See him, now, this man who is death. He seems charming, doesn't he? Handsome, in a scruffy sort of way. Not quite the high class sort of fellow you were used to seeing, but that brings with it a hint of danger. That makes this feeling all the more adventurous. Arousing...

And he has very curious eyes, this man. They seem heavy-lidded, as though he isn't quite awake or asleep. And they make him seem all the more compelling for that sleepy-eyed certainty.

So there are the two of you, and he can read your desires in your voice, and on your face. And you can read his, too. They are hand in hand, as are the two of you, now.

He talks so slowly and so surely, and you two make your way right over to those trees. You know what is going to happen once you get there. Already you're wondering about how to keep your clothes from getting dirty, and wondering if you really care as he puts his arm around you, and lowers you down towards the ground...

But that's when it all goes wrong.

He becomes rougher than you like - less gentle and more forceful. What seemed like sullen charm now seems like a lack of caring. What seemed a pleasant, sensual danger now seems more like a forced and unhappy one.

Sooner or later, he's too much. The feeling of wanting to do this turns to the feeling of wanting to just leave. To get away. To run, if need be.

But when you try to call it off, he forces the issue - at knifepoint.

I felt you jump, little ghost, but don't move. Just look at it, there in your mind's eye. Look at that knife. It makes you feel afraid, doesn't it?

Oh yes, it does. And it's a familiar fear, too. You've felt that fear, before. Every time you see one of the Damned, or maybe even a Dark Walker, you've felt that fear. Pure, solid menace made physical, and pointed straight at your heart.

I felt... no, you feel. You feel fear wash through you like icewater. Don't you?

It spreads out from your heart in a slow, steady wave and freezes you. All connection to your body drops away, and you are left a stranger in your own skin, barely noticing the sensations when he tears off your skirt... forces himself onto you... into you.

It hurts. It hurts much more when you don't want it. It always hurts, anyway, but that is a pleasant sort of hurt.

And that is not this.

But what is strange is that the fear trumps the pain... doesn't it? You can barely register the pain for that fear. It is as if the sight of the knife - the unspoken menace it represents - is draining the pain from you, and replacing it with pure, cold dread...

Time goes away. Space follows it. There is just the two of you, with him grunting and thrusting and calling you the worst names you have ever heard. You start to bleed from inside, but as before you really don't notice the pain for the fear.

And that fear was my entire world, little ghost. Feel it with me. Let it turn you as cold as it turned me, in those moments. Let it burn you with ice and frost... turning your very breath to steam... your blood to slow-moving oil... your mind to cold, unthinking stone...

All your life you thought you knew fear, but all you ever saw were the trace edges of it. Now you're standing right in the center of fear, and you can't move. You can't think. You can't do anything...

But then, at long last, he is done.

You don't feel him finish, either, but he gets up and leans back. He is very pleased with himself, too. It's as though he did nothing wrong. It's as though you don't even exist, now.

You still can't move for the fear, though. Not to get away from him. Not even to tuck tail and curl into a ball. You lie there, and watch him.

You watch the knife.

He can do anything, then. It's entirely in his hands. He could make rude threats and run away. He could get up and walk off without a word. He could force you into a waiting car, or try to explain his actions... maybe even cry and ask your forgiveness. Anything, really...

But instead, he takes that knife, and he kills you with it.