A/N: The ending of the Whispering Skull made me look at this series in a different way, and I guess that's what inspired this story. This is the first fanfic I'm publishing that's not going to be a oneshot, so updates may not always be regular, but I'll update once a week most of the time. So yeah, I really hope you enjoy.

Nightmares and Visions

1

At that time, the only thing I could do was run.

My lungs ached; I had a stitch in my side. My legs protested with every step I took. But sprinting was the only escape from the monster behind me.

I seemed to be running forever; wind whistled in my ears as I hastened ahead. Time dragged on. What was actually seconds seemed like hours. Pain shot through my legs and dulled my senses, and my heart ached from the sudden exercise. Just. Keep. Going.

A loud scream erupted from the blackness of the tunnel that I'd just fled from. The noise sent a shiver down my spine. I was so, so alone. I wished I had someone with me. I didn't care who. I couldn't face this horror by myself!

It was so dark I couldn't see where I was going, but I couldn't care less. I just needed to move!

And then, suddenly, a wall appeared in front of me from nowhere. I slammed into it, and the impact caused me to fall backwards. I scrambled to my feet and began pounding on the wall, desperately hoping it was hollow somewhere and I could get through.

A harsh breeze blew through the tunnel, and I heard an angry snarl behind me.

I spun around to face a tall, white apparition.

Its eyes were narrowed, and fury was written all over its face. Two long fangs jutted out of a mouth that was turned downwards in a cruel frown. Its coat was ripped; the nails on its fingers were long and curved, like talons. Long, stringy hair hung suspended in midair, giving the ghost an even more menacing appearance. But what was worst was the dark circular stain in the center of its stomach, and streaks of black liquid pooling out of the bullet wound.

Revenge. A hundred whispers hissed angrily in my head. You are a disgrace, and what you did was unforgivable.

The Visitor's Other-Light flared; it lunged at me with a horrid psychic wail, and I heard screaming that I knew was mine-

-I sat up in bed, gasping. I clutched my pillow to my face, muffling screams. I rocked back and forth. My nightclothes stuck to my back and my stomach. The bedsheets were damp with my sweat. I tried to stop panicking, but it was no use. That nightmare was horrible. It all felt so...real. As if it were actually going to happen to me.

I shakily walked to the bathroom, where I rinsed my face with cold water and stared into the blank eyes of my reflection.

Five days. I'd been experiencing that nightmare since five days.

Ever since Lockwood had-

I stopped thinking so hard. I forced myself to calm down by taking deep, stilling breaths. I pushed away my fear and listened to the tranquil silence of my surroundings- the slight whoosh of leaves blowing in the wind outside; the ticking of the clock on my nightstand.

My heart rate slowed. I walked over to my bed drowsily and stared at the clock. It was 5 am. Not too early. George always woke up at 7. It would be only two hours before the day actually started.

I trudged down the creaky staircase, eager to make myself a cup of tea.

I reached the kitchen and brought out a mug, some milk and teabags. I tried to make the least possible amount of noise as I began boiling water on the stove.

I switched on a light and sat down at the dining table, thinking about my nightmare again.

This was the fifth time I'd gotten it. It never changed. It was always the same thing- I kept running after hearing a scream, hit a wall and gotten ghost-touched. I hadn't the faintest clue on what could have possibly triggered it.

Stress? Most certainly not.

Too many conversations with the Skull? Possibly.

Some gut instinct? Also plausible.

But the thing Lockwood had said to us?

The idea was insane and believable at the same time.

I heard a shrill whistle from the kitchen and hurried to get the kettle off. I made myself a cup of tea and sat down, sipping it. It calmed me somewhat. I grabbed a sketchbook that I had left lying around earlier and began to draw, my hand so shaky that the lines I etched on the paper came out harsh and deep.

I hadn't told Lockwood or George about my nightmares. I'd been hoping they would go away on their own, and besides, they weren't important- just bad dreams. We had enough on our plate, anyway.

And what made our schedule so crowded?

Cases. Ever since we'd solved the Bickerstaff case, our publicity had gone up. Our casebook had been filling up rapidly, and we'd been getting more than three calls a day- but maybe it was a bit too much to handle. We were working around the clock now- sometimes going to the extent of three quick cases in a night. It seemed unbelievable at first, but since most of them weren't exceptionally dangerous or long, it was manageable.

But to our great concern, and the anxiety of agents and residents as well, there seemed to be a great iron and silver shortage. The trucks that shipped swords, charms, filings and chains seemed to have a great depletion of stock. The factories barely sent out anything anymore, and as to why, no one had a clue. So now people frantically hoarded lavender and salt, kept running water in pots and troughs around their houses every night, and got rid of any old or suspicious artifacts that might be a Source. Iron or silver charms and necklaces were scattered all around beds and windows, and were hung around everyone's necks. Nobody felt safe anymore, not even with the agencies doing their best.

Oh, and that skull.

It troubled me to no end- gawking and gaping at me every night, and on select days, it would mouth words at me. Every time I turned the yellow tap, it would begin to speak, but as soon as Lockwood and George entered the room it clammed up.

"Why act like this when they're around?" I muttered angrily to it as they left the room the fourth time this happened. "It's not like they can hear you anyway."

I was about to turn the knob when it spoke in a silky whisper. "It's all about your reaction."

And it went silent again.

I'd pondered its words for days, and tried to get it to talk, but Lockwood and George seemed to be there all the time, George especially. He would try endless experiments on it, such as wash its surface with dish soap, or even immerse it in a tub of water for prolonged periods of time, all to get it to start talking about the Other Place.

The bone-glass was a fascinating mystery, and George wasn't the only one intrigued by it. His excitement had rubbed off on me and even Lockwood, which was quite surprising, since he barely got mixed up with theories of the dwellings of Visitors. I, on the other hand, would spend every night in the room with it, trying to make it spill the beans, but it spoke occasionally and not always. This frustrated me to no end.

I snapped back to reality as I realized that my mug was empty. I had no idea how much time had passed- I made myself another cup, drew three pictures, and even tried to read one of Lockwood's gossip magazines. And when I looked up at the clock at saw it was 6:30. I rested my chin on the table and closed my eyes, trying to fully calm myself.

And that's how George found me at 7 am, still in the same position, my eyes closed and my breathing steady.

A/N: So please, please tell me in a review how it is because I really like the idea of this and I hope you do too. This chapter may seem a bit slow, and really short, but I guarantee a big twist somewhere along the plot. Thanks!

-Artemis