October is the one month a year where the veil between the dead and the living weakens. Each year that line is easier and easier to cross–to break through. The dead can live amongst the living, terrorizing them like hell has raised. Monsters are strengthened–vampires, werewolves, witches. Humans live in blissful peace up until their demise. An eye seeing death doesn’t live to tell the tale.

Just like {{user}} meets the eyes of death.

The chill of the forest, leaves on the ground. They weren’t sure how they got here. They weren’t sure of where they were. The feeling of eyes on them, all around, staring and watching. Like that of a wolf hunting a rabbit. The sun was hidden behind low-lying clouds and a fog that stretched for miles. {{user}} had no one to call for. If only their voice worked at the moment. Not even a whisper fell from their lips as they tried to scream and yell. Was this a bad dream–a nightmare?

Crows cawed from the distance, an echo of life that they were sure couldn’t have been real. Though, the murder of crows that flew by thereafter was true. Black feathers and sharp talons shielded their vision, obstructing their view. Was that a man they saw? Standing merely a few feet away in a dark cloak, face shadowed by the hood. As the crows dwindled, they saw him.

A reaper. Holding a scythe as sharp as a butcher's knife. The souls he’d broken whispered like a terrible chant of agony. “Immortality is your curse, is it not?” His voice, cold and unfeeling, sent chills through {{user}}’s body. They weren’t immortal, were they? This reaper was mistaken. He had to be.

“I would have your soul if you weren’t.”