Chapter Text
WASHINGTON, D.C.
November 12
3:11 a.m.
“Scully?”
“It’s three o’clock in the morning, Mulder,” Scully said on the other end of the line. Her voice was thick with sleep, and for a brief moment, he felt a pang of guilt for waking her—especially knowing she’d just gotten back late from Quantico.
“Yeah... sorry,” he said. And while he was a little sorry, he was mostly too wired to care. Frohike had just dropped something on him—something weird. Weird enough to warrant a call at 3:11 A.M., at least in his book.
“What is it?” she asked, already resigned to the madness.
“Frohike told me about a haunted manor. Out in Wisconsin,” Mulder said. He could practically hear her eyes rolling. “Someone died there a few days ago. There are reports of... activity.”
“Ghosts?” she asked flatly.
He hesitated. “Yeah. Ghosts.”
“And Frohike knows this how?”
“His uncle’s friend lives out there—somewhere in one of those frozen little towns you only hear about when something goes wrong. I guess the guy told him over a drink or two. Frohike figured I’d be interested.”
She sighed, long and slow. She wasn’t wrong to be skeptical—hell, she was always skeptical—but the fact that she was still on the line meant she hadn’t ruled it out completely. Which was good. Because he really didn’t want to go alone.
“You want us to fly to Wisconsin based on something Frohike’s uncle’s friend told him?”
He could hear it—the edge in her voice. The fatigue. The faint disbelief. But she hadn’t said no. That was enough.
“Yes,” he said, the word coming out like half a question.
She was quiet. He could feel her thinking. He knew her well enough to picture it exactly—her fingers tracing the edge of her jaw, her teeth worrying her lower lip. A slow, methodical process. Calculated. Rational. But the silence told him he’d already won. If she thought it was truly insane, she would’ve shut it down by now.
“Alright,” she said at last. “But I want to hear more about these so-called ghosts in the morning—before we go chasing shadows across the Midwest. And you should get some sleep.”
He smiled, phone pressed to his ear.
“I’ll pick you up in four hours.”
“Four hours? Mulder—”
“Already bought the plane tickets.” Of course he had.
“Sleep well,” he said—and hung up before she could protest.
DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
November 12
9:03 a.m.
Scully rubbed her temples, trying to keep the dull throb in her head from blooming into a full-blown migraine. The constant airport noise—overhead announcements, the buzz of early travelers, the clatter of rolling suitcases—was relentless. She hadn’t gotten nearly enough sleep, and while part of her wanted to blame Mulder for that, he had at least shown up with coffee in hand. Small mercies.
“You alright?” Mulder asked, shifting their bags as they made their way toward the gate. Their flight was set to depart in about half an hour.
During the drive to the airport—complete with a frustrating hunt for parking—Mulder had filled her in on more of the details. The so-called haunted manor was in Albany, Wisconsin. Local legend told of an old woman who appeared as a ghost, scaring off teenagers partying on the overgrown property. Just folklore, maybe—but then there was the girl. Shelley Torrance. Young, local, and dead under... unusual circumstances.
Scully didn’t need more than that to know why Mulder was hooked.
“Yeah, just a headache,” she murmured, glancing up at him. He looked genuinely concerned. She offered a thin, practiced smile. “It’s nothing serious.”
“I can grab you another coffee. Maybe some Advil?” he offered.
“I’m fine. I’ll try to sleep on the plane.”
He nodded. “Alright.”
They found a quiet spot near the windows and sat down. Mulder stared out at the tarmac, watching planes rise and descend against the gray wash of early morning. Scully leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, letting the hum of the terminal fade into a low, background static.
Mulder held a magazine up to her face. When Scully cracked one eye open, she was met with Leonardo DiCaprio’s perfectly brooding expression.
“That your kind of movie?” Mulder asked, dropping his arms into his lap and flipping the magazine open. “Titanic.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Considering The Exorcist is my favorite movie, take a wild guess, Mulder.”
He grinned, amused. “So, no tears for … what’s his name? Jack Dawson?”
“Well, will you be crying when the ship goes down on the big screen?” she asked, eyes still closed.
Mulder gave a quiet huff and snapped the magazine shut. “I haven’t been to the movies in a long time.”
“That’s because you’ve got your own movie collection at home,” she said with a sleepy grin.
He shifted in his seat, stretching his legs out and angling toward her slightly, when she opened her eyes fully. He wasn’t embarrassed—and she liked that about him, even if his taste in late-night viewing leaned toward…
“I like the movies, though,” he added after a beat.
“Then why don’t you go?”
He glanced toward the window, where another jet rumbled into the sky. “Do we ever have the time to do anything outside of work?”
“Mulder, you could have had a weekend off. But instead, you're dragging us to Albany, Wisconsin—on a tip from Frohike, no less. This isn’t even official FBI business.”
“But it sounds interesting, doesn’t it?” he asked, eyes searching hers. Hopeful. She didn’t nod, but the long, measured sigh she let out was answer enough.
“And next weekend,” he continued, “when Skinner doesn’t ship us off to God-knows-where, I’m going to use my precious free hours to go to the movies.”
“To see Titanic?” she teased.
“It’s not out for another month.”
“Too bad,” she said, and smirked.
Boarding was called, and Mulder stood, grabbing both of their bags before offering her a hand. She hesitated, then accepted it—reluctantly. He knew she didn’t like feeling like she needed help. It wasn’t pride exactly—more a stubborn kind of self-reliance that he’d come to recognize as distinctly Scully. She was tired, the headache still lingering in her temples, but she could manage. Always did. The moment she was on her feet, she let go of his hand, as if to reassert that fact without saying a word.
ALBANY, WISCONSIN
November 12
5:30 p.m.
Scully had fallen asleep on his shoulder somewhere over Illinois, and Mulder did his best not to move, not even to shift the circulation back into his legs. He’d claimed the middle seat under the pretense that it gave him more space to stretch out without blocking the aisle—and also because he liked the window view. When she’d offered to switch, he’d waved it off.
She looked better now. The sleep had helped. After landing, they’d driven the hour north toward Albany, stopping for takeout and more caffeine to shake off the early flight. She was sharper now, more present—but still quiet.
Outside, dusk had crept in early. November in Wisconsin had a way of swallowing the light fast. Cold, damp, and colorless, the countryside rolled past them like something half-forgotten.
Sheriff Truman was waiting for them in front of the small station at the end of the main road—a squat brick building that looked like it hadn’t changed since the seventies. The town itself was little more than a few intersecting streets, with narrow lanes winding away into neighborhoods that disappeared behind skeletal trees.
Timberline Manor—the so-called haunted house—was a few miles farther down the road, tucked just far enough from town to feel like it had always wanted to be forgotten.
They shook hands, exchanged names and credentials, and then Sheriff Truman led them into the small station with an offer that made Mulder’s face light up—donuts.
Mulder was halfway through inhaling one before they even sat down, powdered sugar dusting the lapel of his coat. Scully watched with a raised brow and folded arms, before turning her attention to the sheriff.
“Shelley was found hanging from the staircase,” Truman began, his voice low and cautious. “Rope around her neck. It looked like suicide, but...” He hesitated, clearly uneasy discussing the death of someone from his community. “I can’t figure out how she would’ve done it. There wasn’t a chair nearby. Nothing she could’ve stood on. No signs of anything knocked over.”
“Could she have jumped from the stairs themselves?” Scully asked, clinical but calm.
Truman shook his head. “Not likely. Too low. The angle’s off. Coroner said the height wouldn’t have caused the ligature marks we saw. Said it almost looked like she’d been dropped from higher up—but there’s nowhere to drop from.”
Mulder leaned forward, brushing crumbs off his hands. “You leave the rope up?”
The sheriff nodded. “Didn’t touch a thing. Scene’s intact. Except Shelley of course.”
“Can you show us the manor?” Mulder asked.
Truman hesitated, his jaw tightening. “I’ll take you first thing in the morning.”
“Why not now?”
The sheriff’s gaze flicked to the darkening window. Rain tapped faintly against the glass. “It’s... getting dark.”
Mulder and Scully exchanged a look. Mulder raised an eyebrow, intrigued. Scully said nothing, but she didn’t miss the way Truman’s fingers tensed slightly around his coffee cup.
“What about the ghost?” Mulder asked.
Truman’s gaze snapped to him, his expression flattening. “The ghost?” He gave a dry, almost incredulous laugh. “Don’t tell me you buy into those stories they spin around here. There are no ghosts at Timberline Manor—just drunk teenagers looking for a scare and a place to trash.”
Scully gave the sheriff a polite, almost apologetic smile. She’d perfected that look—the one that said please excuse my partner without needing words. She knew how this would go. Mulder wouldn’t let up, not when there was even a whisper of something strange. She just hoped he’d stick to ghosts this time—and not launch into his usual repertoire of aliens, cryptids, or government conspiracies.
“So, no one’s ever seen a ghost at the manor?” Mulder pressed.
Truman sighed, shaking his head. “People tell stories, sure. But—”
“What do they say?”
The sheriff hesitated. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on the decision to answer. “They say there’s a woman... a lady who lives—or lived—there. And that she threatens anyone who trespasses.”
Mulder leaned in, eyes narrowing slightly. “Who’s the lady?”
For a moment, Truman looked like he’d rather be anywhere else. His fingers tightened around his coffee cup.
“Vicky,” he said finally. “Vicky Pedretti. She lived in Timberline Manor until a few years back. Before... before she was murdered.”
“Alright,” Scully cut in smoothly. “If we’re not heading to the manor tonight, maybe you could point us to a place to stay?”
Truman nodded, seeming grateful for the shift in topic. “There’s a motel just outside town, right on the road toward Timberline. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s clean. You’ll pass it on your way out—can’t miss it.”
Mulder perked up at that, an almost boyish glint in his eyes. Scully caught it and fought the urge to roll hers. Instead, she straightened her coat and rose to her feet.
“Thank you, Sheriff,” she said.
BEECHER MOTEL, ALBANY, WISCONSIN
November 12
6:19 p.m.
They took adjoining rooms at the Beecher Motel, but instead of heading into his, Mulder trailed after her and flopped onto the bed like he owned it.
Scully peeled off her coat, tossed it onto the chair, and absently flipped through the stack of worn magazines on the side table. Mostly lifestyle tips and cooking recipes. She barely had time to cook for herself—and when she did, she wasn’t about to experiment with quinoa-stuffed bell peppers.
“We could just drive over there,” Mulder said.
She sighed, dropped the magazines back onto the table. “Or we could wait until morning and go with Sheriff Truman.“
He stared at the ceiling. “He likes you, you know.”
She arched an eyebrow and stepped closer to the bed. “Who?”
“Truman,” he said, far too casually.
“No, he does not,” she replied, deadpan.
Mulder gave a faint smirk. He found it almost endearing—the way she brushed off what was obvious to everyone else. Maybe she really didn’t notice. But he did. He always noticed how other men looked at his partner.
“Would you date him?”
Mulder wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Mulder—”
“Would you?”
Scully gave him that look—the one halfway between exasperation and amusement. “No. Of course not. I’m not dating someone I met on a case.”
“We’re not officially on a case,” Mulder pointed out. He wasn’t sure why he was pushing it. They could’ve been playing one of their usual time-killer games—guessing what Skinner was doing right now, or debating tomorrow’s breakfast options. Neither of them was hungry tonight, so there wasn’t much point in figuring out dinner.
“And I most definitely wouldn’t date someone from Albany, Wisconsin,” Scully said, folding her arms.
“Fair,” Mulder conceded.
“I’m going to take a shower,” Scully stated then and Mulder took it as a hint to go check out his own room.