Through the Looking Glass
by Lovesfox

Headers in Prologue


Part 17

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Diary of Liza MacGregor
November 19, 1918

My ill health has been long-standing, and I do believe my time 
on this earth is nearing its end.  

I will go to my grave still unsatisfied.  Bitterly unknowing if 
the curse will die out with Essie, the last of Rose and John's 
line.

I feel no remorse for my actions.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Scully's Room
Monday, May 23, 2000
3:55 AM


Scully was not exactly sure what had disturbed her slumber.  Her 
eyes shot open and she sat up, feeling disoriented and confused.

Eager to dispel the darkness and her sudden unease, needing the 
warmth and reassurance of light, she reached out with fumbling 
fingers to turn on the table lamp to her left.

Only the light did not come on.

The distant rumble of thunder had Scully turning her head towards 
the windows –- windows she had cracked open a few inches upon 
retiring –- and she recognized the sound just now registering in 
her brain.  

It was raining quite heavily.  

At the next, louder crack of thunder, preceded by a jagged flash 
of lightning, she amended that statement.  It was storming.

Pushing the blankets off her body, she swung her legs over the 
window-side of the bed and rose.  With slow steps, her body 
feeling heavy and stuporous, she reached the low table in front 
of the windows.  

Her hand swept lightly over the smooth wood surface and located 
the book of matches she knew to be there, and then the antique 
candleholder with taper.

It took two attempts to light the candle –- her hand shook so 
much that the first match extinguished itself before she could 
touch it to the wick.

Turning, the candleholder cradled carefully in her hand, the 
reflection of the flame in the cheval mirror caught her eye.  
Her free arm fell limply to her side as she lifted the holder
up, moving forward.

The flame in the mirror seemed to burn brighter, to flare 
higher.

Hesitantly, almost dreamily, Scully watched her free hand rise 
up towards the mirror.  Her fingers touched the glass, but met 
no resistance.

Instead the surface was like cool liquid.  Soft, slow ripples 
flowed away like water –- a disturbance created by her touch.

Entranced, she pushed further, and watched her hand go through
to her wrist, then to her elbow.  With her gaze locked on the 
image of her reflection's hand merging into her own, she moved 
closer and closer to the mirror.  Her arm moved further and 
further into the silvery liquid pool.  The candlestick fell to 
the floor, the candle's flame extinguishing itself immediately.  
She never noticed.

Feeling a little like Alice going through the looking glass, 
Scully stepped into the mirror.

***

Mulder's Room
4:03 AM


A particularly loud crack of thunder awoke Mulder from a very 
strange dream in which he had been running through a dark, wet 
woods searching for Scully.  Calling her name, the sound of 
his voice lost amid his stumbling, crashing footsteps and the 
ominous storm.  

He bolted upright with a loud, shuddery gasp of exhaled air.  
Sweat beaded on his forehead, and a chill wracked his body, 
making him shiver.

Jagged lightning filled the room then, and glancing towards the 
window, he saw that it was raining heavily.  No wonder he had 
been dreaming of rain.  The forest of his dream, or nightmare, 
flashed in his mind briefly, and somehow he knew it was that 
behind the inn.

He ran one hand through his hair before reaching over to turn 
the little bedside lamp on.  The little key-shaped knob turned 
with a noisy click, but there was no light.

Deducing that the power was out, he grumbled under his breath 
as he shoved the covers off his lower half.  Twisting his body, 
he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, 
stretching the kinks out by leaning first to one side, and 
then the other.

Fully wide-awake now, he moved to the bureau where he had put 
his watch and picking it up, pressed the tiny button for the 
light.  It was just after four a.m.  There was no point in 
trying to go back to bed now -- he normally got up around five 
anyway.  But he wouldn't be able to look at the case files; 
reading by candlelight was not his style.  Not to mention the 
fact that it gave him a raging headache.

After using the bathroom, drinking a glass of water, and 
brushing his teeth, he stood uncertainly in the doorway leading 
to his room.  A vague sense of unease had him deciding to check 
on Scully.  

Returning to his bed, he picked up his discarded tee shirt from 
where he had tossed it over the footboard, and pulled it on.  He
then moved through the connecting bathroom to the door leading 
to Scully's room.

Tapping softly on the wood surface, he waited a moment before 
carefully turning the knob.  Poking his head through the 
partially open door, he called out her name in an exaggerated 
whisper.

There was no reply.

He said it again, louder, pushing the door open wider and 
advancing further inside.  Still nothing, which was unusual.  
While definitely a solid sleeper, Scully also always woke 
quickly.

Just then a bright flash of lightning lit the entire room, 
revealing the empty bed, its covers tossed back.  Forgetting 
decorum, Mulder strode over to stand beside the bed, calling 
out with some alarm, "Scully?"

It was then that he saw her, lying crumpled on the floor in 
front of the cheval mirror.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, and then yelled out, "I need some help 
here!" Stumbling in his haste to get around the bed, he fell 
to his knees beside her unmoving form, sitting on his haunches. 
His shaking hands reached out and touched her shoulders to turn 
her completely on her back, as she lay partially on her side.

Scully's skin was cold to the touch, and clammy.  His suddenly 
clumsy fingers fumbled at her neck, searching for a pulse.  At 
first there was nothing, and he found himself mouthing, "Please, 
please."

***

In the Mirror...


Cold.

It was so cold here.  Scully could see each of her breaths as 
she exhaled, puffing into the air to hang for milliseconds 
before fading away into nothingness.  Gooseflesh rippled over 
her exposed arms and legs, and she shivered.  Lifting her 
hands and crossing them over her chest, she massaged her 
biceps with quick rubbing motions, trying to stimulate some 
warmth.

But where was here?  

She blinked slowly, realizing that she did not know where she 
was; that she could not remember how she had come to be in 
this place.  Yet, while puzzled, she was strangely undisturbed 
with her lack of knowledge, of understanding.

Pushing the thought aside, she walked forward with movements 
that were slow and languid, looking around with a detached 
curiosity.  

Passing furniture she vaguely thought she recognized –- a 
large, four-poster bed covered in a quilt, a low table with 
a pretty, rose-patterned bowl and ewer –- her fingertips 
reached out to touch the china pottery.  Instead, they passed 
right through it.  She tried again and again, with the same 
result.  It was difficult to comprehend that the object was 
insubstantial, unreal.

Blinking in an attempt to clear the haze from her eyes, and 
failing completely, she abandoned the pottery and continued 
onward.  Through an open doorway and down a hall that seemed 
endless, her footsteps echoing faintly.  Eerily.  Mist drifted 
and swirled in the air above her, curled coolly around her 
bare feet and calves.

There were other doorways along the hallway, but they were 
dim outlines only, their shapes distorted and out of kilter.  
The doors themselves, while fuzzy and indistinct, were closed, 
and seemed of a forbidden nature.

So she walked on, though she seemed to go nowhere.

Slowly she became aware of shapes forming from the mists.  
Shapes that became wraith-like images of human figures...images 
of women.  Idly, she wondered who they were, wondered if they 
might be the women who had disappeared.  

A sense of unease rose within her at that thought, as her brain 
struggled to make a connection, but the feeling subsided just 
as quickly, and she let it go without concern. 

The figures floated past her and over her, surrounding her, and 
she reached out to touch their gossamer threads.  Her hands 
found nothing to grasp or connect with, instead passing through 
and leaving wispy trails in their wake.  Undisturbed, the 
apparitions continued their swirling air dance.

On her neck suddenly, a feeling of warmth and pressure –- a 
hand.  She stopped, her own arm rising, her fingers touching 
the spot and encountering only her bare skin.  Her head tilted
to one side.  She knew that touch, that hand.  

Mulder.  

She had to go back.  Turning, she headed back the way she had 
come, her footsteps heavy and syrupy.  Through the opened door, 
past the four-poster bed and towards the mirror, as if she were 
being drawn there.

As she got closer, she could see him, see Mulder, instead of 
her reflection.  He was hunched over, cradling something in 
his arms.  Cradling someone.

Scully's gasp was audible.  He was cradling *her*.

***

Mulder found her pulse at last, thready and weak, barely 
fluttering against his fingertips.  His eyes darted up to her 
face, and even in the darkness, he could easily see that she 
was ghostly pale.  

Another burst of lightning illuminated the room, and he saw 
that her lips were bloodless and tinged a faint blue.  "Come 
on, Scully," he muttered, his heart beating triple time, sick 
fear rising in his gorge.  And then a little louder, "Help me 
out here, Scully!"

Mulder began roughly chafing his hands up and down her bare 
arms, trying to warm her flesh, to elicit a response.  Any 
response.

But she remained silent.  Motionless.  Still as...death.

His panic increased, and his movements became more frantic as 
he tried desperately to rouse her, shaking her in his fear.  
The volume of his voice increased yet again, almost a shout.  
"Scully! Jesus, Scully, wake up!"

It struck him then, hard.  Her lips were blue.  Oh, Jesus.  
Was she breathing?  Mulder bent at the waist, awkwardly, 
laying his right ear on her chest.  Waiting for her breasts 
to rise and fall.  But he was shaking so badly he couldn't 
tell if she moved or not.

He shifted, and holding his breath, brought his face as close 
to hers as he could without touching her.  Hoping to feel her 
soft exhalations wash over him as she breathed.  

There was nothing.

What was he supposed to do?  Christ, this was Scully's 
department, not his.  A flashback to the bowels of a spaceship 
in the Antarctica, and suddenly he was hearing her voice in 
his head, calmly telling him what to do.  He needed to perform 
Rescue Breathing.

Inhaling and exhaling quickly, bracing himself, Mulder bent 
over her and gently nudged at the underside of her chin, 
tilting her head back.  Cupping her jaw to hold her steady, 
he used the thumb and forefinger of his other hand to gently 
pinch her nostrils together.  Covering her mouth with his, 
he pressed down, making a seal, and breathed slowly, while
watching to see if her chest rose.  It did, so he knew there 
was no obstruction in her airway.  He breathed into her mouth 
once more, and then slid his fingers to her carotid artery, 
once again checking her pulse.  

It was still there, but as faint and weak as it had been the 
first time he checked it.

Pausing to yell loudly for help, Mulder commenced with the 
rescue breathing, giving one breath every five seconds.  Softly 
he counted 'one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one 
thousand, and then inhaled on the fourth count and breathed 
into Scully on the fifth.

After roughly a minute, he checked her pulse yet again.  
Prepared to begin CPR if he could not find one.  There was 
no change; it was no stronger, nor any weaker.

"Scully, please, come back to me," he whispered, before placing 
his mouth on hers once more.  

Breathe, count the seconds, breathe.

***

In the Mirror...


Scully stumbled to a halt as ice-cold shock coursed through 
her veins, and she nearly fell.  Her thoughts were whirling, 
and she felt dizzy and weak, her head pounding furiously.

She struggled for comprehension, to understand what her eyes 
were seeing.  How could she be in two places at the same time?

Some rational part of her mind supplied the answer -– she 
could not.

Sudden and sickening horror filled her, had her staggering 
and then falling to her knees.  Was she dead?  Was that why 
she was in this place, with the ghosts of other women?   

Was this her fate?  Doomed to spend eternity...

Her train of thought was interrupted as Mulder chafed his 
hands up and down her...other self's...arms.  Scully swore 
she felt the sensation on her own arms, and crossed them 
over her chest, hugging herself, her hands trailing after 
Mulder's phantom touch.

His panic was obvious, even though the images of him and her 
other self were not clear, and seemed far away.  She watched 
as he shook her, was even jolted slightly, falling forward 
onto all fours, bringing her that much closer to the mirror.

The mirror.

Could she go through it?  The question stirred a faint memory, 
and she closed her eyes in concentration, her breathing 
accelerating and coming in short pants.  

And she remembered.  

In her mind, she saw herself holding a candle and staring at 
her reflection before she first reached up to touch the mirror.  
Then she was walking forward and into it.

Eyes snapping open, Scully crawled closer to the mirror and 
stopped just inches away.  The images before her did not change 
–- Mulder was still there, with her body on the floor before 
him, in her room at Starbuck House.  Leaning on her left arm, 
she hesitantly lifted her other hand and brought it up to the 
glass.  

Instead of sliding into the hazy mists, her flesh encountered 
a cold, unyielding surface.

With a cry of dismay and fear she rose up on her knees and 
slapped both palms hard against the mirror.  Nothing happened, 
though her hands stung from the force of her blows.

Still, she lifted them up and back to try again.  

The motion was arrested though when she felt that phantom touch 
on her neck, and then her lips.  Focusing on Mulder through the 
glass, she was panic-stricken as she saw that he was checking 
her pulse, performing rescue breathing on her.

Dread followed on the heels of panic.  If he had to breathe for 
her, it meant that he thought she was close to death, or she was 
indeed dead.

Her fear intensified, and her breathing sped up further, until 
she was gasping for air.  Until she was hyperventilating, hands 
clawing at her throat as she fought to breathe.

And then she knew no more.

***

Over and over.  Mulder didn't know how long he had been breathing 
into Scully –- for Scully -- when an odd noise penetrated his 
extreme state of concentration.

Looking up and turning his head towards the now-opened door, he 
saw an old woman in an odd-looking wheelchair holding up a thick 
candle for illumination.  "Call 9-1-1!" he barked at her, 
realizing this must be Essie Dunford, and bent back over Scully.

Before he could begin the breathing again, something made him 
look back at the doorway.  Essie had not budged.  "We need help 
here!" he yelled.  "Call 9-1-1."

The old woman still did not move, and Mulder wondered if she were 
hard of hearing.  His head whipped around, searching the room for 
Scully's cell phone, but it was nowhere in sight.  He was afraid 
to leave Scully and go back to his room and get his own cell.  He 
tried again, raising his voice even more.  "She needs help!  Call 
for an ambulance!"

Essie finally responded, drawing his attention back to her.  "You 
must leave her alone!" she shrieked at him.  "The mirror must have 
her!"   Sucking in air harshly, spittle flying from her lips, she 
continued, "It must not be denied.  It must be fed!"

His fear alchemized to white-hot rage.  

If his hands hadn't been on Scully, he might have launched at 
the old woman.  Instead he forced himself to take a deep breath, 
preparing to ask her what the hell she meant by that statement 
–- 'the mirror must have her'.

Her words registered then.  

The mirror.  

The one Scully had been so fascinated by, the one she now lay 
in front of, near death.

And somehow, he knew he had to destroy it.  Knew that it had 
something to do with the curse, that it had some kind of hold 
on his partner.  And that he had to break that hold.

Quickly and gently, he moved Scully away from the mirror, 
Essie's angry squawking a distant buzz in his ears, silently 
apologizing to his partner for handling her so.  Rising to his 
feet, his hands tightly clenched, he moved to stand in front 
of the beautiful and elegant antique mirror.  

With no remorse or hesitation whatsoever, he lifted his arms 
up over his head and brought them swinging downward, smashing 
his fists into the glass.  

Jolting pain lanced through his hands and up along his forearms 
from the impact, while dots of blood welled from tiny pinpricks 
that stung as the mirror shattered and pieces of the glass cut 
into his skin.  Thousands of shards showered down in a tinkling, 
crashing torrent, covering and bouncing off his bare feet onto 
the hardwood floor.

There was a sudden, harsh gasp from directly behind him.

Scully.

Heedless of those same shards, some of which cut into the 
bottoms of his unprotected feet, he spun around and darted 
back to her, dropping to the floor at her side.  One hand went 
to her neck, searching for and finding her extremely rapid 
pulse, while the other stroked strands of hair from her face 
and his gaze took in the fact that her chest was rising and 
falling as she thankfully breathed.  

Sinking down onto his ass, Mulder gathered Scully up, cradling 
and rocking her in his arms.  

***

End Part 17