[ WP ] While searching the site of a disaster , you find your own corpse .

It was like nothing I'd ever seen - wind ripped branches from trees and shingles from the roof tops, throwing them *clattering* to the street like some mid-tantrum child. That's when the Layton's house caught fire. 
 
 Poor man, he'd bought it only a year ago, and the agent had n't even told him what happened to the previous tenant. What a mess. 
 
 To his credit, Layton was always yelling at the Davies' to keep their trees trimmed, but Andrew Davies was n't much of a doer. By the time the fire department arrived, the whole south side of the street was painted in flames - my house included. There were clouds of smoke hanging above my bed. When I looked out of the window, I could see red and gold shadows dancing everywhere. 
 
 I guess I was still a bit sleepy, because I do n't remember how I ended up downstairs. 
 
 There was a crowd standing in front of the Davies' house. Andrew carried out his daughter, her head hanging limp over his thick, sweaty arms. I stepped forward to help him, but the firefighters were yelling at everyone to stay back. 
 
 In the back of the crowd, a man was chuckling. His ears were dirty, his brow was smudged with dirt - it was hard to see a single point on his body that looked like it wasn ’ t covered in dirt. I couldn ’ t put a name to the face, but I had no problem giving him a stern look. 
 
 My eye caught his, and the grin slid from his mouth. I turned back to the houses, listening to the crackle of burning timbers. A fresh wave of, I ’ m afraid to say, an almost *comfortable* heat rolled over me. For a brief moment, I thought about stepping closer to the blaze, until another fireman walked out- 
 
 Out of *my* house. 
 
 He had a woman over his shoulder. He was running. He was breathing and hacking up smoke like a pipe furnace. She wasn ’ t breathing much at all. 
 
 “ Hehehe- ” I heard a stifled giggle from the man. 
 
 “ What is *wrong* with you? ” I whispered to him, “ Can ’ t you see how serious this is? ” 
 
 “ I can see just fine, thank you! ” he chirped, “ But can *you? * ” 
 
 “ What on *Earth* are you talking about? ” I said, giving him what I hoped was a hard stare. His face was purple and blue in the flame-light. At least, I assumed it was the flame-light that colored him so. I couldn ’ t quite figure out who he was, but I was *sure* I had seen him before. 
 
 He smiled, and with my brow creased as far as it could crease, I asked, “ Have we met? ” 
 
 “ Yes, we have. And unfortunately, we are meeting again. ” 
 
 *Well, that ’ s just rude, * I thought. I gave him a proper harumph, and turned my back. 
 
 He didn ’ t seem to get the hint. He pointed over my shoulder, at the fireman carrying the woman from my house, “ Don ’ t you know that woman? ” 
 
 There was a taunting lilt to his voice, and I could hear the laughter creeping back in. 
 
 “ No, ” I said, “ It must be one of the neighbors. The Lanes, maybe... ” I thought about that. The Lanes didn ’ t have a daughter that old, “ Or… the Stevens... ” 
 
 A strangled sound came from the dirt-covered man behind me. I turned around to see him practically *exploding* with laughter. 
 
 For the second time that night, I asked, “ What is *wrong* with you? You think death is funny? ” 
 
 `` Not all of them. But yours is.'' 
 
 Before I could ask him what he was talking about, he turned his head and I could see a hole, slightly smaller than my fist, had been blasted through his scalp. Only then did I recognize him - the previous owner of the Layton ’ s House. 
 
 `` Look at you,'' he cracked a grin with worm-eaten lips, `` You *still* do n't get it!'' 
 
 I looked down at my hands, blistered, dripping like melted plastic. 
 
 *What a mess. *
