From Outer Space

 

JOSE CHUNG: 

What is your opinion, of Hypnosis?

SCULLY: 

I know that it has its therapeutic value, but 

it has never been proven to enhance Memory. 

In fact, it actually worsens it since, 

since, since people in that state 

are prone to confabulation.

JOSE CHUNG: 

When I was doing research for my book 

"The Caligarian Candidate..."

SCULLY: 

....one of the greatest 

Thrillers ever written.

JOSE CHUNG: 

Oh... (He chuckles.) Thank you. 

I was, uh... interested, in how The C.I.A., 

when conducting their MK-Ultra Mind-

Control experiments, back in the '50s --

.....had no idea how hypnosis worked.

SCULLY: 

Hmm.

JOSE CHUNG: 

Or what it was.

SCULLY: 

No one still knows.

JOSE CHUNG: 

Still, as A Storyteller -- I'm fascinated 

how a person's sense of consciousness, 

can be... so transformed, by nothing 

more magical, than listening 

to words -- Mere words.

(Cut to the interrogation room. 

Doctor Fingers sits across from Chrissy very closely. 

In the background, Chrissy's parents 

are sitting down in the back like before. 

Manners is standing, then Mulder is more to the front. 

Scully is still leaning on the door in the back. 

His voice is very soothing and slow. 

She is sitting in a recliner, eyes closed.)

FINGERS: 

You are feeling very sleepy, very relaxed. 

As your body calmly drifts deeper and deeper 

into a state of peaceful relaxation, 

you will respond only to 

the sound of my voice.

(She opens her eyes as the room starts to become shaky in her vision. She gasps as everyone is replaced by aliens, down to one still holding Manners' cup of coffee. As the "Fingers" alien talks, the mouth does not move.)

Chrissy? Can you recall 

where you are?

(Chrissy is hooked onto a glass table with white lines all over it up against the wall. She and Fingers talk over the scene.)

CHRISSY GIORGIO: 

I'm in a room... 

on a spaceship... 

surrounded by aliens.

FINGERS:
What do the aliens look like?

CHRISSY GIORGIO: 

They're small... but their heads and 

their eyes are big. They're gray.

FINGERS: Are you alone?

(She looks to her left and sees Harold on 

a similar table, one hooked to the floor.)

CHRISSY GIORGIO: 

No, Harold's on another table... 

but he seems really out of it... l

ike he's not really there.

(In reality, the table has donuts and coffee on it.)

FINGERS: 

What are the aliens doing now?

CHRISSY GIORGIO: 

They're sort of arguing. 

I sort of hear them but I can't understand what they're saying.
(The aliens bicker illegibly. The "Scully" alien walks over to the "Mulder" alien. She and Fingers still talk over the scene.)
Except the leader. I can understand him.
FINGERS: 

When The Leader speaks to you, 

does his mouth move?

CHRISSY GIORGIO: No.
(She starts to cry.)
But I hear him in my head.

FINGERS: 

What is he saying?

CHRISSY GIORGIO: 

He's telling me this is for 

the good of my planet, but...

FINGERS: But what?

CHRISSY GIORGIO: 
I don't like what he's doing. 
It's like he's inside my mind, like... 

like he's stealing my memories

SCENE 12

JOSE CHUNG'S OFFICE

(Chung is typing on the typewriter. He hears murmuring outside and sees a silhouette in his window. He takes out his gun and slowly makes his way to the door. He opens it to see Mulder and another man starting off.)

JOSE CHUNG: 

Agent Mulder?

(He motions for him to come in. 

Mulder looks at the other man.)

MULDER: 

Thanks.

(Mulder walks in and Chung closes the door. 

They stand opposite each other at the desk.)

JOSE CHUNG: 

What can I do for you, Agent Mulder?

MULDER: 

Don't write this book.

(Chung sits. Mulder walks over to the left and 

stands next to a small dresser with books.)

You'll perform a disservice through a field of inquiry 

that has always struggled for respectability. 

You're a gifted writer, but no amount of talent could 

describe the events that occurred in any realistic vein 

because they deal with alternative realities 

that we've yet to comprehend. And when presented 

in the wrong way, in the wrong context, 

the incidents and the people involved in them 

can appear foolish, if not downright psychotic.

(He walks back to the right, in front of Chung's desk.)

I also know that your publishing house is owned by Warden White, Incorporated... a subsidiary of MacDougall-Kesler, which makes me suspect a covert agenda for your book on the part of the military-industrial-entertainment complex.

JOSE CHUNG: 

Agent Mulder, this book will be written. 

But it can only benefit if you can 

explain something to me.

MULDER: What's that?

JOSE CHUNG: 

What really happened to 

those kids on that night?

(Mulder looks down.)

MULDER: 

How the hell should I know?

(Chung stands in anger.)

JOSE CHUNG: 

Agent Mulder, 

I appreciate this little visit 

but I have deadlines to face.

(Mulder stares at him for a second, then walks out as Chung sits back down. Chung starts to type again, but stops and looks at the door. He talks over the scene.)

Evidence of extraterrestrial existence remains as elusive as ever...

(Cut to Blaine, pointing his flashlight to the sky as he is lifted up on the electric company crane. Chung continues to talk.)

...but the skies will continue to be searched by the likes of Blaine Faulkner, hoping to someday find not only proof of alien life, but also contentment on a new world. Until then, he must be content with his new job.

(Blaine screams as sparks fly off of the electric pole. Cut to El Cajon, California. A group of people sit on the floor, gathered around Roky, who is standing in front of a strange diagram of the earth with a triangle in the middle, much like an Egyptian pyramid. The triangle has an eye in each corner and clouds in the middle. Roky is wearing a crystal necklace. Chung continues to talk from his book.)

Others search for answers from within. Roky relocated to El Cajon, California, preaching to the lost and desperate.

ROKY CRIKENSON: And so, at each death, the soul descends further into the inner earth, attaining ever greater levels of purification, reaching... enlightenment at the core. Assuming, of course, that your soul is able to avoid... the lava men.

(He holds his crystal. Cut to the X-Files office, where she is reading Jose Chung's new book, "From Outer Space." Chung talks over.)

JOSE CHUNG: 

Seeking the truth about aliens means 

a perfunctory nine-to-five job to some. 

For although Agent Diana Lesky 

is noble spirit and pure of heart, 

she remains, nevertheless, 

a federal employee.

(Scully glares at the book. Cut to Mulder's apartment. Mulder lies in his bed, shirt off, watching television. He changes the channel. Chung continues his monologue.)

As for her partner, Reynard Muldrake... 

that ticking timebomb of insanity... 

his quest into the unknown has so warped his psyche, 

one shudders to think how he receives any pleasures from life.

(Mulder watches the television intently, a shaky video camera 

footage of Bigfoot walking through the woods far away. 

Cut to Chrissy Giorgio, typing at her computer.)

The Writer:

Chrissy Giorgio has come to believe her alien visitation 

was a message to improve her own world, and she has 

devoted herself to this goal wholeheartedly.

(There is another rattling on The Window. 

She goes to it and opens it to reveal 

Harold standing outside.)

CHRISSY GIORGIO: 

Oh, it's you. What do you want?

HAROLD LAMB: 

I just wanted to tell you

 I still Love You.

CHRISSY GIORGIO: 

Love. Is that all You-

Men think about?

(She closes Her Window. 

Harold's eyes tear up. 

Chung keeps talking.)

The Writer: 

Then there are those who care 

not about extraterrestrials, 

searching for Meaning in 

other Human Beings. 

Rare or lucky are 

those who find it.

(Harold starts off.)

For although we may not 

be alone in the universe, 

in our own separate ways, 

on this planet, 

We are, all... alone.

[THE END]

1985

You're having counseling sessions with

Dr. Ruth while I'm stuck here in 1985?

Lookit. Ziggy says you're 

here to help Doug and Debbie.

Unless you Do 

Something about that,

You're gonna STAY stuck in 1985,

wearing your silly high heels and 

your stupid dresses, and talking 

to strangers about G-spots.

“IT had come here long after 

The Turtle withdrew into its shell, here to Earth, 

and IT had discovered a depth of imagination 

here that was almost new, almost of concern. 

This quality of imagination 

made The Food very rich. 

ITs teeth rent flesh gone stiff with exotic terrors 

and voluptuous fears: they dreamed of nightbeasts 

and moving muds; against their will 

they contemplated endless gulphs. 

Upon this rich Food IT existed in a simple cycle 

of waking to eat and sleeping to dream. 

IT had created a place in ITs own image, 

and IT looked upon this place with favour 

from the deadlights which were ITs eyes. 

Derry was ITs killing-pen, 

the people of Derry ITs sheep. 

Things had gone on. 

Then … these children. 

Something new. For the first time in forever. 

When IT had burst up into 

the house on Neibolt Street, 

meaning to kill them all, vaguely uneasy 

that IT had not been able to do so already 

(and surely that unease 

had been the first new thing), 

something had happened 

which was totally unexpected, 

utterly unthought of, and 

there had been Pain, PAIN, 

great ROARING Pain all through 

The Shape IT had taken, and for 

one moment there had also been Fear, 

because the only thing IT had in common 

with the stupid old Turtle and the cosmology 

of The Macroverse outside the puny egg of 

this universe was just this : 

ALL Living Things must •abide• 

by The Laws of The Shape they INHABIT. 

For the first time IT realised that perhaps ITs ability to change ITs shapes might work against IT as well as for IT. 

There had never •been• Pain before, there had never •been• Fear before, and for a moment IT had thought IT might die – oh ITs head had been filled with a great white silver pain, and IT had roared and mewled and bellowed and somehow the children had escaped. But now they were coming. 

They had entered Its domain under The City, seven foolish children blundering through The Darkness without Lights or Weapons. 

IT would kill them now, surely. 

IT had made a great self-discovery : 

IT did not want Change or Surprise. 

IT did not want new things, ever. 

IT wanted only to eat and 

sleep and dream and eat again. 

Following The Pain and that brief bright Fear, another new emotion had arisen (as all genuine emotions were new to It, although IT was a great •mocker• of emotions):  Anger. 

IT would kill the children because they had, 

by some amazing accident, Hurt IT. 

But IT would make them suffer first 

because for one brief moment 

they had made IT fear them. 

Come to me then, IT thought, 

listening to their approach. Come to me, 

children, and see how We float down here 

… how We ALL float. 

And yet there was A Thought that 

insinuated itself no matter how strongly 

IT tried to push the thought away. 

It was simply this : if all things flowed from IT 

(as they surely had done since The Turtle 

sicked up the universe and then fainted 

inside its shell), how could any creature 

of this or any other world Fool IT or Hurt IT, 

no matter how briefly or triflingly? 

How was that possible? 

And so a last new thing had come to IT, 

this not an emotion but a cold speculation : 

suppose IT had not been alone, 

as IT had always believed? 

Suppose there was Another? 

And suppose further that these children 

were agents of that Other? Suppose … suppose … 

IT began to tremble. 

Hate was new. Hurt was new. 

Being Crossed in ITs Purpose was new. 

But the most terrible new thing was this Fear. 

Not fear of the children, that had passed, 

but the fear of not being alone. No. 

There was no other. Surely there was not. 

Perhaps because they were children 

their imaginations had a certain raw power 

IT had briefly underestimated. 

But now that they were coming, 

IT would let them come. They would come 

and IT would cast them one by one 

into The Macroverse … 

into the deadlights of Its eyes. 

Yes. When they got here IT would 

cast them, shrieking and insane, 

into the deadlights.”

 It/May 1985

 Now they were coming again, and while everything had gone much as It had foreseen, something It had not foreseen had returned: that maddening, galling fear … that sense of Another. It hated the fear, would have turned on it and eaten it if It could have … but the fear danced mockingly out of reach, and It could only kill the fear by killing them. Surely there was no need for such fear; they were older now, and their number had been reduced from seven to five. Five was a number of power, but it did not have the mystical talismanic quality of seven. It was true that Its dogsbody hadn’t been able to kill the librarian, but the librarian would die in the hospital. Later, just before dawn touched the sky, It would send a male nurse with a bad pill habit to finish the librarian once and for all. 

The writer’s woman was now with It, alive yet not alive – her mind had been utterly destroyed by her first sight of It as It really was, with all of Its little masks and glamours thrown aside – and all of the glamours were only mirrors, of course, throwing back at the terrified viewer the worst thing in his or her own mind, heliographing images as a mirror may bounce a reflection of the sun into a wide unsuspecting eye and stun it to blindness. 

Now the mind of the writer’s wife was with It, in It, beyond the end of the macroverse; in the darkness beyond the Turtle; in the outlands beyond all lands. She was in Its eye; she was in Its mind. She was in the deadlights. Oh but the glamours were amusing. Hanlon, for instance. He would not remember, not consciously, but his mother could have told him where the bird he had seen at the Ironworks came from. When he was a baby only six months old, his mother had left him sleeping in his cradle in the side yard while she went around back to hang sheets and diapers on the line. His screams had brought her on the run. A large crow had lighted on the edge of the carriage and was pecking at baby Mikey like an evil creature in a nursery tale. He had been screaming in pain and terror, unable to drive away the crow, which had sensed weak prey. She had struck the bird with her fist and driven it off, seen that it had brought blood in two or three places on baby Mikey’s arms, and taken him to Dr Stillwagon for a tetanus shot. A part of Mike had remembered that always – tiny baby, giant bird – and when It came to Mike, Mike had seen the giant bird again. 

But when the dogsbody husband of the girl from before brought the writer’s woman, It had put on no face – It did not dress when It was at home. The dogsbody husband had looked once and had dropped dead of shock, his face gray, his eyes filling with the blood that had squirted out of his brain in a dozen places. The writer’s woman had put out one powerful, horrified thought – OH DEAR JESUS IT IS FEMALE – and then all thoughts ceased. She swam in the deadlights. It came down from Its place and took care of her physical remains; prepared them for later feeding. Now Audra Denbrough hung high up in the middle of things, crisscrossed in silk, her head lolling against the socket of her shoulder, her eyes wide and glazed, her toes pointing down. But there was still power in them. Diminished but still there. They had come here as children and somehow, against all the odds, against all that was supposed to be, all that could be, they had hurt It badly, had almost killed It, had forced It to flee deep into the earth, where it huddled, hurt and hating and trembling in a spreading pool of Its own strange blood. So another new thing, if you please: for the first time in Its neverending history, It needed to make a plan; for the first time It found Itself afraid simply to take what It wanted from Derry, Its private game-preserve. It had always fed well on children. Many adults could be used without knowing they had been used, and It had even fed on a few of the older ones over the years – adults had their own terrors, and their glands could be tapped, opened so that all the chemicals of fear flooded the body and salted the meat. But their fears were mostly too complex. The fears of children were simpler and usually more powerful. The fears of children could often be summoned up in a single face … and if bait were needed, why, what child did not love a clown? 

It understood vaguely that these children had somehow turned Its own tools against It – that, by coincidence (surely not on purpose, surely not guided by the hand of any Other), by the bonding of seven extraordinarily imaginative minds, It had been brought into a zone of great danger. Any of these seven alone would have been Its meat and drink, and if they had not happened to come together, It surely would have picked them off one by one, drawn by the quality of their minds just as a lion might be drawn to one particular waterhole by the scent of zebra. But together they had discovered an alarming secret that even It had not been aware of: that belief has a second edge. If there are ten thousand medieval peasants who create vampires by believing them real, there may be one – probably a child – who will imagine the stake necessary to kill it. But a stake is only stupid wood; the mind is the mallet which drives it home. Yet in the end It had escaped; had gone deep, and the exhausted, terrified children had elected not to follow It when It was at Its most vulnerable. They had elected to believe It dead or dying, and had retreated. It was aware of their oath, and had known they would come back just as a lion knows the zebra will eventually return to the waterhole. It had begun to plan even as It began to drowse. When It woke It would be healed, renewed – but their childhoods would be burned away like seven fatty candles. The former power of their imaginations would be muted and weak. They would no longer imagine that there were piranha in the Kenduskeag or that if you stepped on a crack you might really break your mother’s back or that if you killed a ladybug which lit on your shirt your house would catch fire that night. Instead, they would believe in insurance. Instead, they would believe in wine with dinner – something nice but not too pretentious, like a Pouilly-Fuissé ’83, and let that breathe, waiter, would you? Instead, they would believe that Rolaids consume forty-seven times their own weight in excess stomach acid. Instead, they would believe in public television, Gary Hart, running to prevent heart attacks, giving up red meat to prevent colon cancer. They would believe in Dr Ruth when it came to getting well fucked and Jerry Falwell when it came to getting well saved. As each year passed their dreams would grow smaller. And when It woke It would call them back, yes, back, because fear was fertile, its child was rage, and rage cried for revenge. It would call them and then kill them. Only now that they were coming, the fear had returned. They had grown up, and their imaginations had weakened – but not as much as It had believed. It had felt an ominous, upsetting growth in their power when they joined together, and It had wondered for the first time if It had perhaps made a mistake. But why be gloomy? The die was cast and not all the omens were bad. The writer was half-mad for his wife, and that was good. The writer was the strongest, the one who had somehow trained his mind for this confrontation over all the years, and when the writer was dead with his guts falling out of his body, when their precious ‘Big Bill’ was dead, the others would be Its quickly. It would feed well … and then perhaps It would go deep again. And doze. For awhile.