Ghosts in the woods: Volume One
By PL Nunn

The Desecration

1


 It was a quiet night.  The world was blanketed with the immaculate white of
new fallen snow.  One could almost hear it as it floated to the ground, like
the sighing of an angle as she ascended to heaven.  The universe was at
peace, at least in this one little corner outside of Anchorage.  The house
was in Ptarmigan Creek.  It sat about ten miles out of town, along a stretch
of back road that boasted several high dollar retreats.  The chimney
trickled smoke into the pitch of a cloud covered night sky.  The windows
frosted from the comfortable warmth inside.  Scott Summers slept tranquilly,
cacooned in the warmth of a down comforter, a dying fire supplementing the
electric baseboard heat.  He dreamed of peaceful things.  Of a lake he knew
as a boy. One he and his brother had fished upon when they were very young. 
In his mind's eye he saw the V-shaped trail of ripples made in the passing
of a mother duck and her ducklings.  He sat on the shore in the dream and
watched with fascination as they passed, marveling at the wonder of nature. 
His brother skipped a stone into the wake, flawing the perfection of the
scene, disturbing the ducks.  They scattered.  Scott turned to deliver angry
words at the provocation - - -
 - - -and paused because of the crying.  Was Alex crying?  No.  Alex was
giggling.  Alex was red faced and gleeful over his usurpation of Scott's
orderly lake.  No the crying was coming from somewhere else.   Somewhere far
away.  
 He drifted into fuzzy awareness.  Out of habit he blindly reached for his
glasses lying on the night table next the bed.  Ruby quartz colored his
world.  He blinked grit from his eyes.  Felt an emptiness beside him, a
coldness where warmth should have been.  A sniffle from the bathroom.  The
lights were off.  
  "Jean?  Honey, are you okay?"
 A moment's silence.  Sniffles and all abruptly ceased.  Then running water.
 He sat up in bed, ready to abandon the warmth of covers, but she appeared
in the darkened door way of the bath.  She was in shadow, wealth of hair
tumbled about her face and shoulders.  She wasn't wearing her robe.  Flannel
nightshirt hung to mid-thigh.  
  "What's wrong?"  
  "Nothing.  Nothing's wrong."  Her voice sounded strained.  He reached for
the lamp, wanting to see her face, clicked it on.  A split second of light
and the bulb flashed, blown.  
  "Damn." he whispered.  He didn't know if they had any spare bulbs in the
house.  That meant a trip to town tomorrow.
  "I just had a bad dream." she slipped under the covers, turning on her
side, back to him, pulling her knees up to her chest.
 He touched her shoulders and she shuddered.  She was tense, her muscles
hard as rocks.  He rubbed her neck, saying nothing.  He had asked and she
didn't want to talk about it.  He respected her privacy.  She let him rub
the tension from her shoulders, and eventually sighed and went to sleep.  He
curled against her back,  cheek against the softness of her hair and lay
awake, missing her, even though she was so very close.  There was a bond
they had shared, he and his wife, his friend, his lover, his comrade - -
that wasn't there anymore.  There had been a time when she needn't have said
a word and he would know if she were happy or sad, or scared or impassioned.
 It was gone.  Now there was only emptiness.  She didn't talk about it
anymore.  Not for weeks.  She didn't talk about her own mental amputation
anymore, although he knew her well enough to figure she was unnerved by the
silence in her own mind.  Once a telepath of exquisite power and now it was
merely - - gone.  Like that light bulb.  
 Oh, weren't they a pair.  Two crippled mutants.  One who had lost an
essential part of her power and the other who couldn't regain the focus he
had once known with his.  

 He came back from Ptarmigan Creek with groceries and lightbulbs the next
morning.  He had gotten an early start.  Jean had wanted to sleep in.  He
had indulged her in that, kissing her cheek on his way out.  She was in the
kitchen when he stomped in, arms full of supplies.  Coffee was brewing.  She
was talking to someone.  Strange he hadn't seen a vehicle.  She had her back
to him and her hands were moving agitatedly.  He looked around her to see
who was talking with.  No one was there.  She held no phone in her hand.  
  "Jean?"
 She swung around to stare at him, green eyes wide and startled, like he had
caught her at some criminal act.  
  "What are you doing?" she hissed at him.  "Why did you sneak up on me like
that?"
   He blinked at her, startled into stuttering denial.  "I - -I didn't  mean
to."  He sat the bags down and approached her.  There was something
dangerous in her eyes.  Something suspicious and unfamiliar.
  "Jean?" He put a hand on her shoulder and she blinked and focused.  The
look vanished and she stared up at him blankly, then at the counter where
the coffee machine dribbled fresh coffee into the pot.
  "Oh, coffee's ready.  You want some?"  She moved out from under his hand
and took two cups from the cupboard.  He watched her in amazement.
  "Jean, what is wrong?"
  "What do you mean?" She turned and smiled at him over her shoulder.  
  "You practically bit my head off when I came in.  You were talking to
yourself."
  "I was?"  She handed him a cup of black coffee and sipped at her own, a
small furrow between her brows.  Red braid hung over the shoulder of thick
gray sweater.  "What was I saying?"
   Caught off guard again, he floundered.  "I- I don't know. You were
muttering. I couldn't catch the words.  Honey, are you sure you're all
right?"
  "I'm pretty sure." she grinned at him again and he was bedazzled by her
beauty.  It never changed.  He had gaped at her when she had been sixteen
and he still gaped at her now that she was a woman grown.  She made his mind
drift off of more important subjects.  
  "It's probably just more withdrawal symptoms." she groused, pouting.   "I
used to hate hearing everybody's thoughts, now you can't imagine how much I
miss it."
  "I can imagine.  I know how much I miss yours."
 She showed him a dimple.  "I thought we could go down and have lunch by the
lake."
  "That would be nice."
  "Anything interesting going on in town?"
  "They're preparing for the Winter Festival.  Sheriff Miller invited us to
dinner next week with him and his wife.  He's busy keeping all the tourists
in town for the festival in check.  Says he's already got lost campers out
in the northern forests."
  "Northern Forest?" For a moment her eyes drifted away again, her attention
focased out the window, looking northward, then she returned to him.  "Why
do people go out there without maps and compasses?"
  "He says it's the second group this fall the forest service has had to
send an all out search for in this area."
  "They found the first one, I hope."
  "Cold and hungry, but yes."
  "Well, I trust we can find our way to the lake and back."
 He smiled back at her, for the moment, her strange behavior forgotten.

 They ate in the covered deck at the end of the pier, looking out over a
lake just beginning to freeze.  The wind was minimal, or it might merely
have been Jean using her TK to shield them from it.  That, she still had in
abundance.  They sipped hot soup from a thermos, had cold sandwiches and
luke warm tea.  Jean stared at the northern shore with a distant look in her
eyes.  He watched her watching the hazy treeline.  
  "I wonder how things are back home?" he mused.
  "Fine." she mummered.  "Ororo's capable of running things."
  "I know that." He admitted.  "I just worry.  I can't help it."
   "Call if you want.  She'll understand."
 He contemplated that for a moment, then shook his head.  It didn't matter,
really, even if they did need him.  He was next to useless now, with so
little control over his optic blasts and such a damn lot of pain when he
over did it.  It was best not to know, that way he wouldn't fret over it. 
Jean was right. Ororo was perfectly capable of running the team.  More than
capable.  They didn't need him.  Somewhere, deep down inside him, he pushed
down the hurt of that realization and he went on.  
  "No.  She's fine.  They're all fine."
 Back to the warmth of the house.  Red faced and exhilarated by the crisp
coldness of a snowy afternoon.  He was building a ship.  A tedious, plank by
plank project that involved tweezers and airplane glue and a thousand small,
delicate pieces.  Bobby had gotten it for him, to while away the time.  He
had looked at it as a frivolous distraction at first, then boredom had
sucked him into it.  One day it was going to be a grand old schooner.  Jean
was painting.  She had only recently taken it up.  Her canvases were covered
predominately with snow-covered landscapes pierced by the stark black shapes
of twisted trees.  He didn't know where her inspiration came from.  There
were no trees of that nature around here.  
 It was his turn to fix supper.  Chicken and mushrooms with rife pilaf and
greenpeas mixed with baby onions.  They sat down to eat in front of the
fire, listening to classical - - his choice of dinner music.  The chef had
control of the stereo.  In the middle of the meal, Jean simply froze, with
fork halfway to her mouth.  Her eyes grew distant, her lips trembled.
  "Oh." she whispered.
  "Jean?"
  "Shut up!"  The fork flew out of her hand, splattering food. "Don't talk
to me.  Don't talk to me!"  She flew up from the table, and ran to the
stairs.  He was half way up from his chair when she stopped on the stairs
and screamed.  Just tore at her hair and screamed in rage.
  "Jean. My God, what's the matter?"
 He was at the bottom of the stairs when she changed direction and came
down, brushing violently past him and stalking into the kitchen.  
  "Jean!?" He followed her, scared now. Determined to make her answer him. 
"Damnit, Jean, talk to me."
  "Leave me alone."She cried.
  "Jean, if this is still backlash from the loss of your telepathy, then you
need help."
  "Help?  Help?" she laughed at him.  "From who?  From you?  From Charles?"
She sneered out the last name in derision.  "Who's left that can help me,
husband?"
  "Nobody, if you won't tell me what's going on."
  "I don't know." she screamed this last at him.  Then grabbed an empty
coffee mug on the table and flung it at him.  It missed.  He stood there
shocked that she had thrown it.  Until the next came at him.  This time a
plate.  It shattered on the wall behind him.  This had gone far enough.  He
approached her, holding out his hands, determined to hold her down and make
her talk if need be.  She picked up a frying pan, a heavy iron skillet that
he had used to brown the chicken in and held it threateningly.  
  "You're not going to hit me." he told her calmly.  "Just put it down and
talk to me."
 She stared at him, green eyes glittering with unshed tears.  That
unfamiliar expression was back in her eyes.  Like there was something there
besides Jean Gray Summers.  Then she swung the skillet.  He hadn't really
expected her to.  He knew she wouldn't willingly hurt him.  He knew she was
merely trying to threaten him away.  Then the skillet connected to the side
of his head, knocking his glasses off.  It was lucky for both of them that
before he hit the floor his lids had shut - - totally unconscious.
 * * * * *
 He came awake with a start, opening his eyes to darkness.  Then, beyond his
control, the killing power of his optic beams blasted forth from his eyes. 
Something shattered in the darkness.  He cried out in dismay, squeezing his
lids shut, feeling around himself in disorientation. Hard floor, broken
shards of glass and pottery around him.  And there, his glasses.  He put
them on shakily and tried to focas in on the world.  Not blackness, but the
dim of late evening.  The pale light of dusk made the kitchen window glow
from without.  
 He was in the kitchen, on the floor, where Jean had put him.  With a
skillet.  God, of all the stupid things - - to stand there and let himself
be hit alongside the head with a iron skillet of all things.  He was out of
practice.  He forced himself to his feet and stood swaying for a moment
while his equilibrium tried to compensate for the horrendous pounding behind
his eyes.  Gingerly he explored the knot behind his temple.  There was
clotted blood in his hair and on his ear.  
  "Jean?"  He called her name and the sound of his own voice made his head
hurt.  No answer. The house was silent, mocking him in his desperation. 
Into the living room where the fire had burnt down to embers.  Up the stairs
where the bedrooms were.  All devoid of life.  He sat on the master bed and
shook.  He should have seen it coming.  She'd been having nightmares for the
last week, progressively worse, yet she refused to speak about them.  She
always shared with him.  Why not now?  There was something else wrong and he
should have recognized the signs.  Where was she now?  She was in trouble,
that  much was obvious, she would not have hurt him otherwise.  She would
never, in her right mind, harm him, of that he knew with all his heart.  So
she wasn't in her right mind.  
 Shakily, he moved to the head of the bed and picked up the phone.  Think
logically. Cover all the bases before he paniced.  He dialed a number.  Let
the phone ring a dozen times before someone picked up on the other end.  
  "What?"  A harsh female voice snapped.  It was unfamiliar.  He thought for
a moment he might have misdialed.  
  "Who is this?"
  "Who wants to know?  You know what time it is?"
 He didn't know.  He put a hand to his throbbing temple and tried to keep
his voice calm.  "Is this the Xaviar Institute?"
 A pause.  Then a sulky.  "Whatever.  Who do you want to speak to, since we
both know it isn't me?"
  "Is Ororo there?  Or Logan?"
 There was a clunk as if the receiver had been dropped.  He heard the sound
of footpads, then a distant call for 'Windrider!'.  Who was this obnoxious
female running loose in the mansion?  He wasn't thinking as clearly as he
ought.  He closed his eyes and thought - - Marrow?  Marrow was in the
mansion now at the behest of Callesto.  Oh, god help them if that was her
usual temperment.  
  "Hello?"  Ororo's sleepy voice, full of curiosity.
  "Ororo, has Jean called?"
  "Scott?  What's wrong?"
  "I don't know.  Just - - have you heard from her today - tonight.  What
time is it?"
  "4:30 here.  Are you all right?  You sound strange."
  "I -  yeah.  Jean and I just had a  - - disagreement.  She ran out and I
just thought she might have called you."
  "Do you fear for her safty?  Do you need me?"
  "No.  No.  I can handle it. She's probably in town."
  "Have you called her family?  Perhaps she has spoken with them."
  "No.  I'll do that.  Thanks.  I'll let you know."
  "Scott - - ?"  
 He hung up the phone distractedly, cutting her off.  He went to turn on the
lamp, but he had never gotten around to changing the bulb.  In the dark he
pulled on boots and a second sweater.  Back downstairs and outside, looking
for footprints in the snow.  He called her name and it was absorbed by the
all emcompassing snow.  The Explorer was still in the drive.  The only
footprints were the almost filled ones he had made from the drive to the
house that morning and the trail they had created to and from the lake.  But
the tracks were fresher that they ought to be.  He followed the trail and a
single set of footprints veered off from the ones leading to the dock.  They
went down to the lake and stopped some ten feet from shore.  There were no
return tracks.  Damn.  She had taken to the air.  She could be anywhere.
 * * ** * 
Ptarmigan Creek.  The wee hours of the morning and folk were already up and
about.  The days were getting shorter and people had to take advantage of
what day light there was.  He looked in the resturants he knew she liked. 
Checked with the hotel to see if she had decided to cool off away from the
house.  Finally ended up at the sherrif's office, trying not to look as if
his wife had just knocked him cold and run away in a fit of telepathic
withdrawal.  
  "Well hello.  Surprised to see you again so soon, Scott."  Sherrif Chris
Miller looked up from a steaming cup of coffee and a desk covered with maps
and paperwork.  
  "Umm, hello, Sherrif."
  "Still on for dinner Sunday?"
  "Sure.  I was wondering - - have you seen Jean around town this morning -
- or last night?"
 The sherrif's brows lifted.  "Well no.  Can't say that I have.  Have you
lost her?"
  "Sort of a tiff.  She left the house yesterday evening - - I thought she
might have come to into town."
  "You all have just the one vehical, right?"  The sherrif looked out the
window of his office at the red Ford Exploror sitting at the curb. Scott
followed his gaze and slowly nodded.
  "You think she walked ten miles into town last night?"
   Scott didn't answer.  The sherrif knew he and Jean were more than normal
people, but there was no need to clarify that his wife was telekinetically
able to fly.  
  "Could you keep an eye out for her, Chris?"
  "Sure. Why not?  Her and four missing campers."
  "Four?  Two more since yesterday?"
  "Yep.  Damned tourists.  I'm going to post a warning about the northern
stretch of forest.  No damned good trails up there.  No ranger station. 
Nothing but mountains and forest  and no easy way to search it by air or
ground."
  North.  He recalled that morning mentioning the missing campers to her. 
That look in her eyes and her long stare out the window - - northward.  And
later at the lake she had kept her gaze almost predominately on the northern
shore.  Something twinged in his gut - a feeling that was almost spasmadic -
telling him that north was the direction to look.  It could very well have
been a foolish reaction to sherrif Miller's dire news about missing campers.
 It might have been nothing.  But gut instinct, he had learned long ago, was
not to be ignored.  Oh, logic was foremost on his agenda of how to handle a
bad situation, but when it came right down to a quick, life and death
situation - - sometimes gut instinct was the difference between winning and
loosing.  He trusted his.  
 He nodded his head at the Sherrif and walked out of the office.  The supply
shop down the street sold maps and gear.  He had no intention of going into
this blind, no matter how badly his gut screamed at him to go -go- go north.
 There was always a happy medieum between logic and instinct and he had
learned to tread it.  

 
End of Part One