His voice, almost forgotten over the years since his death, calls to her; the wheezing of his air more disturbing than the words. "I've come to collect you. Come to me." She wonders how he manages to speak without his head, but she isn't willing to find out. She doesn't open her eyes yet as she hisses, "No lo creo. No me toque." She knows by the feel of the air that he is near enough to touch this time. "Puta." He says it with slight affection, the impossibility of his rancid breath washing over her face making her tense, all of her muscles feeling as if they will burst with the effort of staying still. She pulls her lips into her mouth, biting them hard enough to draw blood, turning her head away from him, unwilling to see the sight before her, even as she thinks, "It's not real. Dead men don't breathe." The air over her face chills and she feels him lean back. She relaxes slightly until he grabs her arm hard enough to bruise her, as if to let her know, that yes, he is real.