Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
Acknowledgments
DON’T FEAR
THE REAPER
by Michelle Muto
Copyright © 2011 by Michelle Muto
All Rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever without prior written permission by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without express written permission of the author.
Please respect the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or to events or locations is entirely coincidental.
To my sister Sherry who is always there for me, even when we’re miles apart.
I love you more than words, Sis.
Also by Michelle Muto
The Book of Lost Souls
CHAPTER ONE
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for they are with me.
I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood drift from my wrist. I’d hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me from wondering what my sister’s dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let the emptiness consume me.
Jordan had kept my secrets and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I should have said something, but nothing I said or did now could bring her back or make anyone understand what she meant to me.
Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell me about heaven...
I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If God existed, I was convinced he had given up on me. Not once did I sense he’d heard a single one of my prayers. I wasn’t asking for the world—I only wanted to know if my sister was safe and at peace. What was so hard about that?
She should still be here. It wasn’t fair.
I’d been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I’d even gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad had worried I’d get Jordan into drugs, too. But I wouldn’t. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before Jordan’s death. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that remained of my previous lifestyle.
Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan’s funeral two months ago. She and I were twins, so I understood how hard it was for them to look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn’t look at me at all. Mom went to the psychiatrist, but no one asked if I needed to talk to someone about what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants. Yeah, sure. Don’t give the former addict pills of any sort.
Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul. Why couldn’t anyone see? Jordan had been more than my sister—she’d been my Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I’d failed her. I wasn’t the one who’d killed her, but I might as well have been. How could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her death.
I shall fear no evil.
I couldn’t very well recite the first part of Psalm 23 because it said I shall not want, and I did want. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted my sister back. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell with demons cackling gleefully all around.
I didn’t want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn’t know of another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the cancer I’d come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly unbearable?
Before I’d gotten down to cutting my wrist (I managed to only cut one), I’d taken a few swigs of Dad’s tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement freezer. I’d used another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom’s sleeping pills in the event I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I’d set the bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement. Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad’s Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.
It would have been easier to OD, I suppose. But I felt closer to my sister this way, to suffer as she’d suffered.
I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It had become my personal mantra.
The words resonated in my parents’ oversized bathroom. I’d chosen theirs because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.
Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble bath but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more so it was probably just as well. Besides, the crimson streaming from my wrist like watercolor on silk was oddly mesmerizing.
The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from the psalms made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to call me home.
I tried not to think of who would find my body or who’d read the note I’d left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents, too.
My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm water. Killing myself had been harder than I’d imagined. I hadn’t anticipated the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my good arm but couldn’t quite manage. Tears welled in my eyes.
Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she wasn’t.
Give me a sign, Sis. Just one.
I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—their gaunt faces, red-eyed and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn’t the devastation of losing one child enough?
No. Stop. A voice in my head screamed. Don’t do this. Don’t. Please...
I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I could see the phone on my parents’ nightstand. I could make it that far. Had to. The voice was right. I didn’t want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy. Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. Focusing became difficult. A sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 911? I couldn’t remember getting out of the tub. And why’d I get back in? Did I use a towel?
Mom is going to be pissed when she sees the blood I’ve tracked all
over the bedroom carpet.
“I’m sorry,” I told the man in black.
“It’s okay, Keely. Don’t be afraid.” Not my father’s voice. It was softer, with a hint of sorrow. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I’d feel embarrassed about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I’d almost become. My teeth clattered from the chill. My eyelids fluttered in time with my breaths. The tub water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty, red watercolor ribbons were gone.
Dull gray clouded my sight.
A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface again.
“—okay, Keely.”
Cold. So cold.
“I’m right here.”
There was no fear in me as the man bent forward, his face inches from mine. He was my father’s age, and yet strangely older. His eyes were so...blue, almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and cradled mine. My fingers clutched his. I sighed, feeling myself floating, drifting. Light—high and intense exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much! I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn’t come.
Finally, the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.
CHAPTER TWO
The slow, steady drip of water woke me. It had cooled and my fingers were wrinkled. I shivered and rubbed my arms. A cursory glance told me I’d imagined the paramedic in black—I was alone and still in the tub. Chalk it up to blood loss, sleeping pills, and the hallucinogenic power of tequila.
Horrorstruck at what I had almost done, I quickly fumbled for the drain. I felt sluggish, my senses dull. But the more I moved about, the more the scrim of fog in my brain lifted.
Somewhere between getting out of the tub, showering, going back to my room and getting dressed, I had a serious lapse of memory. I mean, I know I must have done all those things, seeing as I was cleaned up and wearing different clothes, but I couldn’t remember doing any of it. Yeah, I definitely needed some espresso. A couple of years ago, I’d have taken an upper. Never again. After tonight’s close call, I’d even swear off aspirin.
My wrist didn’t hurt much. The cut was still there, but it was no longer bleeding. I examined the damage, careful not to tug on the surrounding skin and reopen the wound. It should have been deeper than this. I remembered it being deeper. I walked down the hall into the bathroom Jordan and I once shared to get a better look and find some ointment and a bandage. I probably needed stitches. But, a visit to the emergency room meant telling my parents I’d almost committed suicide and that wasn’t going to happen. Groggy or not, I might be able to drive myself to the hospital, but I didn’t want to risk that either. Someone might see what I’d tried to do and put me in the psych ward. Sure, I could say I’d cut myself by accident, but I feared the ER doctor would see the lie and the regret in my eyes.
I inspected my wrist again. I could have sworn the gash was larger and deeper just a few minutes ago. I decided against the ER. Without stitches, I’d have a nasty scar. After dabbing on some vitamin E and antiseptic, I searched for bandages, hoping the gash would eventually heal on its own.
I was lucky I hadn’t bled to death. Luckier still that I hadn’t drowned. How I managed to pass out and not fill my lungs with water, I don’t know. I’d read death by exsanguination rarely worked. Apparently, my subconscious remembered that fact when I’d chosen this method of suicide.
I finished bandaging my wrist, then hung over the toilet and stuck my finger down my throat hoping to rid myself of any undissolved pills or remaining tequila. I’d felt worse, but I’d also felt better. Regardless, I needed to get as much of that crap out of my stomach as possible. I retched a few times and my eyes watered, but nothing came up. At least I didn’t have that annoying buzzing in my head like I used to get after partying. The jittery sensation was thankfully absent as well, although everything—from my muscles to my breathing—felt muted and surreal.
I’d read in one of the pamphlets Mom got from her psychiatrist that grief was like drugs. Maybe I just had to bottom out. This time, I’d ask my parents for help. The pain couldn’t last forever, could it?
My wrist had stopped bleeding, so that was a bonus. Looking back, I couldn’t remember how red the water in the tub had been. Water always made the amount of blood appear worse than it really was.
Ribbons. Pretty ribbons.
On a whim, I peeled back the tape and gauze from my wrist, and frowned. The cut had sealed, looking much more healed than physically possible. Despite the lack of any chemical hangover, my brain was clearly malfunctioning. Maybe I’d make a whole pot of coffee, extra strong and add a few shots of espresso.
Instead, I went back to my room and sat on the edge of my bed. What a mess I was! I couldn’t even manage to commit suicide right. That was a good thing, even if it didn’t do a whole lot to lighten my mood.
My heart thudded wearily, like it’d been broken into a million shards of glass. I’d never felt so lost. So vulnerable. I wanted my parents. I wanted my sister. I wanted our lives back. I wanted everything the way it was before Jordan died.
“I miss you so much, Jordan. I only wanted to be with you again. Please, Sis. Tell me what to do.” I hung my head. “I need you.”
“It’ll be okay, Keely.” Not my sister’s voice. Not even close.
I jerked my head up and looked around. He was just as mysterious as I’d remembered, in his black shirt, pants, and duster. All that black was in stark contrast to his wavy blond hair and those eyes. They were what I’d call a forever blue—the kind of eyes that seemed as though they could read souls. I’d never seen irises like his—bright, like they were lit from behind. He was handsome for someone of my parents’ age—early forties. What was it about those eyes that calmed me when I should have been terrified at finding a complete stranger in my room? For all I knew, the effects of the tequila and sleeping pills hadn’t worn off. He definitely wasn’t a paramedic. But, he had saved my life, and then politely waited for me to clean up and get dressed.
“Thanks,” I said. “For what you did.”
He shrugged.
“I have no idea what you see in her, Banning. Doesn’t seem worth it to me,” another voice said.
A second guy entered my room. He was about my age, packing pure attitude and a lean, fit physique into a red Harley Davidson t-shirt and a pair of faded Levi’s. His short brown hair was perfectly mussed, and he had fierce, dark eyes. And apparently, an equally fierce tongue.
Who were these two? They almost acted as though they knew me, yet this felt all wrong. My first semi-coherent thought, based on the man in black’s attire, was that he worked with Dad at the District Attorney’s office and the younger guy was his smart-ass son, or maybe his assistant. Dad had done this before—had someone from the office stop by to pick up a brief or some notes. But who’d let them in the house?
With a bit of effort, I managed to lift my head in the newcomer’s direction. “And you are?”
Instead of answering, he simply rolled his eyes. What a jerk. Maybe he’d be a bit more cordial over that pot of coffee I wanted. Or not. I stood and shoved past Mr. Attitude.
He grabbed hold of my arm. “Relax, Sunshine.”
His grin creeped me out. I pulled away, but he blocked my path. “Who the hell are either of you?” I asked, finally becoming a bit freaked out now that the ice in my brain had started to thaw. I no longer cared that the man in black had saved my life. This was weird.
He turned and walked out of my room into the hallway. “You explain it to her, Banning. This is your deal, anyway.”
The guy in black, Banning, apparently, motioned for me to follow him from my room. “Come on, Keely. Let’s talk.”
Even in my current dazed state everything felt wrong. Maybe these men weren’t who I’d first thought. I shook my head in an attempt to jump-start my brain. The motion only made my vision
blur. I really needed that coffee.
“I’m Banning,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m here to help you.”
I didn’t take his hand. I wanted to sit down and collect myself before I vomited or fell over. I steadied myself against my desk instead. “No offense, but you look like the mafia. Or an undertaker.”
He laughed and his blue eyes lit up his face again. “Neither. This isn’t going to be easy to hear, Keely.”
Great. He even sounded like Dad. I paused, my brain finally clicking into gear and setting off an alarm. It dawned on me why he was here. Something horrible had happened to my parents on the way home from the dinner party. “My mom and dad—are they okay?”
Banning raised a hand. “They’re fine, Keely. Really. But I do have a bit of bad news.”
“Are you from Dad’s office?” I asked, now certain again that he was, and certain, too, that he was lying about Mom and Dad’s well being. After all this, I couldn’t imagine something happening to them. I was still having some minor difficulty unscrambling all my thoughts. That did it. Tomorrow, I was becoming a health freak.
“Five minutes, I think. Then they’ll be here,” Mr. Attitude called out. “Tell her, Banning. What are you waiting for?”
“Tell me what?” I asked.
The younger man returned, still in his perpetual state of annoyance. “You’re dead, Sunshine. Banning here is a reaper. I’m Daniel, the demon who’ll be escorting you and him to hell at the end of next week.”
“Shut it, Daniel!” Banning spat. “Can’t you even try to demonstrate some decency?”
“Just saving time, buddy. Decency is getting her out of here before she sees her corpse or the look on her parents’ faces when they walk into their bathroom. They’ll be in the driveway soon. In six minutes, give or take, they’ll be screaming…”
Oh, yeah. Mr. Attitude was full-on crazy.
Banning took a step toward Daniel. “I. Said. Shut it! She doesn’t belong to you. Shouldn’t belong to your side.”
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