Rating: FRT/PG-13, Gen partner/friendship-focused. Humor/Angst/Drama.
Warnings: Language, violence, autopsies, nothing serious.
Fandom: X-Files Casefic circa end of season 3, beginning of season 4.
Final Word Count: 20,000~

A/N: Written for xf_bigbang 2010. Thanks to oroburos69 for the endless support, and bsg_stardust for the beta and the beautiful artwork.
Disclaimer: Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen and Fox own the X-Files and everything related to it; I do not, nor do I claim to, nor am I in anyway affiliated with them. No copyright infringement is intended and no profit is being made. Robert Frost's 1923 poem "Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening" is to be credited for the title. Though, for the record, this fic is far from snowy.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
- Robert Frost

Unknown Time
Unknown Location

It was the silence that finally woke her.

Scully shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of a seizing pain in her neck. She straightened, tilting her head side-to-side in attempt to relieve her muscles. She felt as though she'd fallen asleep on a sidewalk. The motel beds were bad, but this…

She blinked into the darkness.

Oh.

Her heart rate ratcheted up as her location dawned on her.

She was still in the car.

Scully ran her hand along the edge of the frayed cloth seat of the six year old Mitsubishi Précis they'd rented. She could hardly see anything, but it was definitely the car and her neck was definitely suffering the consequences of falling asleep against the door.

Her eyes gradually adjusted to the darkness, but she didn't need her sight to know that something was very, very wrong.

She stilled, listening. The staccato beat of rain had disappeared.

So it had stopped raining. Had to happen eventually.

Scully reached down and released her seatbelt, letting it snap back into place over her shoulder. She rubbed at her eyes as confusion washed over her.

Why the hell was she still in the car?

She glanced around, double-checking the tiny backseat for her partner.

He'd left her here.

He'd actually left her asleep in a car, in the middle of a case, in the middle of the goddamn desert. A tendril of indignation wrapped itself around her thoughts for a moment before logic reasserted itself. No, he couldn't have. That didn't make any sense. She'd kill him; he knew she'd kill him. It was absurd.

The engine was silent. She reached blindly over to the steering wheel, feeling the keys still in the ignition. The keychain clinked against the plastic dashboard as she twisted repeatedly.

Frustrated, she climbed over to the driver's seat for more leverage, but it didn't make any difference. Not even a sputter. No light, no noise, nothing. Shit.

Scully felt around for her bag, her phone, case files, maps, anything. Her fingers met with nothing but the multi-textured contours of the vehicle's interior.

She unlocked the door and pushed it open. Sand shifted beneath her feet. She stood, bracing herself against the car to work the stiffness from her legs. She hadn't exactly been thrilled about the stakeout Mulder had insisted on, but he wouldn't just wander off into the desert without even waking her.

The night was disconcertingly still.

"Mulder?" she tried.

She felt exposed just standing there, unable to see anything around her.

Scully sat back down, realising with the change in position that part of her earlier discomfort had come from the gun digging into her hip. She patted her side, reassured by the presence of her weapon, and came into contact with the flashlight that rested right beside it. She nearly laughed aloud at her foolishness and quickly pulled it out, rising again from the low seat.

The world leapt into view as she swept the light across the earth, taking in her surroundings. Or rather, the lack thereof. She didn't know what she expected to find out here. Sand was really the extent of her options.

The scent of creosote bushes, pungent from the rain when they'd left earlier, was now nearly absent. She ran the beam over the car, finding no evidence of the torrential downpour they'd been driving through for—she checked her watch. Nine o'clock? That couldn't be right. She tapped her nail against the glass, then held it to her ear.

Her confusion twisted into frustration.

"Mulder?" she shouted. Her voice didn't even seem to carry, as though the desert had swallowed it up.

Scully slammed the door shut and walked around to the front of the vehicle. The light revealed the road they'd been investigating, and to her left the lightly-packed earth that travelled over it—a combination that, when she tilted her head and squinted, constituted Mulder's "crossroad."

Okay, so she wasn't exactly in the middle of nowhere. Just a few miles to the east of nowhere. She considered her options. The second "road" would probably lead to fruitless and potentially deadly hours of wandering through the Arizona desert. The main one would eventually bring her back to civilization.

Scully stepped out onto the road. She'd have a better chance at flagging down a passing motorist if she headed north, up to Winslow. But she may have a better chance at finding her partner if she headed back to the motel.

If only she knew which direction she was facing. Scully glanced at the even ground, seeing no hint of footprints or signs of disturbance. The wind must have swept away any traces.

She sighed, rubbing her neck and trying to push down the dread that blossomed in her chest.

If Mulder wasn't here, she'd just have to find him. And if he wasn't already in danger, he would be when she caught up with him. Scully turned right and started walking.

The flashlight illuminated her path, brightening the road ahead and thinning as it reached out into the night. She brushed the light over the ground, left and right, examining the edges of the road as she walked.

The yellow glint of eyes in the distance caught suddenly in the beam.

Scully halted, and dread plunged into fear.

She swung the light back toward the flash that had caught her attention, but saw only an endless expanse of sand and shadows. Scully stared into the desert for several hushed minutes, unable to shake the feeling that the desert was staring back at her.

Monday
July 29th, 1996

J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building
Washington, D.C.
8:14 a.m.

"Arizona? Mulder, while I am willing to concede that the circumstances seem odd, are you honestly hoping that the location will slip my notice?"

Mulder glanced up from his struggle to fix the slide projector. A small screw rolled onto the carpet at his feet. "What about it? I hear Winslow's beautiful this time of year."

His attempt to act innocent was impressive. She almost believed his sincerity. "Yes, I'm sure it is. And the fact that it's right by a fifty thousand year old meteorite crater has absolutely no influence whatsoever on your interest in this case?"

"Is it? Huh. What a lucky coincidence." Mulder replaced a slide and the screen lit up.

Scully shook her head, wrapping her hands around her warm coffee cup. She sipped experimentally, pleased when it didn't burn her tongue.

Skimming through the preliminary report on the way here and a short, rather unpleasant, three a.m. phone call on the matter had roughly laid out the case. Multiple bodies. Bizarre patterns of mutilation. Indications of foul play, with no conclusive evidence.

But Scully knew he was holding something back.

Mulder's slideshow, currently featuring an autopsy photo of the deceased traveler Marcy Beckwith, was enough to at least make her consider his argument.

"Three people so far have turned up dead along this road, all within no more than a mile of each other," Mulder narrated, flipping through slides. A panoramic shot of a desert road filled the screen.

Scully tilted her head, taking in the barren landscape the picture presented. Three victims, same location. She supposed she could see what had piqued her partner's interest in this case. "At the same time?"

Mulder frowned slightly. "Well, no. The first victim was four years ago, the second about two and a half, and the third eight months ago. The most recent body was recovered yesterday."

Ah, of course. The threads of his logic grew increasingly tenuous. "I thought you said there were three bodies?"

"There are," he replied, not looking up from the projector. "The first victim survived the attack. Incidentally, she'll be our first stop."

"Mulder, people do occasionally meet a tragic end in a similar location over a long period of time. That doesn't automatically imply a connection. If anything, it's evidence that the local municipality needs to consider fixing up that road."

Scully glanced down at the pile of paperwork next to her. Well, not a pile, really, so much as an explosion of folders that had massacred themselves on Mulder's desk. And this was the to do pile, no less. She ran her fingers along the edge of a folder.

"It's not the road, Scully—well, it is the road, but it's not just the road. There's something seriously—"

"Did you leave this here from last week?" Scully waved a report in the air. "Skinner asked for this last Wednesday. Mulder, you told me it was done." No wonder Mulder had been monopolizing the phone lines lately, Skinner must have been trying to track him down for days.

"I was just about to look at that," Mulder defended, taking the paper from her. "But I was a little distracted by this very real and very pressing case. I mean, did you even look at these photos?"

He waved his hand at the screen dramatically.

Scully raised an eyebrow in answer.

"The victimology is a bit broad, sure," he admitted. "But the method? You can't deny the similarities."

Broad was an understatement.

Ms. Beckwith was a fifty-three year old insurance broker, a local, no priors. James Franklin, twenty-six and hailing from Chicago, drove long-haul trucks across the Midwest. Leon Jacob, at forty, traveled state-to-state selling "dream vacations" and left a lengthy trail of fraud-related arrest warrants in his wake. The only thing these people had in common was bad luck.

Scully sifted through the remaining documents on Mulder's desk. "March? You haven't filed these since March?"

She didn't even know why she was surprised. God, this place was a mess. She was nearly desperate enough to agree with him just so she could be free of the unyielding clutter.

"That is hardly the point here, Scully."

A point. Yes, there was supposed to be a point here. "Right," she said, motioning for him to continue.

"I haven't even gotten to the best part," Mulder stated eagerly. "All three victims found in their locked vehicles were covered in jagged cuts."

A crime scene photograph appeared, showing the heavyset salesman collapsed against the steering wheel of a sleek grey sedan. Thick lacerations stretched from his jaw line to his collarbone and crisscrossed partway down.

Another was prominently displayed across his one visible forearm which, while already bloody and grotesque, looked to have been badly burned as well. The flesh was bright red and blistered from the back of his hand up to the edge of his rolled-up shirtsleeve.

Mulder watched her expectantly. Waiting, as was his practice, for her refutation. Scully wouldn't want to disappoint him.

Besides, from what she could tell, the case was far from an X-File. Disturbing, yes. Paranormal? She had no reason to suspect as much. God only knew what outlandish theory he was currently entertaining.

She peered closely at the wounds in the photograph. "Wild animal?"

"That's what the coroner believes."

"And you don't," Scully guessed. "Mulder, I'm inclined to agree with the coroner's analysis. Maybe these people were attacked in the desert and took refuge in their cars, only to later succumb to their injuries."

Mulder grinned. "Ah, but what that very logical theory can't manage to explain is how these injuries appeared all over the bodies without a single tear in clothing. Not to mention, the wounds were all shallow and the loss of blood was minimal. Even if this was the work of an animal, it wasn't what killed them."

"Huh," Scully muttered. Mulder's little presentation was having its intended effect. The case was hardly paranormal, certainly, but there was definitely something going on. She hated to give him the satisfaction, but..."I wouldn't mind taking a closer look at the body," Scully admitted. "An 'indeterminable cause of death,' in my experience, more often than not suggests a certain degree of ineptitude on the pathologist's part."

"Or lack of imagination," Mulder helpfully supplied. "Latest body's still on ice at the morgue. If we hurry we can make the nine-thirty flight."

Scully glanced at her watch. Twenty past eight.

She already had her bag packed. Still, she had to know exactly what she would be getting herself into here. Mulder hadn't so much as hinted at his hypothesis, not even over the phone.

He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair, swinging it over his shoulder. "Well, are you coming?"

"Not until you tell me what this is really about," Scully resolved.

"I don't know what you mean, Scully." He was being evasive. Never a good sign. Mulder sighed after a moment. "I want you to see the place before you write it off."

Scully wasn't quite sure if she should be offended by that. She didn't answer, but waited for him to continue.

Mulder dropped into his chair and tossed his jacket across the messy desk. Papers rustled as he leaned forward and looked up at her.

"Robert Johnson," Mulder started, "the famous Delta blues musician of the thirties, was rumored to have sold his soul to the devil at a crossroad somewhere in Mississippi, in exchange for his ability to play the guitar. Similar accounts have been found all over the world. The apparition ranges between a malevolent demon or trickster god to a benevolent spiritual teacher, an 'opener of the way' between this world and the next."

He paused, and she lifted an eyebrow so slightly that, if they weren't able to read each other so well, she doubted he would have even noticed. She could see his mind working away, analyzing her body language while forming and reforming his strategy.

Mulder continued, his voice roughened with an edge of determination, "Animals, particularly black dogs, are cited as common forms in which the apparition appears to its petitioner. The legends and oral histories conflict, but the essence of the stories is always the same. These victims were all found in the same area, a half mile in any direction surrounding a crossroad. They were attacked, Scully. Viciously. By a wild animal? Maybe. But in this case, I don't think it's just any animal."

"A black dog?" Scully surmised. "An invisible, crossroad-wandering, soul-eating, ghost dog."

"I was thinking more like a hellhound, actually."

"That does sound more ominous."

"You think it's crazy."

"When has that ever stopped you?" Scully countered.

Mulder smirked, apparently reminded of the fact that he was impervious to logical arguments. "Good point."

Scully picked up her bag and swung open the door. "Well, Mulder, are you coming?"

...

Unknown Time
Unknown Location

No one was coming.

Scully trudged along the road, walking for—well, if her watch could have been bothered to track the passage of time correctly, she'd have had a better idea how long she'd been out here.

Minutes. Hours. Days. Probably not days, she considered. But she'd been physically exhausted even before Mulder's little excursion, and the seemingly endless walking certainly wasn't helping.

No one had driven by.

Not even a headlight flickered in the distance.

The beam of Scully's flashlight bounced with her steps, spreading like oil over the dirt but revealing nothing.

Nothing but her, that is. She glanced around, suddenly all too aware that she was the only thing visible for miles. Scully flicked off the light and let the shadows swallow her.

Monday
July 29th, 1996

En-Route from Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport
Phoenix, Arizona
6:15 p.m.

Bustling streets lined with lush palm trees slowly vanished as they departed the city. Cacti and gravel shifted into an infinite stretch of sand, spotted with clumps of bear grass and desert broom.

The heat had grown more and more stifling as the afternoon sun beat down on their rental. Mulder fiddled unsuccessfully with the air-conditioning for a few miles before he gave up and rolled his window down. Hot desert air rushed loudly through the car, but it was a welcome reprieve.

Scully tucked a strand of loose hair behind her ear, adjusting her sunglasses as she eased onto their exit. She glanced over at Mulder occasionally, trying to gauge his mood as the sun gradually slipped below the horizon. Miles in the distance, the wispy mirage of far off mountains made it seem as though they were standing still. They had run out of sunlight by the time they reached the interstate.

The I-17 merged seamlessly with the I-40 and the railroad travelled alongside them, twisting occasionally out of sight and looping back in again.

They didn't talk—hadn't talked for the last hour or so. Mulder was brooding in the seat beside her. His enthusiasm had died down after the long and restless plane ride. The airline having lost his luggage during their layover in Orange County hadn't improved his mood.

Scully, however, was beginning to enjoy herself. Arizona really was beautiful this time of year, and the Grand Canyon state had her reminiscing about childhood vacations to said canyon, and how proud she had been to be the only one of her siblings willing to hike down to the bottom with Ahab.

Too bad they wouldn't be in the area. It had been years. Too many years.

Mulder left an impressive trail of sunflower seed shells down the I-40, presumably as a proactive measure in case they should lose their way and have to retrace their path.

Scully reached over to twist the radio dial, landing eventually on a news station with poor reception. She turned the volume down until the roar of the engine and the rushing air had engulfed it.

"Want some?" Mulder asked, offering a handful of sunflower seeds.

She shook her head. One trail of seeds was more than enough. Scully looked over at him as he leaned against the door, idly picking out seeds from his bag.

He still seemed a bit sullen about the baggage thing, but overall he took it surprisingly well.
Especially seeing as he'd have virtually nothing but the miniature toiletries they'd picked up on their way out of the airport. And the sunflower seeds.

Mulder fidgeted in his seat, turning to her as though he wanted to say something more, but stopping short of opening his mouth. He looked back out the window.

"So why the sudden interest in this case?" Scully asked. "Someone tip you off?"

"Old friend. Well, friend of a friend, really. The Navajo county sheriff called me up last night. I guess they finally had one body too many."

"We were invited, right?"

"Completely by-the-book, I swear. Besides, they were having jurisdictional issues since the road stretches between two counties. It'd still be our case if we wanted it," he replied, returning to his sunflower seeds.

That did sound by-the-book. She didn't think Mulder had even read the book. Perhaps he had and saving up his knowledge of the rules so he could more effectively disregard them at some inopportune point in the future. But Scully would take what she could get. One case without mounds of explanatory paperwork would be a treat.

The subtle play of passing headlights across the dashboard and over her partner's still form became a quiet distraction. She considered pulling off the road for a while, stretching, maybe letting Mulder drive the rest of the way.

The interstate had reached a status of not-quite-busy but not-quite-dead. A few oncoming cars passed them, but no one had been behind them for a long while. A peculiar uneasiness had built up in her stomach, slowly writhing and coiling there.

The rear-view mirror caught occasional glimpses of crimson taillights and the tiny bursts of civilization that spotted the side of the road every forty miles or so, where travelers had succumbed to exhaustion and taken a break at a truck-stop.

She glanced at her partner. He probably needed some rest just as much as she did, but his eyes hadn't drifted shut once on the trip so far.

The radio hummed soft and low, jumping between stations and divided every so often by static.

It seemed like hours before they finally made it to Winslow and turned off the highway. Scully checked her watch. It had been hours. Any longer and she'd fall asleep at the wheel.

"You need to go straight," Mulder insisted.

"I thought we had a turn coming up?"

"Not for..." he trailed off, running his index finger down and across a creased roadmap on his lap. "About two more miles. I'll know it when I see it," he reassured her.

The car rumbled with displeasure, its tires no longer treated to the consistent traction and smooth surface of asphalt. A cloud of loose sand stirred around them, obscuring Scully's vision.

The earth was parched.

She licked her lips.

Mulder rolled his window up. The rental's A/C was still proving less than effective, merely stirring the hot interior air and inviting the earthy scent of dust clouds inside.

"There!" Mulder exclaimed, pointing. Scully eased the car to hasty stop, now fully alert. "Turn left. Should only be a mile to go."

The beige stucco of the motel blended with its surroundings so closely in color that she didn't even notice the place until they'd closed in on it.

There was a Texaco gas station across the street, its lights still bright and inviting. The motel, on the other hand, looked empty. An unlit sign advertised their location to be The Southern Belle Motel, though it was neither southern nor particularly attractive. Vacancy, it seemed, could be left to the visitor's best guess.

They pulled into the parking lot, next to what she assumed was the motel office—a little building set apart from a two-story row of adjoined rooms and attached to the side of a slightly larger, similarly camouflaged house. Various semi and pickup trucks were parked along the road in a scattered alignment with stones that served as place-markers.

They stepped out of the car. Without the engine noise, the silence was pronounced. "Are you sure this is it?" Scully asked.

"Positive."

Her legs ached from the car ride. She stretched. The heat, even now, was verging on unbearable, and it had dropped at least ten degrees since the sun had set. Scully could tell this was going to be a long trip.

Mulder walked up to the door of the small house, knocked twice, then waited. Scully joined him on the cement pad that served as a patio.

There was no movement inside.

Scully sighed. They'd passed at least two perfectly decent looking hotels just going through the city limits, but no, they had to drive out to the middle of nowhere to find some rundown Route-66 reject older than she was. If she had to drive another hour tonight, just to—

The door flew open when Mulder raised his hand to knock again, revealing an elderly woman in a nightgown, clutching a shotgun.

"The hell do you want?" she demanded.

Scully's hand instinctively fell to rest on her own weapon. Mulder held his hands up in surrender.

"Ma'am," he said slowly, sounding as unsure as Scully felt, "I'm Agent Mulder, with the FBI. This is my partner, Agent Scully. We were invited here."

The woman stared at them in the darkness then reached over and flicked the light on. Insects swarmed around it.

"Let me see your badge," she said.

Mulder and Scully exchanged a confused glance. He held his credentials out to her.

"Fox Mulder," she read, looking up at him suspiciously. "You expect me to believe this is real, son?"

Scully abandoned her gun and handed the woman her ID. "He's telling the truth, ma'am. We're with the FBI and we'd like to speak to a George Bell."

She scoffed, but lowered the shotgun. "George?" she shouted. A tall man barreled through a doorway to their right. The woman turned back to them. "Martha Bell," she introduced herself. "I've owned this establishment for forty years and never had any F-B-I coming around. Fox," she mused, testing out the name and wandering off.

The man stepped in front of them, motioning them inside. "Sorry about that. George, George Bell. This is my wife, Cindy," Mr. Bell pointed to a woman sitting on a long couch in the adjacent living room. "And, well, you've already met my mother."

Mr. Bell extended a callused hand and Scully reciprocated, trying not to stare at the man's baseball cap.

Mulder studiously avoided her gaze.

The holographic plastic appliqué of a little green man with a lawnmower wasn't winning the case any credibility.

"It was good of you to come all this way," Mrs. Bell said, standing to greet them. "I must have told Martha five times you were coming, but, well..." She chuckled. "Here," she offered, holding out two sets of keys, "your rooms are numbers five and six, lower level on the far right. If you'd rather be on the second-story, though, just let me know. Plenty of rooms to go around. We usually get a lot of truckers stopping over here for the night on their way to state road eighty-seven, but not as much during the summer. Nobody can stand driving in this heat for too long."

"The weather is the least of their concerns," Mr. Bell explained. "We're lucky to get anybody passing through here when folks keep getting killed on the way in. Animal Control came around here first, then Fish and Wildlife were called in to investigate. Nothing turned up. Sheriff said you all were professionals in stuff like this. You got any leads on this thing, Agents?"

"George," his wife admonished, "can't you see they're tired? Go on and get a good night's sleep." She ushered them out.

Scully couldn't think of anything she'd rather do more. They nodded their thanks and left.

The place was surreal. Maybe she had fallen asleep at the wheel after all.

"They seem nice," Mulder commented.

"Nice. Sure. I'd like to get this case cleared up sooner, rather than later. We can start early. Hopefully we'll manage to avoid anymore close encounters with volatile seniors." Scully grabbed her luggage from the trunk, slamming it shut.

They made their way toward the dark stretch of motel rooms.

"Are you going to be okay without any change of clothes?" Scully asked.

"Why, do you have something to loan me?" he teased.

She took that as an affirmative. "Good night, Mulder," she said, opening a door with the number six embellished in the wood.

"Night, Scully," he returned.

The air stirred lethargically in Scully's motel room, slightly humid thanks to a swamp cooler propped up by the window, which did little to affect the temperature or level of comfort the room afforded. She locked the door and flicked on the light.

This was a new record for Mulder.

She'd never seen a motel room quite this sickeningly green. The carpet, the curtains, the bedding. Even the wallpaper sported tiny green palm trees complimented by a variety of green and yellow cacti. How he found such accommodations was beyond her.

A long dresser was positioned below the room's only window, cluttered with small objects and an ancient looking television. A flowery, geographically-inappropriate hurricane candle completed the décor.

Scully reached over the dresser to pull the sun-bleached curtains closed, nearly knocking over an empty ashtray and box of matches in the process.

She set her bag on a low table and, regardless of hygienic concerns and the near certainty of infestation, dropped heavily onto the bed.

After staring at the uniform road for three and a half hours, she could still see the broken white lines painted on the asphalt when she closed her eyes. The sensation of the road disappearing beneath her as she laid still invoked a nauseating vertigo.

...

Unknown Time
Unknown Location

There was no moon in the sky, only a light scattering of stars for illumination.

Scully could only see three or four feet in front of her, and navigated with cautious and deliberate steps, careful to stay on the packed dirt road.

To stray would lead her off somewhere wandering the desert. At night. Alone. The ground shifted loosely beneath her and she quickly righted herself, sidestepping back onto the road.

She'd been trying, but hadn't been able to locate any landmarks to lend her some direction. The night was too dark, the stars too dull. A slow burn traveled up her calves.

The temperature had been closing in on ninety-five by mid afternoon, but with the sun's departure the desert was finally granted some respite. Her skin was still uncomfortably dry and hot, but it was nowhere near as sweltering as it had been in daylight.

The creosote bushes rustled as the wind picked up, a soft whispering sound reminiscent of the radio static Mulder insisted on listening to. Intertwined with the movements of the wind across the desert plains were the small sounds of creatures shuffling through the sand.

Rattle snakes were a problem in this area. She had no idea what else was out there, watching, though her mind offered no shortage of possibilities. Potentially a vicious wild animal fond of shredding people, Scully reminded herself. Or one of Mulder's ridiculous black dogs which, though laughable in theory, was not something she had any desire to encounter.

She picked up her pace. A little light would be helpful, but she still wasn't willing to disclose her location to whatever or whoever may want to keep an eye on her.

The longer Scully walked, the more convinced she became that she had chosen the wrong direction. She considered backtracking, but hesitated when she saw something.

She stumbled toward the shadowy structure, only half certain it was really there.

If Mulder had gone looking for help, this would be the most logical destination. The dirt swirled around her feet as she walked and a gust of wind brushed across the flat land.

She reached her hand out and was relieved to be met with the rough texture of plaster against her fingertips.

If this was the east edge, there should be a door only a few feet away. She ran her hand along the wall to guide her. A little more. She was certain there had been more doors here.

The wall dropped away and she searched for a handle. Locked. Scully rattled the doorknob in frustration, banging on the wood with her fists.

"Hello? Mulder?"

Only the wind replied, twisting around her and lifting loose strands of her hair.

She searched her pockets, unable to locate her motel room key. Had she left it in the car? She didn't have time for this.

Scully inhaled the night air deeply, trying to clear her head.

The important thing was not to panic. Panic would be pointless and completely unhelpful. No, she just needed to calm down and think.

Mulder wouldn't have left her in the car. Probably. It wasn't unheard of for him to up and wander off in the middle of a case—even the middle of a sentence. But even if he had, he would have a good reason.

Perhaps there had been an accident and he'd gone to get help. But she hadn't noticed any obvious damage to the vehicle, though she wasn't looking for it, or any obvious damage to herself. No accident, then.

In that case, he must have been taken against his will.

Scully leaned against the locked door, considering the circumstances.

She needed to get into her room, and that was going to require a key. She stalked across the empty parking lot toward the main office and pounded on the door. When no one answered, she let herself in.

"Mr. and Mrs. Bell?" she shouted. "Martha?"

The place was silent. Scully crossed the threshold and tried the light switch. It clicked but did nothing. The bulb must have burnt out. She pulled the flashlight from her waist and flicked it on, illuminating the tiny room.

Scully ran her hand across the smooth wood tabletop of the front desk, leaving a trail of smudged dust behind.

The quiet was eerie and every small sound had her further on edge. It looked as though a dust storm had rolled through, sending dirt and debris into every corner of the room.

The doors and windows must have been left open at some point, but now they were all securely shut.

There was no one here. The motel's inhabitants seemed to have disappeared with the storm.

Now she was panicking.