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May 9, 1998 9:00 PM Solar Calendar

4-14-98 Lunar Calendar

Year of the Earth Tiger, Containing Earth On Wall

Month of the Snake

Hour of the Boar

*** "After a while, I began to lose my mind, and when I did, a funny thing

happened. My body became a hollow temple possessed by spirits."- Attributed

to John Lennon. ***

After his disaster of a day yesterday, Mulder had paced, jogged, bounced

basketballs, and watched his most provocative videos to forestall the

inevitable. He had fought valiantly against sleep, but finally, inexorably,

sleep won the battle, and he was compelled to stretch out, and close his

eyes. As soon as he did, he was in Vietnam, and it was sweltering, steaming

hot, which exacerbated the smell of mildew and rotting vegetation that

assaulted him from every direction.

He saw a platoon of Marines trudging through the jungle led by a tall,

muscular man obviously handsome, even as filthy and weary as he was. The

rest of the platoon straggled single-mindedly behind as best they could in

the ankle deep, red, soupy mud.

Their sweaty, smelly uniforms stuck to their aching bodies, and the insects

were buzzing, stinging, and tormenting them, decorating them with assorted

bites. They made no move to bat them away. Probably no energy to spare for

that, Mulder thought, unless they were just oblivious...and with a growing

sense of horror, he realized, oblivious was exactly the right word.

Mulder felt a growing terror within him as a small, frail child screeched at

the top of his lungs, and ran full speed at the men, and it was only then

that the Marines saw that the child was covered head to toe with grenades.

"Oh SHIT! LOOK!" one of them screamed, and look was all he could do.

"FIRE, MURPHY, GODDAMN YOU, FIRE!" the C.O. yelled as he tried to fire, but

his M16 jammed.

"HE'S A KID!" Murphy yelled.

"FIRE! SOMEONE! ANYONE!" The C.O. yelled. He threw down his malfunctioning

weapon in disgust, and grabbed Murphy's, but he'd lost valuable seconds.

That gun jam and the youth of the enemy had thrown all of them off for just

long enough. They were fast, but they were still fumbling for their guns by

the time the child's finger was on the grenade pin.

They would have all been dead before they had time to aim their

M16s...except that one slender Marine had blasted out a spray of bullets

that had pierced just about every vital organ on the boy, and set off one of

the grenades.

As he saw it happening, Mulder felt every bullet, every piercing shard from

the grenade wherever it hit the boy, and he shrieked as he felt the boy's

death until he thought the sound echoing through his skull had turned his

brains to jelly...

//MAKE IT STOP! MAKE IT STOP!!!//

But it didn't stop, and Mulder sobbed as he saw the child's brains spray

over the jungle like gray-pink rain, and a red-hot, sympathetic anger washed

over him as he saw a trembling, wild-eyed, teenager holding an M-16, staring

at what was left of...

//his child's?//

... the child's body. As soon as he saw the soldier, Mulder instantly

thought of his father's murderer, though he knew that Krycek was too young

to have ever served in Vietnam. The vicarious death experience he'd just

suffered coupled with the soldier boy's looks made Mulder feel the same old

lust that Krycek always aroused to smash his fist into pretty boy flesh

until it purpled.

"SKINNER!" the C.O. screamed, "TAKE COVER!"

The soldier jumped and ran, and Mulder felt sick as he realized that his

boss had been that wild-eyed teenager, realized that when telling of this

event that his boss had underplayed how young both he and that boy were,

realized how far from home they were, realized

//this wasn't a dream?//

A colder fury possessed Mulder at the parents of these two for letting their

children play with such dangerous toys...and he felt an anguish hit him that

he knew, just knew, came from some where

//someone//

else.

He had no time to dwell on that, because he saw that Skinner had disobeyed

orders by making a dive for the grenade that had landed at the foot of his

C.O., and had slammed down on top of it with a whomp that scared the piss

out Mulder. Instinctively, the rank and file scattered to either side of the

path, and into the trees.

"WALT!!!! GET UP, *NOW*!" The C.O. screamed, and Mulder screamed with him in

shared tormented frustration.

Young Walt shook his head vigorously, "No, SIR!"

The C.O. made a desperate lunge, yanked the young corporal up off of the

grenade, tossed him over his shoulder, and ran for cover with the rest of

the platoon. The explosion knocked them both to the ground, but they were

behind the trees by then, and escaped with a few cuts.

Everyone cheered, and Mulder cheered with them, giddy with relief...until he

saw that Skinner was in shock and freezing cold, despite being physically

unharmed, and his C.O. had to carry him the last mile to the hooches. Mulder

ached to see how young and vulnerable the corporal looked cradled in his

C.O.'s arms. He wanted to be the one to carry him...he wanted to be the one

looking at him tenderly, knowing that Walter would return that

look...instead of thinking he was crazy and firing him.

Mulder felt ashamed and angry at how quickly he had forgotten what this boy

had grown up to do to him, and just as quickly, distanced himself by

profiling him, which was almost as good as jerking off. He was thankful once

again that his neurosis came in handy professionally...and that he did it so

well that he could do it in his sleep.

//If they weren't lovers then, they probably became lovers soon after. Okay,

so Skinner was a hero when it came to his platoon buddies, there still was a

possibility that he could be a latent racist, which would account for...//

Before Mulder could complete his profile, he felt himself floating away from

the Marines and their hooches to the ville not far from where he'd first

seen them. He smelled diesel oil, trash, shit, the smoke coming from the

burning vegetation...and burning human flesh, and he panicked. Hearing the

AK-47's, he tried desperately to wake up, fighting his way up to

consciousness, but he was yanked back into slumber, and into the body of

villager after villager. The VC shot him, and shot him, and shot him, and

shot him, and the bullets seared through him. In his agony, a horrible

thought forced itself into his mind...and again, he knew, just knew that it

came from outside himself: If Skinner hadn't collapsed, the Marines would

have been here to stop this slaughter. As tired as they were, they

outnumbered this ragtag bunch of rebels, and would have kicked their butts.

Mulder hoped that with this realization that he'd be allowed to wake up, but

the VC kept shooting, and shooting, and shooting, and he was falling, and

choking, and choking, and he couldn't BREATHE, and...

Mulder screamed, and screamed, and screamed, but his jaded neighbors no

longer bothered to bang their protests against the wall. He woke up, eyes

wide with terror, adrenaline instantly removing all vestiges of slumber from

his body. Something had just tried to claw its way into his mind to stay. As

he had regained consciousness, he had felt it scratching, and scratching,

and scratching; and he had smelled it, and it smelled like rot, and death,

and he just had to get away! Then again, it was probably just his heart

trying to claw its way out of his chest, and run away to find a less

dangerous neighborhood than Mulder Ground Zero. Ah. Just another nightmare,

so what else was new? Still...it felt too real to him to be a

nightmare...but he wondered what the fuck else could it be?

Someone whispered in his ear. //Let me in, Agent Mulder.//

He jumped up from the couch, feeling-he knew irrationally feeling-that it

had betrayed him yet again by lulling him to sleep. He shouldn't have been

able to sleep, after all the crap he had been through this week, and

yesterday especially. He shot the couch an evil, sullen glare, and wondered

why he bothered having the lumpy exercise in sadomasochistic discomfort and

bad taste, if he was actually going to be able to sleep on the damned thing

for any length of time? Thanks to it, he had just had the worst nightmare of

all the multitudinous nightmares of his life.

He paced his apartment, doing his usual post-nightmare, deep breathing

exercises. The events of yesterday came rushing back to him with

embarrassing clarity,

//I fucking came on to Skinner! Shit!//

and his stomach, for the third time, tried to follow the laws of physics in

reverse: What goes down, must go up. Well, with his stomach, it figured it

would defy the laws of physics, he thought ruefully. That thought

short-circuited the nausea, and replaced it with anger: He couldn't do

anything right.

Mulder, overcome with self-loathing, gave his couch a couple of savage

kicks, grabbed his coat keys, and ran out of his apartment. "Fuck this!" he

said out loud, "I'm going to get my job back if I have to crawl, beg, and

kiss or kick every ass in the Hoover Building to get it." 

Within minutes, he was in his car, and within an hour's time, he was at his

boss's Crystal City apartment. He bounded into the building, and into the

elevator, giving himself a steady pep talk to shore up his nerves as the

elevator took him to Skinner's floor. "Come on, Mulder! You can do it! He

doesn't hate you. You just took the poor guy by surprise. He just thought

that you were behaving unprofessionally because you brought up the subject

of l-l-lo--sex at work. He'll respond to you more positively in a less

formal setting. Just because he looks like a harsh and vengeful God, doesn't

mean that he won't listen to reason...and if does, he'll kill you as quickly

and as humanely as possible with one swift, vicious bite to the neck, and

all your troubles will be over for good. Uhmm...maybe there's a good reason

that I'm not using my counseling credentials."

The elevator chimed, and its doors opened, but Mulder didn't wait before

they opened all the way before he squirmed his way out. He ran down the hall

to Skinner's apartment...and skidded to a stop just outside when he saw that

the door was wide open. Skinner would never leave his door wide open, Mulder

was sure of it. His boss was not a man who believed in the open door policy

at work, so he sure as hell wouldn't at home. There was something else that

Skinner would never allow that he felt trying to edge into his

mind...something totally out of place.

It was then that he realized that the air coming from the apartment was

redolent with the smell of rot, and mildew, and death, and Mulder felt every

hair on his body prickle as he realized that Spooky Mulder had had an honest

to god prophetic nightmare. Skinner's past definitely was going to figure

into the present somehow. He jerked back, leaned against the wall, and

listened. Silence...except for the sound of himself in the process of

hyperventilating. Just great. Whoever

//Whatever//

was in Skinner's apartment would hear him if he didn't calm down. Slowly, he

regained his composure, and ignoring the Voice of Reason, whose voice

sounded just like Scully's, he didn't call for backup. "Time to buy another

couch," he muttered as he drew his gun.

Normally, he would have scanned the room relentlessly for the source of the

strange smell...but once he saw them, the paintings drew him like golden

apples thrown before Atalanta. His boss never had anything on his apartment

walls any of the times he'd been here. He thought the man considered

paintings and photographs as effeminate affectations, and now his floor was

decorated, okay, littered, with high quality, apparently original works of

art.

Mulder automatically began to profile, once again ignoring the little Scully

voice in his head that was trying to tell him that profiling his boss was

how he'd gotten in trouble in the first damned place.

Mulder frowned, and bit his lip as he considered the

//crime?//

scene before him. He couldn't understand how Skinner could treat these

beautiful pieces with such disrespect-particularly that one that was

reminiscent of Carravagio-unless... Mulder shook his head at the vision of

the burly man in a beret and smock dabbing paint on a canvas, and laughed.

Probably these were Sharon's, or a friend's.

His mouth went dry as he saw the Picasso vision...and recognized the boy

from his nightmares, grenades and injuries all in the same positions, in

spite of the cubist take on him. Skinner HAD to have done this painting...or

one of his friends. The Scully voice scolded that Skinner had told him about

this long ago, his dream merely reminded him of it to show him what had

driven his boss over the edge. Next to it, however, he saw a beautifully

erotic painting of two nude men that shot that theory to hell. The

"subconscious mind giving him a solution in his dreams theory" didn't

explain why he would know what Skinner's C.O. looked like, or even exactly

what Skinner himself would look like at age eighteen. Maybe, he thought with

growing excitement, the paintings were the key to his nightmares, and to

understanding Skinner. He noticed that there were countless smaller sketches

of yet more male nudes (What the?), just begging him to take a closer look.

Setting his gun down, Mulder put on his glasses, and bent down to look at

them, then jumped back up, blushing furiously when he saw how many of them

were of him

/Given name: Fox William Mulder.//

//FBI Name: Spooky.//

//Indian name: He Who Stupidly Licks His Boss's Lips).//

...giving head. Well, at least he'd definitely ruled out Sharon as his prime

suspect for perpetrating these paintings.

Mulder's eyes got a wild, angry glittering sheen to them as he squatted down

to stare at the erotic paintings of himself in various attitudes. Hardest to

stomach of all was the Death of Sardanapalus take off showing scantily clad

versions of him being killed again, and again by A.D. Skinner. All of the

sympathy he'd felt for young Skinner vanished.

Despite his desire to rip the salacious images of himself into tiny pieces,

the lanky agent used the rage and embarrassment they engendered to fuel his

blistering profile of Skinner at a reckless, jittering pace. //Bastard,

bastard, bastard! How many ways can he betray me in one week? I saved his

life for the second time, and what did he do? He copped a feel, and

institutionalized me. He had me placed in full restraints, which damn near

got me killed, and when I tried to tell him just how I felt about it, he

copped another feel before throwing my ass out of his office, and firing me!

While I'm at home crying and puking my guts up, and having the worst

nightmare of my life, he's making jerk rag fantasy paintings of me sucking

him off then killing me.

How could I have been so stupid as to lo-trust this man! This isn't the

first time he has betrayed me, this is just the worst. Destroying crime

scene evidence on the scene in my name, and in my computer was nothing

compared to this.

What kind of monster is he? Is he a serial killer at heart? Is he a gay

homophobe who must project his self-loathing upon all who make him face once

again the truth about his sexual preference? Is it possible that he could be

45 years old, and still not know this most basic fact about himself, that he

is gay, or at the very least bi-sexual?

Will the incidents of this morning trigger a killing rage? Has it already?

Is this the reason that the door was left open...he feared that such a rage

had come upon him, and that he had to leave, or he would surely give into

his darker nature? Or, maybe he has already given into his darker nature.

Perhaps he left his apartment in order to find the cause of this latest

outrage upon his wounded psyche, and avenge himself. If I had arrived just

thirty minutes earlier...//

Mulder stopped profiling, closed his eyes, and bit his lip, as the memory of

yet another bald headed, bespectacled Assistant Director with a penchant for

art assailed him. He couldn't shake the image, and it made him begin again.

Was Skinner really so different from Patterson, and his gargoyle statues,

statues in which he hid the hideously mutilated bodies of his beautiful male

victims? Skinner's paintings manifested the same desires that his

predecessor had attained in reality...a desire to possess and mutilate what

obsessed him. Oh God....

Yet, the paintings of him were beautiful, sensual, compelling...he'd never

looked so good. Even in the worst one, Skinner looked as if he were killing

him against his will. Shit! How pathetic was he anyway? He was repeating the

typical abusive patterns of his childhood, and early relationships, in

which...

"I've been waiting for you, Mulder."

Mulder yelped and jerked up, startled by the eerie, lisping voice.

Immediately, the miasma of the jungle surrounded him as he searched to room

for the voice.

"Up here, by the ceiling fan."

Mulder snatched up his gun, cursing himself for being distracted. Wildly, he

looked around the room not wanting to be THAT gullible as to immediately

look by the ceiling fan...then gave in to his original instinct. To his

mortification, there was a scrawny Asian boy grinning down at him from near

the ceiling fan. The boy was covered with grenades and bloody bullet holes.

Bleached bones and intestines gleamed through his torn flesh like shut-in

pale skin through ragged clothes. Mulder didn't need Scully to tell him that

the child's wounds had been fatal.

The phantom boy laughed at him. "So, Mulder, I've been dreaming about

you...and here you are. I bet you thought it was the other way around."

"Who are you? What are you..."

"Agent Mulder, you know what I am, and surely some concept of the stupidity

of holding a gun on a ghost has crossed your mind."

Mulder lowered his gun, and nodded his head. "So has the concept of the

stupidity of taking you at face value," he said. "Why would the ghost of a

Vietnamese child speak to me in fluent English? Answer: Because you aren't

the ghost of a Vietnamese child. Why don't you just cut the shit, and tell

me what you really are?"

The ghost floated down, and stared coldly into Mulder's eyes, transforming

his face into that of a rawboned, hard, tough, pre-maturely aged Vietnamese

woman. Surrounded by a sea of white, her irises were cold, dark, bottomless

pits in which the stuff of Mulder's nightmares lurked just waiting for the

opportunity to drag him down. They gave a glint of grief-stricken insanity

to her anger. "I appeared to you as my poor, murdered baby, not to deceive

you, but because I thought it might drive home the message of those dreams I

sent you more forcefully. My name is Madame Ly. In life, I was a Taoist

sorceress and priestess and translator. You will help me."

"You're the ghost of Taoist sorceress?" Despite his fear, Mulder felt

shivers of excitement course through his body at his discovery. "You sent me

those nightmares about Skinner? How? Did you use sorcery, or are you a

different kind of ghost, and this is just part of being a ghost? Did you

just connect me with Skinner's mind? I'm not that familiar with Asian

ghosts."

The ghost laughed, "I see your professional curiosity is beginning to temper

your rude tongue. Very well, Agent Mulder, I'll give you the proper

technical term for your files. I did use sorcery to send you memories from

the collective unconscious of all those who were involved in the death of my

boy, but I am indeed a different sort of ghost. I am what is known as a

hungry ghost."

 "Uh, look," Mulder said raising his hands, "I'm a lot tougher than I

look...I'd be stringy, and you'd get me stuck between your teeth, and..."

She snorted in disgust, "I should have known that you would waste my time by

making utterly absurd cannibal jokes. "

Mulder smiled sheepishly, "Sorry. What's a hungry ghost? I do have a

professional interest in your answer, no matter how many bad jokes I make.

Are both you and the Old Woman hungry ghosts?"

She shook her head curtly, and answered. "No. The Old Woman is an honored

ancestor, and a Guardian Spirit. She's more than a ghost, but less than a

goddess. Don't think that she can help you though, because I know how to

handle her..."

"Help me? Why would she?" Mulder said with a shrug, hoping that he didn't

look as scared as he felt. "Anyway, I thought that *you* were the one who

needed *my* help. Why don't you tell me more about hungry ghosts, and why

they do what they do, so that I can help you?"

 She stared at him severely, as if making up her mind to believe him or not,

then nodded. "Very well, Madame Ly said coldly, "we hungry ghosts are the

souls of those who died prematurely, or by violence. We'll do anything, from

possessing your body down to appearing before you everywhere you go or

whispering in your ear night and day, in order to achieve our aims."

"So I DID hear you whispering in my ear!" Mulder said excitedly. "I still

don't understand why you call yourself a hungry ghost..."

Madame Ly glared at him and cut him off with an imperious wave of her hand.

"If you would ever cease your annoying chattering you would learn something!

We are called hungry ghosts because we can never become honored ancestors

like the Old Woman, nor can we go to heaven, and thus can never be fed by

the offerings of our descendants."

"Which would mean you wouldn't be as powerful without those offerings, but

that doesn't seem to be the case for you...Why?" Mulder said, his face

creasing into a puzzled frown.

Madame Ly gave Mulder a warning stare, and waited until he bit his lip to

insure his silence before she continued. "As a sorceress, I'm far more

powerful than most hungry ghosts, but like all other hungry ghosts, I'm

doomed to hell, or to walk the earth, to avenge my death by violent

means..."

 Mulder's eyes widened. "Violent means! SHIT! I'm sorry, I use my fists more

than I should, and I've killed in self-defense, but I'm no murderer. Now, if

you want me to help you find justice..."

"HOW COULD YOU FEEL WHAT MY BABY FELT, AND NOT USE VIOLENCE TO AVENGE HIM!"

she roared, and the room coruscated with her outrage and her sorrow. Its

energy slammed Mulder against the wall, stunning him just long enough for

her to penetrate his defenses. Within seconds her voice was echoing inside

his head, and she was rifling through his mind and memories.

//Interesting place you have here, Agent Mulder. I see you know Mr. Pincus,

and all my other friends. I bet all this time you thought that you were just

having nightmares, too. //

He felt as though he were tied up, watching a thief ransack his house. //I

refuse to think about the ramifications of that statement.//

//Ah, tied up? Is that how I make you feel? So many people have done that to

you lately, haven't they? The chicken wire experience...and of course, your

boss seems to do that at every opportunity, does he not? Choke holds in the

hallway, across the desk, against the wall...//

Mulder staggered to the couch, and sat down heavily, wondering why he was

still having nightmares if he was really awake. The outside world had become

mere Muzak for Mulder's inner drama. He could hear the neighbors making love

next door, the couple in the apartment above arguing ...but he could barely

move, couldn't so much as yell for help. He felt as though each of his arms

and legs had been assigned its own personal elephant to weight it down.

Despite this impediment, he clapped his hands to his ears, and held his

head, desperately trying to block out her voice.

//You're holding me in. How sweet!// She smirked, a smirk he could feel on

his own face, and sent the sensation of being groped to his helpless body.

It was intolerable.

"FUCK YOU, BITCH! GET OUT, GET OUT!" Mulder screamed as he shook his head

with all the strength he could muster. It was feeble at best, and he paid

dearly for it.

The ghost made the image of her fury darkened face swell to fill every

corner of his mind. //DON'T YOU *EVER* CALL ME THAT! YOU'LL DO AND SAY

WHATEVER *I* TELL YOU TO, OR ELSE!//

At her words, Mulder felt incredible pain shooting through his body, and

laid down on the couch, crying out incoherent pleas for mercy. This was much

worse than the Pusher had ever been. That had been a mere tug of war. This

was agony; this was torture.

 He was terrified by the implications of her behavior. If he didn't find a

way to outwit her, both he and Skinner would be as good as dead before she

was through with them. Rationalization was a poor weapon, but it was all he

could think of right then, and he used it. //Look. In addition to all the

paranoid thoughts you've found while rummaging around in my brain, you must

have found out that I think that there was probably a very good explanation

for Skinner's past and current behavior. I sincerely doubt that he's a

cold-blooded killer due to the fact that...//

 //...due to the fact that he's more properly called a mass murderer.// She

finished for him. //What else would you call someone who is responsible for

the deaths of everyone in an entire village? A genocidal maniac? Pardon me,

maybe you could return the favor, and give me the proper technical term used

by your profession...//

Mulder could feel her bitter laughter shaking his body. That bizarre

reminder of how far out of control he was of his own body panicked him, and

he struggled to deny her as much as possible. //NO! I don't believe you...//

Her hard, clipped, impatient tones reverberated through his mind, forcing

him to listen. //Oh, but you do believe me. Stop wasting my time. That's why

you're so scared. You know that dream was no dream...It really happened. You

knew it for a fact the moment you saw the painting of your boss and his

lover.//

It was true as far as it went, but something didn't feel right about it. She

wasn't telling him all of it...and she seemed anxious...in a hurry. That was

reason enough for Mulder to stall. So much for the rationalization strategy,

it was time for him to bring out the big gun: Sucking up. // You're right.

It's time I admitted the truth. We've both been hurt so much. Atrocities

have been committed, and my experience with the X Files makes me the only

human being who could help you find justice. It's been hard for you, hasn't

it? This can't be the first time that you've tried to avenge your son...It's

that other ghost isn't it, the one who's protecting my boss? I bet that

bitch has kept you from it. C'mon. You know you want to tell. You've been

holding this in for twenty-seven years. //

There was a lessening of tension that went through his body, the more he

spoke to her, and her next words were calm in tone, even though they still

were hostile in their implications. //Atrocities have been committed? Even

as much as he has hurt you, even after what I've shown you, you still can't

quite assign the blame where it belongs. Unbelievable. It doesn't matter.

You'll see soon enough. We'll pick up where we left off. Behold the man

whose place you will take: your boss's commanding officer, Lt. Harry

Matthews.//

Mulder sighed with relief. There could be nothing good about replacing a man

that she held as responsible for her son's death as she did Skinner, but she

was talking instead of trying to kill anyone, and that was a promising

start. As she spoke, Mulder felt the most wonderful, comforting warmth

spreading through his pain-wracked body, and he felt like he was floating.

The pictures started again, with all their previous vividness.

Solar: August 24, 1971, Tuesday, 5:00 PM

Lunar: 7-5-71 Year of the Pig

Containing Metal of Bracelets

Month of the Dog

Hour of the Horse

The stench of the jungle overlaid with the trash overlaid with fish sauce

and other strange, spicy, tangy unidentifiable smells came through as

clearly as the pictures. This time the images were far more complex. Mulder

was simultaneously watching Harry and his thoughts. It was though he became

Harry, yet he could still see him as a separate person.

He saw the long-legged, broad-shouldered Marine slouching against the

outside wall of a hut. Harry's handsome face was drawn and his large, solemn

gray eyes were heavy lidded with weariness. He obviously hadn't slept for

three nights at least. Mulder laughed when he realized that Harry was

rubbing the bridge of his nose for comfort, just as Skinner always did.

//So THAT'S where he got that from!//

He sensed the C.O.'s thoughts and feelings, and he watched fascinated as the

jumble of Harry's worries, which all featured the same troublesome

subordinate, echoed around him. He was worrying in particular over the

comments that his other subordinates, who were the man's peers, had made

behind his back about this pain in the command backside.

 "More brains than common sense,"

 and

"He thinks he's haunted! He's nuts,"

and

"Before he cracked up, I always thought he'd be running the show by the time

he was thirty. That's what always happens to the smart ones, though...."

and

"God, do you hear the poor bastard screaming in his sleep? No wonder he

doesn't sleep that much."

and

"We all have nightmares, but goddamn, he's crazy twenty-four fucking hours a

day!"

and

"What does he mean that they're coming to possess him? SHIT!"

 Mulder frowned and craned his head the better to see the images playing in

his mind. //Who the hell are they talking about? Who is he worried about?

Surely it can't be!//

Instead of an answer, the snide remarks of the subordinates were replaced by

the harsh, clipped, stuffy tones of Harry's superior officers.

"We do not dispute the young man's brilliance," they had told him, "nor that

he has outperformed his peers in nearly every respect. As point man, he is

clearly the best. His demonstrated ability to detect mines, booby traps, and

the enemy without a misstep in 8 months verges upon the preternatural. He

has demonstrated extraordinary courage and has excelled at every assignment

that you have given him."

"We understand why you want to protect such an asset to your platoon. You

still cannot allow him to run off half-cocked chasing after ghosts, no

matter what personal losses and suffering that he has endured. Your own

record is exemplary, but if you continue to grant his outlandish requests,

and indulge his every whim, you may find that you will not advance as

quickly as you are accustomed. You are only twenty-seven, Harry. You have a

bright future with the Marines, and you need to choose your alliances more

wisely..."

The visions of his superiors were replaced by deep, martyred, resentful

sighs that the subordinate had repaid his concern by ditching

him...otherwise, known as going AWOL. Lt. Harry Matthews sat down wearily,

and held his head in his hands, and started muttering to himself. "Corporal

Skinner, there must be a good reason why your C.O. isn't wringing your neck

instead of always trying to save your ungrateful, mouthy ass, but I'll be

damned if I know what it is. He must be as crazy as you are. Yeah, I'd say

definitely as crazy as you are. He's starting to talk to himself."

Mulder laughed. He just felt like he did when his Grandmother told him about

the time that his mother skipped school, and got a spanking for it: Gleeful

at finding that the forbidding saint was just as human as he was. //Oh God,

that's too good to be true! Shit! Mr. Walter S. By-The-Book-Hardass-Marine

Skinner, just wait until I see you

again! //

Mulder indulged in his spiteful joy for just for a moment, then quickly

sobered up as he remembered how he came to possess this knowledge. If this

is her idea of how to make him sympathetic toward her cause, she had

seriously misjudged him. Then again, maybe she was just trying to distract

him with what he WANTED to see so that he would miss what he NEEDED to see.

He vowed to be more vigilant and emotionally detached lest he miss anything

that he could use against her. The truth was in him now.

As soon as Harry strained to listen to the conversation inside, the scene

changed to the inside of the hut. The hut evidently had been the source of

the oddest of the aromas that had assailed him, because they nearly

overpowered Mulder now.

There were rows upon rows full of scavenged bottles and cans full of the

most intriguing spices, mushrooms, flower buds, living flowers, and herbs,

bones, crystals, and powders of all colors. There were drying plants and

herbs of all descriptions hanging from the ceiling as well as mummified

animal remains, amulets, and charms. Some of the amulets and charms were

explicitly erotic. Adorning the walls and shelves were bright yellow and red

paintings of various deities, and animals, intricately carved wooden and

ivory wands, other phallic objects, brightly colored masks, swords, jade and

onyx statues, and stones, and all sizes of octagonal mirrors inscribed with

Chinese calligraphy.

It was a motley collection, but for all that, there was a certain, artful

charm about the way it was arranged. Mulder recognized the object of Harry's

concern talking to the Vietnamese Priestess/Sorceress...the 18-year-old

Walter Skinner. He was a slender, lightly muscled, handsome boy with longish

(for the military) coal dark hair. He gawked at the strange wares of the

hut, warily scrutinizing the contents of the bottles, and respectfully

touching the exotic objets d'art and curiosities.

"Your dreams have brought you to me," a commanding female voice boomed. It

could not be said to be feminine. "Corporal Walter Sergei Skinner, I've been

waiting for you."

Startled, Walter jumped and turned around to face the woman who was

addressing him. "How-how did you know about me?"

Mulder inhaled sharply and tensed when he recognized the woman in his vision

as the Vietnamese Sorceress who had been tormenting him for hours.

Instinctively, he knew. This was it. This was when Skinner had fucked up his

life...and he was going to see it.

She gave no sign of her what was in store to her prey, though, merely turned

on the showmanship and the charm like any self-respecting religious leader.

The Sorceress was out to dazzle the young corporal, and this she did easily.

She was an impressive, striking presence despite her rawboned, leathery face

and callused hands, which hinted at her country roots and hard life. As she

scrutinized Walter, her eyes glowed with a keen intelligence and strength

that was at odds with the crazed expression they had held for Mulder, and

she carried herself with a ramrod straight dignity and authority. Her

immaculate, yellow priestess robes with their long, flowing sleeves and

graceful lines and folds enhanced her gestures with drama and mystery.

The Sorceress wrinkled into a kindly smile at Walter's wide-eyed awestruck

gaze. "Who doesn't know about you?" she said kindly. "You have gone from

village to village talking to anyone that even looked as though he had a

charm or feng shui mirror to sell. I think half of Vietnam sold you

something, and the other half is getting its wares ready. You've been here

long enough to know that a free spending American soon loses his anonymity."

Walter looked down at his feet and blushed, and looked back up with an

embarrassed grin.

The Sorceress laughed out loud, and placed a comforting arm around his

shoulders. "You've done nothing to be ashamed of, Walter. You have acted

wisely in consulting a priestess. Until now, you just hadn't been lucky

enough to consult the right one...and now you have! My name is Madame Ly.

Please be seated," she said gesturing theatrically to a stool in front of a

makeshift table.

Walter sat down as bidden, and with a dramatic flourish, The Sorceress took

her place across from him in an intricately woven rattan chair. She lit a

candle and sprinkled some incense in a bronze dragon-shaped charcoal

brazier, and instantly, a flash of light and smoke puffed out of its

nostrils.

"WOW! That's seriously cool!" he grinned. "My mom would love one of those."

"Young man, I am not a peddler showing you my wares; I am doing this for a

serious purpose," Madame Ly chided, fixing him with a stern glare. "This

smoke is the means by which I will invite the gods to help you. You must

maintain a serious attitude and a deep level of concentration if you would

tap the power of the Tao."

"No disrespect intended ma'am," he said contritely. "I just thought it was

cool. I've never seen anything like it...or met anyone like you either. Like

you said, I've visited just about any Taoist priest or priestess I could

find, and you seem..."

"Better educated than most?" she said arching an inquiring eyebrow, and

smiling.

He nodded his head, and smiled broadly, relieved that she seemed to have

forgotten her irritation. "Yeah...you speak English better than most of the

guys in my unit...and that's the only language they speak! How did you

learn?"

She smiled at him, and the candlelight transformed her face into an eerie

ghoulish mask, as strange and beguiling as any of the masks on the walls of

her hut. "My mother was also a priestess, but my father was a French

soldier. He deserted us to return to France, but he paid for my education.

The tuition money went directly to the convent too, so that my mother

couldn't use it for anything else. No matter," she said waving her hand as

if to dismiss the unpleasant image. "At school, I displayed a talent for

languages, and I learned English, French, Chinese, and several Vietnamese

dialects. At night, my mother tutored me in the ways of the Tao. I became an

interpreter. I lived quite well...until the war destroyed everything I held

dear. These are the remnants of my former life that I was able to scavenge,"

she made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the entire hut.

Walter let out a low whistle as he admired her beautiful and intricate works

of art and curiosities once more. "Boy, that must have been some place you

had! I wish I could have seen it in its prime. Why are you staying in a hut,

though? Wouldn't you be able to stay in an apartment or something? Being an

interpreter, you could..."

"NO!" she interrupted, and shook her head vigorously, "That would mean

working for the military, helping a war that cost me everyone and everything

I love. I refuse to do that. I've scratched out a living as best I can from

my calling as a priestess. It is useless to fight against the flow. I forgot

this, and the gods chastened me for my arrogance..." Her voice trailed off,

and her eyes unfocussed as she went into a trance.

Walter watched her nervously, as he twisted the coal black strands of his

hair around his long, brown fingers. Finally, he shifted uncomfortably, and

the sound brought The Sorceress back to the present.

"I'm sorry," she said sadly. "You didn't come here to hear about my

troubles. You need my help. How may I be of service?"

Despite her conciliatory attitude, her invitation all too obviously agitated

Walter. He tensed up, biting his lip, tapping his fingers on the makeshift

table, unable to look at her. She merely waited impassively. That only made

it worse. He lurched up and paced for a moment, as if trying to come to a

decision. The pacing only served to irritate him since he kept bumping into

the herbs, flowers and amulets hanging from the ceiling, and he growled in

frustration as he continually brushed them aside.

Finally, he sat back down heavily on the stool, slumped and shamefaced. "I'm

really sorry to bother you with this ma'am," he said his dark brown eyes

pleading with her for understanding, "I know it'll sound so stupid, compared

to everything you've been through...but I'm desperate for your help. I can't

sleep. I can't eat. I can't think of anything else, except how do I

escape... I see him every night. I'll go anywhere, any time to find a way to

stop him...even if I have to go AWOL. Harry, my C.O., can't keep covering

for me forever. Ah hell, I'm not making any sense," he said, and buried his

face in his hands.

"So the little boy you killed is taking his vengeance?" she said cocking her

head, looking inquiringly at him.

Walter jerked up, and stared at her. The soft light of the room and his

expression of open-mouthed surprise made him appear as if he were 10 instead

of 18. She said nothing, but watched and waited, and once again, she won the

waiting game. He looked away, and hung his head. "Yes," he whispered.

She leaned forward, like a lioness moving in for the kill. Every muscle was

taut, and her expression was fierce and intense. "Listen to me! I can help

you, but you must promise me that you will follow my instructions to the

letter! If you stray from what I tell you so much as by one word, all will

be ruined! PROMISE!" she hissed.

"ANYTHING, ma'am! ANYthing."

"First of all, you must pick a lucky date to do your ritual. Above all, you

must promise me that you will not do this ritual on the 5th, 14th or 23rd of

our months. These dates, are ALWAYS, ALWAYS unlucky. Do you understand?"

"What about today? It's August 25th? Is the 25th lucky? The sooner I can go

back to normal the better."

The Sorceress closed her eyes and chanted...as she did, the smoke from the

bronze dragon's nose and mouth changed color from gray to yellow and red,

and eddied around them in sinuous, Art Nouveau swirls. Walter thought he

could see faces leering at him from the smoke, and shook his head in shock

and disbelief. He opened his mouth to tell The Sorceress, but she cut him

off peremptorily. "The gods have spoken. Today will serve the purpose well."

She opened her eyes, and fixed him with a stare. "Are you sure that you are

ready to do what must be done?"

He stood up, and calmly returned her gaze, "Yes ma'am. When do I

start?" "Immediately," she said. She rose from her chair, and grabbed an

amulet hanging from the ceiling. With a grand sweeping gesture, which made

her yellow robes billow out dramatically. She raised her hands; the amulet

clenched in her left one, and muttered a chant. Slowly she clapped both

hands together, and lowered the dangling amulet into the red and yellow

smoke spewing forth from the bronze dragon, passing it back and forth while

continuing to chant.

"HOLY SHIT!" Walter yelled, and jumped back, as all the red and yellow smoke

in the room swirled around them like a whirlpool, and into the amulet.

"Come back here, boy!" she commanded. "I thought you said that you would do

anything. Are you going to be scared by a little smoke? How will you be able

to perform a ritual of absolution if you are scared by such trifles?"

He blushed, and shook his head, unable to speak. The Sorceress stared at him

through narrowed eyes until he looked down, and actually began to squirm.

Satisfied, she nodded curtly, and placed the amulet around his neck. "You

must wear this at all times. It will draw the gods to you at the appointed

time. Next, you must go to the Temple of the Door Between Worlds. You

haven't much time. The ritual *must* be completed today...or I cannot

guarantee the results. She handed him a piece of paper and a flask of oil.

"Follow the instructions here. You will find the locations of both the

temple and the offerings you must give, and a phonetic version of the prayer

you must say since there is no way you'll be able to carry everything. I

will give you a few things though...."

 Her voice faded to a drone, and the scene once more switched to Harry as he

strained to hear the conversation in the hut. As he heard them coming to the

door, Harry scrambled to hide behind a water barrel until Walter left.

Mulder could hear Harry's outraged thoughts...

//She played him for a sucker. I bet that bitch took his last dollar, and

gave him a powder that'll make him puke his guts out besides. //

... could feel the fury building in him, until he exploded.

He saw the young lieutenant snarl, jump out from behind the water barrel,

slam the door to the hut open...

...only to find absolutely nothing.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Harry yelled. He looked wildly around the hut as he ran his

hand through his hair, stunned by this turn of events.

Mulder felt his stomach flop sympathetically as he heard Harry's panicky

thoughts. //This can't be. I distinctly saw smoke. I heard voices...and they

most definitely were *not* in my head. I can't be that tired. I'm not even

stoned for a change. God...what has the kid gotten himself into? SHIT!//

That last thought galvanized Harry, and he broke into a run into the jungle

in the direction he last saw Walter, heedless of claymores and booby traps.