(This story previously appeared in some archives under the title 'Seventh Sense')
Feedback: chris_adams031@yahoo.com
Rating: PG
Category: X
Dist: Yes please, e-mail me to let me know.
Spoilers: None
Summary: Nightmares are just bad dreams. Aren't they?

And the intense heat had continued into the night. The breeze had picked up a little, but the humidity lingered in the air.

--Somehow, the woman had fallen asleep. The sheets of her bed are twisted around her, her hair matted with sweat. A man approaches slowly, his shadow cast on to the back wall of the motel room by the moon from the window by her bed. His arm moves upwards, the knife glittering in the moonlight. He jerks it down, gashing into the flesh of the woman below him on the bed. She tries to scream, but has no chance. Blood gushes on to the white sheets, the crimson stain spreading across the bed, as the man hurriedly makes his way to leave the room, closing the door gently and taking one last glance back. The number 7 on the door shines back at him in the light of the moon...--

Scully screamed.

She sat up in her bed, startled, sweat dripping from her forehead. She glanced around, panicking, wondering where she was. The motel room, she remembered. A dream. She sighed.

"Scully?" she heard Mulder's voice from behind the door between their two rooms. "Scully?"

"I'm OK Mulder." she murmured.

"What happened? Can I come in?"

"OK."

Mulder entered, still fully clothed although the clock by her bed told her it was after three in the morning.

"I just had a bad dream."

"Are you sure you're OK? That was one hell of a scream!"

"Yeah. Thanks."

"Sure? OK. Just let me know if you need anything."

"OK, thanks Mulder."

Mulder headed to the door.

"Mulder - ?"

"Yeah?"

"What room am I in?" Scully asked, looking down at her bed.

"Seven. I'm next door in eight."

Scully looked at him, wondering whether she should tell him. No.

"OK. Goodnight Mulder."

Scully didn't sleep again that night, thoughts of knives, screams and the number seven spreading through her mind like blood from a fresh wound.

"I," Scully hesitated. "I can't remember."

Mulder accepted that as an answer, shrugged, and began to unlock his car door. It was cooler than the previous day, a breeze ruffled through the trees at the end of the parking lot.

They were here on another of the FBI's teamwork training courses. Officially they had to take the course every five years, but, with a lack of cases to give them, Skinner had packed them away on the latest course being run by the FBI. Scully didn't mind, she saw it as a break. Mulder, however, would much rather have been sitting in his office, sifting through old letters from housewives in Texas claiming Bigfoot was living in their attic and that they were *sure* they had just seen Elvis in Wal-Mart. That was what a Jerry Springer appearance did to your career.

"This is like a punishment, you know, Scully." he said as they drove away from the motel. Scully, for some reason, felt relieved.

"I mean, they pull you away from your standard routine-" he began to roll up his sleeve. She knew what was coming, and smiled. "-send you off to the other side of the country, make you stack tables to make a 'teamwork mountain' and then LAUGH when you fall off!"

He waved his arm in front of Scully's face so she could see the inch-long graze he had gained from his adventure up (then down considerably faster) the mound of office furniture.

"Mulder!" she laughed. "I can hardly see it!"

"It hurts!" Mulder put on his lonely-puppy face, expecting Scully's sympathy.

"Aww, would you like me to perform an autopsy?" she teased.

"OK, since you care so much about your dear partner who has saved your life so many times, explain to me exactly why you LIKE these dumb conferences!" "It's just a change, Mulder. From that hot office, a bit of fresh air, no worries about making case reports on time, a bit of *fun*!"

"You call falling from Mount Mulder, the highest ever pile of desks and chairs in FBI conference history, FUN?!"

"*I* didn't fall off it. We weren't actually meant to climb the tower Mulder." "Yeah yeah."

Mulder snapped on the radio, gave it a dirty look when the music wasn't to his taste, and twiddled with the frequency dial before snapping it off again.

"Couldn't they give us motel rooms nearer to the dumb conference anyhow?"

"I suppose we were late to sign up."

"We didn't sign up. We were signed up." He expressed the signed on the second part.

"Whatever, Mulder."

"Well, the actual place is alright, I suppose, just a little too far away."

"Mm." Scully half-heartedly agreed.

She didn't like the motel.

It had been refurbished just a while ago, new carpets, paint, beds, everything. A block of ten new cabin rooms had been built next to the existing block, the car park extended, and a small convenience store built. But she didn't like it. There was something about it, something lingering in the back her mind. She had stayed in much worse accommodation, much worse. But still, she would be glad when the week-long course was over and she could return to her own bed.

"Mulder, maybe we should ask for a closer motel."

"Oh? I thought you liked it there?"

"Yes, but, you're right, it's quite a long way to travel every day to stack or, ahem, unstack furniture." she grinned at Mulder again, staring ahead and stifling a laugh.

"You'll never let me live this down will you Scully? Anyhow, we can ask for a transfer if you like, but we may end up in some inner city crap hole."

"Inner city craphole? Aren't we being a tad stereotypical here?"

"Stereotypical? Long words, Scully!" he teased her back.

"I can do longer."

"Chloroflourocarbon."

"Antidisestablishmentterianism."

"Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious!"

"That's not a word, cheat!"

Mulder grinned.

"Don't miss the turn off this morning Mulder."

"What's this, pick on Mulder's few flaws day?"

Scully's turn to grin.

The day passed with no major events, Mulder managed to get by without making a fool of himself and without any major injury involving any furniture of any kind whatsoever.

Scully congratulated him as they entered their separate motel rooms.

"Well done, Mulder."

"For?"

"Surviving Day 2."

"Thanks, Scully." He swung open the door.

Scully turned the keys again in her lock. And again. They jarred in the keyhole and she had to force them back out.

"Dammit-" she said to herself, before jiggling the door handle to no avail.

"Problems, pardner?" Mulder stuck his head out of his doorway.

"Dumb door won't open. Nnnggh!" Scully pushed the door, exasperated.

"Here-" Mulder took the keys, slotted them into the lock, and the door opened smoothly.

He grinned.

"Wha-?! But! Hmmm. Thanks."

"Any time." Mulder knew he had one over her now, no more digs at him for the office tower incident.

Scully entered the room, noting how cold it was compared to the night before. The walls were pink and cosy, a table stood at one end with a fresh vase of flowers, placed on a little frilly thing of the variety that can be spotted at any grandmother's house.

The room was so welcoming, yet so... uninviting. A thought flashed through her mind.

I'm not supposed to be here.

Around eleven, Scully got into bed, somehow not looking forward to the night ahead. She closed her eyes, hoping sleep would eventually find her. It did, surprisingly quicker than she thought, she was asleep just over twenty minutes later.

--Somehow, the woman had fallen asleep after the long day. The plain white sheets of her bed are twisted around her, her dark brown hair matted with sweat. A man, tall and quite muscular, approaches slowly, his shadow cast on to the back wall of the motel room by the moon from the window by her bed. His arm moves upwards, shaking as if nervous, the knife glittering in the moonlight. He jerks it down towards the woman, gashing into the flesh of the woman below him on the bed. She tries to scream, but has no chance. Blood pours from her mouth, she feels herself choking. She looks up at the man. NO...! Blood gushes on to the white sheets, the crimson stain spreading across the bed, spattering on to the mirror opposite as the man hurriedly makes his way to leave the room, closing the door gently and taking one last glance back. The number 7 on the door shines back at him in the light of the moon...--

Scully sat up, hurriedly, gripping a pillow to her mouth so as not to scream. She felt the scream trapped in her mouth, like she was choking. She began to sob quietly, mainly from shock, lowering the pillow and gasping for breath. It was clearer this time, more detail. She wiped her eye, looking down at her night- dress to confirm that it had been a dream (no blood...), glancing at the digital clock. 3:02am. She glanced around the room nervously, shadows looming in all directions, the moonlight streaming in from the window by her side. The motel room was nearly silent. She heard a low mumble from the room next door, realising Mulder was still watching TV. She listened again, to confirm it was definitely from Mulder's room. It was. Should she call for him? Maybe that was a bad idea, when she considered the kind of TV that tended to be shown in motel rooms at 3 in the morning. She remembered he had been awake the night before too. She cheered up slightly at the thought, although she couldn't place why. Plus, she thought. She was a big girl now. She didn't need to be comforted every time she had a bad dream. No, she thought, she'd just try to go back to sleep.

She lay awake for a while, glancing around her room every now and then, twitching at any minor noise. At about 4, she heard Mulder's TV stop. A few minutes after, she fell asleep, sleeping until her alarm beeped her awake the next morning.

"Suppose. I couldn't sleep for a while."

"Oh? How come?"

"Oh, uh, I heard your TV on."

"What?"

"Your TV, it, um, kept me awake."

"I wasn't watching TV."

"I heard you Mulder, don't deny it."

"Honestly, I was not!"

"I've seen your video collection, Mulder."

"So? Have you seen the crap they show way out here? Info-mercials for toilet brushes and soap!"

He flicked to the TV pages of a newspaper on the breakfast table they had sat down at.

Scully glanced down, he was right. Some old film ended at midnight, then there was just junk until dawn.

"Hmm. Is there a VCR in there?"

"No." he grinned.

"OK, I'll let you off. Sure you NEVER turned the TV on?"

"Not after about 12.30."

"OK. I must have heard been something else."

For some reason, she doubted Mulder. But why would he lie to her? She felt strange and was actually glad to set off for their teamwork conference and get away from the motel.

Something was wrong with her room. Something had happened there. She felt sure of it, but kept dismissing the thought every time it entered her head. Just a dream, she reassured herself.

But inside, she doubted even herself.

"No!" Scully sniffed as she was startled awake for the third night in a row. She had to scream, had to release the fear inside, but held it back, biting her lip until it bled slightly. A tear rolled down her cheek. It had been so real. This time there had been more detail. She glanced around her motel room. There was no circular mirror opposite her, no blood stains on the bed. But sure enough, there was the window beside her, the door opposite. The door where the number 7 would be glittering in the moonlight. She shook her head as if to get rid of the thought and lay back down. In the silence, Mulder's TV murmured quietly from next door. What is he doing? She got up slowly, attempting not to make any noise. She knew the door between their rooms would be unlocked. She quietly went to the door, the TV noise from his room growing louder as she approached. She grabbed the doorhandle, pushing it down slowly to open the door a crack. The TV was louder now. She looked in.

Mulder was lying asleep, facing away from her, on his side. The room was only lit by them crack of moonlight from between the curtains on his window. She glanced at the other side of the room. The TV was off.

The noise had stopped.

"Mulder?" she whispered. He didn't reply. Was he pretending? But how could he have turned off the TV so quickly? Her TV had no remote control, she doubted Mulder's had either. She gently closed the door, crossed the room, and got into bed.

The TV noise restarted.

Scully woke up about eight, later than usual, to the sound of Mulder's voice from his room.

"Scully? Wakey-wakey! Conference time!"

"Mulder?" she sat up.

Mulder popped his head through the doorway.

"Hi Sleepy. You OK?"

"Um, yeah. Actually, I don't feel too good." This was a lie, and she hated lying to him, but she had made up her mind that she needed to know about her motel room. Something had happened here, she decided, and she wanted to know what.

"I think I'll give today a miss."

"You sure? I can't teamwork by myself."

"Sorry, Mulder. I'd prefer to rest, then we can go build the best desk tower tomorrow."

"OK, sure. Anything I can get for you?"

"No, thankyou. I'll be OK just resting."

"OK, well, I'll guess I'll see you tonight. I'll call you later?"

"Yeah, OK, thanks."

He smiled, and disappeared round the door. About thirty minutes later she heard him go out to the car.

She got up, dressed and watched, and picked up her cell phone. She dialled the local taxi firm number on the list by her motel room phone, and ten minutes later she was leaving her room, locking her door, the number 7 glittering in the sun.

"Morning." the driver said. A small identification card, laminated but frayed round the edges, identified him as one Michael Mian.

"Hi." Scully replied politely. The driver lit up a cigarette, contrary to the "No Smoking" sign by his card. "Where to?"

"Um, the local library please."

"What d'ya consider to be local, ma'am?"

"Um, in town maybe?"

The driver let out a strange sound which Scully assumed to be a laugh. "We don't have no library in Kingsville, ma'am. Nearest one's like thirty miles away, in Gillis."

"Then, that's where we'll go."

"Sure, whatever." The driver set off. Scully felt sure they had taken an alternative route, as they passed a sign labelled "Gillis: 8 miles" by a main road.

Eventually they arrived in Gillis, Scully paid the high fare, $21, and eyed the driver suspiciously, and before she had hardly closed the door, he screeched away.

Scully walked down the main street of Gillis. It was fairly modern, a large music store seemed the main feature, but she spotted the public library further down the street and entered. It was quite large, with two floors. She was met by a desk at which a girl, about eighteen or nineteen, sat chewing gum.

Scully approached the desk. The girl twiddled her hair. A sign on her desk informed Scully that her name was "Darlene O'Twain, Library assistant (trainee)".

"Can I help you?" she said in a strong Texas accent.

"Sure, I assume you keep newspaper articles."

"I'm sure we do. What year?"

Scully realised that she had no idea.

"Um, say, the last five years?"

"Sure, upstairs, turn left, head for the shelf labelled 1990-present. They're not like, actually, nooosepapers, they're like, on, um, film..."

"Microfilm?"

"Sure, yeah, hypofilm."

"Thanks."

"Sure." she continued chewing and twirling her hair.

Scully headed upstairs. Here, she discovered rows and rows of books, with a row of tables in the centre. She was alone except for two students who sat opposite each other at a table, reading books and scribbling notes, occasionally reaching for a handful of M&M's from the bag in the middle without looking up from their books.

She turned left and headed for the back wall, where there were three rows of Microfilm cartridges. She picked up a handful from the 1990-present section, and headed for one of the dormant microfilm readers.

Here she spent most of the morning and the best part of the afternoon scanning through old editions of the local newspaper, ascertaining that not much ever really happened in Gillis and its surrounding towns. The occasional robbery seemed to be the biggest event she uncovered in the first reel. In 1992, an old woman had had her bag of groceries stolen, shortly after this event there had been a fire in Greg's Cafe. She continued scanning through the pages. In 1994, someone had been killed in a car crash in a small village called Anderton, about four miles away, when some teenagers had been playing around in their parents' car in the middle of the night. The victim had been quite a prominent character in the area, once he had even been the mayor. This story occupied the front pages for a few weeks before, like all news stories, fading away and been gradually relegated off the front page, through the paper until it vanished completely.

Around 4pm, she had entered the 1996 reels. On July 27th, 1996, she froze the screen. Her heart seemed to miss a beat.

The front page of the 'Gillis, Kingsville & Anderton Observer' was completely filled by one story. capital, block letters spelled out her nightmare.

"BRUTAL KILLING IN ROOM 7" a smaller sub-heading beneath read "Woman found knifed in motel room".

She skipped to the next page, discovering the story occupied the entire first half of the paper. On page 2, she read the full horrifying details, staring wide- eyed at the screen.

"LOCAL WOMAN KILLED IN MOTEL MURDER"

Local Shopkeeper Betty Robinson was found dead in her motel room yesterday. The horrific killing came to light when motel manager Charles LeBay notified authorities after discovering her bleeding body in room seven of the Kingsville Motor Lodge Motel yesterday. Mrs Robinson, known locally for her friendliness as the owner of a local bakery, was stabbed repeatedly in the chest and and face by a sharp instrument. Local police called the Federal Bureau of Investigation as soon as it had been confirmed that foul play was involved. FBI Agent Richard O'Keif told the Observer this morning, "This is a horrific crime, never in my career have I been so shocked at such a merciless killing." It is believed that Mrs Robinson was staying at the motel while her home was being fumigated after the recent cockroach scare. Mr Robinson was out of town, and it is not known if he is aware of his wife's death."

Scully leaned back in her chair. She pressed the button to skip to the next day's paper. Again, most of the paper was filled with details of Betty Robinson's murder.

"EIGHT STAB WOUNDS: HUSBAND IS SUSPECT"

A hand clamped down on Scully's shoulder.

"I need a word." said the voice from behind her.

"Scuse me, ma'am?" it was Darlene.

"Yes?" Scully swallowed.

"We're about to close up, now. I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow."

"Right, of course." She glanced at her watch. It was nearly five. She put the microfilm case back up on the shelf and left the library.

She called a taxi, and once more was met by the same driver, apparently the only taxi driver working today.

"Hey again."

"Hi." Scully answered.

"Have fun at the library?" he assumed this was hilarious and made that strange laughing noise for several seconds.

"I was doing some research."

"Research, huh? What about?"

"About a murder that happened here. I'm an FBI agent." she realised that the driver could be more use than he seemed.

"An FBI agent? I thought you were like some door-to-door salesman. The Robinson murder, right?"

"Yes, that's right." she reminded herself that not many murders happened here, that case was bound to be remembered by the locals.

"Sad, that was. Betty Robinson, everyone loved her. She baked stuff, cakes and the like, you know."

Scully nodded politely.

"Husband did it, so they thought. They had your people up here. He moved away, oh say a year before the murder. Betty got herself a new loverboy," he sounded quite sorry for Mrs Robinson, "She moved into the motel for a few days when her apartment was getting de-roached back in the summer of 96. Husband, Darious was his name, no-one liked him much. I would agree with them. Not a nice guy. Rumours were out he used to hit old Betty, he did. But then when he found out about Betty and her new guy, he came back. He checked into the motel room next to her one night. There was a door between their rooms. He came through in the dead of night and killed her, so they said. Then he went and killed himself."

"He did?" Scully hadn't read this far into the newspapers yet.

"Don't you know all this, you being an FBI agent?"

"Yes, partly, I'm not actually on the case."

"Right. Well, you see, he left all his stuff in the motel room and just vanished. They searched and searched for months, but they assumed he just went and killed himself out back somewhere. They never found his body."

Scully sat for a moment. The cab had reached the motel.

"You're staying in that very motel, ma'am. Did you know that?"

"I do now."

"What room you in?"

"Erm, room 7."

"Better you than me. That's where it all happened, that night. Course, I don't wanna scare you, that was like three years ago. They pulled that room apart, redecorated it, fixed it all up, made it nice. Still, hardly anyone ever stays in room 7 anymore. Just those who don't know. Sad story. Twenty-four bucks please."

"Twenty-four? It's gone up."

"You had in-flight entertainment." he grinned.

Scully handed him a twenty and a five.

"Do I get to keep the change?"

"No."

"Agent Scully?"

"How did you know my name?"

"Just watch your back." The car sped off before she was able to respond. She turned slowly, to see Mulder standing outside his door.

"Uh-oh." she remembered she was supposed to be sick.

"Uh-hi!" she said, as she walked towards him.

"Hi. I thought you were sick?"

"Yes, well, I was. But now I'm not."

"So where did you go?"

"Nowhere."

"I just saw you get out of a taxi."

"I just went, into the town, that's all. Forget it, Mulder."

"Today we played a game in a maze of furniture. I had to wear a blindfold, and be guided round by instructions from my partner. Unfortunately, I didn't have a partner."

"Oh. Sorry, Mulder."

"It's OK. You should have said you wanted to skip class, I would have accompanied you."

"Whatever. And I really did feel sick up until lunchtime." At lunchtime, she realised, she was hunched over a microfilm machine.

--Somehow, the woman had fallen asleep after the long day. The plain white sheets of her bed are twisted around her, her dark red hair matted with sweat. A man, tall and quite muscular, but with a worried and nervous expression upon his face, approaches slowly, his shadow cast on to the back wall of the motel room by the moon from the window by her bed. His arm moves upwards, shaking nervously, the blade of the knife glittering in the moonlight. He hesitates, drawing the knife downwards a few inches, before retreating it back upwards. He grits his teeth together. The woman awakes, stares up at the man. No-! Her blue eyes are open wide in shock, sleep a million miles away. She reaches her hand to the table nearby, feeling around for something. Her gun. It drops on the floor. "Mulder-!" The man jerks the knife down towards Scully, gashing into her chest as she lay helplessly below him on the bed. She tries to scream, but has no chance. Blood pours from her mouth and chest, she feels herself choking. She looks up at the him. NO... not him! She tries to scream at him, tries so hard, but only blood splutters from her mouth. Blood gushes on to the white sheets, the crimson stain spreading across the bed, spattering on to the circular mirror opposite as the man hurriedly makes his way to leave the room, closing the door gently. Fox William Mulder takes one last glance back. The number 7 on the door shines back at him in the light of the moon...--

Mulder burst into her room, wearing a T-shirt and shorts.

"Scully? Scully, what happened?"

Scully swallowed, unable to speak for a few minutes.

"I..I just...had a nightmare..."

"What? You screamed..."

"Mulder..." she put her arms around him.

"This is why you stayed here yesterday, isn't it? You keep having the same dream, don't you?"

"Yes, but it was... different tonight..."

"What happens, Scully?"

"There..there's a woman, in this room, and a man, he..he kills her. Stabs her. Blood, everywhere..."

Mulder looked distressed.

"But tonight..."Scully cried loudly. "You...killed me..."

"What?! Scully, I..."

"I know, it's ridiculous..."

"I would never harm you, ever, Scully."

She rested her head on his shoulder.

"You gonna be OK Scully? Tomorrow, we'll get check out and drive back home..."

"No... I, I need to go back to the library..."

"The library?"

"That's where I went yesterday. There was a murder here, Mulder, in this room, on July 26th 1996. Three years ago."

"Three years ago tomorrow."

"What?" he was right, she realised. That date was tomorrow.

"I'm coming with you."

Scully reluctantly agreed.

They talked quietly for a while, then Mulder returned to his room. She needed to go to the library, find out more about what happened. But she realised that that meant another night in this motel. In room 7.

Scully drifted asleep to the sound of Mulder's TV in the room next door.

Mrs Betty Robinson had moved out of the Roseville Apartment Block while it was being fumigated. She had checked into the motel at about four, according to the manager. She was handed the keys to room number seven. At about four-thirty, her husband (although the manager hadn't realised) checked into room eight. That night, her husband, a guy named Darious, had gone through the interjoining door and stabbed her eight times, killing her within seconds. This is where events became unclear. He seemed to have left by the main door to room 7, and then gone into his room next door. But why hadn't he gone through the door in between the two rooms? Mulder drew two big question marks on his pad.

Next morning, the maid had gone to clean the rooms when she discovered Darious had left all his belongings in room 8 (more black question marks), and that the bloody cadaver of Mrs Robinson lay in the bed of room seven. Charles LeBay, manager, reported the scene to local police that morning. The husband was never found, but presumed dead by suicide. The motel closed for about a year and a half due to lack of business, but reopened in early 1998 when people slowly started staying there again, as the Kingsville Motor Lodge Motel.

Mulder offered to swap rooms with Scully, although she declined. This whole thing seemed unreal. She was scared, yes, but what of? A nightmare? She didn't know what to think.

These were the thoughts that ran through her brain as she lay down in bed that night. She was determined to stay awake, but she was so tired. She had been up a good portion of the last few nights, and had stared at a monitor for two days, her eyes were sore.

Eyes...sore...must...stay...awake! Scully blinked her eyes open, glancing at the clock. Just after midnight. Awake... Dana... not... sleeeeeeppppppp....

Somehow, Scully had fallen asleep after the long day, and her mixture of fear and confusion. The plain white sheets of her bed are twisted around her, her red hair matted with sweat. A man, tall and quite muscular, but with a worried and nervous expression upon his face, approaches slowly, his shadow cast on to the back wall of the motel room by the moon from the window by her bed. The shadow shivers, jittering around, trying to escape. Scully's eyes open, sensing the movement in the room. "Mulder..." His arm moves upwards, shaking nervously, the blade of the knife glittering in the moonlight. His mouth moves, trying to speak, but failing. A mumble escapes. Scully tries so hard to wake up. Then realises. She is awake.

Mulder, above her, hesitates, drawing the knife downwards a few inches, before retreating it back upwards. He grits his teeth together. Scully looks up in terror and sadness, at Mulder's face, his shaky breathing, not seeing the face of the partner she had come to know after six years, but the face of a monster. But it was Mulder, alright, but there was someone else there, a face she recognised somehow, like when you meet the relative of someone you met years ago. Her blue eyes are open wide in shock, sleep a million miles away. She reaches her hand to the table nearby, feeling around for something. Her gun. It drops on the floor. "Mulder- It's ME!!" She struggles in her bed, trying to escape the sheets that cling to her like guards restraining a prisoner. "MULDER!! PUT DOWN THE KNIFE!! YOU ARE NOT WHO YOU ARE!" The words sprung into Scully's mouth from somewhere in the past. She realised. It was Mulder's body, his face, but there was something else, taking over him, controlling him. Then his face flickers. She sees Fox Mulder, his mouth open in a silent scream, and another face, evil, lip curled like a snarling dragon ready to spout flames. Two faces. Then they re-mould into one. He jerks the knife down towards Scully, but she hits it with her elbow, temporarily knocking him off track. "M..Mulder! STOP!" She screams at him to no avail. He shuffles slightly, lifting the knife above his shoulder into killing position once more. Scully tries to move her hand, but it too is twisted in the sheets. Her other hand flails around uselessly. He lowers the knife, and once again she sees the face divide in two. As if in slow motion, the knife lowers down to Scully, making contact with her skin. A gash of searing pan in her arm. Then-

BLAM! BLAMBLAMBLAM!

Things in the room seemed to speed up at that point. Scully looked down at her arm, a cut about three inches long bled on to her bed, a crimson stain like the one in her dreams. What had she heard, that noise cracking through her brain. Gunshots. She looked up at Mulder. The knife dropped from his hand, four open wounds in his chest.

"Sc...Scully..." he stutters, before slowly keeling leftwards down to the floor.

But there he stood, in front of her.

Two bodies. One alive, one dead.

On the floor at the foot of her bead, lay a body, bleeding from his back and chest, only the top of his body in view. Tall, muscular, but certainly not Fox Mulder. He stood, above the body, breathing shallowly, no blood apparent.

Scully cried, but ignored the tears.

"Mulder...what happened?"

At this point she realised her motel room door was open. Mulder turned. A silhouette stood in the moonlit square of her doorway, his gun-wielding hand lowering.

"It's over." The man said. He stepped into the room, swallowing, taking a look at the body crumpled on the floor, before looking away in disgust.

"Oh my god..." Scully began.

"In 1996, my brother killed his wife. Then I killed him." Michael Mian, local taxi- driver, stepped further into the room, as he talked.

"And when he did, he went to the ice machine, got ice, came back to his room, and watched TV and drank a beer. That's the part that disgusted me. Then I killed him."

Mulder sat down and hugged Scully tightly. He swallowed. A tear rolled down his cheek, as did one down Scully's.

"I...I can't remember...the..." he began. "It's OK."

"I stabbed him with the same knife he killed Betty with. I felt so damn sorry for that woman, he beat her, and disrespected her. And I saw him buying the knife the day he came back, and I swore I wouldn't let him go ahead with it. But I was too late. I knocked him out with a vase, you know. Put him in the car, drove him out to nowhere, and stabbed him. Threw the body of a cliff thirty miles away." He sounded half-upset, half-angry.

"As he came to, just before I stuck that knife into his sorry body, he swore he'd come back, get me or anyone else he damn could. But I guess he couldn't get me. Do you believe in ghosts, agents?"

They didn't reply.

"I don't. But I do believe in strong emotions. When an event happens, with a strong emotion involved - a first kiss, a sad death, a murder - that emotion lingers. Trapped in the four walls where it first was experienced. For ever. He, Darious, my brother, couldn't get me. So it tried to get you. Today was their tenth wedding anniversary. Third anniversary of their deaths."

"But, I don't understand..."

"Like I said, I don't believe in ghosts. And an emotion can't kill someone. I'm afraid, Agent Mulder, that's where you came into things."

"The other day...I can't..."

"Remember? You didn't go to your teamwork conference, I'm, afraid. You went to Donaldson's Hardware store and purchased that there knife. Same store, same kind of knife, that I followed Darious into three years back." He pointed to the blood-tipped knife on the floor. "But it wasn't your fault. It was Darious's. You did nothing wrong. He used your body."

Scully looked down at the floor, realising that the body of Michael's brother was no longer there. A lingering emotion...

"But now it's over. I'm sorry it got this far. I knew I couldn't hurt you, Agent Mulder, or I would never..."

Mulder nodded, understanding the sentence before it was completed.

Scully realised that the motel manager had approached the door of her room, probably awakened by the gunshots.

"What the hell...?" he asked.

"Nothing. Don't ask."

"Are you OK, ma'am, you look like you're bleeding."

"Sure, I just need some stitches, that's all."

Mulder, Scully and the manager left the room, the manager asking questions about Scully's arm and insurance policies. Scully's arm was wrapped tightly in a bed sheet, blood already staining it. She would be OK, she realised, it wasn't that deep a wound.

Michael Mian looked round the room, at the blood stain on the bed, and the knife on the floor.

He scooped it up, wiped it on the bed, and carried it outside, planning to get rid of it in the same manner that he had gotten rid of his brother three years earlier. He had loved Betty, his brother's wife, he realised for the first time. More than his brother ever had, ever would have. He wiped a tear from his eye, glanced at his watch - 3:11am - and closed the motel room door gently. The number seven glittered back at him in the light of the moon.

In room eight, the TV noise filled the room.

The End

Chris Adams, August 1999

ICQ: 21807359

Y! Messenger: chris_adams031

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