Work Text:
Norfolk VA
It’s late. Well after the hour where anything that happens is likely to be good. An abandoned ferry sits along a river. Once a safe and purposeful vessel, it’s been harbored at this remote and rarely visited dock for some time. Years of wind and rain have caused the iron to rust and the white and blue paint to chip and flake away, but tonight the sky is clear and the air is still. It’s quiet but for the soft crunch of approaching footsteps.
Cast in crescent moonlight, a young woman approaches. She is dark skinned, dark haired, a teenager; tentatively ascending the dilapidated ramp and determinedly gripping a flashlight. The beam pauses for a moment over the ship’s name, CHIMERA, displayed in large, white letters.
Another two carefully placed steps and she is inside. It is pitch black with the exception of her flashlight, which she uses to investigate her surroundings. She is uneasy, looking for something but unsure she wants to find it. She comes across a staircase leading to the upper deck. When she gets to the top of the stairs she is eye-to-something with a dead animal, too mutilated to determine the species. She screams.
“Hello?” a nearby female voice calls out.
She freezes. She had expected to come across something, not someone. “Hello?” she tentatively calls back. “Who is that?”
When she doesn’t get a response she quietly finishes ascending the stairs, careful to avoid the rotting corpse. Once atop, she reaches down into her bag and arms herself with a kitchen knife. She tries again, “are you Ghouli?”
“No, you are,” the voice calls back.
“No I’m not. I swear.”
“That’s what Ghouli would say. You’re trying to trick me.”
“Look, I can prove it. Just stay where you are, I’ll come find you.”
Knife in hand she sets out towards where she thinks the voice is emanating from, but before she can get far, and with no warning, the floor gives out beneath her feet. She rides the debris down to the floor below and lands with a thud.
When she opens her eyes she sees the creature she was and wasn’t hoping to find, an eight foot tall shark-man-spider thing, looming over her. A flood of adrenaline overrides the pain from the fall, she takes firm grip of her knife and leaps forward, slashing wildly. She makes contact but also feels the sharp prongs of its many legs open her skin on her face, hands, and neck. She feels lightheaded, a tightness in her chest, and she collapses. She can feel her blood pool around her as she scans the dim, moonlit room before she loses consciousness. The creature is gone.
-----
DO DO DO DO DO DO
-----
Mulder opens his eyes. He’s disoriented, confused. This isn’t where he fell asleep, this isn’t his room, this isn’t his bed. This room is much tidier than his, but feels like it belongs to someone much younger. There are posters on the walls, a telescope, a solar system display, and the overwhelming feeling of an ominous presence. He tries to get up, but his body feels like it’s been scooped clean of its organs and sewn up full of sand. The presence feels closer now, and out of the corner of his eye he sees a figure behind him; tall, lanky and dressed in black.
His gun rests on the nightstand in front of him and he tries to reach for it but his heavy arm won’t cooperate. A feeling of panic sets in and in one determined motion he heaves his whole body off the bed, grabs his gun, and spins around in a defensive crouch, breaking the spell that had rendered him immobile. As the dark figure flees the room, Mulder tracks them with the barrel but doesn’t shoot.
Clad in a gray t-shirt and navy sweatpants, hair askew, gun drawn, he follows the figure out of the room and down the stairs into the kitchen. He’s never been in this house before, he’s sure, though he’s been in many like it. A cookie-cutter suburban dwelling. He hears footsteps behind him and turns to see the figure leave through the front door. He charges in an attempt to catch up but he exits the front door only to simultaneously enter through the back door, bringing to mind a Christmas Eve he and Scully spent in a haunted manor.
He chases the figure through two more doors, only to end up back in the kitchen each time. “What the hell is going on?” he mutters to himself, when something on the dinner table catches his eye. It’s a snow globe, recently stirred. Tiny faux snowflakes float and dance in the solution as he takes it in his hands. Inside is a miniature white and blue ferry that looks like it has seen better days. The ship’s name, CHIMERA, is displayed in large, white letters.
-----
FBI Headquarters, Washington D.C.
“It sounds like sleep paralysis. REM atonia,” Scully says after listening to him recount his experience. “Did you hear a hissing, or a, or a buzzing? Did you feel an electric current running through your body?”
“No, it was different, Scully,” he shook his head, looking up at her from his seat behind the desk. “I mean, after the-the initial jolt of fear, I felt compelled to follow the dark figure.”
“Hmm. Where was it leading you?”
“Here. This boat,” he says as he hands her the file that had been sitting on their desk.
“An open X-File?” Scully questions and pages through its contents, brow furrowed.
“Skinner just gave us the case this morning. The incident occurred last night.”
-----
Norfolk, VA
The wipers groan as they drag across the windshield of their rented Ford Taurus. It’s only sprinkling now but the road is saturated from a recent heavy rainfall. It’s been unseasonably warm for February. Mulder grips the wheel and shifts in his seat, it hasn’t been a long travel day but he’s antsy. He glances over at Scully who is taking another pass over the casefile before they arrive at the scene.
“’Dreams are today's answers to tomorrow's questions,’” he verbally prods in an attempt to reclaim her attention. “That's a quote from Edgar Cayce. He was called the sleeping prophet. He received visions in a hypnogogic state and he believed those visions were messages.”
“He also believed in the lost city of Atlantis.” She’s familiar with Edgar Cayce.
“Another reason to love the guy.”
Scully closes the file with a smirk and acquiesces to his line of reasoning, something she’s been doing more often lately.
“So you believe you've received a vision. From who?”
He shrugs. “I don't know, but we're onto something, Scully. I'm sure of it.” He takes an exaggerated look into the rearview mirror for her benefit. “We've been followed since the airport.” There’s a black unmarked car trailing them when she checks the passenger side mirror.
It’s mid-afternoon by the time they arrive at the ferry. The remaining clouds have dissipated and the winter sun sits low to the west. A middle aged man with brown hair and a graying goatee greats them with handshakes at the dock.
“Hi. Detective Costa.”
“Agent Scully, Agent Mulder” Scully announces as they both flash their badges.
“Pleasure.”
His demeanor is friendly, at least by local PD standards. He starts in with the particulars right away as the three of them head towards the ship. “So, the victims and the perpetrators were two female high school seniors. Different schools. No past criminal history. They were good students. Uh, we talked to their respective families and checked their social media. No indications that the girls knew each other before the attack.”
“The crime scene photos indicate that the wounds were made with a sharp bladed instrument.” Scully offers, the details of the initial report fresh in her mind.
“We found two knives at the scene. They, uh, they cut each other up pretty bad.”
“What's the condition of the girls now?” Scully asks.
“Both lost a lot of blood. Uh, the one, Brianna Stapleton, was, like, a millimeter away from having her carotid artery severed in the fight. Now, both girls are unconscious in the hospital, but doctors are confident they'll pull through.”
They board the ferry. It’s dim and dingy and the air smells stale. The detective leads them to the scene of the attack. It’s towards the front of the boat on a closed viewing deck with wrap around windows. There’s a bloody handprint streaking across a window and, among the discarded ropes, life jackets, and debris, there are two distinct pools of blood on the floor.
“Who reported the attack?” Mulder asks as he surveys their surroundings.
“An anonymous 911 call. Didn't leave a name, but, uh, the voice was male, and he sounded panicked. Forensics has a complete workup on the scene with pictures and measurements, but, uh, this was left otherwise untouched.” He observes them observe for a moment, then excuses himself to address another detective.
“There's no blood leading to or from the spot where they were discovered.” Scully notes.
Mulder nods. “Seems like once they started, they were gonna finish.”
“Mulder, the way these girls attacked each other indicates an extreme emotional response. It suggests to me that they did know each other.”
“But if they didn't know each other, that same response could be an indication of extreme fear, like a lizard brain thing. But either way, this meeting was certainly not a coincidence.”
Detective Costa returns and interrupts their discussion. “Hey, guys. There was one other thing. The EMT said that he heard something when he was treating the victims. He said that the girls asked him if he found Ghouli.”
Mulder locks eyes with Scully before casually and professionally inquiring, “Is that Ghouli with an ‘H’?”
-----
Their next stop is a café that serves up both internet access and coffee. A quick search of the World Wide Web directs them to a ghouli.net. When the homepage loads they are treated to a detailed drawing of Ghouli, a bipedal, hairless monster with a long tail, extra arms, and rows upon rows of jagged teeth. Mulder visibly deflates.
“It's typical. Teeth, mucous. Ghouli probably feeds on human flesh. Yawn.” He’s been in the monster game long enough to recognize a hoax when he sees one, or at least he likes to think so.
“Well, the site's only been active for the last couple of months. Mostly fan fiction.” Scully says as she scrolls the rest of the content, relieved that Mulder seems to be taking a sensible approach to the case, vision quest aside.
“Yeah, this is my problem with modern-day monsters, Scully. There's no chance for emotional investment. You know, like Frankenstein and the Wolfman. Not only did they inspire bowel-clenching fear, but there was pathos. You know, Frankenstein he was afraid of fire and he just wanted a friend. You know?”
She doesn’t know about that, but she does know, real or imagined, this monster is somehow involved so they can’t disregard it completely.
“There's a lot of money to be made in scaring people. Maybe the girls were manipulated to attack each other in order to goose traffic.” Scully supposes. “Most of the stories are written by an @Rever.”
They are interrupted by the ring of Mulder’s cell phone. “Mulder,” he answers. “Ah, ok, thank you.” He hangs up and addresses Scully. “The girls have regained consciousness. We can talk to them at the hospital now.” Scully nods and starts packing up.
“Bob! Double shot cappuccino - extra foam,” the barista calls out from behind the counter.
“Yes, thank you.” Mulder acknowledges self-consciously.
Scully raises an eyebrow. “Bob?”
Mulder shrugs. “Like I wanted to explain ‘Fox’ for the millionth time?”
-----
At the hospital they are told that while both girls have regained consciousness only Brianna Stapleton is currently awake, so they question her first. Scully introduces them both and pulls a chair up to Brianna’s bed while Mulder hangs back against the wall. Scully takes in her appearance. She is dark skinned, dark haired, pretty. She has a few bandages on her face and several covering defensive wounds on her arms. The monitor beeps steadily in the background.
“Ghouli’s real. I saw it,” Brianna says firmly. “It was closer than you are to me. I was scared. I had to defend myself.”
Scully nods sympathetically. “And how did you find this Ghouli?”
“I fell into this hole, into its lair, I guess.”
“What about Sarah Turner? She was on the floor, next to you, also injured.”
“I didn’t see anybody else.”
“So how did you know to go to the ferry?”
Brianna hesitates. “I had a dream,” she finally says, “but it wasn’t a dream. It felt real, like I was really living it.”
Scully can feel Mulder shifting behind her.
“And at first it was scary, because I couldn’t move. Like I was in bed, but it wasn’t my own bed. It wasn’t even my own house. I would run through the hallways and try to get to the living room to get outside, and I would just end up back inside again.”
“Was there something inside the house you were supposed to see?” Mulder interjects.
“Yeah, one of those things where you shake it and it snows. The ferry was inside.”
“Have you ever experienced a dream like that before?” Scully questions, reasserting herself.
“No.” Brianna says quietly and shakes her head.
Scully and Mulder share a look, not quite sure what to make of this development. A nurse enters the room to take Brianna’s vitals and informs them that Sarah is now awake. They thank Brianna and head down the hall to question Sarah. Mulder is half expecting to find her room occupied by a flesh eating telepathic monster, but it doesn’t appear to be. Sarah is similarly pretty and bandaged, but has fair skin and blonde wavy hair. He takes the lead this time.
“What can you tell us about the attack?” Mulder asks.
“The thing was an inch from my face. So close I could smell its breath. It had rows of sharp teeth, and this goo was dripping from its mouth.”
Mulder’s curious. “Well, what did it smell like? Its breath?”
Sarah takes a moment to recount and consider, “Like cinnamon.” Not what he expected.
“How did you find Ghouli?”
“I heard something jump down, and when I turned around, it was screaming.”
“What about Brianna Stapleton?”
Agitated, she replies, “I don’t know any Brianna. Okay? All I saw was Ghouli.”
“How did you know to go to the ferry?”
She laughs. “You’re gonna think I’m crazy. I had a dream. Someone was next to me, but I couldn't see him. It was just a dark figure. And I jumped out of bed and chased him, but I couldn’t get out of the house.”
“Like a maze? Where no matter which door you open, you end up in the same place?” Mulder extrapolates.
Sarah nods.
“Have you ever experienced a dream like that before?”
“Kind of. My boyfriend and I did this funhouse thing at the fair.”
This time Scully interrupts. “You have a boyfriend?” she asks. “What’s his name?”
“Fox LaPierre.”
Scully thanks Sarah and tilts her head toward the door in an indication for Mulder to follow her. She leads them back into Brianna’s room.
“Brianna, do you have a boyfriend?” she asks.
Brianna reaches for a tin of cinnamon mints and pops a couple in her mouth before answering. “I’m… I’m not supposed to. My parents don’t approve. They’re really lame, but he’s cool.”
“What’s his name?”
“Fox. Fox LaPierre.”
They step out into the hallway, Mulder is spinning. “The sleep paralysis, the labyrinth, the snow globe. It's the same story. And the girls, apparently, the same boyfriend Fox LaPierre. Fox,” he says while gesturing to himself.
“Mulder, it has to be a coincidence,” she says, but the words come out halfhearted at best.
“No, it’s not. I was sent here. I am meant to be here,” he counters.
“Let’s start by finding out where this kid lives.”
-----
It’s already dark when they pull up to the LaPierre residence around 6:00 PM. It’s a cookie-cutter suburban dwelling, small touches like the landscaping differentiate it from the rest of the houses on the street that look just like it. Mulder puts the car in park and gets out, but only takes a few steps before stopping, a realization coming over him.
“Scully, this is the house in my vision,” he says as she emerges from the car. Before she can respond two gunshots ring out from inside the house. They both flinch at the unexpected disruption, then wordlessly draw their weapons and approach the front door.
“Mulder,” Scully whispers, “door’s open.” He looks down to see that yes, the front door is already slightly cracked. He slowly pushes it open, entering the home first with Scully close behind. It is indeed the house from his vision, the only things out of place are the open back door and the body on the floor of the kitchen.
“Scully,” Mulder whispers, pointing out the victim to her. It’s a man, late 30’s, dead of a gunshot wound to the head. Another gunshot can be heard upstairs. They ascend the stairs and clear the bedrooms. When they get to the master they find a young man, a teenager, on the floor, a victim of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound.
Less than an hour later the house is buzzing with local police and forensic investigators. Scully is wrapping up a conversation with Detective Costa in the Kitchen.
“We still haven’t been able to reach the wife, Ann LaPierre. I’ll keep you posted,” he says somberly.
“Alright, thank you detective.” She takes a lingering scan of the kitchen and heads upstairs.
“Mulder?” she calls out at the top of the stairs as two officers brush passed her. She tries the master bedroom. From the doorway she watches as an EMT zips the young man, now positively identified as Fox LaPierre, into a body bag. Mulder, her Fox, is not there.
She moves on to the next room, Fox’s room, she supposes. It’s tidy for a teenager’s room, spotless if not for an open can of soda on his desk. She suspects his mother may have just cleaned. There are posters on the walls, a telescope, a solar system display, and Mulder, standing in front of the bed, eyes closed, hand to his furrowed brow.
“Mulder?” she says softly, snapping him out of his train of thought.
“This is his room,” he says. “I recognize it from my dream. Whoever he is, he wanted me to be here.”
“Why would he call you here just to see him die?”
Mulder doesn’t answer her. Instead he takes the few steps to the desk and picks up the can of soda.
“It’s full, and it’s still cold,” he notes, shaking it slightly for her benefit. “Odd choice to crack open a can of soda before you decide to kill your father.”
“You don’t think this was a murder-suicide?” Again, he doesn’t answer. “Mulder, Fox LaPierre killed his father. Then when he heard us break into the house, he realized he was gonna get caught, and killed himself.”
“That’s a rather convenient explanation.”
“Well, he had two girlfriends who tried to kill each other just the other night. I mean, there’s something dirty in the water already.” She walks over to where he’s standing in front of the desk, opens the top drawer, and rummages through the contents. “And look at this,” she says, pulling out two pill bottles. “He was seeing a psychiatrist. Clozapine, that’s an antipsychotic, and Diazepam is to treat seizures. They were prescribed two months ago, and they’re still full, so he was off his medication.”
“The back door was wide open when we got here.”
“Maybe he left it open. Or maybe his mother was here and fled, we still haven’t been able to reach her.”
“If the mother was here why hasn’t she tried to contact the police? I have grave doubts about what appears to have happened here, Scully.”
Scully sighs. She explores the room, looking for more evidence that might explain Fox’s mindset. As she scans the bookshelf one title catches her eye. She takes it in her hands, looks it over back to front.
“The Pick Up Artist: Memoirs of a Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing,” she reads aloud to Mulder, rolling her eyes. “That explains the two girlfriends.”
Mulder is fixated on a poster mounted to the ceiling. He lays down on the bed, perched up on his elbow, to get a better view. “Huh, Malcom X. ‘The future belongs to those who prepare for it today.’”
“Malcom Little took the last name ‘X’ because he wouldn’t take the slave name given to his ancestral family,” Scully informs.
“I wonder if he went by ‘LaPierre.’” His downcast gaze travels up to her and she flashes a sympathetic smile, wishing he didn’t have such an adversarial relationship with his own name.
A car door shuts outside. Mulder moves from the bed to the window to see who has just arrived. There are two men dressed in black standing in front of a car he recognizes as the same model that had tailed them earlier.
“I’ll be right back,” he tells Scully and storms out of the room.
Scully replaces the book and peruses the rest of the bookshelf. The lowest shelf has an eclectic collection of snow globes; an astronaut in a space scene, a shark devouring an orb, Bigfoot crossing the street, no ferry. One has an inscription that Scully can’t quite make out so she picks it up to take a closer look. There’s just a windmill on the inside, tiny snowflakes float around it from her jostling. The inscription reads We’re Not in Kansas Anymore. She can relate to the sentiment. It’s then she realizes the snow globe had been resting on top of a photograph. Her heart swells and her stomach sinks. “Oh my God.”
Outside the LaPierre residence, Mulder approaches the suspicious men.
“Who the hell are you with and why are you following me?”
“Take it easy,” the taller of the two says. “Nobody’s following you.”
“We’re just curious onlookers,” reiterates the other.
“Yeah. We saw the police cars. Something bad happened here.”
Mulder is already tired of this, their patronizing. “What agency are you with? Judging by your crappy rental car, I’m guessing the DoD.”
“You make a lot of assumptions,” the shorter man answers.
“I’m also gonna assume it’s no coincidence you’re here on the night the LaPierre’s are killed.”
“Wow. What a tragedy,” the taller man says, glib.
“Keep cracking wise,” Mulder snaps. “You have no idea my state of mind.”
“Mulder!” Scully calls out, interrupting the escalating exchange. She strides over and puts herself between Mulder and the two men. “Mulder, let’s go,” she says, slightly out of breath, not entirely from the frantic pace at which she had closed the gap between them. She pulls him away by the arm of his jacket. “Excuse us,” she offers the men as an afterthought as she leads him back to the relative seclusion of their rental car.
“Keys,” she demands and he reaches into his pocket and tosses them to her. She opens the door to get in on the driver side.
“What’s going on?” he questions, her obvious change in demeanor has him concerned.
“Get in the car,” she instructs, not harshly, as she sits down and closes the door behind her. He takes his seat on the passenger side.
Scully makes no move to start the car. Instead she folds her right leg under so she can turn to face him and reaches into her jacket pocket. She pulls out what looks to be a photograph and rests it on her lap face down.
“Mulder,” she says softly. “Mulder, I want you to brace yourself and then look at this photo of Ann LaPierre.” Now he’s concerned and nervous. She hands him the photo and all the air leaves his lungs.
In the photo is a younger Fox, maybe 7 or 8 years old. He’s wearing a big smile, missing a front tooth, and one of those elastic strapped birthday hats. His arms are around his mother, who is also smiling big for the camera. Mulder recognizes her smile, her wavy brown hair, a true moment of happiness suppressing years of anguish. It’s Samantha.
“Oh my God Scully,” is all he can manage.
“Before we get too far ahead of ourselves, it could just be a strong resemblance. I think we should do a DNA test on the boy. To be sure.” She reaches out and runs her hand from his shoulder down his back, he imperceptibly relaxes under her touch, remembers to breathe again. “But Mulder, if she is… her. I don’t think she’s going to resurface.”
Mulder is about to question why she would say that, but when he tears his eyes from the photo, he follows her gaze out the front window to the two government men, looking on.
-----
A clack echoes through the hospital morgue as Scully flicks on the light switch. A few of the fluorescent bulbs are burnt out, even for a morgue it’s especially somber. She moves quickly to the table in the center of the room where Fox rests inside a black body bag. She sets down two tubular DNA comparison kits on the adjacent instrument table where a box of medical gloves already sits. She snaps on a pair and carefully unzips the bag down to Fox’s chest. She cracks open one of the test kits and gently opens his mouth to swab the inside of his cheek. She twists the test closed and it’s only then does she really let herself take him in.
He’s dark haired with a lanky frame he’d have eventually grown into. The weight of the bag has messed his parted bangs and she lightly brushes the hair out of his eyes. There’s a likeness. She looks up to find Mulder hovering anxiously in the doorway.
“Mulder, you don’t have to be here. I can get your sample outside.”
“Can I see him?”
“Yeah, of course,” she says. “Come here.” She motions for him to sit on a stool next to her. She takes the other test kit and swabs his mouth. “I’ll use the lab here and get a DNA comparison. We should have the results in two hours, okay?” She gently squeezes his arm.
“Okay,” he whispers, looking passed her to the boy on the table. She releases his arm and collects the other sample kit before leaving them alone.
Mulder drags the stool closer to the head of the table and for a while he just sits there, he’s unsure how long, it feels like a long time. Eventually the words come to him, thick in his throat, they flow out of his mouth like molasses.
“I don’t know if you are who I think you might be,” he starts, “but if you are my nephew, I’d just say I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to stop this. I feel like I failed your mom. I’ve been looking for her my whole life. I’ve always held on to hope that we were gonna, somehow, be reunited.” He pauses to wipe away a lone tear with his thumb. “Maybe if I’d been around I could have convinced her to give you a different name,” he sighs quietly before finishing, “I really wish I could have had a chance to know you.”
He stands and takes one last look before he zips the bag closed and moves to leave. “I’m sorry,” he says as he flicks the light off.
The room is quiet for a moment, then the body bag starts to rustle. Slowly it unzips from the inside. Fox sits up on the table and stretches his neck and limbs.
They try to get some sleep in the lobby while they await the test results. Mulder lets Scully stretch out on the couch while he takes the chair, sure that he is too wired to sleep anyway. He leans on the armrest, observing the rhythmic rise and fall of Scully’s chest, when finally his eyelids grow heavy and he feels his head dip from his hand. He leans back and lets his head rest on the back of the chair, hoping to seize the opportunity to let sleep take him.
Then he feels it, over his shoulder, a presence. He tries to turn his head to face it but again he’s paralyzed. His eyes dart around the room, the once bustling hospital is now quiet and still, Scully is no longer on the couch. He’s having another vision. Utilizing the same tactic as before, he concentrates his energy and hurls himself out of the chair in time to see the shadow figure disappear behind a hospital room door. Mulder follows right behind.
On the other side of the door he is back at the LaPierre’s, he recognizes the master bedroom. A snow globe teeters on the edge of the nightstand before toppling over. It bounces off the floor twice before coming to rest against the closet door. Mulder bends down and takes it in his hands. There’s just a windmill on the inside, the inscription reads We’re Not In Kansas Anymore.
“What are you trying to tell me?” he puzzles.
“Agent Scully?” he hears a man’s voice say in the distance. He snaps awake in the lobby, still sitting in the chair.
There’s an older man there addressing Scully, who is slowly sitting up. “I’m Dr. Harris, the coroner. Where did you put the body?” At that Mulder and Scully share a confused look.
Back in the morgue Scully riffles through the empty body bag that had previously contained Fox. “There’s no sign anyone was ever in here,” she says.
“There’s no way anyone could have taken a body out of here,” the coroner contends.
“Are there any windows anywhere?” Scully asks him, scanning the room. He points to the back wall and leads them to private bathroom, where they find a sliding glass window wide open.
“That window’s always locked,” the coroner says at the sight of it.
Mulder inspects it. “No sign of damage on the outside.”
“Well, then it must have been opened from the inside,” Scully concludes.
Mulder turns back to her. “Scully, can I talk to you?”
“Yeah,” she says, removing the medical gloves she had put on to explore the body bag.
They step out into the hallway. Mulder leans in to say what he’s about to say discretely. “I don’t think anyone stole the body. I think Fox got up and walked out of here himself.”
“Mulder, no,” Scully whispers, matching his volume. “The DoD has their hands all over this case already, it’s not a stretch to assume this is their doing.”
“I had another vision. When we were in the lobby. He wanted to show me something.”
“Show you what?”
“It was another snow globe, a uh, a windmill.”
A look of disbelief flashes across her face. She reaches into her pocket and reveals the snow globe that had caught her eye in Fox’s room. “Like this?”
Mulder takes it from her and studies it. “Did you take this from his room?”
“It was sitting on top of the photo of him and his mother. I don’t know why I took it.”
“He wants me to find him, Scully. Maybe he wants to lead me to her.”
“Mulder,” she pleads, as if her tone could convince him to practice some restraint. He half abides her.
“Why don’t you check the video surveillance. I’m going to head back to the house, take another look around.” She nods and watches after him as he walks away.
The cool air hits Mulder when he pushes through the hospital doors. He puts his hands in his pockets to warm them and his fingers find the snow globe. As he removes it from his pocket to scrutinize it further, his arm comes into contact with a passerby. The snow globe rotates through the air and lands on the cement with a crack.
“Oh, sorry,” the man says, bending down to pick up the object. “It, it cracked. The stuff leaked out.” He hands the broken snow globe back to Mulder.
“No, it’s my fault. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, you were distracted,” the man replies. “You like windmills?”
“Not particularly. I’ve been accused of tilting at them.”
“Ah. Well, don’t give up on the bigger picture.” The man offers a slight smile before turning his back to enter the hospital. Mulder pockets the broken snow globe and heads to the car.
-----
Mulder enters the LaPierre home to find it dark and empty. Recalling his vision, he heads up to the master bedroom. He sits down slowly on the bed and opens the drawer of the nightstand the snow globe had teetered off, but it’s empty. From there his eyes fall on the closet. He stands and drags open the bi-fold doors. There’s a full wardrobe hanging on the rack, more women’s clothes than men’s, and the top shelf is full of sweaters and belts. He kneels down, pushing aside dresses and pants he comes across a cardboard box pressed against the back corner.
He sits back and brings the box out onto his lap. It contains an assortment of memory items; handmade Mother’s and Father’s Day cards, a film canister that rattles with Fox’s baby teeth, some crayon drawings, a photo album, and an old, faded hardcover notebook.
It’s after midnight by the time Scully finds Mulder sitting at the desk in Fox’s bedroom, reading from the notebook by lamplight.
“Mulder?” she whispers, not wanting to startle him. “What are you doing?”
“He led me to this,” Mulder says without looking up, his voice cracking.
“Mulder?” she says again as she joins him at the desk, leaning her back up against it.
His throat is dry, he swallows and coughs to get the words to come out. “It’s a diary. It’s my sister’s.”
Tears well in his eyes, red with exhaustion, as he reads aloud to her, “They did more tests today, but not the horrible kind. I was awake and they made me lay still while they shine lights in my eyes. They asked me questions, but I always lie now and tell them what they wanna hear just to make 'em stop. I hate them and I hate the way they treat me, like I'm an old suitcase they can just drag around and open up whenever they want to. They know I hate them, but they don't even care.”
He pauses to take a deep breath. “This is 1979. She's 14 years old here. Fourteen years old.”
He turns the page and continues. “Sometimes I think my memories were taken by the doctors, but not all of them. I remember faces. I remember I had a brother with brown hair who used to tease me. l hope someday he reads this and knows I wish I could see his face again for real."
He clears his throat again, holding himself back from losing it entirely as he thumbs through the next few pages. “And then, uh, she's, uh, talking about running away. She wants to run away so that they stop doing the tests. And then it just stops.”
“She was returned Scully,” he says, his voice growing stronger. “She was returned and subjected to more tests, just like Cassandra Spender. But she fled, she's been hiding in plain sight all this time.” He picks the photo album up off the desk and fans through the pages. “Look Scully,” he says, displaying page after page of photos of Samantha smiling, “birthdays, Halloween, vacation, baseball. It’s a whole life.”
When he looks up to Scully she smiles, her face awash with tears, and that is when he finally loses it. They start to laugh together as his tears cascade down his face. He is overcome with relief, knowing that Samantha has been alive this whole time in every sense of the word.
She lowers herself to hug him, tucks one arm under his and around his back while she cradles his head with the other. She presses her lips to his neck and he lets the album fall to the floor as he brings his arms up to lock his wrists around her ribs. He clings to her as twenty-six years of guilt and anxiety flow out from him, he worries he might throw up.
“I probably don’t have to tell you this, but the results came back as a genetic relation,” she murmurs into his shirt collar. His body heaves in her arms with his laughter. “There was nothing on the surveillance cameras though.”
“There’s something on his computer,” Mulder mumbles and slowly disentangles himself from her arms. He wipes his eyes on his shirtsleeve and points to the computer. “I'm copying over the browser history from the hard drive, there's hundreds of posts to ghouli.net and a back door to some files of the DoD.”
“Wait, what?” Scully starts but she is cut off by the sound of a siren and car doors closing outside.
“Our investigation is about to get hijacked,” Mulder says as he cranes his neck to see out the window down to the street below.
“Agents Mulder and Scully! We are commanding you to cease all activity and exit the property immediately!” a man’s voice shouts from downstairs.
Scully quickly reaches down and picks up the photo album from the floor. She stacks the diary on top of it, presses them to her abdomen, and wraps and ties her jacket to secure them. She leaves the room to confront the interlopers.
She identifies them as the same two agents Mulder had words with earlier. She stands firm on the landing and flashes her badge to them as they climb the staircase. “The FBI has jurisdiction over this investigation. I suggest you leave the premises until I can get an order from a countermanding authority.”
As they continue passed her, the shorter agent hands her a directive then smugly proclaims, “Straight from the DoJ. Now scram.”
Mulder inconspicuously pockets the disc containing the contents of the hard drive as the agents enter Fox’s room.
“Step away from the desk, everything in this house is now under the jurisdiction of the DoD,” the shorter agent instructs. Mulder raises both hands in obedience but as he stands up out of the chair, he accidentally on purpose spills the open soda on the computer. Both agents push him out of the way to attempt to access any files before it shorts out.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the taller man yells out in frustration.
Mulder shrugs. “Never a good idea to keep an open beverage by electronics.
-----
Mulder sits alone against the front window of the café, papers scattered about. A sunbeam cuts the table in half, warming the hand that holds the document he is currently focused on. He looks up from his task to see Scully making her way up the sidewalk, his phone rings as she enters the building.
“Mulder,” He answers, simultaneously greeting her with a tilt of his head as she heads to the counter.
“Mulder, how is it possible the only updates I've received about what you're doing come through complaints by other agencies in the government?” Skinner says on the other end of the line.
“Let me guess, the DoD?”
“And the DoJ. They filed a memo documenting obstruction and tampering with evidence.”
“Nothing will come of those complaints, because the DoD is intimately involved in a conspiracy they themselves are trying to cover up.”
“Does it have anything to do with a missing dead body, a Fox LaPierre?”
“I'll tell you more when I know more.”
“Mulder, I think you need to come back here so we can discuss your activities.”
“Skinner, you’re breaking up.” He’s not breaking up.
“I can…”
“I can barely hear you.”
“Mulder…”
Mulder looks over to Scully at the counter. When she sees she has his attention, she hovers her hand over a basket of cherry scones, he shakes his head. She migrates her hand over a basket of blueberry muffins to which he nods in agreement. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Mulder, I can hear you perfectly.”
“Uh, I’m gonna have to call you back when I get a better connection, alright?”
“Hello? Hello? Mulder?” Skinner shouts before Mulder disconnects the call. Scully sits down with their muffins and coffee.
“How was Fox’s psychiatrist?” he asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
“Illuminating. Dr. Scholz found it hard to believe that Fox would harm anyone, much less either one of his parents. She said he loved them very much. She also said that his prescriptions were to control symptoms that coincided with extreme electrical activity in the brain. It sounded similar to, but less acute than, the event you suffered last year.” With that, a piece of the puzzle clicks into place for him.
“What if I wasn't meant to get that first vision, Scully? What if I was only able to see what he was projecting to those two girls through some kind of physiologic or genetic link?”
The barista bumps into Mulder’s chair while wiping down the table behind them. “Sorry Bob.”
“It’s an alternate reality. Fox doesn’t exist in coffee shops,” Scully teases.
“No, it’s a false reality Scully. Just like everything we've seen so far. I've been going over the forensics of the case. The police think that Fox killed his father then himself, but remember the first two gunshots we heard? The angle at which the errant bullet entered the wall tells me there were two shooters in the kitchen. And those DoD files Fox had accessed? Most of them had veiled references to the Purity Control project and one specifically mentioned a project Crossroads, wherein the DoD targets the children of abductees. Fox knew he was being hunted so he hid the only way he knew how. He created an alternate reality playing dead.”
“So he made us hear the shot and see the hole in his head, just like those two girls thought they saw a monster,” Scully concludes, Mulder nods. “Well, where is he now?”
Wistfully, Mulder replies, “Hopefully with his mother, somewhere safe.”
-----
Fox quietly approaches a sleeping Brianna in her hospital bed, puts a hand lightly on her shoulder to wake her.
Brianna gasps in surprise. “Fox,” she breathes, they kiss and she wraps her arms tightly around him. “My God, they told me you were dead.”
“Not yet,” he laughs, but his smile fades as he takes stock of her injuries. He reaches out and lightly strokes her face. “Oh, babe. These look sick. That’s horrible, I’m so sorry.”
“Where have you been?”
“I’ve been hiding. There’s these people, they’re after me and my mom. They killed my dad.”
“What?”
“I… Look, I just, I just came to apologize. I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I didn't think that anyone would get hurt. I thought it'd be funny. I thought it'd be, like, a prank, you know, like, you'd see the Ghouli and you’d just run away.”
“I, are you Ghouli?” she asks, disbelieving.
“No. There's no such thing as Ghouli. I made up everything on the website.”
“No. Fox, that-that thing attacked me, and the other girl.”
“You attacked each other. You saw what I projected into your head, alright,” he explains quietly, ashamed. “It's like this, this power. It, it started when I would have my seizures. I was learning to control it, okay? I just couldn't stop it in time. There was so much blood. It was all just a blur.”
“That's really messed up.”
“It is. I'm sorry.” His apology doesn’t diminish her hurt expression. “But I Look, I came back because I'm leaving town and I wanted to say goodbye, okay?”
“Okay.”
He kisses her again as the sound of distant sirens grows closer and blue and red lights flood the walls of her room. Fox breaks the kiss to investigate and sees his would-be assassins among the police in the parking lot below.
“Oh, no. They found me.”
Mulder and Scully urgently approach detective Costa just outside the main entrance to the hospital.
“Take it easy agents. You guys can relax. It’s under control,” he declares.
“You have Fox LaPierre in custody?” Scully asks.
“Well, not yet. And personally, I don't understand how a dead guy can be up on his feet, but yeah. He's in there and exits are covered.”
“How do you know he’s inside?” Mulder inquires.
“I got a call from Sarah Turner, she caught him in Brianna Stapleton’s room.”
“Detective, I’d like to ask you to keep your officers outside so that we can be the first to go in,” Scully directs.
“Agents from the Department of Defense are already inside.”
Mulder and Scully exchange a worried look. “Excuse us.” Mulder says as he and Scully are already marching in lock step into the hospital.
“Geez, Sarah.” Fox yells, anxiously running his hands through his hair.
“You were kissing her, so I wanted to hurt you,” she cries. “I’m so sorry.”
“I think that I should be the one saying sorry,” he says, softening. He braces himself against her shoulders.
“A-Are you gonna be in trouble?”
“I think that they want to kill me,” he answers, his voice shaky.
“It's my fault. This is,” she sniffles, “this is all my fault.”
“No, no, no, look. I'm gonna be alright, okay?” he says as convincingly as he can, then leans in to kiss her goodbye.
Fox calmly leaves Sarah’s room, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. He makes it to the end of the hallway and pushes his way through the doors leading into another wing. The shorter DoD agent spots him from a distance and radios, “He’s coming your way.”
Receiving the message, the taller agent calls for the hospital staff to evacuate the floor. An alarm blares, it’s chaotic as people clamor to vacate. Fox debates fleeing with the crowd, but ultimately decides to hang back. He hides under a reception desk and waits.
He hears the DoD agents enter from opposite sides of the room. He closes his eyes to concentrate, and projects the image of himself pointing a gun over each agent. They each pull their guns and fire on each other.
Fox reluctantly peeks out from behind the desk to confirm the agents have been neutralized, he doesn’t take more than a fleeting glance before he runs out of the room. Almost simultaneously, Mulder and Scully enter through the opposite doors, having been held up by the masses of people trying to exit the hospital.
“They shot each other,” Mulder asserts at the discovery of the bodies. “He must be close by.”
They comb the hospital, but Fox is nowhere to be found. In a final attempt, they meander through the sea of patients and staff waiting to be let back into the building.
Scully halts Mulder. “Anything?”
“No.” Mulder shakes his head, resigned.
-----
There’s a chill in the air, a cold front had blown in overnight and forced away the warm air they’d enjoyed the past few days. A return to normalcy. Big fluffy snowflakes drift down and melt on the car windshield as they make their way back to the airport. Scully discretely eyes Mulder from the driver’s seat, he’s been quiet this morning. Samantha’s photo album and diary sit closed on his lap as he traces the edges of the broken snow globe with his hands.
Mulder palms the snow globe and shifts his pensive gaze to the road. A gas station appears in the distance as they come around a bend, noteworthy for the large rusted windmill on display out front, a beacon he thinks. “Hey Scully, do we need gas?”
“I could use a bathroom break.”
She pulls the car into the station and up to one of just two pumps. She hops out of the car and heads towards the shop while Mulder tends to the pump. He hears the door chime and her voice thank someone for holding it open for her. He inserts the nozzle and braces the handle so it will continue to fill on its own. He leans against the car, facing the windmill, then looks up into the morning sky. Snowflakes continue to fall around him, a few dusting his cheeks and littering his hair. He lets his eyes fall closed, takes a deep breath, and fills his lungs and head with the cold air. His sister is alive, he thinks that’s enough.
“Were you following me?”
Mulder opens his eyes and is surprised by the source of the interruption. “Hey, from the hospital right?”
“It must be kismet,” the man chuckles, “but I doubt we’ll be seeing each other again. I’m driving across country.”
“Anywhere in particular?”
“No, just want my mom to see the world.” He points to the car parked on the opposite side of the pump. An elderly woman is in the front seat. She gives Mulder a small smile and a wave. Mulder waves back. “Things are about to change.”
“Hey what did you mean the other night? When you said, ‘don’t give up on the bigger picture?’”
“You just seemed a little lost. If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything.”
“Uh, huh. Well, safe travels.”
The man nods and opens his driver side door, but hesitates before getting in. He turns back to Mulder.
“She knows that you love her,” he declares.
The door to the shop chimes again and Mulder turns around to see Scully making her way back. When he turns back the car is already leaving the station.
“Who’s that?” Scully asks.
“Just a guy I crossed paths with at the hospital.”
“He seems really familiar though.” Scully thinks it over while Mulder replaces the nozzle. “The Pick Up Artist,” she determines.
“What are you talking about?”
“That book from Fox’s room, I recognize him from the cover. I think he’s the author.” Scully looks to Mulder curiously. “What’d he say?”
“He said,” Mulder starts then stops, looking sheepish now. “He said, ‘she knows that you love her.’” He shrugs and a smile creeps up the corner of his mouth.
“Hmm,” she hums, returning the smile. She thinks perhaps she judged too quickly, the author might know a thing or two about women after all. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. A uh, Malcom X quote…” a realization coming over him.
“Mulder,” Scully says as it dawns on her as well.
They look up and down the street but the car is no longer visible in either direction. Scully grabs Mulder’s arm and points up at a surveillance camera. They rush into the shop, Scully flashes her badge to the clerk. “We need to see your surveillance video, now.” She demands.
The clerk rewinds the black and white security footage on the small TV behind the counter.
“Right there,” Mulder says when Fox becomes visible onscreen. The clerk lets the tape play.
‘Anywhere in particular?’
‘No, just want my mom to see the world.’ Fox points to his car, where Samantha is sitting in the front seat. She gives Mulder a small smile and a wave, Mulder waves back.
Mulder takes Scully’s hand in his.
‘Things are about to change.’