Disclaimer: I do not own any part of, nor am I affiliated in any way with, 'Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer.'

Author's Note: This isn't going to be very long, just a little thing I thought up, and needed to write down because my sick and twisted mind wouldn't let me rest.

Henry stood in front of his apartment door, keys in hand. As he unlocked the door, he heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to his floor. He turned to see the brunette clear the last step, a basket of laundry in her hands. She smiled at him, and he returned it with a half-smile of his own. "Hi," she greeted him.

"Hi," he looked her over. She was tall and lean, but her body was toned, not skinny. Her hair fell to her elbows and she had bright blue eyes.

"You just moved in, right?" she continued, still smiling.

He nodded, "Yeah, just last week."

She shifted the basket of laundry on her hip and extended her hand towards him "I'm Lana."

He took her hand in his, "Henry."

Her smile grew as she gripped his hand in hers, tighter than he had expected. "It's nice to meet ya."

"A pleasure," he said, releasing her grip.

She took her hand back and shifted the basket again. "Well, I gotta get this laundry put away," she told him, moving towards her door, across the hall from his. "I'll see ya around."

He nodded and she smiled again, pushing her door open, and going inside. He watched, noticing her door hadn't been locked. As he went inside her own apartment, he wondered if that was something she did often.

Lana carried the basket to her rom and sat it on the foot of the bed. As she put away the clothes, she couldn't get Henry out of her head; there was something unexplainable about him. A look in his eye that should have warned her to stay away from him. She chuckled to herself at the thoughts in her head.

As the week passed, Lana and Henry would frequently see each other in the halls of their apartment building. It didn't take long for Henry to develop a fascination almost like an obsession with her. Whenever he had the opportunity, he'd watch her, spying on her throughout the day, and sometimes into the night.

Lara yawned and sat the book she had been reading down on the coffee table in front of her. She got up and moved across her living room to the window and pulled the curtains shut. She smirked to herself and walked to the light switch, turning it off. She walked into the bedroom and turned the light on so she could get ready for bed.

Henry watched from his car in the parking lot. He seen her near the window and lowered the binoculars. He didn't bother to duck down, assuming that if Lana did see him, she'd think he had just gotten home, or was about to leave. She closed the curtains and he watched her shadow move away from the window. Her light went out, and he smiled when her bedroom light came on a minute later. When her light went off again, Henry got out of his car and went inside the building. He walked up to his apartment and went inside, going first for the fridge. He got out a beer and opened it before sitting down on his couch in the living room and turning on the TV.

The news was on, and there was a reporter standing on a roadside. Police and crime scene investigators moved in the background in the taped off crime scene. "There's no ID yet on the remains that were found in a suitcase left on the side of the road in the very spot behind me," she said. Henry smirked and changed the channel.

When he had finished with his beer, he figured enough time had passed for Lana to have fallen asleep. He turned off the TV and threw away his empty can before turning off the light in his apartment and walking out the door. He quietly crossed the hall to Lana's, and just as he had expected, it was left unlocked. Henry slowly pushed it open and stepped inside, quietly shutting it behind him. He quietly crept through her apartment, going through her things, slowly making his way to her bedroom.

The door had been left open. He leaned against the doorframe for a few minutes, watching her sleep. The blanket was draped across her bare legs, hardly covering her. The tank top she wore was bunched up, revealing her midriff. Her legs moved in her sleep, kicking the blanket further away. A smile played on the corner of Henry's lips, and he stepped inside her room. He walked over to her dresser and opened the top drawer.

He rummaged through bras, panties, and socks, looking at all of her things. His fingers brushed across a firm surface and he knew it wasn't the bottom of the drawer. He pulled the object, a book, out and sat it on top of the dresser. He opened it and immediately his eyes went wide. He wasn't sure what he had expected to see, but he knew it definitely hadn't been this. It was a scrapbook documenting gruesome murders; bodies stabbed, cut, tortured, and mutilated. He flipped through more pages and seen the same gory scenes spread out.

At first he thought maybe she just had a sick fetish, maybe she was just fascinated by murder. But a few more pages into the scrapbook proved him wrong. There were pictures of her with bodies, a knife in her hand, blood staining her hands and forearms, smiling at the camera.

Behind Henry, Lana moved again, muttering something inarticulate. He turned to look at her. She was facing him, her eyes open. Henry froze. She didn't do anything, staring at him with wide, blank eyes. He carefully stepped forwards, but she remained motionless. He leaned over her, studying her face, still no reaction. She was sleeping with her eyes open. He straightened and breathed a soft sigh of relief, turning back to the dresser. He put away the book and quietly closed the drawer before slipping silently out of her room and out of her apartment.

Lana sat up in bed and rubbed her eyes. She glanced around the room and smiled slightly, laying her head back down on her pillow. She closed her eyes and fell quickly back to sleep.