Author's Note: My past works have focused on House, M.D., but lately I've been watching my complete set of X-Files DVDs in preparation for the new movie this summer. So, I thought I'd try my hand at writing an X-Files episode.

I'll be trying to stick with the established episode format, albeit likely with some degree of Mulder-Scully relationship development. This story takes place at no particular point in the X-Files story arc except that it's before Mulder is abducted, and before Doggett/Reyes/William. It is not connected with the primary X-Files mythology (colonists/black oil/syndicate/etc). It's a good old-fashioned standalone "Mulder and Scully investigating strange events" story, which is the kind I enjoy best.

The core idea for this story is by no means unique, but in this case is taken from a short story I wrote fifteen years ago. If you enjoy what you read, please do take a moment to leave some feedback - I'd love to hear from you.


Akron, Ohio
August 12
2:38 PM

The small bell mounted above the door gave a muted jingle as a tall man entered the specialist antique store, causing the aged shopkeeper to briefly glance up and smile. It was a Monday afternoon, and business was always slow on Mondays.

The prospective customer was one Mr. James Ingles, and he quickly found the area of the store which interested him. He and his wife (Angela) had moved into their new suburban home only two weekends ago, and were now almost completely settled in. Boxes had been unpacked, flattened and stored (though neither of them could foresee ever wanting to move again; the new place was just perfect). New furniture had been bought, delivered and properly positioned. A few choice pieces of old furniture had been given pride of place throughout the house. Neighbours had been met, and new routines had been readily fallen into.

Everything was in place; or rather, almost everything. James Ingles was an architect by profession, and a successful one - he was president of his own firm, which itself had moved to larger premises only two years before. A portion of the new house's garage was devoted to a small studio so that he could occasionally do some work from home, but to be honest, that wasn't where he hoped he'd be spending most of his time. James was a voracious reader, and like so many readers, he had for years toyed with the idea of writing his own version of the Great American Novel.

With the new house came more rooms, and one in particular held most interest for him - James finally had a writing room. One of his several laptop computers was already set up in there, but whilst useful as a tool, the modern machine didn't exactly complement the ambience of the surroundings, which were of rich, dark wood with leather-backed chairs. Whilst he would probably never actually use it to write with, James wanted a good old-fashioned typewriter - at least for display purposes. The Yellow Pages had indicated that he was in luck - there was an antique store only a 20-minute drive away which specialised in such devices, and so he'd taken a long lunch and decided to have a look.

There were several typewriters to be found here, on a large, low table off to the left of the main area of the store; many sitting in open cases of cracked black leather, off-white keys poised and eager for letters and news stories which would very likely never again arrive.

They're beautiful, he thought, smiling without realising he was doing so.

He ran his fingers over the keys of Underwoods and Remingtons and Royals, and even more recent IBM Selectrics, completely engrossed, until something seemed to move in his peripheral vision. He glanced over to his right, and his eyes widened.

"Now what is that?" he wondered aloud, again drawing a brief glance from the shopkeeper. James walked slowly towards the end of the table and placed his hands on the edge of its scarred wooden surface.

It's... perfect, he thought. Absolutely perfect.

This typewriter was sitting apart from the rest, and didn't seem to have any carrying-case accompanying it. It was primarily of smooth black metal, with rounded and slightly yellow keys, dark grey levers, and elaborate metalwork set around the edge of the key guard. It bore no brand-name of any kind, and its keys' surfaces were lettered in an unusual typeface - not quite cursive, but not entirely plain either. It looked, like so many old typewriters, not unlike a large metallic insect.

I wonder who made -

The thought was cut off before it was finished, and James blinked. Somehow, the lack of a brand marking didn't seem important at the moment. After all, it was an extremely beautiful machine, and it would be ideal in his writing room - it would complement his desk perfectly, for starters.

OK, so how much do they want for it? he wondered, and then almost immediately noticed the handwritten price-card sitting prominently on top of the upper row of keys, where he was reasonably sure nothing had been a moment ago.

Huh, he thought, and then shrugged.

The card indicated that this particular typewriter would cost him 450, and that seemed just fine. A bargain, in fact. He picked the machine up and carried it to the counter.

"Ah, now here we are!" the shopkeeper exclaimed with a smile, adjusting his glasses from long-practised habit, and James returned the smile.

"A writer, are you?" the old man asked, taking the price-card and peering at it before beginning to press buttons on the cash register at his side.

"Oh no," James replied with a small laugh. "Not yet, anyway. I just really liked the look of it."

The shopkeeper smiled once again, still ringing up the purchase, and nodded his head twice.

"I know just what you mean," he said. "I have two old Royals at home; can't say I've typed much more than a grocery list on either one. But I do love to see them sitting there."

James grinned in agreement, taking his wallet from his jacket pocket.

"It was four hundred and fifty, wasn't it?" he asked, and the old man nodded once more.

"Four hundred and fifty exactly, yes sir. I'll get that wrapped up for you right away."

Within a few minutes James' purchase was securely encased in bubble-wrap and multiple layers of brown paper, and taking it securely under his arm he reached out to shake the old man's hand.

"Thanks very much," he said. "It really is perfect. Just what I was looking for."

"I hope you enjoy it very much," the shopkeeper replied, his earnest smile never having left his face. "And you be sure to come back when you realise one of those is never enough."

James laughed and nodded by way of response, and left the store. The bright sunshine was momentarily dazzling after having been in the relative gloom indoors, but his eyes quickly recovered and he began making his way back to where he had parked.

From behind the half-drawn blinds of the shop's large display window, the old man watched his newest customer set off down the street with a spring in his step, but the shopkeeper's own smile had faded, to be replaced with a frown.


Ingles Residence
August 12
8:15 PM

After removing the last sheet of brown paper and unrolling the copious bubble-wrap, James placed his prized purchase onto the leather place-mat in the middle of the desk. After sliding a sheet of paper into it, he stood back. The writing room was now surely complete.

He ran his fingers over the keys of the device, idly wondering if they would indeed sound as typewriters do on TV. He pressed the 'T' key, and grinned at the characteristic metallic stamping sound which rung out as the corresponding lever swung to strike the paper's surface.

"I'll be damned," he said.

The paper was now imprinted with a single, vivid letter 'T', as crisp and flawless as if it had been produced by a laser printer. He had expected no mark to be left, given the age of the machine.

I guess the old man must have kept these things inked, he thought, with a shrug.

Without thinking, he reached out again to the typewriter, hesitantly at first but then with greater confidence, and typed a few words. When finished, he grinned as he read from the sheet of paper.

TOMORROW I WILL WAKE UP AND FIND MY LEXUS REPLACED WITH A FERRARI.

His grin faded briefly as he felt a momentary chill chase up the middle of his back, but the moment passed and then he laughed out loud. The typewriter looked great on the desk, just as he knew it would. It had been a very wise purchase, and he knew that he now felt completely at home in this house.

Who knows? he thought as he turned to leave the writing room, reaching for the light-switch as he stepped through the door. Maybe I'll even use it instead of the laptop.


Ingles Residence
August 13
6:45 AM

James was torn from sleep by the familiar beeping of the bedside alarm clock, and he reached to silence it just as Angela groaned and turned away from the sound. He had a 40 minute commute to his firm's offices each day, so it was time to get up.

He was showered and dressed within 25 minutes, and with the coffee machine already bubbling contentedly in the kitchen he walked through to the front hallway to retrieve the morning newspaper. He opened the door, began to bend down to pick up the rolled-up and somewhat bashed paper, and then he stopped dead.

His silver Lexus, always parked in the driveway only 8 metres or so from the front door, was gone. In its place, an unmistakable vehicle. The sleek lines, large tyres, reduced height and blazing red bodywork could be identified by any man or boy in the country - to say nothing of the distinctive yellow badge depicting a black stallion.

"Jesus," he said, but almost no sound came from his mouth. After a moment, he quickly stepped back inside and closed the door.

The hallway, sunny and comforting only a minute before, was suddenly full of subtle shadows. The hair on the back of neck was standing fully on end, and he could feel his pulse quicken.

OK, it's a joke. It's someone's idea of a joke, his mind chattered, but some other, older part of his consciousness seemed to know better. This was not a joke, and it certainly wasn't a laughing matter.

It took only 45 seconds for James to quietly go back upstairs, along the corridor past the master bedroom and into the writing room, but he felt as if he was moving in slow motion.

The typewriter was not there. He looked behind the desk to see if it had somehow fallen off, but it was nowhere to be found. James became aware of a bitter taste in the back of his throat, and he knew it was adrenaline. He glanced around nervously, but there was only the familiar room just as he had left it - except for the typewriter.

He looked back at the desk once again, and whilst the machine was no longer there, the surface was by no means empty. A single sheet of paper lay there, and he could see that it was a typescript. There was no mistaking the somehow odd shapes of the letters, and the impossibly vivid quality of the ink.

It was the paper he had typed upon last night, or rather that he had started typing upon. He was unaware that his mouth was moving, reading the words aloud even as he saw them.

TOMORROW I WILL WAKE UP AND FIND MY LEXUS REPLACED WITH A FERRARI.
I WILL RETURN TO THE WRITING ROOM, BUT THE MACHINE WILL BE GONE.
I WILL HEAR A NOISE AND BEGIN TO TURN, BUT IT WILL BE TOO-

A creak, from the wooden floorboards, very close behind. He was suddenly perfectly aware of the beads of sweat on his brow, the chirping of morning birds on the trees outside, the vague aroma of coffee drifting through the house. He had a brief, vivid recollection of a fishing trip with his father, decades ago, and of the rich mineral smell of the water of the lake that day. This all happened within an instant.

He spun around, nervous muscles propelling him through 180 degrees in a quarter of a second. His face registered the briefest expression of confusion, then his creased brow began to loosen almost imperceptibly.

Angela...? he thought, but the thought was never finished.

A flash of sunlight on metal, the whisper of steel through the air, a scream which may have been his own. And then silence.