TITLE: Shady Rest AUTHOR: Kestabrook RATING: PG CLASSIFICATION: X, A SPOILERS: Hollywood A.D. DISTRIBUTION: Written initially for "I Made This Productions" Virtual Season 8. Distribute only to IMTP at first; two weeks after it airs, archive if you want it, but let me know where. DISCLAIMERS: All XF characters are CC's and company's; the others are mine. FEEDBACK: I love it--if helpful or positive. COMMENTS: Author's notes are at story's end. SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully journey to an upstate NY town to solve a mystery -- is a ghost plaguing an old hotel? XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX Prologue: 11:50 p.m., August 17 Belcan, New York A cool wind wafted into the room, blowing the drapes toward the bed. In his T-shirt and boxers, Mel Barker shivered, then sighed -- the only noise except for an occasional passing vehicle. Belcan, New York, was not a place where he would stay by choice normally, but he was a day early on the final leg of a cross-country run, and Mel had decided to splurge, stopping at the Shady Rest to sleep in a real bed instead of the sleeping berth of his Crown Industries tractor-trailer. The Shady Rest, an old, three-story railroad hotel, had been purchased by a city couple and remodeled into a bed and breakfast inn. Built over a hundred and fifty years before, the structure had housed countless travelers waiting for next-day trains to take them where planes took their children's children today. Two floors now served as a fine place to sleep or to have breakfast. Mel sighed once more, tired of the cool breeze. He lazily rolled his fifty-two year old frame from the mattress and plodded to the open window. His truck was parked below, conspicuous in the humble surroundings. Belcan wasn't much of a town: gas station, volunteer firemen's hall, mini- mart, post office, church, ramshackle houses, and a two- lane highway. He wouldn't live here, but he'd tolerate one visit. Mel's hands paused on the window casing. He could see lightning flashes reflected in distant, heavy clouds. The wind's velocity was increasing, and the storm would probably reach Belcan within twenty minutes. He inhaled the fresh country air, glad to smell something besides his truck cab's stagnant mixture of cigar smoke and Big Macs. But as another cool gust hit him, he closed the window, locking it from force of habit. He ran his hands over the stubble on his chin, let out a loud belch, and shuffled to the door to check that it, too, was locked. When satisfied that it was, he returned to the mattress, turned off the lamp on the bedside table, and pulled the crisp, white sheets and puffy comforter over himself. As Mel's eyes closed, his mind re-ran countless miles of expressways, of trees zipping by like the railroad ties beneath a speeding train, of country music songs blending as if they were all the same composition. But these finally faded. Mel turned toward the window, and his mind floated into dreams of his wife and kids, of bringing their gifts to them once he returned home. But the dream ended quickly. Lightning flashed across the darkened room, and thunder clashed like a roaring cascade. Mel's eyes flew open. Storms didn't scare him much, but sleeping through them was difficult. He tried pulling the covers over his ears. When that didn't work, he tried the same with his pillows, but still the thunder's booms shook him. Finally, he drew his head from beneath the pillows, deciding to merely try to rest. But slowly, a chill, like icy trickles of water, crept up Mel's spine. Someone or something was in the room. He could sense it. He lay still, clutching the covers as if they would protect him. He listened. But no noise -- not even the sound of breath inhaled or exhaled -- could be heard. Mel shivered, waiting anxiously to glimpse the intruder in the next zing of lightning. Mel shook. He tried to tell himself that this couldn't be. The window and door were both locked. No one could have gotten into his room without a key, and surely he would have heard such an entrance. He tried to breathe deeply. Wondered if he should turn on the light. If he should say something. Threaten the intruder. Lighting. Mel's eyes closed instinctively at the sudden flash. A hard rain suddenly pelted the window. Clamorous thunder rolled across the sky. Mel forced his eyes open just before darkness returned. In that second and in the glow from the streetlight, he suddenly saw a form before him. A somewhat human form in white. Mel tried to catch his breath, to force words from his mouth. But there was no time. The form raised its arms. In another lightning flash, Mel saw the glint of daggers as they plunged toward him. He felt horror as they savagely stabbed into his body. He screamed in terror and agony, but his cries disappeared in the noise of thunder and rain, and dwindled to weak groans as the daggers plunged into him repeatedly...until, finally, Mel Barker took his last breath. ************************* ACT I 2:48 p.m., August 25 Outside Belcan, NY "Oh, here it is." Dana Scully looked more closely at the map spread across her lap, and then pointed with her right forefinger. "We're about a quarter of an inch from it." Her partner, Fox Mulder, allowed a brief smile as he steered the car around a curve. "Quarter of an inch, huh? What's that in miles, Scully?" "Hmmmm...about three. We're almost there." She looked out her window at the vast green landscape dotted with farms and cornfields. "Wherever 'there' is." "Western New York state. Rural America. Not every day that you get to see this." "No, Mulder. You're right about that." Her sarcasm was not lost on him. "Fresh air. People know everyone's names. More relaxed lifestyles. That's nothing to complain about." "That's true," Scully agreed. "And I'll bet the night life is just impossible to beat." Mulder laughed. "Who needs theaters and nightclubs when you can have clean air and stars?" "And smell cows and listen to the corn growing." "Now, Scully, you've been injured. What better place to recuperate?" Her temper flared briefly. "Flesh wounds, Mulder. Not a big deal. Besides, they're nothing now." He shook his head. "I'll bet." There was no use arguing the point. His partner never pampered herself when injured. "Anyway, you continue that this-place-is-nowhere attitude, and the locals won't like you." Favoring him with a roll of her eyes, she replied flatly, "Gee, I'll have to change that then." "Gotta get these people to trust you, or they won't let you see their ghost." "Yeah, right. A ghost. Tell me once more, Mulder: why were you called in on this?" "Not just me, Scully. You were asked to come, too." "Uh-huh. By whom?" "By Belcan's postmistress. Clarissa McKinnie. The post office is just across the street from the Shady Rest, and..." "Yeah. And she called *us* because...?" "'Cause she saw... the movie," Mulder confessed quietly. "'The Lazarus Bowl'?" Scully's head went back against the headrest of their rented Oldsmobile Intrigue. Her eyes closed. "That damn movie," she breathed. "If it's the last thing I do, I will go to Skinner, and I'll..." "No you won't. Because I'm gonna get him first." Mulder looked over from the driver's side. His right hand came off the wheel, and he covered her left hand, taking her fingers into his own. "This won't be too bad, Scully. At least we're out of D.C. for a bit. And the scenery isn't awful." She squeezed his hand. "No, not if you like lots and lots of green grass, trees, and fields." "There are worse things." "True." She withdrew her hand from his and began to re- fold the map. "Okay, back to the case." She straightened an edge that refused to bend. "This ghost...?" "According to Clarissa, the Shady Rest..." "Isn't that the name of the old hotel on 'Green Acres'?" "'Petticoat Junction'." "Right. Really original then." "Maybe so. The Shady Rest of Belcan certainly pre-dates 'Petticoat Junction'. And besides, Scully, if Betty Jo, Billie Jo, and Bobbie Jo are there, this could be a great trip!" "They'd be too old for you, wouldn't they?" Her partner considered this. "Spoilsport." Scully smiled. "Anyway..." "Anyway, according to Clarissa McKinnie, the Shady Rest has been around since the mid-1800s, and it is known for having a ghost. In 1923, a railroad conductor, one Cecil Miller, was murdered in the hotel. He was supposed to ride a 2 a.m. train, and when he didn't, the hotel owner called at his room and found him dead. The murder was never solved, and the townspeople claim that Cecil's ghost has haunted the hotel ever since. However, now the ghost seems to be murdering guests. Three of them -- the latest, Mel Barker of Burlington, Vermont, just eight days ago." "That's quite a story," Scully mused. "I'm shaking in my high heels as you tell it." "It's all true, Scully, I swear." "And you really believe this murderer's a ghost?" "We'll find out." The car broke over a hill, and they could see a flashing red traffic light about a half mile before them. Several houses seemed grouped around the light, and above them rose a three-story structure. "Belcan?" Scully's voice betrayed her disdain. "Yep. I told you it was a little town." "*Little*? Mulder, I...*this* is a town?" "I believe they actually call it a hamlet." "To-be-or-not-to-be a town? If this place were any smaller, I'd miss it if I blinked." Her partner smiled as he braked for the light. "Then don't blink, Scully." ******************* "Oh! It's you!" Clarissa McKinnie quickly dropped the pile of letters she was sorting and came to the post office's counter. Her brown eyes roamed over the FBI agents, shortly dispensing with Scully and lingering on Mulder. "You're Clarissa?" Mulder observed that the postmistress was 5' 6", well-endowed, dark-haired, and in her forties, and she possessed an amazingly beautiful face. And as Scully's shoe hit his ankle, he stopped staring and commented, "It's hard to tell how someone looks from email." McKinnie waved a flirtatious hand at him, silver bracelets clinking on her arm. "Isn't it? You're much better looking than Garry Shandling." Scully cleared her throat. "You two met via email?" "Clarissa -- um, Mrs. McKinnie -- called me first, Scully. We decided to correspond through email because it's cheaper." "Yes, Agent Scully. And email is better. You get to know people through what they write. I saw 'The Lazarus Bowl,' and I knew immediately that you two would like the story of the Shady Rest. And corresponding with Fox showed me that I was right." "I see." Scully looked up at her partner, her eyebrow raised and lips set in a flat line. "Mrs. McKinnie, what does local law enforcement think of this ghost idea?" "Who knows? Local law enforcement consists of the county sheriff in Ridgemont, and the New York State Police who are forty miles from here in Wellston. There's a troopers' satellite station down the road a bit, but they don't do anything without the main base's permission. The troopers turned the case over to The Bureau of Criminal Investigation, but they're in another county, and bigger cases take priority over ours. They did investigate the murders but couldn't find any motive -- no robbery, no signs that anyone in town knew the murdered guests. And they found no fingerprints, hairs, or fibers. Not even footprints. Doors and windows were locked from the inside. And we haven't heard anything from BCI as to their conclusions." Clarissa rubbed her hands together. "The plot thickens, eh?" Scully was unimpressed. "That's easy enough to explain. The owners must have a master key to each room. Are the owners under suspicion?" The postmistress shook her head. "You'd have to ask the troopers for sure, but I don't think so. Bruce and Sheila Morgan are fairly nice people. And they were visiting friends the nights the murders were committed. So they had an alibi." "How long have the Morgans had the Shady Rest?" Mulder asked, leaning his elbow on the counter. "They started it up again last year in October." "Started it again?" Clarissa leaned on the counter, too. "Well, it had been out of business since the early '60s. Passenger trains weren't that common around here then, and any real businesses in the area were all either shutting down or moving to Buffalo or Rochester. So the old hotel wasn't making money. Train usage through here was finished by the '70s; the tracks were even taken out shortly after that." "And the hotel?" Scully persisted. "Continued to rot away, basically. The Morgans are city folks, and they wanted to start a business in the country. Two years ago they came out here for our Indian Summer Festival -- that's in October -- saw the Shady Rest, and decided it was their new project. They renovated and opened it as a bed and breakfast last October. There's also a craft shop on the first floor. Sheila makes things, or handles consignment for the area's other craft people." "Why hadn't this *ghost* bothered the town before January?" Scully wondered. "Where was it throughout the past four decades?" "You see, no one went into the hotel in all that time," Clarissa explained. "There was no reason to. The place was falling down; the windows were boarded up. We figure ol' Cecil was happy in there by himself -- and then when the Morgans came, he went berserk. He obviously didn't want to share his living quarters. But why he waited from October to January to be violent is beyond me." "He'd never killed anyone before?" Mulder asked. "Nope. From the time he was murdered till the last guest stayed there in the '60s, Cecil only rattled windows or moved things around in the rooms. Made some noises -- opened cupboards or closets in the middle of the night. But never violent." Scully nodded and extended her hand. "It was nice to meet you, Mrs. McKinnie. I think we've got all the information we need for now." "Nice to meet you, too, Agent Scully. I can't believe I'm meeting the real people behind those great agents in the film. Tell me, how are things with you and that handsome boss of yours?" Scully shot a quick look at her partner. "There are some things on film that aren't true in life." Clarissa smiled knowingly. "I'm sure." She took her hand from Scully's and stretched it out toward Mulder. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Fox." "Pleasure's all mine," he told her. "And thanks for the heads-up on this case." "Don't mention it. Hey, I live in the apartment overhead. I hope you might stop by while you're here. I suppose I'm being selfish, but can I expect to see you again?" "You just never know," Scully replied, using her hand to turn her partner toward the door. *************************** The Shady Rest Bed And Breakfast Inn loomed like a skyscraper as Mulder and Scully left the Post Office. Directly across the road, the old hotel was framed nicely by huge maple trees whose multitudinous leaves were already beginning their change to the rich reds and golds of autumn. The inn had received its renovations well. Painted white, and its windows trimmed in navy blue and matching shutters, it stood out in the small hamlet like a human among zombies. The FBI agents stared at it as they waited for several vehicles to pass on the fairly busy road. "I'll bet the Shady Rest once had balconies or outside walkways," Mulder observed. "You could ask Clarissa." He laughed and shook his head. "I want to live to see tomorrow." "Good." "I knew you'd think so." He donned his sunglasses. "You know, Mulder, I think you're on the Internet entirely too much. What did you do --advertise yourself in cyberspace after that film came out? 'Step right this way, folks. Have the *real* Fox Mulder solve all your paranormal problems'? Even before that. All these women you meet through email. It's scary, Mulder." "You're just jealous." "Of what?" "Of the fact that even via modems, women can't get enough of me." Scully coughed, hiding a laugh behind her hand. "Guess I'll find a man on the Net for me." "Don't bother." His hand went to the small of her back, guiding her into the street so they could quickly cross. His hand then moved to her waist and gave it a slight squeeze. "Anyone who saw 'The Lazarus Bowl' knows you have your guy. Assistant Director Walter Skinner." He quickly sidestepped her vengeful swipe, then jogged to the Shady Rest's front door and opened it for her. Scully's expression showed she was desperately trying to suppress her own smile as she walked past him. "You wait, Mulder. I'll get you for that." Inside, a large registration counter was the focal point. Its polished oak grain and floral carvings were from a time of proud craftsmanship. A petite woman sitting behind the counter, looked up from a ledger on which she'd been writing. Thin, wiry, and blond, she nervously said, "Welcome to the Shady Rest. Can I help you?" Mulder pulled his I.D. from inside his suit coat. "Sheila Morgan?" When she nodded, he continued. "We're Agents Mulder and Scully of the FBI. We heard about some problems here, and we'd like to help." "FBI?" The woman's expression contorted into a grimace, then quickly returned to forced politeness. "Are you based in Buffalo? Did the state troopers call you in?" "No, ma'am." Mulder noticed the wariness in her eyes. "We're from Washington, D.C. One of your neighbors contacted me about the murders." "'One of my neighbors'? Who?" "I don't think it's necessary to tell..." "Clarissa McKinnie, right? I recognize your names now. She's been talking about that film since she saw it. I wish she'd mind her own damn business." "Apparently she felt the mystery needs to be solved." Mulder ran a finger along the polished oak counter top. "Murder in a small town is everybody's business, isn't it?" "Everything in a small town is everyone's business. That's one thing I hate about small towns. At least a city allows people to be anonymous." "Why would you want to be anonymous?" Scully asked her. "Do you have something to hide?" "Me? No, of course not. But I hate this community knowing every time I breathe. Try living here a few days; you'll find out exactly what I mean." "Is your husband here?" Mulder interrupted, changing the subject before Scully could launch into her own criticisms of small towns. The woman hesitated, unprepared for the abrupt switch. "No. Bruce has gone to Buffalo today to get some supplies." "Long drive. We just came from the airport," Mulder told her. "Not that long. Hour and a half. If you live out here, you come to expect long drives if you want to get anywhere." "I suppose you would. You're from Buffalo originally?" "Yes, and a few dozen other places. We've lived in Syracuse, Albany, Poughkeepsie, Rochester, the City..." "Why so many?" Scully asked. "Why not?" Sheila Morgan flipped a strand of her long, blond hair behind her shoulder. "We don't like to stay in one place long. It gets boring." "Then why did you come out here? It's a bit different than your previous experience. And Belcan's atmosphere doesn't strike me as exciting," Scully told her. "I'm sure that for whatever it must have cost to redo this place, you could have remodeled another or even built a new inn near a city." Sheila pursed her lips, ready to argue, but then she sighed. "It was Bruce's idea. He was sick of city living. Said he wanted fresh air and a slower lifestyle. We came out here a few years ago to one of their craft fairs. He fell in love with the place." Scully folded her arms. "You didn't?" Sheila shrugged. "Where Bruce goes, I follow. It could be worse. I get along." "Or at least you did until the ghost showed up..." Mulder prompted. "That ghost," Sheila muttered, her eyes cast down. "I thought it was all myth until I heard it." "Care to tell us more about that?" Scully asked. Mrs. Morgan favored her skeptically. "Bruce and I were in bed one night, and we--just heard him. Doors closing, pots and pans rattling, footsteps in the hallway. And we were the only ones here at the time. No guests. Doors locked. It was awful. But Bruce said I'd get used to it, and I did. Until the murders..." "Mrs. McKinnie says that you both had an alibi for each night of the murders; is that correct?" "Y-yes. We went out with friends to eat in Wellston. It's the *only* town in the county that has anything to do. We went to a restaurant, and afterward, we went to the movies. Each of those nights, we didn't get home till around 2:30 a.m." "Long movies," Scully commented. "The movies ended around 11:30," Sheila sneered, "and we went for ice cream afterward. And then back to their home to talk. The police have checked all this out; you can contact them. Waiters and waitresses confirmed our being there, as did our credit card receipts. Besides, you think we'd jeopardize our own business? You think we'd kill our own guests?" Her hard stare at Scully was a mixture of resentment and pain. "Well, someone wants to kill your guests." "It's not us, I assure you." "Have the police suggested shutting down the hotel?" Mulder asked. "Yes. But Bruce wouldn't hear of it. We've no proof that it's not someone in the community who's just jealous that we're making money. No one else in this town has a cent. And the inn was empty for nearly forty years; maybe someone had a secret way into it." "And you think these townspeople are coming in now to... what -- frame you?" Scully asked. "That would get rid of us, wouldn't it?" "You think they want to get rid of you?" "It wouldn't surprise me. They're not happy to have city folk among them. They're all right to our faces, but we've heard talk of how we don't fit in. And now, they're taking advantage of the fact that the ghost lives here, and they're exploiting him -- and us." "But you've no proof of that," Scully observed. Sheila's shrug was confirmation. "Could we see the inn?" Mulder asked. "You gonna stay overnight here?" "We don't usually stay in a spot we're investigating." "Then you got a warrant?" Mulder sighed. "Mrs. Morgan, parts of this hotel have been a crime scene. And Agent Scully and I *are* from the FBI. If there's nothing to incriminate you here, then why would we need a warrant? We want to see where the murders were committed to get a better idea of who -- or what-- might be responsible." Sheila bit off a remaining piece of nail from her forefinger. Mulder noticed that she'd chewed all her nails to beneath her fingertips. "You can accompany us to the rooms," Scully offered. Sheila snorted sarcastically and eyed Scully with disdain. "And leave the front desk?" Mulder glanced at the large, oaken lobby and its plush, maroon carpet. To the right were stairs and a door that opened into a small, abundantly stocked craft shop. He could see stuffed ghosts, and T-shirts, place mats, and post cards printed with the Shady Rest's logo or photo. To his left was a door to a nicely furnished dining room. But the inn seemed empty of other customers. "Mrs. Morgan, certainly if a customer was to come in, you'd be able to hear him?" Mulder asked. Sheila looked at her watch. "Well, it's nearly 4:30. People may start arriving any minute now." "Are you afraid to go up there?" Scully asked. "Are you afraid you'll see the ghost yourself?" Sheila stiffened. "Of course not." She looked at both agents and then reached below the counter for a set of keys. "Fine. But I want you to leave if...well, if I say you should. Otherwise, I'll call 911, and the troopers will move you out." "Okay." Mulder tossed a glance at Scully as he followed Sheila to the stairs. His partner's gaze showed him she felt as he did about their hostess. "All three murders were committed on the second floor," Sheila said over her shoulder. "Bruce and I keep the third floor for ourselves, and you're not going up there without a warrant." "Mrs. Morgan," Scully asked, taking the steps carefully, "what's on the first floor other than the lobby and craft shop?" "The dining room, obviously. And the kitchen. Our supply rooms." "And the second floor is strictly rooms for rent?" Mulder asked. "Yes." "Is there a basement as well?" "Of course. But it's a mess. Bruce and I plan to clean it out someday; the inn takes priority." Sheila reached the first landing of the wide staircase. "Originally, there were twelve rooms on the second floor, three on each wall. Bruce and I had the four middle rooms redone to serve as bathrooms for the rooms that bordered them. So in other words, now just eight rooms are available to the public." Mulder pulled at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. "Must have been quite a bill in an old place like this." Sheila nodded, allowing a small smile at what she perceived to be his appreciation. "Sure was." "May I ask what you and your husband have done throughout your careers?" Scully asked. Suddenly, Sheila's pride disappeared. She turned, her gaze darting from one FBI agent to the other. "Wh-What do you mean?" "What work did you do? How could you afford the money to remodel this place so extensively?" Sheila resumed her climb, her plaid skirt swishing about her calves. "We've always run motels. But we did *this* with an inheritance," she murmured. "A long lost relative died." Behind her, Mulder and Scully once again exchanged looks, and he gestured for her to precede him. "You can't believe this ghost story, Mulder," Scully whispered as she passed him. "Nothing ghostly is happening here. I *do* think there's something shady about the Shady Rest, though. And it's not just the trees." She turned before she saw her partner nod his agreement. **************** Room 25 overlooked the main part of Belcan. Mulder stood at the window, holding back maroon drapes and seeing Mel Barker's rig parked on an unmown lawn about a block away. He could read the "Crown Industries" lettering and see its logo on the side of the long trailer. The clipping Clarissa McKinnie had sent him reported that Barker had suffered over twenty-five stab wounds to his body -- ten of which could have been fatal. Poor Mel had come across the country on a hectic run to be murdered in a tiny hamlet. It struck Mulder that someone working for a company called "Crown" deserved a more regal end. Scully and Sheila Morgan continued to talk about position of the body and other details, but Mulder ignored them. Barker's room had, of course, been cleaned, and for all Mulder knew, the Morgans may have rented it since Mel's death. But he absorbed the room around him anyway. Fake oak paneling covered two of the inner walls, and cream wallpaper with tiny maroon flowers adorned the outer wall. The room was fairly large and square, and its fourth side held a built-in closet and the bathroom door. The bathroom was fairly spacious, and the floor was white tile linoleum. Mulder carefully leaned across the set-in bathtub, expertly running his hands around the tile walls. Feeling no breaks -- no way for any of the tiles to be easily removed and then replaced -- he opened a narrow linen closet, finding it well-stocked with clean towels, washcloths, and sample toiletries. The ceiling, done in white wallpaper, also held no breaks. Mulder left the bathroom, finding that Scully and Sheila had exited the room and were discussing the other rooms in which murders had occurred. He ignored their conversation once more and turned to the built-in closet, opening its two doors. He pulled a flashlight from his pocket and began to inspect its inner walls. ***************** "The other murders occurred in Rooms 26 and 28," Sheila was saying. "Those rooms don't look any different than 25." "And what was the manner of death for each murder?" Scully stopped outside 26 which was on the same wall as 25. She placed her hands on her hips. "Were both of the other victims stabbed to death?" "No." Sheila's jaw set. "Look, why don't you and your partner go to Wellston and talk to the troopers? Or go to the county seat and talk to the sheriff? You could get their reports, and I could get back to work." "We'll probably do that. But surely you could tell me how the others were killed." Mrs. Morgan sighed heavily. "The first one was beaten to death, and the other was strangled." "And the police have no motives?" "Nope. The first guy was a private detective -- his name was J.J. Austin -- and the cops thought maybe the murderer was whoever he was looking into. But nobody in this community had hired the guy or was being investigated by him. The second man was an arrogant creep -- a salesman. His name was Byrd. I doubt that anyone even misses him." "I'd like to see the other rooms, please." Mulder surprised them as he exited Room 25. "They look just alike." "I want to see them." He saw Sheila Morgan cower at his tone, and he followed as she inserted a key into the lock of Room 26. Just then they heard the inn's main door open. "Oh! I have to go -- there's a customer..." Sheila looked torn between whether to stay with the agents or to return to her duties. "Go ahead. I just want a look," Mulder told her. "I'd rather you wouldn't while I'm not here." "Then consider this room -- and number 25 -- taken for the night. Agent Scully and I *will* be staying." Sheila nodded uncomfortably. She quickly glanced inside the room and then nervously scurried past the agents and down the stairs. "When did you decide this, Mulder?" Scully asked. "I don't think we have a choice, Scully. We *have* to see this ghost ourselves, don't you think?" "You know what happened the last time we saw ghosts." "Or thought we did." She smiled and shook her head. "You know, Sheila Morgan isn't going to win any Miss Congeniality awards. I can't tell if she's just scared or hiding something. Either way, I think she knows a lot more than she's saying." Mulder had already entered the room. "I think she could tell us lots of things, Scully. But I'd rather have that conversation with her husband. C'mere. I want to show you something." **************** ACT II 8:50 p.m., August 25 Near the Shady Rest "Chips, please." Scully was propped on her elbow on the gravel shore of the Genesee River. Before her, an unfolded newspaper lay beneath a can of iced tea and a Styrofoam plate holding half of a turkey sub. A little beyond her reach were several file folders, papers sticking past their edges. Mulder passed her the bag of potato chips with one hand while holding his own sandwich to his mouth. He had another file folder balanced on one knee. He sat on the shore, dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, feeling too warm on this mild August night. His gaze wandered over Scully's legs -- which stretched from beige shorts. He could see the bandage covering the flesh wound she'd received during the previous case. And he smiled at the "Shady Rest: The Haunted Inn" T- shirt he'd bought and insisted that she wear for the evening. On it, the image of a cartoon ghost rose amicably past a sketch of the Shady Rest. Pinks and oranges of the sunset reflected in the rippling river. Mulder stared at the sight while he finished his iced tea, then took another can from the plastic ring of the six-pack. "Want another one, Scully?" "Not yet, thanks." She munched a chip and then looked up at her partner. In the dusk's tones, he appeared more tan and younger. But the look she knew so well was in his eyes. Mulder was on the hunt; nothing excited him more than a new case. "So what do you think?" he asked her, indicating the file folders with the hand that held his sandwich. "I think you did a lot of research before we got here. I think you called people all over this state without letting me know you were onto something. I think you've been in contact with the New York State Troopers for weeks, maybe months." "And you're not disagreeing with me? I'm turned on by that, Scully." She nodded. "I think you have this case solved, and I really don't know why we're here, Mulder." He grinned. "You wanna know why we *really* came?" "Other than to meet Clarissa?" "Yeah, other than that." He swallowed a bite of sandwich. "I knew it was the only way you'd rest. I thought we'd have fun and get a little R & R." "What rest will I get if what you have planned for tonight takes place?" "I wasn't necessarily anticipating that." "I'm still not so sure we should do *that* without a warrant anyway. But then, since when have you played by the rules?" Mulder sobered. "Well, playing by the rules got someone killed." When he noticed that he'd caused his partner to sober, too, he grabbed the bag of chips from her. "Enough of these, Scully. You'll lose your great figure." "Since when have you worried about my 'great' figure?" "Since about twenty minutes ago when you began devouring these *and* a turkey sub." "Thanks for your concern." "Anytime." Scully stretched her free arm toward the sky, a yawn escaping her lips. "It's pleasant here. Too bad we can't go for a swim." "Would be nice. But that water's not clean. You don't need some infection in those wounds." Scully sat up. "Forget about my wounds, would you, please? I've had far worse." He nodded as he finished his sandwich. He noticed that Scully was done with hers, too. "You think Bruce Morgan might be back from Buffalo yet?" "Probably." She looked toward Belcan, only two blocks away. She could see the Shady Rest's roof from her seat on the gravel. "Meeting him will be interesting." "Yeah, I'm looking forward to it." He stood, drinking the last sip from his newly opened can of tea, and tucking garbage into the grocery bag in which their purchases had been packed. Then he extended a hand and pulled Scully to her feet. He intertwined his fingers with hers as they bade a silent good night to the softly rippling river bathed in sunset hues. *************** "Agents Mulder and Scully, I presume." The man who approached them as they entered the Shady Rest's well-lit lobby, was tall, balding, and chubby. He stretched out a hand to Scully and smiled. In his mid- forties, he displayed none of his wife's nervousness, and his handshake was nearly bone-crushing. Scully tried to read his eyes, but they had already focused on Mulder. "Bruce Morgan?" Mulder stated more than asked. "One and the same, sir. It's nice to meet you both. My wife tells me that someone in the neighborhood aroused your suspicions about our establishment. I'm more than happy to cooperate if there's anything you'd like to know." "Actually, there's quite a bit we'd like to know," Mulder replied. Morgan gestured to a maroon couch and chair that were off to the lobby's side. As the agents moved toward the seats, another man who'd been reading a newspaper there rose, folding the paper and tucking it beneath his arm. "I'm sorry, Mr. Allen. I didn't realize you were here," Morgan said, his voice full and loud. "Um...that's quite all right," Mr. Allen replied softly. He was short, in his 60s, and scrawny. Dressed in a black business suit, his thinning, white hair neatly combed, he bit his lower lip and shuffled past the Shady Rest's big owner. "Mr. Allen's our only other guest tonight," Morgan told Mulder and Scully. "And Mr. Allen, these are FBI agents from Washington, D.C." Allen's head lifted as the introductions were made. Scully stifled a gasp as she saw a deep scar lining the right side of the man's face -- the result of an injury obviously suffered long ago. His right eye was covered by a milky blue film. She shook his hand, muttering, "Nice to meet you." Mulder was saying the same, and if he was shocked by the scarring, he didn't show it. "Nice to meet you as well. I assume you're just passing through?" the little man asked. "Well..." Scully looked at Morgan whose face nearly pleaded with her not to mention the murders. "Our visit is work-related." "Oh." Mr. Allen was unimpressed. He turned to his host. "My bags?" "Yes, sir, you'll find them and extra towels in Room 21." "Very good. A pleasant evening to all," Allen murmured as he slowly headed up the stairs. Morgan chuckled. "Strange man -- the type I need to see after a trip to Buffalo." "Yes, Buffalo," Scully said, "that's one thing we'd like to talk to you about. May I ask, for instance, what supplies you need to travel so far to get?" Morgan gestured for her to sit on the couch. "Sheila needs various things for her crafts." He sat in the chair facing the couch, and continued after Mulder sat across from him. "And we get paper goods in bulk from a warehouse supplier. Much less expensive than most places around here. And once a month I go there to stock up. Today was my 'once a month' day." "Must be a good supplier. Our research shows that you've journeyed to Buffalo once a month for several years -- from all over the state. Do you go alone?" "A friend goes with me," Morgan replied, an eyebrow raised. Mulder nodded. "Mr. Morgan, if I may, I'd like to ask you a few questions about the Shady Rest and your past." Morgan's smile remained on his lips. "Of course. Anything I can do to help the FBI." "And to solve the murders, I would assume," Scully reminded him. "Oh, absolutely. Of course." "Mr. Morgan," Mulder started, "the murders took place in three different rooms?" "Yes. When the first one occurred in Room 28, we decided that we wouldn't rent it out to guests again. But then in April, the guest was killed in 26, and then just a week or so ago, the murder happened in 25." "You've no theory on these murders, sir?" Morgan shrugged, his hands raised to shoulder level. "The ghost. That's the only way I can explain it. Sheila and I were away." "Yes, we've already heard about that," Scully replied. "What about your friend, Mr. Morgan? Does he have a key to the Shady Rest?" "Friend? Oh, no, he doesn't. Nor does our help. Sheila and I both have a key. That's it." "And what time do you lock the doors?" Mulder asked. "Usually at 10 p.m. We ask all our guests to be in by that time. We stay in the lobby until 11, though, just in case someone's late." "Have any of your guests ever brought other people in -- maybe that you didn't okay?" Scully asked. "No. Most of our customers are truck drivers or salesmen who just want to stay overnight. There aren't many motels in the area, and this is a major route to Buffalo from this county. Most of the time, a person passing through will stop and be gone the next morning." Morgan shifted his shoulders. "Of course, we hope that they'll pass on word of the Shady Rest, and that soon we will have vacationers staying with us." "For what?" Scully wanted to know. "What's around here?" "A state park, colleges, and universities. The area is rich in Indian history; it was a stop on the Underground Railroad. And, of course, until ol' Cecil started killing people, we were hoping to appeal to the more -- how should I say it? Mystical vacationers. People who'd want to stay in a haunted hotel." "You don't think shutting the place down 'til 'ol' Cecil' is exorcize is a good idea?" Scully asked. "No," Morgan returned seriously. "It's our bread and butter, Agent Scully. Rebuilding this place wasn't cheap, and running it isn't cheap either. We can't take a loss because some ghost comes out of the woodwork." "Who are your other employees?" Morgan smoothed a crease in his navy blue slacks. "We've three women who work here during the day. Heather Pearce is our waitress. She's only part time. Laura Kiefer is our cook -- again, only morning help. And Cynthia Katz. She spends a lot of time on the floor." He chuckled as if this might be a private joke. "She's our full-time maid. We have her clean every room daily, whether it was rented or not." "You wouldn't suspect any of them?" "Agent Scully, you've seen this town. How many employment possibilities are there? These fine ladies are grateful for their jobs." "Okay." Scully looked toward her partner. "I don't believe I caught your friend's name," Mulder said, meeting her gaze, and prompting Morgan. "The one who accompanies you to Buffalo." "Does it matter?" Morgan shrugged. "He lives nearby. We call him Lenny. I've known him... um...since we've been here. He wouldn't have any grudges against us, I'm sure." "Mr. Morgan, I've checked into your history somewhat," Mulder said, placing the file folders on the coffee table that separated him and Scully from their host. "Your inheritance -- which your wife told us about this afternoon -- actually came upon the death of your younger brother." Morgan's head tipped toward his lap. He brought a hand up to shield his eyes. "Yes." "He died in a fire?" "A theater fire, yes. In Poughkeepsie -- a regional theater. He was trying to save the director -- that's what the investigators decided." He took a deep breath. "This is not easy to talk about." "Your brother's name was Charles?" "Charlie. Charles, of course. Yes." "He had quite a past," Mulder observed. He opened one of the folders. Shuffling a few papers to the front, he read, then commented, "Charlie lived in New York City for several years. Started as a stage hand and worked up to acting. Says here that he was one of the main stars of an off- Broadway actors' group -- the Academy Arts Theater Company on East 57th." "Yes, the AATC. Those were his best years." Morgan looked up, his eyes dry. "He quit in..." "Yes, he quit. Acting doesn't pay many bills, especially in the City. Even back then -- in the '70s -- apartment rent was sky-high. He came upstate. My parents and us -- we lived in Syracuse then. He got a teaching job at a high school -- English 'lit' and drama. He was excellent at it." "But he quit that, too -- after four years?" Mulder continued. "It wasn't the same for him. He lived to act." "And then there seems to have been some sort of mental illness..." Morgan sat up straighter in his chair. "Where are you getting all this information from?" His voice became less friendly. Mulder shrugged. "Police record. Some other government documents. Phone calls here and there." Morgan leaned forward. "How long have you been doing this... research?" "Does it matter?" Morgan took a deep breath. As he exhaled, he said, "My brother had a nervous breakdown. He became a recluse as he underwent therapy." "And tried to act again." "And assaulted a director in a podunk town -- for which he was arrested and fined. Yes, I know these things." "Assaulted him... and then later tried to save him in that fire?" Mulder asked. Morgan stood, turned his back on them, and thrust his hands into his pants pockets. His body seemed to shudder. "Agents, my brother is dead. He's been dead since 1992. What does any of this have to do with the murders at the Shady Rest?" "You're right." Mulder also stood. "Sorry. Just got carried away. Your brother's history fascinated me; such a great talent laid to waste." Morgan nodded. "Well, tomorrow we can talk again." "Count on it," Mulder replied. "Scully? Ready?" "Yes. Good night, Mr. Morgan. And thank you." "If we can find some way to get rid of Cecil, I'm willing to help you all I can." Morgan looked at his watch and moved behind the registration desk. "It's late. See you in the morning. Breakfast starts at 8." Mulder waited for Scully to take the stairs ahead of him so that her ear would be near his lips as he whispered, "And off we go to a shady rest, indeed." ****************** 3:10 a.m. August 26 Room 25, Shady Rest "You're late." "Sorry, Mulder. The alarm clock is slow." "Always an excuse, Scully. You *did* sleep?" "Of course. You didn't?" She stepped from the dim hallway and watched her partner as he closed the door behind her. "Nah. I had to stay awake in case 'ol' Cecil' came after you." "Yeah, that's what Cecil's planning." She sat on Mulder's bed. "So have you heard 'the ghost?'" Mulder smiled. "Yeah, as a matter of fact." "Really? I didn't think he'd be around tonight." "Footsteps in the hallway. I opened the door, but saw nothing. A few minutes later, this light," he indicated the bedstand's lamp, "flashed on and off and then back on. I even heard a few doors open and close. But not yours, Scully, so I wasn't too worried." "You're kidding, right?" She looked closely at him, failing to find his usual smirk. "No, I'm really not joking. And I can't explain it. Was it a ghost? Or just someone trying to make it seem like one? That's for them to know and for us to find out." Scully noticeably shuddered. "Okay, now I *am* shaking in my high heels. Dark building where murders have been committed. Ghostly noises at night. Mulder, you must have been a hoot at Boy Scout camp." "I was an Indian Guide, Scully." "Whatever." "Shhhh!" Mulder suddenly stopped her, his finger to his lips. "Hear that?" Scully's eyes widened. "What?" "Nothing. Made you listen, though," he laughed. "Mulder, sometimes I really hate you." She stood and started toward his closet. "You're not really wearing high heels, are you, Scully?" He leaned over to look at her feet beneath her black slacks. "You're always concerned about the most important details," she replied. "Actually, I'm wearing very quiet flats." "Good. But they make you a lot shorter." "Keep it up, Mulder, and I'll point ol' Cecil to this room." "Shhh!" Again, his finger went to his lips. "Mulder..." "Shhh!" Because of the look on her partner's face, Scully listened. Unmistakingly, there were footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Deliberate. Footsteps. "Mulder," she whispered quickly, "let me look." She started to the door. "No, Scully, if that's him, then now's our time to get moving. C'mon." He led her back to the closet which he opened noiselessly. "Got your flashlight?" "Of course." She shone it for him as he began to remove a piece of paneling from the back wall. "I still don't know how the police could have missed this. They couldn't have looked too closely." "Three murders... they should have scoured the place." Mulder reached behind the paneling to dislodge a stay. "But then we wouldn't have been able to come to Belcan." "True. And what a miss that would have been." With a slight click, the paneling came away from the wall, revealing a dark opening. A musty smell greeted their noses, and when Scully shone the flashlight into the blackness, they saw a landing between rooms 25 and 26, and a shaft into which a ladder descended. "I always thought walking through walls was easy for ghosts, but Cecil must do things the hard way," Mulder observed. "Cecil or someone who wants ghosts to seem real." "I'll go first." Mulder used his own flashlight and guided its beam over the floor of the cavern. "It's spotless. No footprints in dust. Heck, no dust." "Cecil's a clean ghost." "Yeah, right." Mulder moved into the hidden room and trained his flashlight on the area below. "This shaft goes all the way to the basement. But there are two ladders. One must stop at the first floor. Must be an opening into the gift shop." "Mulder! I hear footsteps." Scully motioned him back into his room. "Hurry!" He joined her, and they quickly put the paneling back over the hole, then stood quietly. "Agent Mulder?" The voice in the hallway was hushed and easily recognizable. Mulder looked at Scully who was staring at him quizzically. He left the closet, closing the doors softly, and leaving her behind them. He opened the door of his room. "Mrs. Morgan?" Sheila wore a full-length, white terrycloth robe which dwarfed her. The lit candle she carried sent eerie shadows over her face. "I saw your light," she murmured. "I wanted to be sure you were...all right." "Afraid the ghost might have gotten me?" "Afraid that maybe you were afraid to sleep," she replied. "We sell over-the-counter sleeping pills in the gift shop." He shook his head. "No, I'm fine, thanks. Just going over some files." "You're a workaholic. And an insomniac." Mulder was surprised by her suddenly friendly manner. Apparently, Sheila Morgan wasn't always the timid yet ornery person she'd seemed in the afternoon. "I guess you could say that. You're not much of a sleeper yourself, I take it." She peered into his room, then focused on him again. "I don't sleep well. Not since all of this started." "All of what? The murders or something else?" "You're still dressed." She nervously smiled at him. "I'll let you get back to work. You should get some sleep, though. Goodnight." She hurried to the door that led to the third floor's stairway, and was out of sight in seconds. Mulder watched after her, then closed his own door, wondering about her words. He returned to the closet. "Did you hear all of that, Scully?" But when he peered inside, the paneling had again been removed. And Scully was no longer there. ************* Mulder shivered in instant panic. He quickly entered the hidden room, shining his flashlight into the ladder shaft. He could see no one, no glint reflecting off the lovely red silk of Scully's hair. He tried to calm himself, to think before doing anything rash. Impulsively rushing into action wasn't one of his better traits. He held a deep breath and listened. He heard footsteps overhead; Sheila Morgan had returned to Bruce. He wanted Scully to return to him. He mounted the ladder. The wood was sturdy, its paint fairly new. He began a slow, quiet descent, taking one step and then shining the flashlight below him in case he could see movement. Scary thoughts flashed through his mind. Of Scully in the hands of a murderer. Of her being stabbed repeatedly. Of her being strangled. He'd seen the results of real violence wreaked on her body and mind, and such memories haunted him in nightmares still. He took his fifth step. Suddenly, a horrendous boom resounded above him as if something massive had fallen -- a sound distant but thunderous. And it had definitely happened on the second floor. For an instant, Mulder wondered whether to continue his journey or to rush toward the sound. He couldn't leave Scully, but he couldn't be sure the boom hadn't involved her. What if something had been dropped on her? Or she'd been thrown against a wall or... He was already stepping off the top rung of the ladder. Suddenly, he sensed movement. Something drove into his torso and knocked him into the wall with a force that sent him to the floor. His side screamed in pain, and his hands instinctively pressed against his ribs. Breathing was difficult; the wind had been knocked out of him. And his flashlight had been knocked from his hand. Whatever had hit him was now on top of him. The weight was not much, but it had him pinned. Not being able to gasp a breath, he found struggling against his captor nearly impossible. But he wriggled -- only to receive what he was sure was an elbow to his jaw. His head flew backwards, hitting the floor with a crack that sent glittering pinpoints behind his closed eyelids. "Federal Agent! Lay still, moron! I'm armed!" Mulder blinked. He stared up toward the voice. The hidden room was dark, but he'd left the panel off the back of his closet. The light from his room touched a few silken strands of red hair. "Scully?" "Oh, my God. Mulder?" The weight quickly left his chest, and she tugged him into a sitting position. "Mulder, what were you doing? I didn't know that was you." "Scully, where did you go?" He struggled to take deep breaths. "I thought... I thought he had you." "Cell phone, Mulder. While you and Sheila were chatting, I found I'd left it in my room. Going through the panels was a lot less obvious." He shook his head, trying to get what were now silver streaks to leave his vision. "I was worried, Scully." She touched his shoulder. "Are you all right? Did I hurt you?" "Nothing a few weeks in the hospital won't fix." He shook off her hand, cocking his head toward the hallway. "Listen!" Footsteps were flying down the stairs. "Where was it?" Bruce Morgan's voice leapt at them through the walls. "I don't know!!" Sheila yelled. "Agent Mulder! Come quickly!! We think there's been another murder!" Mulder started up, discovering that his ribs were bruised more than he'd thought. He winced with pain. "You okay, Mulder?" Scully asked. He muttered a doubtful "yeah" as he ushered her through the passage. Then, holding his arm against his aching side, he followed Scully into the now brightly lit hallway. *********** ACT III 4:25 a.m., August 26 Room 21, Shady Rest Mulder's long legs quickly took him across the foyer to Room 21. He ignored his screaming ribs; he would deal with them later. Sheila Morgan stood behind her husband, her hands clasped over her mouth; her eyes, wide in terror. Her long, white robe was tied tightly around her tiny figure, and it swayed against her legs, slow to calm after her run to this room. Bruce Morgan struggled with a key, trying to unlock the door as fast as he could. His hands, however, shook, and Mulder, his gun in a safe but ready position, moved to take over. "Sheila, go back. I don't want you to see it this time," Morgan said as allowed Mulder to turn the doorknob to Mr. Allen's room. "Your husband's right, Mrs. Morgan," Mulder told her in the calmest voice he could muster. "Go back to my room and just wait." He turned, forcing her to meet his gaze. He waited until her terrified eyes saw him nod, and then she shuffled toward Room 25, her hands still over her mouth. She didn't close his room's door. Mulder aimed as he opened Room 21. "Federal Agent! I'm armed!" He managed to click on the ceiling light switch with his elbow. Seeing no one in the room, Mulder and Scully edged further inside. Scully quickly moved to the open closet doors, but the false panel had already been replaced. She next moved to the bathroom, finding it empty as well. "Oh, my God. Not again." Bruce Morgan stood behind them, staring at the center of the room. Scully and Mulder followed his gaze and eased their aims. Mr. Allen was nowhere in sight. But the big double mattress and its boxed springs were completely off the oak frame of the bed - -and overturned on the floor. But they weren't laying completely flat; something was beneath them. And because of the dark, spreading stain on the maroon carpet, they were quite sure of Mr. Allen's whereabouts. Mulder and Morgan swiftly lifted the heavy bedding off the tiny man and back onto the bed's frame. But it was obvious to all present that they were too late. Though Scully checked him for vitals, Mr. Allen had been suffocated and crushed; Mulder wasn't sure in which order. The dead man's face, frozen in horror, was splattered with blood. But his film-covered eye shone through the sticky crimson liquid like a beacon. Mulder's mind raced as he turned to his partner. "Scully..." But a scream interrupted him. "NO!! Get out of here! We don't want you here anymore!" Sheila Morgan's voice shrieked from Mulder's room. Her hysterical cries were suddenly silenced by a loud slap. "Sheila?" Mulder yelled. He raced to his room, forcing his body to stop before he ran over the Shady Rest's hostess who was on the floor in a heap, her arms wrapped around her head. "Sheila? Did he hurt you?" "I... can't stand it anymore. I... want him gone." "Honey, hush." Morgan knelt at his wife's side, and his hands went to her shoulders, urging her to get up. The sobbing woman did so, welcoming the comforting touch. He guided her to sit on Mulder's bed, and continued to hold her. Scully entered and noticed that Sheila's face was bleeding from a nasty scratch between her cheekbone and chin. She quickly produced a wet washcloth and held it to the woman's face. "I called the police; they're on their way," Scully told her partner. "What? No. Please." Morgan looked up from his wife to the agents. "Don't bring them here." Mulder met his gaze. "It's Charlie, isn't it? Charlie isn't dead." Sheila took over the washcloth. She looked up at Mulder and slowly nodded. "Sheila!" her husband protested, his expression panicked. "He lives in the basement?" Mulder continued. Again, Sheila nodded. "He was... he was never right again. The nervous breakdown. He hated that director. The idiot fired Charlie." "Charlie killed him, didn't he?" "He strangled him. And he started the fire." "Be quiet! Don't tell them this!" Morgan pleaded, his face turning red. Scully peeled the washcloth away from the scratch to check on it, then guided the cloth over the cut again. She ignored Morgan. "But there were two bodies. Whose was the other?" "A homeless man. The play was about homeless people, and Charlie always researched his parts. The man had no teeth. Neither does Charlie. He got dentures so he could have a perfect smile." "The bodies were burned beyond recognition," Scully finished for her, "and there was no way to do a dental I.D." Sheila nodded again. "We got the inheritance. Bruce and Charlie had always been close. And Bruce used some of the money to move us from place to place, hiding Charlie. That became the prime goal of our marriage -- to hide Charlie." Morgan rose, trying to intimidate his wife with his towering presence. "If you don't shut up..." "Charlie goes to Buffalo with you, doesn't he?" Mulder asked the irate man. "Yes. Charlie's psychiatrist is there," Sheila answered for her husband. "She's put him on various drug combinations, trying to decrease his psychosis. But he just gets worse." "His hallucinations... He thinks he's still acting, doesn't he?" "What? Mulder, what?" Scully looked at him. "The first murder -- that was just paranoia, wasn't it? J.J. Austin was a private detective who Charlie thought was looking for him." Sheila nearly whispered. "Charlie thought he was Hercule Poirot." Morgan reeled. "I don't believe you're doing this! Shut up!" "The second murder -- Mr. Byrd," Mulder continued, watching Bruce from the corner of his eye. "He was strangled in a strange way -- with a rope while he was in bed. In Poughkeepsie, Charlie was in a production of 'Trifles', Susan Glaspell's play about a husband strangled in his bed by his wife -- because the guy killed her canary." Sheila's hands dropped to her lap. "Charlie was so good in that. He played the sheriff." "What about Mel Barker?" Scully prompted her partner. "Crown Industries. He was stabbed to death in bed. I'm guessing that's from 'Macbeth' -- where Macbeth kills King Duncan to satisfy his own ambition -- and to become king himself." "And tonight's murder?" "The eye," Mulder murmured. "'The Tell-Tale Heart'." Scully nodded. "Look, we have to stop Charlie. Is he in the basement?" "You won't take my brother," Morgan avowed. Sheila turned mournful eyes to him, though speaking to Scully. "He could be anywhere in this hotel. He has a network of secret passageways. They date from the Civil War and the Underground Railroad. That was one of the reasons Bruce chose this place. He figured Charlie wouldn't get bored. You can get to them through the closets." "We've already found those. Does he ever go to the third floor?" "No. Because of me. He stopped liking me when he heard us arguing about moving here. I hated the idea, but Bruce insisted. And Charlie always sides with Bruce. Bruce thought that being a ghost by night would be a perfect job for Charlie. What better to bring in the tourists than a great actor playing a ghost? Charlie was wonderful at first, but then he just -- just got into the part too much." "Sheila!! Will you shut the hell up?! So help me..." "Hey," Mulder cautioned, struggling to draw Morgan to the doorway, "you've no choice but to end this. You're in enough trouble." Morgan put his hands on Mulder's shoulders, impatiently imploring understanding. His voice was higher-pitched in his hysteria. "Look, my brother's a good man. And this... can be our secret. The Troopers will come; we'll say it was the ghost again. They'll investigate as they always do, find nothing, and in a few days, this will all wash over. I promise I'll take Charlie away somewhere. Please, don't do this." "I can't and won't do that. Help us get him. Now." "I have money -- what will it take?" Mulder shook his head. He moved from the man's grasp. Morgan howled. "NO!! Charlie!!" He quickly ran from the room and headed down the stairs. "Scully!" "Right!" Scully drew her weapon and edged toward the closet, behind her partner. "Mrs. Morgan, I want you to go across the street right now. Do you understand me? Go to Clarissa McKinnie's apartment. Stay there until we come to get you." Sheila looked dazed. "Bruce...?" "Go, now! Do you hear?" Scully persisted. Mrs. Morgan looked from Scully to Mulder and back. Finally, the instructions seemed to register. "Yes." She clutched her robe around her and ran from the room. And as the Shady Rest's front door opened and closed, Mulder and Scully entered the open passage in the closet. *************** "Don't know about you, Scully, but after all these years, I'm really tired of dark rooms." They had descended the ladders to the cellar and had cautiously explored the furnace and laundry rooms. Finding no one, they'd carefully entered Charlie's modestly- furnished basement apartment. But the lights were off, and Mulder and Scully continued to rely on their flashlights. They had searched a bedroom, bathroom, and hallway, opening doors and closets, even looking under the unmade bed. Now, their backs against the opposing walls of a narrow hallway, they were headed toward what had to be a living room and kitchen. "There could be crawl spaces above, Mulder," Scully whispered. "The furnace and plumbing pipes would have been added in the remodeling. Such an old building wouldn't have had them originally." "True, but I think he's here, waiting for us." "And his brother." Though his partner couldn't see it, Mulder nodded in agreement. They had reached the end of the hallway. His weapon drawn, he took a deep breath and glanced in Scully's direction, somehow knowing that she mirrored his actions. He turned his flashlight into the large area that lay ahead, allowing a brief look at a small living room. Mulder swung the light, searching from side to side, as Scully also did beside him. He could see no one, but he caught his partner glancing at him and starting to move into the room. Instantly, her gun and flashlight dropped to the floor. Mulder's light focused on a man's left arm wrapping around her chest and a right hand covering her mouth. "Don't touch her!" Mulder yelled, bursting forward without hesitation. Suddenly, something hard cracked against his head. Silvery shimmers returned, multiplied. His eyes squeezed shut against the blinding agony. And his torso exploded in pain as it met the floor, his belly-flop smacking his already aching ribs. But more was to come. Suddenly, a foot connected with his side. Hard. Mulder screamed as the kicks continued, seeming to tear his skin and impact directly with his bones. Finally, the torture stopped. He fought for consciousness, but his numbed mind demanded surrender. ************** "Mulder!" Scully screamed, having wriggled her mouth free of her captor's hand. She'd seen Bruce Morgan move into Mulder's flashlight beam, and she'd heard him hit her partner. Terror had gripped her as Mulder collapsed -- and as she'd heard his body being savaged with kicks. His flashlight was now picked up by Morgan who shone it at her partner as he stepped over the prone body. "Bruce? What do I do now?" The voice behind Scully's ear was eloquent, resonant, each word enunciated clearly. The arm that clutched her did so without hurting her, and she felt herself being led backward. She was forced to sit in a chair, but the hands that had captured her remained on her shoulders, applying a pressure that could easily turn violent. "We need the lights back on, Bruce. Please? We have them both now. We don't have to hide." Scully heard Bruce Morgan plod forward, and a ceiling light above her head suddenly radiated light. She squinted against it until she could look at the kitchen surrounding her. It was done mostly in white, a few blue items used as trim. She sat in a wooden chair beside a tiny table, and there were no windows. "Agent Scully, we need to get out of here," Bruce said as he came into her vision. Mulder's gun was in his waistband. With shaking hands, he tied her wrists before her with an electric cord. "You understand, don't you? We don't want to hurt you." "Are you going to tie him, too?" Charlie asked. Morgan looked back toward the darkened room. "He's out. We'll be gone before he wakes -- if he wakes." Scully felt Charlie's hands leave her shoulders and lightly rest on her head. Slowly, he began to feel and then caress her hair. Shivers went down her spine as the stroking increased in intensity. "What are you doing?" she asked, trying to wrest away from the insistent pawing. To further her attempt, she turned up toward her captor. Charlie Morgan was tall and bony. His face was handsome but wrinkled; his hair, quite gray. At the moment, his expression showed rapture toward the copper locks between his fingers. Scully's revulsion to his touch soared. To react too harshly, though, could upset him, and she was in no position to do that. Still, she tugged away from his hands. But he was quick. He seized her head, pulling it back against him, one hand firm beneath her chin, the other continuing its petting. "Silky. Smooth," he cooed. "Soft. So soft." "No, not now. C'mon, Charlie. We have to get moving," Bruce instructed, his expression one of sorrow and anger. "No, George. Silky. Soft. Pretty." "I'm not George. You're not Lenny. Do you follow me, little brother? You are *not* Lenny." "Like a rabbit," Charlie was saying. "Soft like a bunny." His hand now stroked Scully's hair so intensely that her head was snapping back hard enough to hurt her neck. "C'mon, we've got to get out of here. The cops..." "Pretty. Like a rabbit." Scully felt the cord cutting into her wrists, felt her neck becoming more taut each time Charlie stroked her hair. She knew he could break her neck, and she knew that moment could come shortly. She worried about Mulder's injury, and she refused to be hurt by or fall captive to the two men planning their escape. She watched as Bruce Morgan came closer, as he implored his brother to return to reality. The elder Morgan now stood within her reach, and she lashed out with her right foot, connecting a powerful kick to his groin. His face went white; his eyes bulged. And he crumbled to the floor, groaning in pain. Scully sprang to her feet. Then she reeled, looking for Charlie. He stood behind the chair, shocked. She took advantage of his hesitation, quickly scanning the floor for her partner's gun which Bruce had dropped. It lay a few feet from her, and she started for it. But hands grasped her ankles, and she fell forward, barely able to break her fall. She kicked, knowing that Bruce had recovered enough to bring her down. He was pulling her backward, but she fought to crawl toward the gun. Before she could reach it, though, she felt Morgan's weight pinning her to the linoleum floor and forcing her to take shallow breaths. "Get the gun, Charlie! Get it!" Charlie did as told, lifting the weapon as if it were a delicate artifact. And Bruce roughly hauled Scully to her feet and held her. He also gasped for air, and his posture was bent as he favored his own injury. "You take her, Charlie," he instructed. "I'm going to get the van. Meet me outside." He shoved Scully into the hands of his confused brother. "Shoot her if you have to." He hobbled off to a door, left it open, and limped up cement steps. "You have to let me go, Charlie," Scully gasped, searching his vacant gaze. "You don't want to hurt me, do you?" "No, he doesn't. And he won't." Mulder appeared from the darkened living room. And as Scully calmed, she could see that his eyes weren't focused and that being upright was costing him dearly. Lines of pain streaked his face, and, unable to stand straight, he held his elbows tightly against his rib cage. But even in this state, he was thinking. His right hand held her weapon. She was glad Bruce had overlooked it. "Avaunt, and quit my sight!" Charlie suddenly shrieked, pushing Scully away with such force that she fell to the floor. "Let the earth hide thee!" "That's from 'Macbeth,' isn't it? What the Scot says to Banquo's ghost." Mulder's voice was weak but calm; his words, slurred. "You did that play in Poughkeepsie. But I'm no ghost, Charlie." And he added just loudly enough for Scully to hear, "Though right now, being dead might feel better." "I was an exquisite Macbeth," Charlie replied. "I believe that. You were a fine actor," Mulder agreed. "I read the reviews." "You did?" Charlie stared at Mulder as if seeing a long- lost friend. "Yeah. Too bad you had to quit." "I didn't quit." The younger Morgan suddenly sneered. "I am the ghost of the Shady Rest." "And a murderer." Scully noticed that Mulder was taking small steps toward them. Charlie, however, was caught up in his own mental gymnastics and unaware of the agent's movements. "Yes, a murderer," Charlie replied. "And a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. Life, sir, is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." "More 'Macbeth,'" Mulder observed. "But the play's over now, Charlie. Take a bow and ring the curtain down. Your role here is done." Scully sat up, planning how best to help her partner. "He's right, Charlie." She noticed that the gun remained tight in the actor's grip, his forefinger idly smoothing over the trigger. She struggled, trying to get the electric cord off her wrists. "Let's call it a night." "Bruce... Bruce is waiting for me. We've got to go. I don't know where he's taking me this time." His voice had become like a child's. "Would you rather come with us?" Mulder asked. "We can put you on the stage. We can help you." "You can? Help me?" Mulder nodded. "Put the gun down first, and then have a seat. We'll talk." "I... I don't know. Bruce. He takes care of me." "Bruce can come, too. Put the gun down." "Charlie? Come on!" Bruce Morgan's voice suddenly echoed down the cellar stairway. "Bring the woman! Let's go!" "Woman...soft. Silky." Charlie looked at Scully lovingly, then glanced at Mulder. "I'm supposed to break her neck, right? And then you shoot me in the head, George." "You're not in 'Of Mice and Men' -- not on 57th Street now," Mulder reminded him quietly. "This is Agent Scully of the FBI. I'm Agent Mulder. We're here to help you." "Silky, soft...did I hurt you?" He turned back to Scully. "I'm fine. Put the gun down, okay?" "Charlie? Where are you?" Bruce's footsteps descended on the cement. "C'mon, Charlie, now. Put it down." Mulder raised the weapon in his hand, breathing hard when the movement increased the pain in his side. "Let's surprise your brother." "I don't want to go with you. I want to go with Bruce." "What the..." The elder Morgan appeared in the doorway. His face fell as he saw a gun pointed at his brother. "It's over, Mr. Morgan," Scully said, getting to her feet. "Tell your brother to put the weapon down. We don't want anyone else to get hurt." "You want me to shoot 'em?" Charlie asked, his eyes narrowing. He raised the gun toward Scully. "I'll drop him in a second," Mulder warned Bruce, his eyes not leaving the younger Morgan. "You don't want me to do that, do you?" Bruce Morgan's gaze darted from one to the other of those who stood before him. No words came as his mouth made several attempts at protest. Finally, his shoulders drooped as reality dawned. Tearfully, reluctantly, he stepped toward his brother. "Do as they ask, Charlie." The younger man turned his head in shock. "We're going with them?" "We have no choice." Charlie slowly backed away from the table. He moved toward his brother, extending his arm as if to surrender the gun. "We always have a choice." Just as Bruce was about to take the weapon, Charlie darted for the steps. "I 'gin to be aweary of the sun," he said, the voice he'd used earlier as Macbeth resounding in the cellar. He then bolted up the stairs before anyone could move. "NO!!" Bruce screamed, starting after him. With a final twist, Scully's wrists came free from the cord. Mulder, his strength rapidly leaving him, took a few wobbly steps but fell forward onto the table. The pain in his head and ribs soared, but he managed to wave Scully on. She grabbed her gun from him and had made it to the cellar doorway -- when they heard a shot. Then something dropped to the floor overhead. Her mouth open in horror, Scully looked back at Mulder who laboriously hauled himself to his feet. Bruce Morgan had run upstairs, and they now heard him howl morosely. "Scully, my gun," Mulder rasped. "Don't let Bruce use it on himself." She flew upstairs and into the Shady Rest's lobby. In front of the big oak counter, Bruce Morgan hunched over the crumpled body of his brother, wailing. Cautiously, she moved toward the duo, sliding past the elder and retrieving the gun Charlie had turned on himself. She knelt by Charlie but felt no carotid pulse, and as she rolled him over, she found that he'd shot himself through the heart. No CPR could save him. "Bruce? Oh my God, Bruce?" Sheila Morgan's voice came from outside the locked front door. Her hands pounded rapidly on its wood. Scully rose and let Sheila in, saying, "Charlie's dead. And you're both under arrest." "I know." Sheila ran to her husband, pulling the tall man's head to her shoulder as he sobbed. Scully heard a noise and turned to find that Mulder had reached the top of the stairs. He slowly hobbled toward her, becoming more pale. She moved to support him, slinging his arm around her shoulders. She gingerly touched his side and led him to the maroon couch. He melded into the cushions, lethargically moving his arms from his side so she could do a cursory examination. "Cracked ribs and a concussion, I'll bet," she said as his eyes failed to follow the forefinger she moved laterally to test his focus. "So much for rest and relaxation, huh, Scully?" "Anyone ever tell you you have lousy taste in vacations, Mulder?" "No, but I'm sure you will." **************** Epilogue 9:25 p.m., August 26, Belcan "I'm sorry that you have to leave so soon," Clarissa McKinnie said, leaning toward the passenger side of the Intrigue. "Are you sure you'll be able to travel?" Mulder nodded drowsily. "I'm looking forward to getting home." "I can't believe the hospital released you this evening. You should have spent the night there." "He can't wait to get back to D.C.," Scully observed from the driver's seat. "Desk duty is one of his favorite jobs." Mulder winced at her words. "Clarissa, it was nice to meet you." "Likewise," she replied. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. "And I want you to have this." She held out a post card. "I got a few extra a while back, and since the place is now closed down, you should have the last souvenir." Mulder squinted, reading the card in the car's dome light. "'I survived the Shady Rest'." "That's perfect," Scully smiled as she checked her watch. "We've got to get going. Plane to catch." "Gotta get back to her assistant director, eh?" Clarissa whispered to Mulder. "Come see us again sometime. And I'll talk to you on the Net." She waved at them, and turned toward her apartment. As Scully started the car, Mulder looked across the road at the Shady Rest, now completely shrouded in darkness. "A shame, Scully. It really wasn't a bad place." She followed his gaze. "No, not with the right people. Sorry there was no ghost." "I knew there wasn't. But finding Charlie Morgan after all these years was too intriguing." As his partner shifted the car into drive and left the curb, he muttered, "Bye, Belcan. Parting is such sweet sorrow." "I've had enough Shakespeare," Scully groaned. "But tell me, why'd Charlie kill himself?" Mulder unfolded their map and shone his flashlight on it. "Maybe reality finally set in. He didn't want to face prison or an institution. Or maybe he just couldn't face giving up his acting. Maybe suicide was his final lucid act." Scully silently considered this. "Too bad his mental illness wasn't given due awareness. If Bruce had just...oh well. Too late now." "Yep." She looked over at him. "You have the map? How far till we hit Buffalo?" "About three inches." They drove off, then, into the darkness. Behind them, though, the lights on the Shady Rest's second floor suddenly blinked. Twice. And on the second time, a white figure seemed to appear in the window of Room 25. End AUTHOR'S NOTES: Thanks to William Shakespeare, Susan Glaspell, Edgar Allen Poe, and John Steinbeck for unknowingly lending me their titles, characters, or words. Heartfelt thanks to the wonderful Michelle, FabulousMonster, Clarissa, Laura, Nicola, and Catbird for invaluable friendship, beta work, and encouragement. Special gratitude to Michelle Kiefer and FabulousMonster for ideas that helped this story immensely. And thanks, too, to Laine and all the Crystal Shippers for being such good people. I really don't deserve any of you! Please visit my website: Paper Visions