He made his way towards a familiar neighborhood, with perfectly white houses, and perfectly trimmed lawns, and perfectly poised people. He knew it well. After all, he did spend most of his time lurking around one house in particular- the home of the Jackson family. There were Theresa, Paul, and their son, Oliver. Oliver seemed to be the only person Samuel could tolerate at length. Fourteen years old, and still, his child-like innocence lingered.

    Darkness provided Samuel with cover as he crept to where he knew Oliver's room was. Being half past ten, he knew the boy would be in his room, writing, not asleep, at this time. As always.

    Looking in the window, he was startled to see Oliver, not lying stomach-down on his bed, but staring straight back at him through the curtains.

    The boy frantically threw open the window, grinning.

    "I knew it! I knew someone came here every night, in the dark!" he laughed gleefully, confusing Samuel. "So, what's your name? I'm Oliver, but you might have already known that, since I've known you, well, sort of, since I was five. Yeah, I know, it's been a long time, but I didn't have the courage to introduce myself until now. I guess you didn't either, and, to be honest, it is a bit strange for you to watch me through my window every night, but you seem nice, and you've never done me any harm, so I don't mind!"

    "Er... I'm Samuel," he introduced himself awkwardly, not expecting such a cheerful response, despite his knowledge of the child's disposition.

    "Oh! The Samuel?" he questioned curiously, "The one who is going to, one day, announce a name and steal someone's soul?"

    "Yes. Although, I am going to accept their soul, as I'm certain they will give it willingly," Samuel replied, his tone clipped, due to the topic of the conversation. 

    “Really? Wow, that’s pretty interesting, I never expected that! How do you know they’re going to do it?”

    “I just do, alright?”

    “Oh, alright, kind of like how people know the Earth is spinning?”

    “…I suppose.”

    “Will you come talk to me again soon?”

    “…Yes.”

    And he did. He visited Oliver every night for two weeks, and they had long, odd conversations. Half enthusiastic and cheerful, half reluctant and terse.

    Until one night, when Oliver was listening to the radio in his room, waiting for Samuel to arrive, and suddenly, the music stopped. A strange white noise invaded his ears, and a familiar voice called out to him.

    “Oliver Jackson.”

    “I didn’t want to.”

    “Of course. I understand. You know I do, Sam! You can have it.”

    “I’m going to miss you.”

    “I know.”