Perhaps he had better just return home.
The small apartment he lived in was directly next to a freeway. As he climbed the stairs to the sixth floor, he could hear the cars flying by outside. Tires squealed and John imagined the driver's death--crashing into the divider and causing a fifty car pileup.
The door to the flat was open. John paused, his meticulously paranoid brain remembering that he had left it locked. Immediately he was on guard, taking a deep breath before tapping the door open with the end of a finger.
It was dark inside--the blinds were all down, and it felt cold. So cold that John started shivering after he walked inside. The glowing LED lights on the control box near the door told him the AC was on--set to 9 C.
There was no noise inside. None. The sounds of the freeway, which normally bothered John all day, were gone. There was no sound from outside the open door, either.
Death, John decided, is here. I'm going to die. It's no longer a question. This is the end. Someone's going to rob me, or mug me, or murder me. It's the end of my pathetic life.
"It wasn't too pathetic, I've seen worse." A voice came from his bedroom. John's heart jumped into his mouth and he fell to his knees, closing his eyes and starting to pray.
"Not gonna do you much good now," the voice drawled. Footsteps sounded and stopped next to him.
John opened his eyes and saw a girl standing there.
She was dripping what appeared to be black paint. Her eyes were a deep black, and she had pale skin, paler than he'd ever seen before. Her body was wrapped in a black, gauzey dress, her feet bare.
"Evening," she said, smiling politely. "I'm Death, and I'm here to kill you."