A/N: This fic is set roughly a year after the events of Revelations, so somewhere after Elephant's Memory, but before Lo-Fi. It's 2008 when this fic takes place, and I hope to God I've done the necessary math right. While the first few chapters of this fic are basically casefic, it will turn into straight up horror soon after that. It will get dark, gory, kind of trippy and probably triggering for some people, so I will warn for disturbing content before each chapter. There will be no rape or smut in this fic, as I'm uncomfortable writing it. There are also no pairings, and while the casefic parts centre around the team as a whole, this is primarily a Reid-centric fic.

Warning: PTSD and flashbacks, mentions of genital mutilation, mentions of some rather messy murder methods, experimental prose.

Enjoy!

o o o

symptom [noun]: a change in the body or mind which indicates that a disease is present

o o o

The shack is dark and cramped, the metallic taste of blood hanging at the back of his throat. His arms are useless, tied to the small, rickety chair he fears [knows, even] will soon break underneath him. His legs are equally immobile, having gone numb from the cold long [so cold] before he had awoken. In the distance, he can hear footsteps echoing from outside the cabin, getting progressively louder [and louder and louder and louder until they're all he can hear] as they approach the door. In the last few seconds before the figure will step inside, the footsteps are so deafening that he begins pulling at his restraints, desperately trying to cover his ears. A sob escapes him involuntarily, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he screws them shut and pulls helplessly at his bonds.

[i don't want to die i don't want to die i don't want to die]

"Confess your sins, boy," a harsh voice growls from above him, before he feels the cold [why is it so cold?] steel barrel of a gun pressing into his forehead.

"I haven't sinned," he whispers hoarsely, his throat as cracked and dry as sandpaper.

The man merely smirks above him. "Everyone is a sinner," he sneers, finger pulled threateningly on the trigger. "Confess now, or die alone."

"I…" he croaks, stumbling as days of starvation [so hungry] begin to catch up to him. "I…"

"Confess them!" the voice suddenly roars, gun pressing in harder to his forehead.

[i don't want to die i don't want to die i don't want to die i don't want to die]

"I…" he tries again, but all logic and reasoning has left him. "I have not sinned."

The voice is silent [deathly, fatally silent] for much too long for his liking, the only sounds being his own panicked, frenzied breathing as he stares into the thoughtful eyes of his captor.

[is he going to kill me now?]

"Then you die," the voice says simply, smiling as he lifts the gun a little higher and pulls the tri

o o o

Reid awakens with a gasp, eyes flying open at the very moment that Tobias pulls the trigger. He reaches desperately for his gun on his bedside table before he can stop himself, fingers curling around the trigger and aiming the barrel at his bedroom door before stopping to survey his surroundings.

Normal bedroom here. Normal bedroom there, he notes, panic slowly beginning to subside. He breathes a heavy sigh and lets his gun drop down onto the floor, hanging his head as he lets his breathing return to normal. After just under a year of NA meetings, therapy sessions and good old-fashioned rest Reid had assumed that the nightmares would stop, but he was apparently wrong. The night terrors hadn't stopped since he'd arrived back in his own apartment after his ordeal, and had only gotten worse since he'd seen Ryan Phillips had his head blown apart in front of him. The Owen Savage case hadn't fared any better with him, making his cravings and paranoia worse and worse.

Reid sighs as he glances at the clock. The digital display reads 5:45 in the morning - too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep. Not that he thought he would be getting any more sleep, what with the nightmares and flashbacks making sleep a constant fear. He stretches and lifts himself out of bed, promising that he'd try and make an effort to use the extra time he now had to do something productive, like work on a paper, or water his plants.

Three hours of procrastination, unwritten papers and wilting plants later he's entering the BAU bullpen fifteen minutes early, keeping his sunglasses on to conceal the purple, bruise-like bags under his eyes. Prentiss is already at her desk working, which is somewhat of a surprise to Reid. Normally, the brunette likes to show up mere seconds before work starts, eager to lie in during the mornings.

"Why so early?" he remarks, settling his messenger bag at his desk.

"Why wear sunglasses indoors?" she counters, giving him a good-natured smile. "Good morning, by the way."

"Morning." Reid chews on his lower lip as he looks at his stack of paperwork. "Ugh. I definitely didn't have this many files in my to-do pile last night." He gives Prentiss a pointed look, raising one eyebrow. "Any chance this might be related to your mysterious early appearance this fine morning?"

"You'll finish them in half the time I would anyway," Prentiss smirks. "Plus with your genius, I worry that you're not being challenged enough. Also, I'll give you a cupcake if you do them for me."

"…What flavour?" he asks casually, tone impassive.

"Chocolate. Always chocolate, Reid. I'll throw in some free coffee from the good place down the road," she adds hurriedly when she sees the unimpressed look on Reid's face.

"Then as long as I get that coffee, we have a deal," he agrees, clicking his pen and looking the files over. "Why are you so desperate to get someone to do all your paperwork? You're usually caught up to date with it. 87 percent of the time, actually."

"Hotch claims he didn't receive any of my paperwork from last weekend," Prentiss replies, rolling her eyes. "I'm pretty sure he just lost it all and he's too embarrassed to admit it. Like that time when Morgan broke the coffee machine and tried to pin the blame on you. Unsuccessfully, I may add."

"I was slightly offended by Rossi's belief that I was not physically capable of breaking the coffee machine," Reid muses, chewing on the tip of his pen thoughtfully, "but apparently that's what the entire office thought too, so I can't really blame him."

"Blame Morgan and his fragile ego for snapping so suddenly when the coffee he tried to make refused to be heated properly," Prentiss smirks.

"That coffee machine was out for my blood," Morgan chuckles from behind them. "The cold coffee was just one thing. Did you not notice when it tried to burn me alive?"

"You were sidestepping around a new, pretty, female transfer agent and accidentally put your hand on the hot part," Prentiss deadpans.

"One would have thought it karma trying to teach you a lesson," Reid says mildly, turning back to his own paperwork. "Or several lessons."

"And good morning to you too, Pretty Boy," Morgan grins, ruffling Reid's hair and suppressing a smirk as the younger agent visibly sighs in defeat. "Nice shades, but why exactly are you wearing them inside?"

"It's very bright in here today."

"What are you, a vampire? Get some sun on your face," Prentiss quips.

"You are not helping," Reid mutters, slowly sliding his sunglasses off his face in defeat. Both Prentiss and Morgan gasp a little as they see the circles under his eyes.

"Okay, Reid. Exactly how much sleep have you been getting over the past month?" Morgan asks in concern, squinting to see the traces of fatigue still present in Reid's face.

"I have a life outside of the BAU, you do realise?" Reid rolls his eyes and tries to settle back into his paperwork.

"A life of what?"

"Research papers. Nature documentaries. Doctor Who."

"Pretty boy, that's not a life-"

"Yes it is, Morgan. It's mine. I find it fun, okay?" Reid snaps uncharacteristically.

Prentiss shrinks back a little at Reid's outburst. "I definitely feel you about the Doctor Who," she smiles a little uneasily. "It's a perfectly valid use of our time."

Morgan shrugs. "To each their own," is all he says, taking a sip of his coffee and settling at his desk. He grimaces as he sees the amount of files stacked in his to-do pile. "Say, Reid," he begins sweetly, "since I have so many files and you've made it clear you love paperwork, why don't I just…slip some over into your pile and nobody has to –"

"Don't start. Prentiss beat you to it," Reid interrupts without looking up from his desk.

"Goddamnit – Prentiss, it was your turn last week!"

"Unforeseen circumstances arose," Prentiss says vaguely, watching as JJ exits Hotch's office with a pained grimace.

"Must be a bad one," Morgan says quietly as JJ approaches them.

"Pretty bad," JJ answers noncommittally. "Conference room as soon as we're officially on the clock. Hotch wants us out there as soon as possible."

"Where are we headed?" Reid frowns, shaking out the tension in his wrist from writing.

"New York," JJ replies, giving them a sad smile and heading back up the stairs to Rossi's office.

The bullpen is silent for a few more moments before Morgan sighs, stretching upwards and pushing his chair into his desk. "Sounds like I'll need more coffee," he decides, taking his now-empty cup and heading back to the kitchenette.

"Try not to burn yourself alive using the machine this time," Prentiss calls after him, a smirk on her face. Reid hides a laugh as Morgan makes an indignant face, following Prentiss into the conference room.

o o o

"New York, New York," Rossi quips, raising an eyebrow at the files JJ hands to him. "Frank Sinatra said it best."

"Frank Sinatra didn't mention the serial killer we're tracking down today," Morgan counters, rifling through the sheer amount of files placed upon the round table. "Jeez, how many victim files are there?"

"They believe the victim count is well into the forties," JJ explains, switching to the next slide of her presentation.

"The forties?" Prentiss exclaims in disbelief. "And we weren't called in earlier because…?"

"The detectives didn't even notice a connection between the victims at first," JJ begins. "They were doing routine check-ups of unsolved cases, and found a signature they'd previously missed." She switches to a slide consisting of pictures of various victims. "They began to notice that a large number of the victims in their recent unsolved single-murder cases were posed with their left palm facing upward, and their right palm facing down."

"It could also just be coincidence," Reid points out. "If you look closer, the palms are the only consistent thing with the posing of the bodies. Can that really be considered a signature?"

"They went back a few more years and kept finding more cases with this signature present. The earliest victim is dated back to the late eighties," JJ explains. "1988, to be specific."

"Forty victims over approximately twenty years." Hotch sighs and leans back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest.

"That averages out to about one every six months," Rossi frowns. "That's one hell of a cooling off period for this guy."

"They want our help to try and figure out if this is just a huge coincidence, or all the work of one man," JJ says, switching to a timeline dating from 1988 to 2008. "These are the forty-three suspected victims of our unsub. A variety of different MOs was used, from disembowelment, genital mutilation, and…overdoses," JJ says, stealing a glance at Reid. "There were two that were even run over by a car. Police deemed those deaths to be a result of a hit and run, but realised now while looking for this unsub's signature that the position of the body was unnatural for a victim of a car accident."

"True," Reid nods, pointing to a photo of one of the victims of the supposed hit and runs. "The marks on the victim almost match up with the position they were found in, but not completely. Someone moved that body ever so slightly into that position. Of course, it could have just been the perpetrators of the aforementioned hit and run, although the lack of evidence on the body suggests the posing was very deliberate."

"Victimology is all over the place," Morgan notes. "Black, white, male, female – there doesn't seem to be a specific type this unsub is going for. If there is an unsub."

"They're all roughly between the ages of twenty and fifty," Prentiss frowns, "but that's still a huge demographic. Why were those specific victims targeted?"

"Opportunist?" Rossi suggests.

"That would explain the lack of a definite MO," Hotch nods. "Sees an opportunity, does anything to take it."

"Still, twenty years on and he hasn't figured out how he likes to kill? High unlikely," Reid comments. "The most likely explanation is that there is no unsub, even with the strange posing of the bodies. There's too many conflicting MOs, too wide a victimology. I mean, forced overdoses and blunt head trauma? Those are two completely different behaviours."

Unsub number one, unsub number two. Tobias Hankel, Charles Hankel. Completely different, but still one and the same…

Reid shakes the thought away. There will be no flashbacks on this case. Not this time.

"Not if it's a team," Morgan counters. "One, two, even three unsubs. Those behaviours would make sense if there's three of them."

"Who's to say it's not just three independent killers, if that theory's true?" Prentiss points out.

"The posing," Hotch answers.

"It's never simple," Rossi grumbles. "I'm going to go ahead and say there's either a team working together, or just the one. The posing is too contrived for it to be a coincidence," he says.

JJ nods and switches to another slide, this one showing the various methods used on the victims. "Among the other MOs, there's gunshot trauma to the vital organs, fatal stab wounds, drowning, hanging, and electrocution. One suspected victim was even found starved to death."

"JJ, when was the latest victim found?" Reid asks.

"The most recent victim was Sally Adams, a social security officer," JJ replies, pointing her remote at a photo of a petite brunette, with a large nose and tired eyes. "No family, no children. Her husband had divorced her four months before she was found with stab wounds and genital mutilations. She was twenty-four."

"Was the husband ever questioned?" Morgan frowns.

"Yes, but he has a solid alibi for her death, on holiday in Vegas. Besides, he was twenty-two at the time of her murder. He would have been two years old at the time he began murdering if he's our unsub."

"Wouldn't surprise me, seeing the shit we see," Rossi mutters. "How was the first victim killed?"

"Alana Charles, forty-eight at the time of her death. She was found by her older brother, having suffered a drug overdose. The brother was questioned and released," JJ explains.

"Could that have been a stressor for the brother to snap and start killing?" Prentiss wonders, but Hotch shakes his head.

"It's pointless trying to come up with an explanation here. Once we get to New York, we'll have all the resources we need to come up with a profile." Hotch stands, flipping open his phone. "I'll get Garcia onto the victims, and we'll handle our own responsibilities when we get to the precinct. Wheels up in thirty minutes."

The team begins to disperse back into the bullpen, Reid lingering by the door and reading over the victim files left on the round table. A hand on Reid's shoulder makes him jump and whip around.

[tobias' hands are strangling him, suffocating him and he can't breathe and it's getting darker and darker and he can't see a thing and all he can hear is his own pleas for help and i don't want to die i don't want to die i don't want to die playing in his head over and over]

"-Reid!"

Reid blinks, the illusion of Tobias and hands around his throat broken, though the phantom pressure around his neck remains. "Excuse me?" he says breathlessly.

Morgan is in front of him, eyes worryingly searching Reid's. "Just stopping you from smacking your face into the wall," he says. "You okay? You zoned out before, and you're a little pale."

"Fine," Reid assures him, slipping his sunglasses back on. "I had a late night."

Morgan smirks knowingly. "Oh, really now? Do tell."

"Indeed. I actually stayed up all night writing an analysis of the underlying themes and recurring motifs in Star Trek, and compared them to the later spinoffs. It's really quite fascinating stuff, and once you-"

"Okay, okay, I get it!" Morgan grins, ambling away from Reid away to his desk. "Make sure you get some sleep on the plane, Pretty Boy. We need that genius brain of yours."

"See you on the plane," Reid calls out, waiting for Morgan to leave the bullpen before letting his back sink slowly down the wall until he sits completely on the floor, closing his eyes and letting out a shaky, relieved sigh.

Reid had let the demons left upon him by Tobias win against him once, but he would not let them win again.

o o o

A/N: To anyone who is following my other CM fic Hollow, I will alternate between updating that and this, and they don't exist in the same universe. This fic is something quite different to Hollow – to try and demonstrate just how different they are, I got the idea for this fic from the video game franchise Silent Hill (although there are no supernatural elements in this fic). The new chapter of Hollow is in progress if you're wondering about that too, and I hope to have it up in = less than a week. Knowing me, I probably won't, but I can try! :D

Anyway, reviews and feedback are deeply appreciated, even if you have nothing really constructive to say. Thank you for reading! :D