"The X-Files" Characters depicted in this story are property of Ten
Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. All used without permission
and no infringement is intended.
Many thanks for story consultation to FancyKatz and MelTaylor   


BUMPS IN THE NIGHT
by Rhoda Miel
aka ZeusStorag@aol.com
12/2/94
Part one.

    The sound was soft that first time. Jack Koehler wasn't certain if he'd
  really heard it -- a short, sharp interruption in his home's usual night
  noise. It was as if someone had blown up a paper bag. Koehler rolled over,
  drifted back to sleep.
    Raccoons, the thought sifted through his mind. Or that skunk again.
    The next sound was different. A rumbling that crawled across the floor.
  It rose halfway up the wall, then exploded.
    Koehler's wife, Maggie, sat up with a start, looked for something solid
  to grab for support.
    Moonlight filtered through the uncovered window, shadowing the bed in a
  pale, gray illumination. The red numbers on the bedside clock read 2:48.
    The silence had returned, but seemed thick somehow -- filled with the
  sound of their breathing. Koehler could count his own rapid heartbeats as
  he moved away from Maggie, slid out of the bed and walked to the wall.
    The plaster had cracked, half way up.


***********     FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON D.C.


  Dana Scully walked through the maze of desks and agents toward the long
hallway at the rear of the room. Her partner, Fox Mulder, always seemed to
pass through the crowd of people and furniture with his mind somewhere else,
threading past the obstacles with his eyes focused on some point in space
visible only to him.
  Scully watched everything and everyone -- the changing faces of the men
and women she worked near, but never with. With spring came the flowers
clipped fresh from the gardens Scully never saw. There were new school
photos late each autumn and the small souvenirs from each vacation. There
was a world inside that room, a world that changed every day.
  Mulder's back was to the door when Scully walked into the office. He
continued rummaging through the filing cabinet as she took off her coat and
hung it on the rack. "Do you like ghost stories Scully?" he asked,
turning around.
  Scully sighed, looked down at her empty coffee cup. "Well good morning,
Agent Mulder. How are you today and have you ever considered that if you
started the day with a normal conversation you might have a few more
friends out there?"
  Mulder stopped, sat at his desk and leaned back, a slight smile barely
hidden behind his eyes. "Good morning Scully.Sleep well?"
  "Just fine, thanks, and in my opinion ghost stories were invented by camp
counselors to keep young girls awake all night."
  "Sounds like my kind of camp, Scully," Mulder grinned and handed her a
thick stack of papers. "But this time, it looks like this story is for real.
State police in Michigan are looking for a little help tracking down some
unusual sounds emanating from a family home in a quiet corner of the Upper
Peninsula."
  "What kind of sounds?" Scully asked.
  "Oh, you know. Creaks, rattles, bangs -- the stuff that usually
accompanies a haunted house."
  "Mulder, it's April not October and I'm not ready to hear anything more
about a haunted house until I get some coffee."
  Scully grabbed her mug and headed for the door.
  "OK, but make it fast," Mulder called after her. "We've got a plane to
catch."
  "Mulder, are you suggesting we become Ghostbusters?" Scully let the
exasperation seep into her voice. "This doesn't sound like the kind of thing
Skinner would want to use the FBI's time and money on."
  Mulder shrugged. "It's not," he said. "I brought up the subject a month
ago after I saw the report in a weekly newspaper."
  "So why the travel plans?"
  "Seems the freshman congressman representing northern Michigan is intent
on fulfilling his campaign promise of 'responding to the people,'" Mulder
leaned back on his desk. "And," he added, "It seems the new congressional
leadership is intent on keeping the people happy."

  Scully stared out the window of the rental car. It'd been early spring in
Washington D.C. that morning but winter still clung to the bare trees and
dirty gray snowbanks that lined the two-lane highway.
  They'd switched planes three times -- finally ending up in a 15-seat prop
jet with seating so cramped that Mulder complained he would've been more
comfortable riding on the wing.
  Chippewa County International Airport was an abandoned air base. A sign
in the former jet hangar that now served as a terminal read "Welcome to
Sault Ste. Marie, the city so special it takes two countries to hold it."
  Now, after an hour on the road, they were approaching the one-stoplight
town.
  "Who are we supposed to contact?" Scully asked glancing over at Mulder
behind the wheel.
  "Township constable by the name of Ken Rybkowski. His deputies started
the original investigation. When they couldn't find anything, they called
in the state police. The state called us."
  Mulder pulled into the lot in front of a concrete-block building housing
both the police and fire departments. Scully pulled her coat a little
tighter around herself as a hard wind blew across the icy lot. For once she
was grateful for the faulty heater in their basement office that prompted
her always to dress in warm layers just in case it was on the fritz again.
  Mulder was three steps ahead of her, taking the stairs two at a time,
anxious to discover something new -- and the kind of paranormal proof he
was determined waited somewhere out there.
  Rybkowski was a half-head shorter than Mulder with a stocky build that
seemed to match the pictures of the pig farm on the walls behind his desk
more than the badge on his haphazardly pressed uniform.
  "My grandfather homesteaded 40 acres on the north end of the county after
the lumbermen were done with the land," he was saying. "My mother's family
goes back another generation beyond that. I know this county like the back
of my hand. I know who dated who in high school and which children aren't
going to do their daddys proud."
  "But I tell you. I don't know a thing about this."
  "Have you been out to the house?" Scully asked.
  "Dozens of times. I've known Jack Koehler since I was born. He grew up
with my older brother and the two of them used to pester my mother whenever
they'd worn out his with their questions. He helped my brother rebuild his
barn after it burned down. My brother and I helped him frame up his house."
  "How long ago was that?" Mulder asked, putting down the cup of strong
coffee he'd been given as soon as they entered the office.
  "About 15 years. Jack and Maggie had lived in the farmhouse on the family
land for years, but when they learned they couldn't have kids, they kind of
lost heart for that big house. They rent it out now."
  Rybkowski pulled open a desk drawer and began rummaging through the
papers, finally pulling out a photograph of a single-story home with white
aluminum siding and a couple sitting side-by-side on the front steps.
  "This is the house," he said.
  Scully studied the photograph and the two people in it -- both in their
early 40s, average height and weight, his sandy brown hair swooping back off
his forehead, hers tied back behind her head. Nothing appeared out of the
ordinary.
  "Jack runs a charter fishing boat in the summer, farms a few acres but
the land here isn't very good for cash crops," Rybkowski said. "Maggie works
part-time at the school library."
  "Where are they staying now?" Mulder asked, taking his own turn studying
the photograph.
  "The Paradise Motel. It's the only place open this time of the year.
You'll want to get a couple rooms there yourself. They're not fancy, but
they're clean," Rybkowski grinned. "If they're not, you can blame my
daughter. She works there two hours every day after school. Jack and
Maggie know you're coming.You can talk to them tonight."
  "We'd like to see the house first," Mulder said and Scully glanced over
at him, recognizing the nervous energy that gripped him at the start of
every case. "That will give us a better handle on what's going on before
we talk to the Koehlers."
  Rybkowski showed them the way on the map and said he'd radio his deputies
on the road to meet them there with the key.
  What little light there was behind the clouds was dropping from the sky
by the time Mulder slid behind the wheel of the car and headed northeast
toward the little house.
  "Just what is it you think we'll find out there, Mulder?" Scully asked as
she glanced over a new folder the sheriff had given them.
  "I don't know," he admitted. "Maybe something spooky?"
  Scully ignored him as she tried to leaf through the papers in the dimming
light. The state had called in experts in electronic surveillance to
determine if someone was 'bugging' the Koehler house to create the sounds.
They'd found nothing. And, the sheriff had said, no one could find any
reason why anyone would single out the couple for audio abuse. "I can't
imagine that any sports fisherman would be unhappy enough with his day's
catch to go to these lengths to get back at his guide," she said, putting
her thoughts into words to gauge Mulder's reaction.
  "Maybe he didn't get his legal limit," he answered as he pulled into
the driveway. A mud-splattered township police unit was already there and
Mulder parked beside it. A nervous young deputy stepped out, handed over
the keys.
  "This one fits the back door," he said, shifting from one foot to the
other and looking longingly at the open door of his patrol car. He'd left
the engine running. "We left some equipment in there -- cameras and a tape
recorder and such -- Kenny says you're welcome to them. "He moved back to
his car.
  "You don't want to come in?" Scully asked.
  "Ma'am, I've been in there twice," he said, grabbing the car door.
"And that's two times too many."
  The house was silent, echoing the sounds of their footsteps and the click
as the door closed. All the lights were on -- Rybkowski said they hadn't
been able to turn them off.
  From the back door Scully could look down the basement steps to where a
washing machine sat with its lid open. They moved right, into the kitchen.
The coffee pot was half full and a few dishes sat in the sink.
  A reel-to-reel tape recorder sat on the dining room table along with last
week's edition of the weekly newspaper. Mulder headed down the hallway to
the bedrooms as Scully turned and walked into the living room.
  There was a large television against one wall, a tan sofa and two easy
chairs. Next to the recliner were farming magazines and an old TV Guide.
A remote control was on the table between the chairs along with three
issues of Reader's Digest. A bag filled with yarn, knitting needles and
crochet hooks rested against the swivel rocking chair.
  Bits and pieces of plaster, broken off the walls, dusted the edges of the
carpeting. The largest piece lay on the floor between the living room and
dining room, under a paint-by-number portrait of Jesus.
  "Looks like we missed the big party, Scully," Mulder said, wandering in
from the back of the house. "And someone is looking at seven years of bad
luck." He pointed her to the bathroom where the large mirror was cracked
through at every corner.
  "But I don't hear anything, do you?" she asked him.
  "Maybe our ghost is shy," he answered.
  "I've never heard of a ghost that didn't like company, Mulder. I thought
they liked to show off."
  Mulder studied the crack above the portrait, then turned his attention to
the tape machine, rewinding it.
  "Let's see if this tells us what scared off the county's finest young
deputy," he said.
  There were no sounds at first, then two voices -- deputies filling their
time on their unusual duty.
  "This is crazy. How much longer are we supposed to wait here, anyway,"
came one voice. It sounded like it matched that of the scared officer who'd
delivered the keys. "You're going to have to learn a little patience,
Billy," another man answered. "I've never seen any case yet where you could
find the answers without a little patience."
  The other man was nearer the tape recorder, in one place. Billy seemed
to be pacing.
  "Well, maybe sitting here waiting for nothing to happen sounds good to
you," Billy said. "I'd rather be doing something."
  "You *are* doing something. You're getting on my nerves. Now are you
going to sit down and play some cards or do I have to watch you wear a
hole in that carpet?"
  The two men played for a while, passing the cards back and forth. Then
there was a moan. Scully wasn't certain at first if it came from the tape
recorder or the house around them. A shriek flew out of the tape player's
speakers and Scully heard the sound of a chair falling backwards.
"The hell is that?" Billy cried out.
  "Don't know," the older man yelled. "But whatever it is, it seems to be
here." Mulder leaned down, trying to hear the sounds better. There were
creaks, bumps, pops and a crash that sounded like a cannon exploding.
  "Jesus!" Billy yelled and Scully looked over at the portrait on the wall.
The tape rolled on, smoothly, as it yielded the sound of a door flying
open. "Billy!" the older man shouted. "Billy get back in here."
  Scully listened to the footsteps as the older deputy chased the younger
man out into the night. After they left, the tape went silent again. No
more noises, except; 'was that the wind?' she  wondered. It sounded more
like a sigh.
  "Well that sounded interesting," Mulder said, snapping off the machine.
  "I'll grant you that much, Mulder, but I'm not ready to agree that this
is a haunted house yet."
  "I would have been disappointed if you did, Scully. It's more of a
challenge when I have to convince you that I'm right. If you'd agreed with
me, I wouldn't have as much fun proving my case," Mulder slid the tape off
the machine.
  "It's after 8 o'clock and our ghost doesn't seem very accommodating just
now," he said. "What do you say we go find the Koehlers before we fall
asleep and miss all the fun."
  "I think we can make a fresh start at the house tomorrow," Scully
answered. "I doubt your ghost is in much of a hurry to leave." She
reached for light switch on the way out of the house, but it already was
switched off despite the burning bulb. The light shone out of the windows
as they pulled out of the driveway.

*****************

  Jack Koehler had lost more hair since the time the chief had snapped
that photograph. The little that he had crowned the sides of his head, cut
roughly to the tops of his ears and hanging raggedly above his collar. He
looked tired. The dark circles under his eyes matched those of his wife's
on her pale skin. Her brown hair still was tied behind her back, but now
had streaks of gray.
  "We thought we'd get more sleep once we moved in here," she said.
"But, well, you know how it is with motels. You never sleep as well as
in your own bed, doesn't matter how nice the room is."
  "Besides," her husband added. "I keep expecting to hear those
noises -- even from 10 miles away."
  "Did you ever have any problems with sounds before?" Mulder asked,
settling himself in one of the stiff chairs in the corner of the motel room.
  "One of the reasons we picked that site for our house was the quiet out
there," Jack Koehler said. "The noises in town here may not seem like much
compared to Washington D.C., but you can still hear them. I'd rather not
know what TV show the neighbors are watching," he said, grinning. "And
I'd rather have the birds wake me up in the morning than the neighbor
kid's car with a bad muffler. Of course, now I'd rather have that than
those other sounds waking me up."
  Maggie Koehler fidgeted as she sat on the corner of the bed. Scully
wished she'd remembered to bring the knitting supplies from the house so
the woman could have something to keep her hands busy.
  "Where did you get the land from?" Scully asked, turning her attention
away from the uncomfortable woman.
  "State land sale," Jack Koehler answered. "There's a lot of empty land
up here, and not a lot of people. If you keep your eyes open, you can find
some pretty property for a good price. Of course, land right along the
water doesn't open up very often."
  "We didn't see much of your property," Mulder said. "You've got
waterfront?"
  "Not much," Maggie Koehler answered. "But it's real pretty in the
summer. You can see the freighters heading through Whitefish Bay from
Lake Superior to the Soo Locks."
  "It's not safe to build right on the water," her husband interrupted.
"November storms and the ice'll try to blow right through the house.
The erosion will try to pull it into the water. Only the tourists build
right on top of the lake."
  "So why didn't anybody try to build out there before?" Scully asked.
  "Just came out the market when we bought it," Jack Koehler said.
"Don't know why the state didn't sell it off earlier, but we were glad to
get it when we did -- or at least we were. Don't get me wrong," he
continued. "We love our house. It's our home. Now I'd just as soon be
rid of it and find somewhere new, but no one's going to buy it and I
don't know of any insurance company that's going to consider ghostly
possession as a legitimate claim on a policy."
  Mulder and Scully said nothing to each other as they left the motel room,
but Scully realized she was hungry. Mulder looked at his watch as they
walked toward the small cafe next to the motel.
  The woman was getting ready to close when they walked in, but pointed
them to a table anyway.
  "You're those FBI agents here to help out Jack and Maggie, right?"
she asked. "Kenny told me you'd probably be by. The cook's gone for the
night, but I can rustle you up some soup and a couple of sandwiches. Is
that all right?"
  She headed back through the swinging doors and they could hear her
humming as she worked.
  Scully broke the silence.
  "First thing tomorrow, we should track down the deed, find out who
owned that property first, see if we can find anything on that. I want
to talk to that other deputy and I want to go over that state electronic
surveillance report again, see if they might have missed something," she
stopped as she noticed Mulder staring at her. "What? Did you have
something else in mind?"
  "No, that's what I was going to say. I didn't expect to hear you getting
so involved in this. Are you going to tell me you ..."
  "That I've changed my mind and I believe in ghost stories after all?"
Scully interrupted. "Not exactly. But I do believe that those two people
deserve to get their lives back, and maybe we can help them."
  "Scully, I'll make a believer out of you yet," Mulder said with a grin.
  
*************
End part one.
