AN: So be prepared for some weirdness (but not crazy-this-is-waaaayyyy-too Au-ish kind of weird). I don't own Bones. If I did, Booth would be shirtless more often. Mistakes are mine, since I'm too lazy to invest in a beta.

Chapter One: Trippin'

"As I was going up the stair,

I met a man who wasn't there.

He wasn't there again today.

I wish, I wish he'd stay away."

--Hughes Mearns

3:00 A.M.

Flashes of red ripped across Booth's vision in his sleep. He thrashed around in the covers, caught in the midst of a nightmare. The world spun around him wildly as the walls of his prison waved in and out. The floor was like an ocean as skeletal hands and bloating bodies reached for him in the tiled-waves. Maggoty faces rushed at him from nowhere, the rancid stench overpowering his damaged senses. Covering his face, he tried avoiding the grisly images until a childlike voice screamed into his ear. He jumped back to see the rotting corpse of one of the missing kids he was currently investigating. Donna Willows, nine years old and on the swim team. Donna Willows, now mutilated and facedown in a puddle of muddy, bloody water. The head jerked up, and the face transformed into his own son, Parker. He tried sprinting, but his feet were bound, sinking into the floor as his son turned to dust before his eyes. He tried yelling but no sound surfaced from his constricted throat. Panic gripped him as blackness began wrapping it's bony fingers around his neck. He felt himself struggling for air, choking until a loud crash resonated in his head, causing Booth's eyes to snap open. Immediately he wretched out the bile and vomit that was in his mouth. Gasping for air and covered with sweat, Booth crawled out of his bed and landed on the floor. Not even bothering to lift himself, he pitifully clawed his way across the carpet to his bathroom.

What's wrong with me?

He felt feverish, and his chocolate eyes darted around the darkened room. He felt like he was in a House of Mirrors, but instead of seeing his distorted reflection, the walls were spinning as if he were still trapped in his nightmare. On unsteady legs, he tried to stand using the toilet as support. He reached out for the light switch, but his hand touched the wall instead. What the hell? My hand's right over it! Fumbling around, he finally discovered the light switch--which appeared to be on his toothbrush! Shaking his head, Booth tried running cold water over his face. His vision blurred as stationary objects seemed to come alive. Another crash jerked Booth around. On the mirror, inky red words began to form.

Up the stairs they go…

Booth clenched his eyes shut, groaning, "No…God, not again." He ventured a look, just to see if the haunting phrase was still forming. Instead a black figure stood inches from his face, all features vague and indistinct. Still, the sudden appearance caused Booth to jump back. Slipping on spilled water and his sudden lack of coordination caused Booth to fall hard, cracking his head against the sink. Darkness crept in, and the last thing Booth saw was the glowering stranger and a vortex of twirling bathroom walls…

8:34 A.M.

Booth's eyes fluttered open. Sunlight shone brightly into his bedroom, something Booth wasn't accustomed to seeing, since he was out the door for work before sunrise. Shit…I'm late. He lifted his head, only to find a sharp flare of pain to follow. Wincing, he touched the back of his head and discovered matted hair. Sitting up from the bathroom floor, hazy memories came back to him. A small puddle of blood was on the floor, no doubt from when he hit the sink. He looked warily to the mirror, expecting to find the beginning of the eerie poem he knew all too well. Instead, he only saw his reflection.

"What the hell?" Booth murmured. Did I just have some crazed nightmare or what? He walked out into the bedroom and found his covers were in a jumbled heap on the floor, his alarm clock blinking. He grabbed his gun from the nightstand and made his way cautiously to the living room. His St. Michael's medal hung loosely from his neck and bounced off his bare chest, and he sent a quick prayer that he wouldn't need to fire his weapon today. Someone was in here with me. No way I could have dreamt that…

A pounding on Booth's front door made him freeze and draw his gun to the sound. He crept carefully to the side as the relentless banging continued. Just as he was about to throw open the door a familiar voice called out, "Booth? Open up, it's Brennan. Are you okay?"

Blowing out air, Booth placed his gun on the bookshelf and opened the door. Dr. Temperance Brennan stepped back, clearly surprised. "Booth, it's half-past eight, are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah, I overslept. Rough night," Booth answered, trying to sound casual. Brennan frowned and squinted her eyes in confusion. She reached out and turned his head to the side.

"Hey!"

"Booth, what happened! You have a huge cut on your head," Brennan demanded.

"That's why I overslept," he muttered. Shaking her head, Brennan made her way inside his apartment and headed straight for the bathroom. Pulling out a first-aid kit, she did not miss the blood on the floor.

"You hit your head in the bathroom?" Brennan asked. Booth followed, answering, "I slipped on some water after a really trippy nightmare. It's not a big deal, Bones."

"Sit," Brennan ordered. She pulled out peroxide and a washcloth from the sink.

"I don't need a nurse, I need to get ready for work," Booth said benignly.

"You need someone to thoroughly clean the wound, or it could become infected," Brennan retorted evenly.

Booth rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of the bathtub. He grinned wickedly and replied, "You just want to see me shirtless longer." To his over-inflated ego, Brennan's cheeks flushed red. Her eyes whipped down to the peroxide and she muttered something incomprehensible.

"What was that, Bones?"

"I said I hope this hurts," as she applied the medicine to his split scalp. Booth hissed and she smiled, "Quit being a baby."

Booth rolled his eyes and Brennan asked, "Must have been a pretty bad nightmare, I take it?"

Booth sighed and gave a short nod. " 'Up the stairs they go'…"

Brennan's eyes met his and she understood immediately. "We'll find something, Booth. The kids have only been missing for a few days."

"Which means they're probably dead," Booth muttered. "As happy as I am to say we haven't found any bodies, the more time that passes, the less they're likely to survive. The FBI has barely anything, and you have nothing period."

Before Brennan could answer, her cell rang loudly. Finishing cleaning Booth's cut, she answered, "Brennan."

She listened and confusion crossed her eyes. She looked to Booth and answered, "Yes, Cullen, Booth's okay…" Booth smacked his forehead, knowing he was about to catch hell. Before Brennan handed the phone over, she clarified, "He banged his head on the sink sometime last night, and it apparently knocked him out…no, Cullen, I wasn't here when it happened, I came by this morning because I was worried…" Booth smirked and Brennan's eyes rolled heavenwards. "Yes, he's right here."

Booth took the phone and apologized, "Sir, I'm sorry--"

"I don't want to hear it. I find it hard to believe that one of my best agents was clumsy enough to almost crack his skull open," Cullen mused aloud.

"Accidents happen," Booth offered, keeping his tone even.

"Of course. Anyway Booth, I called because I have some bad news. Another child is missing. The call came in about twenty minutes ago. The bedroom was trashed, and the same signature was left."

Booth sighed and clenched the phone momentarily. "What's the address?" Cullen gave Booth the information and Brennan asked, "What happened?"

Booth answered steadily, "We have work to do."