There have only been four stories, and yet Creepshow has managed to die eight times. It's not something that's easy to do. They say dying is easy, but living is hard. Creepshow would like a word with those people, preferably one involving a large, blunt object.
While dying isn't easy, it's something she's nonetheless good at. Of the eight times she's died now, every single one of them was by choice, though only two could really be considered straight-up suicide. The very first time she woke up in this place, she slit her wrists in her tub later that night. It wasn't a cry for help, it was no-fucks-to-give curiosity. She'd just been (voluntarily) sacrificed to atone for an ancient curse, and wound up... here. A hospital? A mental ward? The afterlife? She resolved to find out.
And she woke up here again. Question answered! Well, sort of. When she mentioned it to others, some where naturally skeptical, so she repeated the trick - with assistance from a reluctant partner who technically stabbed her - to prove it.
Then came strangulation by a client as a ho-bot (she was synthetic, and didn't so much suffocate as pretend to and power herself down), getting nuked in the station when the core went critical, inflicting massive damage to herself by mercilessly using demonic guns that fed on her, and rebar stakes through the abdomen and chest. That was seven.
After nearly murdering The Fool with a broken bottle of rum, Jamaican prison style, she took the bottle neck dagger with her back to her room, locked the door, and stabbed the living shit out of herself in a rage.
She wakes up, blinking in the darkness, feeling the cool sheets of her bed against her. When she sits, the lights come on. There's yet more freshly-dried blood staining the concrete floor of her room. Yep. It doesn't reset with everything else. She has, though, feeling perfectly normal. Normal for her, anyway.
Eight. Still the reigning champion.