My
comforter suddenly felt very heavy at my feet. I turned over. By the age of
eighty you have gotten used to such nighttime oddities.
A
chill sprung up on the back of my neck. I tugged my blanket up over it. The
cold came again, penetrating straight to the bone. My body went rigid.
“Wake
up, and face your end.” It was a young voice, but gurgled, as if spoken through
a mouthful of water.
I
burrowed into my pillow. Nighttime oddities.
“Don’t
be afraid,” said the voice. I felt a hand on my back. It was warm, in stark
contrast to the frigid breath pouring down on me.
I
reached up for my spectacles. The moon let a thin pool of light in through my
window, just enough to see the silhouette. Despite the darkness, the form
owning that awful voice was distinct. Its cloak was black, so black it glowed. Its
face was chalky. And familiar.
The
Grim Reaper smiled. He held no weapon, so far as I could see. But his sea-green
eyes sent terror into my heart. “Hello, Grandpa.”
“Thomas.”
I shut my eyes and begged for this dream to end.
“Put
your hand on my chest. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt you. I just want you to feel
something.”
His
breathing did not cease. I placed my shaking hand out to touch his ribs. Then
the bone fell away. My hand went damp.
“I
was so excited to finally go fishing with you grandpa. My parents were worried
at first. What made this time different, that you finally gave in to my
pleading? They were only a little surprised when they received the news that I
had drowned. An accident, of course.”
“Wake
up. Wake up now,” I muttered.
“I
gave you a year grandpa. To atone. To feel a single shred of guilt.” I felt his
hand on my chest.
“You
are the Reaper, Thomas? Herald of the Dead?”
“I
am your Reaper, grandpa. Not a herald, just a boy.”
My
chest softened. I fought to breath. But it did no good. My lungs were sandbags
full of the water.
