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Fox Mulder opens his eyes to a stained low ceiling with wood trim. He blinks a few times and sits up from his position on the floor, one hand going to his head as he examines his surroundings. He’s in what looks to be a living room, though it’s mostly devoid of furniture save for a 50s style couch and a lamp emitting a dim glow in the corner. Dust and cobwebs adorn the surfaces around him, some even dirtying his suit jacket. Most important, though, is that he has no idea where the hell he is.
While this isn’t the first time he’s woken up somewhere unknown, a spike of panic floods his brain as he scrambles to his feet. He swallows past the dryness in his throat and does a quick check of himself: his head doesn’t hurt, nor does he feel any bumps, so he couldn’t have been knocked out; there’s no lingering fogginess indicative of drugs; and his gun is still in its holster. Nothing to suggest foul play, but the burning question of where he is and how he got there are unanswered.
Mulder closes his eyes, taking a few deep breaths to stave off the panic, and tries to remember.
When his eyes settle on the house, he knows that there is something not quite right with it.
Coming from Mulder, this can mean a lot of things. He’s well aware of his own paranoia and penchant for theories others would label ‘outlandish.’ If he conveyed to his partner this house is wrong, she’d fire back with how? Architecture can evoke feelings, but a house itself cannot be wrong in the sense that Mulder is feeling, so he doesn’t confer these thoughts with Scully.
He does, however, nudge her gently and say, “Looks a lot rougher than in the photos, huh? I think we have a fixer upper.”
Scully looks hardly amused as she gazes up at the two storied house. “Each victim mentioned this place in exact detail before they disappeared. I assume it’s been searched thoroughly?”
“The locals stay far away from this place, but the sheriff’s had a few searches done. Even brought in dogs to detect if there were bodies hidden somewhere, but the dogs were little help. They apparently got spooked.”
“Spooked?” Scully repeats, raising an eyebrow.
“Acted erratically, refused to go in…” he lists. “Maybe they know something we don’t.”
“Well why are we here, Mulder? Is this an X File or something else?”
“I don’t know yet, Scully. I was hoping to get a better look inside and see if there was anything the police might’ve missed.” He starts walking to the house’s front steps as he speaks. An imposing wooden door stands between two arched windows. The windows are marred with grime, but he can just make out a darkened hallway inside.
“See anything?” Scully asks, standing at the foot of the steps with her arms crossed. Her head is tilted, blue eyes narrowed behind a fringe of auburn hair. She doesn’t look the happiest to be out here.
Mulder flashes her a smile. “I don’t suppose we’ll find anything substantial until we look inside.” He turns back to the dark brown door and places a hand on the ornate doorknob. Once twisted, the door swings inward with little protest, allowing him to step inside.
What he isn’t expecting, however, is for the door to slam shut behind him the moment he enters, plunging him into a thick darkness where everything seems to slip away.
Right. The last thing he remembers is entering the famed Kathwood House, a place that had been mentioned by five different people before they disappeared. He and Scully had been called in given their expertise in unusual cases, or maybe just because Assistant Director Skinner had wanted them out of his metaphorical hair for a while.
It’s easy to find the house’s entrance. The living room is attached to a hallway that leads to the front door. He remembers now how the Kathwood House’s door looks and is both relieved and disquieted to see it’s the same. When he goes to open it, however, the doorknob doesn’t turn. It’s freezing cold to the touch and barely budges an inch.
“Scully?” he calls, pressing his ear against the door to hear a response. “Scully?!”
There’s no answer. He draws back to test the strength of the door by ramming his shoulder into it, but quickly comes to the conclusion that he would sooner dislocate his shoulder than get the door to open.
That leaves the windows on either side of the door, but when he goes to them, he’s met with the sight of heavy-falling snow on the other side.
It’s freezing out there, something in his mind says. Wouldn’t you like to stay here? You’ll catch your death out there.
Mulder steps back. This isn’t right. It’s early October, and the locals in this small Nebraska town said that snow doesn’t come for over another month. It’s simply not possible for it to be snowing outside, given that it feels like just mere minutes ago he was outside with Scully and there was not a cloud in the sky. It can’t be snowing outside.
He shrugs off his suit jacket and wraps it around his hand with a sense of urgency before throwing his fist into the window. It bounces off without leaving a mark on the glass. He pays no attention to the ache in his fist as he tries again and again, but no matter where he hits, the glass doesn’t so much as crack.
His chest tightens as panic coils around his ribcage. He screams Scully’s name until his throat hurts, bangs his fist on the walls for any weak spot, but the house doesn’t relent. Soon, an unnatural tiredness hits him, and he finds himself fading away into unconsciousness for a second time.
He wakes once more in the living room.
Mulder wastes no time getting to his feet and dashing to the hallway, but when he goes to the end that should lead to the front door, he’s greeted by just another yellow wallpapered wall.
No, nonono- the front door had been here. His photographic memory confirms it. But when he reaches his hand out, it meets a solid surface. He lets his forehead fall against the wall with a ragged exhale. There must be somewhere else in this place that functions as an exit. He can worry about the changing surroundings and lost time later.
He canvases each and every room. Across from the living room is a dining room, then further down the hallway are a kitchen and bathroom. A set of stairs marks the end of the hallway opposite to the door. The second floor offers two bedrooms, an office, and another bathroom. Each room gives the impression of a time capsule from the 50s. The same sickeningly yellow wallpaper is on every wall, and no matter where he looks, there is no exit.
“Let me out!” Mulder shouts, his voice ragged from disuse. “I don’t– you can’t keep me here! I don’t want to stay.”
He must look insane. Maybe he is going insane. He imagines the other agents back at the bureau having a laugh over all of this. Agent Spooky finally cracked, huh? He was fucked from the start. Such a shame he dragged his partner down so far.
“Stay with us, Fox! I’m right here! Don’t you want to find me?” The voice sounds exactly like Samantha’s. He slams his fist against the side of his head, relishing in the dull ache, but the childish giggles don’t stop. Flashes of dark haired little girls dance across his vision, dashing in and out of the connected rooms. He squeezes his eyes shut. Samantha is gone, but she isn’t here. The house doesn’t seem to care.
“You’re not real,” he insists. The hallway stretches and swirls in front of his eyes so he squeezes them shut. Soft voices of his sister, his mother, and even Scully brush past his ears, reaching tendrils into his brain. The house is warm and safe and loving. What else does he need?
Still, he fights. He knows in the back of his mind that he cannot stay here. There is a cause that needs him. His partner, despite what the voices insist, is not in this house, and he can’t leave her.
Suddenly, the noises stop. It’s dead silent around him. When he opens his eyes, the sight he’s greeted with makes his heart drop to his stomach.
The hallway is stretching unnaturally. Where doors had been before are now unblemished yellow walls, and the end of the hallway is much longer than it had been before. The floors and walls are moving at the end, twisting and contorting in a horrific fashion.
Standing between him and the end of the hallway is a tall, distorted being. Its stature resembles one of a stretched, unnatural humanoid, but it doesn’t look like any alien or creature he’s seen. When it speaks, its voice encapsulates the sound of nails scratching against wood, a thousand different voices coalescing into its maw.
I AM HUNGRY.
Mulder shouts in shock as the floor ripples beneath him, sending him to the ground. He pushes himself backwards until his back hits the wall where the entrance once was and stares, frightened, at the approaching being and the twisting walls. The being glistens, its skin ever moving and writhing across its form. Its face pulses with every word. Mulder can’t make out its mouth.
WHY DO YOU FIGHT? I AM SO VERY welcomingsafelovelyHUNGRY.
Feeling like a caged animal, Mulder draws his gun, seemingly his only defense against everything. He shoots once, twice, and the being staggers back but otherwise appears unaffected. Mulder stares at the weapon in his hand. The panic blurring his vision makes it even harder to see, but in a fit of desperation, he turns the gun towards the horrid wallpapered wall to his left. If this creature is connected to the house, then maybe–just maybe–he can hurt it by destruction of the house. It seems like such a silly theory, but he’s put his faith in worse, so he squeezes the trigger until every remaining bullet is ingrained into the wall.
The being shrieks. It sounds like metal scraping against metal. Through the bullet holes he can see a writhing mass of something inside the wall. This being isn’t connected to the house–it is the house.
Mulder digs his fingers into the bullet holes and pulls to the side. He scratches at the wall fiercely, trying to enlarge the holes. The moving excuse of insulation first gathers at his hands, then frantically disperse as he claws through the wall. His fists, which previously had no effect against the solid surface, work wonders in breaking through the drywall. The wall begins to crumble around him.
His head turns back to the being. His actions appear to have had some effect, as the being is doubled over and the hallway is no longer distorting behind it. Emboldened, he states, “I’ll destroy more if you don’t let me out.”
The being raises its head. WHY DO YOU FIGHT?
He opens his mouth to respond, but pain explodes behind his eyes and he almost falters in his destructive escape attempt. It’s as if something is invading his mind, reaching long, gnarled fingers into his brain. It stops in a moment but leaves him shaking.
I SEE. the being says. YOU ARE NOT READY. SHAME. I AM STILL HUNGRY.
Somehow, it knows. Just like it knows of his sister, his partner, his memories…
“Get out of my head!” It comes out as more of a plea than a demand. He turns back to the wall and continues his attack. Darkness creeps into his vision and he doubles his efforts, trying to stave it off, but just as he breaks through the second layer of drywall, his senses are ripped away and he falls into the darkness.
He awakes with a violent gasp to someone shaking his shoulders. He almost cries tears of relief when Scully’s face fills his vision. She’s framed by blinding white lights that make him cringe, but it’s a welcome change from the dim glow of the Kathwood House.
“Mulder? Jesus, Mulder, you’ve been out for hours,” Scully exclaims, sitting back down in a chair. He’s in a hospital room and Scully must pick up on the confusion in his eyes, as she adds, “You passed out at the Kathwood House. You’ve been unresponsive since. Your vitals are fine and no one knows what’s wrong with you.”
For a moment, he’s silent. What can he say? That the house is some controlling, sentient thing that wanted to eat him? That the missing people likely entered and were trapped, pulled into the place’s inviting embrace until it choked the life out of them?
“I’m fine, Scully,” he settles on. “Must’ve not eaten anything.”
It’s a flimsy excuse, and they both know it. Scully holds his gaze for a couple seconds before sighing. She knows him well enough to not push for the truth, at least not for now.
Not that she’ll believe me.
Mulder reaches for her hand that still rests on his shoulder and squeezes gently. “I’m okay. Let’s just not go back to that house.”
Her gaze shifts into one of confusion as she brushes the dark hair from his forehead with her free hand. “You’re still out of it, Mulder. I’ll let the nurses know you’re feeling better, but we won’t be going anywhere until I know you’re not going to start passing out again.”
“No– I’m fine, really. Come on.” He flashes her his signature boyish grin. “Let’s get out of here.”
Somewhere, out there, he knows the house is waiting.