by Scare Street
The Devil came after all, he thought in despair. It came, and stood with me, gave me the power to save her, working an unholy miracle. And now it will claim its price from me. Take my soul.
In that split-second, Richard did not care. He had saved Mari, and losing his life was worth it. He smiled and raised his hands in a gesture of acceptance. Then froze again. The figure in front of him mirrored his actions precisely.
He was looking at his reflection in the full-length mirror of Mari’s closet door.
He turned again, looking at the woman he loved. Mari had stopped screaming and was huddled, knees drawn up, in the far corner of the room. She had, he thought, quite possibly gone insane. She might well live another sixty or seventy years, healthy in body, but maimed in mind, her life shaped by this terrible encounter.
He made one last effort to speak but produced only a foul noise somewhere between a growl and a belch. As he lost the power of speech, he felt a last, slender thread of humanity part, and his soul was submerged in the diabolical being he had become. He felt the disgusting body start to move, heading outside, without a backward glance at the woman in the corner.
The bargain had been completed—a life saved in return for the Devil’s entry into the world. As it crashed out of the front door into the night, Richard felt the transformed body begin to grow, become appallingly strong and resilient. He got a slight foretaste of what the vile creature was going to do.
Mari was alive.
Thousands, perhaps millions, of others would not be so fortunate.
* * *
Sherrell’s Triumph
By Sharon M. White
Not so long ago, Sherrell, her mother, father, and Grandma Kitsch had gathered in the cemetery at the base of the mountain to say goodbye to Joe. Sherrell had loved her younger brother very much. She had even crocheted him a pair of booties to wear when he was born. Being ten years older than him, Sherrell secretly thought of him as her baby.
There were no other children on the mountain. All the little rick-shacks had been abandoned for as long as she could remember. The adults sometimes spoke of a time when there were neighbors and a close-knit community, but Sherrell had difficulty believing such stories. Baby Joe’s arrival had been the end of her loneliness. She had taken him with her everywhere her mother would allow.
And, as he grew older, she sometimes took him where their mother did not allow.
When Joe had turned seven, Sherrell had promised to take him on an adventure. He did not allow her to forget the promise.
“You have to be quiet, and you can never tell Mama or Pa or Grandma Kitsch. We’ll both get into trouble if you do.” Sherrell had buttoned his coat and tied his shoes quietly as the adults sat in the living room, telling stories of the old days, and their father got drunker and drunker.
“I won’t.” The excitement in his eyes had filled Sherrell’s heart with love for the boy. She would do anything to keep him happy.
They’d snuck out of the house undetected. The full moon in a cloudless sky lit the wide mountain path as they headed away from home. It was not the first time they had snuck out into the night. They had spent a few evenings catching fireflies or pondering the stars. But they had never taken to the path that led down the mountain, toward the old cemetery at night.
Gripping her hand tightly, Joe had grinned. “Do you think it’s safe? We won’t get eaten up by a bear, will we?”
Giggling, Sherrell had shaken her head. “Well, I won’t say definitely not, but it’s highly unlikely that a bear would bother with us.”
They’d walked slowly, enjoying the quiet creepiness of the surrounding forest. The wind danced lightly through the trees. The rattling of the leaves reminiscent of old bones jangling together.
Speaking quietly, Joe had said, “Tell me the story again, Sherrell.” When she had not started it right away, he’d tugged on her hand, urging her.
Sherrell liked the story. She had heard her grandmother tell it several times over the years. “Well, at one time, there were a lot of people living on this mountain. Lots of kids and adults and they were always happy. When people started to die—you know, all people die eventually—they had to have somewhere to bury them.”
Joe had looked up at her, wide-eyed. “I don’t think I ever want to die and be buried.” He’d given a big faux shiver.
She had laughed and ruffled his silky, straight hair. “No one does, and kids don’t die, only old people.”
“Like Grandma Kitsch!” He had not seemed sad; he was simply making a statement.
Sherrell had nodded. Grandma Kitsch’s death had not crossed her mind before. Her mood had dampened as they descended the mountain and the thought of death so close to home floated in the back of her mind.
“Anyway, the people made a cemetery at the foot of the mountain and put up a rock wall around it, made it real pretty. Then they built a tiny house there. It was for the keeper. He kept the cemetery neat and pretty, helped dig the holes and put up the gravestones. He kept his shovels and hedge trimmers in the little house. There was a fireplace so he could stay warm during the winter if he happened to get snowed in, too.”
“I wouldn’t want to live with all them dead people around my house. That’s scary.” Joe had concentrated on the path ahead, keeping hold of Sherrell’s hand.
“This man didn’t mind. He was odd anyway, he liked being alone and he liked the cemetery. They say he made a deal with the Reaper who came to collect the souls of the dead. The Reaper wanted away from his job, he wanted to go live a normal life. He had seven jade-green vases filled with ashes that kept him immortal; that is he would never die, as long as they were full. The only thing was, the ashes were made from living people.” She’d paused for dramatic effect.
Joe had turned his wide eyes to her, fear playing in them alongside awe in equal measure. “That’s terrible!” He had peered into the forest beyond Sherrell for a moment and then looked back at her, a half-smile on his face. “Then what?”
“The old man agreed to do the Reaper’s job as long as he could have the vases of ashes and be immortal. The Reaper agreed and gave him the vases. For thirty years, the agreement stood. But one night, the Reaper returned. He was a haggard old man by then and wanted his vases back so he wouldn’t die. He fought with the keeper, who accidentally knocked over a vase, spilling the ashes. The Reaper quickly gathered them all and held out the empty one toward the keeper. The Reaper would not be immortal if one of the vases was empty. He wrapped the man in his long, black, ragged cloak, and turned him to ashes. The ashes went into the vase, and the Reaper was immortal again. He lives in the cemetery house now, and Grandma said that if you sneak in there, you can still see those green vases lined up on a shelf.”
“Ooh! Are we gonna see the vases, Sherrell?” Joe had grinned mischievously.
“Yes, we are.” A little thrill had shot through her chest at the thought. She could see the Reaper so vividly in her mind.
Sherrell had taken Joe into the cemetery, winding her way through the tombstones that leaned drunkenly in different directions. At the door of the little house, she’d paused. “Are you sure you’re not scared?”
“No way! I want to see them. I might even want to see the Reaper, but when I’m older, not tonight.” Joe had put his hand on the door beside hers and they had pushed it open together.
The vases sat on a shelf, covered in thick cobwebs. Sherrell had looked closely at them. All identical.
Joe had stretched and tiptoed, but was too short to get a good look.
“Let me see one, Sherrell.” His voice had a whine to it that she could not bear; it meant he was unhappy.
She had pulled the vase closest to the end of the shelf down, dusted away most of the cobwebs, and held it out to him. “You be careful with that, Joe. Don’t you drop it. You know what happens if you do.” She had chuckled.
He had cradled it close and wiped at the cobwebs around the top. Sherrell had turned her attention to the others, wondering w
hose ashes were in them.
Joe had gasped and Sherrell had spun back to him, fear welling up in her throat. In his attempt to clean the vase, he had accidentally flipped the little latch, and the ashes had dumped to the floor.
Sherrell had grabbed the vase, closed the lid and the latch, and set it back on the shelf with the others. As she tugged him toward the door, a long, wailing moan had risen from the pile of ashes.
The ashes had twisted into the air in a miniature tornado. That shape had soon taken the form of a woman. She looked only a little older than Sherrell.
Backing toward the door, pulling a crying Joe along, Sherrell had watched the ghostly woman advance on them.
The ghost had stopped wailing long enough to say, “Thank you.”
The ashes had swirled past Sherrell’s cheek and into the night sky.
A deep, roaring moan had come from the forest by the cemetery, and Joe had plopped to the ground, covering both ears and squeezing his eyes shut tightly. When she’d tried to pull him toward the mountain path, he had run back into the little house and shut the door.
The loud groan had drawn closer and she’d run to the door, pounding at it. “Joe, you have to come out of there! Open the door!”
She had never heard such a sound on the mountain and feared what could be causing it. In her heart, she thought she knew. The ghostly woman had not been part of some story that someone made up. She had been real. If she was real, logic dictated that so was the Reaper.
The Reaper had come into view. It was the first time Sherrell had seen him. A swirl of tall grass and fallen leaves had swirled under him as he moved over the wall and into the cemetery. His feet did not touch the ground. Like his hands and face, his feet were covered with flaps of ethereal skin, the memory of real skin that had long ago died and rotted away from the bones. His tattered robe whipped in the wind like the fabric of a ship’s sail as he came up the path to the door.
Sherrell had been rooted in place with terror. She had only half believed the stories. It had been just a fun, spooky adventure to entertain herself and her brother. Something to save them from complete boredom. She had been forced to step aside as the Reaper had flown past without slowing, flinging the door wide open.
The Reaper had stopped at the shelf, inspecting the vases, his robe settling around his skeletal body and turning to green leaves and blades of grass, the scythe’s blade twinkling in the moonlight from the window.
Joe had sprung to his feet, looked up at the Reaper’s back, and then to Sherrell. She had reached for him, stretching her arms out.
The Reaper had turned, glowering down at them. “Empty!” He had brandished the vase toward Joe.
Joe had shrieked as the robe enveloped him. His last word had been, “Sherrell!”
His ashes had funneled up into the air from under the robe and down into the vase. The Reaper had latched the lid, placed the vase on the shelf, and turned to Sherrell.
“He’s mine now and forevermore. A trade has been made and found satisfactory.” The debris from the floor had whirled to life under his feet and the Reaper had moved out into the cemetery, tracking Sherrell’s retreat.
Running home, Sherrell had burst through the door and into the living room, her sobs uncontrollable, and had spilled the story to the adults. Her father had been too drunk to do more than shake Sherrell, but her mother had not been.
“You got your brother killed? How dare you show your face here again! It should have been you, I hate you! I’ve always hated you!” She had tangled one hand in Sherrell’s hair and used her other fist like a battering ram, pummeling Sherrell until she was unconscious.
She had awoken to Grandmother Kitsch running a damp cloth gently over her face. “Shh! No more crying. It was an accident, child.”
Her grandmother’s eyes had been red-rimmed and swollen from her own crying bout. Everyone had loved Joe. Even her father, in his own drunken haze, had a love for the boy. He had beaten Joe less than he had beaten Mama or Sherrell, and in his world, that showed love.
Sherrell had hugged her grandma. “I’m so sorry, Grandmother Kitsch! I didn’t mean for it to happen. I thought it was just scary stories, nothing more. Now Joe is trapped forever!”
Quieting Sherrell, her grandmother had held her tightly until the tears had abated. “He won’t be trapped forever, Sherrell. I’ll see to it myself.”
The next day, the family had gathered at the cemetery. Sherrell’s mother had spat venomous words of hate toward her on the trek. Her father had dragged a shovel and looked at the ground, constantly shaking his head. He was drunk again, and his staggering gait was proof.
Grandmother Kitsch had kept her arm around Sherrell as if trying to ward off the curses and foul words of her daughter-in-law.
Inside the cemetery, Sherrell’s father had sat on a headstone and thrown the shovel at her feet. “You killed him, you little wretch. You dig the hole.”
Stunned, Sherrell had replied, “But there’s no…there’s no…” She had broken down into sobs.
Grandmother Kitsch had said, “Jakob, you know there’s no body to bury.”
“We brought his best clothes to bury, Mother! He deserves a proper resting place.” Sherrell’s father had tossed a packet wrapped in newspaper and tied with twine onto the ground by the shovel. He had kicked out, catching Sherrell in the thigh. “Get digging before we’re burying two kids today.”
Sherrell had dug until her fingers bled and all her tears were gone. She had thought the well of tears was unending, but they abated and refused to fall anymore as the blisters broke and blood oozed down her fingers.
After the burial, her parents had stomped back up the mountain path, leaving Sherrell and Grandmother Kitsch alone.
“We’ll stop by the creek and clean your hands. Don’t want those getting infected.”
Numbly, Sherrell had let her grandmother lead her along without a word.
The following month passed much in the same way. There was nothing left to live for. Joe had been Sherrell’s life. Her mother spewed abhorrence at her every time Sherrell came within view. Her father doled out slaps and kicks without warning.
Grandmother Kitsch stopped coming to Sherrell’s room one day. Worried that her grandma had forsaken her, too, Sherrell climbed out her window, as had become habit, and down to the ground. She listened to her parents discussing Grandmother Kitsch’s failing health from outside the small kitchen window. It seemed they did not expect Grandmother Kitsch to survive the week.
That night, under cover of darkness, Sherrell snuck into her grandmother’s room.
“Grandmother Kitsch, is it true?”
“I’m afraid so, child. I’ve come to the end of my journey here. I might have a week left. Don’t you worry for me, though. I’ve had a good long life.”
Sherrell remained until the old woman fell asleep, and then she snuck out of the house. She wanted to do one thing to make her grandma happy before she died. It would please her to know that Joe’s spirit had been freed.
Something tracked her progress down the mountain. Sometimes mountain lions or bobcats would track unwary people through the woods. Fighting her fear, Sherrell jogged to the cemetery.
At the little house, she peered through the grimy window. There was no movement. She supposed the Reaper had to travel farther to collect the souls of the newly dead, since only her family remained on this mountain.
Easing the door open, she gave her eyes time to adjust to the darkness inside. Moonlight glinted dully off the vase that held Joe’s ashes. She reached for it and hugged it to her chest as she walked outside.
“Don’t worry, Joe, I’ll set you free,” she whispered. Unlatching the top, she heard movement behind her. It was the sound of feet rushing through the high grass.
Turning the vase upside down, she braced for impact as a figure lunged at her. A man hit her hard, knocking her back into the side of the house. The empty vase flew from her grip, hitting the man. He stooped to pick it up and turn it ove
r in his hands.
It was her father.
“What the hell did you do?” His slurred words sickened her.
“I freed Joe.”
The terrible bellowing emanated from the woods, and Sherrell ran away from the house, stopping briefly before exiting the cemetery grounds.
Her father turned toward the rushing sound, the vase in one outstretched hand, trying to keep his balance. The Reaper grabbed the vase and screamed, “Empty!”
Then her father disappeared into the robe and his ashes filled the vase.
Wiping the blood from her split lip, Sherrell headed home, a small bit of happiness in her heart.
The sunrise brought her mother banging into her room. “Where is your father?” She jerked the cover off Sherrell. “Where is he? What have you done?”
Cowering, Sherrell shrugged.
Her mother grabbed a shoe from the floor and descended upon Sherrell, beating the girl with it.
“He’s gone, Mama!” Sherrell fended off the last of the blows.
“Gone where?” The shoe dropped from her hand.
“Into the vase. He followed me to the cemetery last night and I didn’t know it. When I dumped Joe’s ashes, the Reaper snatched Pa.” Though the beating hurt, and her mother’s hateful attitude hurt worse, there were no tears left in Sherrell.
“You killed your baby brother and now you’ve killed your father.” Her mother’s voice was low, and she walked out of the room seemingly in a trance.
Sherrell told Grandmother Kitsch what had happened. She was happy that Joe was freed but lamented her son’s early demise and eternal entrapment.
Grandmother Kitsch held on for the week, and then, to their amazement, seemed to improve. Not enough to take care of herself, but enough that her death did not feel so imminent.
Caring for her grandma became Sherrell’s duty. Her mother worked in the fields most days until nightfall. She still spouted her hate every chance she got, but that had become less aggressive, too.