Through the Looking Glass by Lovesfox Headers in Prologue Part 17 *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Diary of Liza MacGregor November 19, 1918 My ill health has been long-standing, and I do believe my time on this earth is nearing its end. I will go to my grave still unsatisfied. Bitterly unknowing if the curse will die out with Essie, the last of Rose and John's line. I feel no remorse for my actions. *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~* Scully's Room Monday, May 23, 2000 3:55 AM Scully was not exactly sure what had disturbed her slumber. Her eyes shot open and she sat up, feeling disoriented and confused. Eager to dispel the darkness and her sudden unease, needing the warmth and reassurance of light, she reached out with fumbling fingers to turn on the table lamp to her left. Only the light did not come on. The distant rumble of thunder had Scully turning her head towards the windows –- windows she had cracked open a few inches upon retiring –- and she recognized the sound just now registering in her brain. It was raining quite heavily. At the next, louder crack of thunder, preceded by a jagged flash of lightning, she amended that statement. It was storming. Pushing the blankets off her body, she swung her legs over the window-side of the bed and rose. With slow steps, her body feeling heavy and stuporous, she reached the low table in front of the windows. Her hand swept lightly over the smooth wood surface and located the book of matches she knew to be there, and then the antique candleholder with taper. It took two attempts to light the candle –- her hand shook so much that the first match extinguished itself before she could touch it to the wick. Turning, the candleholder cradled carefully in her hand, the reflection of the flame in the cheval mirror caught her eye. Her free arm fell limply to her side as she lifted the holder up, moving forward. The flame in the mirror seemed to burn brighter, to flare higher. Hesitantly, almost dreamily, Scully watched her free hand rise up towards the mirror. Her fingers touched the glass, but met no resistance. Instead the surface was like cool liquid. Soft, slow ripples flowed away like water –- a disturbance created by her touch. Entranced, she pushed further, and watched her hand go through to her wrist, then to her elbow. With her gaze locked on the image of her reflection's hand merging into her own, she moved closer and closer to the mirror. Her arm moved further and further into the silvery liquid pool. The candlestick fell to the floor, the candle's flame extinguishing itself immediately. She never noticed. Feeling a little like Alice going through the looking glass, Scully stepped into the mirror. *** Mulder's Room 4:03 AM A particularly loud crack of thunder awoke Mulder from a very strange dream in which he had been running through a dark, wet woods searching for Scully. Calling her name, the sound of his voice lost amid his stumbling, crashing footsteps and the ominous storm. He bolted upright with a loud, shuddery gasp of exhaled air. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and a chill wracked his body, making him shiver. Jagged lightning filled the room then, and glancing towards the window, he saw that it was raining heavily. No wonder he had been dreaming of rain. The forest of his dream, or nightmare, flashed in his mind briefly, and somehow he knew it was that behind the inn. He ran one hand through his hair before reaching over to turn the little bedside lamp on. The little key-shaped knob turned with a noisy click, but there was no light. Deducing that the power was out, he grumbled under his breath as he shoved the covers off his lower half. Twisting his body, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up, stretching the kinks out by leaning first to one side, and then the other. Fully wide-awake now, he moved to the bureau where he had put his watch and picking it up, pressed the tiny button for the light. It was just after four a.m. There was no point in trying to go back to bed now -- he normally got up around five anyway. But he wouldn't be able to look at the case files; reading by candlelight was not his style. Not to mention the fact that it gave him a raging headache. After using the bathroom, drinking a glass of water, and brushing his teeth, he stood uncertainly in the doorway leading to his room. A vague sense of unease had him deciding to check on Scully. Returning to his bed, he picked up his discarded tee shirt from where he had tossed it over the footboard, and pulled it on. He then moved through the connecting bathroom to the door leading to Scully's room. Tapping softly on the wood surface, he waited a moment before carefully turning the knob. Poking his head through the partially open door, he called out her name in an exaggerated whisper. There was no reply. He said it again, louder, pushing the door open wider and advancing further inside. Still nothing, which was unusual. While definitely a solid sleeper, Scully also always woke quickly. Just then a bright flash of lightning lit the entire room, revealing the empty bed, its covers tossed back. Forgetting decorum, Mulder strode over to stand beside the bed, calling out with some alarm, "Scully?" It was then that he saw her, lying crumpled on the floor in front of the cheval mirror. "Shit!" he exclaimed, and then yelled out, "I need some help here!" Stumbling in his haste to get around the bed, he fell to his knees beside her unmoving form, sitting on his haunches. His shaking hands reached out and touched her shoulders to turn her completely on her back, as she lay partially on her side. Scully's skin was cold to the touch, and clammy. His suddenly clumsy fingers fumbled at her neck, searching for a pulse. At first there was nothing, and he found himself mouthing, "Please, please." *** In the Mirror... Cold. It was so cold here. Scully could see each of her breaths as she exhaled, puffing into the air to hang for milliseconds before fading away into nothingness. Gooseflesh rippled over her exposed arms and legs, and she shivered. Lifting her hands and crossing them over her chest, she massaged her biceps with quick rubbing motions, trying to stimulate some warmth. But where was here? She blinked slowly, realizing that she did not know where she was; that she could not remember how she had come to be in this place. Yet, while puzzled, she was strangely undisturbed with her lack of knowledge, of understanding. Pushing the thought aside, she walked forward with movements that were slow and languid, looking around with a detached curiosity. Passing furniture she vaguely thought she recognized –- a large, four-poster bed covered in a quilt, a low table with a pretty, rose-patterned bowl and ewer –- her fingertips reached out to touch the china pottery. Instead, they passed right through it. She tried again and again, with the same result. It was difficult to comprehend that the object was insubstantial, unreal. Blinking in an attempt to clear the haze from her eyes, and failing completely, she abandoned the pottery and continued onward. Through an open doorway and down a hall that seemed endless, her footsteps echoing faintly. Eerily. Mist drifted and swirled in the air above her, curled coolly around her bare feet and calves. There were other doorways along the hallway, but they were dim outlines only, their shapes distorted and out of kilter. The doors themselves, while fuzzy and indistinct, were closed, and seemed of a forbidden nature. So she walked on, though she seemed to go nowhere. Slowly she became aware of shapes forming from the mists. Shapes that became wraith-like images of human figures...images of women. Idly, she wondered who they were, wondered if they might be the women who had disappeared. A sense of unease rose within her at that thought, as her brain struggled to make a connection, but the feeling subsided just as quickly, and she let it go without concern. The figures floated past her and over her, surrounding her, and she reached out to touch their gossamer threads. Her hands found nothing to grasp or connect with, instead passing through and leaving wispy trails in their wake. Undisturbed, the apparitions continued their swirling air dance. On her neck suddenly, a feeling of warmth and pressure –- a hand. She stopped, her own arm rising, her fingers touching the spot and encountering only her bare skin. Her head tilted to one side. She knew that touch, that hand. Mulder. She had to go back. Turning, she headed back the way she had come, her footsteps heavy and syrupy. Through the opened door, past the four-poster bed and towards the mirror, as if she were being drawn there. As she got closer, she could see him, see Mulder, instead of her reflection. He was hunched over, cradling something in his arms. Cradling someone. Scully's gasp was audible. He was cradling *her*. *** Mulder found her pulse at last, thready and weak, barely fluttering against his fingertips. His eyes darted up to her face, and even in the darkness, he could easily see that she was ghostly pale. Another burst of lightning illuminated the room, and he saw that her lips were bloodless and tinged a faint blue. "Come on, Scully," he muttered, his heart beating triple time, sick fear rising in his gorge. And then a little louder, "Help me out here, Scully!" Mulder began roughly chafing his hands up and down her bare arms, trying to warm her flesh, to elicit a response. Any response. But she remained silent. Motionless. Still as...death. His panic increased, and his movements became more frantic as he tried desperately to rouse her, shaking her in his fear. The volume of his voice increased yet again, almost a shout. "Scully! Jesus, Scully, wake up!" It struck him then, hard. Her lips were blue. Oh, Jesus. Was she breathing? Mulder bent at the waist, awkwardly, laying his right ear on her chest. Waiting for her breasts to rise and fall. But he was shaking so badly he couldn't tell if she moved or not. He shifted, and holding his breath, brought his face as close to hers as he could without touching her. Hoping to feel her soft exhalations wash over him as she breathed. There was nothing. What was he supposed to do? Christ, this was Scully's department, not his. A flashback to the bowels of a spaceship in the Antarctica, and suddenly he was hearing her voice in his head, calmly telling him what to do. He needed to perform Rescue Breathing. Inhaling and exhaling quickly, bracing himself, Mulder bent over her and gently nudged at the underside of her chin, tilting her head back. Cupping her jaw to hold her steady, he used the thumb and forefinger of his other hand to gently pinch her nostrils together. Covering her mouth with his, he pressed down, making a seal, and breathed slowly, while watching to see if her chest rose. It did, so he knew there was no obstruction in her airway. He breathed into her mouth once more, and then slid his fingers to her carotid artery, once again checking her pulse. It was still there, but as faint and weak as it had been the first time he checked it. Pausing to yell loudly for help, Mulder commenced with the rescue breathing, giving one breath every five seconds. Softly he counted 'one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, and then inhaled on the fourth count and breathed into Scully on the fifth. After roughly a minute, he checked her pulse yet again. Prepared to begin CPR if he could not find one. There was no change; it was no stronger, nor any weaker. "Scully, please, come back to me," he whispered, before placing his mouth on hers once more. Breathe, count the seconds, breathe. *** In the Mirror... Scully stumbled to a halt as ice-cold shock coursed through her veins, and she nearly fell. Her thoughts were whirling, and she felt dizzy and weak, her head pounding furiously. She struggled for comprehension, to understand what her eyes were seeing. How could she be in two places at the same time? Some rational part of her mind supplied the answer -– she could not. Sudden and sickening horror filled her, had her staggering and then falling to her knees. Was she dead? Was that why she was in this place, with the ghosts of other women? Was this her fate? Doomed to spend eternity... Her train of thought was interrupted as Mulder chafed his hands up and down her...other self's...arms. Scully swore she felt the sensation on her own arms, and crossed them over her chest, hugging herself, her hands trailing after Mulder's phantom touch. His panic was obvious, even though the images of him and her other self were not clear, and seemed far away. She watched as he shook her, was even jolted slightly, falling forward onto all fours, bringing her that much closer to the mirror. The mirror. Could she go through it? The question stirred a faint memory, and she closed her eyes in concentration, her breathing accelerating and coming in short pants. And she remembered. In her mind, she saw herself holding a candle and staring at her reflection before she first reached up to touch the mirror. Then she was walking forward and into it. Eyes snapping open, Scully crawled closer to the mirror and stopped just inches away. The images before her did not change –- Mulder was still there, with her body on the floor before him, in her room at Starbuck House. Leaning on her left arm, she hesitantly lifted her other hand and brought it up to the glass. Instead of sliding into the hazy mists, her flesh encountered a cold, unyielding surface. With a cry of dismay and fear she rose up on her knees and slapped both palms hard against the mirror. Nothing happened, though her hands stung from the force of her blows. Still, she lifted them up and back to try again. The motion was arrested though when she felt that phantom touch on her neck, and then her lips. Focusing on Mulder through the glass, she was panic-stricken as she saw that he was checking her pulse, performing rescue breathing on her. Dread followed on the heels of panic. If he had to breathe for her, it meant that he thought she was close to death, or she was indeed dead. Her fear intensified, and her breathing sped up further, until she was gasping for air. Until she was hyperventilating, hands clawing at her throat as she fought to breathe. And then she knew no more. *** Over and over. Mulder didn't know how long he had been breathing into Scully –- for Scully -- when an odd noise penetrated his extreme state of concentration. Looking up and turning his head towards the now-opened door, he saw an old woman in an odd-looking wheelchair holding up a thick candle for illumination. "Call 9-1-1!" he barked at her, realizing this must be Essie Dunford, and bent back over Scully. Before he could begin the breathing again, something made him look back at the doorway. Essie had not budged. "We need help here!" he yelled. "Call 9-1-1." The old woman still did not move, and Mulder wondered if she were hard of hearing. His head whipped around, searching the room for Scully's cell phone, but it was nowhere in sight. He was afraid to leave Scully and go back to his room and get his own cell. He tried again, raising his voice even more. "She needs help! Call for an ambulance!" Essie finally responded, drawing his attention back to her. "You must leave her alone!" she shrieked at him. "The mirror must have her!" Sucking in air harshly, spittle flying from her lips, she continued, "It must not be denied. It must be fed!" His fear alchemized to white-hot rage. If his hands hadn't been on Scully, he might have launched at the old woman. Instead he forced himself to take a deep breath, preparing to ask her what the hell she meant by that statement –- 'the mirror must have her'. Her words registered then. The mirror. The one Scully had been so fascinated by, the one she now lay in front of, near death. And somehow, he knew he had to destroy it. Knew that it had something to do with the curse, that it had some kind of hold on his partner. And that he had to break that hold. Quickly and gently, he moved Scully away from the mirror, Essie's angry squawking a distant buzz in his ears, silently apologizing to his partner for handling her so. Rising to his feet, his hands tightly clenched, he moved to stand in front of the beautiful and elegant antique mirror. With no remorse or hesitation whatsoever, he lifted his arms up over his head and brought them swinging downward, smashing his fists into the glass. Jolting pain lanced through his hands and up along his forearms from the impact, while dots of blood welled from tiny pinpricks that stung as the mirror shattered and pieces of the glass cut into his skin. Thousands of shards showered down in a tinkling, crashing torrent, covering and bouncing off his bare feet onto the hardwood floor. There was a sudden, harsh gasp from directly behind him. Scully. Heedless of those same shards, some of which cut into the bottoms of his unprotected feet, he spun around and darted back to her, dropping to the floor at her side. One hand went to her neck, searching for and finding her extremely rapid pulse, while the other stroked strands of hair from her face and his gaze took in the fact that her chest was rising and falling as she thankfully breathed. Sinking down onto his ass, Mulder gathered Scully up, cradling and rocking her in his arms. *** End Part 17