What she was sure was going to be only a formality when her physician had called her in to read those test results a few months ago had left her mouth dry and her heart pounding as the doctor read her those fateful words and offered his prognosis, which was dismally poor. Less than a year at the most before she'd be in need of around the clock care, and then perhaps another of dubious quality.

Less than a year.

Dubious quality, at best.

Dana's head reeled as she continued to fixate on those words, her hands tightening into fists. She hadn't cried, not there at the office, but once she'd returned to her home she'd shut herself into her room and cried until her eyes and throat burned, and her chest was sore.

She was only twenty-five, and in what kind of world did something so viciously final happen to someone like her? She'd been popular and well liked in high school, had excelled in college and had a cushy yet fulfilling job writing freelance for several magazines and she was also hard at work on her first novel.

It would never be finished now, unlike her.

Dana rolled onto her side, watching listlessly as the light began to fade from her open bedroom window. It was early fall, and beginning to become chilly in the evenings and she knew she should close the window but instead found herself focussing on the crispness. The leaves were beginning to turn outside, and the air was beginning to smell of fall, of leaves burning, cool mornings, and something she could never quite put her finger on.

What was that elusive essence of fall, anyway? It was nothing she'd ever really pondered in her day to day life, but now it seemed an imperative riddle to be solved. After all, this would likely be her final autumn, at least the last one spent outside of a long term care facility. Might as well identify just what it was that gave the season it's glory. Perhaps it was damp earth, or cooling waters, or maybe it was the smell of ripeness, of the harvest. Maybe it was all of these things, along with a sense of contentment that seemed to ripple through most everyone she knew. While not everyone claimed it as their favorite season, she had yet to meet anyone who out and out professed hatred for it.

Dana loved Fall personally, and as she pondered it's mysteries she felt fresh tears welling up at the thought that this would be the last real one for her. Harvest to her had always meant a cornucopia of delights, a feeling of abundance, and now the word seemed bitter on her tongue and brought associations of being cut down in one's prime. After all, she mused, the wheat was always cut down when it was at it's highest and most golden, and no one in their right mind plucked a still green apple from the boughs with the intention of a quick snack.

So it would be for her. She'd become like they were, but unlike a stalk of wheat or a ripe red apple or the seasons themselves she was cognizant of her own mortality, and was thus able to fear the reaper.

She couldn't deny it, the idea of death was utterly petrifying, and something she'd pushed to the very back of her mind until her diagnosis had stirred it awake and it had since been a constant although very unwelcome companion for her. Every morning when she rose from her bed and took her morning cup of coffee, the reaper was there, peering out from some dark crevice. When she sat pondering the right phrase to use in an article she could feel that icy gaze, and when she sat down to eat she couldn't shake the feeling it watched from the windows. At night when she fought sleep and lost she could feel it's presence pressing in around her until exhaustion overtook her. And even then, she was sure it remained, motionless, watching, waiting, biding it's time until the opportunity came to devour her.

She rolled again, her back to the window now, lost in her own thoughts as sleep slowly crept upon her like a cat advancing on it's prey, so gradually she didn't even notice. The white voile curtains blew gently as the breeze began to pick up slightly, as the shadows deepened. Dana didn't stir though, emotionally exhausted and too deep within the arms of sleep to feel the chill, or see the sliver of white appear outside her window, watching.

Dana tossed and turned, shivering and reaching for her blanket to tug it up over her, eyes slowly blinking open when she could not immediately locate it. The room was nearly pitch dark save the small pumpkin pie scented candle she'd lit earlier and forgotten to snuff out before laying down. She hadn't intended to fall asleep, not so early anyway, not when she had such little time left in her view. Sleep was something to rail against, it was too much of a preview of her approaching fate and she loathed it. She sat up groggily, intent on rising and felt her heart jump into her throat when she saw him.

Her cry of fear died on her lips as he approached with a predator's grace and speed, seizing her by the throat and staring into her wide hazel eyes coldly. Dana struggled, his hand cutting off any further attempts at rousing enough noise to alert a neighbor. She gaped up at him, her heart racing wildly, as she kicked and squirmed while he looked on impassively. She could see into those dark sockets behind the stark bone white and the candlelight flicking off of those black eyes only serving to impress just how empty and cold they truly were. It was looking into the eyes of a Great White, or into an impossibly deep dark abyss, and she slammed her eyes shut, whimpering and not wanting to look any deeper for fear of what she might see.

Less than a year.

Dubious quality, at best.

That lying fucker, she raged within, as she felt her head began to spin, struggling for breath. Where was the last slice of her Autumn, her Winter with snowflakes floating lazily from the heavens and mugs of hot chocolate with a massive marshmallow slowly melting atop. Where the hell was the possibility of green buds on the trees, and birds singing the earth awake from it's slumber, and what of the dim yet hopeful prospect of returning full circle to those hot, lazy days reclining in a hammock in the yard and the songs of cicadas on cooler evenings? The Reaper had apparently decided to cruelly cheat her of those at a time when she was desperate to experience each and every one of them. Was it only that he felt that her time had come, and was coming to collect in the season of the harvest? While it was true that every day it was becoming harder to fight sleep, and almost as hard to rouse herself from bed, and the tremors and spasms had become more than just a slight annoyance she was still clinging to all of those things, and she sobbed chokedly to think that they would never exist for her, outside of her mind right now.

Dana began to feel warmer now, and almost groggy, and though her mind railed against it as she did sleep every night, her body was betraying her. And just when she was sure she slipping right down into the abyss she'd seen in those empty eyes, he let go.

She gasped for air, harder than she ever had in her life, hand immediately going to her throat as her mind screamed for her to run, her body again refusing to do her bidding. She opened her eyes, and he was still there, head tilted almost like a cat observing the mouse it had spent the past five minutes batting around before preparing to pounce again.

Her body finally agreeing to do her bidding, albeit slowly, she began to scramble up. Her eyes darted to the open window that had undoubtedly been the source of his entrance, and then she understood.

This wasn't the black cloaked skeletal wraith she'd envisioned for the past couple of months as the trembling had become stronger and more frequent. No, this was a man of solid flesh and bone, tall and imposing, his face hidden behind a pale, waxy white mask, and those cold, dead eyes still fixed on her.

While this man before her was just as fatal as the reaper's scythe and perhaps as legendary, at least in this neck of the woods, he wasn't the personage of death that she'd felt creeping in ever closer. This was Michael Myers, the butcher of Haddonfield in her room. She didn't know whether she should be thankful that it wasn't Death himself in all his glory, or be even more frightened, because she certainly hadn't envisioned going out in a series of brutal swings of an oversized kitchen knife while pinned down by the throat by an unholily strong hand. He might not be death, but like her, death was also his constant companion, following in his wake wherever he went.

Dana laughed hoarsely at that that, stunning herself. She, a woman who had felt death stalk her each and every day had the misfortune to be sprawled before what was perhaps the closest thing to a flesh and blood embodiment of it. She continued to laugh, her tone bordering on hysterical now, as he continued to watch with what she swore was a growing interest. Dana couldn't really blame him, she thought with another nervous peal of laughter bursting from her lips. How many of the Boogeyman's victims met their end giggling and guffawing like a busload of school children laughing at a sophomoric risque joke? It had to be something new for him, she was sure of that. He'd be more accustomed to screaming, pleading and begging, no doubt. Maybe he didn't know what to make of this, and that's why he hadn't grabbed her again.

Just then she grimaced as another tremor overtook her, her mouth twisting wryly as her muscles wracked and spasmed hard. He'd tilted again at that, perhaps wondering just why his quarry had gone from laughing hysterically to twitching and making such an awful face.

Whether it was her close call earlier clouding her judgement or some morbid sense of humor that had taken twenty-five years and a death sentence to dredge up she found his gesture somehow stupendously funny, and began to laugh again, although a bit more raspily and pained this time.

"I'm dying," she chuckled, her voice husky and raw. "Of all the houses in town, you chose this one to break into, and I'm already dying. Less than a year left."

If he understood any of her words, he gave no indication other than to continue to stare as what Dana was sure was quite a spectacle for him. Just when she wondered if he were going to either leave or grab her again he shifted slightly, and just as quickly one of those hands were on her shoulders, pushing her back down onto the mattress slowly yet firmly. She stopped laughing, sure that she was about to witness the silvery arc of the knife he no doubt had upon his person swinging down into her chest, tummy, or even worse, her face. Dana shuddered at the thought of being carved up in a twisted mockery of a jack o'lantern, but the jagged pain of cold steel plunging into warm flesh didn't come. Instead, his other hand drifted conspicuously knife-less up to the neckline of her shirt, and brushed there slightly against the reddened flesh of her neck where he'd squeezed mercilessly earlier.

Dana gulped, and wondered if he were merely toying with her now, and still intended to break out that knife the second she least expected it, but any alternative to that seemed almost impossible. One did not walk away from an encounter with the Boogeyman utterly unscathed. It was unheard of. Yes, there had been survivors, painfully few, but even they were scarred mentally and most often physically as well. But she'd never, ever heard of anything like this happening.

So what was he doing, then?

Dana looked up curiously, only to wince slightly as those cold eyes trained in on her, and he paused again, the only sound in the room his heavy breathing behind the mask and her own heart pounding.

Then his fingers found the top button of her shirt, and flicked it open almost gracefully, to her shock.

Her heart began to beat even faster now, words failing her. She'd been single for the past six months after throwing her on and off again boyfriend Jake out after a particularly nasty row over his destructive drinking habit, and not long after she'd been diagnosed and that had put a damper on finding anyone else. Even when she met a guy she liked, the mention of her poor health was enough to turn off even those made of stern stuff. No one wanted to invest anything in a woman not long for this earth, and she'd accepted that. But this man seemed interested, there was no denying it. He was breathing even more heavily now, and had found his way to the second button and popped it off outright, not bothering with delicacy anymore.

Dana couldn't help but jump as the button snapped off, and he stopped, eyes still focussed intensely on her. She stiffened, still expecting that knife to make an appearance any moment now, but it didn't, and he only continued to stare. She licked her lips nervously, and though she thought she might soon regret it, she couldn't help but whisper a single word.

"Why?"

He only continued to stare at her in silence. Verbal responses weren't something he was known for and though she knew that, she had decided to try anyway. He tugged off another button and then another, working his way slowly but steadily down her shirt now. Once he'd popped the last button of her shirt, he removed his firm hand from her shoulder and pulled open the shirt with both hands, his breathing seemed to grow a little heavier as he revealed her pale flesh.

She shivered both at the chill settling over her skin thanks to that open window, as well as the intensity of that gaze. Although she really hadn't expected an answer anyway, she could help but wonder exactly why she wasn't on the business end of a large carving knife right about now. What had changed his mind, she wondered, wracking her brain for anything she might have said or done that could have spurred the decision to strip her down and ogle her breasts rather than continue to strangle her? Perhaps there wasn't anything at all that had swayed him, and she was just trying to assign order where there was none. She didn't dare move again though, and let him look, wondering exactly what he'd do next.

She didn't have to wonder long as he soon moved a hand to squeeze one of her breasts, kneading the flesh several times before moving his other hand to squeeze her other breast, his breathing even more audible from behind his mask. He then did something else she never expected, moving his fingers to her nipples, squeezing and pulling lightly at them as they stiffened in response. He continued to stare down at her, though she found it impossible to tell what exactly his eyes were currently focusing on.

Unable to help herself, she failed to bite back a whimper, not used to this kind of treatment, not recently anyway. As he continued to squeeze and toy with her nipples, her mind began to race with the possibilities here. She'd not ever heard of him doing this with any of his victims, not to her knowledge anyway. While she had no idea why he was doing it, the idea that he found this interesting and desirable enough to leave her alive for the moment raised an intriguing question. He obviously wasn't above the urge for indulging the taste for something other than killing, the way he was currently teasing her nipples into stiff peaks proved that. Was it possible to perhaps use this as a bartering chip of sorts? Wondering if she were not every bit as mental as he was, she slowly began to speak, eyes on those dark pits.

"I told you, you picked the wrong house if you were really looking to snuff someone out before their time has come. I have less than a year left, I told you that as well. You'd only be hastening the inevitable, here. Sure, no one wants to die, but I doubt even you understand what it's like to be facing down the end. How much you treasure just what little you have left." The words were stilted and weak, but she was sure he'd heard them, there was no way he hadn't.

"I'll let you do whatever you want, if you will just give me a little more time to enjoy what I have left. I only have a few good months left in me, and honestly after that I don't really care. I'd probably even welcome you, honestly. Just not now, not yet."