Knowing
Author's notes:  This is one of my very early stories.  I'm not convinced 
the writing is what it should be, but I'm also not convinced I'm ever going to 
have time to do a real revision, so I've posted it pretty much "as is." The 
action takes place during the second season, shortly after "Colony" and "End 
Game."   
KNOWING 
by Kipler@aol.com


Scully scanned the file on her lap and sighed. 
"I sense a hidden agenda here, Mulder." She hoped he'd surrender with a quick 
admission of guilt. He did not. 
"What?" His face was expressionless, but he allowed her to hear the amusement in 
his voice. "Don't you feel that the facts in the file give us just cause to 
investigate these deaths?" 
"Oh, certainly," Scully said. "If I only state the facts in the file, this 
sounds like a perfectly legitimate case. The Hampton Chemical Company closes 
down its New Hampshire plant and transfers its workers to other facilities 
around the country. Within five months, sixteen of those workers or their family 
members are dead - apparent suicides. The relatives are demanding answers. 
Surely there must be a link among these deaths." 
"Surely there must. And it's our job to find out what it is. It's cut and dry." 
"Yes, and if that's all you write on the 302, I'm sure the investigation will be 
approved without question." 
"But...?" Mulder raised his eyebrows. 
"But I'm also sure that your desire to investigate these deaths has something to 
do with the location of the chemical plant, Mulder. Murdock Hill, New 
Hampshire?" 
"Scully..." Mulder smiled openly. "I'm impressed. You've been doing some reading 
in your spare time." 
"Enough to know that you've left out a fact - that Murdock Hill has lately 
become known among paranormal enthusiasts as the "ESP Capitol" of the United 
States." 
Mulder groaned softly. "That's a tabloid term, and it denigrates some serious 
work being done in the field of parapsychology. A professor from Oxford - a 
respected and highly published professor of psychology, mind you - has been in 
Murdock Hill, conducting controlled studies that have produced some startling 
evidence." 
"Evidence that...?" 
"Evidence that a long-held local belief that Murdock Hill is a 'spooky' place to 
live may be valid. Evidence that a significant percentage of the population 
there scores well above average on accepted tests of psychic abilities. Evidence 
that those who show this increased ability maintain it over time and in many 
testing situations. Evidence that the test results are statistically 
significant." 
"But not everyone in Murdock Hill has this ability?" Scully asked. 
"No." Mulder's voice was flat. "Only about six percent of the tested population. 
And, again, in those individuals who show no psychic ability, 
this...disabiliy... also remains consistent over time." 
"So the ESP angle makes this an X-File?" 
"No, no..." Mulder said. "That's just an added attraction. Though it would be 
interesting if it were somehow related..." His voice trailed off and he his eyes 
shifted out of focus, staring at nothing. She cleared her throat to keep him 
from drifting away completely. 
"But, Scully," he said, amusement still fringing his voice, "Isn't a run of 
sixteen suicides among the newly transferred employees of a single corporation 
weird enough for you?" 
It was. And so here they were, driving up Route 93 in New Hampshire. It had 
taken them less than an hour to get here from Logan airport. Scully judged from 
the map that they were just outside of Manchester. She'd have to start looking 
for the off ramp. Exit nine... 
She sighed again, and used a file folder to fan her bangs. The air vents pumped 
wave after wave of stifling heat around her legs and face. April in New 
Hampshire was not exactly the tropics, but it certainly didn't call for this. 
She had been as sensitive as she could - had removed as many layers of outerwear 
as was appropriate. It was not enough. Gently, she leaned into the dashboard and 
moved the lever from the red area to the blue. She waited for the usual protest 
- Mulder was always so cold, these days - but no protest came. 
"Just for a few minutes, Mulder," Scully apologized. "I need to cool down for a 
while." 
No answer. Silence. 
Scully turned and looked hard at her partner's face. It was blank, 
expressionless. Mulder's mind was somewhere else - it had been since they'd left 
Boston. Two years with Mulder had taught Scully not to try to read his face. 
After all this time, he still carefully chose what he told her, and even more 
carefully chose what he let her see. Rarely in two years had his expression 
broken to reveal his thoughts. Not without his permission. 
Scully shook her head slightly. It was better when she couldn't read Mulder. The 
times he had broken were not times she wanted to bring to mind. 
She looked out the window. The weather outside was unseasonably cold. At least, 
it seemed unseasonable to Scully; she wasn't sure about New England springs. A 
patchwork of grey clouds scudded across the sky, spitting thick rain that blew 
in bursts against the windshield. The highway was lined with trees - maple, 
birch, willow - that were heavy with red and yellow buds. It would be a 
beautiful drive, if not for the dismal clouds. 
The heavy sky and the rhythm of the windshield were hypnotic; Scully switched on 
the radio to keep herself awake. She pushed the 'scan' button until she hit 
103.3. The local oldies station. Guaranteed to be inoffensive. The silly, happy 
strains of "Do You Believe in Magic" hit her ears. 
Scully leaned against the window, stuffing her windbreaker under her head as a 
pillow. Only two more miles to their exit. 
"We're almost there, Mulder," she said. "It's the next exit." 
No verbal response. None expected. But Mulder did begin tapping his right index 
finger on the steering wheel, keeping time with the music on the radio. And in 
the next minute, his left index finger tapped along, also. 
"You better be careful, Mulder. You're acting positively exuberant over there." 
She smiled; he likely wouldn't hear her. 
But he did. It took a moment, but he shook his head and gazed at her, confused. 
"What?" he said, running his hand through his hair. 
"We're almost there," she answered. "Next exit." 


Even the rain couldn't kill the quaintness of the road that led to the Hampton 
Chemical Company. Last year's corn stalks stood broken in rows, covering field 
after field. Behind stone walls, black and white milk cows stared balefully at 
Scully. Farm houses with white plank siding stood, solid and close to the broken 
pavement of the road. Purple crocuses poked with shocking brightness from among 
last summer's leaves. 
"It's positively bucolic, isn't it, Scully?" Mulder asked. 
And then, suddenly, as they passed a ribbon of apple orchards, quaintness 
disappeared. From a Norman Rockwell painting they drove into modern blight - a 
spot where zoning laws seemed never to have been invented. Between two old 
farmhouses, one with a corral of horses at its side, stood a Jiffy Lube. On the 
other side of the corral was a wide flat field full of mobile homes. Across the 
street was a strip mall, bordered by two fast food restaurants. And then came 
the factory - a huge, flat yellow brick island sitting in a lake-size parking 
lot. 
"Well," said Scully, "They said it was a big place." 
"Yeah," Mulder said, "And judging by the cars in the parking lot, they've kept a 
large part of their operation open here. At least for now." 
Scully flipped through the papers on her lap. 
"What's the man we're interviewing?" she asked. 
"Leonard J. Ferman. Vice President in charge of corporate relations. Soon to be 
transferred to the offices in San Antonio." 
Mulder looked over the should of Leonard J. Ferman, and raised his eyebrows 
slightly. Scully shrugged. Leonard was a man who knew his corporate story. And a 
man who liked to tell it. 
"So you see, our product line has grown over the thirty years we've been here. 
While our company started with cleaning solutions for the medical industry, we 
are growing and changing with the times. We are still solidly invested in 
antibacterials and antivirals, but we recognize the future of biological 
engineering. That is the focus of our southwest operations. A great deal of our 
work is still in the experimental stages, of course, but we are growing and 
changing." 
Mulder stepped back slightly, and spoke quickly, before Leonard Ferman could 
take a breath. 
"And this plant - it was expanded in 1968?" 
"Yes. That was our biggest hiring year. It was a big year for Murdock Hill in 
general, too. With all the new hires, there was a building boom. Service 
industry boom, too. The population almost doubled in the next five years." 
"And what will happen to the workers now that the plant is being shut down?" 
Scully asked. 
"Hampton Chemical is good to its employees." Ferman replied. "Many of them have 
been reassigned at the same salary to our other divisions in the southwest. For 
those whose skills were not needed, we offer retraining, and many qualify for 
our severance package." 
"And what happens to the town," Mulder asked, "when the plant closes down?" 
Ferman shifted in his chair. 
"Mr. Mulder, I have had this discussion numerous times over the past year - with 
civic leaders, with the priest, with the owner of the movie theater and the 
McDonald's. Hampton Chemical cannot be responsible for the fate of the small 
businesses in this town. A corporation exists to make money." 
"Fair enough." said Mulder. "How well do you know the employees that were 
transferred to the southwest?" 
"I'm afraid I only knew a few of them. This is a large company. We transferred 
317 employees and their families - a total of 1,196 people. I would say that I 
was friends with ten or twelve of them. You know, we had lunch together..." 
"The true test of a relationship," said Mulder. "And did you know any of the 
suicide victims?" 
Ferman looked at his desk. Scully thought she saw his hand shake. 
"I only knew Dan Green." Ferman didn't look up from his blotter. "He was my good 
friend. We were going to be assigned together in San Antonio. Our kids played 
together." His voice cracked and he stopped speaking. 
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ferman," said Scully. "for the loss of your friend. But can you 
think of any reason why Mr. Green would commit suicide? Any underlying 
psychological problems...problems at home, or with his finances?" 
"No. Well, not that I knew of. I mean, how well can you ever know someone? 
That's a lesson I learned from my ex-wife. People don't tell you everything 
about themselves. Dan was very, very smart, and some of the time I didn't 
understand what he was talking about. He was different... deep. But he was like 
that all the time. I'd known him for fifteen years, and the only change I saw in 
his personality lately was his worrying about the move." 
"Mr. Ferman," said Mulder softly, "Do you know of any connection, business or 
social, that the sixteen suicide victims had?" 
"I've analyzed it over and over, and I can't think of any. These people ran with 
different crowds, worked in different sectors. And of course, ten of them 
weren't even employees. Four were wives of employees, three were husbands. Three 
of them were college kids, for crying out loud." The man's hand shook again as 
he took off his glasses. 
Scully moved to the door. 
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Ferman," she said. "We'll be in touch again if we 
think of any additional questions." 
The conversation with Ferman had only enhanced the dismal mood of the afternoon. 
Scully was happy to get take-out food and settle in for the night. Mulder found 
the Great Eagle Motel and Vacation Cottages; they took two rooms in the isolated 
little compound, which squatted just off the main road, guarded on all sides by 
pine woods. Scully slept. 
Four-thirty came. Scully awoke to a strange terror; she sat up in bed, gasping. 
Her heart was pounding, and her ears were filled by a strange quiet buzzing. She 
wasn't sure if she heard it or felt it. 
A dream? Scully didn't remember. She lay down and breathed slowly, deeply. She 
tried to go back to sleep, but there was a weight on her chest. She analyzed her 
vital signs. Her hands were clammy, and her pulse beat too quickly in her ears. 
She should be able to calm herself, but her efforts at deep breathing failed. A 
strange anxiety sat on her mind. 
So she lay there, wide awake, while birds began to sing and the sky grew grey 
with dawn. The alarm in the next room went off with its jarring trill. It must 
be five-thirty now. Time for Mulder's run. Scully focused on the familiar sounds 
- Mulder's stumbling to silence the alarm clock, his quiet curse as he tripped 
over his running shoes, the banging as he searched for his keys. She heard the 
door to his hotel room open and close, heard his footsteps pace down the wooden 
balcony and fall into their steady rhythm as they faded away. 
When the footfall was gone, Scully realized with relief that her heart was calm 
and steady, that her hands were suddenly warm. Drowsiness crept into the back of 
her mind, and she drifted off to sleep quickly and easily. 
It was a long, numbing day at the Murdock Hill library - six hours spent in 
isolation and institutional silence broken only by the whirring of the 
microfiche machine. Scully scanned through forty years of headlines, then 
decided that forty years was her limit. 
"Mulder," she said. "If you can get through dessert without mentioning suicide 
in any form, I'll pay for dinner." 
"Deal." 
He made it to his third bite of salad. 
"Scully," he said, "the suicides seem to have no common pattern. The methods of 
death are widely varied, and even in cases where the method of choice is 
identical, as in the three shooting deaths, the details are so different as to 
indicate that the individual cases are unrelated. Somehow, all sixteen people 
were singly motivated to take their own lives. In all my reading - and believe 
me, I now know the Murdock Hill Telegraph inside and out - I cannot identify any 
link tying these people together." 
"OK, Mulder," Scully said, "I have something for you. What happened in Murdock 
Hill in 1968?" 
"Hampton Chemical expanded. And hired a much larger work force." 
"And," Scully said, drawing out the word, "over the next thirteen months, three 
of the new employees, and four family members of new employees…" 
Mulder widened his eyes and finished her sentence. 
"Committed suicide?" 
"Yes." 
Mulder sat back heavily in his seat, throwing his napkin on the table. 
"Well, Scully, where would you like to go tomorrow?" 
"This job seems to have very little to do with going where I like. But I think 
we should go back to the library. I'm perfecting my microfiche timing." 
"OK," Mulder agreed. "I'll meet you there in the afternoon. I'd like to spend 
some time at the field office in Manchester. I need names and phone numbers of 
relatives of the deceased. I'll make some phone calls." 
It was not as late this night - perhaps two-thirty or three - when Scully woke. 
For a moment she remembered a fragment of a dream: a blinding light and terror. 
Then the image was gone; the odd fullness from last night filled her ears, and 
the strange anxiety took over her body. This time, it was stronger. 
Scully analyzed herself clinically and methodically. She settled upon and 
reviewed all the symptoms of panic disorder. It was possible that it would begin 
like this, in the middle of the night. She had heard of people, women, who lay 
awake, unable to sleep, overcome by a generalized fright that they couldn't 
explain. 
But it didn't make sense. She should be able to calm herself. Why was her heart 
racing? Why was her t-shirt soaked with sweat? People with anxiety attacks had… 
histories. This shouldn't happen without a warning, without some precipitating 
factor in her life. 
It struck her, then, how little she was letting herself see. The past fall and 
winter - all that had happened to her, all that had happened to Mulder. It was 
enough to precipitate anxiety in anyone. But she had dealt with it - at least 
what she could remember of it - hadn't she? 
But the pounding in her ears, the weight on her chest, told her that perhaps she 
hadn't. She had hoped she was immune to lingering trauma, but maybe it had come 
for her, after all. 
A muffled sound came from the room next door. Scully shook her head and stood 
up. Maybe moving around would help calm her. The night air was damp, and her 
bare feet were icy cold. She scuffed toward the chest of drawers and pulled on a 
pair of thick cotton socks. Another sound came from Mulder - she could hear him 
through the door that connected their rooms. 
As quietly as possible, she pushed the door open a crack. Dim light filtered 
through the blinds. Scully could see Mulder tossing in bed. Another nightmare. 
She didn't know how often they hit. He never spoke of them. Once in a while, 
though, Scully heard them. 
Mulder's forehead was sweating and creased with worry. His eyes darted 
restlessly under their lids. Scully sighed. His sleeping panic and her waking 
one - they were quite a pair. 
Feeling suddenly intrusive, she stepped backwards into her room and tripped over 
her suitcase. She fell onto the bed, and the suitcase flopped over with a thud. 
"Mmmph..." came Mulder's voice from next door. He had been startled awake. 
Scully heard him roll over, adjusting the blankets. Then he sighed and became 
quiet again. 
Scully switched on her desk lamp, intending to review the case files. Almost as 
soon as she sat down, though, her eyes became heavy with fatigue. Again, the 
strange fear had passed as quickly as it had come. She was so tired that she 
left her socks on as she collapsed back into bed. 
"Theories?" Mulder asked over dinner the next night. 
"Yours first," Scully said patiently. 
"Well, I got through to a lot of families today. The conversations were not 
pleasant. Most of these people have already told their stories over and over, 
trying to get someone to listen to them, to believe that the suicides are 
somehow related to the move." 
"Anything concrete?" Scully asked. 
"I didn't find anything that linked the victims together - no common activities, 
no common exposure to any traumatic event. I even managed to garner permission 
to view some of their medical records. They had no unusual or strange illnesses 
in common. But there was one thing. All the family members of the victims 
described them as being introverted, quiet. The word I heard, over and over 
again, was 'different.' " 
"That's the word that Ferman used to describe his friend… Dan Green." 
"Yeah. Strange coincidence. Anyway, the families seemed reluctant to talk. I 
didn't push." 
"It's hard to think of a more painful topic." 
They ate in silence for a moment. 
"Your theories?" Mulder asked, finally. 
"Well," Scully blurted through a bite of her sandwich, "I tried to locate the 
families of the victims of 1968- 1969. Most of them have long since moved away. 
I did manage to speak to the widow of one of the men who killed himself. A Mrs. 
Demaggio. She had an interesting theory." 
"Which is?" Mulder asked curiously. Scully stopped to chew and swallow. 
"Mrs. Demaggio believes that the victims were somehow exposed to a chemical in 
the factory - a chemical that caused depression and suicidal tendencies. She 
says she saw a change in her husband almost the day he began working in the 
plant." 
"But why only back in 1968. And why now, in the southwest?" 
"I don't know," Scully said. "Maybe the company stopped using the chemical at 
this plant. But maybe it's being used in San Antonio. The recent transfers would 
have been exposed, suddenly." 
Mulder nodded enthusiastically. 
"Of course," Scully said, "we've scanned thousands of papers, and there is no 
mention of Hampton's having moved into the arena of psychopharmacology." 
"Maybe they were doing it covertly. It wouldn't be the first time we've seen 
something like that. Is it biologically possible?" 
"Well, there are mind-altering chemicals that can cause changes in mood and even 
personality. But whether workers in the factory were exposed to such chemicals 
is another question. And how would the spouses and children of the workers be 
affected?" 
"They might come in contact with the clothing of the employees..." 
"And I can't explain why the long-time workers in the southwest haven't 
experienced the same problems." 
"Maybe they've built up an immunity after repeated and increasing exposure?" 
"It's possible," Scully admitted, "but it's an outside chance. The biggest 
problem I have with Mrs. Demaggio's theory is the limited effect of the 
chemicals. Mind-altering drugs generally have the same effect on a large part of 
the population. If such a chemical were being produced here, I would expect a 
much larger portion of the population to be affected by the depression." 
Mulder nodded slowly. 
"What if only certain individuals were affected by the chemicals? Individuals 
with some sort of… predisposing factor?" 
"What factor? It doesn't seem to be genetic. The depression and suicide don't 
mark specific families in particular, do they?" 
"No," said Mulder, "although more than one parent today described a son or 
daughter as being 'different' in the same way as the father or mother was..." 
"You're not thinking 'different' means 'telepathic?' " 
"I don't know, Scully." He showed her a half-smile. "But if the telepathy has 
anything to do with this, we'll know tomorrow." 
"And how is that?" 
"Professor Hagen is coming down," Mulder said. "He's been staying at Dartmouth 
College, and he's agreed to give us an interview." 
"This is the ESP doctor?" Scully asked. 
"You're denigrating this topic again, Scully." Scully met Mulder's eyes, and 
smiled. "He's a full professor of psychology at Oxford. And he's willing to 
share some of his research with us. 
It was late. The night was warm, and the skies had cleared while Scully sat shut 
away in the library. She was not really tired, and there was nothing on TV. And, 
if she were honest with herself, she was afraid to sleep tonight. Sleep might 
bring the unnameable fear back to her. She slipped into her heavy sweatsuit and 
went to the balcony with the novel she'd brought. 
It was a good novel, but the evening was irresistible. The wind tugged lightly 
at her hair. From a swamp somewhere close by came the sounds of a thousand tiny 
frogs, creeking high and shrill. A dog barked. Two more joined it. Scully closed 
the book and leaned back against the railing of the wooden stairway, wrapping 
the night around her. She closed her eyes, soaking up the warmth and the gentle 
noises. A voice startled her. 
"Hey," said Mulder. 
"Hi," she answered. "It's nice here. I don't think I've ever been in New England 
in the springtime before." 
Mulder sat down, a step below her. The drop cancelled out his height; her face 
was on a level with his. He looked out into the woods that spread behind the 
hotel. His face took on that familiar expression of stillness and silence. He 
was... 
Scully started. She could feel the fullness growing in her ears, could almost 
hear the buzzing that screamed just beyond her senses. Not now. Surely it 
wouldn't start now, while she was wide awake, while she was peaceful? She 
waited. No...no. Her heart remained calm. Her chest was free. No anxiety or 
panic came to her. 
But there was something. 
The sounds and breezes of the evening were suddenly sweetened, and the night was 
achingly familiar. Scully knew that she had never before smelled this breeze or 
heard the singing of the peepers, but the smell and the song tugged at her 
heart. It was as if she were remembering this place after being away for a long 
time, as if she were returning to a night she had never seen. 
There was a world in her head. She could feel the people who belonged here. If 
she could only think hard enough, she would know their names. She could almost 
hear voices, laughter from a crowd of friends, songs of children at play on a 
summer night... 
She knew, in the back of her mind, that this was abnormal, should not be 
happening. She pushed the thought away. It was so peaceful now, and warm, and 
this feeling was not anything like the panic of last night. 
She leaned forward, until her shoulder slid against Mulder's. The evening was so 
calm. She looked at him. His face was still, unmoved, but she knew that it was 
hiding nothing from her. He was peaceful, here, too. They sat for a long time in 
silence, neither wanting to move, watching the night. 
Morning came. Scully spent the better part of her shower trying to recapture 
what she had felt last evening, but it was gone. And now, in the daylight, the 
strangeness of it glared at her. First the heart-pounding midnight panics, and 
then last night's warm calm remembrance of things she had never experienced. 
She was a doctor. If she were her own patient, she would have strong 
recommendations. Forget business. Go back and see the counselor - the one you 
saw before. No one expects you to handle everything yourself. Take care of this. 
It is a sign that something is wrong. 
But there was Mulder to consider, always Mulder. He would want to know what was 
wrong. He would offer to go with her, even though she knew he was captivated by 
this case; it would be a tense parting. And it would rekindle in his eyes the 
look that she hated - that haunted, penetrating look. That look had left him so 
recently; she didn't think she could bear to see it return. 
She decided to stay until the investigation was finished. She could take 
vacation time when they got back, if things didn't get better. She felt rested, 
today, and strong. She had slept straight through the night. If the strange 
peace of last evening was a psychological aberrance, at least it was durable 
enough to calm her sleep. 
They met Professor Hagen early at the Manchester Field Office. His white hair 
and beard made him easy to spot. His British accent stood out among the clipped 
rhythms of the New Hampshire natives. He sat at a large oak table, surrounded by 
paperwork. Files. Charts. Documents. Proof. Mulder was in his element. 
"Well," Hagen said after Mulder and Scully had scanned the files, "we have 
already discussed the results of my studies. They document a higher-than-average 
success rate on standard tests of telepathy among residents of Murdock Hill. The 
results stand up to statistical analysis and have been reproduced many times 
over the past five years." 
Scully nodded. She had heard this before, in Mulder's many capsulized summaries 
of the research. 
"From what I've seen, Professor," she said, "your research methods are valid, 
and I have no reason to doubt your results. What we are primarily interested in 
are your theories as to why these results occur in this particular location. We 
are seeking information related to - " 
He cut her off. "The suicides. I understand that. But any connections there, you 
will have to make yourself." 
"So, why Murdock Hill?" Mulder asked. 
The professor looked up. 
"My hypothesis is no more valid than yours," he said. "The experience of 
telepathy has never been explained. But I believe, and I stress again that this 
is just conjecture, that all our brains have the vestigial ability to move 
beyond the physical senses. That somewhere in the brain is a receiver able to 
pick up psychic messages - brain waves, electromagnetic radiation, whatever you 
believe the power of thought to be. It seems that this receiver is not 
functioning in most human beings. But there have always been reports of 
'sensitives' - individuals who could feel what other people were feeling, know 
events and strong emotions that were occuring outside the realm of their 
senses." 
"The experience is most common among identical twins," said Mulder. 
"Exactly. One twin feels the pain of her sister giving birth thousands of miles 
away. A man senses the death of his twin brother, and later gets a call telling 
him that, indeed, his brother has died. Experiences like this have been reported 
for centuries. But it does not only happen among twins; it has been reported by 
other relatives, even among unrelated people who share strong emotional bonds. 
Husbands and wives. Close friends." 
Scully turned away for a moment. The image of her father flashed through her 
mind. Two years ago she would have dismissed this man's talk out of hand. But 
her father... 
"So why Murdock Hill?" Mulder repeated. 
"I believe," said Hagen, "that there is something in this town that strengthens 
the brain's ability to receive telepathic messages. Something that actually 
alters the brain chemistry, affects the neural pathways, maybe, and causes the 
vestigial ability to become active." 
"And that something might be?" asked Scully. 
"I can't say. Perhaps the very foundation of the earth. Maybe the alignment of 
the rocks underlying this town affects the electromagnetic field of the place. 
If telepathy is a result of electromagnetic waves, then this would be a valid 
theory. On the other hand, there may be something in the air, in the water, that 
alters the brain chemistry, affecting neurotransmitters responsible for 
telepathy. All potentialites are open for discussion." 
"Is it possible," asked Mulder, "that a chemical may be released from the 
Hampton Chemical Plant that would result in this change in brain chemistry among 
employees?" 
"I can't say," said the doctor. "Anything is possible. But that would assume 
that the psychic ability was a recent phenomenon, and I have no proof of that. 
My study has drawn attention to an unusual occurrence that may have been going 
on for centuries. But why do you ask? Do you believe that the suicides and 
psychic ability are related?" 
"We're not sure," admitted Mulder. "What we do know is that the deaths are 
somehow related to the Hampton Chemical Company. Would you be able to provide us 
with names of people who were shown in your studies to have increased psychic 
ability?" 
"No, no, of course not," said the professor. "The studies are done in strictest 
confidence, to protect the privacy of the subjects. It wouldn't be ethical of me 
to disclose their names. In fact, in the records that I have kept, I have only 
one copy of the actual names. In the journals and data sheets, they are known 
only by subject number. But there is someone who knows more than I do about the 
people behind the numbers. He could, perhaps, help you without actually giving 
you names." 
"Who is that?" Mulder inquired. 
"The man who started the studies - my former partner, John Rafferty. He was 
quite enthusiastic about his findings for some time, but then he lost his drive 
- became reluctant to participate in the studies any longer. For a while, I was 
concerned that he was going to take all the research with him when he left. He 
didn't. But he certainly took a working knowledge of the subject matter." 
"What do you mean?" Scully asked. 
"He claimed to be psychic himself. He used to help the state police here in 
missing persons investigations. He was, I understand, very successful. Then he 
quit. He had his reasons, I'm sure. They were never clear to me. He tried to 
discourage people from continued participation in the studies. He moved off to 
Brattleboro, Vermont. He's still there." 
Mulder and Scully made it over the mountains to Brattleboro by 12:30. Rafferty 
had agreed to meet them at 2:00. They decided on lunch, and wandered downtown. 
The main street had not changed much since the 19th century - it was a long 
strip of former factories, red brick, standing shoulder to shoulder and rising 
up three or four stories. They now housed eclectic little storefronts topped by 
offices and apartments. Scully and Mulder found a peculiar little restaurant in 
two walk-up rooms of an old factory on a side street. It sold health food. There 
was a crystal in every window, and the walls were plastered with advertisements 
for folk concerts and political rallies. 
Mulder smiled from over his coffee. 
"This town was full of families who'd lived here for centuries. Then, when the 
60's were over, a lot of the hippies came up here - actually, to this whole 
valley - and settled down to raise families. There's a definite...flavor...to 
the place." 
Scully went to speak the thought that came to mind, but Mulder thought it and 
spoke it at the same time: 
"Melissa would love this." 
Scully smiled as the waitress brought them their lentil and cheese pie. 
"So how do you know so much about this place?" she asked, trying to spoon her 
lunch into her mouth without losing lentils. 
"I've been here a few times," Mulder said quietly. "As a kid. We used to 
vacation in this area - aunts and uncles, cousins, the whole thing." 
Scully looked up from her food, but Mulder remained intent on his. No further 
explanation. 
The cheese was hot enough to burn her tongue, but Scully let the rich, spicy 
flavors linger. Healthy? She doubted it - not with all this mozarella - but it 
certainly was good. 
John Rafferty met them on the outskirts of town, in a small library within a 
compound of buildings that housed the "Institute for Cultural Understanding." 
His brown beard flowed to the middle of his chest, and his voice was deep, 
bearlike. When he spoke, it was with the clear expectation that he would be 
heard. It was also clear, within several minutes' conversation, that he was a 
man with many missions: International peace. Shutdown of the local nuclear power 
plant. Healthy eating for a healthy planet. And a deeper understanding of the 
power of psychic energy in people's lives. It took Mulder several attempts 
before he was able to get Rafferty to focus on this last one. 
"Professor Hagen indicated to us that you left Murdock Hill with some discomfort 
over the tests he was running." 
"Well," said Rafferty, "he has his work to do, and I have mine. 'Discomfort' is 
a good way to describe the feeling I had about the way our tests were going. And 
I'm not the only one who was uncomfortable. Even when I first started the tests, 
on a very small scale, there were quite a few members of the town who turned us 
down flat. Refused to be tested. There are some things that science can't 
understand. Shouldn't understand." 
"What makes you feel that?" 
Dr. Rafferty shook his head and looked down. 
"I know that the people who scored highly on those tests think it's all a lark - 
fun and games. They jokingly call it the 'gift.' But there is more at work in 
Murdock Hill than some college kids who can guess well at a card game." 
"And what is that?" Scully asked. 
"First let me ask you - " the man replied, "Do you believe in psychic ability?" 
Scully remained silent, pensive; Mulder answered quickly. 
"Yes." 
"But you've never personally experienced a psychic connection to any specific 
event?" 
"No," Mulder answered firmly, "but in my work with the FBI I have seen several 
instances where people have experienced premonitions which - " He cut himself 
off abruptly, swallowing his words, and looked up to meet Scully's eyes. She 
turned away, and looked at Rafferty. 
Rafferty glanced back and forth between them several times, then cleared his 
throat. 
"Well, Mr. Mulder," he said, "people who have experienced such events, and 
especially those who experience them regularly, don't feel 'gifted.' Often they 
are belittled if they speak of the things they know. And believe me, a person 
with vision cannot explain sight to someone who is blind. This ability can be a 
very lonely thing. At best, people with this 'gift' learn to keep what they know 
a secret. At worst, they are used and dissected by the public as entertainment 
or spectacle." 
"And you speak from personal experience?" 
"My personal experience," said Rafferty, "is not the point of discussion. I am 
sure Mr. Hagen told you about my former work; believe me, I have more than 
enough nightmares to justify leaving Murdock Hill and police work." 
Scully watched Rafferty intently. The man's eyes remained fixed on his clenched 
hands. Mulder kept silent, waiting. Finally Rafferty drew a deep breath and 
continued. 
"People think they understand each other ... they use everyday language... they 
say 'I know how he feels.' But they don't. A single life contains more than 
enough pain for one person to bear. To truly feel someone else's..." He broke 
off and looked up for a moment. "...why would anyone choose to do that?" 
Rafferty raised the front legs of his chair and leaned back, crossing his hands 
over his chest. Several minutes passed silently before Scully spoke. 
"Do you believe that living in Murdock Hill gave you your... unusual abilities?" 
she inquired. 
"No," answered Rafferty. "I only lived in New Hampshire for six years. This has 
been a lifelong situation for me. To tell the truth, I can't even guess what is 
going on in Murdock Hill. I know that Hagen has a lot of theories about 
electromagnetism, but he has no scientific basis for them. Me? I think maybe 
psychic ability is genetically determined. Some of those families have been 
living in town for generations, since long before paved roads, and I have to 
say, there used to be a lot of inbreeding. All kinds of weird recessive traits 
can come out under those circumstances." 
Mulder looked at Scully, and she shrugged slightly. 
"Were any of the people in your studies victims of the recent suicides?" Mulder 
asked. 
"No. Not one. Although a lot of my subjects have been transferred away. But 
then, a lot of the town has been transferred away." 
"Mr. Rafferty," Scully said, "Do you believe there is any connection between the 
increased incidence of psychic ability in the town and the suicides?" 
"If you want answers about the suicides, I think you'd better look more deeply 
into the Hampton Chemical Company. There is more there than they've let on. No 
proof, mind you, but lots of gossip. The Vietnam War was a testing ground for 
some unique new compounds, as you may know. Hampton Chemical had a boom during 
the war years. People in town used to talk, from what I've heard. You should ask 
some of the old-timers. They know a lot more than I do about that." 
Mulder and Scully nodded politely through several conspiracy theories before 
managing to stand and excuse themselves from Rafferty's company. 
It was early evening when they left. Long shadows settled in the little valleys. 
All was in shade but the highest of the rounded mountains. The sunlight shone 
fiercely on them, lighting them against the deepening sky. 
"Tomorrow we dig a little more deeply into Hampton Chemical's peculiar history." 
Mulder said. "I think we ought to sniff around town, don't you?" 
"Mm hmm." Scully leaned back against her headrest and sighed. The bright 
sunlight of the day had left her eyes gritty and tired. She switched on the 
radio. It was still tuned to the oldies station, but the reception was scratchy 
with interference from the mountains. She pushed the scan button and buzzed by 
several advertisements before finding Van Morrison. It was a song she didn't 
know. "Into the Mystic" - she guessed that was the title. She closed her eyes 
and relaxed against the window. 
And felt the now-familiar buzzing start, felt the fullness grow in her ears. 
She kept her eyes closed. If the panic came again, there was no need for Mulder 
to see it. She would sit here, pretending she was asleep, until it had passed. 
But it didn't come. And neither did the strange sweetness of the night before. 
This was something new. A feeling she didn't know. The song on the radio grew 
more and more important. Somehow it moved into her mind. It was a part of her. 
She knew the words before they were sung, knew the chorus, felt the rising 
crescendo as it approached. And somehow the mountains outside were in her head, 
too. Even with her eyes closed, she could sense the light on them, the long 
shadows falling behind them, the incredible beauty of spring settling upon them. 
She was not panicked; she was not calm and peaceful. She was full of some pure 
delight, some joy, in the song and the mountains. She surrendered to the 
feeling, swaying her head in time to the music, letting the song deeper into her 
mind. 
Mulder sat on the seat next to her, lightly tapping his fingers against the 
steering wheel. 
The song ended and the feeling of joy passed. The fullness left her ears. She 
came back to herself. It had been very brief, this time. At least she had been 
able to keep her eyes open, to keep Mulder from knowing. 
A conscious worry walked into her mind. She knew, now, that something was very 
wrong. This was not simply a case of panic attacks. The sudden mood elevation - 
it was not normal. The feeling of knowing songs she didn't know, and recognizing 
places she had never been. These feelings were not coming from any familiar part 
of her. Some unknown corner of her mind was leaking them into her consciousness. 
All the buried memories, things she couldn't make herself recall - was this 
them, taking on life and creeping out on their own? 
She turned her head away from Mulder and looked out the window, concentrating 
hard on the lines of the trees, the light on the hills. 
"- wrong?" Mulder's voice came at her. Was he speaking? 
"What?" 
"What's wrong, Scully?" 
He looked at her from the driver's seat, his eyes intent on hers. 
"Nothing, I was just... Mulder, watch the road!" She snapped as the car crossed 
the dividing line. 
Mulder tugged the wheel and pulled the car back safely into its own lane. He 
kept his eyes forward when he spoke. 
"Scully, if this is bothering you because of your father, we can…" 
"No, Mulder," Scully said quickly. "It's nothing. Drop it." 
She turned back to the window, silent again. A knot formed in her stomach. It 
was a well-made knot; it didn't go away even when they had made it back to the 
hotel. 
Scully woke at midnight. She was herself. But her mind was awake with the fear 
that the night-panic would come again. She couldn't go back to sleep. So she sat 
up and did some paperwork. Checked her e-mail. Watched reruns on TV. 
Just when she was getting drowsy, Mulder stirred restlessly next door, and she 
was jarred awake. Almost at once, the feeling began again in her ears. It was 
the fear, she could tell. Her palms went cold, and her heart thudded against the 
walls of her chest. She was just able to keep from shivering. 
This time the panic brought pictures with it. She saw a bright light, pulsating 
over and over. It blinded her as it flooded her eyes, and left her struggling to 
adjust to the rhythmic darknesses. She couldn't see clearly, not at first, but 
she knew that the cold fear was coming from what she was trying to see. She 
strained. 
One part of her mind spoke to her reasonably: You are remembering, Dana. You are 
remembering what they did to you. You are remembering where they took you. Look 
hard, and you'll see it. You are strong enough to handle this, but first you 
have to see it. 
She waited, and at last the light seemed to move out of her eyes, to slide away 
behind her. Slowly, she made out the scene before her. There were people 
standing around in confusion, voices blasting loudly from some machine. It was 
raining. The night was foggy. 
It was her own apartment. The flashing light was coming from a police car. 
Yellow tape marked off the lawn. Cars were parked where they should not be. Her 
vision moved closer to the building. Something had happened here. The front 
window was broken. Glass was scattered about the ground - glass marked with 
blood. 
This was the night of her abduction. But she had never seen this moment. She had 
been long gone by this time. Taken away. This didn't make sense. It was 
impossible. She hadn't been there when the police came. How could she remember? 
She hadn't been there when Mulder arrived... 
And then it came clear to her. It was not supposed to happen; it was not 
logical. But it was happening. She knew that, as well as she knew anything. The 
memory of this moment did not belong to her. It was not a trick of her own 
wounded mind; it was a trick of Mulder's. 
She rose from bed and tiptoed to the door connecting her room and Mulder's. A 
soft moaning sound came to her ears. He was thrashing about again. 
She walked through the door, quietly, and pulled a chair up to Mulder's bed. He 
was pale in the dim light that slanted through the window. Leaning forward, she 
placed her hands on the mattress by his arm, pulled her face down close to his 
sleeping body. She closed her eyes and waited. 
The scene continued; it had moved inside her apartment. She saw blood on the 
glass table and on the door frame. She took note of the phone, crushed on the 
ground. She heard the click and whir of an instant camera taking photographs. 
The fear became overwhelming. No, fear was not the right word. There was no word 
strong enough to describe this feeling. Terror and loss and guilt. Together, 
they could not hold the depth of this feeling. 
She heard her mother's voice, panicked, pleading in the background. Her chest 
ached with the crushing fear. 
And then the feeling left her. 
Mulder rolled over in bed, rubbed his cheek for a moment and burrowed his head 
into a new position on the pillow. His dream was over. Scully was all alone in 
the room, in herself. 
She sat watching Mulder for a long time. She scanned the familiar lines of his 
jaw, his cheek. It pained her to look. She wanted, struggled, to see his face as 
she had seen it before, but she could not. Not anymore, not now, not when she 
knew what it was hiding. Only a few hours ago - a few minutes ago - she had 
thought she understood. She hadn't known. Not a thing. She hadn't known the tide 
of his thoughts and memories, flowing behind his face. She hadn't known of the 
cold terror of his dreams, of how much she was a part of them. 
She had thought that Mulder's losses and hers were similar. But she'd been 
mistaken. Their two minds moved, by kind necessity, in two different worlds. It 
wasn't possible, wasn't logical, to use her own pain as a measuring stick for 
Mulder's. There was no common language of loss. There was no way he could have 
told her. 
But she knew, now. She knew her own losses, and she knew his. 
Mulder looked calm and still, almost childlike, in his sleep. But Scully was 
struck with fear as she watched his face; it belonged to someone she did not 
know. And she was just as much a stranger to him. It was not right that she knew 
this much - that she saw how alone they were. She had peered through a door that 
she had not been meant to open. She didn't know how to close it. 
There was no more sleep for her that night. Mulder found her much later, sitting 
on the balcony, wrapped in her flannel coat, watching the pale new light of 
morning fall over the pine woods. 
She knew that her face betrayed her. There was no mask she could wear to cover 
the thunder in her mind. What could she tell him? That staying in Murdock Hill 
had changed her, marked her? That she believed he was telepathically sending her 
childhood memories... lyrics to songs? That she had visited him in his 
nightmares? That she could see through him - into him - right now, as he stood 
here? She rubbed her hands over her eyes, feigning a yawn, buying time. 
"I've been up all night," she said, weakly. "A migraine." 
She had never had a migraine in her life. He knew that. Scully watched his eyes; 
no change came over his face, but the wrench in her own gut told her enough. He 
did not believe her. She was transparent in her lie. 
"Look... I can't work today, Mulder," she said. "I'm just not up to it. Would 
you mind going on without me?" 
"Fine." He spit the word out. "I should be back this afternoon sometime." 
He went to his room to get his laptop and briefcase; she heard him stomping 
about. He passed her by as he scuffed down the stairs to the car. The car began 
to back down the driveway, then stopped. She watched. Mulder looked at her, long 
and hard, and for a moment she thought he was going to get out again. If he did, 
she wouldn't have the strength to keep from telling him everything. But the car 
began moving again, and disappeared out of sight behind the trees. 
She spent half the morning walking, hard and fast, hoping that the pounding of 
the pavement against her heels would slow down the racing of her mind. The air 
was balmy; sunlight angled in through the gnarled branches of apple trees. 
Bucolic. The scenery was lost on her. 
She had to accept this. The truth did not always follow the laws of physics. She 
had learned that. And if this were happening to someone else, it would hardly 
seem remarkable. Not after two years with Mulder. It was simply self-protection 
that was blocking her now. But her choices here were unpleasant: either she was 
experiencing some form of telepathy, or she was losing her mind. The second 
possibility was certainly plausible, given her recent history, but the first one 
was less frightening. 
The walking couldn't quiet the racing in her mind, but at least it had brought 
on a powerful fatigue. Scully went back to the hotel and showered, changing into 
shorts and a cotton nightshirt. Maybe she could sleep now, before Mulder came 
back, before she had to talk to him again. She dreaded that talk. The words of 
John Rafferty came back to her mind. How hard would she work, now, to keep 
anyone from knowing what she was feeling? 
Fatigue was more powerful than the turmoil in her mind. She was asleep minutes 
after she lay down. No unquiet visions troubled her. 
Someone was shaking her. She swam up through layer after layer of grogginess 
before she was fully alert. Mulder's voice was in her ears. 
"Scully?" it said softly, "are you all right? Are you awake?" 
"Mmm...yeah...I'm awake now," she said, sounding more irritable than she felt. 
She rubbed her eyes and looked out at the fading light of evening falling 
through the windows. 
"Oh...what time is it?" she asked. 
"About eight-fifteen." Mulder answered. "I didn't want to wake you, but I was 
getting worried. You've been asleep all afternoon - about six hours." 
More like nine. 
Scully threw her legs over the edge of the bed and waved Mulder away. She 
stumbled drunkenly into the bathroom. She looked awful, but at least the 
sleeplessness was eased off her face. And her mind. She was rested enough to 
trust herself, her words. She washed her face and pulled her hair back in a 
ponytail. 
When she re-entered the hotel room, Mulder had set two matching meals out on the 
table: burgers and fries and large styrofoam cups. Scully's stomach growled, and 
she realized that she hadn't eaten all day. Coffee. She needed coffee very, very 
badly. 
"Thanks, Mulder," she said. "I didn't mean to sleep so long." 
They ate in silence. Scully was done long before Mulder. She had gulped down her 
own coffee and was finishing his as he wiped the ketchup off his mouth. He 
stared at her intently. She checked his eyes; the haunted look was not there. 
But his eyes were waiting, expectant. Scully sat still for a moment, trying to 
feel something, trying to recreate the buzzing, the fullness in her ears. No. 
Whatever her strange connection to him was, however it worked, it was not 
working now. 
"What's going on, Scully?" Mulder asked abruptly. 
She hesitated a moment before answering. 
"I don't know, Mulder. I can't..." 
She started to say more, but caught herself, moved her eyes away quickly. She 
had meant to have a plan ready, a script, when she explained this to him. For 
his sake. She knew that Mulder would believe her completely, whatever she told 
him, but what would it do to him? He had always been so good at hiding what he 
was thinking. 
"Is it something you can talk about?" Mulder asked. 
Scully looked up at him, felt a rush of warmth. He had written his own script. 
He was giving her an out. 
"Not tonight," she said. "Not now." 
Mulder spoke in a low voice. 
"Scully, you know I've said this before - if you have trouble with a case, I'll 
understand. If you want to go back to DC, to get away for a while, you can tell 
me." 
"I know, Mulder," Scully said. "I know. I'll tell you if I feel that way." She 
shook her head, throwing off the last of her sleep. She was hungry for normal 
conversation, something solid to ground her mind after the free-fall of last 
night. 
"Now, tell me," she commanded, "what you learned about the Hampton Chemical 
Company." 
"Well," said Mulder, taking a deep breath. "I managed to get a jump start. I 
spoke to the Lone Gunmen and they linked me to their fact file - drug testing 
during the Vietnam war. Rafferty was right. It seems that Hampton Chemical was 
one of the companies involved in developing and testing Agent Orange. Covertly. 
The workers and townspeople were not made aware of their involvement. I don't 
know if there was a coverup or just a campaign of misinformation. I found some 
local people dying to be interviewed about this subject - I spent the whole 
afternoon on the phone. The old-timers in town all seem to know that something 
was going on during the war, and they have many intriguing and widely varying 
theories as to what it was." 
"Agent Orange?" 
"Don't think so," Mulder said. "I accessed local hospital records from 1965 to 
the present. To check for illnesses whose symptoms mimicked Agent Orange 
syndrome. And there weren't any. Two hospitals had treated men with verified 
cases, but both men had spent two tours in Vietnam." 
"Maybe the suicides in '68 - '69 were a result of the coverup?" Scully said. 
"Highly likely," Mulder agreed. "If the workers found out about the secret 
experiments, it could certainly create quite a strain on them and on their 
spouses. We should interview the families of those victims, if we can locate 
them. The widow you met - Mrs. Demaggio - obviously wasn't aware of the Agent 
Orange connection, but it's possible that others were..." 
"Well," Scully murmured, "unless there's a coverup again in the Southwest, we 
still have no explanation for the recent suicides." 
"A coverup is a possibility, Scully," Mulder said, "though a slight one. It's 
bizarre to think that so many individuals would choose suicide as their avenue 
out of a situation like that. Or that no information would come to light, given 
the numbers of victims." 
"At any rate," said Scully, "if there is no evidence of Agent Orange Syndrome 
among the local population, at least Hampton Chemical seems to have protected 
its workers from contamination. Better than the US Army did." 
"The company has a very strong safety record," Mulder stated, "except during the 
years 1978 and 1979, when it barely met national standard for air quality. Seems 
that some of the solvents were leaking into the plant, contaminating the air. 
This problem was eradicated, and Hampton has been a model of safety since then." 

"No evidence of production of mind-altering chemicals?" 
"Regretfully, Scully, no." Mulder admitted. "Frohike and company had no other 
files on Hampton. I don't believe it's involved in psychopharmaceuticals. And, 
on a different track, I found out something else." 
"Which is..." Scully inquired. 
"One of the old guys I talked to today, Tom Moreira, has lived in town since his 
birth in 1910. He's the mother lode of local lore - knows everything about this 
town. He did his stint at the chemical plant. But he was more interested in 
talking up the ESP aspects of the town. He's done a lot of 'unscientific' 
research. He swears that heightened telepathic abilities have existed here since 
time immemorial. Says that one of his cousins used to come up during the summer, 
and always had very strange dreams. I believe the word he used was 'spooky.' " 
Scully managed to keep her face still despite her discomfort. 
"And did these dreams disappear when the cousin went home?" she asked, 
nonchalantly. 
"Yes. And there's more: Tom says that local Indians used to use Murdock Hill as 
a sacred site, although I have to question the veracity of this claim. The local 
Indians were driven out of this area long before reliable written records were 
established. Very little is known of their cultural lives. I looked." 
"Did Tom have any hypothesis regarding the cause of this... spookiness?" 
"He buys into the electromagnetic energy theory, though not in so many words. He 
thinks that there's something in the ground that alters people's brain waves." 
"You had a busy day, Mulder." Scully felt a twinge of guilt. It was a lot of 
work for one person. 
"My eyes are pretty tired. Those microfiche machines are going to kill me yet. I 
can't read another word tonight." 
"Well," Scully said. "I'm wide awake now. Give me the files, and I'll go over 
them. It doesn't look like I'll be sleeping for a while. And Mulder..." 
"Yeah?" 
"I going to set up another meeting with Mr. Rafferty, if it's OK with you." 
Mulder started to smile, but read enough of the discomfort in her face to stop 
himself. 
"OK, Scully," he said, "Good night." 
Mulder had a night of calm dreams. Several times, as Scully worked, she felt the 
flash of an image creep into her mind, saw a random picture flicker across her 
brain. Despite these invasive thoughts, she managed to maintain her own, to 
focus them. Her mind was clear and strong tonight. 
She let down her guard only once, near midnight, when she was overcome by a 
sudden flood of warmth. It was a feeling of surprise and happiness, of 
homecoming, of unexpected reunion. She tiptoed next door to look at Mulder. He 
lay on his right side, calm except for the rapid darting of his eyes. No images 
came to Scully's mind, but still she knew the peace he felt. She wondered at the 
dream that brought such warmth. It was something tenuous - something fleeting 
and precious. She knew, for the briefest of moments, that she had been handed a 
gift. 
She would talk to Rafferty in the morning. She thought she understood. 
Her single phone call had produced double results. Rafferty had driven out to 
Manchester, and had convinced Professor Hagen to meet them as well. Their 
parting may not have been entirely amicable, but it was clear that they shared a 
mutual respect. They spoke in turn, finishing each other's sentences with an 
ease that came from years of daily collaboration. 
Scully ran the interrogation. Mulder sat back. When she glanced at him, she 
thought she saw a look of bemusement on his face. 
"Gentlemen," she said, "I am aware that none the participants in your research - 
neither those who tested highly or the others - have been among the suicide 
victims. I want to ask you about the people who did not participate in your 
studies. Those who refused." 
Rafferty and Hagen exchanged glances. 
"Did people give you specific reasons for refusing to be tested?" Scully asked. 
Hagen spoke first. 
"There are many reasons why people would refuse." he said. "Religion, 
superstition, belief that modern man no longer needs to concern himself with 
such unscientific silliness..." 
"And you, Mr. Rafferty," Scully said, "do you concur with Mr. Hagen?" 
"Well," said Rafferty, "seeing the results of our studies, I have always felt 
that people's reluctance was based on more… personal… motives." 
"Meaning?" Scully said. 
"Meaning that maybe we only hit the tip of the iceberg here. A few of the people 
we tested show a small ability on a controlled test which has very little impact 
on their daily lives. Sure, the numbers are higher here than in the rest of the 
country. But outside the testing environment, they demonstrate rare signs of 
telepathic ability, if any. A weird dream here and there. I find it strange that 
we came across not a single true 'sensitive,' not a single person whose ability 
had had an impact on his personal life. I have already discussed with you the 
psychological upheaval that true ability can create..." 
"And how do you explain the absence of acute telepathic ability among your 
subjects?" Scully asked. 
"I always suspected," Rafferty answered, "that the group we tested was not a 
random sampling of the Murdock Hill population. That maybe the people who truly 
understood what the tests represented selected themselves out of the test. 
Refused to participate." 
"Mr. Rafferty," Scully said, "Professor Hagen, do you recall if any of the 
suicide victims were among the people who refused to be tested?" 
Hagen's face remained cloudy with confusion, but she saw Rafferty's change, 
become clear. He was seeing what she had suspected. Finally, he spoke. 
"I do remember..." he said. "I asked Dan Green myself. I knew him from softball 
league. He laughed at me, and said, 'No way, John.' And those three college 
kids... they were only teenagers at the time. All the kids wanted to 
participate. Those three stood out in my mind because they refused. And didn't 
give any reason..." 
Scully cut in, completed the picture she was painting. 
"And before they moved, had any of those people been away from Murdock Hill?" 
"No," Rafferty said, slowly and quietly. "They were all townies, born and bred. 
They were forced to leave by the transfers." His face became distant. A heavy 
silence rested on the room for a moment. Mulder waited expectantly; Scully knew 
what was coming. 
"Our studies," Rafferty stammered finally, "only dealt with the local 
population. We only studied people who lived here - we didn't follow through on 
the people who moved away. We never studied the effect of leaving town... what 
happened to people's lives then... If Dan Green and the others were seers, and 
they had to leave..." 
Scully sat down heavily in a stuffed chair. There would never be any proof. She 
was sure she was right. Several minutes passed before Rafferty spoke again. 
"I've been different all my life. I've always known that I was alone, that there 
was no one around who could understand the things that I knew, the things that 
were the biggest part of me. And all my life, I've wondered what it would be 
like to be rid of my ability. To live and be able to choose how much I knew 
about other people - it seemed like it would be paradise. But that was just 
wishing. I never thought what it would mean... to be cut off, so suddenly, from 
your friends, from your family. To find yourself in a strange place, so..." He 
couldn't find the words. 
"So alone." Scully finished his sentence. "When you've never been alone before." 

She didn't have to look at Mulder. His thoughts were in her mind. She felt his 
dawning understanding. He knew some small piece of what had happened to her 
here. He would not ask. He would wait and let her explain, someday, when she was 
far away from Murdock Hill, when she was ready. 
She sat at the computer in her apartment. It was early in the morning. She had 
been back in D.C. for a week. She had slept soundly for the last three nights. 
No strange dreams, no buzzing in her ears, no panics. She was well. 
Mulder would be here in a few minutes; she had to hurry. She gathered her 
thoughts back into a single strand and finished typing her report: 
  "The suicides among transferred employees of the Hampton Chemical Company 
  remain, officially, random and unrelated phenomena. 
  "While family members seem willing to accept our explanation for the deaths, 
  no physical evidence or scientific data can confirm our hypothesis. Still, it 
  is this agent's belief, and that of Agent Mulder, that the suicides were 
  related to the victims' telepathic ability. Said ability appears to have been 
  somehow brought on by the victims' residence in Murdock Hill, New Hampshire, 
  and to have been subsequently eliminated upon their relocation. 
  "The removal of such ability would likely create psychological trauma, which 
  could result in depression and suicidal tendencies. It is not known how many 
  other transferred employees or their family members suffer from similar 
  depression. There seems to be a reluctance among townspeople to discuss this 
  issue. 
  "Addendum: A group of suicides occurring in 1968 - 1969 may also be 
  attributable to the strange phenomenon observed in Murdock Hill. All of the 
  victims of this suicide epidemic had recently moved to Murdock Hill from other 
  areas of the country. It is hypothesized that sudden and consistent exposure 
  to telepathic images may have brought on overwhelming psychological trauma 
  similar to that brought on by sudden removal of such images." 
Mulder's car pulled up; he was late. He honked his horn to rush her out. Scully 
printed the report and packed it into her briefcase. It was a warm day and the 
trees were full with new leaves. She took off her sweater before settling into 
the car. It would be a long day - they were scheduled to testify in court. 
They drove without speaking. Mulder had been treading carefully for seven days, 
selecting his words, treating her with kid gloves. She would have to start 
behaving more normally soon, for his sake. She promised herself she would. 
Later. Right now, she didn't want to talk. She turned on the radio to cover the 
silence. Van Morrison. 
Scully looked at Mulder. His face was quiet, expressionless. His right thumb 
tapped on the steering wheel, drumming to the beat of the music. His left thumb, 
then both feet, began to move to the same rhythm. Scully closed her eyes, 
waiting and not knowing why. Nothing. There was no change. She didn't know this 
song, couldn't hear the words or feel the swell of the notes before they came. 
There were no thoughts in her mind but her own. 
She was well - she knew that. She had been telling herself that for days. It was 
good to sleep again, good to have control of her mind. She would forget. Soon. 
It was inevitable. She drew in a deep breath, then released it in a long, heavy 
sigh. She knew she was well. But well and whole were not the same thing. She 
turned to stare out the window. A sudden mist had formed in her eyes, and she 
did not want Mulder to see. 
End 
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