The room grew darker and the scratching louder. The Slayer glared at him, her sunny, submissive disposition sucked away with the light from the strange room.

"I've had just about enough of you and your games, little miss." He threw himself at her before he saw the stake in her hand. That wasn't there before, he thought as he descended on her in slow motion.

Spike watched her begin to move toward him as he fell, stake clutched in her tight little grip. Time stretched, slowed, as his death neared. He studied the simple piece of wood that was about to destroy him. It was dark brown, the tip carved into a nasty point. It amazed him that something so simple could fill him with so much dread.

The Slayer thrust the stake upward toward his long still heart. As the point punctured his chest and he exploded into dust he could still hear the sounds that annoyed him so.

Scritch-scratch.