by Elle A. Rose
Blood has a distinct scent when it burns. Take the aroma of rusted sheet metal, boiling in a cast-iron pot, with seawater, and you have the smell of caramelized blood. This fragrance drifts passed me as the body of the recently deceased sizzles in its inferno tomb. I move swiftly to the driver’s side door. The car, which moments ago swerved off the side of the road, is being swallowed by orange and blue flames. In general, from the time of death, whatever the cause may be, it takes the soul twenty seconds to a full minute to leave the body. It depends on how stubborn said spirit is before it realizes that it must exit its host. My job is to be there moments before the time of death. You see, I am a vampire, or another term, which coincidently most do not refer to in the same sentence is, the grim reaper. I and others of our kind are dispersed to a scene or accident where just before the human is expected to die, we step in. Draining the body of its blood moments before its death, we then wait for the soul to emerge from the corpse, to collect it if you will, for its final destination.With the understanding that its body’s remains can no longer house its spirit, I feel a tingling sensation move across my skin as the soul and host detach.
“Where am I? What happened?”
I don’t know the soul’s name, and I really do not care to ask. I’ve grown numb to this job. Over eight centuries of this burden has become routine.
“You’re dead. See your car?” I direct his attention to the object he once called his automobile. He turns and gawks at the wreckage. The emergency crew is now on the scene, working franticly to get the fire under control.
“That’s your body burning in the car. You were drunk driving and crossed over the lane and almost hit that van.”
I point towards the other vehicle that is pulled over onto the shoulder. They’re safe. They’re the ones who called for help, although there was no saving this kid. I can’t say if I care either way, if the other motorist lived or died too, it’s just a job. “Come on, it’s time for you to go.”
“Wait! What do you mean? What’s going to happen to me?”
I should’ve figured with the amount of time it took him to exit his body, he’d be full of questions. A firefighter brushes by me in a hurry to help with the fire. Since I‘ve covered myself in the shadows of darkness, they cannot see me standing here waiting for John Doe to grasp that his time is up. “I mean that you’re dead. Seconds before your car smacked into that concrete wall, I joined you in the vehicle and drained you of your blood. Indubitably releasing your essence before your body was smashed and burned.” I like to think of that being the kind way out. I know of some who will wait until the body is damaged before they drain the corpse of its blood.
“So you killed me?”
This kid must have killed a lot of brain cells. It doesn’t surprise me. He was pretty drunk before he drove his car off the road. “No, I helped the process along. You were going to die tonight regardless of my actions. I just like my blood body temperature and not boiling hot.”
Time is of the essence, I reach out to snag his arm. He is going to make me late for my next appointment, and I don’t want that. Only two types of creatures can touch a spirit, vampires and faeries. We both have jobs to do. I believe the vampires’ job is unpleasant, since we are the ones to welcome the souls to the afterlife of Hell. Yes, vampires, aka, grim reapers, are the transporters of all those individuals that are condemned to Hell. Well, at least the souls that we make it to in time. Faeries, aka, angels, are the spirit gatherers most human beings would want to be collected by. The faerie gets to give the welcoming news that the individual has lived a life which has led them to those pearly white gates. I’ve been asked over the centuries, ‘how do I know I’m not making a mistake in the collections’ and my response is: ‘I am only sent to the location.’ I know nothing, no name, or reason why. All I recognize is the calling or draw which propels me into motion. Once on the scene, I follow the scent of death. There is always a trail, a trace of death that begins to be emitted from the body seconds before the demise occurs. That’s one of the reasons vampires move so fast. We need to be able to step in quick enough to extract the blood from the body. Part of the eternal torture of Hell is the burning sensation. That phenomenon starts once the system is drained of the crimson liquid. This kid doesn’t know it yet, but as the last bit of that lovely substance dries up, he will start to experience the burn from the inside out. Damned spirits tend to moan in pain and as the burning increases, their cries become louder. I try to get them to the gates of Hell before that point. The hollow sound of their screams can leave a feeling of someone scraping the meat and flesh from your bones.
“So, you aren’t an angel?”
We are moving at a fast pace. A human body would not be able to keep up with the speed in which I’m traveling. But as a spirit, they’re no longer limited by the unconditioned muscles humans rely on. “No, I’m not. I hate to break the news to you, kid, but you are not headed to heaven. Do you feel that burning sensation? That’s the first step in your eternal damnation.”
“But…wait! Why?”
He tries to pull away from me when he notices that his feet do little to stop his movement. The soles of his feet glide over the dirt and tree stumps as he is forced to continue on the path that I’m leading him. The gate is close by. I can sense the pull towards the fiery passage. Coming to a stop in the middle of the forest, I wait for the doorway to materialize. The gatekeeper can always recognize the arrival of a new soul. Only appearing in the darkest of locations- which could be an abandoned building, unlit parking lot, dark alley or in this case, the middle of the forest, the entrance can be revealed.
Gatekeepers and their companions, hell hounds, are more sensitive to the light than us vampires. Death occurs at all times of the day, including while the sun is out. Because of this, vampires in the olden days would wear black cloaks to help keep our pale skin from burning. Many pictures of grim reapers depict us as skeletons under those hooded robes, but I believe because our skin is so pale and we move so swiftly, that most images the human eye could detect appear as a bone. Therefore, black clothes are vital to keeping us protected. Any amount of sunlight on our skin will leave our pale flesh blistered and peeling. We’ve since done away with the robes, wearing all black, like a hoodie, jacket, and pants will do the trick now.
Feeling the rays of sun on our skin, would probably compare to what my John Doe is experiencing. He has started to moan and rock as we wait for the gate to appear.
“Please, can I go back?” he whispers. “What will happen to my body?”
I glance and find him rubbing his hands up and down his arms. His semi-transparent eyes give a ghostly appearance. “You cannot go back. There is nothing left but charred remains.”
“My mom, what will she think?”
I shrug my shoulders. I’m sure his mother will think the same thing all mothers think.
The warmth from the gate draws me forward. I slam into the invisible wall and a hiss escapes from my lips. I’m not allowed to enter. Even the bowels of Hell do not allow me passage. The two Hell hounds perk their ears, but do not move from their seated positions; not until they’re given the commanded. Undisturbed by my movement, Eskil, the operator of this entry bows.
“Evening, Cyrene. How be you tonight?”
“Well, Eskil. And yourself?” As he contemplates my question, he brings his blackened fingernails to his stubby chin. The act of his nails moving across the stubble sounds of steel grinding upon steel.
“Yuh got a busy night ahead of you? Don’t know if I’ll be seeing you again, though. I’m being pulled towards the south.”
“Yes, the weekends tend to bring out the casualties. This one here is my first of the night. I’m being pulled towards the west after this.”
“Reckon you better be getting on your way. No one ends up happy when they go unclaimed.”
“I think you’d be right on that.”
Eskil gives the quietest of sounds, and the two Hell hounds shift into action. Both massive two h
undred pound beasts, move from their seated position and come forth to guide the soul towards its new home. Besides the soul, the Hell hounds are the only ones able to cross the invisible line. Although Eskil craves for the coolness of the night air to brush his ashy skin, and I want to experience the heat that is being released from the depths of the gates, neither one of us can cross that line. John Doe sees the huge hounds shuffling closer and turns to flee. One of the hounds gives a grisly howl and the spirit stops. John Doe then turns on the silent command to face the passageway, and the hounds, one in front and one behind, march the boy forward.
“No, please! I don’t want to go! Take me home! Please! I’m sorry!”
“You’ve got a talker on your hands.” I say.
“That we do. Those are always the fun ones.” Eskil rubs his hands together in anticipation as he watches the boy cross the threshold. Without another word the gate slams shut and the warmth disappears.
I turn on my heels and head towards the west. I must move as fast as possible. The next death will occur soon, and I don’t want to miss it. No spirit collector wants to miss the separation of a spirit from its body. Father Time is always working against us, then again, so is Mother Nature. Besides the bickering between themselves, they also try