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

Crenshaw Mansion

Teaser

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You better be." 

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

"Love you, too. Be careful."

"Always."

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Slowly, he moved towards the staircase.

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

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

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

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

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

Act I Scene 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Be nice, Mulder," she warned.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Political, I take it," Mulder interjected.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"IDOT?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sure, I understand," Mulder consoled.

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

"Go on," Mulder prodded.

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

Mulder gave him a confused look.

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

Act I scene 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Entrance to the private residence," Miller 
explained.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Basement?" Mulder asked anxiously.

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

"May I see the root cellar?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Act II scene 1

Evansville Regional Airport
Evansville, Indiana 
4:00 pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

Harrisburg Jiffy Stop
6:05 pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You know about the missing Forestry Employee?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Act II scene 2

Crenshaw Mansion
8:30 pm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Scully!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

end of part one