by Bee Douglas
BEE DOUGLAS
A Hollow Cry
Copyright © 2018 by Bee Douglas.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact:
[email protected]
Book and Cover design by Jay Aheer from Simply Defined Art
ISBN: 978-1-7328365-0-1
First Edition: January 2019
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
A Hollow Cry
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
To my guardian angel –
You showed me that not all deaths are closed doors, but merely an added part in life’s manual – even though it’s sometimes written in a made-up language. I know you will always be there, watching and guiding me through all of the ‘damn it, what the hell is wrong with this piece of shit’ moments.
Playlist
To be Alone by Hozier
Let Her Go by Passenger**
I Can’t Breathe by Bea Miller
Blood In the Cut by K.Flay & Aire Alantica
Gods & Monsters by Lana Del Rey
Do I Wanna Know? by Artic Monkeys
Demons by Imagine Dragons**
Saviour by Daisy Gray
Mad World by Gary Jules**
I Know You by Skylar Grey
Not About Angels by Birdy**
You Belong to Me by Cat Pierce
Blood Bank by Bon Iver
White Blank Page by Mumford & Sons
You Are My Sunshine by Johnny Cash
In the End by Tommee Profitt
The Night We Met by Lord Huron
** Inspired by Jasmine Thompson
1
Kane
Flick. Snap.
Flick. Snap.
The boardroom is exceptionally quiet. What’s that saying? Silent as a graveyard? Well, ladies and gents, welcome to our own personal graveyard, minus crumbling headstones and haunted crypts. There’s just an aged table nestled several stories high in one of the many skyscrapers in this city.
Flick. Snap.
Flick. Snap.
Behind the slatted blinds, the sun sets. The last bit of daylight sinks down below the skyline, encasing the world in a nighttime abyss. We’ve been waiting for over an hour. The transition is always endless: seconds into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into even more damn hours. It’s something I should be used to by now. Our time isn’t precious to them, which means we could be waiting here until the end of next week.
Flick. Snap.
Flick. Snap.
“Stop or else I will shove that up your ass, Kane.”
For most, Griffin’s pinning glare would’ve scared them shitless. And yet, it’s taking all I have not laugh at his feeble threat. I snap the lid of the Zippo shut once more. Royce, who stops spinning around in the office chair, flashes me a coy smirk. “I swear watching you two is better than a Spanish soap.”
I raise an eyebrow in his direction. “You’re still on that kick?”
“You don’t know what you’re missing out on.”
For the past couple of months, Royce has been locked into several Spanish soap operas. He came back one night after finishing up on an assignment, ranting about an episode he watched while waiting. Binge marathons. Recording episodes. Stalking fan theories on the internet. I haven’t been able to go a week without hearing about all the drama. If I had known this was going to happen, I would’ve taken the assignment myself.
I check the time on my watch. Sadly, it’s only been seventeen minutes since I last checked. I push off from where I stand and stride toward the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Griffin stands up from his seat.
“I don’t know what in Hell is taking so long, but I’m over it,” I snap, daring him to push the subject. “I’ll be in the car.” I slam the door shut behind me, not giving him or Royce the chance to stop me. We have been shown time and time again that we are inconsequential. Why should I keep giving them the time of day?
I push through the turnstile glass door, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Summer is coming to an end. The air that’s been stagnantly humid for months now turns crisp as night nears. Lighting a cigarette, I take in a deep pull.
All around me, people wake up every day and begin their mundane lives. In a place that’s vivid and bursting with life, it’s easy to see just how many humans take their time for granted. At the end of the day though, there’s only one guaranteed fact. No matter who you are, no matter the choices you make, no one makes it out of this world alive.
A couple passes by as I take a final drag of my cigarette. Their hands are clasped together, smiling at one another. My top lip pulls into a sneer. Even the happiest of people aren’t able to put a stop to it. When Death wants you, there’s no bargaining or second chances. The fat bitch sang her song. And yet, it’s buried deep in the back of people’s minds that Heaven is simply awaiting their arrival. An ethereal paradise with cotton candy clouds is just one brightly lit tunnel away. As long as they avoid committing any of the cardinal sins, they’re fine. It’s mindsets like this that shows just how naive humans actually are. With all of the you will be forgiven and your soul will be saved bullshit that gets tossed around, it’s hysterical when they realize that it’s all a lie. In the end, no matter how hard you try to redeem yourself, it’s already been decided where you will be spending the rest of eternity. They waste time expecting to see the blinding light from one of Heaven’s feathered gnats. It’s amusing how horrid their expressions turn when they come face to face with a grim Reaper.
How do I know all of this? That’s my sole purpose. Along with hundreds of thousands of others, I’m sentenced to the duties of a Reaper. We are sent out to do Death’s bidding. We reap the souls of those destined for the burning turmoil of Hell.
Keep smiling, I think as the couple turns around the corner. You may end up being one of mine.
I stub the cigarette out with the heel of my shoe, and then walk the little ways to the town car. Singh has an audiobook playing through the speakers. The volume is turned down to the point that it’s barely audible. I slide across the leather seats until I am pressed against the opposite door. Singh’s face poses a question through the rearview mirror.
“They’ll be down,” I tell him.
He offers a slight nod before turning his focus back to the recording. The speaker’s voice alternates between accents as he reiterates a conversation.
I don’t think I’ve heard Singh speak more than a handful of words in the time that he’s been with us. As far as w
e’re concerned, he doesn’t know what we are: Griffin, Royce and I. He doesn’t know what we do. And if he has an inkling of an idea, he’s smart enough not to let on. Then again, we don’t pay him for his opinions. His role is simple: chauffeur us around and wait until we return. Even if he has suspicions, given his generous salary, he’s come to accept his place in our world quite well.
It’s not long until Royce clambers into the backseat of the car, while Griffin folds his long frame into the front. I’m handed two black envelopes, both tightly sealed with a dab of red wax. Royce offers me an apologetic look before breaking open his own envelopes. His are identical to my own. They always are. The only distinguishable difference being the names scrawled over the front of the cardstock.
“You did it to yourself.” Griffin’s snide voice drifts to the rear of the car. He reaches over and jabs the power button on the console, cutting off the audiobook, blanketing us in silence. The entire car shakes when Singh jumps, startled by Griffin’s singular command. “Drive.”
I clench my jaw shut, doing all I can to keep my comments to myself. Turning my attention to the first envelope, I slip my finger along the flap until the hardened wax gives way.
Bernard Allen Gunthrie
Born on July 3, 1944 at 10:43 pm
To die on September 15, 2018 at 9:28 pm
Location of death: Etta’s place, a self-established brewery
Convictions: regular alcohol consumption, theft of money, spousal and child abuse
I lean forward, catching the illuminated time on the dash. I have forty-five minutes to make it out to the edge of town.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I don’t miss the way Griffin’s mouth pulls up slightly. “I need to be taken out to Ridge Road.”
Singh nods and flips the lever, signaling as he turns the corner.
...
The stench of secondhand smoke is strong enough that I can smell it even before I open the door. A couple of beer gutted boars stand outside the doorway, their faces barely visible through the cloud of exhaled smoke.
Royce nudges my shoulder. “Want me to come with you?”
It’s not condescending. That’s just how Royce and I are. Stuck in a state of purgatory, abiding by the rules of Death, it’s safe to say that Reapers aren’t social butterflies. Hell, we avoid most types of interactions, especially those with humans. But with there being only a handful of us in a city’s span, the occasional bonding moments happen. That’s the case with Royce. Griffin, on the other hand, I would’ve killed him years ago if I could.
“I’ll see you tomorrow. Usual time.” I step out of the car, shutting the door with a slam. The sooner I get this over with, the sooner I can return to my loft.
Patrons are everywhere. Ladies with outdated hairdos and cheap red lipstick cackle obnoxiously. A girl with blonde hair sings along with a karaoke machine, belting out some song from the 90’s. Men with scruffy beards down beers while gesturing at a football game on the television screen. College-age coeds crowd over the felt covered pool table.
“Excuse me.”
A young lady tries to squeeze in behind me, offering a shy smile. I move closer to the brick wall to let her pass. I had typed in the name of the bar in my phone on the way over. The posts and occasional pictures didn’t do this shithole justice. It’s the epitome of a dive bar. Good Ol’ Mr. Gunthrie either doesn’t have much taste or lacks the will to create a respectable establishment.
I scan the crowd and search for the soon to be dead man. The snapshot attached to the profile card showed a man with no distinct characteristics - leather face and thin lips. He’s just the type of man to easily blend in with this crowd. I step closer to the bar as the singer hops off the stage. Several people applause her performance. The closer I get to the bar, the stronger the scent of alcohol and grease gets.
A middle-aged woman leans across the bar top. “What can I get ya, suga’?” The wad of gum in her mouth pops at the end of her question.
“Nothing. I don’t plan on being here long.” Another seventeen minutes to be exact.
Perching up on my tiptoes, I finally spot the bastard. He hands a frosted bottle over to a guy with more muscles than he has shirt. The blonde that had been singing rolls her eyes at something he says.
I keep a constant watch on Gunthrie as he tends to people around the bar. Given his age, he moves around quicker than expected.
I check the time on my phone before slipping it back in my pocket. Singh had offered to come back, but I told him to go on. Royce and Griffin didn’t have deadlines to meet tonight. And by the time he made it back around to pick me up, it’d be getting into the early hours of the night.
The bar quieted down as a girl steps on stage. She’s a ginger, but her hair isn’t the cheesy red that most think of. It’s deep - auburn with bits of copper. She leans over the karaoke equipment, talking to the DJ. A moment later, she takes the microphone in her hands, the soft sounds of piano keys fills the room.
“Well you only need the light when it’s burning low.”
Silence completely encompasses the bar crowd. The girl closes her eyes as she sings each word. Her mouth carefully forming each syllable.
“Staring at the bottom of your glass, hoping one day you’ll make a dream last.”
I have never heard someone sing the way that this human does. Her voice deepens in the perfect moments, while she breathes the words in others.
“Staring at the ceiling in the dark, same old empty feeling in your heart.”
The tips of my fingers start to buzz in a way that only happens when a soul gets ready to pass. I check my phone once more. There is still twelve more minutes left.
“Only know you’ve been high when you’re feeling low.”
An electric current travels up my arms and deep into my chest. What the hell? This shouldn’t be happening now. I glance over at Gunthrie. His trained attention breaks as he clutches his chest.
“Fuck.” I push past a group of transfixed drunks. “Tego.” I jump over the counter through open space. My boots land with a heavy thump, but no one sees any of it.
One of the first rules of serving out your sentence as a Reaper is that you cannot let the human world know of our existence. With the help of a coven of witches, those of the after life are given the ability to become concealed - visible only to the souls dying and fellow Reapers. The incantation places a minor lapse in a person’s judgement. That’s how the Grim Reaper lore began. Some servant fucked up long ago, leaving us all to walk on eggshells to prevent any more mistakes.
“Only know you love her when you let her go.”
Gunthrie slides down to the floor, his grip holding tight over his heart. Unbeknownst to the bar’s crowd, the old man is dying from a heart attack. All attention is turned toward the woman whose voice carries on. I kneel down in front of Gunthrie, his eyes shut. A cloudy film begins to rise from his fresh corpse.
“Et portae inferi rum animus manet”
Barely separated from its human host, the soul of Bernard Allen Gunthrie gets quickly sucked through the floorboards. However, it doesn’t head toward some basement stockroom.
Just as the electric buzz disperses, a high pitch scream comes from the stage. I stand up, startled like the rest of the people in the bar. The singer collapses to her knees, the balls of her hands are pressed against her head. Several people rush to the stage, the blonde from before being one of them.
All it takes is a single person to notice Gunthrie’s dead body. That person is the cow mouthed bartender. Once again, the attention is redirected. I make my way to the door, getting away from the chaos starting to stir. And yet, I can’t help but glance once more at the ruby haired girl.
2
Nora
The cab finally comes to stop outside of Etta’s. No matter how many times I urged the driver to move faster, he kept his steady pace, crawling along the city’s back streets. I don’t need to look at my phone to know that the vibrating in my back pocket is Aggie’s doing. L
ike all the others, it’s probably a text asking where I’m at or how much longer till I arrive. 9:30 sharp meant I should have arrived fifteen minutes early. The fact that I’m over an hour late guarantees that I’m going to get my ear chewed off. I reach into my purse and pull out a crumpled up twenty dollar bill, shoving it into the cabbie’s greedy hand.
“What?” He casts me a glare in the rearview mirror. “No tip?”
I roll my eyes and bite down on my tongue. He should be happy that I even have enough for the ride over, let alone a tip. Most nights, I would’ve taken the bus to Etta’s. I have a good three months paid on my bus pass. But when unexpected paperwork forces you into overtime, your hands are tied. The bus driver, like most, waits for no one. It trickled down to cancelling plans with Aggie or calling a cab. At least if I show up, I have a ride to work in morning. The scrubs I stuffed in the bottom of my bag are somewhat clean. No vomit or other bodily fluids. Bailing would’ve been the worst choice. Aggie would’ve made a show of walking by me at work and ignoring every passing smile or attempted apologies. She’s a grown woman. She’s licensed to administer medicine and manage the medical needs of another human being. And yet, she will cause you to have flashbacks of high school drama when she’s is pissed off.
Letting the cab door slam shut, I try my best to stretch out my shirt. With the extra shift I picked up earlier this week, there hasn’t been any time for me to do laundry. I could have gone home and did it all tonight, but that would’ve risked being paralyzed from the Aggie’s drama filled whiplash. It will probably be another three days before I’ll have any time to wash some clothes.
“Didn’t think you’d show up!” Barry smiles at me through the cloud of smoke him and Leon are creating.
It’s Saturday night. Etta’s is nothing to write home about. It may have been years ago, but not anymore. But there’s free alcohol due to Aggie’s connection and a break from the grueling day to day.
I offer them both a smile. “Work ran a little late.”
Inside, I have to squeeze between a table and a mountain of a man. I let out a quiet “excuse me” and make my way to the back corner. Aggie’s nearing the end of her empowerment ballad. She does one every Saturday. Tonight she graces us with Bitch, a Meredith Brooks special.