Title:  Crenshaw Mansion
Author:  Vickie Moseley (teaser and story concept 
by Sally Bahnsen)
Summary:  Investigating the disappearance of a 
Forestry employee, Mulder and Scully stumble on a 
horrible secret that almost separates them forever.
Written for Virtual Season 12
http://virtualseasonx.org/season-12/
Archives:  two weeks exclusive with VS 12, after 
that, yes
Disclaimer:  I don't own the Mansion, the state 
bought it a couple of years ago.  I don't own Mulder 
and Scully, Carter keeps them chained in his attic.  I 
do pay taxes in this state, so I guess I'm part owner 
of Ferne Clyffe State Park (yes that is the correct 
spelling) and as pretty as that place is, I'll be happy 
with that.  No copyright infringement intended.
Dedicated:  To Sally, for helping me hammer all 
this out.  I love ya!  Kisses for Mary for lightning 
fast beta while packing for Media West.  Big 
Chocolate Mulders for Lisa, for finding shackles 
and carriages with tops.  And for the rest of the 
VSX crew, Donnaj, T, Martin -- you guys keep me 
sane.
Author's notes at the end.

Crenshaw Mansion

Teaser

It stood like a lone citadel high on a hill overlooking 
a patchwork quilt of fields surrounding the small 
township of Gallatin County.

Tom Coleman steered the Forestry pick-up onto the 
access road leading to Crenshaw Mansion, the back 
tires kicking up a spray of gravel as they fought for 
traction on the steep driveway. "The sooner they get 
this place sealed, the better." He mumbled to 
himself. 

Reaching the area proposed by local government for 
the new parking lot, he veered to the right, coming 
to a stop outside the three-story building. A shiver 
ran down his spine. Ever since he was a kid this 
place had given him the creeps. Tall tales of ghosts 
and demons haunting the house had fed his vivid 
childish imagination, filling his dreams with 
frightening images of giant black poltergeists 
roaming the halls, their chain-linked feet scraping 
on wooden floorboards as they cried for freedom. 
When his cell phone rang he jumped in fright and 
threw himself against the driver's door before 
realizing the only danger he was likely to 
experience was from his girlfriend Beckie if he 
didn't make it home in time for dinner.

He flipped open his cell phone, feeling somewhat 
foolish at his over reaction.  "Hi, hon. One hour.  I 
promise."

"Yeah, yeah, I've heard that before." He could hear 
the smile in her voice, but knew better than to be 
fooled into complacency by her easy going manner. 
Rebecca Murphy's gentle lilt could shift to that of a 
raving banshee in a matter of seconds if pushed the 
wrong way. But Tom had a knack for heading her 
off at the pass. She was beautiful when she was 
angry. Beautiful when smiling, asleep, crying, 
laughing, and he was counting the days before he 
would make her his wife.

"I swear, Beck, this is my last stop. I just gotta sign 
off at the office and then I'll be home. Get the fire 
started and the wine cooled, I'm practically on my 
way."

"You better be." 

"I promise. Now, if you'll stop yacking at me, I'll be 
a lot quicker. See you soon, I love you."

"Love you, too. Be careful."

"Always."

He disconnected with a loopy grin plastered on his 
face. With some luck he'd have the job finished 
within ten minutes and be home well inside the hour 
he'd promised.

Pacing out the eastern perimeter, Tom checked his 
watch and smiled to himself. He'd make it with time 
to spare, might even have time to stop on the way 
home and surprise Beckie with a bunch of flowers. 
A small gesture to ease ruffled feathers caused by 
too many late night budget and planning meetings 
to get the proposed parking lot underway.

 A sudden bolt of lightening split the early evening 
sky in two, followed immediately by a loud clap of 
thunder. Tom peered at the dark clouds rolling in 
from the north. If he didn't get moving he was going 
to end up with a wet ass. He pulled his jacket tighter 
around his body and lifted the collar to protect his 
ears and neck from the squalling wind. He was 
within 20 or 30 yards of finishing up when the first 
raindrops landed on his head. It was only seconds 
before the heavens opened up dumping gallons of 
torrential rain from above. 

Tom made a run for it. His pick-up was parked on 
the western side of the building; he'd be soaked 
through before he could make it even half way 
there. Sprinting hard, he took the steps leading to 
the old mansion two at a time seeking shelter on the 
porch. The wind picked up, whipping his hair and 
tugging at this jacket. Rain pelted underneath the 
eaves, giant drops creating a horizontal sheet of 
water drumming against the front of the house and 
soaking Tom to his skin. In desperation he grabbed 
at the door handle giving it an experimental tug. To 
his surprise the door swung open, its creaking 
hinges barely audible over the torrent of rain.  He 
stepped through to the foyer, slamming the door 
shut behind him and leaned against the solid oak, 
feeling it rattling against his body as he fought to 
catch his breath.

Outside the storm raged sending another bolt of 
lightening arcing across the sky, its brief 
illumination giving Tom a chance to check out his 
surroundings. The foyer was a short rectangular 
shape, a small hallway leading to the back of the 
house. Tom's immediate thought was that the house 
seemed to be split in two by some kind of time 
warp. On the left he saw a door and a staircase 
leading to an upper level, its design every bit in 
keeping with architecture of the late 1800s. 
However, in stark contrast to the period style setting 
of left, the right side was every bit as modern as the 
left was old. Tom could just make out a single door 
opposite the staircase.  But what really caught his 
attention was the glow of light coming from the 
second floor. 

That didn't seem right. As far as he knew no one 
had lived in the old Crenshaw mansion for years. It 
had become a popular tourist attraction both with 
locals and visitors, hence the need for a new 
improved parking lot.

 Slowly, he moved towards the staircase.

"Hello? Is anyone up there?"  Apart from the howl 
of the wind he was greeted with silence.

"Hello!" He tried again, this time cautiously 
ascending the stairs one at a time. Still there was no 
answer. "My name is Tom Coleman. I'm a Ranger 
with the Forestry Service. Is anyone up there?"

Each step upwards emitted a long creak of protest 
from the stairs. Tom had never been inside the 
house and quite frankly he was beginning to wish 
he wasn't there now. The hair on the back of his 
neck tingled and he could feel his heart hammering 
against his chest. 

When he finally reached the second floor he was 
greeted with a scene reminiscent of an old western 
movie. It was as if he'd been transported back in 
time a hundred and fifty years.  The light that had 
been visible from the foyer was not electric, but 
instead originated from a series of candelabras 
attached to the walls on both sides of the hallway. 
The flames flickered almost to extinction then 
flared to life again, as a gust of wind swept down 
the hallway.

"Hello! Is anyone there?" Tom made his way 
tentatively along the second floor, another gust of 
wind blew through an open window at the end of 
the hallway momentarily dousing the flames to 
almost nothing.  Tom moved towards the window 
intending to close it before the candles were snuffed 
out completely. He was only a few feet from the 
window when he heard a noise behind him. 
Turning, his eyes widened with shock and a scream 
caught in the back of his throat as a wooden bat 
connected with his head. Tom slumped to the 
ground, blood oozing from a cut just behind his left 
ear.

Act I Scene 1

The sun was shining brightly in the cloudless blue 
sky.  If Mulder closed his eyes, feeling the hot sun 
on his face, he could almost envision a summer's 
day.  A strong gust of wind brought a flurry of dried 
oak leaves to swirl near his face and brought him 
back to reality.  It was still spring, even in far 
Southern Illinois.  The temperature was a 'balmy' 40 
degrees and he shuddered inside his charcoal suit 
coat when the gust brought that down closer to 20.

The house before him was impressive in the bright 
sunlight.  It was painted red and he wondered if it 
had always been red, even when first built.  It gave 
off a quality of opulence that was missing from the 
small towns and farm fields of Gallatin County.  A 
three-story manse, set on the very top of one of the 
tallest hills, made for a curiosity, if not a tourist site.  
When the history of the house was told, it held a 
natural, as well as unnatural, attraction.

Mulder fumbled in the pocket of his suit jacket and 
withdrew the brochure he'd found at a rest stop on 
Interstate 24 on his way up from the Paducah, KY 
airport.  "Slave House", the cover screamed in the 
old B movie poster font of Vincent Price and Ed 
Wood features.  The house before him was 
prominently featured on the cover as well as a short 
summary.  Inside, pictures of the house, each floor, 
but particularly the third floor, spelled out the 
history of the mansion.  Owned by one John 
Crenshaw before and during the Civil War, the 
house was once a stop on the reverse 'Underground 
Railway'.  Instead of helping slaves escape their 
captors and find freedom in the northern states, this 
house was a collecting station for runaways who 
were then returned to their captivity in the south.  
Mulder was just beginning to read when his cell 
phone trilled in his pocket.  He took note of the ring 
tone, 'Walking in Memphis' and smiled.

"Hey Scully," he said affably as he answered.  
"How goes the autopsy?"

"That's why I'm calling.  I may be a while.  When 
does my plane leave?" 

He glanced at his watch.  "2:45.  The best Kim 
could do was to get you on a flight into Evansville, 
Indiana, but it's not a far drive.  We end up with two 
rental cars that way."

"Mulder, why don't you pick me up?  Or can't you 
tear yourself away from the ghosts in the attic?" she 
teased lightly.

"Yeah, I could, you're right.  But I did want to look 
around a bit.  Wait till you see this place, Scully.  
It's got a real Norman Bates feel to it," he joked in 
return.

"Just remember, we're there to find a missing 
Forestry Service employee, not find the ghosts of 
old slaves and slave owners," she reminded him.

"I remember," he said.  "I left your ticket on the 
desk, under the blotter.  Give me a call when you 
get to the airport and I'll pick you up."

"You better be there, Mulder.  If I end up stranded 
in Evansville, Indiana, for any length of time, you 
will pay and pay dearly," she warned.

The sound of tires on the gravel drive alerted 
Mulder to an approaching vehicle.  "I gotta run, 
Scully.  I think the locals just arrived."

"Be nice, Mulder," she warned.

"I'm always nice," he shot back with a grin he knew 
she knew he was wearing.

"OK, be _nicer_ than usual," she responded and his 
grin grew to encompass his whole face.

"Just hurry, Scully.  It's cold here without you."  
Before she had a chance to respond, or before either 
of them was forced to forego endearments because 
of their very public locations, he disconnected the 
line.   A US Department of Interior Forestry Service 
truck pulled into the parking area and stopped next 
to his rented Ford.  Mulder stood by the white gate 
to the mansion and watched the uniformed 
gentleman get out of the truck and come toward 
him.

"Folk Mulder?" called out the tall man, early 50s 
with a fringe of graying hair sticking out under his 
dark green USFS cap.

"Fox, actually.  Fox Mulder," the agent corrected.  

"Ah," the man said with no apparent 
embarrassment.  "Went to school with a guy named 
Folk.  No 'Fox', though," he chuckled and held out 
his hand in greeting.  "Bob Miller, Forestry.  Sure 
am glad you decided to make the trip."

Mulder shook Miller's hand firmly.  "When Interior 
calls, the FBI really doesn't have much choice, does 
it?"

Miller snorted and looked away.  "That's what I 
thought, till I talked to those deadheads up in 
Springfield.  Seems none of the regional offices 
wanted to claim jurisdiction," he said around a 
stream of tobacco juice that he managed to spit a 
few feet from Mulder's shoes.

"Well, I'm here now and my partner will be joining 
us as soon as she can get away from DC.  Why don't 
you fill me in on the disappearance."

"Sure.  Let's go on up to the porch," Miller said and 
opened the gate, walking fast.  Mulder had little 
trouble catching up.

"House has been in private ownership since it was 
built.  Crenshaw, that's John Crenshaw, built it back 
in the 1830s.  He made his money in the salt fields, 
just down by the river.  But his real money, folks 
believe, came from returning escaped slaves.  
'Course, there are no records of that, but that's not 
unusual, since Illinois joined the Union as a free 
state in 1818.  Returning escaped slaves was 
criminal activity in this state, even before the Civil 
War.  Didn't mean it wasn't lucrative, o' course."

They were standing on the front porch of the 
mansion.  It ran the length of the front of the 
building and reached above them to the second 
floor.  "Slaves were reportedly kept in the third 
floor attic, brought in during the night, held for a 
while and then taken back across the river.  
Landings just a few miles to the south."

"And no one reported it?" Mulder asked with a 
smirk.

Miller returned the look.  "Well, those were 
different times, I tell ya.  But no, no one reported 
him.  Since he was a fairly respected businessman, 
most people turned a blind eye.  But there were 
some, mostly the abolitionist types, who would 
have gladly handed him over to the authorities.  
Still, there were never any charges.  'Course, he did 
have some connections."

"Political, I take it," Mulder interjected.

Miller smiled broadly.  "Why, Abe Lincoln himself 
was supposed to have stopped right here and had 
dinner with the local party when he was making the 
run for the White House."

"I bet that's a story that got around."

"Not really.  I think the Lincoln folks would just as 
soon hide that one under a rug," Miller smirked.

Hearing its sordid past, the wood frame and 
clapboard structure took on an ominous feel.  "The 
most recent owners lived here on the first floor and 
opened the rest of the house up as a museum and 
tourist attraction.  Did real well for many years, 
since we're right on US Route 45, the old main 
south road from Chicago.  But the new Interstates, 
24 and 64, pretty much changed all that.  And the 
couple who owned it were getting up in years, were 
having trouble with the maintenance of the place 
and got the state to buy it and make a 'historic site'."

"How did Forestry get involved?" Mulder asked, 
peering into one of the first floor windows.  There 
was nothing but gloom on the other side of the 
glass.

"This land is all part of the Shawnee National 
Forest," Miller explained, making a wide sweep of 
the surrounding hills with his hand.  "We run fire 
towers, do maintenance work on the roads.  State 
asked us to look at that old parking lot out there and 
see if we could chip in for a new paved lot.  We do 
that sort of thing from time to time, when the 
budget allows."   

"So we sent Tom, that's Tom Coleman, over to 
check out the parking lot.  Tom's a civil engineer, 
used to do highway work.  Can look at a patch of 
dirt and tell you exactly how much concrete it'll 
take to cover it.  Anyways, a storm came up, as does 
in these parts, and we're guessin' Tom ran up on the 
porch.  He didn't have a key, but when we came to 
look for him, the front door was wide open.  We 
found his footsteps, it was pretty muddy that day, 
all the way up the stairs to the second floor.  Then, 
they just disappear."

"Tell me a little about Tom?" Mulder asked.

Miller's eyes narrowed but he nodded in 
compliance.  "Tom's a good worker, top notch.  Got 
his engineering degree from Southern Illinois 
University, over in Carbondale.  He's been with the 
Service now five years.  He's the most reliable man 
on my crew, which is why I sent him over by 
himself to do this work.  That, plus, as I said, he 
used to do road work with IDOT in the summers 
when he was in college."

"IDOT?"

"Illinois Department of Transportation.  He knows 
his stuff."

"He'd have no reason to 'just up and disappear', 
then," Mulder concluded.

"No sir."  Catching Mulder's glance toward the 
windows, Miller shook his head.  "Tom just bought 
a house in Marion.  I think he was getting ready to 
propose to his girlfriend.  She lives in Harrisburg -- 
right shook up about him missing."

Mulder felt a pang of guilt for pressing.  He knew 
how 'shook up' someone's disappearance could 
make a person.  Almost a decade had passed since 
Scully's disappearance and it still haunted his 
dreams.  He was grateful that he could wake up and 
pull her into his arms.

"Anyway, when he didn't show up back at the 
office, me and another member of the crew came 
over.  Figured he had engine trouble with the truck.  
We found the truck right here in the parking lot, and 
no sign of Tom.  We called the Sheriff and decided 
to see if we couldn't find him around somewhere.  
The front door was still open, so we went inside.  
Looked all over the place, just found the footsteps.  
But . . ."  The man hesitated and looked 
uncomfortable, failing to meet Mulder's questioning 
gaze.

"But what, Mr. Miller?" the agent prodded.

"Well, I don't go in for all that spookster nonsense, 
mind ya.  Oh, it's great for the tourists and all, but 
my feet are planted firmly on ole' Terra Firma, if 
you get my drift."

"Sure, I understand," Mulder consoled.

"But as we were looking on the second floor, just as 
we passed the stairs going up to the third, well, 
damnedest thing . . ."

"Go on," Mulder prodded.

"I swear I heard Tom's voice.  He was calling to me.  
But we'd searched the third floor, the Sheriff had 
gone up there, too.  There was nothing there."  
Miller took a deep breath.  "I've lived in these parts 
all my life.  I knew the people who used to own this 
place, my younger brother went to high school with 
their son.  I've spent many a fall afternoon with my 
dogs hunting squirrel right over there," he pointed 
to the stand of trees just down the hillside.  "I never 
thought anything about all the stories.  But after 
this, I think I might have changed my mind."

Mulder gave him a confused look.

"Agent Mulder, I will deny I said this to my dying 
day, but I'll tell you.  I'm beginning to think this 
place really is haunted."

Act I scene 2

"Maybe we better take a look inside," Mulder 
suggested, trying to shake off the chill that had 
crawled up his back at Miller's comments.

"Sure thing.  Got the key right here," Miller said 
and produced a key on its own steel ring.  The lock 
was well worn and the door swung open with an 
almost silent moan.  Mulder peered into the gloom 
from the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the 
lights.  He absently pulled a small maglight from his 
pocket, Miller produced a larger flashlight from the 
pocket of his jacket and they both proceeded into 
the house.

There was a light switch by the door.  Mulder 
flipped it once, to no avail.  "Electric's been off 
since the old owners left," Miller explained.

Mulder shined his beam around the room, checking 
the door.  "Not much security," he muttered.

"Folks around these parts are generally honest.  Get 
a few trouble makers, but nobody stupid enough to 
try and steal something outta a house like this."

"Maybe they should hire ghosts to guard houses in 
the big city," Mulder said with a smirk.  Miller 
answered with a nervous chuckle.  He flashed the 
light along the right hand wall and let it rest on a 
door in the center, a rather modern looking door.

"Entrance to the private residence," Miller 
explained.

"The owners lived here?" Mulder asked.  "Did they 
know about the . . . ?"

"Ghosts?  Sure!  The lady of the house believed, the 
man more or less said it was hogwash, to everyone 
round these parts at least.  But they made a good 
livin' on the tourist trade comin' through.  And to be 
honest, they saved this old place.  Not that many 
people want a house this big, with this much past 
history.  If the previous owners hadn't lived here 
and made it a tourist attraction, chances are we'd be 
standing in an open field right now."

Miller pulled out another key ring and found 
another key, unlocking the private residence.  "They 
updated the place a few years back," he told Mulder 
as they walked through the rooms.  A living room 
with a fireplace and recently laid berber carpet 
greeted them just inside the door.  Through an 
archway they found a modern kitchen with black 
enamel appliances and a modern island with faux 
stone countertop.  There were two bedrooms, a 
dining room and two baths in an addition on the 
back of the house.  The two men found nothing out 
of the ordinary.

Mulder was feeling just a little foolish now that 
they'd gone through what appeared to be a 
remodeled, but stylish, old house.  "Let's take a look 
at the rest of the place," he said decisively.

The other rooms downstairs had obviously been 
used for storage.  The room at the back of the house 
sported a large four-poster bed and nothing else.  
"This is supposed to be the room Mr. Lincoln 
stayed in when he visited," Miller explained.  

A thick layer of dust covered the floors, revealing 
no footprints.  Mulder noticed the absence of 
closets.  "No closets?  No place to hide?"

"Didn't have 'em back then.  People used 
'wardrobes' and dressers, highboys and the like.  
There's some of 'em upstairs on the second floor, in 
the 'restored' rooms."

"Then let's head up stairs," Mulder said easily.

The steps were old and creaked in several places as 
they made their way to the second story of the 
house.  In the open hallway, Mulder first 
encountered a low display case, exhibiting a number 
of small bottles and boxes with a few pieces of 
silver, tarnished with age.  Hand printed signs gave 
the names of the utensils and what the bottles held, 
each dated.  "There are some old pieces in this," 
Mulder commented.  Miller nodded.

The rooms on the second floor held more 
furnishings but these were by no means modern.  A 
formal parlor was set with china that looked very 
old to Mulder.  There was an old wardrobe, as 
Miller had described, in one room and Mulder 
searched it for signs of anything amiss.  Each room 
showed markings on the floor where the search 
teams had already gone through.

Mulder stood in the hallway once again, scratching 
his head.  "What's that?" he asked, pointing to a 
small door to the left of the staircase they'd used to 
come up from the first floor.

"The attic," Miller said solemnly.  "Third floor.  We 
checked that too."

"Do you mind if I take a look?" Mulder asked but 
had already started toward the door.  A large 
padlock hung from a hasp and he waited patiently 
while Miller produced the correct key.  

"Knock yourself out," Miller said, waving the agent 
to go up the steps before him.  

The stairwell was dark and musty smelling.  A few 
of the boards seemed soft and Mulder stepped 
carefully over them, making his ascent rather 
awkward.  Miller came behind him, mimicking his 
actions.  When they finally made it to the third 
floor, Mulder wasn't sure what to expect.  What he 
found was an empty attic, with small cubicles 
running each long side of the house.  Two windows, 
opposite each other, broken out and wind howling 
through them, gave the only light to the room.

"I thought you said they didn't have closets," 
Mulder commented as he flashed his maglight into 
one of the cubicles.

"Those aren't closets.  They're 'quarters'," Miller 
said with a dour expression.

In each cubicle, three slats of wood created shelves, 
approximately three feet across and not more than 
five feet long.  At the back wall, huge iron rings 
were imbedded in the thick wood wall.  A few of 
the rings still had heavy iron chains attached.

"This is where they kept the poor bastards," Miller 
said quietly.  

Mulder reached out and hefted one of the chains.  It 
was heavy enough to keep a man from moving 
much.  A thought occurred to him and he hurriedly 
searched every cubicle.  Miller stood near the stairs, 
watching the agent search.

"We looked up here, Agent Mulder.  Believe me, 
we searched the whole structure."

"Basement?" Mulder asked anxiously.

"Root cellar," Miller corrected.  "We had the dogs 
through too," he added, pointing to a paw print in 
the dust and dirt on the floor.  "Nothing."

"May I see the root cellar?"

"Sure.  You done up here?" Miller asked.

"Yeah.  I think so," Mulder admitted reluctantly.  

Miller led the way down the steps, Mulder 
following only after taking a long look around the 
attic.  The place felt cold, but with the broken 
windows, he brushed it off as being the wind 
blowing through the place.  Scully's rubbing off on 
you, he mused and that thought made him smile.  
When had he stopped thinking first of the 
paranormal and instead trying to come up with a 
rational explanation?  He couldn't wait to tell her 
when he picked her up at the airport.  Which meant 
he had better check the root cellar and leave soon to 
make it in time.

Miller locked the door with the padlock when they 
reached the second floor.  "Kids like to scare each 
other, try stayin' the night up here.  Set a fire one 
night, almost burned the place down.  Lucky thing, 
we had a rainstorm blow through, rain put out the 
fire.  Best to keep the place locked and out of 
temptation's path."

Miller's cell phone chirped and he patted down his 
pockets until he located the noisy object.  He spoke 
into the receiver, squinting and moving around.  
"Can't hear ya, ah hell," he said, finally hurrying 
down the steps to find a better spot for reception.

Mulder started to follow, but didn't want to intrude 
on the man's conversation.  He was just starting 
down the steps when he heard something.  At first 
he was certain it was the wind howling through the 
open windows in the attic above, but it had a 
different quality, one that raised the hairs on the 
back of his neck.  He heard it a second time and this 
time it was accompanied by a scraping sound, like 
one of the heavy chains being dragged across wood.

He was able to hone in on the sound the second 
time he heard it.  It was coming from the attic.  He 
stepped quickly over to the door that Miller had just 
locked.  He heard the sound again, much closer.

"Miller!" he yelled.  "Mr. Miller, I need the key to 
the attic!" Mulder called down, hoping the man 
hadn't stepped too far away to hear him.  "Miller, I 
need that key!" he shouted again and moved toward 
the stairs to hurry after the man.

He was right on the first step down when something 
hard hit him in the back of the head.  It stunned him, 
but he reached for his gun and turned back to look 
over his shoulder just in time to see a huge fist 
coming straight at him.  Then all was dark.

Act II scene 1

Evansville Regional Airport
Evansville, Indiana 
4:00 pm

Scully stood at the baggage claim area and fumed 
silently.  Once more she put her cell phone to her 
ear, pressing the send button twice.  There was no 
need to dial the number, she'd been calling the same 
number during the 45-minute layover she 
experienced in Detroit and for the 15 minutes since 
her Northwest Airlines commuter plane had touched 
down in Evansville.  When her partner's voice mail 
picked up, yet again, this time she decided to leave 
a message.

"Mulder.  I'm going to assume you are brave 
enough to listen to this after seeing the dozen or 
more missed calls coming from my number.  This is 
to inform you that you are now in deep shit for 
failing to pick me up at the airport.  I just wanted to 
make sure you realize that you are sleeping in a 
separate STATE tonight, not just a separate room.  
And furthermore, you better figure out where you're 
going to be sleeping for the next month, because it 
will NOT be our bedroom.  I think I saw an old 
army cot down in the coal cellar.  I'm sure you'll be 
quite comfortable down there."

Just as she angrily pushed the button to disconnect 
the call, her luggage appeared on the conveyor belt.  
"At least one thing seems to be going right today," 
she growled low as she grabbed the handle of the 
bag and lifted.  The sickening sound of a separating 
luggage zipper that had been on one too many X 
files hit her ears mere seconds before the contents 
of her bag spewed forth across the institutional grey 
tile floor of the concourse.

"Shit!" she cried out only too late realizing that she 
was in the midst of traveling families.  "Sorry," she 
muttered as more than one angry mother shot her a 
dirty look and covered their child's ears.  Hastily, 
she scooped the wayward clothing back into the 
bag, wrapping her arms around it to keep the 
contents inside.  With effort, she made her way to 
the nearby rental car agency and with a calm born 
only from years of working with Fox Mulder, she 
rented a car and obtained directions to Harrisburg, 
Illinois.

Once on the road, she glanced down at the phone 
resting next to her on the empty passenger seat.  
He'd turned it off.  No, better yet, he'd let it run 
down.  That had to be the answer.  Mulder had 
forgotten, as always, to recharge his battery and as a 
result, it was dead as a doornail, sitting in his pocket 
and he was none the wiser.  She knew there had to 
be a logical explanation, but she was getting rather 
sick of being the 'grown up' about their cell phones.  
If he wasn't losing the damned things, he was letting 
the batteries run down.  He'd tried to convince her 
that he did it just to save the life of the battery.  
After letting him have it with both barrels, he'd 
sheepishly swore it would never happen again.  
Until the next time, of course.

At least the sky was clear and the road was 
reasonably dry.  It had been raining when the plane 
touched down, but the storm had moved east and 
now it was bright sunshine with no clouds to the 
west.  After consulting the map, Scully realized it 
was all two-lane highway to her destination, another 
reason to give Mulder hell.  She hated driving 
country roads, more so when she was by herself.  
She had to watch carefully because it wasn't a 
straight route, but required road changes.  She didn't 
even have the comfort of knowing exactly where 
she was going to meet up with her partner.  Since he 
hadn't told her how to get to the mansion, she'd have 
to get the rest of the directions upon reaching 
Harrisburg, which she prayed was bigger than its 
tiny circle appeared on the map.

Harrisburg Jiffy Stop
6:05 pm

After making a quick stop at the ladies room, Scully 
went into the store and asked directions to the 
Crenshaw Mansion.  She was met with a dull stare.  

"Oh, you mean the old Slave House?" asked the 
'bright', young woman working her gum somewhat 
harder than she was working the keys to the cash 
register.

"Yes.  The Slave House.  I need directions," Scully 
replied tiredly.

"Well, just go out west of town and look for the 
sign for Equality.  Turn right and you'll see it at the 
top of the hill.  Or you could just look for all the 
police cars.  Should be a slew of 'em out there by 
now."

Something sour rose in her throat and her stomach 
did a slow roll.  "Police cars?" Scully queried.

"Yeah.  Musta had some trouble out there, though I 
sure don't know how.  But the sheriff was in here 
getting coffee when he got the call and a whole 
bunch of squad cars and a couple of state troopers 
went tearing up the road.  I heard 'em say 'old slave 
house', that's how I know'd where they went," she 
added with a proud smile.

Scully swallowed thickly and tamped down on the 
panic rising in her chest.  "Do you remember how 
long ago that was?"

"'Bout 3, maybe 3:15.  I know 'cause the middle 
school was lettin' out and all the kids were in here 
gettin' sodies."

"Thank you," Scully said and turned to leave.

"Wonder if they found Tom's body," the girl mused 
and Scully turned back.

"You know about the missing Forestry Employee?"

The girl nodded sadly.  "I'm Beckie's cousin.  
Beckie and Tom were engaged, but not a lot of 
folks 'round here now about it, lest not yet.  Beckie 
asked me to be a bridesmaid."  The girl sighed and 
shook her head.  "He was such a nice guy, too.  Sure 
is a shame."

Scully nodded in agreement and left the store for 
her car.  Maybe that was it, she thought.  Maybe 
Mulder hadn't picked her up because they found the 
body of the missing ranger.  That would explain it.  
He might have even turned his cell phone off in that 
case.  She'd almost convinced herself of that 
possibility when she finished the final leg of her 
journey and steered the car up the narrow gravel 
path to the large red house on the top of the hill.

The gravel parking lot looked like a convention -- 
or a crime scene.  Scully spotted two Illinois State 
Police cruisers, three squad cars from Saline County 
Sheriff's Department and two trucks from the US 
Forestry Service.  Off to one side sat a light blue 
late model Taurus with a Lariat Rental Cars bumper 
sticker.  She sighed heavily as she pulled her own 
rental next to her partner's.  

She got out of the car, searching for Mulder among 
the commotion of law enforcement officials.  A 
uniformed State Trooper approached her and she 
dug in her pocket for her identification.

"Agent Scully, I'm with the Bureau," she said before 
the officer had a chance to question her presence.  
"My partner is here somewhere."

The Trooper looked closely at her badge and ID and 
then frowned.  "What's your partner's name?" he 
asked.

"Fox Mulder.  He came out here before me.  I'm 
sure if you check . . ."

"Bob!  This is the partner you've been waiting for!" 
the officer called out in a loud voice.  An older man, 
wearing a forestry service uniform jacket turned and 
walked quickly over to them.

"Agent Scully," the man said offering his hand.  
"I'm Bob Miller, Forestry.  You're partner 
mentioned you were on your way."

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Miller.  Where is Agent 
Mulder?" Scully asked, noticing that the State 
Trooper hadn't hung around long after Miller had 
stepped over.

"Well, you see, that's the question," Miller said 
nervously, his eyes darting anywhere but to meet 
Scully's ice blue gaze.  "He, um, he . . ."

"Mr. Miller, is my partner here?" Scully asked 
again, realizing the man was struggling with the 
question, albeit a very simple one.

"He was.  He was right here.  I was right next to 
him.  And then, the next minute -- he was gone."

Scully frowned and worried a back tooth with her 
tongue.  "He left?"

"No, ma'am.  He didn't leave.  The front door never 
opened, that I could see.  He just . . . he wasn't there 
anymore!" the man stuttered out.  "Just like Tom."  
Miller took her arm and led her to the front porch of 
the house.  "I looked everywhere.  When I called 
and called and didn't get an answer, I thought 
maybe he went outside.  I searched around.  His 
car's still here, as you can see," he said, pointing to 
the rental next to hers.  "I found his overcoat and 
suit jacket with his gun, his cell phone and his ID at 
the top of the steps on the second floor.  Look like 
he'd been patted down, because I didn't find a 
holster.  That's when I got nervous.  I called the 
State Police and the Sheriff's department.  They've 
been out here going on three hours, looking.  We 
haven't found hide ner hair of him."

Scully looked down at her watch and realized it had 
only been 4 hours since she talked to him.  She 
closed her eyes.  She was afraid it was going to be a 
long night.

Act II scene 2

Crenshaw Mansion
8:30 pm

It was now fully dark and Scully was doing her best 
not to panic.  "We searched the crawl space, Agent 
Scully," the Sheriff's deputy informed her as he 
sidestepped a group of men coming out from under 
the house.  "No sign anyone's been down there for a 
long time," he said.

"Thank you, Deputy," Scully said with forced calm.  
They had been through the house several times 
already.  She had personally gone through every 
room, including the private quarters, at least twice.  
She found Mulder's footprints in the dust that 
covered the floor in one of the rooms, but it was 
obvious that he had left the way he'd come in.  It 
truly was as Bob Miller had told her:  her partner 
seemed to just disappear into thin air, without a 
trace.  But she couldn't believe it, couldn't drop into 
the despair that realization would bring.

Miller had left for home an hour ago.  He'd asked 
her if he should stay, but she could see no point.  
There were at least seven men combing the house 
and the small outbuilding in the back.  The Sheriff 
had already made plans to start searching the woods 
and fields surrounding the mansion.  Scully thanked 
Miller and promised to call if they found anything.  
With shoulders slumped and looking desolate and 
very tired, the man reluctantly left for the night to 
get some rest.

She'd already put in a call to Skinner.  He had gone 
through the database, searched for any escaped or 
paroled convicts who might have been in the 
vicinity.  He also put in the call to the regional 
office in Springfield.  Scully had hoped to get help 
not just from Springfield, but from St. Louis, which 
had a larger office, but since Mulder had only been 
missing a little over 12 hours, Skinner's hands were 
tied.

Scully leaned against the wall at the bottom of the 
steps on the first floor.  She watched as a deputy 
dusted the stair railing for prints.  It was a long shot, 
worse than a long shot.  It was a shot in the dark, 
but she knew the Sheriff was doing everything 
possible to treat this seriously.  She knew several of 
the men were thinking what her nagging little voice 
was telling her--Mulder wasn't here, he'd been taken 
from this place and their only hope was in finding 
tracks of some kind so they could redirect their 
efforts away from this house.

"We've got the teams set up, Agent Scully.  You 
said you wanted to come out with us," said a young 
man, another deputy that she couldn't place with a 
name.  

"Yes, thank you."  She nodded wearily and 
followed him out onto the porch.  She was just 
about to step off the top step when she heard it, 
plain as day.

"Scully!"

Her breath caught in her throat, she spun around and 
ran back into the house.  She heard it, she heard him 
call to her.  Frantically she looked into the first 
room, the one with a window overlooking the 
porch.  There was nothing there.  The deputy who 
had been dusting saw her actions and joined her.

"I heard him.  My partner.  I heard him.  Didn't you 
hear him?" she demanded.

"No ma'am," the young man said, a bewildered look 
on his face.  "Just now?"

"Yes, just now!  Right here, it sounded like -- no, it 
was more . . . it echoed more, like in the stairwell."  
She was chewing on her lip, trying to place the 
exact location Mulder would have been to call to 
her.  

She hurried out to the hall.  "Here, he would have . . 
."  She stopped.  The deputy was looking at her with 
wide eyes, obviously doubting her words, but 
anxious to help.  "You didn't hear it?" she asked 
again, forcing a calm she didn't want to feel.

He shook his head in the negative.  "I'm sorry, 
ma'am.  I was right here and I didn't hear a thing."

Mulder started to call out to Scully again, but the 
man holding his chains backhanded him, sending 
him crashing to the floor.  "No talking!" he was 
warned.  A yank on the iron collar around his neck 
cut off his airway for a few seconds, forcing his feet 
under him.  His vision grayed out for a moment, but 
when he was standing the pressure lessened and he 
could see again.  In the space of a heartbeat, Scully 
was gone.

What was going on? he mused silently for what 
seemed like the millionth time.  One minute he 
could see her plain as day, talking to some kid in a 
uniform.  The next minute, she vanished into thin 
air and the whole mansion took on a different 
quality.

"Rip in the time-space continuum?" he muttered, 
but it only caused his guard to yank on the collar at 
his throat again.  The iron was cutting into his skin 
at his throat and wrists.  He was shackled, throat, 
wrist and ankles.  If he tried to run, he'd likely fall 
flat on his face.  The guard yanked again, this time 
indicating that the prisoner was to move up the 
stairs.  This time he followed without making a 
sound.  

As they approach the attic, the smell hits Mulder.  
He can't remember anything that smelled that bad.  
Years ago he'd gone with his father to the animal 
pound and thought that was bad.  He'd been to 
crime scenes where the body had laid undetected for 
days in heat and humidity and knew that was bad.  
But this was worse, much worse.  Urine, sweat . . . 
and fear.  It assaulted his sinuses and made his eyes 
water.  They cleared the doorway and it was even 
more concentrated.  It took his breath away.

His handler yanked on the chain and Mulder 
stumbled toward the left.  As he moved into the 
room he could see them.  People, dozens of people.  
Most of them men, here or there he might catch 
sight of a teen-age boy.  All of them African-
American.  All of them chained as he was, tethered 
to the iron rings he'd seen earlier in the walls of the 
attic.

"This isn't possible," Mulder muttered.  "I'm 
dreaming this," he voiced aloud, trying desperately 
to wake up from this nightmare.

"Shaddup!" yelled his handler and yanked so hard 
on his chains that for a moment he thought his neck 
would break from the pulling.  "Over here."  They 
were standing directly in front of the second set of 
cells to the outside wall.  In the middle of that wall 
set one tiny window, the one that had let in such 
cold air earlier, was now the only source of light or 
fresh air and it barely made a dent.  Mulder looked 
to the window and prayed a breeze would come by 
and give him some air.  

"Top bunk, now!" yelled the handler, right in his 
ear, and Mulder scrambled as best as he could with 
his shackled legs to get up into the top bunk.  The 
handler reached over him and attached the chain to 
the ring in the wall.  Confident his prisoner was 
secured, the handler left without another word.

Mulder lay there for several minutes, too stunned to 
move.  Gradually, the pain in his neck and ankles 
from the chains forced him to move on to his back.  
It amused him that he'd been correct in his earlier 
assessment of the cells -- they weren't big enough to 
stretch out.  His knees were bent to almost double to 
accommodate him on his back, but at least the 
weight of the iron collar was less on his throat and 
he could breath easier.  He noticed that he was even 
becoming accustomed to the stench of the attic 
room.

"Hey," came a voice from below him.  "Hey, you 
were with Bob, weren't you?"  The voice was 
hoarse and raspy, Mulder could just barely make 
out the strained whisper.

Leaning over as far as he could, he could see the 
man in the bunk below him.  After a moment, he 
could make out the face, could see the clothing.  
The man was obviously Caucasian, he had sandy 
blond hair cut short.  Although his clothing was torn 
and filthy, Mulder could make out a US Forestry 
Service nametag sewn onto the shirt on the left 
shoulder.   "Are you Tom Coleman?" Mulder asked 
in a hushed voice.

The man nodded vigorously and then winced at the 
movement.  "Yeah, I'm Coleman.  You were with 
Bob Miller, my supervisor.  I saw you earlier."  He 
lay back after speaking, as if the effort was too 
much for him.

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked worriedly.  
"What happened to you?"

"Mouthed off and got whipped -- tried to call out to 
you but you couldn't hear me," Tom said in a tired 
whisper.  "My back's all cut up.  I think I got a fever 
to boot."

"Look, Tom, my name is Fox Mulder.  I'm a Special 
Agent with the FBI.  As soon as I can figure out 
what is going on here, I'm going to get us out."

Tom barked out a bitter laugh.  "We can't get out.  
Don't you see?  We're stuck here, in this hellhole, 
for all time.  Just like these poor bastards around 
us."

"I can't pretend to know I understand what's going 
on -- " Mulder started.

"We're gonna be sold acros't t' river," came a voice 
from the bunk above.  "You think you got it made 
when you cross that big water, but man comes and 
drags you back.  Tha's the way it always been."  
There was a pause.  "Lessen' you escape."

"What are you talking about?" Mulder asked.  He 
leaned his head up to look at the top bunk but 
couldn't see the other man's face because he was too 
far back against the wall.

"Run fer it.  What 'til the o'r'seer comes up here wit' 
the keys.  Tackle him and run fer it.  If we all go 
after him, we can take 'im down.  You with us?"

Mulder frowned.  "How?  How do you take him 
down?"

The hidden man chuckled.  "You got 'nuf chain to 
go 'round his throat, don' ya?  Choke 'im!  I'll whup 
him on t' head.  Young pup down dare can get his 
keys and we'd be free men!"

Mulder was quiet for a long while, contemplating 
the other man's words.  "What do you think?" Tom 
voice came from the gloom.

"I don't know," Mulder replied honestly.  

"Don't have much choice, do we?" Tom asked, the 
nervousness evident in his voice as much as the 
fatigue.

"Guess not," Mulder agreed reluctantly.  Louder, to 
the other man, Mulder hissed.  "We'll do it."

The other man chuckled.  "Jes' foller my lead," he 
said.

The light from the window dimmed with the 
passage of the sun.  Soon the attic took on the dark 
gloom of a cave.  There was a rattle at the door and 
the man who had dragged Mulder to his prison was 
back.  He went around the attic, lighting kerosene 
lamps attached to the walls.  For a dim second 
Mulder considered the fire hazard those lights 
entailed, but shoved the thought aside as he realized 
their plan was about to come to fruition.  Plan?  
What plan?  He could hear Scully's voice 
whispering in his ear but he shook his head to dispel 
the nagging sense of foreboding.

As he approached, Mulder had a chance to size up 
the 'overseer', as his bunkmate had called the man.  
The guard wasn't quite as tall as Mulder, but what 
he lacked in height he more than made up in bulk.  
He was easily 250 pounds and all of it looked to be 
muscle.  Mulder noticed that his neck was as thick 
as a tree trunk.  Not an easy target, to be sure.  
Mulder swallowed uneasily.  He had to think this 
through and come up with his part of the plan.

He hefted the chains as silently as he could.  The 
chains were heavy, each link was about two inches 
long and too strong for any man to pull apart.  He 
had about two feet of play between the cuffs around 
his wrist, with another length of chain sliding 
through a ring that tethered the collar at his neck all 
the way down to the cuffs at his ankles.  It wasn't 
going to be easy to get the chain around that thick 
neck, but it was possible.  All he needed was a 
distraction . . . and a whole lot of luck.

As the man made his rounds, Mulder noticed he was 
leaning over each prisoner, checking their shackles.  
It was the break he needed.  He waited silently as 
the man checked the occupants of the cell next to 
theirs.  Just a few more minutes . . .

The overseer was there.  He sauntered into the small 
opening of the cell, stopping only long enough to 
light the lamp near the window.  As he approached, 
Mulder's heartbeat sped up and his hands grew slick 
with sweat.  He kicked the bunk once to alert the 
other two men, but he was certain they were as 
ready as he was.  The overseer checked the man 
above him and when he was satisfied, he leaned in 
to check Mulder's chains.  

Fast as lightning, Mulder hands shot out and 
wrapped the chain around the behemoth's neck.  He 
crossed his arms to tighten the garrote.  He was so 
intent on his task he didn't hear the man in the bunk 
above yelling for all and sundry.

"Buck!  Buck!  He's tryin' to kill Mas'er Henry!  
Buck, come quick!"

Something fierce latched onto Mulder's arms and 
pulled them apart, almost ripping his shoulder out 
of its socket.  The overseer dropped to his knees, his 
hands clutching at his throat.  Before Mulder could 
figure out what was happening a huge fist smashed 
into his face, snapping his head back.  Before he 
succumbed to the darkness he heard a voice.

"Take 'im out back and whip the bastard till he ain't 
movin' no more!"

end of part one

Crenshaw Mansion part two

4:00 am

It was the darkest part of the night, just before 
dawn.  The stars were all the illumination in the sky, 
the moon set early.  However, the mansion was 
ablaze with light.  The Sheriff's Department had 
placed portable floodlights all over the parking area 
and throughout the house.  In addition, the 
electricity had been restored and all the rooms in the 
house were lit.  Every speck of dust, every cobweb 
in the attic was cast in stark relief.  If there were an 
injured agent, or even one just trying to hide in the 
house, someone would have seen it.

Scully's mind was reeling.  She stood on the front 
porch and looked out to the woods just beyond the 
parking lot.  Trees ran along both sides of the small 
creek, which she noted was past its banks from 
recent spring rains.  She couldn't imagine what 
would have provoked Mulder to run into the woods 
or the fields on all sides of this hilltop.  It made no 
sense for him to leave Miller and take off without 
consulting anyone.  Without waiting for her.

Not for the first time, her mind flashed images of 
other famous 'ditches' -- when she'd been left behind 
for supposedly noble reasons.  Arecibo, Dead 
Horse, the middle of the Sargasso Sea . . .  She'd 
lost track long ago of most of the smaller 
infractions.  But since they'd been together, since 
they'd spent almost every waking and sleeping hour 
in each other's presence he hadn't taken off on her.  
Well, not as often, and usually with some clue as to 
where he'd gone.  This time he'd just disappeared.  
She did remember, back in 2000, a case that 
brought them out to the shores of Lake Michigan 
and into the company of a murderous ghost.  Her 
mind flashed forward to their recent run-in with a 
ghostly presence; one that almost cost her life as 
well as Mulder's.

"No more damned ghost stories after this one, 
Mulder, and I mean it," she mumbled to herself in 
the cold night air.  "At least for a while," she 
amended, because as much as she would like to 
pretend they had any say in their cases, she knew 
that wasn't the truth of the matter.  Even though 
Skinner and the Bureau would allow them to turn 
down a case now and then, Mulder's innate curiosity 
always got the better of both of them.

She heard the car tires on gravel before she could 
see the car.  It came into the bright light of the 
parking lot and slowed, looking for a place to stop.  
A dark blue or black Ford Taurus, federal plates.  
She groaned inwardly -- the 'cavalry' had arrived 
from Springfield.  Skinner had made it clear that she 
needed help finding her partner, but he never 
seemed to process that more often than not the local 
field agents were less than helpful.  She sighed 
heavily and made her way down the steps to greet 
the two men at the picket fence gate.

Their whole demeanor screamed FBI.  The taller of 
the two was at least 6 foot 3, while his shorter 
counterpart still had Scully craning her neck.  As 
they approached stiff-necked and glowering, she 
could imagine them with dark sunglasses, even 
though it was the dark of night.

"Agents," Scully called, pulling out her own 
identification.  In tandem, the two men reached into 
identical pockets and produced their own ID 
wallets.  

"Peters," announced the taller of the two, a dark 
skinned and strikingly handsome man with an 
expression that would have melted a more timid 
person.  Or any unattached female in the vicinity.

"Jeffers," said the other man who was a polar 
opposite to his partner -- fair skinned, blonde, surfer 
good looks.  They could be bookends, Scully 
thought to herself.  

"Dana Scully," she introduced herself, making use 
of her first name as well as her last.  Out of courtesy 
she extended her hand to Peters who merely raised 
his eyebrow.

"Yeah.  We know.  So, what's ol' Spook gotten 
himself into this time?" Peters asked and Jeffers 
snickered at the joke.

Scully quickly schooled her expression.  She took 
an immediate dislike to both men, but they weren't 
just flesh and blood to her at that point.  They were 
all the Bureau resources and she was alone in a 
remote part of the country.  As much as it irked her, 
she needed them more than they needed her.

"Agent Mulder was called out to investigate the 
disappearance of a United States Forestry 
employee," she said evenly.

"Look, Scully, we got the fax from AD Skinner.  
What we need are the details.  What did Spooky 
step in?  Have you two pissed off anyone who 
might have nabbed him?  Did you two have a fight 
and now he's shacked up with a local waitress?  
What the hell are we doing standing on a 
goddamned hill top in the middle of goddamned 
nowhere southern Illinois at not even five o'clock in 
the goddamned morning?"

"Agent Scully," called one of the uniformed state 
troopers from around the side of the house.  
"There's somethin' you oughta look at back here."

Flashlight beams danced as she and the trooper ran 
back around the house, the two agents close on their 
heels.  When the trooper stopped it was at a post 
sticking out of the ground about 5 feet tall with a 
iron hoop about a half foot from the top connected 
to the post with a thick screw.  The trooper shone 
his light near the bottom of the post.

Scully tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and 
stared at the circle of light as it struck the wooden 
post.  "I don't -- "

"There," the trooper said, bending down and 
pointing a finger at a fine line of liquid running 
down the grain of the wood.  "It's wet."

Scully looked up at him wide-eyed and pulled a 
latex glove out of her pocket.  In a few seconds, she 
was running one gloved finger down the wood and 
brought it forward into the light of her flashlight to 
examine it.  "It's blood," she declared evenly.  
"Take samples, I want this run against Agent 
Mulder's blood type.  It's on file with the Bureau in 
DC."

"But this is fresh, it can't be over a couple of hours 
old," Jeffers pointed out.  "How did he get out here 
without anybody seeing him?"

"There've been troopers and county people out and 
about this yard all night.  No one's been out here 
that we didn't know about," the trooper interjected.

At that moment, Scully heard it.  At first she 
thought it was the wind howling through the 
branches of the tree just thirty or so yards from 
where they were standing.  Then, when she heard it 
again, she realized it was coming from the house.

The third time she heard it, her blood ran cold.  She 
knew that moan.  She'd heard in times of extreme 
pain and in the heights of passion.  It could only 
belong to her partner.

"Mulder!" she whispered and then shouted it loudly.  
"Mulder!"  Leaving the three men in her dust, she 
ran toward the house and the door that came off the 
small addition to the private residence.

"Agent Scully, that door's locked," the trooper 
called out.  

Realizing her mistake, Scully turned on her heel and 
ran for the front of the house.  She made it long 
before the other men, even given the difference in 
length of strides.  She bounded up the steps and into 
the house without a glance back to see if anyone 
followed.

Shoving deputies out of her way, she continued up 
the steps to the second floor.  In the hallway, she 
stopped, tried to calm her breathing and the 
pounding of her heart.  She strained her ears to hear 
the sound, the moan, again.  Nothing.

"Mulder?" she called hesitantly, hopefully.  
"Mulder, where are you?  Mulder, if you can hear 
me, answer me.  Anything, a grunt.  Just tell me 
which way to go," she demanded.  She waited 
again.  Silence echoed back to her.

The tears caught her by surprise.  Angrily, she 
swiped at her eyes and turned her back on the two 
agents and the trooper who had finally made it to 
the second floor.  When she got control of her 
emotions, she turned to face them.  

"What did you hear?" asked Jeffers, who gently 
took her elbow and steered her toward the steps 
leading to the attic.  At first she refused to sit, but it 
seemed that all the fight was leaving her and in the 
wake of its departure she felt completely drained of 
life.

"I heard him," she said in a voice just above a 
whisper.  "I heard him.  He was here.  I don't know 
where he is now, but he was here."  She sat there a 
moment, chewing on her bottom lip.  Suddenly, she 
sprang to her feet.  "A tunnel.  There has to be a 
tunnel somewhere, under the house.  That's where 
he is, it's where he has to be!"

Mulder was in so much agony, he kept his eyes 
clamped tight as the overseer dragged him up the 
stairs of the house by the shackles on his wrists.  
The open cuts on his back flared with white hot fire 
with each bump and bounce as he hit the steps one 
by one.  At the top of the stairs, his hip hit the edge 
of a baluster and his eyes flew open in pain and 
surprise.  

There, in the dim light that comes just with the 
dawn, he saw her.  Scully.  She was saying 
something but he couldn't hear her voice.  Her 
image wavered in the air, like a mirage.  He wanted 
to call out to her, to warn her, to call out to her to 
get help, but he was being dragged up the final set 
of stairs to the prison on the third floor.  When he 
blinked the tears from his eyes, she was gone.

An eternity later, he was thrown in the little closet 
that was their cell.  Tom was lying on his side on 
the bottom bunk, staring into space.  Mulder 
crawled into the second bunk and stifled a cry as his 
back hit the hard wood.

"Tom," Mulder whispered after he found a position 
that didn't bring tears to his eyes.  "Tom.  I think I 
saw my partner.  I think I saw Scully."

The other man made no response for several 
minutes.  Finally, he drew in a deep breath.  
"Hallucination.  Or trickery.  We're in Hell, haven't 
you figured that out yet?"

"This ain't Hell," came a voice from the next cell.  
"Ain't done nuthin' to deserve gonna ta Hell."

"No, it wasn't a hallucination," Mulder gritted out, 
ignoring their companion.  "I saw her.  I know she's 
here.  She's looking for us."

"Thought I heard Beckie once.  It's just the mind, 
playin' tricks on you," Tom bit back angrily.

"She was all shimmering.  It was like she was there, 
but not really there.  Maybe it was a mirage," 
Mulder said with a heavy sigh.  "But I felt her.  I 
know Scully was there.  She was calling my name 
but I couldn't hear her voice."

"It's the pain.  Does things to the head," the man in 
the next cell said.

"What if -- what if we're here and she's here but 
we're in two different planes of existence?" Mulder 
mused aloud.

"Different -- what?  What kinda nonsense is that?" 
Tom demanded, stopping to cough.  "We're here but 
we're not?  You hit your head on the way up them 
steps, Agent Mulder?"

"No, listen, when I came into this house Miller and 
I checked the attic.  There was nothing up here -- no 
chains, definitely no men.  Now the place is full of 
people.  How is that?"

"We aren't in the same place," Tom answered.

"No!  We're not in the same 'time'!" Mulder replied 
quickly.  "We just have to figure out how to get 
back to our time."

Tom coughed again, this time the sound was wet 
and wheezing.  "Well, when you figure that out, you 
let me know," he said derisively.  

Act III scene 1

She had the bearing of a woman of wealth and 
power.  Mulder caught sight of her as he curled in a 
corner of his bunk, trying to keep his aching back 
from touching the unforgiving wood surface.  She 
stepped around the attic room as if she didn't notice 
the squalor or the stench.  When the man they'd 
called 'Buck' moved toward her, the smile on her 
face lit the dark corners of the room.  She put her 
arms around his neck and kissed him fervently.  
Mulder closed his eyes, thoughts of Scully in his 
arms warring with the image of a woman in silk and 
hoop skirts embracing a man barely clothed in 
tattered garments.

His eyes were still closed when he heard the two 
approach.  He feigned sleep.  It wasn't hard to do, 
his back was screaming but his body was so tired he 
probably would have fallen asleep standing up.  On 
reflection, that was most likely the only position he 
would be able to sleep.  Every time his back hit the 
wood, he was jolted from what little peace his 
slumber could give him.

They were whispering.  Part of him wanted to listen 
closely to what they were saying.  Part of him 
wanted the entire experience, hell, the whole trip 
out to Illinois to be a very bad nightmare so he 
could wake up in Scully's arms and have her tell 
him he was going in late in the morning because she 
wanted him to get a little more sleep.  

He decided to ignore the intruders until they moved 
closer into the cell.  He cracked an eye open just a 
slit and watched Buck nudge Tom with his foot.  
The younger man groaned in pain.  It relieved 
Mulder that Tom was responding at all, he'd begun 
to wonder if the engineer was unconscious.

"They're white," the woman commented, as if 
noting that there might be rain later in the day.  
Buck grunted in agreement.  She looked up at the 
tall man with a coy smile.  "Come, we don't have 
much time," she purred and took Buck by the arm, 
leading him to the far end of the attic.  

When they were far enough out of earshot, Mulder 
leaned over to check on Tom.  He found the young 
man's eyes open, staring into space.  He had to get 
him talking.  

"Who was that?" Mulder asked in a hoarse whisper.

"Mrs. Crenshaw," Tom replied with a tired smirk.  
"She and Buck -- well, let's just say Buck has lots of 
duties around here, some of them nicer than others."

"Mrs. Crenshaw?" Mulder repeated.  "As in -- "

"Crenshaw's wife.  Her family had money and lost it 
in some land  deal.  She thought she was gonna 
marry into society because Crenshaw was up and 
coming.  He built this place for her.  Guess this 
wasn't the exciting life she'd hoped for," Tom said 
with a faint twinkle in his eyes before turning 
serious.  "Be careful around her.  I've seen her get 
more than one man whipped for just lookin' at her.  
And if Buck gets to do the job -- those men never 
came back."

"So Buck -- "

"Buck is an overseer, just like Harold.  Crenshaw 
doesn't have him on the same payroll," Tom tried to 
explain.

"How did you find out all of this?" Mulder asked.

"Been listenin' to some of the talk up here.  Plus, I 
grew up in these parts.  Crenshaws have been a 
topic of gossip since they moved here.  The fact 
they were dead didn't make them any less interestin' 
to the most of us."

Mulder dozed for a while, he had no idea how much 
time had passed.  He heard footsteps and looked out 
to see Mrs. Crenshaw coming back to ward them, 
straightening her skirt and adjusting it in the 
reflection of the windowpane.  She walked over to 
their cell and peered in at Tom on the bottom bunk.  
She put her hand out, touching the young man and 
flinched when she made contact.  "He's feverish," 
she said over her shoulder to Buck, who was 
standing right behind her.  "How long have they 
been here?"

"That one, two nights.  This one just got here."

She turned to speak directly to Buck, disregarding 
Mulder, who was staring right at her.  "They can't 
stay here," she said firmly.

"We could dump the bodies in the woods," Buck 
offered.

She shook her head.  "No, it would just lead to more 
questions.  Two white men, whipped, dead.  There 
would be an investigation of some sort.  There's 
enough suspicion in town as it is.  Besides, our 
guest will be arriving soon.  Finding them here 
would be an embarrassment to Mr. Crenshaw.  We 
have to do something quickly."

"What do you want me to do?" Buck asked.  She 
started to answer, cast a glance down at Mulder and 
then moved Buck away.  Mulder could hear them 
murmuring, but couldn't make out any words.

Act III scene 2

Mulder had drifted off to sleep, so he was startled 
when a hand landed on his shoulder.  In the dim 
light of the cell he could make out the huge dark 
form looming over him.  A second large hand came 
down over his mouth and he struggled for a moment 
before the hand covered his nose and he was forced 
to be still.

"Quiet," ordered a voice in the darkness.  "Be 
quiet."

Mulder nodded silently and the pressure on his 
mouth and nose lessened.  He watched in silence as 
the large form moved into a slant of light from a far 
lantern and he could see its face.  Buck.

"What -- "

"Silence, damn it," Buck hissed.  He reached into 
his pocket and Mulder watched in amazement as the 
larger man produced a set of skeleton keys and 
deftly unlocked the shackles around Mulder's throat, 
wrists and ankles.  In a few seconds, he'd 
accomplished the same feat for Tom.  Tom, unlike 
Mulder, was now totally unresponsive.

"You have to carry him," Buck directed, jerking his 
head down to the bottom bunk and Tom's still mass.

"Is he dead?" Mulder breathed.  It was taking him 
some time to crawl down from his bunk, his back 
was aching and his legs where wobbly.

"No.  He's alive.  You have to get out of here."

Mulder pulled Tom into a sitting position and 
hoisted the other man's arm across his shoulders.  
Pain licked up his back as the action pulled torn 
flesh, but that didn't deter him.  A tiny voice in his 
mind that sounded almost like Scully cautioned him 
and he stopped.  

"Wait.  Why are you doing this?  Is this a trap?  Are 
you going to kill us for trying to escape?"

Buck looked at him sourly.  "Mas'er Harold's down 
in the main house, play acting as a servant.  The 
Missus wants you gone.  If you were found up here, 
there'd be Hell to pay.  Nobody minds what happens 
to one of us, but if they found out about you -- "

"Servant?  Why, what's happening?"

"Someone's coming.  Even Crenshaw has 
overseers," Buck snorted at his own joke.

Tom started to rouse and moan.  Buck clamped a 
hand over his mouth.  "Keep him quiet, or I will 
have to kill him," he warned Mulder.  The agent 
nodded mutely and struggled with Tom's weight a 
moment before following Buck to the window.

"How are we supposed to get down?" Mulder asked 
when Buck came to an abrupt stop.  The agent 
looked out the window and down, then faced Buck, 
who was smiling.

"You can't expect us to jump!  The fall would kill 
us!" Mulder sneered.

"You dumb bastard," Buck said with the shake of 
his head.  "That drainpipe has carried twice your 
skinny asses.  Just grab hold and shimmy down."  
To demonstrate his point, Buck leaned out the 
window, took hold of the guttering and proceeded 
to climb down as if it were a tall tree.

Mulder gapped at the man's head as it got farther 
and farther away down the pipe.  When Buck hit the 
ground and waved up to him, he had no choice.

"Scully, you're missing another display of my 
youthful agility," he muttered as he hoisted Tom 
onto his shoulder.  He would have to take the 
younger man in a fireman's carry and even then it 
would be a dangerous feat.  "Tom, I'm really glad 
you're a health nut," Mulder told the unconscious 
engineer.  "Otherwise, this journey would be all 
over before we even got started."

It was a tight squeeze getting out of the window, but 
they managed.  Mulder was surprised to find the sill 
provided a decent foothold as he reached for the 
drainpipe.  He was pleasantly amazed to note that 
the gutter pipe was made of cast iron and very 
sturdy.  That didn't make climbing with 160 pounds 
of dead weight any easier, but at least he didn't have 
the worry that the pipe would collapse as they 
crawled down. 

When he got to the second floor, he realized their 
proximity to the open window.  He could see, in the 
corner of his eyes serving girls coming and going 
out of one of the rooms.  He saw Crenshaw's wife, 
dressed in a beautiful green gown, enter the hallway 
and start for the stairs.  For a second, she turned and 
glanced out the window.  She met Mulder's eyes 
and smiled.  She turned and descended down the 
stairs without saying a word.

Buck was on the ground shooting Mulder glares 
when the agent faltered and almost dropped Tom.  
The engineer's body seemed to grow heavier with 
each step, but Mulder doubled his efforts.

If felt like an eternity to Mulder before they finally 
reached the ground.  Mulder's back was bleeding 
again; he could feel the sticky wetness and felt the 
pull as it clung to his shirt.  Adrenaline was keeping 
the pain at bay.  Carefully he lowered Tom to his 
feet and leaned him against the pipe.  Buck grabbed 
Mulder's arm and shoved him against the clapboard 
of the house.  "Stay here," he hissed and melted into 
the darkness around the corner of the structure.

"Tom?  Tom, can you hear me?" Mulder asked, 
trying to rouse his companion.

The young man's eyes flittered open.  When he 
realized he was standing, or rather leaning, and felt 
the cool air on his face, he searched around for 
Mulder.

"Where are we?" he asked in a hoarse rasp.

"We're outside the house.  We're going to get out of 
here.  My car was parked out front.  If we can just 
get out that way -- "

Buck's sudden appearance from around the corner 
stopped further conversation.  "You go straight to 
the woods, down there," the big man growled, 
pointing to the woods to the south of the house.  
"Don't go near the front of the house.  People's 
comin' -- there are carriages up there.  If you don't 
wanna be caught again, go that way."

"Why are you helping us?" Mulder asked again, still 
harboring suspicions that they were being lured into 
a trap.

"Missus and me, we don't want no trouble.  Not for 
old Crenshaw and not for us.  Understand?"  He 
towered over Mulder, a menacing look to his eyes.

"Understood," Mulder said with a nod.  "What 
about water?"

"Plenty in that stream you have to cross," Buck said 
with the hint of a chuckle.  "You'll have all the 
water you could ask for in just a few minutes.  Now, 
hightail afore I change my mind and just kill ya for 
the fun of it!" 

Over in the east, the deep purple was just beginning 
to give way to a lighter blue.  Mulder knew they 
didn't have much time to make the woods before 
someone would be up and would notice their 
escape.  Hoisting Tom on his shoulder again, he 
started around the house and down the gentle slope 
to the stand of trees.

Horses hoofs on the dirt path to the house caused 
him to press against the clapboard.  The sound of 
carriage wheels, groaning under their burden 
seemed horribly close to Mulder's ear.  Cautiously, 
he lowered Tom to the ground so he could creep 
along the building and see if they might be detected.

Torches were lit at the front of the mansion, lighting 
the circular drive up to the house.  Two horsemen 
and a carriage had just pulled up directly in front of 
the stone sidewalk that led to the front porch.  
Mulder saw a big bulk of a man, easily near six feet 
and more than 200 pounds, standing at the gate at 
the end of the sidewalk.  As the driver to the 
carriage jumped down and opened the small leather 
door, the man at the gate almost danced with 
excitement.  

It took a moment for the occupant of the carriage to 
exit and Mulder's position was such that the 
carriage door blocked most of his view.  Finally, the 
occupant stepped forward, adjusting a tall 
'stovepipe' hat before extending his hand toward the 
man at the gate.  In the profile cast by the torches, 
Mulder got a picture of the occupant of the carriage 
worthy of the front page for any newspaper in the 
country.

It was the 16th President of the United States.  
Abraham Lincoln had come to visit the Crenshaw 
Mansion.

"Mr. Lincoln, I trust the ride down from Springfield 
wasn't too difficult," spoke the jovial man at the 
gate.

"It will be a far sight easier when we get the 
railroads completed, Mr. Crenshaw.  A far sight 
easier," said Lincoln.  Now that they stood together, 
Mulder could see that Lincoln was much taller than 
Crenshaw, taller than any other man standing near 
him.

"Well, let's get inside and I'll take you to your room.  
You can rest and then we'll have some breakfast.  
I've taken the liberty of contacting some of the other 
businessmen in the area in regards to your 
campaign.  They're very excited about . . ."  The rest 
of Crenshaw's words were lost as the men, Lincoln, 
Crenshaw, the riders and the driver all entered the 
house.

Mulder leaned against the clapboard, trying to 
process what he'd just seen.  He remembered Bob 
Miller telling him that Lincoln was supposed to 
have visited Crenshaw, but to have the man who 
was credited with freeing the slaves right under the 
same roof as a slave trader was almost too extreme 
a possibility!  

He waited until he was sure that all the men were 
inside the house before he went to Tom.  The 
younger man was coming around, obviously in 
pain.  Mulder put his hand over Tom's mouth to 
keep him from moaning too loud and alerting the 
occupants of the mansion.  Finally the agent slung 
the engineer's arm over his shoulder and the two 
started the trek to the trees and hopefully, freedom.

They hadn't gone far when Mulder's ears picked up 
on something coming from the direction of the 
house.  He stopped for a moment, almost causing 
Tom to slip from his grasp.  The jarring was enough 
to snap the younger man into full consciousness.

"What is it?" Tom asked.

"I thought . . . " Mulder was silent until he heard it 
again, confirming his worst fears.  He looked over 
at the engineer, realizing that his companion had 
heard it too.

"Dogs," they said in unison.

Panic swept across both men's faces.  Mulder 
looked around frantically, trying to find a good 
hiding place or even an easier way to get through 
the trees.  Tom tugged on his hand and pointed 
toward the water.

"The creek.  We'll walk the creek bed.  Hopefully 
they'll lose the scent."

Mulder nodded immediately and headed off toward 
the creek.

Act III scene 2
Crenshaw Mansion
5:04 am

Scully stood on the top step of the porch and looked 
out into the darkness.  Off to the east, she could see 
the deep purple letting go to the lighter blue of the 
morning sky.  One star shone brightly on the 
horizon and she offered up a prayer for her partner.  
She was about to go back into the house when she 
heard another set of tires on the gravel drive.

Two minivans with Sheriff's Department markings 
pulled into the parking area.  Quickly, the drivers of 
each van jumped out and released the occupants of 
the back cargo areas.  Four tan bloodhounds, tails 
wagging and tongues lapping, tumbled over each 
other in their excitement to get on with the chase.  

Scully felt a hand on her elbow and looked up into 
the kind eyes of the local Sheriff.  "We tried this 
when Tom first disappeared, but the trail had gone 
cold.  It's the best we can do until the State Police 
can get a helicopter up at full light to search the 
fields."

She nodded, but could tell even the Sheriff thought 
it was a futile attempt.  "Do you need anything?" 
she asked.

"If you have some item of clothing, maybe 
something in his rental car?"

"If one of your men doesn't mind popping the lock 
on the trunk, I'm sure I can find something," she 
said, walking to the abandoned car with the Lariat 
sticker at the far end of the parking lot.

In minutes she had rummaged through Mulder's 
bag, the bag she'd helped him pack just two nights 
before, and found his Hoya's sweatshirt with the cut 
off sleeves.  She'd often threatened to turn it into a 
dust cloth because it never seemed to lose the smell 
of sweat, even after repeated launderings.  He'd 
always managed to dig it out of the wash and hide it 
before she had a chance to find her scissors.  She 
caressed the natted fleece for the briefest of 
moments and then handed the shirt to the Sheriff.

"This should work," he said and smiled in 
encouragement.  "We still have the ball cap Beckie 
gave us that Tom wore, so that's all we need."  He 
turned to go over to the dogs and their handlers, but 
turned back.  "Did I hear you talking to your boss in 
DC?"

Scully was chewing on her lip, deep in thought, but 
his question got her attention.  "Yes.  He got a call 
through to the Director.  The St. Louis office will be 
sending a team out this morning.  They should be 
here around 10."

The Sheriff smiled.  "We haven't had this big of a 
posse since Jesse James used Cave-in-Rock for a 
hideout one winter," he smiled.  "We'll find 'em, 
Agent Scully.  Don't you fret."

All she could do was nod and plaster on a hopeful 
expression.  It made her face feel like it was cast in 
cement.

It was painful to stand and wait, but Skinner had 
instructed her to be available to the St. Louis agents 
when they arrived.  She watched the dogs and their 
four handlers canvass the grounds of the mansion 
and then saw them perk up the ears and head in the 
direction of the creek several yards from the house.  
She pulled in a deep breath and watched them, 
sending up another silent prayer.

9:54 am

She'd sat on the top step of the porch steps and 
dozed for a few moments.  The tires on the gravel 
startled her awake.  The cavalry, such as it was, had 
arrived.  Four men wearing FBI jackets emerged 
from the Crown Vic and headed toward her.  One 
broke ranks and headed straight for her.  She did a 
quick double take and stood up as recognition hit.

"Marty?  Marty Neil?" she said, first in a whisper 
and then louder.  "Marty?"

The man was standing directly in front of her, a big 
grin on his face.  Glancing over his shoulder before 
turning back to her, he gave her a wink and offered 
his hand before pulling her into a quick hug.  
"Dana.  Been a long time."

"Marty, I thought you were in New York, foreign 
counter terrorism.  Of course that was years ago."

"Nine-eleven shake up.  It was decided that the 
Midwest needed some expertise in that area, too.  
Been in St. Louis almost four years.  I'm regional 
SAC," he said, a proud smile on his face.  "And 
you.  You're still with . . . Mulder?"  She could tell 
he was about to call her partner by his nickname, 
but thought better of it.  "You two have been 
partners -- how long now?  Some kind of Bureau 
record, isn't it?"

Scully dipped her head, allowing her hair to hide 
her face for a second.  "Twelve years now," she 
said, lifting her chin and meeting his challenge.

"That's, uh, that's great.  I heard about some of the 
work you've done."

"Good reports, I hope," she shot back.

"Oh, yeah, definitely.  Well, mostly.  Say, I got the 
file from DC, but maybe you could fill us in a little 
better?  I brought Starbucks in a thermos.  You still 
drink latte, right?"

Somewhere in southern Illinois
10:14 am

For a while, the cold water of the creek rejuvenated 
both men.  As the day drew on and the air grew hot 
and humid, their strength began to sap.  Mulder was 
now almost carrying Tom and he wasn't in much 
better shape himself. 

"We have to rest a minute," he told the younger 
man.  "Do you hear them?" 

"Nah, I think we lost 'em.  Look, if we follow this 
creek for just a little more, the Cache River that 
runs past here.  We can follow that further south."

The two stumbled up the creek bed to dry land, 
falling to their knees.  Mulder's legs were wobbly 
from running and dodging the rocks at the bottom 
of the stream.  They were in a few trees, but just 
beyond a couple of cottonwoods, the day was 
heating up and the field of foot high corn near them 
already seemed to shimmer in the heat, waving in 
the gentle breeze.  

Mulder pulled off his shirt and tore it into strips.  
Dipping one in the creek, he wiped his own face 
and then wet another and handed it to Tom to do the 
same.

"Where are we going, Tom?" Mulder asked, 
concerned that they were just running but had no 
plan.  They still had to figure out how to get back to 
their own time.  He had to find a way back to 
Scully.

"There's some rock formations just a few miles 
from here.  Lots of caves, rocky land.  We can hide 
there while we figure out how to get into town," 
answered the engineer.

"Tom, town may not be like it was a few days ago.  
Town might be like the house, 170 years ago," 
Mulder cautioned softly.

"Look, all's I know is Beckie can find me if we get 
someplace with a phone."

"That's just what I'm saying, Tom.  Back at the 
house, they didn't have phones back then."

That seemed to only anger the young man.  "You 
got a better idea?"

Mulder stared out into the cornfield.  It didn't look 
any different than cornfields he'd seen on any of his 
several visits to this part of the country.  But had 
farming really changed that much in 170 years?  
Without an obvious piece of evidence, say a John 
Deere tractor plowing a field or an SUV parked in a 
farmhouse driveway, how would you know what 
century you were in down here in the deep rural 
Midwest?  It all looked ageless. 

"How far did you say these caves were?"

Tom smiled.  "Rest up.  Just a couple of miles, but 
the last couple will take a bit of climbin'."

Crenshaw Mansion
1:15 pm

The Sheriff's Department had sent out lunches, bags 
of burgers and fries from McDonald's, but Scully 
hadn't touched hers.  She'd managed to down half a 
cup of latte, but eventually left the cup somewhere 
and couldn't remember where she'd put it.  

The private residence had been opened up and now 
served as the command post.  The kitchen island 
held topographical maps of the area, pictures of 
both Tom and Mulder were taped to the doors of the 
cabinets.  Scully stood in the living room area, away 
from the bustle of agents and local law 
enforcement, feeling adrift and totally useless.  The 
Sheriff's walkie-talkie squawked to life but she only 
marginally listened.  So far, all reports from the 
field had been negative.

"That's great!  Give me your coordinates again; 
we'll be out there fast as we can.  No, just leave one 
man behind, you others go on ahead.  This might be 
the lead we're lookin' for."

The Sheriff's words grabbed her attention and she 
was next to the man in a flash.  "They found 
something," she said breathless.

"A neck tie.  The tag said it was some shop in 
Georgetown."

"Mulder," Scully whispered.  "I'm going with you."

"I figured you would.  We'll take my Jeep.  It's got 
four-wheel drive."

They took mostly back roads and Scully was 
amazed at the switchback curves and deep hills and 
valleys.  Illinois had never seemed to have much 
landscaping; certainly not up near Tuscola where 
they'd encountered a phantom panther just a few 
months back.  Here the landscape almost resembled 
the foothills of the Appalachians that she knew in 
Maryland and Virginia.

When they went off road, she was very happy to 
have the four-wheel drive and even happier to leave 
the driving to the Sheriff.  He plowed along farm 
paths and finally came to a creek where she spotted 
one of his men.

"I gave Brutus to John, figured they'd need him on 
the trail," the deputy told the Sheriff to explain his 
missing bloodhound.  "Here's the tie."  He held the 
scrap of silk out to the Sheriff, but Scully's hand 
snatched it from him.

"It's Mulder's.  He was wearing it the last time I saw 
him."

The Sheriff looked around.  "We're a good nine 
miles from the house.  If that blood can account for 
anything -- "  He gave Scully a furtive glance and 
didn't finish the thought.  

"How did he get this far, injured?" Scully said 
quietly.  "And is he alone?"

"We found some footprints over there.  Looks like 
he was following the creek, like you thought, 
Sheriff."  The deputy directed them to a fallen log 
just on the edge of the creek.  "There're two sets of 
prints.  Those are work boots one of 'em's wearing.  
The other set appears to be leather, no tread to 
speak of."

"The leather shoes are Mulder's.  He had on his 
wingtips.  But I don't know about the work boots," 
Scully mused.

"Could that be who took him?" the Sheriff asked.  
"But we didn't find any of those prints back at the 
house."

"Wouldn't Tom Coleman wear boots like those?" 
Scully asked.  "And look at the imprints.  They're 
both struggling, but the work boots are fainter 
impressions and dragging the toes.  Either the 
person is very light -- "

"Or your partner is helping him along." 

The Sheriff and Scully exchanged worried looks.  
"We best get moving.  We might be able to catch up 
to the dogs now," the Sheriff said.  The deputy 
hopped in the back of the Jeep and they were off.

Act III scene 3
Gallatin County, Illinois
4:30 pm

Mulder had been so concentrated on the path before 
him that he hadn't had time to look around at the 
spectacular scenery surrounding them.  Tom was as 
good as his word, knowing where trails were that 
led them over hill, dale and skirted large rock 
formations.  Their path left Mulder almost dizzy but 
finally, just as Tom's energy seemed at its lowest 
point, they topped a crest and saw the cave.

When Mulder thought of 'cave' he assumed it was a 
hole in the side of a hill or mountain, like he'd 
found in Tennessee, home of the gigantic man-
eating mushroom.  But these caves were really 
indentations under huge granite boulders, little more 
than low roofed shelters.  It took some time to 
scramble down the hill to the nearest cave, but after 
several missteps and an almost twisted ankle, they 
arrived at their destination.

"This is it, this is as far as I go," Tom gasped as he 
slid out from under Mulder's arm and to the rock 
floor.  

"I'll see about getting us some water," Mulder said 
tiredly.  There was a trickle of water coming from a 
crack in the ceiling of their cave and he made for it.  
Once there he'd cupped handfuls of the precious 
commodity into his mouth to quench his own thirst, 
he realized he really didn't have much to carry any 
water back.  He quickly soaked a corner of his 
tattered shirt to take back to Tom.  

Tom wasn't conscious when Mulder checked on 
him.  The agent shook his head in frustration and 
then looked around.  It was getting close to evening 
and a cool wind had blown in.  The day had been 
hot, but the night could be a problem and they had 
nothing to keep them warm.  He thought briefly 
about starting a fire, but was concerned that the 
wood smoke might alert their pursuers to their 
whereabouts.  They weren't much better off here 
than they had been walking, except they had some 
time to rest.

He was so tired.  He hadn't slept at all the night 
before and between the journey and carrying Tom, 
his back felt on fire.  He sat down next to where the 
young engineer was sprawled on a rock.  When his 
back hit the cool, rough surface of the cave wall 
Mulder winced, but gradually accepted the small 
amount of comfort it afforded.  Maybe if he just 
closed his eyes for a moment he could collect his 
thoughts.

The sun was further behind the hills when he 
awoke.  Something he'd heard had jarred his senses 
and brought him out of a deep slumber.  He looked 
over at Tom, putting a hand to the young man's 
forehead.  Fever radiated off the engineer's pale 
skin.  Mulder bit his lip and thought about getting 
more water just to try and cool Tom down a bit.  
But then the sound that woke him came again.  
Barking -- off in the distance but coming closer.

Mulder had to do something!  They were going to 
be found.  Searching the ledge cave for any fissure 
big enough to hold both of them, he found only a 
few boulders at the far end of the indent.  Maybe he 
could hide Tom and lead the dogs away from the 
sick and injured man.  It was all he could think of 
on such short notice.

It took almost all his strength to pull Tom's 
senseless body over behind the rocks.  He hoped it 
was enough cover.  He walked out of the cave and 
listened again.  It was hard to judge exactly which 
direction the dogs were coming, the hills and rock 
formations made for natural echo chambers.  The 
deep shadows from the setting sun made it even 
more difficult to decide on a direction to run.  He 
saw a rise with a huge oval shaped boulder just a 
few hundred yards away from the cave and sprinted 
off toward it.

The dogs were close now.  He could almost hear 
their panting in between the howls and the barking.  
He imagined he could hear their paws clawing at 
the rocks for purchase.  He made it to the boulder 
and was looking back, trying to see if he could spot 
the dogs.  His foot caught on a tree root and he went 
head over heels, but instead of hitting forest floor, 
he kept falling, tumbling over and over until all was 
darkness.

Ferne Clyffe State Park
Just outside Goreville, Illinois
6:00 pm

As they cleared the ridge, Scully was scrambling to 
keep up with the dogs and their handlers.  All four 
animals were brown and black balls of pure energy, 
excited by the strength of the scent and the end of 
their hunt.  Anxiety was high among the humans.  
Scully had been calling her partner's name as she 
climbed down the rocks, but the wind kept stealing 
it away.

The dogs stopped under a ledge and sniffed.  One 
grabbed something in its mouth and the handler 
took it gently.  "Looks like a piece torn off a shirt," 
he said, handing the cloth over to Scully.

"There's blood on it," Scully noted, biting her lip.  

As she spoke the words another one of the dogs 
rushed over to a boulder at the far end of the 
overhang and started pawing at the ground.  Its 
handler looked behind the rock with a flashlight and 
then frantically flagged the rest of the group.  "I 
found one of 'em!" he shouted.

A portable stretcher materialized from some one's 
backpack and Scully hurried over to see who had 
been found.  She had to choke back an anguished 
cry when she discovered not her partner, but the 
man they had originally been sent to recover, Tom 
Coleman.  Swallowing her fear for Mulder, she 
quickly examined the engineer.

"Get him on the stretcher and get a thermal blanket 
over him.  Notify the chopper of our whereabouts 
and that they need to get this man to the nearest 
trauma center.  He's in shock, feverish, looks like 
he's been hit pretty hard in the head.  If I'm not 
mistaken, he's been horse whipped."

"Horse whipped?" questioned one of the rescuers, 
but hurried to help perform the task of getting the 
injured man on the stretcher.  As they moved him, 
Tom began to rouse.

"Dogs. . . gotta keep movin' . . . can't let 'em . . ."  
The rest of his words were lost in his delirium.

"Mr. Coleman, where is my partner?" Scully asked 
gently, hoping the young man would have some 
connection to reality and could point them in the 
right direction.

"Overseers," Tom muttered and fell back into 
unconsciousness.  

The Sheriff touched Scully's shoulder.  "We're 
losing the light, Agent," he said firmly.

"He has to be here!" she spit out.  "He would never 
have left an injured man behind.  Not unless he 
couldn't help it."

One of the dogs had broken loose from its handler 
and had run to a boulder some distance away.  The 
bloodhound was now standing on top of the 
boulder, barking at whatever lay on the other side.  
Scully took one look at the Sheriff and they both 
hurried after the dog.

She thought about climbing up the rock, but the 
Sheriff pointed to a way to get around it.  As she 
cleared the edge of the rock and peered down into 
the ravine hidden beyond it, her heart jumped to her 
throat.

There on the forest floor, unmoving, was her 
partner.

Epilogue
Massac Memorial Hospital
Metropolis, Illinois
The next day
10:13 am

Mulder was dozing in his hospital bed when Scully 
came in carrying another bouquet of flowers.

"Did I die and you just haven't had the heart to tell 
me?" he asked as she placed them next to the other 
four or five bouquets already decorating the 
windowsill.

"No, it's just Southern Illinois hospitality," Scully 
said with a grin.  "These are from Tom's parents."

"How is he doing?" Mulder asked, wincing as he 
reached for the cup of water on his tray table.  His 
back still hurt but the pain meds were helping 
tremendously.

"Better.  His fever is down.  Some of the cuts and 
welts on his back had become infected and he had a 
touch of pneumonia, but he'll be back on his feet in 
a few weeks.  He and Beckie finally announced 
their engagement, so everyone was pretty happy.  
The flowers by the wall are from Beckie, by the 
way." 

"Did you get a chance . . ."

She held up her hand to stop his question.  "Mulder, 
after ensuring that you weren't in a coma and 
weren't going to die on me, I went back to the 
mansion.  Neill and his men had all but dismantled 
the attic.  There were no signs of any of the men 
you told me about, not any chains, shackles, iron 
collars -- "

"Nothing?  What about the bunk where Tom was 
kept?  There should have been blood there."

"I'm don't know what to tell you, Mulder.  There 
wasn't any blood anywhere."

"But you did find my blood on the whipping post," 
he reminded her.

"Yes, the blood we found out there was a match to 
you.  Are you sure someone didn't just hit you in the 
head and you hallucinated -- "  She stopped her 
question when she saw the set of his jaw.

"Scully, I didn't imagine being whipped.  I have the 
cuts on my back to prove that.  And what about 
this?" he asked, holding his hospital issued gown 
out to expose a dark bruise at his throat where he 
wore the iron collar.  "I suppose I hallucinated that, 
too, huh?"

"But Mulder, I was there all night.  I never left that 
house, except to go out on the porch.  And I saw 
nothing."

"But you heard me.  You admitted to me that you 
heard me call your name.  And you heard me 
moaning in pain.  You aren't suggesting that you 
were hallucinating, are you, Scully?  Because you 
weren't hit on the head."

"Mulder, I'm just saying it's hard for me to believe 
that you were lost in another time, that the 1840s 
and 2005 crossed for a while."  He folded his arms 
defiantly, grimacing when he pulled the healing cuts 
on his back.  Scully shook her head.  He wasn't 
going to be dissuaded this time, but then she 
reminded herself that was nothing new.  "Look, 
however you accomplished it, you did find Tom 
Coleman and return him to his loved ones."

"And you found me and did the same," he said, 
reaching for her hand.  She allowed him to pull her 
next to him on the narrow hospital bed, happy to be 
in his arms.  "So, when can we go home?"

"Doctor wants to keep you one more night for 
observation.  I have us on a 2:30 flight out of 
Paducah tomorrow afternoon."  He scooted over a 
bit so she had more room.  "So you were invisible 
to us all that time, huh, Mulder?" she asked as she 
put her head down on his chest.  The rhythm of his 
heartbeat was a salve to her own emotional cuts and 
bruises from the last 24 hours.

"A hundred and sixty years ago men were gathered 
up and sold back into slavery in a free state, Scully.  
No one noticed then, either.  Maybe sometimes evil 
is just invisible."

She nodded, digesting that thought.  After a moment 
she pulled up enough to look in his eyes.  "You 
really saw Abraham Lincoln," she challenged.

"Stove pipe, beard and all," he replied.

"The Great Emancipator spent the night in a 
mansion where slaves were being housed and sold.  
What does that say, Mulder?"

"I'm pretty certain he didn't know it was happening, 
Scully.  As for what it says, I would think it says 
evil is everywhere.  And it's up to the righteous to 
be constantly on guard," he told her.  He kissed her 
softly on the crown of her head.  "It says that we 
will always have work to do, Scully.  No matter 
what happens next, we must always be vigilant and 
look where no one else dares."

the end 

Author's notes:  There is a lot of factual information 
in this story.  I want to acknowledge some articles I 
dug up on the internet about the Crenshaw Mansion 
at Hickory Hill.  The Daily Egyptian, fall 2003 
edition has a wonderful article on the house.
http://newshound.de.siu.edu/fall03/stories/storyRea
der$539
Clarence Bonnell gives a nicely detailed account of 
the Crenshaws and the house on the 
illinoishistory.com site
http://www.illinoishistory.com/osh-loststory.html
Bill Furry did a lengthy article for the Illinois Times 
in 1997
http://www.illinoishistory.com/itosh.html
And finally, the house was featured in Brian 
Roesch's Haunted Illinois (scroll down to 
'Shawneetown')
http://www.webspawner.com/users/hhaauunntteeddi
llino/
But last and certainly not least, I have to thank the 
former owners of the house, the Sisk family, who 
gave me a guided tour of the premises.  It was when 
I first saw the bed that Lincoln supposedly slept in 
(just as I describe it here) that I got the inspiration 
for this story.

PS, many of the pictures used for the illustrations 
are pictures of the actual house and the surrounding 
county.  Those pictures can be found on the Virtual 
Season 12 website at http://virtualseasonx.org/season-12/