Lovely, Dark and Deep Chapter 2

Many of the tourist cabins were abandoned. Their doors stood open, welcoming last year's autumn leaves that rustled in the insistent mountain air. To say the others looked rough would have been a bit too harsh. They just seemed careworn; battered by too many harsh winters. All the people staying at the Mountainaire Court seemed the same way.

Monica's cabin was in tattered but serviceable shape. She had to smile at the television. It was one of those cabinet floor models that sat in almost every living room in 1975. The bed was bowed and the bathroom tile cracked. She made a mental note not to go barefoot on the rug, as it was a mashed-down shag that looked suspiciously tan in some parts and off-white in others.

The Westfield River ran almost directly behind the circle of cabins. It wasn't much more than a barren, rocky stream that year. The water made a melancholy sound as it flowed against the rocks and created its own little riffles against the shore. Sun rays splashed against the water and reflected up the steep bank and against the rear window of Monica's cabin. She opened it and leaned out, taking a deep breath. The air wasn't hot and heavy as it had been in South Carolina. Instead, it was very fresh and brisk.

John was standing on one of the banks. The sunlight sparkled around him. He looked sad and preoccupied, like he was looking for something lost. She noticed his hair was getting long and beginning to curl a bit at the ends...something unusual for someone so precise about his appearance. Lately he had been ditching the suit and tie for jeans and a t-shirt, too. That's what he was wearing that June night, slapping mosquitoes and staring sadly at the water.

Monica walked down a narrow path to join him. He didn't move until she was beside him, arms folded, staring at the water bugs skimming the river's surface.

"How's your room?" she asked.

"Pretty scuzzy."

"Mine too," she said, smiling faintly. John's eyes were dark in the twilight, a breathtaking blue so deep it was almost black. Monica ran her fingers through his hair impulsively. He didn't shy away, instead he leaned into her touch and closed his eyes. "Your hair's so long. I didn't know it curled a little."

"If I didn't keep it short, I'd look like Leif Garrett."

Monica studied him for a moment, then burst out laughing. John just rolled his eyes. "I'll get it cut tomorrow," he said, a Cheshire Cat grin spreading across his face. "Yeah, here we are in the middle of nowhere again. A town under a lake. Jesus Christ."

They stepped back a little from each other and John laughed this time. Then he very gently slid his fingertips down her inner arm until they were grasping hands. His palms were calloused from lifting weights.

Monica let her eyes wander to his chest. It was tight and muscular. John was not the type to walk around with his shirt off, but she wished he would.

She wished a lot of things about John. Dreamed a lot of things about him, too. Maybe the detached cabins weren't such a bad thing. In California they had adjoining rooms with flimsy Howard Johnson walls. One night, Monica dreamed they were finally in bed, making love. It felt so real, so real she felt the orgasm like a gunshot rocking through her body. She woke up spent, flushed and wondering what the hell had just happened. The next day, over breakfast, John shook his head.

"I had the strangest dream. You were calling me and beating on a wall," he said, taking a bite of sausage. Monica almost gagged on her coffee. Talk about giving up the ghost. "What do you make of that, Mon?"

"Well, dreams are funny," was all she said, trying not to blush. Yeah, that was pretty easy dream to interpret.

XXXXXX

Oddly, despite the fact the bed felt like a hammock and the night air grew very cold, Monica slept like a baby for the first time in weeks. There was no great explaination for that. Before sleep settled in, she thought of Scully. With both Mulder and William gone now, Scully didn't come around much anymore. A week had passed without the red-haired agent popping up in the basement office. But everything was up in the air. Skinner was nervous, John was morose and Monica was fighting an uphill battle just to keep her head above water. Somehow Scully just got lost in the shuffle.

Monica leaned back into the pillow and thought of John. What was he thinking right now? He loved Scully, but barely mentioned her now. It was a relationship Monica had trouble accepting even a month ago. Everything was so differemt now. Things had narrowed to a pinpoint around John in her life. There was just nowhere for Scully or anyone else to go. They sat on the border, rolling around the periphery.

The shadows seemed to darken. Monica felt a brief jolt of fear, but sleep settled over her like a fog.

XXXXXX

The town of Huntington was quaint but dreary. There was no real Main Street, just a haphazard collection of old and new buildings. The centerpiece of the town was the bridge over the railroad tracks and river. They parked on one side and walked across, stopping in the middle to gaze down at the rushing water.

"Coffins floated here," Monica said suddenly. The image was unshakeable. The water would have been higher, with uprooted trees and swingsets bouncing down its foamy surface. Then the coffins would bob by. "People stood on this bridge and watched them go downstream."

John sucked in a little air and winced. She could tell he was itching to say something but biting his tongue.

"Breakfast," she said, pointing toward a country store.

"Yeah," was all John said. He watched the water flow under the bridge for a moment longer.

There was no one inside The Bridge Store. At first they didn't notice. There was a radio on. Some DJ was chattering about a canoe race. No one was sitting at the counter. When Monica stuck her head in the back room, she found that empty, too. John laid his food near the cash register and started looking around. Other than the radio everything was just too quiet. They hadn't passed any cars that morning. There weren't even any birds singing.

Both cast a sideways glance at each other. They each left a five dollar bill on the cash register, gathered up their breakfasts and practically sprinted to the car. "Is this town underwater or is it just the other way around?" John asked as they drove away. It made very little sense at the time, but things were already shaping up to take them far from reality.

They followed the signs to Knightville Dam, each minute taking them further away from civilization.

"Where the hell is everyone?"

Monica popped a little chocolate donut in her mouth and shook her head. "Beats me. Maybe they're on Mars and we're it," she smiled, trying to get John to do the same.

"Oh, that's a scream, Mon," he said. The came the clincher. "Bad joke."

"John, I have to ask you something and I don't want you read into it too far."

"Shoot."

"Do you think we're in some kind of caesura?" Monica asked, staring at her hands. She couldn't tell him about the shadows growing dark or the dreams she was having with increasing frequency. John shifted uncomfortably, partially answering her question. He's scared, too.

"They're not splitting us up, if that's what you're asking," he said in a very stubborn way.

"That's not what I'm asking."

John's eyes narrowed but he didn't say another word. They pulled into the dam parking lot and let out surprised breaths. It was jam-packed with cars and people. Monica could make out a great crowd sitting on what looked like a beach, watching others on jet skis and in canoes and in rafts paddle around in circles.

"Well, at least now we know where the town went," she said with a shrug. They got out ofthe car and headed toward the water. Monica felt the place out mentally but could only gather it was a very pretty place, with the lavender mountains off in the distance and a consistent, cooling breeze.

"Be a nice place to fish or camp," John said, putting on his sunglasses. She vaguely remembered that John was nuts about outdoor sports, although the chances to take part were few in their line of work.

A tall man approached them. He was obviously in law enforcement and had a weatherbeathen, genial look. "You must be the FBI. I'm Sheriff Hunnicutt. Guess you're stuck with me until we figure this mess out," he smiled.

He took Monica's hand in his big paw and shook enthusiastically. Some of the beachgoers turned to gawk at the new faces.

"So this was Knightville," John said, giving the people sitting on beach towels a sour look.

"Oh yeah. You'll have to hit the "hysterical" society for the lowdown on the background. But I can give you a thumbnail of what's going on."

Monica squinted across the lake. "So there's only two dead...and they drowned. Others say they can see it, right?"

"I had a report from a Game and Inland Fisheries guy that he was staring at the lake one minute, turned around and when he looked back, the town was sitting here plain as day. He said it wasn't filmy like a mirage or a trick of the light. Now this guy's a buddy of mine and I wouldn't doubt him."

"Well, we're gonna need to chat with him and take a look at everything that was recovered from that canoe. I also want to see pictures of what this place looked like," John said.

"There's only two, and they're back at the historical society in Westfield, about a half-hour from here. Like I said, I wish I could be of more help but I was transferred here about two years ago from California. We're going to clear out all the looky-loos here pretty soon so you can do your investigation. If you run to Westfield now, the Staties and I will have everyone gone by the time you get back."

XXXXX

Westfield

Copies of the photographs in hand, John and Monica stepped out on Chestnut Street and into a downtown that looked more than just a little seedy. "Wonder why they chose to flood Knightville and not here?" Monica asked.

"Good question. So now what?"

"I guess we just wait for Brigadoon to rise from the mists."

At least Westfield had plenty of shopping centers. John pulled into one with a camping store and got out, whistling softly.

"John, I thought you were joking about the camping," Monica frowned. She hated camping, mostly due to the fact she had to have a morning shower to wake up completely.

"Just one night. Maybe we can catch it in the early hours of the morning. Besides, sleeping in a tent is better than sleeping in car. We can have a cookout and tell ghost stories," smiled John. No need for ghost stories anymore. Everything they'd seen in the past few months would be enough to even scare the heartiest ghost hunter away.

It was a regular shopping spree. The store only had one tent, which reminded Monica of some cheap TV plot device to get the main characters to sleep together. John bought sleeping bags, citronella candles and a long-handled fork. Monica bought a flashlight. Back at the historical society, the old woman who ran the place was making endless copies of articles pertaining to Knightville. Monica wanted to read them that night.

The drive back to Huntington was pretty but annoyingly long. John sat in the passenger seat, flipping through all the photocopies. Around one curve, Monica slowed to a near-stop. A wave of something hit her, something like sadness. "Hey Mon, what's the problem?" John asked. She could only shake her head and pull off onto the shoulder.

They got out. Monica went to the guardrail and ran her hand along a bump that marred its smooth edge. On the other side, was the river, down a steep bank marked with brambles and raspberry bushes. She couldn't figure out the feeling but it was crushing and smothering. It made her restless, as if she needed to look for something.

She felt a hand on her bank. It was John. The touch was soothing and it brought Monica out of what was a slight trance-like state.

"What is it, Mon? Something wrong here?"

"It's not Knightville. There's something else. It's this place, the atmosphere. Someone got lost or I don't..."

A woman was approaching them from a lawn across the road, watering can in hand. She looked older and slightly stooped over. John led Monica over and was trying to figure out how to explain what they were doing when the lady cut them to the quick.

"I guess you'll want to know what happened there. I'm Elsie Summerall, lived in this house for forty years. I was here the day it happened and dial nine-eleven myself," she said. "Come in and have some cookies I baked this morning."

Before they knew what was going on, John and Monica were inside the spotless white home, sitting amid the old furniture and books. Elsie came in with a tray of tea and cookies.

"I'm sorry, we're actually with the FBI about Knightville but I had this feeling when I saw that bump in the guard rail," Monica mumbled, praying the old lady would understand.

"Nothing to it. There was a terrible accident there about twenty years ago and that's how the ghost lady story started. A bunch of crap, I think. I just wish they'd fix that guardrail. I've been staring at it for decades now. A shame," Elsie frowned, taking a sip of tea.

"What happened?" aslked John, leaning forward.

"Woman died with her three kids in the car. Some drunk fool hit her right in the middle of the day. The kids were okay, to a point, one of them's on the rescue squad but everyone talks about seeing this young lady sitting on the guard rail, waiting for something, like..."

"Absolution," Monica interjected.

"Exactly. I think it's hogwash. But, people need something to talk about."

"Elsie, what do you know about Knightville?"

"It wasn't a popular choice to flood the place out. State versus town, big guy versus little guy. My grandfather was born there. His father ran the butcher shop. Many of the people...my great-grandfather being one of them...had to be forced out at gunpoint. One man even shot a few people as they demolished his house. Can you believe that?"

Elsie bagged up the rest of the cookies and walked them back to the car. "You find out what's going on up there. Personally, I think if the dead could speak, Knightville would just want some recognition. You can't just take away a place and a time. It doesn't happen that easily."

XXXXX

They stopped at Huntington's decaying grocery store for supplies and went back to their cabins to get a change of clothes. Monica sat on the edge of her bed, still reeling slightly from that horrible feeling of loss and dread. It was like being on a plane as it hits a deep pocket of turbulence. She felt hollow in the pit of her stomach.

John walked in and sat beside her. Sometimes he'd laugh at her psychic feelings and call her Miss Cleo. they'd both laugh about it. But now that she was visibly upset and almost shaking, his resolve melted. Monica willingly melted into his arms even though John could offer little comfort. He was so strong and she loved him so much.

"Mon, we'll have a good time tonight. I haven't been camping in God-knows how long. And i'm pretty sure not a damn thing's going to happen in Knightville."

She looked up and tried to smile. He smelled like soap and aftershave and still needed a haircut.

Monica kissed him on the jawline. She rubbed her nose on his stubbly skin. John's arms tightened around her.

They'd share a tent.

Maybe camping wouldn't be that bad.