A man with pitch black eyes looks at me and slowly, he comes. A grin tugs at his lips. His actions are lazy, slow and drawn out; yet, I'm still here by the time he reaches me. The ground is muddy and raindrops fall heavy from his cheeks. I exhale; white air slips through my lips. Breathing in, I smell him, and he smells of dark nothings and nightmares. It's enough to have the thin, little hairs on the back of my neck raise and enough to have a chill run wild down my spine. His pale, slender fingers wrap around my fragile wrist. His eyes are laughing. He runs.