textfiles/sf/XFILES/twl1

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.