Dancing on a Blade of Dreams (Borrowed title)

Dammit. Sleep has been interrupted once more, ladies and gentlemen, for my muse has seen fit to inundate my head with words and pictures that I need to put down, else I forget. Perhaps it's the overdose of Silent Hill and Sandman these past few days..but whatever it is I feel compelled to write it down. May not make much sense come tomorrow, but maybe there's a story in there somewhere, or a poem..or anything. Some stories find their own tellers.

First image:
The alley loomed before him, dark and mysterious, as alleys are wont to do. Behind him, the scratching noises were getting louder. That and the wet slimy sound of things dragging themselves closer and closer (oh God they wore out their nails scratching their way after me they don't have eyes oh God) and he jerked out of his semi-coherent state. There was nowhere else to go. It was either in there, where it was dark and deep and there might be lurking things (you know, the kind of things you wish you would never ever see near your bed, peeking through your covers hoping they'll go away, pasty and faceless and waiting for you to peek out) or out here, where they were coming anyway. His arm throbbed where the nurse cut him, blood oozing through his sleeve. The pain had lessened to a steady beat, constantly throbbing and dull like the beating of those jungle drums in the old Tarzan movies. He willed his feet to move, but they just stood there...He wished he'd never woken up in that hospital, never woken up that morning, never..

They were getting nearer. The nurses, and the things. Jacob ran.

Second image:
The old man's face had a sly little grin on it. The kind that says yeah, I know what you came here to get, but you ain't getting it, mister. Jane plonked herself unceremoniously on the sofa, letting the chill breeze of the air-conditioning unit soak into her skin. The room was small and sparsely furnished, although not uncomfortable. A generic print of a ship hung on the wall opposite the door. Books lay stacked on the shelves, some overflowing onto the floor and settee. The TV set was old, and she suspected, rarely on. She breathed deeply of the cool air and looked straight at him.

"Unsettling, isn't it?," his voice was calm, measured. "Care for some tea, dear?"
"What is?," Jane shrugged, ignoring the invitation. She wasn't going to let him get to her, oh no sirree.
"That you expected Death to be ominous and cold. A Being of some sort. Instead, you find a shrivelled old man who looks like he can't even dress himself properly, much less take lives. I suppose I ought to sound like age old tombs being opened, that sort of thing. It DOES get tiring, you know, the whole rigmarole. I think He enjoys it, though," he chuckled, eyebrows raised in a blasphemous wink.
Jane laughed, despite herself. "Well, consider yourself lucky then. I was told to bring you a message."
"Time to pack up, old man. It's the end of the world."

Third image:
As the knife sliced into her face, Jenny smiled, even as her mother screamed. "It's alright, mama..I just wanted to show you how beautiful I am inside,"
"Like you always told me."

Fourth image:
There's a tapping on my windowpane.
It's three A.M and I'm alone and awake.
There it goes again, daring me to turn to my window and look, tap-tappity-tap.
It's only a gecko, I think. I close my eyes, as if that act alone could silence it.
Louder now, and more impatient.
I think I'll have to look.