The thick grass that made up the lawn was coated with dew which sparkled dimly in the bight light of the full moon. The forest of trees which circled the back end of the lawn swayed almost majestically in the gentle breeze. Nestled among the trees, a figure huddled, concealed for the most part by the thick undergrowth under them. All that could be seen were the figure's dark, glinting eyes.

On the opposite end of the lawn stood a house. Inside it, a young, blonde woman was busy making tea. After it was finished, topped off with sugar and honey, she took her cup; walked into the adjoining livingroom; curled up on the couch in front of the televison.

The figure shuffled out of the trees and made his way towards the backdoor of the house, leaving long shadows in its wake. For some reason, the woman had left her door unlocked; it opened easily and the figure steeped inside.

There was no silence now.

Seemingly coming from nowhere and everywhere at once was a strange, warbling music. It had started when the figure had first left the trees. Faintly at first but growing louder as the figure crept through the kitchen. Growing so loud that it overwhelmed the sounds of Jeopardy coming from the TV set as the figure slunk into the living room.

But neither the figure nor the woman paid any heed to the music; while it soon became deafeningly loud, it was as if neither could hear it.

The woman, being completely engrossed with her tea and television, didn't notice as the music clashed threateningly and the figure brandished his knife, preparing to thrust it into her flesh.

"Ohmigod! Jesus, lady, turn around!" Martha Worthington cried loudly. The man sitting in front of her turned around and "shush"ed her. Again.

Deb Right sighed and debated whether or not to explain to her friend(ly acquaintance) how futile it was to yell at people inside movies and how annoying it was to other people when that yelling was done in a movie theater. Ultimately, she decided not to. There was no point in explaining things like that to people like Martha.

Absently munching her popcorn, Deb watched in less than rapt attention as the inevitable played out on the screen.

As if hearing Martha's cry, the woman (who was given no name and was probably listed in the credits as "victim #4") turned and saw the figure (who was supposed to be a rotting zombie but actually looked like someone who was trying to look like a rotting zombie and who was failing miserably). She screamed the high pitched scream that slasher flick actresses had spent years perfecting (the kind of scream that could shatter glass but not bring aid). The figure brought the knife down (in such a slow and dramatic manner that the woman had plenty of time to get out of the way). Blood sprayed everywhere (looking as fake as it was). And it was over; victim #4 was dead.

Deb never really like slasher movies; too much gore and not enough plot she had said once. She had seen a number of them and they were all practically the same. Some demented figure (who either wears a mask, is a freak or a supernatural entity) goes on a killing rampage (where, for some reason, most of the victims are women who are either big busted or blonde). Then the Main Woman (who is big busted and blonde) sends for help (after trying to futilely fend off the "monster" herself). Help soon arrives in the form of the Main Man (who is veryattracted to the Main Woman and very handsome). After killing the figure fatally at least five times (for once is never ever enough), the Main Woman decides that almost getting killed is very romantic and falls in love with the Main Man. As the walk off into the sunset (to get to knoweach other better) a figure, the same demented figure (looking worse for wear but still going strong) shambles after them. The end (or is it?)

Deb sighed again and wondered, not for the first time, how on earth had Martha (a girl who she did not even really like all that much) had managed to drag her to Coming up for Air (part 12). With a name like that, what other kind of movie could it be?

She supposed that the movie might have been half way tolerable if Martha would just keep her mouth shut.

"Can you believe that woman," Martha said as the movie faded out of the dead woman's livingroom and faded into a backyard that looked suspiously like the last backyard. And the one before that and the first and second backyards as well.

"I mean, come on! If it was me? Man, I'd think I'd notice something. You know?"

Pretending that she hadn't heard the question was clearly not an option. Martha had asked her last question so loudly that some of the people in the very first row were turning around to glare.

"I guess so," Deb answered tiredly. 'I guess so' was her answer to almost every question Martha asked her. She had learned early on that it just wasn't worth the effort to argue with Martha about anything, When ever Deb was foolish enough to delve any deeper than an 'I guess so', Martha would nod thoughtfully before saying, "You're right, but . . ."; She'd then finish off the sentence with exactly what she had said before. This cycle would repeat itself until Deb finally threw the towel in. So when questions came up that had the potential to become arguments, Deb just nodded and said 'I guess so'. It was easier on everyone that way.

Only listening to Martha's ravings with half an ear, suppling an 'I guess so' at random intravels, she hoped that this movie wasn't much longer. If it was, she didn't know if she could fight the urge to choke Martha Worthington.

Walking home alone had been her own idea; anything to get away from Martha (before she did her serious harm). When Martha had offered to drive her home, Deb had said, "It's less than a mile". It was a small lie; the trip from the theater was almost two miles. But then, Deb would have turned down the ride no matter how far from home she was by then. Indeed, if she had been a hundred thousand miles from home, she still would've walked.

That had been ten minutes ago.

Now, looking back on it, she decided that perhaps she had been a bit hasty turning Martha down. It was cold, for one thing. Adjusting her sweater, Deb shivered and blew on her hands before sinking them back in to her pockets.

It was late. The moon, while just a sliver of light, was high in the sky. There were no stars; misty clouds covered most of them up. By the same token, it was dark. The only light came from the yellowed glow of the street lights that lined the cracked sidewalk. No light came from the houses she passed; some houses carried people who had already gone to bed, but most were empty. After the power plant had shut down five years ago, a lot of people had to move away.

Lastly, as much as she hated to admit it (especially to herself), that stupid movie had freaked her out some. Everything was suspect, the blackness beyond the streetlights in particular.

As she walked on the sidewalk, her hard soled shoes clicked loudly with every step. The sound seemed to echo in the other wise dead silence until Deb could almost fancy that there was another set of foot steps coming from far behind her. Heavy ones that seemed to come closer and closer Advancing until they walked right behind her.

It took every once of will she possessed not to turn around. She was not about to give in to some childish fear about boogy men. She was almost out of high school, for goodness sake.

But just because there are no boogy men doesn't mean that there's no one behind me, she thought grimly. There were certainly enough dangerous people in the world who liked to stalk young ladies; especially ones who were foolish enough to travel alone on dark nights. Killers, muggers, rapists, gang members- these were certainly real enough dangers. Shrugging deeper into her sweater, she unconsciously started walking a little faster. In response, the foot steps behind her also started walking a little faster

This is so stupid. What was I thinking?!

Knowing that there was nothing to be done except the walking, she tried to keep her mind from wandering.

She looked down at the sidewalk. It was full of wide cracks; deep, dark mouths, ready to swallow her up . . .

She looked up at the sky, the moon grinned down at her with a tight lipped smile. It was as if it knew something, something dangerous, that she did not know. It smiled evilly, as if waiting for the fun to start . . .

She looked ahead, noticing how the small patches of light from the streetlights actually were; little oases of safety in a dark and dangerous dessert of impenetrable blackness . . .

Deb shook her head viciously, trying to get a grip on reality. What's wrong with me? Did that movie really shake her up that much? Or was it something else; some sixth sense?

Wrong movie.

Lost in her thoughts, she slowly became aware of a harsh, gasping sound. It sounded like breathing. At first, she thought it was coming from behind her, like the foot steps. It took her a moment to realize that it was herself making the terrible sounds. A voice filtered through her mind, If you don't calm down, you'll hyperventilate, dear. The voice sounded a lot like her mother's voice.

She's right you know, an unfamiliar, dangerously calm voice stated flatly.

Abruptly she stopped, the foot steps behind her stopping the merest fraction of a second later. Deb tried to slow down her breathing, but it was as if she was drowning in air. She felt light headed and dizzy. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest. You're panicking, dear, her mother remarked sagely.

No doubt she was right, but Deb couldn't really focus on that fact. She wasn't standing in the light. She was in the dark.

She could almost see things, terrible things all around her: beside her, in front of her, behind her, inside her even.

A faint and incredulous voice which sounded like her own shouted, as if from far away,Have you gone nuts?! What's wrong with you?!

She could feel it inside her; inside her chest. It pounded savagely at her flesh, trying to find a way out. She could hear its thudding wails of frustrated anger pounding in her ears. She had to get away.

But how do you get away from something that's inside you?, asked the same unfamiliar, dangerously calm voice.

Deb couldn't think; nothing made sense. She sat heavily on the sidewalk. She stared around her with wide and frightened eyes.

Her chest was on fire, her lungs screamed for air. Was she still breathing? She didn't know anymore; all she could hear was the creature's hammering cries in her head. All she could feel was its thrashing under her flesh.

With sudden clarity, she knew what she had to do.

Quickly taking off her sweater, she took a pen from her pocket. Her hand shook and she could hear her own voice inside her head. What are you doing?! It sounded so faint.

It was just as well, she had a job to do. Carefully, she removed the pen's cap. It was one of those fountain pens. You'll stain your shirt, dear, her mother warned.

Nodding, she took off her shirt as well.

Goose bumps appeared on her exposed skin as she raised the pen up to the base of her neck. She hesitated, her hand shaking with cold and indecision. If you're going to do it, do it,said the dangerous voice impatiently. You don't want it in you forever, do you?

Tears streamed down her face and she shook her head.

Then do it, the voice urged.

Needing no further prompting, Deb Right thrust the pen's sharp point into her chest, above where the creature lay, and she began to open the door that would set the creature free.