BUMP IN THE NIGHT: A FOTOBRIDGET HALLOWEEN SAGA

(Ok, I am suffering from a wee bit of writer's block—which, for me, is EXTREMELY painful. So I have decided to attempt to play around in the world of fanfiction—imagine that! Because it is the Halloween season, I decided to add a bit of the paranormal to the mix. After all, why write straight horror when everything the BAU does can fall into that category? Still, I am a romance novelist, so don't be surprised if a few ships creep in, somewhere along the line. (Probably Hotch/Prentiss) Enjoy. And please, don't take this too seriously. And it's probably way out of character down the road, but it's just for fun!--and I do intend to finish Accidents Happen, but that is where my biggest block comes in, along with HOPE. And Hotch's Find has completely ran away from me. BOOGEYMEN seems to be sizzling, though. Anyway, please enjoy, and I am widely open to any suggestions…)

(In honor of the Halloween Season when things really do go bump in the night!)

David Rossi did not believe in ghosts. Monsters—yes, the senior profiler definitely believed in monsters, but not ghosts. So when JJ ran into his hotel room—his was the only door still unlocked, apparently—claiming she'd seen something in the closet, he just figured that the media liaison had seen a passing mouse. The bed and breakfast they found themselves in wasn't of the highest quality. It wasn't even of the middle quality, for that matter.

Still, JJ was normally a calmer sort, so he hurriedly went next door to check it out.

Nothing was there. And if the door slammed shut behind them, it was probably just an odd Indiana wind. Nothing to be concerned about. JJ apologized for bothering him, looking prettily embarrassed. He laughed, told her any time, and went back to his own room. It was the last he heard from the blonde for the rest of the night.

It was the last anyone heard from her.

Emily knocked on JJ's door at a quarter past four that morning. She'd heard screams and the profiler knew her friend was having nightmares. Pregnancy hormones often resulted in nightmares and she knew that combined with the horror that was the BAU, poor JJ had been suffering every night. So there Emily stood outside JJ's door, shivering in her thin pajama shorts and tiny black tank top. Her feet were cuddled in thick warm socks—a weakness of hers that only JJ and Garcia were aware of—but the cotton didn't keep out the floor's horrific chill. She waited impatiently for the blonde to open her door.

JJ didn't. And Emily finally gave up, figuring JJ had fallen back to sleep. No big deal—they all had nightmares. She turned to return to her room when her heart froze. Her mouth opened to scream but she didn't get the chance as a large hand rose to cover her mouth, to pull her tightly to a broad chest.

But Emily was no victim, and she fought. She finally managed to pull away, to get in a good set of kicks. But the hand still covered her mouth, then a second rose to fist in her hair, and she was pulled ruthlessly forward.

Her eyes remained wide open, though in the unlit hallway she saw very little—only what the moonlight trickling behind the blinds would illuminate. His eyes were the darkest of dark, his hair just as black. His skin was eerily pale, his lips dark and slightly full. Slightly alluring. Then they were covering hers, ruthless and fierce. Her lower lip split from the pressure of the man's teeth as they ran over the plump flesh. She tasted the coppery tang and knew it to be her own blood.

It energized her, and adrenaline flooded her body, making her struggles a bit more effective. But even though she'd practiced sparring with Derek on numerous occasions, this man, this creature was relentless. And she knew he was much more of a creature than a man. Something about him wasn't human. Of that she was achingly certain. She didn't stand a chance. He pulled her through the shadows, deep into the storage closet at the end of the hall, as the door to one of her colleagues's rooms opened.

Emily struggled. Tried to make a noise, but he somehow held her body in a more than physical grip, making her weak and basically useless to herself. She could not breathe, his hand was tight over her nose, her lips. He relaxed his grip just enough so that she could draw in air, as if he had read her mind, and she was absurdly grateful for that, at least. At least she wouldn't go by asphyxiation.

The lips he ran over her neck were surprisingly gentle. He tasted her with his tongue and she shivered, chalking the reaction up to a physiological response to stimuli. He whispered words to her, in a language she—with her genius in languages—didn't understand, though it reeked of old Latin. Emily whimpered, hating that her body felt like lead, like he had done something to subdue her. Somehow. And she hated herself, too, hated that she was meekly becoming a victim, not fighting. She'd always promised herself that she'd fight. Always.

His teeth sank deep. And he fed off of her.