Soft snow crunched under Darryl's feet, soaking through the thin canvas of his shoes. He blew on his hands to warm them, and shoved them deep into his wool-padded pockets, breath rising into the night.

It had stopped snowing a few hours ago, leaving the air clear and crisp. The gravestones surrounding him looked like strangely shaped cupcakes sprinkled with icing sugar, sitting upon a white tablecloth.

Darryl adjusted his scarf and folded his arms against the cold. This was the only place he ever really felt comfortable. He knew it was strange - empty graveyards probably weren't at the top of most peoples 'places to be' list, but he couldn't explain it.

Leaning against the cool bark of a nearby tree, he breathed in his surroundings. The night-time aromas that were only found here, only at this time, had to be the best smell in the world.

Over the past month, Darryl's visits to the graveyard had become more and more frequent - going from once or twice a week to almost every night. It was a place to clear his head, to keep all his thoughts from strangeling him, and at the moment, he needed that more than anything.

He wasn't there to visit a grave, as would usually be expected from such frequent appearances. The cemetery was his anchor - it kept him grounded and helped him feel in control.

It was a reminder.

The wide expanse of headstones, gnarled branches, cast-iron gates and stone angels were all a reminder that death was coming. It was coming for him and everyone else. And for the twisted skeletons of memories that lay beneath six feet of earth, it already had.

Almost everyone in Darryl's life was - to put it plainly - deep in denial. Denial about everything. They were going to land a great job, make millions of dollars, have a wonderful life.

Live forever.

Darryl had seen denial destroy them - his mother, his sister. His father. Especially his father. He had constantly refused to believe that bad things happen to good people. In his mind, bad things only happen to people who deserve it. They wouldn't get him. Cancer wouldn't get him. Even smoking up to one pack a day, cancer wouldn't get him.

Wiping his eyes angrily only to find that they were dry, Darryl began walking through the snow, steadying his breathing. A few rounds of the cemetery could always clear his head - and his sinuses, as tonight it would appear.

Darryl's face harbored a rare smile as he passed his favorite gravestone - a huge stone angel, holding her right hand out, fingers bent like claws, but face kind and smiling. This had always been Darryl's favorite - he called her 'The An-archangel'. She showed him that things aren't always how you first see them. He liked that. It was very real - something he didn't get a lot of around here.

He was just about to walk past when something on the ground caught his eye. It was late, which made it hard to see, but with the sharp contrast of dark patches on striking white snow, there could be no mistake.

Darryl's breath caught in his throat. Crumpled behind the An-archangel, the cold, lifeless body of a woman lay sprawled against the moss-covered stone. Her lacey white nightgown blended into the snow, and would have appeared almost invisible if it weren't for several dark crimson patched soaked into the fabric.

Darryl scrambled backwards, grasping in his pocket for his asthma pump, only to realize he'd left it at home. The blood was still wet, trickling from a long gash in her shoulder running down her side. She couldn't have been killed more than an hour ago.

That must mean...

Coming to a sudden realization, Darryl turned and bolted towards the cemetery gates, feeling the air passage in his throat tighten. He kept running, all the while conscious of the absence if his inhaler. His lungs started to burn - he had to stop. Taking cover in the shadows of the trees lining the graveyard, he slowly caught his breath.

After about half a minute, he inched his way out of the trees. His breathing was hardly regular yet, but he knew he couldnt stand around. He had to get out of there.

About to start running back towards the gates, Darryl turned, and froze. What he saw sprung an icy cold sweat all over his body. A dark shape, moving slowly down from the entrance of the cemetery. Breath catching in his throat for the second time that night, he threw himself back into the shadow of the trees.

Breathing heavily and mind racing, he forced himself to remain prefectly still. He forced himself to calm down. To stay comletely quiet.

The wide expanse of headstones, gnarled branches, cast-iron gates and stone angels were all a reminder that death was coming.

One hell of a reminder, Darryl thought. He pressed himself into the shadows, terrified. Pressed himself into the darkness so maybe he could blend in and not be noticed. Maybe he could be safe.

He glanced over at the An-archangel, silently begging her to help him. She seemed to look on sadly, yet nonchalantly. Her claw-like hand now seemed out of place - almost a mockery.

Darryl shivered in the dark shadow behind the twisted tree. He didn't dare move his feet, even though the snow was now turning to slush and seeping into his shoes. He didn't dare open his mouth to breathe, hoping desperately that the pale puffs of air coming out of his nostrils weren't noticeable.

A shiver ran down his spine. He heard a branch move behind him, but still he didn't turn around. It was just the wind. Don't look. Just don't look.

Another twig snapped shortly after the first. It was just his imagination. He remained motionless, a cold sweat building up on his forehead.

The crunch of gravel and melted snow beneath strong boots.

It's only the grounds keeper. Don't panic.

Sour breath on the back of his neck.

It's a dog. It's just a dog.

A heavy gloved hand over his mouth. A cold blade at his throat. His scream cut short.

Oh, sweet denial.