Okay - I know I owe you guys another chapter of The Bet, and I am working on that. However, the timing is right for this. It's October, and here comes Halloween. I thought something a little scary might be appropriate. This was started a long, long time ago; I think it deserves to be finished. So if the style seems a bit different from how I write now, well, you'll know why. I hope you enjoy!

Fear follows us,
Fear stalks us,
Fear controls us,
Fear is all we Think

~ Corey Fauchon, Fear

PROLOGUE

Brennan.

Brennan…

Shadows writhed, beckoned. A cold, clammy breeze slithered stealthily through the room. Brennan woke with a start - her heart rapidly pounding in her ears, every muscle tensed. I heard something – I know I heard something. Straining, she listened carefully. There. Her heart sped up, impossibly fast. A faint dragging noise. Carefully, mindful of the bed springs, she eased to a crouching position, her hand automatically reaching for her trusty baseball bat. As she stood, her head spun, and she leaned weakly on the wall. What's wrong with me? She shook her head and carefully made her way through the darkness toward the bedroom door. The light switch was under her fingers when she stopped, caught in a stranglehold by a nameless horror. Something's out there. Lights are bad. Another noise, louder this time, filtered through the door. A noise unlike any noise she knew. She paused, her hand on the doorknob. A greasy wave of nausea swept over her, and she swallowed convulsively, taking two terrified steps back before stopping herself. What the hell is the matter with me? Tightening her clammy fingers on her weapon, she once again approached the door. On the third try, her slippery grip held, and the door swung silently inward, bringing with it a chill current of fetid air.

I can't see – why can't I see? She knew she'd left on a light, but the open space yawned before her, the black emptiness appearing almost solid. She wanted to hold her breath, her rasping gasps were so loud. But she couldn't control her lungs, couldn't stop the fear that clung to her like the panicked sweat layering her skin. Ohgodohgodohgodohgod…I have to hide. I have to hide. A whimper struggled to burst from her lips and was barely contained. As everything in her, every fiber of her being screamed at her to turn and run, her trembling legs began to move, carrying her slowly into the obsidian void. She struggled to run, to back away and shut the door. Hide under the bed. But on she moved, unwilling feet dragging, step after step, inch after inch. A quick skitter of something sounded behind her, and she whirled, bat raised over her head. Nothing. Her relieved sigh was cut short as the bat twisted in her hands, squirming, and wrapped around her wrist, drawing a shriek from her. She tried to fling it away from her, but the bat – no, the snake was undulating up her arm, its thick gray body tightening painfully around her elbow. She screamed again and again, her abused throat shredding as the serpent latched its fangs into her tender flesh. In a final act of desperation, she swung her arm, bringing it painfully against the molding.

The bat clattered to the floor, the wooden thud echoing in the room.

Eyes wide, panting, she swung in wild circles, afraid to touch anything, afraid to leave her back exposed. Help me, please somebody help me. But she knew no one was coming. No one would ever come. Alone. Now she did stop breathing, would have stopped her heart if possible. I didn't say that. I know I didn't say that. A low, throbbing chanting was floating in the room like a filthy haze. Abandoned. Alone. Unloved. Damaged. She shook her head violently, silently sobbing, denying the accusations. I'm not – I'm not! Not alone, not alone, not alone… Before she could finish her sentence, her head came up, mouth open in despair. Behind me. It's behind me. It's behind me. The hair on her neck rose in grim agreement. She knew it was there. She knew she was not alone in the room. But she knew she would face it alone. Turn around, Temperance Brennan. It's time. Wet, gleeful laughter licked at her ears, and she searched for what little courage remained within her. And spun.

BBBBB

Pain. Sharp, penetrating. She stretched, groaning at the stiffness and aches that permeated her body. As her mind slowly engaged, she realized she was lying on a hard, cold surface. Opening her eyes was simply too much effort – with one hand she groped around, fingers searching for information and finding it in the delicately turned leg of a table. Tibetan table. A table she'd bought some years ago. A disappointed sigh eased past her lips, and she slowly sat up, feeling half a century older than her actual age. Her living room. Her eyes opened, exposing a dullness very rarely displayed. In the dim glow cast by the light she'd left burning, she could clearly see that all was in its place. Another dream, then. She sighed yet again, and began the arduous task of rising to her feet. Third night in a row.

Making her way laboriously to the kitchen, she flicked on the overhead lights and plucked the kettle from the stove. There was no point in looking at the clock – there would be no more sleep tonight – but she looked anyway. One forty-five. Figures. Each time the dreams had come – nightmares, more accurately – it was approximately an hour after she'd fallen asleep. And each time, she'd awakened somewhere other than her bed. A sneer of self-disgust contorted her lovely mouth. For someone who was eminently sensible – and she, Temperance Brennan was nothing if not sensible – this utter lack of control over her sleeping mind, her resting body, was intolerable.

Wearily she measured coffee grounds, making sure to double the amount. A long day of solving murders was ahead – and a long, sleepless night prior to that. Sooner or later the lack of sleep was going to become apparent to those around her. Too many critical details were under her microscope each day; eventually she would incorrectly identify a bone shard or miss some other essential bit of evidence. That was simply unacceptable. As it was, Booth had already commented on her tired state. Her partner had given her several long looks throughout the day yesterday, and although she'd adopted her usual crisp demeanor, he'd eventually made a pithy comment that she wasn't getting enough rest. A flippant remark from her had been enough to end the conversation, but she'd still felt his eyes on her and knew he was watching her. There were very definite drawbacks to working with a sharply observant FBI agent.

But why was she dreaming so much? Although she was aware that she did, in fact, dream now and again, for the most part her dreams were innocuous and short-lived. The only other instance in which she'd had nightmares was when she'd believed Booth was dead. But unlike that time, when the nightmares were a direct result of a perceived tragedy, these new nightmares seemed to have no connection to current events in her life. Also unlike the first time, the terror she experienced during these episodes faded quickly upon waking. She tried to bring back the emotions from earlier, but was unable to find them. The sleepwalking was a disturbing development – until this week she'd never before left her bed while asleep. She would simply have to research her symptoms. There simply had to be a physical causative agent for what was happening to her.

A puff of coffee-scented air interrupted her musings, and she poured a generous mug of the potent liquid. She was not at all sure that the coffee would have a long-lasting effect, and she cast about furiously for a distraction. Work. She could always count on her massive caseload to provide welcome – in this case, very welcome – relief. In her bones and her files she could forget about dreams and emotions and other uncomfortable, nebulous quantities. In her bones and files were fact, science, logic. Normalcy. She wrapped her arms around the latest addition to her at-home tasks, hefting the box with the intention of moving to the dining room. The flare of pain in her right arm was so unexpected she released her hold, watching in stunned disbelief as bones and papers cascaded across the smooth floor. Pushing aside the feeling of unease rolling in her stomach, she unbuttoned her sleep top and pulled her arm free.

The ugly dark bruise spread along her swollen forearm, from her elbow to her wrist.