spooky_shrink | Recent Entries

It had been a quiet night, and Malcolm had hoped to get a good night's sleep. All hopes for that are dashed, though, as he wakes with a start, and sees the light still low in his room. He sits up quickly in his bed and looks back and forth, trying to make out anything unusual among the heavy shadows.

There is something here.

Someone.

"...Hello?"

No reply.

Cautiously, Malcolm rises from his bed, and walks to the middle of the room. Yes, there it is. A Presence is palpable.

And with that Malcolm feels a wave of dread, because he remembers the encounters people had last year. It had always been amusing costumes or changes before then, but last year's Hallowe'en had been the beginning of something potentially more grim. He had been spared then, but the chill he feels now is telling him his reprieve had been only temporary.

Slowly, he makes his way through the other rooms of his small apartment, until only his bathroom is left. Sure enough, the shadows beyond its doorway are unusually heavy. He really should have noticed that right away. Taking a deep breath, Malcolm steels himself for whatever is to come.

Even if that is to be a conversation with the dead.

He steps across the doorway, flicks on the light, sees his reflection in the mirror.

...And sees it grin. "How you doin'?"

Malcolm goes like this: "..."

And like this: -_-

And then looks up and growls, "Very fucking funny," before stomping back to bed.

It's a subdued but masculine room. Not spartan but efficient, yet comfortable too. After a couple of years here, it has a pleasantly lived-in feel about it.

The lights are low, a half empty bottle of red wine stands beside another still unopened.

The bed is large and, at the moment, in some disarray, a fact that Malcolm is very happy about. It's been a long time since he had company, and he hadn't realized how alone he'd been feeling for a long time. But he hadn't really realized it until the first time he invited Demeter in.

[After this.]

It feels... strange. Traffic roaring, sirens screaming. Concrete under his feet, just like the song said. The sun a lot brighter than Malcolm's seen it in a long time--or it would be if it wasn't for the haze. Masses of people all around, and every one of them human. No aliens, no gods, no talking animals. He can’t believe how strange he finds that now. This isn't Philadelphia, but it is America, and Malcolm can’t stop himself from smiling to be back here.

Except, of course, he's never been here. Even back on his own world, Malcolm had only been to Southern California twice, and both times only for conferences. He flew in and flew out, and hardly had any time at all to explore the place.

Anyway, this is Jack's L.A., the America of CTU. So he has to expect a few differences. It hasn't been an hour, though, and he's already amazed to find how many differences there are.

Some of the changes are obvious. References to a President Palmer, a President Logan. An 'acting' president at one point. And more assassination attempts than Malcolm can keep track of. At least one of them had been successful.

Then there are the warning signs about irradiated areas, just like Jack had warned him. The surveillance cameras that seem to monitor every street. He loses count of how many times he sees police officers bearing weapons more high-powered than handguns.

Malcolm knows a lot of this is simply a question of perspective. Jack's world has been through a lot more than Malcolm's had. And, of course, Malcolm has no idea how his own world responded to outside threats after 1999. He doesn't even know if there were any such threats, and he probably never will. So he really can’t bring himself to judge this place.

But there's a persistent undercurrent of fear and defensiveness here. It bothers him. As a psychiatrist, it bothers him. Malcolm would bet good money the agents at CTU have learned to live with it, probably rarely even notice it anymore. But this is a frightened country, an angry and suspicious country, and the people have been hurt and humiliated enough to be capable of almost anything. It's giving him a new level of respect for what Jack and Tony, Chase and Kim, and all the others have to do. Because bad as things are, Malcolm has a feeling it all could have been much, much worse.

Of course, the day ends like he expected it might. He had half-hoped he wouldn't do it, but sure enough, here he is: sitting at a terminal in the Los Angeles Central Library.

He brings up a browser. (Netscape is long gone—he's surprised by that, the company had been so big in 1999 back in his world). And then he finds an online phone directory and types "Malcolm Crowe."

There are several people by the name Malcolm Crowe, but "he" is one of the first results. There's even a short bio from the pages of the Philadelphia Inquirer. In 2005, he was given a key to the city for services rendered. That was even more of an honor than the award Malcolm himself had won, though he sees that award was also given to this Malcolm. It's good to see that. His eye runs down the listings, all the achievements through the years from a vaguely familiar 1999 to an impossibly different 2012, and at last, down to the final paragraph:

"...where he lives with his wife, Anna, son Sean, 11, and daughter, Emma, 9."

Had he expected that? He supposes he had, just like he's not surprised to feel the welling in his eyes. But the moment passes soon enough, and then there's only a quiet smile.

"Good for you, man," he whispers. "Good for you."

[After this.]

As the last traces of the carnival disappear from sight, a gust of wind passes through the quiet meadow. Its chill sends a shiver through Malcolm. A parting gift from Dark, no doubt. But now only he remains in that autumn meadow under a bone-white moon.

Except, of course, for the woman dressed in white, standing only a few paces away.

Malcolm isn't surprised to see her, but she looks younger than he was expecting. Not much older than him, really. He smiles.

"Hello, Catherine."

She smiles back. "I should think you’ve earned the right to call me 'Great-Grandmother', Malcolm."

"Aren't you actually a few generations older--?"

"Ahem."

Malcolm grins. "Sorry."

"As you should be," she replies with mock horror.

She looks away, across the meadow toward the small town beyond, and sighs. "In truth, I should be the one to apologize."

"You don’t really need to."

"I do. To have such a monstrous ordeal visited on any child of mine.... Even one seven generations away." She looks back at him. "Are you happy? Not at this moment, of course, because," she gestures at the meadow. "How could you possibly? But in your life, back home--are you happy?"

Malcolm isn’t sure how to answer at first. "It’s an interesting life. But happy? Yeah. Yes. Happier right now than I've been in a very long time. It's a good life. If 'life' is the word, anyway. It's hard to know what to call it when technically you're dead."

Catherine blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

Malcolm explains as best he can. He’s not even halfway through when Catherine, despite being a spirit herself, feels the need to take a seat. Malcolm can hardly blame her.

But he finds it interesting that his status as a dead person wasn't immediately obvious to her.

When he's done, she looks at him for a long minute. "Dear me."

"It takes some getting used to."

Catherine nods. "You have been leading quite a life. And yet, I still wonder if, perhaps, I am to blame somehow for all of this happening to you."

"Hard to say. But I don't think it really matters now. I'm not sure I would have ever asked for this, but now that I have it--I can't imagine ever wanting to give it up."

"And a good thing too, Malcolm. That was why Dark found it so difficult to get the advantage of you. He won't be forgiving you for that."

Malcolm shrugs. "I've been dealing with this for months now. I'm just glad it's finally over."

Catherine shakes her head. "I shouldn't be too confident of that, Malcolm. With this sort of thing, there is always a price, and I doubt very much you have paid it in full. You faced my enemies and defeated them on my behalf, and I shall always be grateful to you for it. But now I fear my enemies may have become your enemies too."

"I can live with that."

"Hm. Well... See that you do! I have quite enough to answer for without adding responsibility for my great-great-great-great-great grandson's second death."

He grins. "I'll be fine. I have friends in strange places."

Catherine gives him a smirk (it's had a long run in the family, apparently) and shakes her head again. "The End of the Universe. The wonder and terror of that. I cannot imagine. But so very fortunate too."

"Why is that?" Milliways has been many things to him over the past couple of years, but he can't recall ever having thought of it as 'fortunate.'

"Well, if you are a spirit, then to be anchored to such a place must be a powerful protection. You do understand the nature of spirits on our world?"

Malcolm shifts. "Well, I'll never be able to go back there, so I never really bothered to read up on it."

"But then, you must have noticed something when you visited other worlds?"

Malcolm is more than a little impressed that his great-something grandmother gets the idea of Milliways that quickly. She really must have gotten around in her day. But he's less happy about the fact that it's allowing her to put him on the spot.

"I, uh, never really got around that much. Mostly I've just... kept to the bar."

Catherine tsks at him. "Well. See that you get copies of my books and then read them--."

Malcolm decides it’s probably not the best time to mention that he's actually been obsessed with one of her books in recent weeks. And that, despite his obsession, thanks to the exhaustion he was suffering from Dark's nightmares, he was never really able to do much more than skim it.

"--And once you do, you will have much more to study after that. If you had already, you would know that the strength of a spirit is tied to its longevity. Some spirits do fade over time, of course. But others sustain. And after a point, their power begins to grow. Normally this sort of thing happens over decades, or even centuries. But, my goodness, Malcolm, in your case it must be millennia."

Malcolm's jaw drops. "But it's the wrong direction--."

Catherine waves her hand. "Oh, I'm sure that doesn't matter in the slightest. It's not the direction that counts, Malcolm, only the span. Or so I'm told--questions of time are always so difficult. I'm afraid I was born much too early to have any hope of understanding them."

Malcolm shakes his head. "Being born later isn't helping me much with it either. So... how powerful will I be?"

"It's not a question of projecting power, Malcolm. Whatever ability you might have in that respect, you will have to work for. But you might be exceptionally... resilient. Difficult to harm, if you take my meaning."

Malcolm blinks. If she's right, he's going to feel a lot less worried than he has been about taking short vacations from the bar.

"...Will I ever see you again?"

Catherine smiles. "One can never know for sure, Malcolm. But if I had to guess, I should say it's quite likely. We have so much in common, after all. And I quite like having another member of the family I can visit without their fainting dead away. So to speak."

They laugh for a moment, and then Catherine rises to stand in front of him. "You've done a very good thing tonight, Malcolm."

Malcolm gives her a wry smile. "Thank you."

"And what will you do now?"

"I'd say it's time to go home." And he's pleased to feel how natural it is to think of Milliways that way.

"Well, then," she smiles. "Until next time."

And as Catherine fades away, Malcolm sees the familiar shape of a Door, outlined against a tree at the edge of the meadow.

[And then, it's through the Door.]

[After this.]

He had a chance, but only if he--. (Anna--.)

No! Dammit, keep him out of your head and think. Dark's got to have a weak point. Just a question of where…

"Scheming and plotting, Dr. Crowe?" Dark's voice seems to coil round his brain stem. Inspiring ancient fears…

"Still hoping to find a way to survive?"

Ancient legends...

"Perhaps you hope to play the Hero."

Ancient... ('The Hero?')

...Archetypes?

Archetypes.

Wait, hang on to that! Archetypes are key. But why?

...Because that’s what Dark trades in.

Malcolm forces himself to look away from the master of the carnival. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the shadows, but now Malcolm can see the others. At least a dozen of the carnival people, ranged in a circle around him. They've probably been there all along, but they keep their distance out of deference to their master. And all the while, they patiently sup on the overspill, those extra drops of pain and misery that Dark's nightmares had been drawing out of him. They're waiting for Malcolm to panic, to run for it. So when he does, they can grapple with him, drag him screaming to the cold earth and drink their fill of him until Dark manages to pull them off again. And who knows what would be left of Malcolm after that?

"You see them, don't you?" Dark's eyes are shining. "I'll hand you over to them in the end, of course. You must know that now."

Ignore him, Malcolm thinks. Just trying to distract you. Think, dammit. That’s what you do. Observe. Analyze. Diagnose.

Archetypes. Dark deals in archetypes. But what does that mean? Why does that matter?

--Oooh. That's what it means. Oh, bad luck for them.

Because Malcolm has read his Jung. But he doubts very much that Dark has.

"Is that...hope? A spark of hope within your breast, Dr. Crowe? Perhaps you think you understand us. That you've uncovered our fatal flaw. Really, Dr. Crowe, this will go so much easier for you if you just give yourself--."

"Bullshit," Malcolm growls.

Dark smirks. They both know how close Malcolm is to collapse. "I beg your--?"

"Bull. Shit."

Dark is indulgent, as with a stubborn child before his inevitable punishment. "Bravado then? Very well. So what is your gifted insight telling you?"

Malcolm has to catch his breath, but when he speaks, he's relieved to hear most of the desperation has left his voice. "Archetypes."

"How fascinating. I think, Dr. Crowe, it’s time we end thi--."

"It is actually. I’ve read a lot about archetypes--."

"I see. Your dusty tomes will save you. I'm afraid Charles Halloway believed that too, and you know now how far that got him."

"Halloway didn't have my books. But, actually, you're right. They weren't enough. I never really understood archetypes until I got to Milliways."

Dark tries to hide it, but that got him, and Malcolm knows it. He's spent his entire adult life reading people’s reactions, and it's obvious that Dark has never had much practice in concealing his. Dark may want to get to 'Milliways'--if only to please his own Masters--but he doesn't know exactly what it is, and for someone accustomed to complete control, that's a serious problem.

Malcolm knows what he has to do. Of course, he has no idea if it will work. But he knows something about crazy bravery--that comes with being a friend of Jack Bauer. Having some of Peter Venkman's knack as a con-artist would have helped right now too. But a man's got to run with whatever 'plus X' he has.

Jack. Peter. I hope you’d approve.

Careful to keep his eyes locked on Dark, Malcolm moves his arm to point at each of the carnival people around the circle.

"Archetypes. All of you. There’s a Strong Man. And there's a Femme Fatale. An Outsider. A Man-Child..."

"And behind them all stands Death, Dr. Crowe. You must not forget Death."

Malcolm bursts out laughing before he can stop himself. Startled, Dark takes a step backward.

"I guess you only had time to read the executive summary on me, huh, pal? Death and I are old friends."

With a growl, Dark strides forward. "You think my threats empty? We are the Hungry Ones you ignorant--."

Malcolm shrugs. "And I'm a dead psychiatrist from the End of the Universe. Top that, if you can. But here's your real problem: My archetypes are better than yours. You want Death? I'll show you Death."

Malcolm concentrates. The seconds pass like hours, but slowly, steadily, a shape begins to appear beside him. She's beautiful in her way, and as her face lights up with a grin, the shrouded figure at Dark's side seems faded and gray.

"Now, how about a Hero?" Malcolm asks. "And a Trickster. A Mother Goddess. And a Good-Hearted Farmboy."

They all appear as Malcolm summons them, each archetype another patron from the bar. This is still Malcolm's dream, after all, and he's taught far too many patients about lucid dreaming not to have the power himself. As Malcolm's archetypes spread out to face the carnival people, even Dark can see they have a solidity his own followers lack. Each one has presence, character, personality. An exactness down to the smallest detail. As if drawn by an artist.

Or, more precisely, sculpted from life with a clinician's eye.

And now it's Malcolm's turn to take a step toward Dark. "And that is how this ends."

Dark gazes steadily at him for a long moment, and then ever so subtly, the master and his carnival begin to fade into the night.

"Cherish your newfound heroics while you can, Doctor. This will not be our final meeting."

Malcolm smirks, and for some unfathomable reason, replies to Dark's final glare with a wry: "Yippie-ki-yay."

[To be epilogued.]

[After this.]

[This one goes out to golden-age SF writer, Eric Frank Russell.]

Days have passed.

Malcolm is pale and numb, overwhelmed by the horror of seeing his wife, Anna, die before him dozens of times.

This is how the week has gone: Dark sending him one nightmare after another, variations on the theme of domestic bliss restored, only to be destroyed. Each scenario more sadistic than the one before it.

Malcolm has long since lost track of time.

And after every ordeal, he returns to find Dark standing there, glowing with dark malevolence as he quite literally drinks in Malcolm’s pain.

Finally: "I trust you see the truth now, Dr. Crowe. Not so beyond our reach as you thought? Were you truly dead, you might have presented us with a problem. But here you are, reborn into a new body, yet with a mind anything but a tabula rasa. On the contrary, here you are, still harboring every hope and every dream you ever had. A lifetime's worth of rich desires. And that, Dr. Crowe, makes you ours. Where there is hope, there will be despair. Where there are dreams, there will be loss and disappointment. As I'm sure the past few days, and your journey through a few delicious hypotheticals, have proven to you."

Days? Malcolm thinks. My god, it really has been days?

Malcolm forces himself back to his feet. He may fall flat on his face, but he isn't going to face Dark down on his knees. His legs almost do go out from under him, but he steadies himself and raises his eyes to meet Dark's smug gaze.

"All right, maybe you do have the edge." His voice is barely a croak. "But if that's true, then tell me this: why all the special treatment? Why do I rate? What's the point? The dreams, the book, all of it? What the hell did Catherine Crowe ever do to you people and what's that got to do with me?"

"But you answered that yourself, Dr. Crowe. We are the Autumn People. We long to feast on every scrap of guilt and misery we can rip from your soul."

"This isn’t just about that. Why me?"

Dark hesitates. "You are a perceptive one. Very well. Your ancestor does indeed matter a great deal. Do you know what The Night Side of Nature accomplished, Dr. Crowe? Oh, very little in itself. But Catherine Crowe asked questions. She sought answers in places where the Words had been spoken and the Rites howled through at their seasons. In rooms where Secrets are hidden away in shadowy corners. What she published was the barest fraction of what she knew—-she wasn't a complete fool. But she made herself an inconvenience. She upset plans and plots that had been years, even decades, in the making. And for that a price had to be paid. There are rules you see, Dr. Crowe. And those rules dictate that you must pay the price for her misadventures."

"And so we found you. The connection—-that blood connection—-between her and yourself allowed us to find you and to reach out to you. Even in a place as distant as any place in Creation. Time and space mean little for this sort of thing you see."

"Do you know what you are, Dr. Crowe? You are a very rare commodity, a priceless vessel. To find a weakened man, a guilty man, one touched by Death only to 'live' again, but with a spirit compromised by the guilt of ancestors and his own feelings of inadequacy—-such a unique opportunity you are. And so we took your guilt and exalted it. All to prepare you for this moment, when you are ready to be broken and refashioned for our use."

"We will fill you to the brim with our most precious lusts and ambitions. And then we will send you back to the End of the Universe where you will give us access to every world and universe in Creation."

Malcolm shook his head. "You need me to get into Milliways? You've got to be kidding. That place has monsters and devils. Satan himself-—more than one. And you need me to get there?"

"Ah, but all those beings, powerful as many of them might be, are present at the Landlord's request. You, Dr. Crowe, will be something quite different. You will pass through that Door as one invited, but not even your Landlord will realize what has just passed His threshold."

"He’s not my Landlord," Malcolm grumbles.

"Perhaps not, but this is your fate. You might as well accept it—-you're hardly in a position to resist."

Malcolm wanted to deny that, but Dark might be right. If there was still a chance, he couldn't see it.

Maybe if he could just stop seeing Anna die. Seeing the light going out in her eyes as he held her in his arms. Crying out for her to stay even as he felt her life slipping away. Over and over again.

God, Anna. Dark is right. There’s no way out.

No way out.

No way out.

And yet....

As a student of the mind, Malcolm knows memory often works in unexpected ways. But he's still surprised when a passage from a book he read long ago comes back to him...

"Certain chemical reactions take place only in the presence of a catalyst, like marriages legalized by the presence of a justice of the peace. Some equations can be solved only by the inclusion of an unknown quantity called X. If you haven’t enough on the ball, you’ve got to add what’s needed. If you require outside help that doesn’t exist, you’ve got to invent it.

Whenever Man was unable to master his environment with his bare hands….the said environment got bullied or corrected into submission by Man plus X. That had been so from the beginning of time—Man plus a tool or a weapon.

But X did not have to be anything concrete or solid, it did not have to be lethal or even visible. It could be a dream, an idea, an illusion, a bloody big thundering lie, just anything.

There was only one true test—whether it worked.

If it did, it was efficient."

And just like that, Malcolm sees his chance. He doesn't need a big thundering lie. He has something better. The very best kind of Plus X: training and experience. And now that reminds him of something he should never have forgotten and Dark apparently never knew:

It's a dangerous business playing mind games with a shrink.

[To be continued.]

[After this.]

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dark. Of ‘Cooger and Dark’, the proprietors of this fine carnival you see around you. And we are so very pleased to have you, Dr. Crowe, as our guest."

"I’ll bet," Malcolm replies drily, relieved to feel his head clearing already. "So that’s what this has all been about? All those dreams were just to bring me here, so you could offer me my deepest wish? And then destroy me with it?"

Dark’s eyes glisten in amusement. "Ah, so you’ve heard of us then. That fool, Halloway, no doubt. What did he call it? Ah, yes, Something Wicked This Way Comes. Such a meaningless, empty confrontation. And to think it would be the one we are best known for."

"Yeah, that has to sting. Losing to an aging librarian."

"A temporary setback," Dark replies. "We are here now, Dr. Crowe, just as potent as before. And may I say, a doctor is merely a fool of a different flavor. Though you might well provide us with a richer banquet. So much more to work with."

"And I wouldn’t take solace in Charles Halloway, in any case. He died hard, that one. A thoroughly broken man. Oh, not in any way obvious to the eye. His petty, short-lived victory gave him the strength to wear the appearance of spiritual renewal. But those few short years left to him passed so very quickly. And deep within, he remained every bit as ruined as we had made him. All those lost opportunities, all those squandered years. And to think he might have had them back were it not for an empty gesture to save a son who would only go on to squander his youth just as surely as his father had."

"Beware of happy endings, Dr. Crowe. They are merely window dressings put up by desperate authors to allow themselves to sleep at night."

"Funny," Malcolm say, as he rises to his feet. "I was about to tell you sad endings are just pessimism dressed up as artistic license."

A low, reptilian chuckle. "Ah, I see. It’s to be bravado then? The heroic doctor standing firm in the face of evil? Proving himself beyond our reach? Well, then, if that’s the case, then this shouldn’t faze you in the--."

----------------------

With a gasp, Malcolm wakes up next to Anna. Startled, he looks back and forth and then shifts himself up to scan the rest of the room. Empty. Just another spring morning in Philadelphia.

“Malcolm,” Anna yawns.

"Sorry, sweetheart." She was going to be annoyed now, stumbling around the house in a fog until she had finished her first cup of coffee. Spilling water and coffee grounds everywhere she went.

"I just had...," Malcolm frowns. ”A really bizarre dream.”

"You always have strange dreams," Anna mumbles as she flails her way out of bed. The one moment of the day when her natural grace deserts her.

"Yeah, but this one was really different. I was at this bar at the end of the universe…."

"You were what?"

"I was at this bar--," he turns, but she’s already out of the room, flip-flops echoing down the hall as she heads down to the kitchen where the coffeemaker was waiting.

Malcolm grins and shakes his head. It was going to be a good day. He heads into the bathroom and steps into the shower, enjoying the spray and steam. The water running down his face is soon waking him up, and he can feel the last memories of that strange bar and its stranger patrons fade away.

Funny how relieved that makes him feel.

He doesn’t even notice the lights flickering at first. But as he opens his eyes to reach for the soap, he groans. Not again. He thought he’d fixed that fuse.

"Hey, Anna?" he calls, stepping from the shower. "Honey?" He throws on his bathrobe, but can’t find his slippers, so he leaves a trail of drops in his wake.

"Hold off on making the coffee a second. I’ll go downstairs to check the box again."

But now he can see the lights in the entire house are flickering. And he feels a knot forming in his stomach as he catches a scent of….burning?

"Anna? ANNA!!"

And he is running to the kitchen now, and he knows what he’s going to find, already understanding that his life is over, that everything is about to come crashing down around him. He slaps his hand against the wall, gripping the threshold as he swings around and through the kitchen doorway to see Anna, her hand touching the short in the power cord, and the spilled water and coffee grounds around her feet completing the circuit.

Which means the scent of burning he smells is that of---.

-------

Malcolm screams, and he is back with Dark in the carnival.

"You son of a bitch!"

And Dark raises his face to the clouds overhead and laughs.

[With apologies to The Believers]

[To be continued.]

[After this.]

Lost in the Dark, Malcolm feels a great wind rise around him. He throws out his arms, reaching for Anna’s hand, but she, the bed, their home, creak and groan and finally shatter into flashing splinters of light which the wind bears away out of sight. Malcolm makes one last, desperate reach, and then recoils as he feels a part of the black curling around his fingers, as if a living thing.

"Sonuva--," Malcolm shakes his head. As the Darkness closes in, he feels himself begin to rise.

That was the odd thing—-well, one of the odd things—-about being dead. Once he had grown used to it, he realized his impressions had become more acute. That made little difference in the cacophony of the bar, where if anything, he had to tone his senses down. But here, he could feel even the slightest influence moving against him. Control had taken him longer to master, and being in the bar meant he hadn’t made as much progress as he might, but he knew at least how to stand his ground, even in mid-air. Which is exactly what he decides to do now.

Malcolm feels an immediate resistance. Something pulling at him. Something insistent. Something he’s certain has an intelligence of some kind behind it. Maybe it was that voice, the one that shattered his dream with Anna. Whoever they were, they were strong. Maybe stronger than him.

Fine. At least he would give them a fight.

Malcolm mentally digs in his heels, fighting his upward ascent. Finally, he feels it slacken off, and he allows himself a smirk of triumph. Then suddenly, before he can resist, a violent jerk sends him flying sideways, and suddenly he’s rushing through the Darkness, tumbling head over heels. As he picks up speed, the Darkness breaks apart, revealing the hills west of Philadelphia. He’s gone a great distance already, and Malcolm feels his stomach lurch as he hurtles through the air.

Malcolm can see lights ahead, a small town maybe. He’s too dizzy now to be sure. And he’s getting the feeling now that he may be plummeting not just through space but time as well. But that isn’t what’s worrying him most.

He’s not heading into the small town itself. He’s closing in on a large field, crouching along its eastern border. Malcolm is able to make out tents, small buildings, maybe a Ferris Wheel, before he begins plunging through the air. Right toward a man, dressed in elegant clothing, waiting for him in an open space beside one of the larger halls.

Malcolm struggles. He’s falling quickly toward the ground now, and the winds around him are shoving side-to-side, making his vertigo even worse. He tries to fight the descent, but the pull is too strong. And there’s a buzzing in his head now, he can’t think straight.

He's losing it. Thoughts going topsy-turvy, whirling like a kaleidoscope, a carnival.

A wicked carnival.

...Oh no.

The elegant man is smiling as Malcolm hits the ground, not hard enough to wound, but hard enough to hurt.

Gasping, Malcolm forces himself back on his knees and takes a moment to catch his breath before rising to his feet. The man simply waits. He seems in no hurry at all.

That's it. Malcolm knows where the dreams have been coming from. Or at least, he knows who has been told to send them to him. Whoever's ultimately responsible, Malcolm has to admit, they picked their agent well.

Malcolm can feel the shadows closing in. He grunts, shoves back the pain and gets to his feet.

He knows this carnival. He read about it once. No, actually he read it twice.

He forces himself to look up, to meet the gaze of the elegant man, who now smiles back at him.

It isn’t a pleasant smile.

"Dr. Crowe? We’ve been waiting for you."

"Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Dark."

[To be continued.]

For weeks now, the dreams have been the same. But Malcolm is also discovering that each one is lasting several days in the bar. He’s rapidly losing track of time, but every dream takes him back to Philadelphia, back to Anna.

And for good or ill, he can’t stop. He misses her too much.

But if Anna is always there, every dream is still different. He’s given up wondering whether the dreams are just self-delusion. She’s too herself, too real. And she’s also treating the dreams as if he’s there for her too, every night as she sleeps. Each time, a moment comes when he wants to ask if the days are passing normally for her, or if she’s losing days, whole weeks, like he is. But he’s too afraid to ask. Too worried that questioning it might break the spell forever.

He can’t do that. Not when he has her back.

But after a while, they start allowing themselves to settle back into their old rhythms, and Anna always knew Malcolm better than anyone. And so one night, she asks:

“What is it?”

“What?”

“What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing. Nothing’s bothering me.” How could anything be bothering him now?

“Malcolm…”

“I’m serious.”

Anna makes the noise that from anyone else is a snort. Except she always insists she never snorts, and he better not imply otherwise unless he wants to spend the rest of the night trying to pretend their hardwood floor is a cozy mattress.

“Have it your way.”

“Anna…”

“No, it’s all right. Forget I--.”

“You think something is bothering me?”

“Yes.”

“…What?”

She throws up her hands. “Well, you’re the psychiatrist.”

He knows better than to respond that. So he frowns, as if in thought.

Anna rolls her eyes. “Like that's going to fool m--."

“Quiet. I’m concentrating.”

That earns him a punch in the side.

"--OW! Now I lost my train of thought.”

Anna sighs in disgust. “I know it’s not these dreams. You know that too.”

Startled, Malcolm looks down at her, but Anna stubbornly stares at the foot of the bed.

“OK..."

“It’s something about that bar.”

“Anna, you’re starting to freak me--.”

“Malcolm, you know I’m right!” And now she’s sitting up and staring him in the eyes. God, he’ll never forget--. “I mean, what is this? Am I completely dreaming this? I know that’s not true. This is something, something else.”

Malcolm pauses, then nods. “You’re not just dreaming it. And I’m not either.”

“Then I’m not just imagining that something is bothering you.”

Malcolm slowly shakes his head. “But I honestly don’t know.”

“Are you helping people?” She knows how much that means.

“Yes--,” he starts.

“—-No,” he adds. “I mean, I am. But... not like I was. Lately, I’ve just... been there.”

Anna hesitates. “Do you...think you’re done?”

“No,” his answer comes quick and firm. The relief in her eyes makes his heart move. “I don’t think I’m even close. But something has to change.”

Anna nods. “Time to find a new way to help.”

“Yeah. I think so.”

”But that assumes, Dr. Crowe, you survive long enough to try.”

Malcolm looks quickly toward the foot of the bed, where the strange voice came.

But the Darkness comes crashing down.

[To be continued.]

It’s warm in Philadelphia. No longer spring, the plants and trees are rich and green. Malcolm was always more of an autumn person (he's the first to admit he can be a parody of himself). But it's hard to deny how beautiful the old neighborhood looks. Here, in front of Anna’s antique shop.

He can’t be here, of course. Not really. The rules of the bar are clear. If being Bound means anything, it means he can’t come back.

So this is a vision of some kind. A dream, maybe. But a moment later, it doesn’t matter.

There she is. Turning the corner, walking the last stretch of cobbled sidewalk up to the shop.

Anna.

Anna smiling.

Malcolm's jaw drops. He takes a step back.

“What?” she laughs. "Wasn’t I supposed to find you he--?"

It breaks his heart to see her smile freeze.

"...This isn’t real. Is it?"

Malcolm slowly shakes his head. "I’m sorry, sweetheart."

And now she shakes her head. Comes to a halt in front of him. Raises her hand to touch his cheek. "No. Don’t be."

"I was afraid--. I thought that last time.... I thought it was going to be the last. It was so long ago...."

Malcolm shrugs and smiles. "I know. It just--. It just happens when it happens. I guess I'm learning to get used to it."

"You're still there then? At that place. That--," she shuts her eyes and giggles, "—That bar?"

Malcolm has to chuckle. "Yeah, still there."

"It's how I know this can't be just a dream." She puts a hand over her mouth, losing herself to the giggles. "We never could have come up with something like that on our own."

And now he's laughing too. It feels so good, just to let go.

But when the laughter fades, Anna looks concerned. She touches his cheek again.

"But...you look so tired, Malcolm. Be honest. Are things really all right?"

"Well," he smirks. "I’m sorta dead--."

She whaps him. "Be serious."

He looks at her for a long moment. "I’m fine. Just--. Maybe staying up a little later than I should."

Anna rolls her eyes. "Well, that's nothing new."

Then fixes him with that look. "And it’s not all either."

Another slow shake of his head. "No. It’s not."

“Malcolm--,” She's annoyed, and then alarmed as she looks down at his hands. "Malcolm!"

He holds them up. Fading away. "Damn. Time’s up, sweetheart, I’m sorry."

"But this isn’t the last time, is it?" There’s a certainty in her voice.

"No. No, it’s not. You feel it too?"

She nods, and then goes up on tip-toe to kiss him hard as he slowly fades away....

To Malcolm's immense relief, the terrifying dreams have abated, and he's enjoyed a few nights of deep slumber. If there have been dreams, he's had no memory of them upon awaking. He was anxious at first that the nightmares would return, but today was the first day he cautiously allowed himself to believe that the worst might be over.

He collapses on his bed and, thanks to the lingering effects of sleep deprivation, is unconscious in seconds.

And dreams....of familiar streets. His home in Philadelphia. The old apartment. Anna's antique shop down the road.

And then, at last, Anna.

My god, it's her.

It's early morning, and Anna Crowe has arrived at her storefront, fumbling with her keys as she tries to open the door without putting down the awkward bundle she has in her arms.

Inevitably the keys slip from her fingers. Anna makes a strangled "AAARGH!" of frustration that is so perfectly familiar, Malcolm can't help but grin--even as the sight of her again is making him blink to keep the mist in his eyes from becoming something more.

And so he watches discreetly from across the road, enjoying the gift of being allowed to see her again on this quiet morning. Comfortable in the knowledge that, no matter how he came to be here, there is no way for her to see him standing there.

Any more than it's possible for him to see the shadow that is standing some distance farther away, watching Malcolm and Anna alike....

From some of the cases I have above related, we are led to the conclusion that in certain conditions of the body, the spirit, in a manner unknown to us, resumes a portion of its freedom, and is enabled to exercise more or less of its inherent properties. It is somewhat released from those inexorable conditions of time and space, which bound and limit its powers whilst in close connection with matter, and it communes with other spirits who are also liberated. How far this liberation (if such it be) or reintegration of natural attributes may take place in ordinary sleep, we can only conclude from examples...." - Catherine Crowe, The Night Side of Nature (1848)

And that is as far as Malcolm gets before he begins to doze off. His eyelids have grown so heavy, that he can barely keep them open. And finally giving in, he lets the book fall flat to his chest, and closes his eyes as a dark presence across the room looms out from the shadows....

Startled, Malcolm shoots bolt upright in his chair to see....nothing. Just the familiar curve of light against darkness cast by the armchair across the room.

"Dammit." He gets up, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands and looking around the room, all hope of sleep gone for another night.

Fine. Head down to the bar. Get a drink. Maybe that will knock him out. The chill in the air--it really is colder, isn't it?

Dammit, who's the ghost around here anyway?

The feeling of something wrong begins as soon as he's in the hallway, but he's (bound and) determined now to get a drink, so he keeps on going, all the way downstairs, then across to his favorite chair at the bar.

"Hi, Bar, a Glenmorangie, please."

No response.

"Bar? A Glenmorangie? Please?"

No response.

Malcolm feels a surge of fear rising. "....Bar?"

He's not sure why, but Malcolm is moved to sit up and look behind the Bar. Maybe someone is playing a prank.

He puts his hands on Bar's counter to sit up--

--and his hands shoot down right through the surface.

And down through the floor.

And down.

And down.

And down.

Down through the solid bedrock beneath the bar itself.

Down through the mysterious barrier that separates the bar from the Multiverse.

And down.

And down.

And then, to his horror, Malcolm sees the endless vista of the galaxy explode into view all around him as he falls and falls and falls, a spirit, a ghost once more, desperately clutching at the mass around the bar, trying to cling to it, only to see it rocket away forever, leaving him doomed to plummet through the empty vastness of space, all alone.

To spend its last moments of this universe's existence as alone as any human spirit has ever been--.

And screaming, shrieking with terror, Malcolm wakes up.

Back in his chair.

Back in his room

His quiet, shadowed room above the bar.

The sound is piercing, as if a gargantuan man had drawn in a great breath and let it loose again in a shrill, prolonged whistle. It’s distant at first, but as he takes step after step, the din grows and fills the air around him.

He would stop walking if he could. He has no wish to see what great, unnameable thing could make such a sound. But still he moves forward, step after step. The darkness lifts a little now. He is in the hallway of an ancient manor. His shoes fall against the heavy oak of the floor as he walks between the tapestry shrouded walls.

He tries to force his feet to stop, but the compulsion to keep moving forward is overwhelming. The monstrous whistling drowns out everything else now, and Malcolm knows where it’s coming from. He would give anything or anyone--except Anna, never Anna-—not to look inside that one room at the end of the hall.

He’s at the doorway now, and despite his every effort, his body begins to turn and his eyes come to rest on the center of the room. The windows are buried behind great heaps of velvet curtain, and in the murky shadows clustered in the center of the room, there is a greater darkness, a strange opening in the floor. Malcolm watches in horror as the whistling sound shifts, and he now feels air rushing by him in the opposite direction, down into that crevice. As if an enormous chest was collecting a mass of air for another long whistle. And now the floor begins to creak and groan. Something large is rising up, straining to burst through it....

Malcolm shrieks and a sudden jerk snaps him awake. Safe in his bed, back in Milliways.

”Shit,” he mutters, rubbing his eyes. Even back when he first arrived, back when the thought of having been dead and then 'alive' again still shocked him, he hadn’t been plagued by nightmares. Never any like this, at least.

He blindly gropes for the clock on his nightstand, but his hand comes to rest on the Night Side of Nature instead. Of course, that damn book had inspired the dream. There could be no doubt about it. And just like the dream, Malcolm knows he isn't going to be able to stop reading it. He'll keep going, page after page, until he finishes it. And if the book is having this effect on him now, what will it be doing to him later?

Shoving that thought aside, he gets up to shower and head downstairs. Tired or not, he isn’t going to be getting any more sleep tonight.

[ooc: With apologies to William Hope Hodgson!]

Malcolm Crowe is coming down the stairs to grab a quick cup of coffee.... to find puppets running around the bar.

He's had years of experience at concealing reactions of shock and surprise, even when his patients tell him the most disturbing things. And he's been around Milliways for over a year-and-a-half now.

Doesn't matter. Malcolm stares. Then slowly turns around to head back upstairs.

But first, he pulls out his little scheduler and puts a line through everything he'd been planning to do in the next two weeks.

Something tells him there are going to be a LOT of requests for counseling after this one.

So I have this idea, and it started with the scene below just popping into my fevered brain. I'm naming the pups I saw in it, but if any other mun is reading this and thinks the proposed mayhem sounds like fun, just let me know. =)

----------------------------------

The scene (in media res): A wide side street in one of the best neighborhoods in Philadelphia, 2006. Directly in front of the antiques shop owned by Anna, former wife of Malcolm Crowe. Normally this street is quiet, but this morning it’s filled with the wreckage of several cars; one rental car, still intact; and about half a dozen police and S.W.A.T. vehicles. Oh, and one other, rather hearse-like vehicle, as we’ll see in a moment.

The car wrecks all seem to be centered around the rental car and a small group of people in the middle of the street. They are: Jack Bauer, Nita Callahan, Malcolm Crowe (visible only to Jack and Nita), and Anna. Everyone looks alarmed, except for Jack, who has a firearm aimed at a corrupt federal agent (and old nemesis), who has taken charge of the cops.

Federal Agent (shouting): “Bauer! We are ordering you to stand down. Now!”

Jack (shouting, while keeping aim): “And I am telling you, Stevens, you are making a serious mistake!”

Ray (from a distance, reading a PKE Meter from behind the police line): “Venkman. Venkman! We’re getting definite readings here. Could be a Class 3—-no! Class 4! Peter this is great!”

Peter (revving up his Proton Pack): "Not for Mr. Slime, it's not."

Nita (smiling, a little relieved): “Hey, it's Ray and Peter! There must be a Door nearby.”

Malcolm: “That's--. Uh oh.”

Jack (glancing back just long enough to glare at Malcolm): “What? What is wrong NOW?”

Federal Agent (shouting): “Bauer! This is your last chance!”

Malcolm: “I don’t think these are our Ghostbusters.”

Jack and Nita (alarmed): “Uh oh.”

Anna (confused, squinting at Ray and Peter): “What’s a Ghostbuster?”

-----------------

Sooo, yeah. What I'm thinking is (and please let the feedback fly): Malcolm starts having a recurring nightmare about his former wife, Anna (who, in canon, is an high-priced antiques dealer), coming into possession of a rare occult item, which is sought by a very dangerous criminal with a taste for art and for magic (which Malcolm never thought worked in his world, but then again, he never thought there were ghosts there either). This is the sort of criminal who sees no reason to pay for something when he can just take it and then burn Anna's shop to the ground--with her in it.

Because he's Bound from returning home, he seeks out Dream and asks if there's some way the dreams he is having might allow him to return--if only in a limited capacity--so he can save Anna. (This discussion could also lead to more plot, since Malcolm is willing to put himself in debt to Dream.)

Dream does know of a way that would allow Malcolm to return to his world for a short time, but only as a spirit visible to people from the bar (and PKE Meters, but Malcolm doesn't think to ask). And even then, Malcolm's visit can only last for--wait for it--twenty-four hours.

So Malcolm will need people from the bar to help. People who can deal with a dangerous criminal, and maybe with magic. So he goes to Jack and to Nita. After all, they should be able to get the item away from Anna and protect her until this mess blows over. Right?

Unfortunately, it gets more complicated than that. Especially when that world's Ray and Peter, in town for a high-profile parapsychological conference (seems there's been a massive surge of spectral activity in Malcolm's world), suddenly pick up readings from an unusually strong ghost....

And then there's the problem of the Jack in Malcolm's world having made serious enemies during a previous mission in Philadelphia....

------------

So that's what I have now, plot-wise. My goals are:

- Get a chance to RP with Madb in a plot-making way (and take my first swing at having a pup interact with one of the Endless);
- Give Jack and Nita a chance to kick some serious ass (boorish federal agents AND dangerous criminals);
- Have Malcolm frantically try to keep from ending up in a Containment Unit, while giving Cam and Di a chance to play alternate GBs (and maybe have the Milli-GBs show up to save the day, Malcolm-wise, and kick some ass too [malevolent ghosts tied to that occult item?]);
- Give Anna (the lovely Olivia Williams) some Milli-time as an NPC and see if she might even be app-worthy.

I would love any ideas you guys might have for improving this rough sketch (especially the twenty-four hours, which I certainly don't see as 24 threads or anything, though it might get that way if we all decide we want to go there).

It had been eight months, and he thought last time would truly be last time. But as Malcolm drifts off to sleep tonight, he sees someone he never thought to see again. And maybe now he knows why--she fell asleep in her favorite chair in the living room again. He has to grin, that something so trivial could make all the difference.

And only then he realizes the chair has moved. It's not in their old living room anymore. This place is new. Smaller, but nicer. But the decor is still very, very Anna.

She's startled as she wakes into the dream, but much less so this time. "Malcolm? But I thought--."

"I did too."

And they're together, locked in a tight embrace. No hesitation this time, no awkwardness. Just two people once deeply in love, and still in love, despite everything that's changed.

"So you're still there? At....what was it? Milliways?"

Malcolm laughs. He has to laugh. Hearing Anna, beautiful, vibrant Anna. So set in the real world, the down-to-Earth-world, normal Philadelphia, Anna, hearing her say 'Milliways' seems so perfectly absurd, what else can he do but laugh?

"Still at Milliways," he says quietly. Then louder, "And busy! You wouldn't believe how much has happened. I'm learning a little about magic. I've met goddesses and vampires. We have an infirmary now. And I've delivered two--would you believe it, two babies."

Anna grins, delighted, "Two? That's wonderful, Malcolm, that's--." And just for a moment her eyes go misty and she bites her lip. "That's wonderful."

And he smiles sadly and shakes his head before taking her in his arms again. Because they'd never had time. They'd been so busy, they'd never had time. "Anna. I'm sorry. It's so different there. I forget."

"Don't. Don't, it's all right."

He pulls back a little, "How are things with you?"

"Good," she nods, forcing the tears away with a swallow. "We bought a new house. And, Malcolm, you wouldn't believe it, this place is in Rittenhouse! I know it's small, but it's so charming. You would have loved it." And her smile is not as sad as one might have thought.

And he understands. "I know I would." He looks up. "Damn, it's getting light outside."

She looks over her shoulder, and he feels her body sag in disappointment. "I guess we didn't have as long as this time."

"No. But I guess this means we might have more?"

"Well, you understand these things a lot better than I do."

He laughs again. "Well, glad you think so anyway."

And they kiss once more, long and soft and close, as lovers and old friends and lovers still. And when Anna wakes to see the dawn, she reaches over to touch her new husband, knowing her first husband is still somehow, miraculously, Out There Somewhere, happy. And, maybe, even making a difference.

Malcolm is reading late at night in his room, when a thought crosses his mind. In all the bizarre time shifts he's suffered in the past couple of months, he's left undone something he meant to do for some time. He gets up and walks over to his writing desk. He looks at the laptop for a moment, but then opens a drawer and pulls out pen-and-paper instead.

"Dear Lysistrata and Caspian,

I haven't seen either of you for several weeks, so I'm addressing this letter to both of you, just in case. I've been wondering how Elpida is and how both of you are as well.

I hope everything is going well. I've been having some strange time slips lately--I guess they're just something that happen to people here from time-to-time. But it's made me lose touch, and I'm hoping to make up for that a little.

With best wishes,
Malcolm"

Malcolm slips the letter into an envelope, writes 'For Lysistrata or Caspian' on the envelope, and walks down to the bar.

There are only mists at first, but soon they begin to part, revealing the faint outlines of a chair. A bookshelf. A living room. Home.

He rests his hand on the back of the couch, and smiles when he feels the run in the fabric they'd talked about getting fixed that day. That day he died.

He has a feeling about why he's been brought here. And then her voice confirms it.

"Malcolm?"

"Hello, sweetheart."

Her eyes are wet as she pushes him away. "You're just a dream."

"Anna--. Anna! This *is* a dream. But I think it's something more too."

She looks up at him, annoyed, just like she sometimes used to be. "What's *that* supposed to mean?"

"I'm not really sure, Anna. These days--. I'm learning to go with my hunches--."

If only my hunches were as good as they used to be. Back when things were normal.

"--And right now they're telling me we're both ... somewhere else."

Anna starts to tremble. "Somewhere--. Malcolm ... am I?"

Malcolm quickly walks over to her and draws her in his arms.

"No! No, Anna, you're not. I'm certain you're not."

"You're wrong," she almost sobs. "You're here. And if you're here, then I must be--."

"I'm not where you think I might be, Anna. I'm somewhere else, somewhere we never heard of. All those stories we tell ourselves about heaven and hell, they're not--."

"There's another place. A--. A bar."

How the *hell* am I supposed to explain this? It's going to sound crazy. Or just ridiculous.

"I'm sorry, Anna, I don't know how to explain it."

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. Not if it's--." She looks up and fixes him with that stare. The one he could never lie to. "Not if you're happy. And safe."

Somewhere, deep inside, he laughs. "Safe? I--." He pauses. "Happy. Yes, I'm happy there. I'm finding a place. Even helping people. Or trying to. It's hard to explain."

"But I still miss you," his voice almost breaks. "I miss you so much."

She sobs and pulls herself close to him, feeling his arms raise her up a little as he embraces her.

-------

Malcolm isn't sure how long that moment lasts.

The next thing he remembers is waking up again in his bed. His new bed, and his new life, at Milliways.

The wine is deep and red, catching the light in a sparkle of scarlet. Malcolm clinks his glass with Serena's and then the glasses go to the side of his bed.

She feels warm and vibrant in his embrace.

"Better?" he asks.

Malcolm lays next to Serena in the very warm bed, holding her in his arms.

"I think you need shorter research sabbaticals from now on," he smiles.

A long, lingering kiss. Her lips are full and red.