I don't own The Sims 2. Getting back in the writing game, excuse any errors.
Death comes to her in the middle of the night; she feels his cold clammy fingers on her thigh and up her side and in her hair and in her mouth. His touch is inconvenient. She had one night to herself, the denizens of her graveyard silent and the desert air cold, and he is there, smoke billowing from the edges of his cloak and his dry dusty groan in her ears. He whispers to her, words in a language she doesn't recognize, and she is paralyzed because of how he makes her feel. He doesn't kiss her – does he even have a mouth?—but there is something tender in how he grips her when he's finished.
"Why have you come?" she chokes hoarsely. "Why are you here again? I haven't—I mean, there hasn't been—"
"Shush, my child," he groans as his hands wander again, "tonight is not about that. Tonight is about you."
"Me?"
The bed rustles and squeaks in the dark. Absently, she wonders if this is how her aunt felt most of her life, but there's nothing she can do about it but lie there until he's finished. Nervous got the cash, she got the house. And what did it come with? Feeling Death's cold fingers around her throat?
The room is hot again and she opens her eyes and wonders if she's really there.