textfiles/sf/XFILES/twl2

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.