Chapter Text
High Street was dark.
The darkness was usual. Oxford mornings were gloomier than most, foggy and wet, the orange street lights blurred in the haze.
That’s the only reason why Mulder noticed the apartment in the first place. In the near-pitch black of 3 AM, its lit window was like a beacon. He stopped mid-run, brown hair clinging to his forehead, his sweat cold in the October chill, and stared up at it from across the street.
The second-floor apartment to the left of the Grand Cafe was pale pink on the outside, with white Ionic capitals, a Bacchus peering over them. A circular blue plaque was affixed to the left of the large window. From this angle, illuminated by its overhead light, the entire room inside the apartment was crystal clear, all the way to the packed bookshelves on the opposite wall.
There was nobody in the room.
That was the second thing Mulder noticed. Why the light, if nobody was making use of it? He watched the bright room for a minute, his breath visibly puffing out in front of him, but no one appeared.
The cold crept down his neck and into his grey Lincoln College sweatshirt as he stood there, snapping him out of his vigil. Shivering, Mulder looked away and picked up his pace again. He pushed through the fog of High Street, eyes on the dark sidewalk ahead, but seeing only that golden-lit window, the shelves and shelves of books, and the confoundingly empty room.
”I saw something strange on my run last night.”
“By last night do you mean this morning?” Scully said without looking up from her biology textbook. She sat across from him at Blackwell’s Bookshop, two empty coffee cups on the small table between them.
“You think you know me so well.”
“Two am?”
“Three.”
She raised an eyebrow, short red hair falling in her face. “I was close.”
“Anyway, I was on High Street, coming from Magdalen, and I saw a light on in one of those apartments above the shops. You know, the ones the university uses for student housing now.”
“A student had a light on in the middle of the night?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. “That is strange.”
“There was nobody in the room.”
“That’s good, or you’d be considered a stalker.” She flipped a page. “Or a Peeping Tom.”
Mulder shook his head. “Look, if it was a student reading by the light of a lamp, I’d agree with you. But the overhead light was turned on. When’s the last time you turned on the overhead lights in your apartment?”
Scully’s blue eyes finally looked up. She shut her textbook. “Okay, never.”
“Exactly. And the room is completely empty? Something isn’t right. Call it my Spidey senses.”
“Mulder, did you have Spider-Man fantasies as a child?”
“It was probably a ghost.”
Scully groaned. “There’s no such thing as —”
“Oxford is ground zero for ghost stories.” Mulder leaned forward in his seat. “The librarian in the Bodleian, the Phantom Cavalier. The Exam Schools are right next door, there’s been rumors of ghosts there, too. Maybe one came over for a spook. Practicing for Halloween.”
Scully leaned in as well. “So did your academic ghost kidnap this person or just knock on the door and say ‘trick or treat’?”
“Please, Scully. Ghosts aren’t corporeal. They can’t knock.”
“My mistake.” She rolled her eyes.
Mulder was used to these kinds of reactions. Both his peers and his professors in the Psychology department had learned to expect his out-of-the-box opinions, and Mulder in turn expected their side glances and dismissive scoffs.
Scully was different, though. Oh, she never believed him — nobody did — but unlike everybody else, he desperately wanted her to. She respected him enough to say to his face when she disagreed. She respected him enough to argue with him, to dedicate any use of her stunning brain to disproving his theories. But she never crossed the line and joined him on his side. It was more than a little frustrating.
“There was one of those blue plaques on the building. You know, the ones recognizing significant people or places. Maybe it’ll give us a clue as to who the ghost is.”
Scully groaned again. “Us? When did you drag me into this, Sherlock?”
“I’ve been dragging you into things since the day we met, Watson.”
“That’s Doctor Watson to you.” Her lips quirked up, but only enough for Mulder to notice. “And I regret that rainy September night often,” she said.
Mulder’s eyebrows rose. “You remember that?”
Scully looked away. “It’s always raining here, Mulder.” She took her textbooks and packed them into her leather tote.
“Come on. Let’s go look at the plaque.” He gave her a dramatic pouty face and begging hands.
She held his gaze impassively for several seconds, then stood up. “Fine. If only to shut you up.”
They walked to the entrance of the bookstore together. “Admit it, Scully. You love the sound of my voice spouting ridiculous theories in your ear.” He held the door open for her.
“Right, Mulder.”
The window on High Street was an eight-minute walk away. Autumn had fully gripped the city: the streets were perpetually dark with rain, the infrequent tree was a shocking yellowy-orange, and every person they passed had taken their wool coats and hats out of storage. Even at midday, the sky was an overcast gray.
Mulder and Scully crossed High Street and approached the apartment. Mulder gazed up at the iron balcony and the window, but Scully walked a few steps ahead.
“Mulder,” she said. “Look at this.”
He reached her in two long strides. Her chin tilted up to point at the blue plaque.
SARAH COOPER
1848-1932
First made
Oxford Marmalade
here in 1874
“Do you think your ghost enjoys marmalade on his breakfast toast?” Scully asked, barely contained laughter in her voice.
Mulder stared at the plaque. “Marmalade! Did you just murder this whole mystery, Scully?”
“With the power of sight and common sense?”
“Yes,” he said, a bit of his pout returning, but no longer well-humored. She patted his upper arm over his black coat. “Maybe it’s not a ghost, but there’s something wrong here, Scully. Did you notice the light’s still on?”
He pulled her to the edge of the sidewalk and they looked up. He was right: the overhead light still shone inside the window, though in the daylight, it was easy to miss.
“Why would someone have their light on in the middle of the afternoon?” he said.
“Maybe they died and their ghost forgot to turn it off.”
Mulder made a face.
Scully touched his arm again. “I’ve got a lecture in 20. I’ll see you later?”
“Yeah,” he said, still gazing up at the window. Scully sighed and dropped her hand. She’d walked three steps when he called out. “Hey, Scully!”
“Yes?” She turned back to him.
Mulder stuck his hands in pockets and gazed at her for a moment. “Thanks for coming with me.”
She smiled a little. “You’re welcome, Mulder.”
Her text alert went off just as Professor March dismissed them. The once-quiet lecture hall rumbled to life, students gathering their belongings and chatting with their neighbors. Scully reached into her leather tote and fished her phone out.
MULDER: Free tonight?
She felt the unbidden swoop of butterflies in her stomach and pushed them down immediately.
Maybe, why?
Her text alert chimed again.
MULDER: 6:15. I’ll pick you up outside your place.
A hopeful flap in her navel. What is this, Mulder?
MULDER: Trust me.
She sent off a simple Ok and the butterflies beat against her ribs.