Do You Fear The Reaper?

o n e

The soft rays of the moon and lit lampposts illuminated the streets. The sound of crickets chirping in the distance and the few cars that passed by resonating into the night sky. A soft breeze rolled through the trees and dried leaves circled around each other, hovering above pavements and roofs. Crashing. Falling.

An old swingset creaked and whined, webbed with memories of what used to be someone's. He wondered if it was hers.

The night was dark, quiet. Everyone was inside their homes, basking in the comfort it offered as they locked themselves in from the world, lulled by their false sense of security and foolish ignorance over the truth that:

There were such things as The Boogeyman. Or The Reaper. The sinner and the killer.

And he's singing merrily right under their noses tonight.

Red. The tip of his cigarette glowed red as it idled in between his fingers, the smoke billowing up in the air. He leaned back on his car and let his eyes wander around her neighborhood, a smirk spreading across his lips as sirens blared until they faded the further they drove away from him.

Wrong way, he thought with a scoff as he pushed himself off the hood of his car and skipped up the short steps of her porch. If his calculations were correct, and they usually were, it would take at least an hour for Special Agent Richard Faulkerson Jr. and his team to arrive, raid a warehouse without him, see a wall littered with Doctor Mendoza's photos, figure out that they were played, and rush like headless bullet-vested chickens to save her.

Nicotine filled up his lungs after his final drag and he let it cloud over the nerves that seemed so raw from the sheer excitement of this new game he was playing.

He reached behind him to grab his cellphone, its light shining on him as he pressed and dragged until a video of Doctor Mendoza appeared, the colors sharp, the sounds muted. With nothing but her in mind, he breathed heavily through his nose as he watched her have dinner with Special Agent Faulkerson, watched as she took a spoonful of her food and rolled her eyes at whatever it was that he said. She was exactly like the ones before-- long brown hair that cascaded softly on her shoulders, doe-eyed, plump lips. She was everything he searched for and more. She was perfect.

What Special Agent Faulkerson said was probably stupid, unintelligent. Laced with charm he knew he didn't have, charm that he was sure Doctor Mendoza can overlook and forget once she realizes that their brains run the same wavelength. And when she does they would talk for minutes. No, hours. Who was he kidding? They would talk for days!

Upon days...

Upon days....

He rocked on his heels and sighed. She's right behind the door, just somewhere in the house. He grazed his thumb over her cheeks on the screen and took in every minute detail he could.

He'll be able to touch her soon.

Wrapping his fingers around the simple, bronze doorknob, he twisted it only to find out that it was locked. Rolling his eyes at his sudden predicament, he huffed and pressed on the doorbell.

The door swung open and a woman who stood no higher than 5 feet greeted him, her eyebrows furrowed as she tilted her head up to look at him.

"Hello," she said, confused. Who comes in at this time of night? "Can I help you?"

He shook his head no and smiled at her warmly. "Is Maine in there?"

"She should be out in a second. Who are you again?"

Blue. They always turned blue when he breaks their necks. He refers to them as Unfortunate Casualties, innocent souls who were but mere bumps along a path they should never had been a part of. He'd apologize but what good would it do them? They're already dead.

He tucked the woman in between two bushes settled just right outside the front door before letting himself in. He'll get back to her once she has gotten a hold of Maine.

"Doctor Mendoza," he sang as he dragged his fingers against the house walls, a menacing grin creeping up his lips as he searched for her. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and closed his eyes, bowing as he listened to the faint sounds of water dribbling into the pipelines hidden behind the ceiling. He slapped on the rails and ran up the stairs.

His eyes darted all over the wooden door that stood in between him and her, his breaths dipping and forming a lump in his throat, dangling. He pressed his forehead against the wood, half lidded lids almost closing. A longing, running so deep for a woman that can not be. A hand on the doorknob-- twisting, turning, pushing slowly.

Nothing.

She wasn't there.

He pursed his lips into a line and moved from one room to another, a skip in his step as he donned on some gloves and pulled a small syringe from his pockets.

"Are you in here?" He flicked the light switch of another room on and gave himself a minute to adjust to the sudden brightness that hit him. Tapping a finger against his thigh, he frowned when he didn't see her again, his thoughts already on the other areas of the house she might be in.

He walked around the room he assumed was hers, picking up knick-knacks that gave him a better picture of who she was. He rolled one of her shirts in his hands, pressed it against his nose and bathed in her scent. "Doctor Mendoza!" he said as he haphazardly threw the shirt on the floor before jumping on her bed. "I know you know, I'm here. It's okay, I won't bite."

Sitting himself up, he noticed the silver laptop that laid beside him, his eyebrows furrowing as he pulled it closer to him and read what the FBI had on him. With legs stretched on the length of the bed, he placed the laptop on his thigh and indulged himself at the idiocy that was the Federal Bureau of Investigation.

"You are taking forever, doc. Come on!" He bellowed. "Let's get this game started!"

The sounds of her door opening echoed in his ears, his eyebrows perking as he felt her gaze on him. "I have to say, for a moment there I thought you wouldn't show up," he said as he closed the laptop and lifted his head to meet her eyes with a smile so innocent, he wondered if it was the reason for the color to drain from her face.

"Hello, Maine."