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. Thank you to Tish Sears for all the editing help! 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 2 CUMBERLAND, CONNECTICUT "Ever been to Connecticut, Scully?" Mulder asked as he turned off the Interstate onto the exit for Rte 195. Scully nodded. "Once. A high school friend of mine went to college at the University of Connecticut. She married a guy from up here. I went to her wedding." Mulder nodded. "UConn, yeah. Great basketball teams! Their women were the 1995 NCAA national champs, did you know that?" he replied enthusiastically. "We're only about ten miles from the campus, right now." He stopped at the end of the exit ramp and signaled left at the light. Scully looked around her. Cumberland, Connecticut, looked a lot like a lot of towns she knew in Maryland and Virginia, rural farm districts recently become bedroom communities for the larger cities. As they drove through the rolling hills, she saw large, expensive, modern houses sitting incongruously on what apparently used to be pasture, with the occasional old barn, or out building providing a startling contrast, and a reminder of what used to be. Strip malls dotted what was otherwise wilderness. It was a town in transition. Scully found the idea a little bit sad. "How are we doing?" Mulder asked, nodding at the map in her hand. "Take a right at the next intersection, and that should be the road we're looking for. Randall Road." Mulder turned down what was little more than a paved trail leading off into the woods. "Boy," he mused as the road pitched upward suddenly and he started to climb, "this is pretty isolated. I wonder what this place is like in the winter." He looked out the window. "How far is the house?" "Map says three miles. On the right." It was a little more than that. Mulder pulled over to the side of the road and parked the car. They could see the weathered brown structure there on a small rise across a heavily overgrown field. Scully made a face at the prospect of trudging through the weed filled lot. "I'm really not dressed for this," she commented, looking down at her beige linen slacks suit and pumps. Mulder made a sympathetic noise. "You can wait here in the car if you'd like," he offered helpfully. Scully shook her head. Fat chance she was going to let him wander off alone. "No, I'll come," she sighed. At least the ground was hard and dry. Scully followed behind Mulder, letting him tramp down the weeds a little bit before her. She tried very hard not to think about the spiders and snakes that had probably made homes all around her, just waiting there for her to rouse them. Mulder came to a stop before the front door of the old salt box house. He was smiling broadly. "Hey, Scully, look at this," he said, pointing to the door. Scully looked. "See that pattern of nails there? Looks like a decorative design?" "Yeah..." Scully acknowledged cautiously. "That's a symbol of wealth. Back in the 1700's and early 1800's, nails were extremely expensive because each one had to be made by hand. I remember reading accounts where during the early westward movement people would burn their houses down before they emigrated, so they could salvage the nails to take them out west with them. Using them for decorative art like this was very ostentatious. Especially on a front door. It was a means of telling your neighbors that you were so well off you didn't need to worry about such things. Scully gave Mulder an odd look, and smiled. The man never ceased to amaze her with the incredible collection of trivia he managed to store away in that eidetic memory of his. Still, it *was* an interesting, if not very useful, bit of data. She gave the door a nod. "Where were those bodies found?" she asked, bringing him back to the reason they were there. Mulder looked around. "I'm not sure, over there, I think," he considered. They walked around the side of the old house. It was Scully who found the spot, recognizing the angle from one of the slides. She stood on the ground where Jimmy Dolan had collapsed and looked at the house, making small, thoughtful movements with her mouth as she did. "What?" Mulder asked, watching her. "Well, if I remember correctly from your slides, the way all three of those bodies were lying would indicate that they were probably looking at the house at the time they collapsed," she said. She walked straight ahead, along what would have been the probable line of sight of the three dead men, and entered the lean-to like structure off the back of the house. It looked like an old carriage house of some kind. It was noticeably cooler in the shade inside the lean-to. Scully turned around slowly. A chill passed over her and she rubbed her arms briskly. Amazing, she thought, how those old buildings kept out the heat. She moved to the side of the lean-to closest to the house, strangely drawn to the blank wall there. She eyed the flat surface, half expecting to see marks of some kind, or some tell tale evidence that her subconscious was registering before her eyes. She ran her hand along the wall. She felt something run up her arm, like an electrical current, and pulled it away. "Hey, Mulder, you seem to know something about the way these old houses were designed. What do you think is on the other side of this wall?" Mulder frowned at her, but stepped back, anyway, and eyed the house from outside. "Well," he began. "Judging from the size of the chimney back here, I would say the kitchen... " Scully walked over to join him. "See?" he pointed. "Little chimney in front to heat the bedrooms and parlors, only when necessary. Big chimney in back, because the kitchen is used all year round and the fire place will be huge. Now *that* wall..." he eyed the wall about which she was curious, "my guess is that's the borning room." "The what?" Scully asked. She was not quite sure what she expected him to say, but that was not it. "The 'borning room,'" Mulder repeated. "It was a room that was usually found off the kitchen because the kitchen is the warmest, most frequently populated room in the house. The borning room was used for childbirth, and nursing the sick. Most people who died of an injury or illness probably died in rooms like that. Why?" "Just curious," Scully said. But the words "died in" were not lost on her. She hugged her arms. They were not lost on Mulder, either, and he knew Scully well enough to know she was never 'just curious' without good reason. Died in, huh? Scully glanced over at Mulder, and saw the sparkle in his eyes. She realized her question had played right into his theory about the ghosts, and she was almost sorry she had asked it. She was about to warn him not to start jumping to conclusions when an unfamiliar voice interrupted from behind them. "Can I help you folks?" Mulder turned around to see a man approaching them across the overgrown "yard." He looked about fifty, balding and lean as a rail, with hawk-like features and horn-rimmed glasses. "Hi," Mulder said quickly. "My name is Fox Mulder, and this is Dana Scully. We were, uh, just looking at this wonderful old house here." The man nodded. "Dave Bowman," he said, extending his hand. "It is a nice old place, isn't it. Belonged to my aunt, before she died. Be careful walking around here, this place is pretty overgrown. No telling what you'll find buried in the weeds here." "Snakes?" Scully asked uncomfortably. Bowman smiled at her. "Well, could be, but I was thinking more along the lines of old rakes and boards with nails in them. Wouldn't want you to get hurt." He looked at Mulder curiously. "Mind if I ask what your interest is?" Mulder gave Scully a quick warning look, and plunged into an explanation before she could reach for her ID. "We were just looking the area over. We've been kind of thinking of maybe moving up here," he said, nodding at Scully. Beside him, Scully gaped, her eyes wide. "I sort of liked the idea of finding some old place and fixing it up. You know, a place with some history to it." Bowman nodded. "Well, the place *is* for sale," he agreed. "And it sure does have a history. It was supposed to be sold as part of another parcel, but I'm not too sure, now, if that's gonna go through. How did you folks happen to hear about it?" "We didn't," Mulder lied glibly, "we were just driving by. But it's for sale, you say?" Bowman nodded again. Mulder took a chance. "Actually, we had heard that there was a house out here that was supposed to be haunted," he said, smiling winningly. "We were really very interested in it. This looked like a likely candidate." Bowman smiled. "Oh, yes, there *is* that," he agreed. "Well, since you're interested, why don't you come up to the house and have a cold drink. I'll tell you the story and let you decide for yourselves." He started back through the weeds. "Get you out of this tall grass. Wouldn't want you to get bit by a tick and get Lyme disease, now... Just follow me, I live right down the road, here." Scully followed Mulder back across the overgrown lawn, alternately glaring at the weeds batting her knees, and at the back of her partner's head. She let him have it as soon as they were safely in the car. "Mulder!" "What?" he responded, all innocence. "Mulder, you deliberately mislead that man into thinking that we were interested in *buying* his property. For ourselves, Mulder. I mean, for us, like we were a couple or something!" Scully made an encompassing gesture with her hand, and stared at her partner, openmouthed. "We'll it did get us an invitation to some information," Mulder countered, mildly. "But you never told him who we were, you never said we were with the Bureau... " "We're not, officially. At least, not yet. Come on, Scully, the guy's not likely to talk to a couple of cops unless he has no choice. But a nice young couple from the burbs, looking to get back to the land..." He smiled at her. Scully practically sputtered with indignation. Mulder feigned a hurt look. "Gee, Scully, I never realized I was quite so unpleasant a prospect," he said. Scully made a face at him. "It's not that, don't twist my words," she replied, relenting a little. He eyed her curiously, waiting for her to go on. "It's just that I don't like being here under false pretenses." "Oh, come on, Scully," Mulder teased her. "Where's your sense of humor?" Scully sighed with sheer exasperation. Then she chuckled softly. "Well, since you mentioned it, I suppose it *is* pretty absurd, now that I think about it," she agreed mischievously. Mulder glanced over at her, his expression now truly a little bit hurt. Scully smiled at him smugly. "Gotcha." Mulder laughed. "So where're you folks from?" Bowman asked as he settled them on the porch of his white clapboard farmhouse with a plate of cookies and a pitcher of ice tea. Mulder had planned for this question in the car. "Simsbury," he replied, giving the man the name of a town he had pulled off the map, a considerable distance from where they were, but not so far that they could not have comfortably driven it. Bowman nodded. "Pretty town. What do you do, Mr. Mulder?" Mulder was ready for that one, too. "Insurance," he replied, feeling fairly safe. After all, Hartford, Connecticut, was the insurance capital of the world, supposedly. "For the Aetna," he glossed, remembering the last bill he had paid. Bowman nodded again. "And you, Ms. Scully?" Scully gulped a little, still not happy with Mulder's charade. Well, she could hardly tell the man she was a forensic pathologist, and a Special Agent with the FBI. "Oh, the same," she replied quickly. "And please, call me Dana." She smiled prettily. Bowman smiled back. "What do you do, Mr. Bowman," Scully asked, to prevent the man from asking them any other questions they might not be able to answer. "Me?" Bowman asked, as if surprised that anyone would care to know. "Oh, I teach agriculture up at the university. Use to dairy, some, too, but that got to be too expensive a hobby to be worth the bother. So now I pretty much teach, and write." He smiled. "And lobby Congress for more support of the small family farm. It's a dying way of life. And my own experience has taught me that it's just too costly for most folks to continue. Even thirty years ago, the small farmer could at least expect to break even, most of the time. That is no longer true, today." The two agents nodded politely and Mulder searched his mind for a way to turn the conversation back to the subject of his real interest. Bowman was an articulate speaker, and could no doubt spend the afternoon defending the plight of the family farm, but that was not why they were there. A screen door behind them slammed and another man walked out onto the porch. He was about as different looking from David Bowman as a man could get and still be the of same race. Short, broad, and round faced, it was only their eyes that identified the two men as relatives. "Richard," Bowman said cheerfully. He looked over at Mulder and Scully. "This is my brother, Richard. Richie, Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. They're from Simsbury, out here looking at some property. Seems they're interested in the old Colter place." Richard gave them a taciturn nod. "Actually," Bowman continued, mischievously Scully could have sworn, "they're really interested in the Colter ghosts. Richard Bowman's stolid expression turned sour. "Oh, you and that nonsense. Don't pay any attention to him," he nodded at Mulder. "He's been out in the sun too long." Bowman tipped back his head and laughed. "Join us, Richard," he offered. "Thank you, no," his brother replied. "Going to Agway. I'll be back in a little while." He made his "pleased to meet yous" to Mulder and Scully, then clumped down the porch steps, climbed into a battered pickup truck and drove away. "Richie doesn't think too much of our ghosts," Bowman said, unnecessarily, smiling after his brother. "Claims it's all just old wives' tales meant to frighten children." Mulder smiled with him. "But you believe they are real?" he prompted. Bowman nodded. "I've generally found old wives to be very wise," he assured them, merrily. "It's kind of a nice story, actually, if you like that sort of thing. Do you know it?" Mulder had read it, but Scully had not. And Mulder wanted to hear the story again, from this man whose family had lived in the house, itself. He gestured for Bowman to go on. Bowman leaned back in his chair. "We call the place the Colter farm, because that was the name of the family who built it, originally. I don't think there have been Colters in this town, though, for a hundred years or more. My aunt owned the place for forty five years, she was eighty when she died, and she lived alone in that house until the last four years of her life. "The place has two ghosts, according to the legend, Jeremiah Colter, who was the son of the original owner, and his fiancee, Catherine Hewlett. Colter was twenty four years old when the Revolutionary War broke out, and like many of the young men around here at that time, he went off to fight for the economic and personal freedoms that he felt were God given rights in this new land. The young couple put off their wedding, not knowing if, or when, Jeremiah would return. I personally think Colter senior probably may have had something to do with that, not wanting to run the risk of his son dying and leaving some young girl his heir. "Anyway, within a year of his joining his regiment, Colter was wounded and taken prisoner. He was interred at the prisoner of war encampment on Long Island, to await the next prisoner exchange. That was the custom in those days, as you may know. Neither side could afford the upkeep on prisoners, so generally they just traded 'em back and forth. Unfortunately, there was a small pox epidemic in the camp while Colter was there, and Jeremiah contracted the disease. Since the British army had no particular interest in carrying the expense of treating the infirm, he was just sent home to die or recover as he may. "Once Jeremiah got home, Catherine, who had moved into the Colter house during Jeremiah's absence, nursed her fiancee day and night. Her ministrations came to naught, though; Colter died about ten days after he returned. He didn't managed to die before he infected Catherine, though. She died, herself, within the month. "They are buried in the yard beside the house, up by the stone wall near the pig run. However, because those two were never married in life, they could not be buried in the same grave, wouldn't be seemly, and they are actually buried about twenty yards apart. The spot's pretty much grown over, now, but you can still find the fieldstone markers if you look through the weeds. "Now, the story goes, that, before he'd left for battle, Jeremiah, in his passion, had begged Catherine to give herself to him, but she refused him. In those days, for a girl to go to her wedding bed other than a virgin would have damned her, in both the eyes of man and God, and it was likely these two had not shared so much as a passionate kiss before Jeremiah left for war. When he returned, of course, it was too late for Catherine to change her mind. So they died with their love unconsummated. "According to the legend, Catherine was so heartbroken at having refused that one true act of love that she now roams the house and grounds looking for Jeremiah so that they can be together for eternity. And Jeremiah, in his turn, seeks for her. But never together, they are condemned in their loneliness to search for each other forever, and forever to remain alone." Scully suddenly exhaled, she had been unaware that she was holding her breath. She rubbed her arms, feeling a sudden chill. Mulder glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then looked back at Bowman. "Your aunt lived in the house, you said." Bowman nodded. "She loved that old place. Would have died in it, if anyone had let her. Should have, if you ask me." Mulder smiled. "Did she ever see the ghosts?" Bowman nodded. "She claims to have. All the time." Bowman smiled. "She used to tell me that Catherine, especially, was a fidgety sort of ghost, always moving things around. The aunt said she could never be sure, when she got up in the morning, if things would be where she left them the night before. As if the poor girl hadn't got enough of housekeeping while she was alive." Both Mulder and Scully smiled, this time. "Did you ever see the ghosts, Mr. Bowman?" Mulder asked. Bowman just looked at him. "I have seen her, yes. Catherine." He leaned forward and frowned down at his hands. "Once. "When I was ten years old, the aunt took sick, and went into the hospital for a few months. At the time we had a handy-man on our farm, and he was also responsible for keeping track of the aunt's place while she was laid up. One day, he came and got me. Asked me if I wanted to come out to the old house with him, he was going to check the wiring. I was just a little kid, I didn't think anything of it. Why would I? "This part of town was even more isolated, then, than it is now. There were only two other houses on the street, neither one of them close to the Colter place. So there was nobody around to hear. "Turns out, this handy-man was not a nice person, and he had a taste for little boys. He got me into the house, and well, things got unpleasant pretty quickly." Bowman glanced at Scully, as if gauging how much to say. Scully looked back at him impassively. The man looked back down at this hands. "He had me down over the back of the sofa with my blue jeans around my knees and a knife at my throat, and that's when I saw her. She was standing over by the fireplace. She picked up this heavy old fashioned oil lamp that the aunt kept on the mantle, and she just hurled it. Hit that bastard right up the side of the head, knocked him out cold. Then she waved for me to run. I pulled up my britches and ran like a son-of-a-bitch, let me tell you." "That was quite a story," Mulder said as they walked back to the car. They had thanked Bowman very much for his time, and gotten a recommendation for dinner. Mulder had also made arrangements to come back the next morning to tour the inside of the house. "Yeah," Scully said, a trifle sourly. "It's almost as good as the one *you're* weaving. I can't believe you're sticking to this masquerade." "Does it really offend you that much?" Mulder asked, a little testily. Scully relented. "No, it doesn't offend me," she replied. "But I don't really like lying to the man. And you were very glib, back there. I know you're enjoying yourself, but don't fall in love with your own fantasy, okay?" She turned her back on him, and pulled open the car door. Mulder watched the back of her head as she slid onto the passenger seat. "Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, under his breath, as the car door clunked shut. He walked around to the driver's side, and got in.