body in a vat of shaved ice doesn’t sound all that terrible. It’s boiling hot, your cheeks are burning, and your limbs feel so loose, they’re melting. Your heart races. Your breath quickens. It’s been a while since you’ve genuinely had this feeling but you recognize it straight away. You’re aroused.

—

“Holy shit!” Your friend manages to yell and whisper at the same time. “What was that? You and that guy were totally eye-fucking back there.”

“What?” You scoff. “We were not.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, you have to find out.” She pushes you back in the direction of the food stall, where he’s still waiting for his order. “Go!”

“No way!”

“Why not?”

“Because he ordered two drinks so he’s probably getting it for his girlfriend or his wife.”

“Nope.” Your friend says, crossing her arms over her chest. She nods in their direction, and you look over your shoulder to see the man hand one pineapple shaved ice over to his mother. “Awww, isn’t that so sweet? Total hubby material.”

“Lorena,” you warn her.

“You’re so into him.”

“Cállate.”

She rolls her eyes and flips her long, dark hair over her shoulders. “Ay, maybe you should let him fuck all that negative energy out of you.”

You playfully shove her and make a disgusted face, but in your head you’re thinking that may not be the worst idea in the world.

—

You love your girl friends but you also want nothing more than to kill them in this moment. The teasing is relentless. And now that they’ve caught onto you being “hot for the hot guy”, they’re making a conscious effort to stalk him around the carnival. You follow him a few feet away as he walks the fairgrounds with his mother, your heart warming as he places a hand on the small of her back to guide her through the crowds.

She pulls him toward a line for a ride. He puts his hands up and looks like he’s telling her it’s a bad idea, but she insists, smiling brightly at her son. As soon as they fall in line, your friends are dragging you to the same ride of spinning, vomit-inducing cars.

He doesn’t even notice you’re standing right behind him until your friends start giggling, pretty much giving away the fact that you’ve been following him all night. The stern expression on his face softens and he smiles at you and your friends, before turning back to his mom to place an arm around her shoulder.

As you approach the gate to the ride, his mother steps out of line. “No, no creo que pueda hacer esto.”

“Mamá, esta fue tu idea.”

“Lo sé,” She says as she takes another step back, looking over her shoulder like she’s in search of something or someone. “Pero no puedo, Miguel.”

“Mamá.”

“No. You stay in line. You’re already the next one to go,” she tells him with motherly authority. “Encontraré a tu padre.”

Miguel hesitates to follow her but stops when he sees her flanked by two burly men in black. He breathes a sigh of relief and shakes his head, and a seed of doubt plants firmly deep in your belly. You already know he’s not from around here, but something in your gut tells you he isn’t supposed to be here either.

The alarm bell rings and the gate opens. As the tide rushes in, you hear the faint laughter of your friends standing on either side of you. They exchange a knowing look and, in hindsight, you should’ve known they had something up their sleeves. As you near the brightly-coloured two-person cars, you feel a nudge toward a very specific red car decorated with metallic gold lightning bolts.

“What are you doing?” Panic rising in your voice.

“Trust us,” they say as they practically shove you into the tiny space next to the man you and your friends have been stalking all night. Before they abandon you to a slow death, one of your friends leans into your ear. “You’ll thank us later.”

Neither of you say a word as people climb aboard the cars and the outdated speakers make their choppy safety announcement in both English and Spanish. Arms and legs in the car at all times. Seat belts securely fastened. Eyes straight ahead so you can pretend the sexiest guy you’ve ever laid eyes on isn’t studying you with a morbid, heated curiosity.

“What?” You blurt out. “Do I have something on my face?”

Miguel chuckles but doesn’t answer the question, leaning back into the seat to look straight ahead.

The ride starts like a gentle cycle — slow rotations around a pole smattered in multi-coloured, seizure-inducing lights. As if a traffic light signalling GO, green flashes before your eyes just as you feel that first contact of skin. The back of his fingers brush along your thigh. They linger even as rainbow bursts into vision and the ride picks up speed.

As you spin in circles, metal tentacles raise you high up in the air and drop you in stomach-turning speed back to earth. The first time the sudden drop hits you, your hand grabs onto his knee. You’re about to let go (even if you don’t really want to) when he turns his head to face you. Miguel’s shaking his head. Streaks of neon burning brightly behind the sly smile.

It emboldens you and you grip tighter, your hand rising higher up his leg. He follows your lead, fingers tracing the top of your thigh, dancing hotly over smooth skin, pressing down with every sudden drop. The tips of his fingers disappear under the hem of your short dress, teasing you and making you ache for him to go that extra distance. But he doesn’t. Not yet.

His eyes are molten chocolate, fixed on yours like he’s daring you to go even further. You don’t know if it’s the ride or the man in front of you, but you’re dizzy, your stomach feels light as air, your nipples are sharp points poking through the thin material of your dress, and your panties are soaked.

The ride slows down like a spinning coin flopping on one side. And it’s over just like that. Miguel pulls away, head looking straight on and hands nowhere near your body. You miss him already — the way he touched you, the way he looked at you, the way his breath kissed your face you could almost taste his sweetness.

When the ride finishes, you’re both breathing a little heavy. You think this is the point he runs, never to be seen again. Instead, he surprises you when he takes your hand and helps you hop off your red thunderbolt. He ushers you down the line of people leaving the ride and, momentarily, you spot your friends just outside past the gates. You begin to raise your arm to wave in their direction, but he pulls you the opposite direction before your friends have a chance to see you.

Everything you’ve ever been taught about strangers and avoiding dangerous situations fly out of the window when this man is holding your hand and leading you into a white canvas tent. Miguel unzips it, guides you in, follows you inside, and zips it closed until you’re swallowed by darkness.

You don’t even have time to ask him what’s going on before you feel a pair of strong hands on your waist, pulling you flush against him. Immediately, you become aware of the fact that the arousal you felt on that ride was shared unequivocally with this man right in front of you. He’s hard. He’s pressed up against your body and he’s turned on because of you — and if that doesn’t make your body ache in need for him, surely a kiss will.

Miguel’s lips find yours in the dark. Warm and soft and pliant — he searches to be satiated. You wrap an arm around his neck, deepening the kiss, pulling him backwards until you bump clumsily into an equipment crate. He lifts you and settles you on top, positioning himself between your open legs.

Hot kisses pepper your neck, and he asks if this is ok. And you want to scream that it’s more than ok, but all that comes out is a catlike stretch to expose your neck and a throaty “yes.”

Hands explore your hips, your back, gripping your neck before gently tugging at hair. Miguel’s a mix of tender and rough. A mix of beauty and danger.

You kiss along his jaw until you find his mouth. Your tongue swirls with his. Your fingers trail along the edge of his jeans to pop off the button, shimmying them down his thighs, which feel sinewy with muscle under your touch. “Eager,” he says with a quiet laugh, almost as if he’s mocking you. But you don’t care because you know he wants you just as much. You can feel the weight of him pressing against your inner thigh, and you scoot just a little bit closer, squeeze just a little bit tighter.

He hikes up your little dress to your waist, one hand reaching higher to cop a feel of your tit, thumbing your nipple into a stiffer peak. Next, panties are off so quick, they drop from your ankles onto the floor — gone forever. Whoever finds them when the lights are on is going to be in for a surprise.

Fingers are on you, in you. You gasp at the sudden breach but you savour it like every morsel of the best meal you know you’ll ever have. He breathily laughs into your kiss as he discovers just how wet and wanton you are, like he can read your mind and figure out how long you’ve gone without this kind of intimacy. You moan when he slides his coated digits across your sex, thumb and forefinger manipulating you to a level of arousal you don’t think was ever humanly possible.

You’re seeing bright lights dance across your shuttered eyes. The work he’s doing is testing your limits not to scream, but you don’t think the carnival music is loud enough to drown out all the noise your body is begging you to make. So you repress. And he only works harder. You’re panting now. Sweat beads at your temples as he retrieves his fingers and runs them over your lips like a hot glaze. Without words, he orders you to take them into your mouth. It’s so fucking dirty, but you secretly love it. Your taste on your tongue, you take his two fingers deep in your mouth, gagging when he hits the back of your throat.

Miguel is quick to kiss you fierce. “You’re so fucking hot in this little dress.” He kisses you again, tongue darting out to wrestle with yours. “I bet you had no idea what you were getting yourself into when you were fucking me with those eyes out in public.” He sucks on your bottom lip. “So naughty. I could tell you wanted to hold more than just my knee on that ride.” He grinds his clothed erection against your sex and you both moan in anticipation. “You think the ride’s over? Baby, I’m about to give you the best fucking ride of your life.”

In seconds, he’s got his underwear off, a condom ripped open, and the tip of his cock probing at your entrance. He kisses you longer and harder, and just enough to stifle the moan when he enters your tight heat. It’s been a while since you last got fucked, but even then, you know you’ve never been stretched full like this, never had someone reach you in places that surprised you. “Fuck me.”

“That’s what I’m trying to do.” Miguel rocks into you, settling himself down to the base and breathing out a “holy shit.”

Scooting yourself to the edge of the crate, you wrap your legs around his hips. He grabs a handful of your ass, kneading the flesh before pulling you completely off the edge. And, holy shit is right, because he delivers on that promise to give you the best ride of your life.

He lifts you effortlessly, rising and crashing down on his cock. You wrap your arms firmly over his shoulders, grasping onto his back, feeling the muscles work under his shirt. His breath is hot on your neck, hot grunts matching the breathy moans you can’t contain. You’re already so aroused that it doesn’t take very long before the relentless pounding and the way he’s sucking on your neck and the filthy words in your ear take you over the edge. Your whole body is electrified. It feels like you’re shaken from your core and everything is tighter and looser at the same time.

Miguel groans as he feels your release wrapped around him, and it seems like he’s coming close as well. He plants you down on the equipment crate, and leans over you, forearms on either side of your head. His eyes are so intense they scorch you; it almost feels as if, in that moment, he’s branding you like cattle. Something about the way he looks at you hurts your pride, but you love the way he feels too much to push him away. He fucks you. Harder. He fucks you so good tears well up behind your lidded eyes. Faster. Your belly tightens like a coil put under so much pressure it can only spring free. Deeper. He buries himself deep, deep inside you; he kisses you gentle and sweet while his fingers brush over your clit. It releases the pressure and you’re crashing again — this time, with him as you feel his heart pound like a drum against your chest.

—

When it’s all over, it’s over. Miguel doesn’t say anything except you should leave first. Once you’ve pulled your dress down your legs and tied your knotted hair with an elastic, he unzips the tent and motions for you to leave. The light from outside filters into the tent and you get a clearer picture of his stoic face. You stand in place for a few seconds and he blinks with impatience. You want to see him again, but you’re under a very strong, chilly impression this was only a one-time thing for him. That, maybe, it’s something he’s already regretted.

You lower your head and begin to walk past him. This night was incredible. A night to ruin all the succeeding nights trying to find something that can even come close to replicating what you felt in that dark, dingy tent. But you deserve better. You deserve someone who can return what you give. And, just from the distant look in his eyes those last few seconds together, you know Miguel is not going to be that someone.

He doesn’t even bother asking you for your name.

#mayans mc #mayans fx #miguel galindo #mayans mc fic #mayans mc fanfic #mayans mc imagine #fyna #my writing

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scoopsohboi · 5 years ago

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🐰 🍼 🍯 🍩 🔪

thank you so much for the questions!!!!

1. do you believe in soul mates?

i’m not sure if i do or not tbh. it’s a beatiful idea and i want to believe in it, but i guess i’m a bit skeptical.

2. what is your favorite memory?

in 2012 when my bff at the time and i drove out to comic-con without tickets and spent the night in my jeep in a motel parking lot. that shit was sketchy as fuck but it was also a lot of fun. her dad knew we were going but my parents were too worried about me driving to san diego to OK the trip (just graduated hs) so they had no fucking clue. but we had so much fun and it felt so freeing and we met friends and went to a doctor who tumblr meetup and a glee/dalton meetup and it was really cool. except for the part where we showered in the taco bell bathroom….

3. describe your favorite smell

ooooh. rain clouds, fresh rose water, pages of an old novel.

4. current mood?

im feeling a bit nostaligic after answering these! also full, because i just ate dinner

5. scariest/creepiest experience?

oh man. it’s a long story, but probably the time my two friends and i went to joshua tree (we live ~45mins away). big dogs appeared out of no where and chased my car before vanishing again. we drove passed a 10 y/o boy digging in the dirt and when we drove back around about 2 mins later he was a 40 y/o man. we went to one of the ghost towns that has dozens of little abandoned houses to have a photoshoot. once we reached a house the closest one to us started to emit a deep, loud drumming. it continued without missing a beat until we left about 10-15 mins later. then we went on a hike to find this cave, but it got dark so we couldn’t make it all the way. we were on top of a sloped hill about 30mins from the car and it was dark as fuuck when we saw headlights between the bushes and someone winding up the trail (which wasn’t big enough for a car and was a straight line down). it kept winding up an imaginary trail toward us until it veered off into the darkness and we never saw it again.

#asks #hawkinsindiana #<33 #sorry this was super long!!!

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allthephils · 5 years ago

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Do you really want to get murder haunted? Do you have a favorite place? Have you traveled outside the U.S.?

I mean, I don’t want to get murdered and I don’t believe in ghosts but I love spooky things so yeah, I kind of want to get murdered haunted . But I don’t wanna die. I am originally from San Diego and old town SD is one of my favorite places in the world, as is Balboa Park. I finally traveled outside of the US a few years ago. I went to London and Paris. It was fucking amazing. I think everyone has heard my story about how I saw Phil from across the street while I was there. Paris felt like it was made for me. It was dark and romantic and I spent an entire day wandering a giant cemetery and another entire day in the catacombs. So yeah, it was like completely made for me. But then London just felt like home, I felt homesick when I left London. I miss it like I left someone there. I would really love to move there one day.

#ask #doineedtohaveawordwithyou

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ghostbustermelanieking · 6 years ago

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praescitum chapter nine

chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight

casefile, season 10, season 11. part of my series that i write as i rewatch the x files.

Summary: As Mulder and Scully adjust to their reassignment to the X-Files and working together in the wake of their separation, they find themselves investigating a small town and a ghost that apparently warns people of bad things to come.

note: happy halloween! i actually started posting this story when i did to post this chapter on halloween, since it’s probably the most festive. but since i didn’t get as far in the story as i wanted to by this point, i’m going to kind of slow down my posting a little bit by waiting until i finish a later chapter to post the next one. i’m hoping to still be able to post at least one chapter a week, but idk if i’ll be able to keep up with that lol. those are the hopes!

warning for discussion of death in a (false!) historical context. i included fake historical people/historical battles in a real historical war.

---

nine.

october, 2016

If there's anything that Mulder and Scully are not used to, it's having a third presence on their stake outs. Back in the day, if they were staking out with someone else, said someone probably wasn't very happy about being stuck on a stakeout with them. (They've both heard plenty of “third wheel” gossip over the years, right along with the gossip about them being together long before they actually were.) Luckily, Scully notes, this time, they have what seems like a perfectly nice woman as their company. As much as she relishes the chance to have time alone with Mulder and inexplicably get paid for that time, it's better to share the time with someone who doesn't hate them. And Joy Seers seems like halfway decent company.

She gets takeout for everyone, fighting streets abuzz with Halloween traffic, cars and costumed pedestrians alike. She stops at a gas station and grabs a couple bags of M&M's as an added bonus for Mulder—in honor of the holiday, and because she's guessing they'll be here a while without much paranormal activity to entertain them. (She's still convinced that Ryan Caruthers, and maybe a few friends, are behind the whole thing. It makes much more sense than a diabolical ghost tormenting the entire town.)

Scully picks her way back to the school through streets crowded with pint-sized monsters, ghouls, and pop culture characters. Houses festooned in cobwebs and streamers and plastic skeletons. Kids in costumes holding onto their parent’s hands. At a stoplight near the school, she notices a kid on a bus bench. A familiar-looking kid with an Orioles cap pulled over his face.

She finds Mulder and Joy Seers in the classroom: Mulder setting desks and chairs upright, Joy propping a video camera up on the righted bookshelf. The room has been swept, most of the debris cleared; it looks like an empty skeleton of a room, bare walls and bare floors. “I brought food,” Scully says, sitting the plastic bags of containers on a desk.

“Thanks, Scully.” Mulder grins at her briefly overtop of a graffitied desk. She can tell he's enjoying this. He's probably been waiting for a case like this to fall on Halloween for a while. (“How do we always end up staking out haunted places on holidays, Scully?” he joked earlier, and she rolled her eyes, pointed out that this particular place is not haunted, absolutely not. Not the inn, not the school, not the town. She knows he's remembering their conversation last night, and she's hoping he won't bring it up. She feels silly just thinking about it.)

“Were the roads too bad?” Joy asks politely, squinting as she adjusts the angle of the camera. “I know they can be a little crazy on Halloween, especially in the fancier neighborhoods.”

“Not too bad,” says Scully, sitting at the desk. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

“Nothing yet,” Mulder says, sitting down at the desk beside Scully and smirking a little at her. She smirks right back.

“I was relying on our security system to prove whether or not there's any paranormal involvement, but it shorted out today,” says Joy with a touch of irony in her voice, climbing down from the chair and smoothing messy curls absently. “Convenient, huh? Principal thinks someone messed with it to cover up the crime, but we couldn't prove it; it just seems like a system malfunction. And he couldn't get anyone in here to fix it. So I'm setting up a camera in here since this has been the primary location of the activity. I'm hoping to catch some proof as to what this is, if anything happens.”

“That seems smart,” Scully offers. “Although it's strange that the security cameras would mess directly after a break-in.”

“It is,” Joy says, crossing her arms, “but the fact is that it was still working last night. Since my window lock was fixed, anyone who broke in would've had to use the halls. And the cameras showed nothing.”

“Someone could've been planning another break-in for tonight,” Scully comments.

“That's true.” Joy shrugs. “But everyone I talk to says it's just an issue with the computer system. We have the shittiest system, I swear. Anyways, we have this camera to catch anything strange that happens, paranormal or B&E's alike.”

Scully looks at Mulder, who shrugs. It does seem convenient to her—too convenient, especially considering Ryan's technical reputation—but she decides to let it go. She says, “Do we have any sort of plan past the camera?”

Mulder shrugs again. “Not really. I think we're just planning to… sit here.” He smirks at her a little, teasing her as he unwrapping the plastic silverware. “You are familiar with the method of a stakeout, aren't you, Scully?”

“Very much so,” she says dryly, resisting the urge to stick out her tongue.

Joy joins them in the clusters of desks, taking her food gratefully and thanking Scully. “I'm hoping that we'll be able to get something out of tonight,” she says, screwing the cap off of a water bottle. “I really am. Ryan's a good kid, and I hate that everyone's been putting the blame on him.”

“You really don't think there’s any possibility Ryan is behind this?” Scully asks, picking at her salad.

Joy shakes her head. “I never have. Aside from the fact that it seems improbable that a kid—albeit a pretty smart kid, but still—could pull this off, Ryan's always seemed like a good kid to me. I'm not close to Annie Caruthers, but she's always spoken highly of him whenever we see each other… And besides that, he's a model student. Aside from a bad attitude, I haven't seen any signs of delinquency from him. I almost can't believe he really set that fire.”

Scully bites her lower lip in consideration. “I think I saw Ryan outside on my way in,” she says carefully. “The intersection a block over.”

“Really?” Mulder asks, his eyebrows shooting up.

Scully nods. “I think,” she says, somewhat uncertainly. “He wears the Orioles cap, right?”

Joy taps her fingers on the desktop absently. “Probably just a coincidence,” she offers.

“It's a small town,” says Mulder helpfully. Scully pokes at a leaf of lettuce silently.

Mulder clears his throat awkwardly. “Have you ever considered that this… activity might be the result of possession of some sort? Some mixture of Ryan Caruthers and the ghost?”

Scully swallows back the urge to scoff.

“You think Ryan's possessed?” Joy asks, almost incredulously. “By the Specter?”

He shrugs. “Possession can sometimes give humans a power they wouldn't normally have. I've seen it before. That would explain how Ryan was able to get in and out of the school without being detected, how he would be able to move those heavy desks.”

Joy Seers looks uncertain, skeptical. “I suppose that could be the case, but I doubt it,” she says. “I've never heard of any possessions in the history of the legend. And I still just don't think Ryan's involved. Besides his prior history with the ghost, of course.”

Scully hmms in response quietly, sticking the fork in her mouth. She hasn't known what to make of this case since they got it a year ago, and she certainly doesn't know what to make of it now. Mulder shrugs, surprisingly nonplussed, as if he doesn't know what to make of this either.

“I guess we just wait now,” Joy says, and it's almost a question, a clarification. “Wait to see what happens next.”

They nod, nearly in unison.

Their forks scrape at the Styrofoam containers in the new quiet. The setting doesn't seem to align with the stunning silence all around them, the echoey hallways and dim classroom. As a child, Scully used to get scared in big empty buildings, especially in the huge church they used to attend in San Diego, all the looming, empty halls and the almost eerie paintings of Christ. She's gotten past that now, of course, but the oddness of being in an empty school has nearly brought it back. Right now, in all this empty and quiet space, with the small sounds in the hall as the sun sinks below the horizon, she can almost understand why people might think this school—even this town—is haunted.

---

It's getting dark now, the familiar October chill in the air. Ryan clenches his chattering teeth, beginning to regret not wearing the skeleton costume from last year. It's dorky as hell, but it's warm, he sweated buckets at last year's party. And it helps with appearances. He's just wearing a hoodie and jeans right now, no costume of any kind.

He got some candy earlier, even with the disapproving looks (either because he's too old to trick-or-treat, or because he set a fire), and so he unwraps a mini Snickers bar now and takes a bite. He's thinking about turning around and going to the party he told Annie he was going to. He should probably go to the damn party. He still has friends somehow, despite everything, and this is not the right way to spend Halloween. It might be spooky, but honestly, Ryan got tired of the horror movie bullshit at about six or seven. (He hates scary movies, scary stories, any of that stuff that makes him think about the empty eyes of the parents he'll never know and ghostly light on his bedroom walls.) He's nearly convinced, gets his bag up off of the bench and is about to walk away when his fingers brush over an envelope sticking out of the top. The letter from his Uncle Jared.

He swallows, sits down so hard his legs hurt. Shakes his head hard until he's good and resigned. He has to do this. He doesn't have a choice.

He rummages in his bag until he finds the stick-on tattoos and the bottle of water. Follows the directions as he applies them to the back of his hands.

---

Scully will admit, once again, that she's really, really not used to sharing stakeouts with other people; some of her favorite memories of working with Mulder are when they were alone on a stakeout. But they've been sitting in the school for several hours, and she has to say, it's a lot better than she expected. Aside from their opinions on ghosts, it turns out that she and Joy Seers have a lot in common. They discuss their college degrees—biology and pre-med are vastly different, but they took similar grueling science classes and can exchange stories about hellish professors—and Joy asks about the cross around Scully's neck, the one similar to her own. “Oh,” says Scully in surprise, reaching down to touch the cross, and the ring that hangs beside it. (Thank God she didn't ask about that; that'd be a fairly awkward conversation for all of them. Mulder doesn't wear his ring that she knows of, which she has no idea how to take, but at least it fields the Oh, are you two married? questions. A little.) “Oh, my mother gave my sister and myself these necklaces the Christmas I was fifteen. I've worn it ever since.”

She leaves out the occasions where she'd given it to her daughter and it was the only part of her They left behind, and when Mulder had worn it through both of their abductions. (She put the ring on the chain beside her cross when she stopped wearing it because it felt stunningly appropriate, that it lie beside something that had meant so much to both of them over the years. Sometimes she felt like she could feel Mulder in her cross as much as she could in the ring.)

Joy smiles a genuine smile. “Oh, that's wonderful,” she says. “Mine was a family heirloom. It was my grandmother's.”

Scully smiles back, a little easier than she might've a few months ago. It's getting easier to remember her mother, and concentrating on the happier memories does help. “It's beautiful,” she offers.

“Thank you—so is yours.”

Mulder stays politely quiet through most of these interactions, but he speaks up sometime in the fourth hour of their vigil. “Ms. Seers—” he starts.

“Call me Joy, please,” Joy says immediately.

“Joy,” Mulder says. “I remember when we met yesterday, you said something about there being more than one way to interpret the Willoughby Specter story.”

“Oh, right.” Joy throws out an absent grin. “That famous touchy spot. Especially around here.”

“I sense that people don't agree with you?” Scully asks, thinking of Robbie O'Connell's and the sheriff's claims that the ghost is angelic. Ryan Caruthers's claims that the ghost is anything but. The disdain she's seen in response to that skepticism. Personally, she can't really tell why the demeanor of the ghost matters, one way or another.

“I don't know if they do or don't. I haven't made any particular claims about the skepticism.” The other woman shrugs. “My husband is a historian, though,” she adds. “He's done some research into the subject, and we've discussed it before. The origins of this ghost aren't quite as black and white as everyone would like to believe.”

Mulder's interest is piqued—more than piqued, Scully can tell. “Would you mind sharing?” he asks.

Joy shakes her head. “The fame of the ghost just so happens to be intertwined with the origin of this town,” she says. “The name Willoughby comes from a Revolutionary War leader, General Samuel Willoughby. He's hailed as a hero, especially around here, considering he led his soldiers to victory in a battle right around this area. The legend got started when Willoughby published a book of his journals and letters during the war. In the journal entry dated the night before the battle, he speaks of seeing a 'specter’ who brought about feelings of foreboding and dread. This convinced him that he was doomed to die on the battlefield the next day, and his soldiers doomed to lose. So he changed his plans.”

“He survived the battle,” Scully says knowingly—she knows how these legends always go. “And he led his men to victory, and people attributed that victory to the Specter. Which is where the legend originates."

Joy nods. “But what most people don't acknowledge is how costly that victory was,” she says. “Over half of Willoughby's soldiers lost their lives, including his brother. As well as several civilians who unfortunately lived in the area and got caught up in the battle. And that's not to mention the British casualties. Personally, that's not my definition of angelic, especially considering the death of his brother.”

Mulder chuckles briefly, rubbing thoughtfully at his mouth. “It's not exactly mine, either.”

“People see what they want to see,” says Joy. “Someone comes to warn them of something bad coming, people want to think they have good intentions. That there's some way to be prepared.”

Scully hardens her face until it is stony, trying not to show her cards. Spreads her fingers out flat on the table and tries to think of anything but that night before her mother died. Mulder is nodding in agreement, and she's glad that he's distracted by this story, that he won't notice and start asking questions again. “So you don't think the ghost has… good intentions?” he asks Joy.

“Does a ghost have intentions?” Joy laughs. (Along the same line Scully has thought on in this case.) “But no, I don't. Personally, my husband and I have discussed it before, and we think that the ghost is demonic.”

“Demonic?” asks Mulder.

“Yeah. My husband has studied a lot of local history, and he found a court record corresponding to a diary entry from the judge in the early settlement that more or less became Willoughby. It speaks of a man who was convicted of the murder of his wife. He was scheduled to hang, but he disappeared from his prison cell the night before, despite two guards being posted outside. The man had been fairly wealthy and prosperous, and he had a fair amount of money stored away in his house, where they'd also found many signs of what they considered witchcraft and devil worship. All the more reason to execute him, they'd said. But after he disappeared, so did the money.” Joy takes a sip of her water bottle. “They found him two months later, dead in the mountains with no clear cause. All of his money on him. A lantern burning beside his body despite the snowstorm raging around him.”

Scully raises her eyebrows in a halfway interested response—it’s an interesting story, even if it sounds false. Mulder says, “And you think that's the Specter?”

“A ghost has to come from somewhere, right? It makes sense to me, especially that lantern detail. The details about his escape and discovery, as well as the trial records, lead me to believe this man had made a deal with the devil, for lack of a better term. And this is more or less his due he has to pay: bringing bad luck to the inhabitants of Willoughby.”

Mulder hmms under his breath. “That's a great theory,” he says. “And it makes a lot of sense, at least in my mind. It would be consistent with Ryan Caruthers's claims.”

“There’s discussion of 'the local devil worshipper’ in local folklore, but it's not as widespread. And since it took place a full century before, no one in the town ever connected the story with the Specter. But I've always thought it made a lot of sense,” says Joy. “And with everything that's happened here at this school, I've got to say, it makes even more sense to me now.”

“What do you think, Scully?” Mulder asks, and his hand is suddenly on her arm. He's noticed how silent she's been.

Scully grits her teeth and shakes off the thoughts of her mother and her cross and that fucking hallucination or dream or whatever she had before her mother passed away. Forces a smile. “I suppose it could be plausible…” she says, “... if ghosts were real.”

Mulder scoffs jokingly. “I can understand your skepticism, Agent Scully,” Joy says kindly. “Even i—”

They're cut off by the sound of distant crashes, somewhere in the building.

Scully's eyes dart to Mulder. “Did you…”

“Yeah,” he says, already standing. “Joy, do you have any idea…”

“I'm really not sure,” she says. “Maybe the cafeteria?”

More crashes, louder this time. “Split up, clear the halls?” Mulder asks, and Scully nods.

“Joy, you stay here, okay?” she says, standing and reaching for her gun, just in case. “Keep an eye out, call us if you need help.”

Thankfully, Joy doesn't argue; she just nods. “Do you really think you need that?” she asks, gesturing to the gun with her chin.

“Hopefully, no,” Scully says. “But it's a good precaution. In case whoever—or whatever—is destroying your classroom is dangerous.”

---

Mulder and Scully split up outside of Joy Seers's classroom; she goes through the west wing, and he goes through the east. The school is stunningly dark, the halls admittedly eerie, and Mulder is inadvertently reminded of the case years ago that he can barely remember the details of outside of the fact that a satanist PTA tried to kill him and Scully in a high school gym shower. He shudders involuntarily; that doesn't seem like a good line of thought after discussing a ghostly devil worshipper.

He's most of the way down the hall when he hears it: the creaking of a door hinge behind him. He whirls around to see the door of an English classroom hanging open in the circle of his flashlight.

Immediately, he sweeps his flashlight up and down the hallway, but it's completely empty.

Mulder swallows roughly, ignoring the chill spreading over him. He starts to turn back around when the door slams closed hard. He jumps, his hand flying to his holster automatically. Still nothing there; no signs of life, or things notably not alive.

“Hello?” he calls out, sweeping his flashlight up and down the hallway, feeling equal parts silly and determined. He's about to make some plea for the ghost to show itself when he hears another slamming sound, almost smaller than the last one. And then another, and another. The lockers lining the hallways are opening and closing, their slams cacophonous and engulfing. Mulder scans the hallway in frantic confusion, looking for any signs of the Specter, not sure if he really wants to see it or not, considering its legacy. But he still finds nothing, invisible hands moving the lockers as they slam, the cabinets shaking and rattling in place as if affected by an earthquake. Fascinated, Mulder stares, not wanting to look away, wanting to call Scully to get in here and see this. But before he can do anything, his flashlight flickers once, twice, and dies in his palm.

The lockers’ motion fades out as Mulder's breathing grows more erratic, maybe even fearful. The hallway seems darker without the flashlight, pitch black. He smacks the flashlight against his palm in an effort to get it working again, to no avail. “Shit,” he mutters, dropping the flashlight to his side and rubbing at his temples with his free hand.

And then from behind, he hears the scritching sound of a lit match. Golden firelight, small but unquestionably the brightest thing in the room, comes to life behind him, reflected on the metal lockers.

His heart in his stomach, Mulder whirls. He sees it almost immediately, it's unmistakable. He can't make out a face, but he doesn’t have to. It matches every description he's ever heard.

The Specter stands at the end of the hall, lantern held up like some kind of lamplighter.

Mulder's breathing is shallow, erratic; where the hell is Scully when stuff like this happens? He's dying to take a picture, but he knows that will likely only cause problems.

Instead, he draws closer, flashlight dead and useless in his hand, heart thudding against his ribs. The Specter doesn't move. He seems to be surveying Mulder, sizing him up, but somehow, Mulder can't allow himself to worry about that. He goes closer and closer, carefully, as if trying to calm a stray dog. “I know what you are,” he calls. “I know what it is you do.”

The Specter seems unaffected by this. He stands still, his face shadowed, his lantern flickering.

“Do you speak?” Mulder asks, thinking of the ghosts in that haunted house that one Christmas Eve. (If that was real; he and Scully have disagreed about it forever.) “What do you want?”

The ghost remains silent. Mulder's shoes creak on the tile floor as he steps closer, his palms sweaty around the flashlight. The Specter seems to be regarding him, considering.

When Mulder is about three feet away, the ghost's mouth contorts, dipping into a frown. Disapproval. A sudden fear plunges through Mulder's chest, nervousness—what does disapproval mean?—as he remembers Joy Seers's theory that the ghost is demonic. He is about to ask, again, what the Specter wants, when the lantern flickers out.

In a completely impulsive move, Mulder stumbles forward, absurdly swiping at the space where the Specter is. He feels nothing, and he doesn't know if it has disappeared or is still there. Breathing hard, he stands awkwardly in place, his hand curled around the useless flashlight.

And then he hears a pained yelp, down the hall the way he came from.

---

Scully is in the ninth grade wing when she hears it again: the crashing sounds down the hall to the right of her. She follows the sound, flashlight held out in front of her and gun held down by her side. There's a sound almost like banging, a clattery sound like something being dragged over the floor. Scully comes face to face with the double cafeteria doors, where the sound is louder, and pushes it open with a loud clang.

There's a startled shout, and then the smack of a body hitting the floor. Rounding the table blocking the body from view, Scully shouts, “Freeze, FBI!” completely on instinct.

“Shit!” The kid—Ryan Caruthers, Scully notes with an emotion somewhere between satisfaction and disappointed—scrambles to his feet, his ankle caught in a cafeteria chair. His face turns up towards Scully, full of regret and panic as he curses quietly under his breath: “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Scully puts away her gun with a sigh—somehow, she doubts she needs it. “Ryan?” she says, somewhat sternly. “Ryan Caruthers?”

“I had no idea you'd be here,” Ryan says miserably, untangling himself from the chair.

“So you wouldn't have come if you'd known?” Scully asks. He doesn't answer, just rubs at his face with the heel of his hand. “No one's ever been here when you've done this before, right?” she prods.

“I haven't done this before,” Ryan snaps, glaring at her. “I know what you think of me—believe me, I know what everyone thinks of me—but I swear to shit, this is the first time.”

“How did you get in?” Scully asks, still firm. “The window in Mrs. Seers's room is fixed.” She remembers in a split second, as Ryan answers, that the window was fixed before the destruction of the classroom the night before, and mentally curses.

“I jimmied open another window,” Ryan says, sounding disgusted. “The windows in here are shit, the locks are awful… And I'm telling you, I've never done this before.”

“Then why did you come here tonight, Ryan?” Scully fixes the kid with the sternest look she can muster up. “Knowing that people believed you had broken in before?”

Ryan's face turns red, and he ducks his head. His hand shoots through the air as he reaches down to untangle himself from the chair, and Scully sees the same cross tattoo on the back that she remembers from last year. “I… was worried about what was going to happen,” he nearly mumbles. “Because of the ghost. I thought something bad might happen to someone, and I wanted to come here and try to stop it.”

Scully's stern demeanor falls, just a little. She doesn't know why, but it does. She asks gently (not too gently, of course—only a bit more gently), “How did you think you could stop it, Ryan? What did you think was going to happen?”

“Does it matter?” Ryan snaps venomously. “Aren't you going to arrest me now? Agent Sully, or whatever your name is?”

“It's Scully,” she says automatically, and is ready to say more, when she hears a distinctly female shout from somewhere in the building. Joy, she thinks immediately, and mentally curses herself and Mulder for leaving a civilian alone in a potential crime scene. Even if she doesn't believe in the ghost.

Ryan jumps at the sound, startled. “What was that?”

Hoping briefly that Mulder will get there sooner, that Mulder is okay, Scully says, “You know what, Ryan? I should take you in, but this is all very juvenile, and Mrs. Seers has vouched for you multiple times. So I'm going to look the other way.”

The kid looks stunned. Beyond stunned. He says, “Are you serious? Why are you doing this?”

She doesn't know why, she really doesn't. Outside of the face that is stuck at the back of her brain, along with pain and death and visions of the end of the world. Her son out there, somewhere, and she shouldn't let it affect her work, but… She says, “Look, I need to go. If you're still back here when I come back, I'm taking you in. If I ever catch you doing something like this again, my first call will be to Sheriff O'Connell. Do you understand?”

His face white, Ryan nods. Unwilling to wait any longer—unwilling to linger or analyze why the hell she did that, she really can't believe it—Scully turns and heads the other way, back to Joy Seers's classroom.

Inside, she finds all the fluorescent lights flipped on, Joy sitting in a chair heaving air like she is going to run out and Mulder crouched on the floor. Scully runs straight to her side. “Are you okay?” she asks, kneeling to examine the prominent red line on Joy's neck. “I'm a doctor, I can help you.”

Joy waves her off absently. “I'm okay, I'm okay,” she says, her voice only a little rough. “My necklace… it was being tugged, by I don't know what. It was choking me, and then it just broke.”

Mulder stands, the broken silver chain in the palm of his hand. “I saw it,” he says, and his voice is filled with some panicked emotion that Scully can't quite place. “It was being pulled by an invisible force, Scully, she was choking and it was just held up in the air. By nothing. And then it just snapped.”

Joy takes the necklace, muttering, “Damn,” under her breath. She rubs at her forehead, her eyes, in a tired sort of way. “I'm okay,” she reassures Scully again. “Scared me more than anything. I guess I have my proof now that the Specter is hostile.”

She laughs briefly, but Mulder doesn't, and Scully doesn't know how to ask why. She stands up a little reluctantly—she’d have preferred to check Joy a little more, but she really does seem fine, she's waving her off insistently—and dusts her palms off on her pant legs. “Deep breaths,” she says gently. “Try to stay calm.”

Joy clears her throat a few times, rubbing her neck with her empty hand. “So did you find anything, Agent Scully?” she asks raspily. “I heard more sounds in the cafeteria.”

Mulder looks at her curiously, but Scully doesn't know how to tell them what she saw, much less explain what could've convinced her to let Ryan go. She lies, “I think some furniture may have fallen over. I didn't see anything.”

---

They leave the school after that. There doesn't seem to be much point in staying. They have the video in the classroom, and therefore proof. Joy seems spooked by the whole encounter, seems to have lost interest in all of it—she thanks them profusely in the parking lot, but says that she doesn't see any need for them to stay if they don't want to. “I guess I can call you if anything else happens,” she says, “but I don't know if there's anything else you can do. And I'm sure you have more important work to get back to.”

Mulder doesn't bother telling her that they probably don't—he’s almost sure that Scully shares Joy's opinion, that the lack of an actual crime here doesn't justify their position. They shake Joy's hand and get in their car to head back to the hotel.

They're both quiet on the drive. Mulder can't get past what happened in the hallway, his encounter with the Specter. At the time, he'd mostly been fascinated, caught up in the excitement of seeing an actual ghost, but now, all he can think of is the other part of the legend. The part that promises that something bad will happen if you see the Specter. He drives back to the hotel with a precise carefulness that Scully doesn't seem to notice—she seems as lost in her own thoughts as him, fidgeting with her hands in her lap. He keeps sneaking glances at her, as if something is going to steal her away, because by his count, the only two people besides him who could be affected by the Willoughby Specter and his bad omens are Scully and William. He doesn't relax until they get back to the hotel, and even then, it is a cautious relaxation. He's extraordinarily glad that they are sharing a room.

He waits until they get up to the room to say it. He nearly blurts it out—he says, “Scully, I saw it,” and it feels like an exhale.

Scully, in the act of peeling her coat off, freezes. He can see the muscles of her back, can tell how tense she has suddenly gotten. “What?” she says.

“The Specter,” he says. “I saw the Specter, Scully, in the halls. It disappeared just before something pulled at Joy's necklace.”

Scully isn't looking at him. She drapes her coat over the back of the chair, her knuckles nearly white as she clutches it. “It's not that I… don't trust what you saw, Mulder,” she says carefully, her nails scuffing the side of the jacket. “But… are you sure that's what you saw? That it couldn't have been some kind of… projection?”

Twenty-odd years ago, this skepticism would've driven him mad. Now, he pretty much expects it. But it feels like there's something different here, some unusual emotion. The familiar stubbornness, and then something else layered under it. Almost fear. He wonders if it is because of the legend, the implication that something bad will happen to him. He swallows, reaches out and brushes a slow hand over the small of her back as if trying to offer comfort. “I really think it was,” he says. “It couldn't have been a projection, it was too… It couldn't have been.” She's still not looking at him. He flattens his palm against her back, rubs a circle with his thumb. “I don't know what that means, Scully,” he says softly. “Whether or not it's…”

“It probably means nothing, Mulder,” Scully says immediately. She finally turns towards him, and her expression is guarded, but she reaches out and squeezes his arm. “It'll be fine,” she says softly, firmly. Leans forward and kisses his cheek. “I'm going to take a shower, okay?” When she draws back, she won't meet his eyes. He watches her go into the bathroom, until the door closes behind her.

He showers next, tries to shed the thought of more misfortune, but he can’t quite shake the thought of it. After everything they've been through, he can't imagine going through more, even if it is a bit inevitable at this point. He doesn't know if he could bear it. Especially if whatever misfortune the Specter brings involves losing his wife or son. (He is praying it's something trivial, like a flat tire, or someone breaking into his house.)

When he exits the bedroom, Scully is lying in bed on her side, facing the wall. He climbs in behind her, touches her shoulder gently and briefly before settling in. He's ready to fall asleep and try and forget the whole thing, give Scully her space, but she rolls over first, rolls towards him until they're facing each other. “Ryan was in the school,” she says. “In the cafeteria. All that crashing around was probably just from him breaking in.”

His eyebrows raise in surprise. “Seriously? What happened, did he get away?”

“No.” She bites her lower lip, looking away from him. “Sort of. I… I decided to give him a warning.”

His expression shifts to confusion. “A warning?”

“Yes.” She is almost squirming, avoiding his eyes. “I… I don't know why. It just all seems so silly, the whole thing. And he insisted that this was the first time he had broken in. But I told him if I ever caught him doing that again, I'd call the police without hesitation.” She rubs at her forehead with embarrassment, her voice full of shame. “The security system was out, though. We hopefully don't have to worry about it ever getting back to Skinner.”

“Do you believe him?” Mulder asks, astonished and trying like hell not to show it. He's more surprised than angry, it doesn't really matter to him, but he can tell how foolish Scully feels and he hardly wants to make that worse. “That it was his first time?”

Scully rubs her forehead again, presses her palm over her eyes. “I honestly don't know, Mulder. I really do think that he's involved in this… it makes the most sense. I don't know how or why, but I hope he gets his act together. I… I hope that I've made this better instead of worse.”

“I definitely think Ryan has something to do with this,” says Mulder quietly, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder, “but I don't think it's the same way that you think so. I think he's a… catalyst of sorts. I think he has a connection to this ghost, and I can't put my finger on it. But I think Joy Seers was right. I think there's more to the legend than people take at face value. And I don't think that Ryan was responsible for what was happening in that school.”

Scully yawns, burrowing down into the covers. “Whether there is or there isn't, it doesn't really matter, does it?” she mumbles, sounding like she wants to drop the subject. “We're going home in the morning. I just hope that no one finds out what happened.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, quietly, and reaches over to turn out the light. They settle in next to each other in the dark, their arms pressed together, hands side by side. Mulder swallows, bumping his finger against hers absently. The adrenaline of the night hasn't completely left him, the implications of his encounter in the hall, and he's grateful that she is close by. As if that can prevent everything bad from happening.

“Do you think I made the wrong decision?” Scully asks softly, and that shame is still in her voice. “To let Ryan go instead of taking him in?”

“No, I don't,” he tells her honestly, covering her hand gently with his. “I think that isn't nearly the worst thing we've gotten away with on the job.” She chuckles at that, and he grins. “I don't see why anyone ever has to know about it,” he adds. “The cameras are out, and I'm not planning to tell anyone. And I'm sure Ryan will keep it to himself. You may have given that kid another chance that he'll take.”

“Mmm,” Scully says, and he can tell by her voice that she is tired. “It feels so convenient, the cameras. Especially considering how much I asked about them earlier. Mulder, I bet Ryan either knew about the system being down or took it down himself, if this really was the first time he'd broken in.”

“Hmm,” he says softly. “Maybe.”

“I guess I just didn't think he was dangerous,” she whispers. “I feel so foolish. I feel like I haven't done my duty as an FBI agent. I don't know what I was thinking.”

“You don't have to know,” he says, and he intertwines his fingers with hers. “You don't.”

She makes a small sound that indicated she disagrees with him, but she doesn't argue. Their elbows bump together companionably. Her palm is cool under his. They fall into quiet again, hands clasped together under the sheets.

Mulder matches his breathing to hers, calm, and he is nearly asleep when he hears a low whistling sound, akin to a moan. The shutters of the windows rattle.

A sudden panic shoots through him at the noise. “Scully, did you hear that?” he whispers.

“It's the wind,” she says, her voice sleepy but hard. “Just the wind, Mulder.”

The wind howls against the glass again and Mulder shivers, crawling closer to Scully. “You sure?” he asks, and she nods, almost growly in her delivery. Scully does not fuck around when she is tired, and he senses she's already in a bad mood from the Ryan Caruthers thing.

But the sound is too human, too eerie, and Mulder can't ignore it. He never thought he'd be this much in regret because of a supernatural encounter, but this is the kind of thing that is too hard to let go. He's as embarrassed as Scully about tonight—embarrassed about how badly he wanted to see the ghost, and embarrassed (and fearful) of the repercussions it will bring.

He drops a light, impulsive kiss on Scully's hair before curling up closer to her than before. He doesn't particularly want to leave Scully anytime soon, not if he can help it. Not with the wind howling like that and with the eerie figure of the Specter hovering at the back of his mind. It's silly, but considering how their last run-in with ghosts went, he doesn't think he's overreacting. He holds her hand tight and lays close to her, and she doesn't protest, and he thinks that is what gives him the courage to say what he says.

He says, nose against her hair, hand on her waist: “Scully, do you want to come back to the house with me tomorrow?”

She says nothing; the only sign of surprise is the slight lilt in her breathing. He adds quickly, “Just… to look over that tip I got last week. The one about the river creature?”

“Oh?” Scully asks, and her voice is very nearly coy. “It doesn't have anything to do with what happened tonight?”

He rubs his nose into her hair; he is moving entirely on impulse now. “If it did,” he says softly, “would it change your answer?”

She's quiet. He can hear every breath. It goes on for so long that he begins to consider pulling away, but she hasn't let go of his hand yet.

Finally, she says, “I hope you're ready. I've been thinking of lots of rebuttals for your river creature theories.”

He laughs, a little nervously, a little relievedly. She squeezes his hand once before letting go. She shifts a little in bed, turning over on her side, but she doesn't move away. His chest is against her back, his arm against her hip, and she doesn't move away.

The wind wails and the shutters rattle, and he thinks that the heat must be broken because he's freezing, but they're together, and she's warm. She is so warm, and she's here, and he loves her. He presses his cheek briefly to the back of her head before settling in to go to sleep.

---

Joy leaves the broken necklace on her desk. It's so dark out, she'd probably just lose it, and she couldn't do anything with it tonight, anyway. She feels nearly naked without it around her neck, but she feels equally relieved at the absence. Her breaths are still ragged, her neck still stinging, her heart still pounding. She can't quiet leave the fright of the moment, sweat slicking her palms, a shivery feeling up her spine. She just wants to get home and fall asleep for a few hours before she'll have to wake up and go back into school. She realizes that tonight hasn't exactly made any progress in the way of getting this ghost out of her classroom, and her temples throb. Tonight seemed like an ending, but she doesn't see why it would be. The ghost is likely still there.

She rubs at her eyes with exhaustion, texts her husband to let him know she'll be home soon and starts her car.

The streets are dark, orange and black streamers hanging limply from street lamps and candy wrappers littering the streets. Joy yawns, making a left turn. Driving in the dark has always given her the creeps. She likes to think it's the product of moving to the country after growing up in the city: no lights, no noises, just endless black and silence. She turns on her brights, just because no one else is on the road, and hums absently to herself, drumming her fingers on the dashboard.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, the radio springs to life. It's playing Monster Mash, and Joy never thought a goofy song like that would bring as much terror as this one does, because her hands were nowhere near the dial.

Spooked, frantic, Joy tries to reach out with her right hand and turn it off, but she can't move. Her hands are frozen, her wrists achey and her fingers spasming around the wheel in her attempts to move, but it's to no avail. She can't reach over and turn off the radio.

Her eyes yank from side to side frantically, the only part of her body she seems to be able to move. And then her foot moves without her meaning to. She presses down harder on the gas, increasing her speed far past the limit.

Joy tries to thrash, tries to break her hands free from the wheel or her foot from the gas, but she still finds herself frozen, helpless. She can't decrease the pressure. The bouncy sound of Monster Mash continues, too loud, echoing in her eardrums. She whimpers, just a little, as she shoots past 70 in a 35 zone. At least there are no other cars in front of her.

Her eyes jerk again, almost painfully, and land on the rearview mirror. There's no one on the road behind her, but there is a shape in the back seat. A hulking, humanoid shape that seems to be watching her.

Joy's breath catches in her throat, unable to take her eyes away, unable to look away. She is helpless. She can't make out the face of whoever, or whatever, is in the backseat, but she thinks it may be smiling. Smiling maliciously.

The next thing she knows, the shape seems to be lunging at her. Her hand suddenly moves, not of their own accord, swerving the wheel hard to the right.

The next thing she knows, everything is going black.

---

November 1, 2016

Willoughby Daily Press; Willoughby, Virginia

SEVERE CAR CRASH ON PINE TREE ROAD LAST NIGHT

Last night, a car swerved off Pine Tree Road and flipped in the adjacent field. The accident was estimated to take place a few minutes before midnight.

The car belongs to a Mrs. Joy Seers, who was reportedly driving the car when it crashed. Mrs. Seers reportedly obtained major injuries, and was transported to Willoughby General Hospital from the scene. No one else was harmed in the wreck.

Seers's husband was contacted, but declined to comment on his wife's condition. According to a source who requested to stay anonymous, Mrs. Seers is in a coma at Willoughby General, and it is unknown when she is expected to wake up.

The Willoughby Police Department declined to comment on the accident. It is assumed that no foul play was involved, although this is unconfirmed.

#xf rewatch #xf fanfic #i wrote this

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