This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding. The references attributed to Dr. Hans Holzer are taken from his book: Yankee Ghosts. And the words to the song sung by Nicole White are from the ballad: "The Grey Silkie of Sule Skerry." If anyone wants more background on what is behind Scully's reaction, this can be found in my story, "Sea of Desire." Thanks to Tish Sears for all the editing help! AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Colter farm is based on a real place, although the names have all been changed to protect the innocent, as they say. It's about five miles from the house where I grew up, and the ghosts are a bona fide local legend. I have been all through the house and property, and have seen the graves. And although *I* have not seen the ghosts, myself, I have talked to people who swear they have. David Bowman is fictional, however, and his "experience" is the product of my own imagination. Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted. "Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on September 6, 1995. Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the characters are mine. ***************************************************** THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 1 CUMBERLAND, CONNECTICUT James Dolan swatted a mosquito on the back of his neck, and wondered, once again, what had possessed him to take his law degree to the bank, literally. True, it was fairly satisfying, if not very challenging, work, guiding young couples through the morass of legal mumbo-jumbo that surrounded closing on a newly purchased piece of property, or representing his employer in such transactions with other banks. He was not going to get rich doing it, but it paid the bills, and it did leave him plenty of time, and creative energy, to work on the novel that was his life's real passion. Most days he did not mind his job, but this task that he was about today made him long for a nice little private practice defending petty criminals and processing divorces. Temple Realty, one of his bank's biggest clients, had a bid on this parcel on behalf of some developer who wanted to put in more ugly contemporaries and colonial reproductions, and he, Jimmy Dolan, was out here "walking the land," looking for God knew what. As if there was any way this deal would not go through. Jimmy was a suburbanite, born and raised on a cul de sac in West Hartford, and the closest he had ever gotten to real wilderness was one disastrous encounter with summer camp when he had been in the seventh grade. He was not particularly pleased to be tramping around out there in the woods in jeans and work boots. He also doubted he was the appropriate person for this job, and the unfamiliar insecurity was worrisome. He knew more than he gave himself credit for, though. For one thing, he had recognized that a clump of weeds he had passed a little while ago as one of the primary indicators of a potential wetland; he would need to alert his superiors that the local Inland Wetlands committee was likely to have heyday with that, if they did not find a way to deflect them, or make them otherwise happy. He also knew that there was one old structure on the property that was going to have to come down, but there did not seem to be any problems there, no title disputes or other questions. In fact, it was more curiosity than anything that made him decide to go look at it. The Colter farm had been a legend in Cumberland for as long as the natives could remember. Haunted, the old timers said with the same matter-of-factness that they used when they talked about the weather, or the latest crop of hay. It amazed him, sometimes, how these pragmatic, old swamp Yankees, most of them without an imaginative bone in their bodies, could accept so nonchalantly the idea of an actual haunted house. Dolan thought it was just plan silly. The idea of a house standing for over two hundred and fifty years intrigued him, though. If anyone had asked, he would have told them that he thought it was kind of a shame to tear it down. As Dolan came up over a rise, he found himself out of the woods, in a brush filled clearing. There had been little undergrowth in the forest itself, and after that relative openness, trying to navigate through the tall weeds in the lot that lead up to the Colter homestead was almost enough to make him change his mind. He really wanted to see the place, though, so he forged on ahead, making sarcastic remarks to himself about becoming Daniel Boone as he went along. The house was small, unimpressive, and deserted. Dolan found himself vaguely disappointed. Not much to it, really, just an old salt box, that looked about ready to come down on it's own. He pounded a piece of siding and heard the tell tale hollowness that indicated dry rot. And probably termites or carpenter ants, too. It did not look much like a haunted house, either. To Dolan, a haunted house should be a three story Victorian on a deserted street, and look like Herman Munster lived there. Still, the place was interesting, in its way, with its drooping roof line, and the oddly shaped windows that were obviously created and installed by hand. No factory built precision here, and the old glass, each small pane with a "bull's eye" from the blower's stem and ripples near the bottom the flow over time, was charming. Dolan stood on tip toe, and tried to look in, but it was too dark inside to see much. The door was on the other side of the house, but he would need to come back with a key if he really wanted to see what was inside. He doubted it was worth it. He walked around the outside. It was not until he saw the old well that Dolan realized that he was tired and thirsty. He was unaccustomed to a lot of physical exercise and this hike through the woods had taken a lot out of him. He walked over to the circular stone structure, and flopped himself down on the well cover. He leaned back on his hands and gazed at the old house. From this side, he could see that there was really a lot more to the place than he had originally thought; the small, square, and probably original, front portion was followed by a large annex that Dolan knew contained a modern kitchen added by some more recent resident, and a covered enclosure that had probably housed a carriage or farm wagon at one time in the past. The place was really delightful, and Dolan felt himself regretting, again, it's ordained demise. He thought, rather wistfully, that maybe, if he ever got around to proposing to his girlfriend, Deborah, they could find some old place like this someday and fix it up. He sighed and leveraged himself off the well cover. Time to be getting a move on, he still had a long walk back to his car. He was just brushing the dirt off his hands when he saw a movement back in the carriage house. Frowning, he stared into the darkness there. Strange, he could have almost sworn that a person had ducked into the shadows, out of sight, now. Terrific, just what he needed, vagrants. He tramped over, shouting loudly to whoever it was to get on out. No one answered him, and no one moved. Dolan stopped about ten yards from the house. The temperature had suddenly dropped with an abruptness that usually meant an incoming storm. The sky was still cloudless, but growing up in New England had taught him never to trust the condition of the sky. If a summer thunderstorm was on its way, he was damn sure he did not want to get caught out in it. Somebody else could come deal with this squatter, if there was, in fact, someone hiding back in those shadows. And anyway, it had just occurred to him that he, an unarmed, overweight, out of shape lawyer with no idea how to defend himself, really had no business trying to chase anyone off of anywhere. He was going back to his car. Then he saw it, again. The temperature dropped still further, nearly arctic now. Dolan hugged his arms with cold, but he could not move. His heart was racing, and he felt a strange sensation paralyzing his legs, riveting him to his spot. He broke into a heavy sweat, despite the chill. Swallowing hard, he stared into the shadows, at the vague movement he sensed almost more than he saw. A creeping terror suddenly overwhelmed him. "Who is it? Who's in there?" he demanded, in a weak voice. No one answered. A shadow moved. Dolan screamed. He screamed with a violence that sounded as if all the fiends in hell had just pointed at him and claimed him as their own. He screamed as if it were his very soul being wrenched from his body. And then he collapsed onto the ground. FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WASHINGTON, DC "I don't get it, Mulder," Special Agent Dana Scully frowned across the desk at her partner. She lifted the file in her hands. "All you've got, here, are three men who died of entirely natural causes. What am I missing?" Fox Mulder nodded slowly. "Three fairly young, relatively healthy men, two surveyors, and a lawyer. All who died of the same natural cause, all within a week of each other, while standing on approximately the same plot of ground. Doesn't that strike you as a little odd?" Scully made a face. "Yeah," she agreed, cautiously, "I will admit that the coincidence *is* a little unlikely. Still, I don't find anything here that would indicate that there has been anything out of the ordinary in these deaths, other than strange coincidence. And the last I knew, willful or unwillful participation in the perpetration of a coincidence was not a federal crime." Mulder smiled at the quip, but otherwise remained quiet, letting her stew. Scully scrutinized the closed file a moment longer, then blew out a breath. "At most, I would suspect some kind of environmental toxin, since they were all out of doors when they died." She looked back at him. "But that is hardly a Bureau concern. And it's certainly outside the realm of *your* interests..." She cocked a smile at him, he chuckled. Mulder stood up and flipped on the light to his slide projector. "Look at the pictures, again," he directed. "Tell me what you see." She knew what he was doing. He was not teasing her, this was not some exercise in patronization. He saw something, something about which he was unsure, and he needed her to see it, too, on her own, to help him confirm his interpretation. She understood it, but it was still an exasperating process. She watched as he cycled slowly through the three slides of the three dead men, taken at the "scenes." The slides each showed a man, lying in what looked like a field. It may also have been an overgrown barnyard, there did seem to be a ramshackle building in the background. Each man had a look of surprise, almost a grimace, on his now still features. Scully concentrated more closely on the expressions. Yes, she supposed, it could be some kind of death rictus, certain poisons *did* have that effect, but a poison would have turned up in a toxicological exam. And there was nothing out of the ordinary in any of these men's' reports. In fact, other than a severely elevated adrenal level in the blood, there was nothing out of the ordinary at all, in any of the exams. And the adrenaline surge could easily be explained by the fear associated with a heart attack. These men all died from simple heart failure. Period. "I just don't know, Mulder. An airborne toxin, maybe?" she sighed, trying hard to give it the benefit of the doubt. She shook her head. "That could have caused this rictus, I suppose, and perhaps still not shown up in the tox. But nothing that I'm currently familiar with..." She looked at Mulder and shrugged helplessly. "Is it possible, Scully," her partner asked, "that these men might have been frightened to death?" Scully sat back in her chair. "Look, Mulder, I'm sorry, but I surrender. Give. What's going on here? What do you know?" Mulder leaned over and handed her a map. "This is a map of the grounds, and surrounding area, where those three men died. This piece of property is currently for sale; there is a bid outstanding on it, and it's earmarked for a housing development. Pretty straight forward stuff. It was being surveyed by two of those dead men at the time they died; the first man to die, James Dolan, was a bank lawyer taking a look around prior to the loan approval." "You think someone is trying to block the sale for some reason?" Scully frowned at him. "But that still doesn't explain how these men might have been killed, if you're right and they men did not die of natural causes." "I never said these men did not die of natural causes. But I am about to suggest that the natural cause was generated by an 'unnatural' experience," Mulder replied. "Or rather, a supernatural one." Scully sighed. "This hundred acre parcel is mostly undeveloped woodland, and some pasturage," Mulder went on, ignoring Scully's expression. "It is free of any existing structures. Except one." Mulder leaned across the desk and pointed. "Up here in the northwestern corner, where our bodies where found, is an old farmhouse, built in the mid-1700's. If you look in two of those slides, you can see it, right there, in the corners of the pictures. The house, as well as the adjoining twelve acres, is owned separately by the Bowman family, but is being offered as part of the rest of this parcel. Something to do with road access, I believe. "Up until the last ten years, the house has been occupied, most recently by a Martha Bowman Jacobs, who passed away six years ago. Her nephews inherited the property. The house is currently empty. Except...," Mulder leaned back and looked at her, "reputedly, for two resident ghosts." Scully sat back and looked at him over the tops of her glasses. "Mulder..." Mulder reached behind him, and removed a book from the place it was precariously balanced, under a pile of paperwork on the bookcase to the right of his desk. Scully winced. One of these days, she thought, watching him, that whole mess was going to come right down. Mulder handed the book to Scully. She looked at the aged and torn cover. "Haunted Places in New England..." she read and gave Mulder a jaundiced eye. "If you'll turn to page twenty-seven, I think you'll find our piece of property there. It was called the Colter Farm, after the family who built the place originally. It's still called that, as far as I know." Scully sucked in a smile, and turned to page twenty-seven. The chapter title leaped out at her - "Ghostly Lovers in Cumberland, Connecticut: The Colter Farm Ghosts. " Scully looked back up at her partner. "So I ask you, Dr. Scully," Mulder went on, "could those men have been frightened to death?" "I don't believe this." She closed the book and tossed it on his desk. "Look at the pictures, again." "Mulder, do you honestly expect me..." Scully sputtered. Mulder just held up a hand. "Look at the pictures, again," he said, very gently. Then he smiled at her winningly. "Please?" Scully blew out a breath. But his expression made her laugh, a little. She took the projector control from him, and cycled through the slides again. "Three heart attacks," glossed Mulder, as she looked. "In one week. In the same place. Suffered by young men with no former history of heart disease, and no," he held up a hand again to ward off her protest, as she glanced up at him, "indication of early heart disease in the autopsies. "Could they have been frightened to death?" "Mulder, that's very rare..." He nodded. Then he raised his eyebrows at her. Scully sighed and looked back at the slide on the screen. She shrugged and nodded. "Well, they did all show extremely elevated adrenal levels. Yes, I suppose they could have been frightened to death," she relented. "In the absence of other evidence to the contrary." She looked back up at him and finally smiled for real. "Ghosts." Mulder shrugged sheepishly. Scully shook her head. "Look," she said, "I'll admit that the 'coincidence' is troubling. And intriguing. But ghosts, Mulder? And anyway. This still isn't a Bureau matter. No crime has been committed here." "There are three bodies," Mulder replied. "And three unexplained deaths." Scully did not bother to remind him that the deaths were too explained. She rolled her eyes a little. "You gonna tell Skinner about this one?" "Eventually," Mulder agreed. "He's gonna be wild," Scully warned him. "Skinner cuts you a lot of slack on these investigations, but he still has people he has to answer to. He won't appreciate it much if you make him look like a fool." "That's why I'm going to keep this little excursion to myself until I can figure out if there's really something there. Come on Scully, it's only Connecticut. We can be there in two hours. We should know inside of twenty-four whether or not there's anything worth investigating. We can be there and back before anybody even knows we're gone." Scully sighed. She really did not want to admit how much this little puzzle was starting to interest her. Not that she believed for a minute in Mulder's ghosts... But it *was* weird that three healthy young men should drop dead on the same piece of ground. She nodded slowly, relenting finally, and Mulder grinned. "I'll pick you up at your place in an hour," he beamed. HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT J. (Jamal) Gallagher, got out of his car, and walked toward the entrance of a small neighborhood bar. His step was confident, his charcoal Grey suit and designer tie impeccable. His attitude was serene. He looked every inch exactly what he was: a successful man, completely in charge of his life and situation. Gallagher coordinated cocaine distribution in eastern Connecticut for the "family" in Springfield, Massachusetts, moving their product, making their deals, and negotiating a substantial profit for all parties. A business man by trade, Gallagher had risen up out of the ghetto in the north end of Hartford, fought his way through college and up the corporate ladder on brains, cunning, and a willingness to work obsessively to obtain his goals. He had finally reached the position in life where he could leave his childhood roots behind him. Unfortunately, however, Gallagher had expensive tastes: fine houses, fine cars, fine wine, and these tastes were not supported to his liking by the salary afforded a corporate executive in an insurance company. He could have gone into private consulting, perhaps, and made more, but his talent was for research, and political manipulation, not for the kinds of histrionics required for freelance work. It was perhaps ironic, then, that it was to his childhood roots that Gallagher eventually turned when the need arose to supplement his income. Gallagher had no illusions about his role, or his importance to the overall organization he represented. He was a flunky, elaborately disguised as a player. His job was to make arrangements, to pick up the "shipments" of product that would supply his ring of local pushers, to negotiate the price, and pay for said product, and to collect from the "distributors," nothing more. He was strictly a middleman. He did not mind. The job "paid" well, and took up very little of his time, overall. And he found himself liking the excitement, and the element of danger. He was the connections man, he found the sources, organized the drops and the pick-ups, he paid for the goods. It was he who made the recommendations when certain "disciplinary actions" became necessary. But he made no decisions, and he liked it that way. He would be the "fall guy," he knew, if the organization ever came down, but Gallagher was careful and clever. He did not expect to get caught. He carried a gun, in addition to the switchblade he always kept in his car, and had trained himself in its operation, but the weapon was really just for show. J. (Jamal) Gallagher had no intention of ever putting himself in a position where he might need to use it. Gallagher strode through the door and looked around. Except for two old men sitting by the jukebox, the place was empty, as he knew it would be at that hour. He nodded to the kid behind the bar. Larry was on his "payroll," not a heavily reimbursed retainer, but provided enough money to convince the kid it was wiser to keep his mouth shut about who Gallagher might have been seen with, and when. The gesture was more theatrics than anything. Gallagher generally met with other "businessmen" who were supplementing their incomes. No one in the least suspicious looking had ever sat across from him at the booth into which he now slid. It was one of his precautions. Larry brought him a beer while he waited. Gallagher was early for his appointment, which was another one of his precautions. He sipped his beer and waited. Within fifteen minutes, the door opened again, and a second man entered the dark environs of the bar. Leslie Hendricksen had none of Gallagher's cool composure. Overweight, perspiring in the summer heat, he looked as rumpled and ineffective as the badly tailored suit he wore. Gallagher smiled to himself. This one would be easy. Hendricksen approached him cautiously. "Mr. Gallagher?" Gallagher nodded, but did not stand. "Mr. Hendricksen. Please have a seat." He gestured to Larry, as the other man sat down. "What are you drinking?" Hendricksen looked up at the bar keep nervously. "A beer, just a beer," he said. Gallagher nodded to the boy, indicating that anything would do, then waited until Larry returned, then left again, before he addressed Hendricksen. "Terrible day, isn't it," he said, his voice soft and soothing. There was no hint of a street patois in his carefully pitched and controlled speech. J. (Jamal) Gallagher had spent long hours practicing to be sure that there never would be. "This heat is unbearable. I heard on the radio this morning that this is the worst heat wave the country has experienced in over ten years. Even worse than the summer of '88." "It's a scorcher," Hendricksen agreed. He sucked on his beer, then gasped, the cold liquid stealing his breath. Gallagher could see his hands shaking, and smiled. Guy must be a virgin, he thought, and considered that he should be able to strike a very good deal here. He smiled encouragingly. "You have some information for me, Mr. Hendricksen?" Hendricksen nodded, but looked around worriedly. "You have no need to be concerned, Mr. Hendricksen. We are quite safe here, and quite alone. Don't mind Larry." Hendricksen did not look exactly convinced. He sipped some more of his beer, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "Pete said to tell you there's a shipment coming in," he whispered. Gallagher nodded, and waited. When nothing was forthcoming, he prodded. "How large a shipment, did Pete say." Hendriksen told him. Gallagher nodded, pleased. "When is the, ah, merchandise expected, Mr. Hendricksen?" In two weeks, he was told. Gallagher sat back, and steepled his fingers before his face. The pause was theatrics, he had already decided where he was going next. But the allusion of consideration would put Hendricksen on a malleable defensive. "Where will the drop be made?" "Not here," Hendricksen said quickly. "This place is too busy. I want a quieter setting. Little town." Gallagher pursed his lips. Amateur, he thought. Any fool would know that a small town was no safer than a large one, for such business. Often just the opposite; their type of transaction would more likely attract attention in some little hamlet than here in the city. Still, it did not matter all that much. Gallagher only dealt in small trade that was easily concealed. If it made the man happier, and more tractable to complete the transaction in some bucolic setting, so be it. "Do you have some place in mind?" Hendricksen nodded. "Cumberland. Out by the university. I'll contact you as to where," he replied, relief giving him confidence. Gallagher nodded. He knew Cumberland. He visited the town frequently, he had friends there. If he was recognized, his presence would not seem out of the ordinary. "Very well," he nodded. He contemplated a little more. Then: "And are you prepared, Mr. Hendricksen, to negotiate a preliminary price? Pending examination of the product of course?" Hendriksen took a deep breath, looking very nervous, again. But he nodded. "Good," said Gallagher, and he leaned forward across the table and smiled.