Pam and Jim were lying almost uncomfortably close together in the Irrigation room's not-quite-twin-sized bed, his arm falling asleep under her shoulder in a way he didn't really mind all that much with his face nestled into the curve of her neck. Despite the bedtime story they'd cajoled out of Dwight - a chapter of The Deathly Hallows - and the fact that Mose had hidden all the wires in the house, plunging it into darkness around 8pm, they were having trouble sleeping. In the eerie silence of what they'd taken to calling The Beets Motel, the only sound was a low moaning that sent chills up Pam's spine.
"Your turn," she whispered in the dark, and Jim got reluctantly out of bed.
The documentary crew - always at the ready - followed behind Jim as he walked barefoot down the hall, past the American room and the Night-Time room, both unoccupied this weekend. He knocked on the door at the far end of the hall, and the moans stopped abruptly. Dwight's voice was ever so slightly tremulous as he called, "Come in. Did you have another nightmare?"
Jim opened the door. "Hey, Dwight."
"Oh, Jim. I thought you were Mose," he said, snapping back into the role of agritourism host. "Is everything satisfactory with your stay?"
"Yeah," Jim said. "Just thought that I heard crying, moaning, or something in here."
"Oh," Dwight said briskly, "We'll look into that in the morning. Thank you for bringing that to the attention of the staff."
"Goodnight, Dwight," Jim said, and as soon as he closed the door, the moaning started up again.
He was walking back to the Irrigation room and mentally preparing himself for a very long night at The Beets Motel when he noticed a framed, sepia-toned photograph hanging on the wall. It showed several generations of Schrute men with their signature chinstrap beards, a few women in long, Pennsylvania Dutch dresses, and a row of small children. The one in the center, his bowl cut parted severely down the center, was unmistakably Dwight, and Jim had to take a step closer to look at the woman who rested her hand on his shoulder.
She bore a striking resemblance to Pam, if Pam wore a bonnet and was from the last century. Jim shot a conspiratorial grin at the camera crew and took the frame off the wall before dashing back to the Irrigation room with it.
When he opened the door, he found Pam standing at the foot of the bed and holding a long swath of tan fabric, a matching grin on her face. At her feet was a large trunk, its lid flung open. Jim looked at her quizzically and she said, "I was cold and I thought there might be blankets in here."
She held up what was in her hands - it was a floor-length plain dress with a white apron layered over it.
"I think this might have been his mother's room," Pam said, laying the dress on the bed and pulling a bonnet and a few more aprons out of the trunk.
"Do you believe in fate, Beesly?" Jim's eyes were alight in a way that rarely happened within the walls of Dunder Mifflin, and Pam was excited to find out why. He handed her the photograph and pointed at the woman. "Dwight's mom. Remind you of anyone?"
"No way."
"We have to do it," Jim said, picking up the dress. "It's a gift from the beet farm gods."
A little while later, after explaining his plan to her, Jim stood outside the only bathroom in the house and waited for Pam to get dressed. She emerged a vision in plain clothes, her hair drawn back and covered in a simple white bonnet to match the apron. Jim held up the photograph beside her for the camera crew - the spitting image of Dwight's mother.
Then they went back to the door at the end of the hall, where the low moaning continued. It sent another shiver through Pam despite the layers of heavy fabric, and she paused. "I don't know Jim, isn't this bordering on cruel?"
"He's heartbroken," Jim replied in a whisper. "He just needs somebody to tell him that losing Angela isn't the end of the world. Now get in there and be the best Dwight's mom you can be."
Pam opened the door without knocking, and Dwight looked up from his hunched position on the bed, his cheeks wet with tears. His eyes widened when he saw her and he stood. "Mutter?"
Jim crouched just on the other side of the door, stifling a giggle and gesturing for Pam to go in. With a little uncertainty, she stepped forward and said, "Yes, it's mutter, Dwight. I came-"
"From beyond the grave?" Dwight asked, his tone serious.
"Uh, yeah," Pam replied with a pang of guilt over impersonating a dead woman. But Dwight seemed unfazed - if anything, he was beaming at her, so she went on. "I came from beyond the grave to tell you that... uh... that I've seen your future, and you're really happy. You find love with someone new and-"
But she didn't get to finish her thought, because Dwight rushed across the room and caught her up in a bear hug, lifting her feet off the floor. Just before his lips met hers in a passionate kiss, he let out one final sob and said, "Thank you, mama."
Pam's eyes went wide and Jim stood in the doorway, crying with laughter as he watched her trying to break Dwight's embrace, planting her hands on his biceps and trying to push herself out of his arms. And then something happened.
Pam stopped struggling and wrapped her arms around Dwight's broad, horse grave-digging shoulders. She opened her mouth wider to permit his tongue to dance over hers, and the earthy flavor of the beet wine they'd all had at dinner was still on his lips. It was the strongest aphrodisiac she'd never known about, and she felt her body go limp in his arms, completely submitting to his desires.
Jim stood in the doorway, the smile slowly dripping off his face as he realized that the prank had failed and now he was just a man watching a beet farmer have a go at his girlfriend in the middle of the night at an agritourist bed and breakfast. He launched himself into the room, driving his hands between the two writhing bodies as they pressed themselves urgently together.
"Dwight, stop," he begged.
"Go back to your room, Jim," Dwight replied, wrapping his arms even more tightly around his lover. "If you need a night light I'll send Mose with a torch."
