Efrem's Reach, Maine
7:07 p.m.

FADE IN TO EFREM MANSION DINING ROOM - SLOW PAN AROUND TABLE
AS CONTESTANTS PASS DISHES AND CHAT.

 H.Y.S. (VOICEOVER): There's a real air of tension at the table tonight. The houseguests have been on the Reach for two weeks now, and emotions are flaring. Fox's ongoing battle of wits with Eriq. Krystle's now-open attraction to Fox. Trudy's attitude toward Monica's lesbianism. Paul's radical vegetarian stance. And Fran's sudden adoption of a nudist lifestyle has both quickened heart rates and led to her being banished from the Efrem kitchen.

 FOX (SUPERIMPOSE TITLE "FOX/FBI SPECIAL AGENT"): Great brussel
sprouts, Paul. I'm feeling a real chlorophyll rush already.

 PAUL (SUPER "PAUL/STUDENT" CONTINUES TO CHEW , GLARING AT
FOX).

 ERIQ (SUPER "ERIQ/PERSONAL TRAINER"):  Yeah, well maybe Smart (BLEEP) here likes this rabbit crap, but I still think we shoulda taken a vote on this vegetarian (BLEEP). I'm still not sure Paul here didn't bust up the lobster trap.

 KRYSTLE (SUPER "KRYSTLE/WEB DESIGNER"): Eriq, we agreed by common consent that we needed to be sensitive to Paul's special needs. You don't see Fox complaining about it.

 FOX FLASHES A SMILE AS HE POPS A BRUSSEL SPROUT. ERIQ BENDS
A FORK. A HARSH LAUGH IS HEARD AT THE END OF THE TABLE. CAMERA
PANS TO TRUDY.

 TRUDY (SUPER "TRUDY/U.S. ARMY, RETIRED"): We gonna continue to be
sensitive to the "special needs" of  Miss Natural Blonde here, too?

 FRAN (SUPER "FRAN/FRAGRANCE RETAILER"; COMPUTER PIXELATE
CHEST AREA): Hey, Tru-dy, just cause you're carrying a bigger pack than the whole cast of "Saving Private Ryan" put together doesn't give you the right to pass judgement on my chosen lifestyle.

 TRUDY: Lifestyle, huh? Wonder how much camera time the network boys been devoting to your new lifestyle. (LOOKS INTO CAMERA) Nate over there seems to be packing an extra zoom lens, huh, Big Boy? All I got to say is you'd better lock up tight tonight, Honey, cause I think Manica here is looking for a relationship.

 MONICA (SUPER "MONICA/BOOK EDITOR"): Hey, Trudy, I told you I
didn't appreciate your little homophobic pet names.

 KRYSTLE: Trudy, I think it's time for a little healing here. Do you maybe think some of these little attacks on Monica and Fran come out of some repressed frustration? Even if you're no longer a drill sergeant, you're still a productive human being.

 TRUDY SITS BACK, EYEBROWS ARCHING.

 KRYSTLE: Trudy, sweetie, I'd like you and Monica and Fran to give each other a big hug.

 ERIQ (ENTHUSIASTICALLY): Hell, yeah. At least Fran and Monica.

 KRYSTLE: Eriq, we're trying for some understanding here.

 ERIQ (INDIGNANT): Hey, what about Secret Agent Man's jab at Paul, you
know, about the chlorine? (FOX NEARLY CHOKES ON BRUSSEL SPROUT).

 KRYSTLE: Trudy?

 TRUDY: I am NOT hugging this skinny-(BLEEP) naked woman or this "lady,"
either one.

 MONICA: Old (BLEEP).

 FRAN:  (BLEEP).

 FOX: While we're healing, can I have some salt and maybe a little novocaine?

 CUT TO KRYSTLE EARLIER IN DAY, SEATED ON SOFA.

 KRYSTLE:  Fox is like such a deep guy. And he's so spiritual. He told me about
his little sister being abducted by aliens when he was just like a kid. I thought that was just
so brave. I mean, for a guy to open up like that.

 CUT TO TRUDY, SIPPING COFFEE AT KITCHEN TABLE.

 TRUDY: Man is seriously Section 8. Back in my unit, we'da shipped him back to
his mama in a Ziploc bag first time he started flappin' his lips about Roswell. Uncle Sam
says something's classified, then by God, I don't care if you're black or white or a little
green Martian - you zip it, mister.

 CUT TO MONICA, WALKING ALONG BEACH OUTSIDE MANSION.

 MONICA: Ah, Fox's OK, but he and Eriq have this testosterone conflict going,
and it gets a little old. Eriq may practically drip machismo, or whatever it is straight guys
drip these days, but Fox plays the same competitive games - just with a few more game
pieces.

 CUT TO EXTREME FACIAL CLOSEUP FRAN.

 FRAN: Sure, I wouldn't mind a quick "Fox," if you catch my drift (WINKS), but
I'm really into Eriq. He's more in touch with his physical being, you know? And what a
(BLEEP)in' ass!

 H.Y.S. (VOICEOVER OVER FADE TO EFREM PARLOR, WHERE SIX
HOUSEGUESTS ARE SEATED AROUND GAME BOARD. SUPER "LIVE"
BOTTOM SCREEN): To thaw the group's mounting tensions, Krystle proposes a game
of Scrabble. Monica refuses and goes to her room to read. A competitive Eriq agrees to
play after Fox offers to "spot him a few dozen points and a Merriam-Webster Dictionary."

 ERIQ (CAREFULLY LINING UP TILES): There.

 FOX: D-O-G. I challenge!

 TRUDY AND KRYSTLE CHUCKLE.

 ERIQ: Yeah, well, it's on a double word point space. Fran? Fran, you gonna play
or what?

 PAN TO FRAN, BODY HEAVILY PIXELATED, WHO SMILES INTO
CAMERA AND SLIDES HER TILES INTO PLACE. CAMERA PANS TO BOARD,
THEN QUICKLY AWAY.

 FOX: Well, it is a high word score, it utilizes a minimum number of the player's
tiles, and it is a clever, if somewhat riske', use of both Eriq's "dog" and Krystle's "style."
However, I'm not sure it's a single word.

 KRYSTLE: I think it might be hyphenated, honey.

 TRUDY: Aw, just let the girl have it. I'm sure she's the expert in this particular
area of expertise.

 FRAN (MAKES FACE AT TRUDY): Rowrrr.

 FOX (REARRANGING HIS TILES): Okayyy, then. Eeny meeny chili beanie, the
spirits are about to speak.

 ERIQ: Come on.

 FOX PLACES TILES; ZOOM IN TO BOARD.

 ERIQ: Challenge!!

 FOX: A "golem" is an undead creature of Jewish folklore, supposedly
manufactured from mud or clay and usually summoned to avenge -

 FRAN: You are like terminally spooky, dude.

 ERIQ: Foreign word! Disqualified.

 FOX: Oh, please. If I'd used "eucharist" or "seraphim".

 ERIQ: Say WHAT?

 A SCREAM SOUNDS FROM UPSTAIRS. GUESTS TURN
SIMULTANEOUSLY; FOX JUMPS UP AND RUNS UP STAIRS. OTHERS
FOLLOW.

 CAMERA FOLLOWS GROUP DOWN UPSTAIRS HALLWAY TO
MONICA'S ROOM.

 FOX (BANGS ON DOOR): Monica! You okay in there?

 MONICA (MUFFLED): Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

 FOX: Everybody back. (KICKS DOOR IN)

 CAMERA PANS THROUGH BEDROOM DOOR. MONICA IS STANDING
BY BED, HANDS TO HER MOUTH, STARING AT WALL. CAMERA PANS TO
WALL, WHERE A MAN'S FACE HAS BEEN SKETCHED IN RED.

 FRAN: Jesus, Monica, you scared the (BLEEP) out of me!

FOX: You don't remember doing this, do you?

 KRYSTLE: Like she was in a trance or something? Wow.

 FOX: Maybe. There are tons of studies on automatic writing and drawing, where
some force beyond the subject's awareness or even in some cases their abilities guides
their hand. Sometimes, a person with multiple or disassociate personalities exhibits skills
or abilities their normal personality lacks.

 MONICA: Hey, FBI, I'm not a schizo, all right.

 TRUDY (AMUSED): Hey, maybe there's a gal in there, too.

 MONICA: (BLEEP)!

 FOX: The more obvious answer, of course, is that this drawing is some
manifestation of the phenomenom that's pervaded this house for decades.

 ERIQ: Oh, (BLEEP).

 FRAN (PIXELATED): Fox, babe, just one problem. To have a ghost, you gotta
have a dead person with some seriously unresolved issues, right? Old Man Efrem died in
his bed of a heart attack, and his old lady is still alive, right? So if nobody died, where's
the ghost come from?

 FOX (POINTING TO DRAWING): I think maybe we're looking at him. I think
our spirit, poltergeist, presence, whatever, took temporary possession of Monica.

 TRUDY: Betcha that's the first time she's ever had a man inside -

 MONICA: (BLEEP)!

 FOX: People, please. Maybe the ghost is hoping we can identify him and find out
how he died. Probably, who or what killed him. When we discover that, maybe he can
move on from this house.

 ERIQ (EXCITED): Screw that. I got a better discovery. (ERIQ POINTS AT
MONICA. CAMERA ZOOMS IN ON NETWORK HEART MONITOR PENDANT,

WHICH IS FLASHING RED). It's red, and you're dead, Monica.

 MONICA: (BLEEP)!

 PAUL: Shhhhh!

 GROUP FALLS SILENT. VOICES CAN BE HEARD DOWNSTAIRS.

 FOX: Come on.

 CAMERA FOLLOWS GUESTS AS THEY RUN FROM ROOM AND DOWN
HALLWAY AND STAIRS.

 H.Y.S. (VOICEOVER): Monica's scare tonight has caused her heart rate to
exceed her personal prescribed safety zone, and as anyone who's been watching knows, that means Monica has five hours to pack her bags and return to the mainland. That leaves six houseguests competing for a million dollars.

 GROUP REACHES PARLOR. CAMERA PANS TO TV, WHERE CLINT
EASTWOOD IS TALKING EARNESTLY TO MERYL STREEP.

 ERIQ: Bridges of Madison County. Damn it, Fran, I thought we voted no chick flicks!

 FRAN (NERVOUS): That video was in my room, in my bag, dude. What is this?

 PAUL GASPS OFF CAMERA.

 FOX: Paul?

 PAN TO PAUL, WHO IS KNEELING NEXT TO SCRABBLE BOARD.

 FRAN: Hey, I was winning! Who cleared the board?

 KRYSTLE: Nobody had a chance to. We were all upstairs.

 PAUL: They.The pieces were moving around when I looked down, then they stopped.

 CAMERA ZOOMS INTO EXTREME CLOSEUP OF FIVE SCRABBLE TILES. THE LETTERS P, A, P, W, and O.

 ERIQ: Papwo?

 FOX: OK. So how about a little Pictionary, gang?

Washington
7:05 a.m.
 "Welcome back to Dayrise; I'm Barry Theobald, and seated to my left is Raine Truman. Hey, Raine, you happen to catch Reach last night?"

 "Never miss it," the chic but wholesome blonde co-anchor responded to the blow-dried former football announcer. She beamed into the camera. "Barry's talking about last night's real-life ghost story, which unfolded on the network's current number one series, Reach. The show's seven houseguests, who include a nudist perfume retailer, a retired black Army drill instructor, a buff physical trainer, and a spooky FBI agent who seems to have captured an audience all his own, last night encountered what houseguest Fox might call a manifestation of the paranormal."

 Scully nearly choked on her mouthful of bagel.

 ".Reach already has sparked its share of controversy since airing only a few weeks ago," Theobald noted. "First, Monica's revelation of her lesbianism made her a hero of the homosexual community, while Trudy's ongoing jabs at same lesbianism have drawn fire from several activist groups. Then, the show's major sponsor, McDonald's, pulled out 'coincidentally' after houseguest Paul insisted the group adopt a vegetarian diet. And when houseguest Fran spontaneously doffed her clothes for the camera, giving unwitting East Coast viewers the biggest jolt since viewing Dennis Franz' posterior on NYPD Blue, the conservative Christians for Moral Values in Television called for a nationwide boycott not only of the network but of its affiliated electronic, food, and
software companies, as well. But Reach has maintained a healthy audience share, and last night's ghostly events are expected to boost ratings even higher."

J. Edgar Hoover Building
8:50 a.m.

 Scully strenuously pretended not to see Assistant Director Kersh at the rear of the elevator as agents, secretaries, and miscellaneous pencil-pushers filed out at each floor. When they were alone, she carefully studied the fine beveling of the numbers above the brushed steel doors.

 "Hmpph," the man behind her grunted. Scully willed the elevator to move faster.

 "Federal agent," Kersh muttered.

 Scully inhaled and turned slightly. "Ah, hello, A.D. Kersh. How goes it?"

 "I'm fine today," the perpetually unsmiling bureaucrat concluded. "And yourself?"

 Scully pasted on a small smile. "Just, really, just fine as well."

 "Hmm." Kersh leaned against the back wall. "By the way, I caught your
partner's little star turn last night. I don't normally care for so-called 'reality programming,' but my young niece is quite devoted to the show."

 "Ah."

 The assistant director was silent for a second. "Your partner put on quite the little performance. Should get the public's mind off Waco and Ruby Ridge, show everyone we're just regular guys. I am quoting the public affairs office."

 "I will assume you don't approve," Scully ventured drily.

 Kersh shrugged with one eyebrow. "It's not the image I would prefer for the Bureau, but I have very little to say about Mulder's conduct now that he's insinuated his way back into the X Files."

 "I'll tell him you're a fan, sir," Scully said to the elevator doors.

 "Please don't misunderstand me," Kersh said. "I am totally in support of our ghost-busting colleague in his pursuit of riches. Mulder's becoming a millionaire would be a win-win both for himself and those of us with more 'down-to-earth' career goals. Please excuse me, Special Agent Scully; this is my floor. I enjoyed our conversation."

 "Little slice of heaven for me, too," Scully murmured as Kersh turned down the corridor.

 In the office, she took Mulder's chair, which already had collected a thin film of dust, and mulled over the events of the previous night. Her partner had been emphatic about her watching Reach, and now, she was beginning to understand why. The show's seven "houseguests" had been cut off from the world outside their Maine island. No cell phones, no FAXes, no Internet. Scully stopped herself as she began to lightly hum the
Gilligan's Island theme.

 Mulder had wanted her to serve as his mainland investigator on what she was now was confident had been a case. Not an active, Bureau case, of course, but one that had piqued Mulder's exotic interest. He'd been disgruntled after he'd read the network had bought Efrem's Reach, but his tune had changed when he heard about Reach for Millions and had stuck through the weeks of questions and paperwork involved in qualifying for the network competition. Mulder had persuaded a dubious Skinner that his prime time appearance - over several weeks of accumulated vacation - would create a positive image for the Bureau at a time of intense public wariness. Scully could only imagine what her superior thought now, after Mulder had shared his theories on the supernatural with millions of Americans. And what he'd think if he knew she was about to devote Bureau resources to solving a theoretical crime committed more than a half-century before.

 Scully sighed and pecked out an extension. "Yeah, Helen? It's me, Scully. You told me you were taping Reach for Millions? You got last night's? Well, I was going to, but my mom called, and we talked right through it. Can I borrow yours? Ah, great. Interoffice would be fine. Thanks, Helen."

 Scully figured she could get a better copy for her purposes from the network, but that would require some answers she'd rather not have to supply. She'd call Mulder's friend Burks to see if he could look at the tape. He'd probably lap up the challenge she had in mind.

 Scully pulled a legal pad from the litter on Mulder's desk, and jotted down last night's five cryptic Scrabble letters. If some force had moved those tiles onto the board, then it was likely they spelled something.

 PAWPO.

 AWPOP.

 WOPPA.

 POWPA.

 Scully leaned back. This was no good. Even if she were to check federal and state missing person databases, she needed some reasonable frame of reference, some point of identification she could use to narrow things down. Plus, this vic - if there was a vic - had to have died in the '30s, maybe the early '40s. Missing persons records in those days were sketchy, often non-existent. The Depression was a time of lost men and women, lost and abandoned lives. Pasts wiped out by financial misfortune; the present for many was a single-minded search for that next job or meal; the future was a dim and often illusional point on the horizon.

"There's no place like home, no place like home," she recited, clicking the heels of her Easy Spirits together with an unsatisfying cushioned thud and reaching for Mulder's Rolodex. She retrieved Burks' number, made arrangements for receipt of the Reach videotape (the scientist predictably was childlike in his eagerness to take on the project) then returned to real Bureau work, which without her spirited, spirit-chasing partner
seemed numbingly dull.

Chuck Burks Laboratory
3:47 p.m.
 "Just in time - I was just getting ready to render," the likably nerdish Burks breathed, hustling Scully into his lab. "I had to do some digging in a few texts by Gideon Oliver - the famous physical anthropologist? - and make a few guesses of my own, but it helps we were working from a sketch - even as, um, sketchy as this one was -- rather than just a right femur or the third phalange of the right hand."

Scully marveled at the array of diagnostic equipment at Burks' disposal, much of it adapted to suit his taste for the bizarre and supranormal. Burks could calculate precisely the type and degree of Kirlian energy projected by an individual or bar fern, or divine the inaudible soundwaves emanating from an ancient artifact. Scully wondered among the gadgets, half expecting Vincent Price or Jeff Goldblum to step from the shadows.

Burks halted at a large PC monitor, which displayed an eerie mesh image of a human head. He tapped a couple of keys, and the mesh began to fill with color. "I adapted this from a standard CAD-CAM program. I took your 2-D image, fed in the average facial skin depths, according to Oliver's book, and made some assumptions on hair color. I'll run you out one blonde and one red, too, just in  case. OK, just about done rendering." 

Scully peered at the 3-D face on the screen as Burks clicked out a print order. The
obviously young man had a stong square jaw, wideset eyes, and wavy brown hair
arranged in a vaguely outdated fashion.
 "Who are you?" the agent murmured.
 "Art school grad, most likely," Burks suggested.
 Scully looked up curiously. "What do you mean?"
 "Well, I was watching the show last night - nothing else on," the scientist hurriedly
added. "Monica supposedly was possessed by the spirit of the Reach, right? And Mulder
thinks the drawing was of the ghost. For a rough sketch, it was actually pretty
professional. Especially considering he was using a magic marker. I think it's possible he
was an artist."
 Scully frowned for a moment as she sat down in front of the monitor. "Not that
I'm conceding for a second that this is some kind of ghost drawing, although Monica's
physical reactions seemed genuine enough . But what was that federal art thing back in the
'30s? The job program?"
 Burks pulled the printout from the tray. "Federal Arts Project. Roosevelt hired
artists, painters, sculptors, I think, to doll up federal buildings, schools, courthouses and do
public service posters. Great stuff - my old high school had one of the murals. Think they
painted it over years go, though."
 "Yeah, but the Arts Project was part of some other bigger program, wasn't it?"
 Burks grinned. "A little before my time, you know. But I think it was the Works
Progress Administration."
 Scully's brow arched. She pulled the legal sheet with the Scrabble anagrams from
her bag and unfolded it. "WPA. But what's PO, then?"
 "Well, if it's associated with the WPA, then I'd guess 'post office.' They did a lot
of post office murals."
 She refolded the yellow paper and returned it to her purse. "So we're looking for a
ghost artist who spent the Great Depression painting farmers and miners. This is certainly
a day the taxpayers can be proud of. Thanks, Burks."
 "Hey, anything for my favorite fed's favorite fed. Hey, you want to see something
interesting? I've taken some images from photos of the Shroud of Turin and used my
imaging program to postulate what Jesus might have looked like. I see indications."
 "Sorry, Burks," Scully smiled, slinging her bag over her shoulder. "But I have a
date with some microwave popcorn and a half hour of prime time reality."

Efrem's Reach
7:10 p.m.
 CUT TO TRUDY (SITTING IN LIBRARY CHAIR, HERMAN WOUK'S
"WAR AND REMEMBRANCE" OPEN ON HER LAP): I guess Monica wasn't really
that bad, for a lezzie -- she gave back as good as she got, and she was no flake like Ms.
New Age Krystle or slut like Fannie, oops, Frannie. But I will say I'll sleep a little more
soundly tonight.
 CUT TO ERIQ (DOING SIT-UPS ON BEACH TOWEL): I don't have any
problems with the lesbian thing, but I don't buy this genetic (BLEEP). I think somebody
like Monica just never connected with the right guy, and after a while, if you don't use it,
you lose it, you know?
 CUT TO FRAN (PIXELATED AS SHE PULLS PILLOWCASES FROM THE
WASHER): Well, if nothing else, I guess coming to the island changed Monica's life.
After Paul told her to be honest with herself and others and come out, she seemed like a
totally more confident lady. (PUTS DOWN PILLOWCASE AND LEANS ON DRIER).
I think recognizing one's sexual identity is so empowering.
 CUT TO MANSION GARDEN, WHERE FOX AND KRYSTLE ARE
PULLING WEEDS AND PICKING VEGETABLES FOR THE EVENING MEAL.
 H.Y.S. (VOICEOVER): Krystle meanwhile has assumed Monica's gardening
chores, moving her that much closer to Fox, to whom she's professed a physical attraction.
The National Weather Service has predicted a potentially severe storm tomorrow, and Fox
has suggested the houseguests store away some extra provisions.
 KRYSTLE (KNEELING NEXT TO A LARGE PLANT): Fox, is this a weed?
 FOX: Ah, that's actually sweet corn, Krystle. Martha Stewart rule of thumb: If it's
more than three feet tall, it's probably something we can eat.
 (KRYSTLE NODS)
 KRYSTLE: So you really believe in this ghost stuff?
FOX (SHRUGS): Over the last quarter century, we've identified subatomic
particles that seemingly defy the rules of physical science. We've located black holes in
space that seem to suck up every bit of matter they contact. We have a past, present, and
future. Why can't we have other stages of existence, maybe as far beyond our
understanding as ultraviolet light is beyond our field of vision?
 KRYSTLE: But if people move on to this other "stage," or whatever, then why do
ghosts stay behind and haunt people?
 FOX: I dunno. Maybe it's the human will. Maybe as a species we're so stubborn,
so short-sighted, that sometimes we can't leave a place until we've proven our point,
cleared our name, unmasked our enemies. As a race, maybe we just have to get in the last
word.
 KRYSTLE (TUGGING AT A WEED): You think there's a Hell?
 FOX: I have to think a blind date with Eriq would satisfy most theologians.
 KRYSTLE JUMPS TO HER FEET: Oh, God.
 FOX JOINS HER: What?
 KRYSTLE (EYES WIDE, HAND OVER HER MOUTH): It's been here, I think.
Monica said there were a whole bunch of carrots ready to pick, and they're all gone. Do
you think it's some kind of clue?
 FOX (SMILING KINDLY, BENDS DOWN, AND PULLS PLANT. HE
HOLDS UP DIRTY CARROT): The carrot part is underground, Krystle.
 KRYSTLE: Whew. That's a relief.
 CUT TO DINING ROOM; HOUSEGUESTS CHAT AS THEY EAT.
 FOX: Great carrots. I feel I'm getting closer to my equine roots. (PAUL GLARES
AT FOX).
 ERIQ: I thought Mulder was like a German name.
 TRUDY: You know, I never really looked at that painting before. (CAMERA
PANS TO PORTRAIT OF YOUNG WOMAN IN FLOWING GOWN, LEANING ON
A PEDESTAL). Who is that, anybody know?
 FOX: That would be Olivia Efrem, the lady of the house. Apparently, the
subsequent owners were taken enough by it that they never removed it after she left. (FOX
GETS UP, MOVES TO PAINTING). The style's interesting -- more primitive and raw
than most of the personal portraits painted during the '30s or '40s.
 FRAN (PIXELATED): Welcome to Antique Roadshow, people. Is this freaking
PBS pledge week? (GETS UP, GOES INTO KITCHEN)
 FOX: The artist (LOOKS AT LOWER RIGHT CORNER OF CANVAS) -- R.
Haase. This is so weird -- my partner Scully really digs him. He was one of those guys
that did the murals in post offices and courthouses, I think.
 ERIQ: Jeez, I bet this little art chat's gonna get some real ratings for the network.
Why don't you sit down and quit showing off your big brain for everybody. We see right
through --
 (FRAN, WHO WAS IN THE KITCHEN, GRABS ERIQ'S  CHIN AND HOLDS
KNIFE TO HIS THROAT)
 TRUDY: Jesus, lady.
 ERIQ (GRABS CHAIR ARMS): Oh, (BLEEP), man. Get this (BLEEP)ing
(BLEEP) off me! Jesus!
 FOX: Fran? Fran? (FRAN SLASHES KNIFE REPEATEDLY, AN INCH FROM
ERIQ'S ADAM'S APPLE; ERIQ'S MONITOR PENDANT FLASHES WILDLY) Hold
on, everybody. I don't think she's going to hurt him. We get the point. Was it Efrem?
 TRUDY: Man, who are you talking to?
 (FRAN DROPS KNIFE, STAGGERS AGAINST CHAIR)
 FRAN: Holy (BLEEP)! What the (BLEEP) happened?
 TRUDY: Girl, looks like you took some extreme exception to Eriq's table
manners. And Eriq, I was you, I would immediately find some dry wardrobe. You can
probably pick it up on the way to get your home consolation version of Reach for
Millions. You're being mustered out, honey.
 ERIQ (LOOKS DOWN AT PENDANT): Wait, man. Wait a (BLEEP)ing minute.
This fat-assed (BLEEP) tries to cut my throat, and I gotta leave?
 FRAN (ADVANCING ON ERIQ): Fat ass?!?
 TRUDY: Risk you run given your current fashion choice.
 KRYSTLE: Guys.
 FOX: I don't think Fran -- I mean, the spirit -- was trying to kill or even hurt you,
Eriq. I think she -- he -- was demonstrating
ANT FLASHES)
 FOX: Good news, Eriq, you've got some company on the ferry. Fran, you might
put on a coat for the ride.
 (FRAN STARTS TO TURN ON FOX, CATCHES THE CAMERA ON HER,
AND HOLDS UP A PIXELATED FINGER)
 FOX: So who's up for Scattergories?

Washington, D.C.
9:21 a.m.
 "I am so bummed, Robin. They kicked the naked chick off the island last night."
 "I figured that might depress you, Howard," Stern's partner mused. "I'll be
interested to see what this little development does for the show's ratings."
 "Man, all she did was put a knife to the bimbo guy's throat. I woulda done the
same thing - guy was a dick. Now, they've got rid of the lesbian, they got rid of the buff
guy, they got rid of the hot naked chick. That's one brilliant network strategy. Whattawe
got left now? This ugly old army chick, this New Age dingbat, some pussy vegetarian
who never talks, and this weirdass FBI agent. Fox. What the hell kinda name is that for a
federal agent? 'Freeze, asshole; I'm Agent Fox and I'll blow your freakin' head off.' I'd drop
my gun just laughin' my ass off."
"Uh, Howard," Gary the Producer intoned. "I was on the Internet last night, and I
read where this guy is like part of some ghostbuster squad in the FBI."
"Great, man. 'Who ya gonna call? FOX!!'"
Braking hard for a D.C. cabbie who was attempting an automotive squeezing
maneuver worthy of the late (?) Eugene Tooms, Scully clicked the radio off. Skinner
would love this. She'd never been among Howard Stern's legion of marginally medicated
fans, but as she'd been surfing the dial, Scully had heard the New York shock jock
discussing the previous night's bizarre events. Like Stern, she wondered vaguely how
many viewers would stick around to watch an aging drill sergeant, a '90s love child, a
mutely hostile vegetarian, and the offbeat ruminations of Fox Mulder.
Agent Fox. Scully smiled as she avoided sideswiping a limo with diplomatic
plates.

Library of Congress
10:32 a.m.
  It hadn't taken nearly as long for Scully to zero in on Haase as she had
anticipated. She'd picked up with a grimace on Mulder's "secret" hint that she "dig" up
information on the artist.
 Richard Haase had been 26 in 1934, when a Life magazine photographer had
captured him intent on painting waves of grain in a Vermont courthouse lobby. He had
been handsome and muscular and apparently intense -- possibly a tempting package for a
beautiful rich woman trapped on an island. If this was a Lifetime network TV-movie,
Scully thought drily.
 Seated at one of the national library's long oak tables, Haase, the Massachusetts
son of a dairy farmer, had studied at one of New York's elite art schools before the Crash
of '29 had temporarily crushed America's fascination with the arts in favor of a fascination
with locating a piece of bread or a bed for the night. Craving an outlet for his creativity,
Haase had eagerly applied for the WPA's Federal Arts Project. The Library of Congress
recently had compiled a database on WPA art, scanning a selection of works to post on the
Net, and a helpful library researcher had helped Scully work up a list of Haase's Arts
Project projects.
 Oddly, Haase's work had graced only one post office, in Derry, Maine. Tomorrow
was Friday. Maybe she could take a personal day, tell Skinner she was driving up to see
the New England color.
 "Ah, you a fan of the WPA murals?" an elderly voice wavered. Scully snapped
around to see a beaming, white-haired man in a tweed jacket and Farakhanesque bow tie.
"Great stuff, great stuff."
 "Just doing some research," Scully smiled back carefully. "Hi, I'm Dana Scully."
 "Ben Royer," the man said, grasping her fingers gently. "Sorry to interrupt you.
I've just always liked the art of the '30s -- the art of the people. Glorified the workers and
the farmers and the common folk of this country. Not like this garbage today, paint thrown
on a wall and called art, obscene ramblings called music. Who you researching?" He
craned to see the photocopies spread on the table. "Haase, yes. Saw some work of his up
in New Hampshire, a federal building, I believe. You a student?"
 "No," Scully said, collecting her papers. "Actually, I work for a federal agency."
 Royer pondered for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "Yes, I was flipping
through the channels last night when I ran across that haunted house rubbish. That young
man mentioned your name, and Haase's. You're an FBI agent?"
 "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Royer," Scully smiled, trying to exit politely.
 "Certainly," Royer bowed. "Good hunting, young lady."
 As the man toddled off, Scully began to load her satchel and reflected on the odd
exchange. Royer had seemed like a harmless old retiree, haunting the library's corridors in
search of genteel conversation, but he'd recalled Mulder's mentioning her very suddenly.
Almost as if he was trying to find out whether she was investigating Haase.
There was something else. Something familiar about the man. The eyes, perhaps?
She gathered up a Xerox of Haase's salute to the pioneer spirit, once displayed and
probably now disfigured in a New Jersey high school auditorium. Then her memory
gelled.
Scully's unofficial research assistant was examining some old schoolbooks when
she found him. "Could you help me dig up some material on someone?"
The staffer shoved the books aside. "Sure thing. Name?"
"Olivia Efrem."
 
J. Edgar Hoover Building
1:23 p.m.
 Walter Skinner looked ill at ease as Scully entered the office - in Scully's
experience, a sure sign the assistant director had been handed some bureaucratic directive
from above. As Scully lowered herself into the dreaded visitor's chair, she was willing to
bet she could determine the subject of this meeting.
 "Um, about Agent Mulder," the deceptively brutish-looking man began reluctantly.
Scully exchanged an imaginary twenty with herself. "You haven't talked to him over the
last few days, have you?"
 "Agent Mulder's been incommunicado since landing on Efrem's Reach," Scully
related. "No phones -"
 "No lights, no motor cars, not a single luxure-e-e," Skinner recited, a smile
flickering at the corner of his mouth before he recaptured his official dignity. "Sorry. I was
hoping Gillig--, ah, Mulder had followed his usual rule-breaking instincts and gotten in
touch with you."
 "I'm sorry, sir; not a word."
 Skinner nodded. "Too bad. There's some concern within the Bureau that Mulder's
appearance on this game show or whatever is a bit more 'high profile' than was originally
intended. And there's some anxiety about your partner seemingly investigating a case that
may or may not actually exist. On nationwide television. I caught his little Sherlock
Holmes act last night."
 Scully struggled to maintain reasonable eye contact. "I believe Agent Mulder is
pursuing an avocational interest in the stories surrounding the Efrem Mansion. But, on my
own initiative, based on some observations he made last night, I did find out a few things."
 It was at least technically the truth. Skinner looked at her silently for a few
moments.
 "Umm, I found there was indeed a Richard Haase, an artist who seemingly
vanished into thin air some time in the mid-'30s. My theory, my guess, I should say, is that
Haase was commissioned by Gilbert Efrem to paint a portrait of his wife while Haase was
employed with the federal Works Progress Administration. Efrem was described as a self-
made man who'd managed to acquire a fortune through hard work and resourcefulness.
He hired mostly local workers to renovate and maintain his mansion. I think it would have
appealed to Efrem to use a struggling artist, rather than a renowned portrait painter."
 "Interesting 'guess,'" Skinner murmured.
 "Um. My further hypothesis is that Haase may have formed some sort of
relationship with Olivia Efrem that led to an altercation or argument with Gilbert Efrem.
It's possible Efrem may have accidentally or even intentionally killed Haase to end his
affair with his wife.  I guess."
 "That's fairly speculative, wouldn't you say?" Skinner asked, templing his fingers.
 Scully shrugged. "Of course. And there's a potential hitch in my theory. I managed
to piece together from WPA records, magazine articles, and other records a timeline of
Haase's federal works. There's a gap between Haase's WPA projects in roughly June or
July of 1935. His last assignment just prior to that point was in Castle Rock, Maine. That
would seem to suggest that was the period during which Richard Haase painted Olivia
Efrem's portrait. However, Haase continued to work for the WPA through the spring of
1936. Then, all record of his existence just ceased."
 The corner of Skinner's lips twitched. "I imagine this idle, avocational research
must have occupied the better part of your lunch hour, agent."
"I managed to grab a salad on the run," Scully said evenly. "There is one other
thing. It's extremely circumstantial, and I suppose some might chalk it up to 'women's
intuition.' You watched Reach two nights ago, when the VCR began to play
spontaneously? Well, the tape that was playing was The Bridges of Madison County. The
plot of that film involved a photographer - an artist - who has an affair with the young
wife of a farmer who's away for the -"
"I'm aware of the story," Skinner interrupted. "Not my favorite Eastwood, but I
see the parallel you're getting at. You believe this ghost - the spirit of Richard Haase - is
attempting to send us a message, to tell us why he was killed and by whom? Agent Scully,
even if we accept that rather far-fetched premise, what is the current relevance of a nearly
65-year-old, undocumented murder case?"
Scully pursed her lips. "Absolutely none, sir, I suppose. I might argue, however,
that as Agent Mulder in involved in this case, in a very public way, that the successful
disposition of this investigation could benefit the Bureau."
The assistant director looked her straight in the eye. "The mere fact that you were
able to shovel out such an illogical, irrational load of self-justifying bullshit with a
completely straight face inclines me to give you some leeway in this. How much leeway
would this be, by the way?"
"A trip to Derry, Maine, where Richard Haase painted a post office mural in the
fall of 1935."
 "Ah, W-P-A P-O," Skinner murmured. He looked somewhat sheepishly at Scully.
"I, ah, do the daily word jumbles in the morning paper. I'll give you the time - take off
now, if your caseload is relatively clear. You've got 'til Tuesday; we'll put it down as
personal days."
"Thank you, sir."
"You, of course, will pay the freight. Agreed?"
Scully smiled through the pain. "Of course, sir." Mulder would owe her a couple
of king-sized Maine lobsters for this one.

Derry, Maine
10:44 a.m.
 "Hope you weren't plannin' no sunbathin' or nothin' outdoorsy," said the cabbie, a
stout New Englander in a Boston Red Sox cap. "Weather Channel's sayin' we're gonna
get a real bad one come in tonight. That hurricane down to the Caribbean's givin' birth,
what I've heard."
 "I'm probably just in for the day," Scully said. The Washington-to-Bangor flight,
delayed an hour on the runway at Ronald Reagan International, had left her feeling cranky,
and the cabbie was talkative, if monotonous.
 "Might be in longer than that, airport gets socked in. So, what's your business in
town? Derry's not exactly boomin', far as commercial activity. 'Fact, some mighty strange
things happened there, over the years. Real weird shit."
 Scully wasn't interested. "I'm a federal agent. I can't really discuss my case."
 "Interestin' you're takin' a cab, you're investigatin' a case. Thought you'd be
rentin' a car. None a' my business. Say, you know that FBI fella on the TV? One up to the
Efrem mansion? Mulder, believe the name is."
 "He works in a different division. He's an oddball - I steer clear of him in the
halls," she added maliciously.
 "That's what I tell the wife," the cabbie said emphatically. "Think she's got a bit of
a thing for him. Says he's mysterious. I think he's just got a few loose gables on the roof.
Gettin' tired of that show, anyway, especially now they got rid of that girl in the birthday
suit. Now, that one, she had real star potential. Here we are, Town of Derry. Where to,
Miss?"
 "Derry Post Office."
 The cabbie nearly flattened a pedestrian possum as his head snapped around. "The
post office?"
 "Yes. Why?"
 "Guess they wouldn'ta had it on the national news, so you wouldn'ta had any way
of knowin'," he considered as they headed into a typical New England downtown district.
"Hope that wasn't the whole reason for your visit."
 "What are you talking about?" Scully demanded apprehensively, leaning against
his headrest.
 "Well, take a gander," the cabbie pointed. Scully peered out the bird-speckled
windshield.
 A huge stone building was a half-block ahead, scarred by massive streaks of sooty
black and haphazardly strewn yellow ribbons installed to keep passersby away from the
scene. A bank of federal blue mailboxes remained unharmed at the curb before what had
been an impressive pillared building; men and women clad in a similar shade patrolled the
scorched premises.
 "Hope you bought some stamps afore you left home, miss," the cabbie offered.
**
"Don't think he intended any human injury, though I'm hard put to figure out a
motive for torching a smalltown post office in what many consider to be the asshole of the
Northeast," Det. Alan Pangborn told the federal agent as they trod cautiously through the
rubble inside the post office. "Guy owns the bar down the block was closin' up, 1:30 or
so, saw some flickering light through the windows. Flames, maybe the arsonist's
flashlight, who knows? Anyway, the post office alarm system finally goes off, and the
F.D. responds. But you can imagine how much tinder there is in a place like this."
  "Sprinklers?"
 Pangborn smiled in mock pain. "Federal budget takes a lot of turns before it gets to
this part of Maine, Agent. One threatened lawsuit, they had the wheelchair ramp up in
front in a few weeks. Didn't anybody sue to fireproof this tomb. Or burglarproof it, for
that matter."
 "Hmm. What did they use?"
"Standard high octane, high-priced gasoline - what the fire chief says, anyway.
Watch your step, Agent. Spread it around here, mainly in the lobby and customer service
areas. What's interesting is the apparent origin of the fire. Over here."
Scully crunched over a charred beam and stopped behind Pangborn before the
lobby's west wall. Above the scarred marble wainscoting was a huge black burn pattern
that devoured everything but a few faded, sharply hewn faces and rolling hills.
"Beautiful mural, more than 50, 60 years old," Pangborn lamented. "No way they
can restore that. Apparently, whole thing started here. Not in the sorting room, not in the
offices. No note, no spry paint, no calls to claim credit. Just like they just wanted to fuck -
sorry, Agent - screw up something just to screw it up. We're looking at the idea of
teenagers, maybe high or drunk."
 Scully eyed the hard, proud faces that had escaped the flames. "I think your perp
may be a little more 'mature,' Detective."

Derry Daily Review
1:15 p.m.
 "Keep the negatives for everything," the rotund photographer said, plopping
several accordion files on the editor's conference room table. "'Least the last 15 years or
so. Lucky for you, Alan, we did that feature on the post office mural just last month.
We're going digital next budget year - we'll be able to keep all this on disks, but we
won't be saving the unused shots. What I'm saying is, you got a literal shitload of good
and garbage shots here."
 "Good," Scully said, pulling the first cluster of negative sleeves from a folder.
"Our arsonist had to know there'd be some photographic record of the mural, so what
we're looking for is probably a small detail. Can you print some of these for us?"
 "Boss tells me we always cooperate with law enforcement," the photographer
assured her with a grin. "Especially when the boss hasn't signed off on my digital camera
yet. You want wallet-sized, too?"
 Once the young man headed off to the breakroom for sodas, Pangborn began to
sort through the negatives. "So what is it we're looking for?"
 Scully inhaled. "I'm not sure, but I think it's one or more of the faces. What we
need are as many different close-up shots as possible."
 "Whose face are we hoping to find, Agent? And how's that relate to what appears
to be just a particularly stupid act of vandalism?"
 She related her theory to the weathered cop. Pangborn nodded and reached for a
sleeve of negatives. Scully looked at him for a second.
 "That's it?" she asked. "I tell you this ghost story and you just accept it, face
value?"
 Pangborn smiled crookedly. "Agent Scully, before I came here, I worked a town
called Castle Rock, down the road. I saw things there that defied modern definition there,
including maybe the devil his own self. I've heard stories about Derry here, stuff would
make John Carpenter shake in his bed, and people still talk about the UFO reports and
strange happenings over to Haven. Maine is an old place, and I just accept that there are
things you don't find in the police manual."
 "My god," Scully murmured. "He's not alone."
**
 "It was an amazing piece of work," Scully admitted as she reviewed the assembled
jigsaw that formed the now-defunct Derry Post Office mural. The staff photographer had
blown up each individual shot, and the montage covered the editorial table.
 It was fairly typical of most WPA work - a complex and colorful blend of
somewhat primitive but powerful images of working class America. Men in coal-smudged
overalls marched shoulder-to-shoulder with square-jawed farmers and earnest teachers
holding textbooks and rulers. In the distance were cabins and cornfields and oxen - the
courageous forebears of the stalwart "modern" laborers bravely staring down the Great
Depression. Scully had seen a number of similarly themed murals at the Library of
Congress, but Haase brought something different to his art - a sense of intense, furious
motion, of things buried under the surface that likely should remain there.
 "There, that looks like your photo," Pangborn said suddenly. "Is that her?"
 Scully squinted. It was an elegantly attired woman strolling along a rural Main
Street, staring adoringly at the stately man beside her. It was Olivia Efrem. Then the agent
did a double take and riffled through her satchel. She slapped a photocopy of an old Life
magazine layout beside the photos.
 "Agent?" Pangborn inquired.
 "Right ghost, Mulder," Scully muttered. "Wrong ghost story."
 "Agent?"
 "Sorry," Scully said, looking up. "Want to go get your arsonist?"

Efrem Enterprises
Haven, Maine
4:12 p.m.
 "FBI?" the receptionist asked coolly, betraying only a hint of alarm. "Could I tell
Mr. Efrem what this is concerning?"
 "Possible criminal charges," Det. Pangborn said pleasantly.
 The receptionist, a stylishly dressed, middle-aged woman, reached silently for her
phone, punched in an extension, and murmured hurriedly. She glanced up. "He'll see you
in his office. At the end of the corridor there."
 Gilbert Efrem's paper/veneer empire had fallen a few pegs short of the Fortune
500 over the past few decades, but the executive suite still reflected old money and a lot of
it. The senior vice president's door was a huge slab of mahogany framed by etched glass
side panels. Pangborn pushed in.
 "Agent Scully," the silver-haired man behind the massive desk greeted wearily.
 "Ben," Scully responded. "Detective Pangborn, meet Benjamin Efrem - Olivia
Royer Efrem's son."

**
 Benjamin Efrem had been a mere five years old when Richard Haase came to the
Reach.
 "Years after Father passed, after I'd graduated Yale Business School, Mother told
me the story," Ben "Royer" told the pair. "Because he'd come up the hard way, Father felt
it was right to hire local workers, hardworking people who needed the money. Especially
during the Depression. Father was a man of strong values.
 "He'd been to the dedication of the mural at the Derry Post Office - Father was a
rare businessman who actually supported FDR's New Deal. He was so impressed with
Haase's work, he offered him what was likely a year's wages at the time to paint Mother.
All I really remember about Haase while he was on the Reach was how serious, almost
forbidding he was. He was very intense, and, as it turned out, very dangerously
delusionary.
 "The portrait took about three weeks to finish - Mother thought Haase
unnecessarily delayed the work so he could stay a little longer in luxurious surroundings,
or possibly near her. She told me Father must have sensed Haase's attraction to her,
because he allowed him to finish and practically loaded the artist on the ferry back to the
mainland.
 "Over the next several months, Haase sent her letters - poetic, disturbed, tender,
demented letters vowing to take her away from the 'rich man's prison' Father supposedly
had created for her. Nothing could have been further from the truth: Father was devoted to
Mother. But Haase was a desperate, egotistical man, and, inevitably, he came back to the
island. Mother always figured he paid some drunk lobsterman to bring him out.
 "Father caught him prowling inside the house, and Haase told him he'd come to
'free' Mother. They got into a fight, and somehow, Haase got hold of a fireplace poker.
Mother told me he was just about ready to crush Father's skull when she walked in. She
grabbed a whalebone knife they used for a letter opener, and jumped on Haase. Mother
thought she must have gotten his jugular vein, because there was blood everywhere.
 "Like most folks of that time, they were terrified of the scandal, the possible
newspaper exposure the killing would spark. Father took the body out past the bay and
dumped him with some rocks. Nothing was said to anyone. After the strange things started
happening and Father died in that horrible manner, Mother was convinced Haase's spirit
had returned to take revenge, possibly on me. That's when we sold the house and moved
to Haven. Fortunately, Mother was a savvy businesswoman, and she'd kept up with the
family business. I stepped in to help after college, and she told me the whole grisly tale.
We agreed to put it behind us."
 "Until the network bought the house and my partner made it clear he wanted to get
to the bottom of the haunting," Scully suggested.
 Efrem nodded, rubbing his face. "I was afraid he'd work it out, and my parents
would wind up some lurid piece on one of those trashy primetime newsmagazines. I still
have some influence in Washington, with our Maine congressmen, and I was able to find
out you were Mulder's partner. I figured you two were communicating, so I shadowed
you to the Library of Congress. When I found you rummaging through those WPA
articles, after Mulder had mentioned Haase on that program, I was frantic. The only thing I
could think to do was beat you to the Derry Post Office and destroy that mural. I'd visited
it after Mother told me about Haase - I was curious about the man - and I saw the true
depth of his delusion.
 "Approaching you in the library was foolish. You likely would never have
suspected the vice president of an established corporation of skulking about like a thug and
burning down a post office. My God, I suppose that's a federal offense."
 Pangborn stood up. "Agent Scully and I will argue jurisdictions in the car."
**
 Efrem rode silently in the back of Pangborn's sedan nearly the whole way back to
Derry. The detective reached for the FM knob, peering at the gray-smudged skies beyond
his windshield. "Want to check the weather - see how close that storm's getting. You
mind?"
 "Not at all," Scully waved a hand.
 "You flying straight back to D.C. tonight?" Pangborn asked. "The wife and I
would enjoy a little company for supper."
 The agent smiled weakly. "Thanks, no. I just want to get to the hotel, kick off my
shoes, get some takeout or a pizza, and veg."
 ".It's blowin' out there like a White House intern," the drive time Derry DJ
quipped. "We gotta pay some bills, and Scott'll be back with the weather and road report."
 "America's possessed," a canned national ad boomed. "Possessed by Reach, the
No. 1 show The New York Times calls 'a ghostly greedfest of gritty voyeurism.'"
 Scully moaned. Pangborn chuckled. Efrem leaned forward.
 "Tonight, the remaining houseguests square off in a séance to exorcise the spirit of
Efrem's Reach. Trudy, Paul, Krystle, Fox face off against the forces of the unknown. See
why the Washington Post calls Reach 'a peek into the darker corners of our baser
instincts'."
 "That's what I need after a hard day of police work," Pangborn snorted.
 "And tonight at 10, the WDRY news team talks to former houseguests Monica and
Fran, who share their thoughts on sexuality, censorship, and the media."
 "You have to stop this," Efrem murmured, clearly agitated. "You can't let him do
this."
 "Mr. Efrem, I think it's a little late for secrets now," Scully said gently, wondering
if the séance had been Mulder's notion.
 "No, no." the executive/firebug pounded on his seat. "Haase always played
harmless tricks on our houseguests and employees, but I don't know what he might be
capable of if he's summoned."
 "Hmm," Scully sighed. "Maybe it wouldn't hurt if I could get out to the island
tonight, just to see what's up. Wonder how quick I could get a Coast Guard launch."
 Pangborn grinned wryly. "I don't know, Agent. You may be FBI, but this a major
network we're talking about."

Washington, D.C.
6:55 p.m.
 Langly deposited two steaming cookie sheets of what appeared to be a catering
truck explosion on the scarred coffee table. His fellow Gunman examined their contents
with frank admiration and something resembling lust.
 "You have outdone yourself again, Langly," commended Frohike, ripping a
cheese-laden chip from the mountain of nachos. "Let's see. Colby, Jack, Mozzarella,
cilantro, guacamole, onions, ancho peppers, chorizo sausage -- verry nice, and, oh, what is
this? My God, Jif Extra Crunchy! Inspired."
 "Skippy Extra Crunchy," Byers amended, nibbling analytically at the concoction.
"I accessed the company's databases last week -- I was looking for possibly psychotropic
food additives in children's food products -- and Skippy has a slightly higher salt-to-sugar
ratio."
 "In any case," Frohike said, stuffing another wad of corn chips and cheese into his
mouth by way of appreciation.
 "That ain't all, mon freres," Langly boasted, bringing a six-pack from behind his
back.
 Frohike's and Byers' eyes widened. "Spinal Tap Cola," Melvin Frohike whispered,
as if confronted by the Holy Grail. "But, the FDA."
 Langly grinned. "Found it in a head shop in Northwest. Quadruple the sugar,
quadruple the caffeine, quadruple the carbonation, forbidden in Europe."
 "I may cry," Byers admitted, popping a tab and jumping back as an evil froth
surged from the can. He picked up the remote; the Lone Gunmen's aged set crackled as it
came to life.
 "I was rejected by Reach, tomorrow on Montel," an announcer informed them over
the Washington affiliate's call letters. An imposing wood-frame mansion, adorned with
turrets, balustrades, and a widow's walk, faded into view. The camera panned down to a
heavily-gelled, pouty young man.
 The Lone Gunmen hissed as the Hot Young Star began his customary introduction.
"Go French kiss Tori Spelling, you Oxy-coated twit!" Frohike jeered.
 "I saw in a Reach chatroom they tried to get Sara Michelle Geller to host," Byers
said.
 "Ooh, hurt me," Langly said dreamily.
 The trio cheered as the titles ended and Mulder's newly suntanned face appeared
on screen.
 "It was actually Paul's idea," the agent admitted. "I have to admit, I was kind of
surprised -- I didn't figure him for a believer. But he thought it was worth a try, and I have
had some experience with this sort of thing."
 The camera cut to Krystle, who was industriously rooting out weeds in the garden.
"My only concern is that we don't, like, bring something back from the other side or
whatever, like that big head thing in Poltergeist. But I trust Fox to watch what he's doing,"
she said warmly, yanking a head of cabbage from the soil and tossing it atop the weed
pile.
 "Mulder got a girlfriend," Langly sang, falsetto.
 "He should've bagged Fran while he had the chance," Frohike muttered. "Damned
network suits."
 Paul sat somberly on the rock, glowering at the camera as if the idea of exposing
his life and personal grooming habits to nationwide TV viewers had not been his own idea.
"I dunno. With half of us off the island -- probably the more interesting half -- I figured we
needed something to jazz things up. That's what you guys want, right? Something to beat
out Drew Carey and West Wing? A little sideshow for Middle America?"
 "The whole (BLEEP)ing bunch of 'em oughtta be committed," Trudy growled
sternly, chopping carrots with an emasculating thrust of the knife. "I hope they make that
Fruit Loop Fox turn in his tin badge and gun when he gets back to D.C. And that nutball
girl, she needs a man to put an end to that whale music-and-candles bull(BLEEP). An'
don't let that turnip-munching, depressive-disordered Generation X-er tell you he wanted
to get in touch with Elvis or nothin'. He's just trying to grab some camera time for himself
and scare the living (BLEEP) out of us so he can snag that million dollars. Well, honey, I
did a thirty-year hitch in the U.S. Armed Forces when you had to have somethin' swingin'
between your legs to get out of permanent latrine duty. No little grass-munching
vegetarian gonna make me blink."
 "Tru-dee, Tru-dee," the Gunmen chanted.
 "Lesbians and bareass tramps and hippies and looney-tune FBI agents. That's what
they call entertainment today? Whatever happened to Eight is Enough and Dr. Cosby, I'd
like to know. Oh, never mind me, I guess I'm just on my very last nerve. I need a bacon
cheeseburger in the WORST way."

State Hospital
7:17 p.m.
 Eddie Van Blundht settled into the lone wooden chair in the TV room, looking
surreptitiously around to ensure the night nurse wasn't present.  His counselor had given
up after the seventh of his self-esteem-boosting "Superstar" caps had met an untimely end
(in truth, he'd flushed the last one and blamed it on the severe passive/aggressive at the end
of the hall. The humiliating hats had been replaced with a large metal button that
announced "I LOVE EDDIE." The word LOVE actually was a juicily overripe heart.
 Before his incarceration and institutionalization for impersonation of suburban
househusbands for the purposes of amorous relations with their spouses (he'd liked that
better than what the judge had called it), Van Blundht had never much gotten into TV
beyond morphing his anomalous facial tissue into the likenesses of Luke Perry or Jimmy
Smits. But now that they were pumping him full of muscle relaxants to prevent him from
mimicking those around him, he had discovered the pleasures of non-interactive viewing.
 He particularly liked Reach, even if the title was stupid and the people tended to
babble on about themselves. It was like knowing a celebrity: Special Agent Fox Mulder
had put him here, and, in fact, Eddie for awhile had slipped into Mulder's face and rather
sad lifestyle. Van Blundht harbored no ill will toward the agent, had in fact advised the
lonely, insecure Mulder to live a little, to treat himself. And here he was now, chasing
ghosts on an island for a million bucks. Kind of made Eddie feel good.
 "The houseguests are preparing for their séance to arouse the spirit of Efrem's
Reach," the young nighttime soap star murmured. Eddie giggled at the actor's verbal
error, and lamented that he couldn't look like that for a few seconds. "Fox has agreed to
serve as the medium, and the group has talked a reluctant Trudy into participating in the
ritual. The National Weather Service has posted a severe storm warning for the reach, and
winds outside the mansion have reached an estimated 60 miles per hour, so the group has
moved to the library, away from any windows."
 "Mmm, cinnamon potpourri," Mulder said after lighting the candle. "Just that
touch of Martha Stewart elegance perfect for a night of Kenny G before the fire or a
gathering of good friends to summon an unsettled soul from beyond the grave."
 Trudy started to wrestle her bulk from the rug. "Hell with this (BLEEP) if Agent
Seinfeld here is gonna screw around."
 "Okay, okay," Mulder apologized, grinning. "Just trying to lift our spirits."
 "How about we get on with this?" Paul asked flatly.
 "Remember, no demons," Krystle reminded Mulder.
 "Or ghouls or succubi or wraiths, got it. Now, everybody close their eyes and try
to clear your minds of everything."
 "Good," Trudy grunted. "This should take no time at all."
 "Trudy, you're harshing my psychic groove. Everybody ready?"
 "Everybody ready?" Eddie repeated. They couldn't medicate away his talent for
voices. Damned good-looking man, Mulder, he thought, as the houseguests closed their
eyes and the agent began to call for the ghost.

J. Edgar Hoover Building
7:24 p.m.
 Skinner wondered what flack he'd catch in the morning about one of his agents
conducting a supernatural ritual in primetime. Scully had called in a brief report about the
post office fire in Derry, Maine, and the apprehension of the arsonist. At least now there
was a down-to-earth collar attached to her little New England ghost chase - he'd have her
expense the trip after all.
 The assistant director loosened his tie as Mulder began chanting on the office TV.
A beer would have been good, and probably therapeutic by the time this song-and-dance
was over, Skinner thought.
 "R. Haase, would you speak to us tonight?" Mulder recited in a cheap B horror
movie monotone. "We know your spirit is restless and seeking for us to know the truth
about your death. We want to know the truth. We want to believe."
 "Haase, get your pale ghost ass out here so we can watch Top Gun," Trudy
threatened.
 "Haase," Mulder said louder, "We welcome your presence so we can clear up the
record. Pleaseshow yourself."
 The lights in the library flickered, then went out. Skinner leaned forward.
 "It's the storm," Paul told Krystle as she whimpered by candlelight. "It's just
theeee--" Paul's voice dribbled off.
 "Paul," Mulder said, squinting as the network cameraman turned on a floodlight,
washing the quartet in white. The bulb extinguished with a small pop, and only candlelit
faces could be seen on TV screens across the U.S. and Canada.
 "I am Richard Haase," Paul said, but in a hoarse, demanding new voice. In the
faint light, his face was different, more intense, more animated. "What would you like to
know?"

Efrem's Reach
7:35 p.m.
 "This definitely is against my better judgment," Coast Guard Capt. Seth Halperin
shouted above the engines as he navigated his cutter through the choppy gray expanse
between the mainland and Efrem's Reach. "You tell me 'need to know' only, that's fine;
you tell me you've got your A.D.'s  authorization, okay. But when I'm taking my vessel
and my men out into waters like this, I have to say for the record I don't like being kept in
the dark."
 "Sorry, Captain, but I have to ask you to bear with me here," Scully responded,
watching the fat drops smash against the pilothouse window and streaks of electricity flash
across the endless ocean and wondering what she was doing risking her life and others for
what was likely a fool's errand. "The people on this island could be in danger."
 If Halperin acknowledged her in any way before returning to his controls, Scully
could not tell. But the craft continued to tear through the windswept waters toward God
know's what.

Washington, D.C.
7:24 p.m.
 "Ooh, they got the ghost to come out!" eight-year-old Tisha Kersh exclaimed as
Richard Haase erupted from the mouth of Paul the Houseguest.
 Kersh peeked into the family room, disdain and irritation blended on his face.
"Tisha, sweetie, isn't there anything a little more enriching to watch right now than this
trash?" her uncle demanded.
 "Ah, lighten up, Mr. Grinch," Ted Kersh laughed as his wife sighed loudly and
poured coffee for the post-roast dessert. "It's just a show - it's not doing her any harm.
Better than that MTV crap she been watching."
 Kersh scowled. He'd expect that from his baby brother, a graphic designer (and
what kind of work was that?) who made a joke of everything and gently derided him every
time he tried to suggest bringing a little more discipline into Tisha's upbringing. It was the
same whether you were dealing with FBI agents or children: Good in, good out; bad in,
bad out. Like Mulder, here, given years of official license to chase Martians and
werewolves and human flukes, and now representing the Bureau as some kind of Abbott
and Costello medium.
 "'Sides," Ted added as Sharyn handed him a slice of Dutch apple pie laden with
Cool Whip. "You just got a hard-on about Mulder."
 "Ted!" Sharyn exhaled, nodding toward the child in front of the TV.
 "Aw, hon, she doesn't even know what that means, right, Baby?"
 Tisha looked back momentarily. "An erection." She turned back to the set.
 "Nonetheless," Ted said quickly, backpedaling from his grim wife. "So what if
this guy cuts up a little on TV? Think after Waco, a little human frailty, a little humor
wouldn't be such a bad thing."
 "AFT screwed up Waco, told you that a million times," Kersh snapped, snatching
his pie from his weary sister-in-law. It was an old debate, but it had one beneficial impact:
Ted's anal brother flopped silently into an armchair and chewed petulantly on his dessert.
"What happened here 65 years ago?" a candlelit Mulder asked Paul/Haase. "Did
Gilbert Efrem kill you, or was it Olivia?"
Paul scowled. "Olivia Efrem would never hurt a living creature - she was a gentle,
lovely woman. Her husband, on the other hand, was a jealous, controlling tyrant who kept
her a prisoner. After I left the Reach, she wrote me - told me he was getting worse, more
poisonously jealous with each passing day. Efrem had taken to striking her - he had a
morbidly evil temper -- and she was afraid he'd eventually kill her. I scraped together
every penny I had and managed to get one of the locals to bring me out here. Olivia was
relieved to see me, but when I tried to rescue her, he came rushing into the parlor with
what I guessed to be a knife from their kitchen. We struggled, but he got the best of me
and slit my throat."
"Why is this the first time you've told anyone on this side what happened?"
Mulder asked.
"I was unable to speak through the unbelieving. I tried many times to show the
previous residents of the Reach what had been done here, but no one except perhaps the
fisherman who brought me out knew I'd come. It was a time when most folks were too
concerned with their daily survival to take note of one missing artist."
"Where are you now? Your body?"
"About a mile beyond the Reach - my bones lie in a deep trench, too deep
probably for anyone to find now. That coward Gilbert Efrem made sure I'd remain where
he put me, so no one would know his shameful secre - Aaahh!!"
The Kershes dropped their collective forks as Paul's dimly illuminated face
contorted. On the dark screen, Trudy twisted his arm and jabbed her face to within a few
inches of the haunted houseguest.
"You watch who you refer to as a coward, you treacherous womanizer," warned a
deep Yankee voice erupting from the former drill sergeant's mouth.
"Hey, Gilbert, whuzzup?" Mulder greeted.
"Fox's cute," Tisha giggled, breaking the silence in the family room.
Kersh began to choke on a mouthful of apple pie.
"Well, he is," the girl said huffily.

Efrem's Reach
7:37 p.m.
 "Hey, Gilbert, whuzzup?" Mulder greeted. "You gonna let Richard get away with
this?"
 Trudy/Gilbert glanced briefly at Mulder in the flickering library light, with a clear
note of impatience. "He's right about my shameful secret, but my shame is that I let this
madman into our home, trying to do a good turn for a talented painter. I could tell from the
day he unpacked his brushes he had an eye for Olivia, but I wrote that off to his being a
New York artist, and I assumed he'd act appropriately while he was in my home.
 "I was wrong, dreadfully wrong. I could see Olivia was horribly uncomfortable
with him at dinner, and the day after he completed her portrait, I walked into the library to
find him trying to embrace her. I pulled him off, and he had the nerve to take a swing at
me. I sent him packing, and it wasn't until after he'd come back for Olivia that she told me
he'd sent her those vile letters. The man actually said to my wife that he wanted to - "
 Mulder had heard the bookshelves about the houseguests shaking, and in the
candlelight, he saw one fly from the collection, directly at the back of Trudy's head.
 "Trudy, duck!" the woman paid no attention to him. "GILBERT, duck!!" Fox
amended himself.
 Trudy dived to the floor. The heavy volume sailed through her space and clipped
Krystle, who disappeared from the candlelight.
 "Krystle!" Fox yelled, releasing Trudy's hand and grabbing Krystle's wrist. She
had a pulse, but she was unconscious.
 Paul/Haase meanwhile seized Trudy/Gilbert's throat with both hands, his fingers
working to squeeze the life from her. Books began to jump from the shelves in sequence
around the room, like an elaborate pattern of dominoes toppling maniacally. Mulder
shielded Krystle as he was pelted by encyclopedias and dismembered book covers.
 "YOU WON'T GET THE BEST OF ME THIS TIME, EFREM!" Haase
screamed. Then Paul shrieked, and fell back as he let go of Trudy/Gilbert's throat. Trudy's
head struck the floor, and she lay still.
 Mulder peered up from the floor at the carnage around him, dodging a large atlas.
"Haase!" he shouted. "It's over; it's done! This is TV - the whole world knows what
happened! You're not fooling anyone!"
 Paul bolted upright and shrieked in what Mulder could only interpret as sheer
frustration, then fell back to the floor. A hundred books dropped as one to the floor as the
library door burst open. The network floods popped back on, momentarily blinding Scully
and the uniformed man behind her.
 "Mulder?" she called as she surveyed a landscape of books and groggy to
unconscious humans. "Mulder, are you OK?"
 "Scully," a shaky voice scolded. "We're trying to do a show here!"
 Scully sidestepped a set of Charles Dickens. "I'm afraid you've been canceled,
Mulder," she said gently as she kneeled beside her partner."
 Mulder looked down at his flashing pendant and sighed. "So much for that
extraterrestrial satellite communications dish I was wanting." He got to his feet. "Trudy?
Hey, you all right, Trudy?"
 The ex-soldier groaned as she raised herself to an elbow. "You can't beat good
military training," Trudy told Mulder. "Always go for the 'nads. Always." She caught
Mulder's apologetic look and inspected her own blinking heart monitor. "Aw, shit, shit,
SHIT!" she yelled, slamming a fist on the hardwood floor.
 Mulder stepped over to Paul, who was coming around. The student rubbed his
head and the area Trudy had managed to grab and constrict in their struggle. Mulder sat
down on the floor as Scully checked a large bruise on Paul's head.
 "Well, congratulations," Mulder said, disgustedly. "You're a millionaire - wanna
buy my plane fare home?"
 Paul blinked, then bolted up. "Really? Oh, shit, man!"
 "And you don't even have to share it with your partner," the agent/ex-houseguest
added.
 Paul stopped in the middle of what appeared to be a touchdown dance. He peered
down at Mulder, then at Scully, and then at the still-running camera. "Huh?"
 "Very articulate," Mulder said. "You're partner in the spirit world. That was the
deal, wasn't it? You help us uncover Haase's death, but with him as the hero instead of an
obsessive narcissistic psychopath. He helps you scare your fellow houseguests off the
island. When did he first communicate with you?"
 Paul's jaw tightened, then he relaxed. "Shit, why not, man. There's no crime
conspiring with a ghost, and nothing the network can do. I'd done some homework on this
place before they picked me, and I read up on spirit contact. I almost blew my heart
monitor when we first met, second night here after the cameras went off - I'd been
expecting Efrem, not some dude he'd killed. This turned out a lot better. Haase wanted his
'good name' back, I wanted some righteous bucks."
 "You did a great job of hedging your bets," Mulder said. "You took this big
militant vegetarian stance with the rest of us, guaranteed to piss off at least Eriq the
Neanderthal. I'm going to assume that was just a ploy to put our nerves on end?"
 "Gonna get me a Quarter Pounder minute we're back on the mainland."
 "Then you found out Monica was gay, so you talked her into being honest with
herself, coming out with the group. You knew Trudy would flip her red, white, and blue
lid. I'll wager you had something to do with Fran's chronic clothing deficiency, hoping us
big ol' strapping guys would get worked up into a libidinous froth."
"Played on her nymphomania, Foxie," Paul bragged. "You don't know it, but in
the real world, I'm a psych major. Did my senior thesis on workplace tensions, how to
identify the causative factors. This was just a matter of working things in reverse -
spotting what would trip your individual triggers."
"That you did, you smug little twerp. It kills me that in our modern culture, you
can manipulate the fears, prejudices, and weaknesses of others, crow about it to a
nationwide TV audience, and walk away with a million bucks."
Paul grinned. "Well, cock-a-doodle-doo, Fox." He pitched his head back and
crowed.
"Before you start raiding the henhouse," Scully interrupted mildly, "I'd consider
that as a national medium which operates under interstate commerce laws, the network
would see it in its best interests to act on your fraudulent intent toward its viewers."
Paul stared at her, open-mouthed. "Say what?"
"I'm saying the way I see it, you've broken at least three major Federal
Communications Commissions statutes. Once we prove you managed to rig this 'ghost'
setup, you should be looking at at least three to five federal time."
"You're full of shit."
"At the very least, I'm sure the network will be able to establish a basis for civil
fraud." Scully glanced over at a nonplussed Mulder. "And once we look at the videotape,
I'm willing to bet you're going to be taking an early retirement, ponder. With Paulie Poor
here throttling her, I'm thinking you were probably the last to go belly up."
"Hey," Paul yelled, his eyes beginning to bug. "I get it now. You're gonna bust
my ass so your partner here will get the big bucks."
"You have a right to remain silent, kid," Scully informed him icily. "Why don't
you get a good headstart on it, huh?"
"You guys aren't gonna pull this shit on me!" Paul screamed. "You fuckers are
gonna be on Dateline before I'm done."
"Paul, Paul," Mulder chided the houseguest gently. "You got your blinkers on."
"So the fuck wha- " Paul froze, his pendant flashing red, as Mulder stepped from
in front of what he'd been concealing: Krystle, who was now coming to and gingerly
probing the ugly red welt on her temple. Her pendant was the only one in the room not
pulsating violently.
Mulder, smiling, reached down and pulled her limp arm into the arm. "For the
folks at home, the winner and seriously loaded champion is Krystle, literally by a
knockout."

J. Edgar Hoover Building
Three days later
9:12 a.m.
 Skinner flipped the folder shut. "Just want to remind you two: The suspect has
progressively escalated the violence associated with these killings, so watch your butts at
all times."
 Mulder and Scully nodded and prepared to leave the assistant director's office.
 "By the way," the bald, muscular man added. "Good to have you back, Agent
Mulder, even if your loss was our gain."
 Mulder smiled, slightly. "Thanks."
 "Just out of curiosity, though," Skinner ventured. "Not that I buy the theory, but
how in the world did you decide this man was in collusion with some kind of, um,
spiritual entity?"
 Scully plopped back into her chair with a subtle roll of the eyes.
 "It was the tape," Mulder replied. "The Bridges of Madison County. It was playing
on the VCR when all of us came downstairs from Monica's room. With a TV crew
following us around, nobody was in a position to sneak into Fran's room, snag the tape,
get it into the VCR and start it playing from upstairs. But Richard Haase died in the '30s,
and the house had been closed up for decades."
 "You're saying," Skinner asked neutrally, "that this 'ghost' didn't know how to
work the VCR without human assistance?"
 "Hey, even I had to have some help the first time," Mulder responded. "Then there
was the Scrabble board. After we found the tape playing in the VCR - a 'clue' from Haase
- Paul gasped, and we discovered the mixed-up tiles on the game board. I got to
wondering why the ghost didn't arrange the tiles so we could understand what he was
getting at, if it was another clue from the Great Beyond. I think he did - I think that's what
Paul gasped about. It wasn't part of his plan with Haase - this was a different spirit at
work, as it turned out, Gilbert Efrem. I talked the production crew into letting me watch
the tape of us in the parlor. They magnified and enhanced the Scrabble board area during
the time we were looking at the TV. Paul clearly reached over and mixed up the tiles after
he gasped and before we turned to him. Why? Because he didn't want us to know what
the ghost's message meant. Even after I worked it out, I didn't know. But I did reason that
this was two spirits working against each other, and Paul obviously was working against
one of them. That implied he was working for or with the other."
 Skinner regarded his underling for a long moment. "I feel like I've stumbled into a
bad episode of Scooby Doo. That's all."

St. Maarten's
Six months later
 Krystle Nessen glanced away from her screen to take in the white sands and teal
waters of the Caribbean. Another cruise ship was coming in; she'd take the sketch pad
down to the bar tonight and do a few preliminaries. He'd taught her how to form the
penciled skeleton. Tomorrow, he was going to start to show her how to flesh out the two-
dimensional image.
 She looked back at her PC. Krystle was almost through designing the Web page
for the hunger foundation she'd founded with the Reach prize money. The book and the
TV movie had paid for her dream home on the beach. And she'd met her dream man, a
fellow artist who did with a brush what she was capable of rendering only with a mouse.
Krystle knew she'd had a history of picking the wrong guy, but he was so strong and yet
romantic and old-fashioned.
 Krystle sighed contentedly and gripped the mouse. The device moved out of her
control to the "Start" menu. She tugged gently, but her  clicked up Photoshop and opened
a new "canvas" of transparent pixels awaiting transformation.
 "Richard," she affectionately scolded the force that guided her hand on the
sketchpad, and that was so anxious to learn a new artistic medium. "Not today, I told you. God, for
90-some years old, you are SO impatient."