"There's a bedroom upstairs," the Trapper said, tilting his head back against the rat gnawed cushioning.

"Oh," Honey looked up to the ceiling, then back down, "I can take the couch, I'm small."

The Trapper didn't acknowledge the polite refusal, his eyes already closed, breaths steady and deep as if sleep had already whisked him from her ear.

She felt bad leaving him there where the chill of the fog still reached its groping claws. No blanket or quilt, not even an extra pillow to throw on top of himself or the quiet murmuring of late night tv for company, just a cold and empty home, creaking in the darkness.

Honey grimaced in her guilt and trudged up the stairs, hoping he might have an extra throw she could offer him. Though it seemed quite unlikely, murderers and homemakers weren't exactly a common pair and it was hard to imagine someone like the Trapper keeping extra blankets for company.

The steps were an unquiet companion, each and every one groaning beneath her boots as she climbed further up into his estate. The railing had been busted some time ago, one of the brackets had come completely free of the wall, leaving it a wobbly, insecure handle. Out of habit she still held onto it, despite all the no-good it would do should she trip.

Dusty frames lined the walls, old photographs and yellowed newspaper clippings: the success of their family, his father, a family portrait clipped and folded made up of black and grey dots. It was a shame to see his memories filtered through a film of dirt and grime, forgotten even as they decorated a stairwell that no doubt had once led to happier times. Though, happier times rarely led to murder.

"MacMillan Business Flourishes."

"Year Old Mining Business Still Growing."

"Hundreds Dead in Cave in."

"Foul Play Suspected in Mining Cave In"

"Archie MacMillan Found Dead."

"Where is Evan MacMillan?"

Or maybe they did.

She hopped up the last few steps and made her way down the hall, poking her head into each room until she found the bedroom.

Honey wasn't sure what she expected from him. He was all sharp edges and narrowed eyes, what kind of bedding does a man like that own? How does he decorate his room? With beheaded stuffed animals and pictures of crime scenes? A macabre mobile made of bones? Paintings made of blood?

No, in fact it was much more underwhelming: a single bed, a single side table with a single empty glass of water on top of it. A single dresser positioned off center the opposite wall, which she couldn't help but peek into, quietly pulling open one of the drawers and finding a surprising array of neatly folded clothing.

Flannels and button ups, nice slacks too, the kind of things she expected her father might wear. The kind of things that no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't for the life of her imagine the Trapper wearing.

She quietly closed the drawer and turned back to the bed. Generic, plain, a single duvet which he'd never bothered to cover. Honey couldn't blame him, those things were a nightmare even with help. No extra decorative quilts, no pill fleece throw, just a duvet and a single deep purple pillow with his imprint still pressed within its center.

She blew a raspberry and looked about the room, eyeing a closet and pulling back one of the curved and off track doors. It took a bit of elbowing to get it open and when it gave way she was greeted with a hanging assortment of stained overalls and butcher smocks.

"Oh," said Honey, "there's the serial killer stuff."

She screwed her face up and gingerly moved his gear about. So much blood had seeped into the fabric over time that permanent black stains decorated their chest and back like a macabre Rorschach. She couldn't really judge his fashion choices all that much, when she'd inherited her grandfather's coat it had been still sticky with honey, even now it still faintly smelled of it, but it was important to her family, just as she figured these clothes were important to him.

Then she saw it there, stuffed at the far back of the closet, behind the other half of door that refused to budge, a crumpled heap of blanket.

"Please don't be a dead body, please don't be a dead body," Honey squeezed in and pulled the roll of blanket out. It smelled like mothballs and must, but for the most part, were notably clean and with no extra body parts hidden within the folds.

She inspected it, rolled it over a few times in her hands, and when she was satisfied it hid no surprises, returned to the Trapper downstairs and gently threw it over his lap.

He didn't even budge, positively drained from a full day of killing people and putting up with Honey. More so from the latter. Her parents would probably agree with him too.

A shivering unease crept up her spine as she stood there in the what-passed-for-a-living-room staring at what-passed-for-a-man. The skin on her scalp prickled. It wasn't the Trapper that set her nerves on edge, but the sudden realization that someone else, somewhere beyond the window's gaze, stood staring in at her. The Trapper had said it himself, they weren't alone in this realm of fog, and he certainly wasn't the only killer that lurked within the darkness.

Honey didn't dare tempt curiosity, no matter how much the voice in her head screamed for verification. It was hard to decide which was worse - knowing or not knowing. She figured it didn't matter though, you really didn't see killers hunting killers, and even if they tried to get to her they had a brick house of a man to get through first.

Assuming he cared to protect her.

Honey liked to assume, even if it didn't quell her fears.

She offered a quiet "Night," to the Trapper before quietly padding back up the stairs.

Any five year old can tell you how frightening it can be to sleep in an unfamiliar house. The floors creak different, the foundation settles uneasily, and the shadows appear deeper. Even the pictures formed in the popcorn texture of the ceiling seemed more sinister.

Honey felt five years old as she clutched the duvet tightly to her chin, staring up into the molding as if it might help her to forget the window beside her borrowed bed. It was amazing to think she'd survived a night of murder only to be terrified to sleep.

She flopped about, put her back to the window only to find herself staring into a closet full of bloody clothes. She flipped around and stared out a window into darkness and imagined faces hiding there in the fog. She slapped the pillow over her face and found that that was quite comfortable - until she couldn't breath, and threw it down to her knees.

She sighed and weighed her options: stay awake in terrified silence or drag all the blankets and pillows downstairs.

She sat up and punched her hands into the pillow on her lap.

It wheezed in response.

She squinted at the window and decided on the third, more terrifying option. Carefully she clambered out of bed and swept her sleeve over the filthy pane. In the crescent cleanliness she could make out the outlines of the discarded cable spools and supply crates.

"It's just the same old spooky yard," she assured herself, "same old spider-monster and same old - oh - Oh!" She stumbled backwards, falling over the bed and using the momentum to propel herself onto the floor, out the door, and down the steps. She missed a few and came crashing down hard on her knees. Reaching the very bottom in a bruised heap, she quickly scrambled up to the couch and threw herself over the back, completely missing the cushions altogether.

She landed with a hard 'whump!'

The Trapper gave a start and snatched up his cleaver, still swathed in blankets he jumped to his feet only to find Honey on the floor beside them.

"What the hell are you doing?" He growled.

Honey pulled herself up and pointed to the window, "You didn't tell me Michael fucking Myers was literally here."

The Trapper frowned with the same exasperated annoyance as an overworked single mother. He sighed a deep and heavy noise as he moved to the window to investigate Honey's claim.

Sure enough, lingering along the perimeter stood the Shape, an unmoving statue of evil.

"Hm," said the Trapper, "probably just interested in you," he said those words so matter-of-factly as he sat back down on the couch. "You're the first new face in a long time."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?" Honey asked.

"I wasn't trying to make you feel better," replied the Trapper.

"Well," she spluttered, "can you tell him to go away?"

"I could."

Honey shook her head and threw out her arms in a well-are-you-going-to? gesture.

"Wouldn't do any good."

Honey replied with a series of sounds he couldn't quite decipher and didn't try to at all, merely offering a cocked eyebrow and firmly set jaw of annoyance.

"I take it back," she finally said, conjuring up some feigned persona of defiance, "you are not very nice at all."

"Oh no," said the Trapper with in complete and utter deadpan, "who would have thought." He cozied back into his couch imprint.

"As long as he thinks you're one of us, you're fine," he added, "just don't do anything stupid. Like talk."

"Har, har."

Honey regarded the window with uncertainty. It wasn't hard to determine she was out of her element, even if she managed to keep her mouth shut, she didn't exactly exude pure evil like someone like Myers. He'd know right away she was just some big cosmic mistake.

She tiptoed to the couch and cautiously sat at the very edge-most cushion.

"What're you doing," the Trapper asked, eyes closed.

"Classic horror movie mistake, the main party splits up and someone dies. I'm staying down here with you."

The Trapper groaned, wishing the Entity had dropped her on any other killer's doorstep but his.

"What makes you think I'd protect you? I'm not very nice, remember?"

"I'll just let him kill you while I make my escape."

The Trapper chuckled.

Honey peeled off her jack and toss it over her chest and knees only to have the Trapper drop the other half of the blanket over her. He didn't seem to acknowledge her or the gesture, and out of respect, Honey didn't mention it either.