Eighty year old Mabel Flannery had never been sick a day in her life. So when her keen eyesight started to fail she became anxious; she imagined sinister shadows invaded every corner, especially the landing between the third floor and the roof. Mabel told anyone who'd listen someone was living up there. But they found no one, and she was dismissed as a nervous old woman.

She didn't linger in the hall now, not even to chat with neighbors. She was frightened and didn't know why. Just a feeling something in the recesses of the landing wanted to harm her. Mabel worried herself ill; and with the illness came the obsessive need to know who was on that landing. One morning, she struggled out of bed, put on robe and slippers, and ascended the stairs. Higher and higher she climbed, until finally, she faced her tormentor for these past months. She smiled wistfully.

"I thought it was you. You've finally come, have you? Well, I'm ready."

Silently, she took the reaper's cadaverous hand, felt the cool rush of air as the scythe passed over her head, and they walked way up past the roof.