Page 2 of Riding the Reaper

He’s tall, way taller than me, and I’m a very respectable six foot two. He’s wearing a long black robe with a deep hood, and under it there’s no face I can make out, just shadow and two faint glints where his eyes should be. A scythe hangs at his side. Moonlight catches the blade, and this one isn’t plastic.

“Good evening, Sam.”

His voice is deeper than any I’ve ever heard. Gravelly. And how the hell does he know my name?

“I have unfortunate news for you,” he continues.

“Well, tonight’s already a total disaster, so sure. Hit me.” I cross my arms. What a weirdo.

“I am a grim reaper. And I’m here to collect your soul. You only have minutes left to live.”

2

GRAVENTHOR

Halloween parties are not where I usually collect. For one, these souls are young. Bright. Untouched. Collecting one is not exactly my favorite part of the job. Then there’s the noise. The awful mortal music. The shrieking laughter. The stink of cheap booze. That fake fog they keep pumping everywhere. It’s all incredibly distracting.

My usual work is quieter. A nursing home after lights out. A garden where an old woman kneels among her roses and simply doesn’t get back up. A man on a park bench who falls asleep watching pigeons. Peaceful work. Respectful, even.

But orders are orders. The next name on my register is Sam Calloway. Twenty-one years old. Tonight his thread ends, and I’m the one waiting when it does.

He’s somewhere inside that barn right now, having fun, totally oblivious.

I watch from the tree line. Music rattles the walls, something with far too much bass. Colored lights flash through the gaps in the old boards. A girl in a cat costume is crying into her phone by the fence. A guy dressed as a werewolf is throwing up behind a pickup.

Mortals. So messy. So full of fleeting, loud emotion.

I could walk straight through the door. None of them would see me except the one I’ve come for. But I prefer to wait. Let the guy enjoy his last few moments before I ruin his night. It’s about the only kindness I can offer.

People get almost everything wrong about grim reapers. First off, there are a lot of us. There’d have to be. How else would we keep up? We don’t cause deaths, either. We just guide them through the transition. That’s it. We’re celestial administrators. Gatekeepers. Paper pushers for eternity.

The robes are mostly because they’re dramatic. Mortals expect them after a few thousand years of wildly inaccurate folklore. The skeleton thing, though? Wrong. When we’re among the living, we take on a human form. Flesh, weight, the whole package. What that form looks like depends on the reaper. And the scythe? It cuts through the Veil between worlds. It doesn’t actually reap anything living. That’d be ghastly.

My shift started two hours ago. I’ve already processed a ninety-six-year-old woman who passed peacefully in her sleep and a bullfighter in Mexico who knew the risk and went for it anyway. Nice and straightforward. This one... Sam Calloway feels like he’s going to be a headache. Young souls usually are. They cling. And frankly, I’m not in the mood tonight.

The barn door swings open, and a skeleton stumbles out. It takes me a second to place him. The register gives me a basic likeness, but costumes don’t help, and unfortunately, he appears to be dressed as... me. I glance at my scythe, then back at his plastic imitation. I’m a little offended.

He’s angry. He throws the toy scythe onto a hay bale, boots a carved pumpkin out of his path, and heads toward the woods. Toward me.

Perfect. Right on schedule. And all by himself.

Collections are always easier away from witnesses.

I step deeper into the shadows as he approaches. He lights a cigarette, the brief flare revealing a pale, frustrated face. Handsome, I suppose, by mortal standards. Strong jaw. Dark hair curling out from under the cheap hood. Brown eyes full of hurt. The kind of face that’ll have half the girls at that party crying real tears once they hear what happened.

He doesn’t see me. Not yet. Walks right past with a trail of cigarette smoke behind him.

I follow about thirty feet back.

Here’s the thing about having a physical form—I’m not some cold presence that floats through walls. My feet press into the same dead leaves his do. My robe catches on branches if I’m not careful. When I’m here, among them, I’m just a tall man in a very convincing costume, and staying quiet takes the same effort it would for anyone else.

I’m not always good at it.

Still, I like having a body. It’s nice to feel the texture of tree bark, to taste the crispness of October. I know they’re just copies of mortal sensations, and there’s no real substance to them. No hunger or fatigue or pain. But it’s something. And eternity is long. I’ll take what I can get.

Sam’s grumbling to himself about a girl. Something about a strap-on. Mortals and their endlessly complicated mating rituals. This guy has less than thirty minutes left to live, and all he can think about is a misstep with a girl who clearly wasn’t right for him anyway. Temporary heartbreak while permanent death is thirty feet behind him, practically tapping him on the shoulder.

The irony isn’t lost on me.