His Name Was Death (Dead Man's Tale Book 1)

by J. Eric Hance

  At the far end of the hall, the next set of stairs began to pulse red.

  “Thank you, Emma.”

  She smiled, and it was the kind of warm and genuine smile that lights up an entire room. “It was my pleasure.”

  I started to turn away, but she reached out to grab my arm.

  I only flinched a little, I swear.

  “Hey, I still don’t know your name.”

  “Yeah…that makes two of us.”

  She shrugged, unconcerned. “Okay, well, let me know.”

  With a final smile, Emma disappeared into the suite.

  Elliott’s growls slowly subsided as we descended toward the first floor, though his hackles remained slightly raised. Of course, Emma had just dumped a bucket of water on him.

  And me.

  Now that we were alone, the robe swirled around me once again, drying me completely.

  Elliott, still soaking wet, silently glared.

  The pulsing red light flared up around the door out to the street. I took a long, slow breath and held it until my lungs began to ache. Exhaling, I stepped back into the dark Seattle evening.

  The red light no longer bounced, but rather slid sullenly to the left. It stopped, waiting for my next move.

  My first step was the hardest. The weight of a mountain was chained to my ankle, holding me back. I shoved both hands into the pockets of my trench coat as I struggled through the second step, and then the third, the mountain shrinking as I advanced.

  The red light perked up at my approach. By my fourth step, it started to hop happily in place. As we neared the intersection, it jumped exuberantly and bounced on down the street ahead of Elliott and me, leading the way.

  It led a few blocks north, where a cab idled in front of an art gallery. The cab driver read his newspaper in the front seat, finishing the last few bites of a sandwich. He made an obvious point of ignoring me.

  My bright red guide bounced into the gallery window, where it briefly vanished. The gallery was closed, and its window was dark. On display were several caricatures of celebrities and famous people from history. I didn’t recognize the artist’s name. I’ve never been into art, but I didn’t think it would have mattered; the faces were recognizable, but just barely.

  One, in particular, began to strobe slowly with a red glow.

  I turned back to the cab. The driver sighed, nodding to me over the top of his paper.

  I nodded back.

  He folded the paper, taking exaggerated time and care in laying it on the front seat as the remaining sandwich vanished in two bites. Finally, with a smug smile, he rolled down the passenger window.

  “Need a ride?”

  I nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah.”

  The back door clicked, unlocking. I slipped in, holding the door open long enough for Elliott to sneak quietly onto the floorboard at my feet, out of the driver’s sight. He curled up on my shoes, soaking them again.

  I doubt that was accidental.

  “Where to?”

  I sighed in resignation. The flashing caricature was Martin Luther King, Jr.

  “M.L.K. Way.”

  Elliott mewed softly as we looked up and down the street. It was a little after midnight, and the area was largely deserted.

  “You sure you gonna be all right, buddy?” The driver was only willing to roll the window a quarter of the way down to ask the question.

  Elliott’s soft mews sounded suspiciously like the word “no,” but I nodded…not quite trusting myself to speak.

  The cab wasted no time driving away.

  As a general rule, the Seattle area doesn’t have slums or projects like most major US cities. Sure, certain areas are considered more or less desirable, but those are spread throughout the city and surrounding neighborhoods.

  Rainier Valley is the closest thing to an exception.

  The Valley, one of Seattle’s most “ethnically diverse” neighborhoods, is southeast of downtown. It roughly follows Rainier Avenue South and Martin Luther King Jr. Way. It’s the kind of place that’s constantly being cleaned up, revitalized, improved, and “taken back.” When you hear about gang trouble in Seattle, it’s typically in Rainier Valley.

  A lot of people will tell you the Valley is perfectly safe now, for anybody, any time, day or night…that the gangs are under control, or have been driven out entirely. Of course, none of those people were around as I stood there alone at midnight.

  We’d passed a lot of run-down, empty storefronts on our way here. The residential street to which my red guide had led the cab, two blocks east of Rainier Avenue, was filled with cheap, dilapidated housing. Graffiti covered every street sign, as well as most of the homes. A few cars sat on blocks, separated from their tires.

  One window in four was either busted out or covered with duct-taped cardboard. Many doorways, like dark yawning mouths, stood open—the houses abandoned long ago. Nearly every yard was shaggy and overgrown with weeds.

  My pulse raced, my mind frantically flitting back and forth between what would happen when I reached my destination, and what might happen on the way there.

  Elliott whimpered at my feet.

  The bouncing red light blazed suddenly to life beside me, launching eagerly down the street and around the corner.

  I hurried to keep up.

  I was terrified of reaching my destination, but I was far less interested in being left behind. My companion stayed at my side, head constantly swiveling as if trying to watch all directions at once.

  It was eerily quiet and deserted, even for the middle of the night, which ratcheted my nerves even tighter. The bouncing red light led us at just short of a jog for almost thirty minutes, constantly changing direction, ducking down different streets. I wasn’t even sure how far we’d gone.

  In that whole time, we didn’t see one other person.

  I didn’t know if my guide was avoiding people, or if the people who lived here didn’t feel comfortable being out in the dark.

  And I wasn’t sure which was worse.

  The pulsing light vanished suddenly and I stumbled to a halt, breathing hard. Elliott collapsed at my side.

  I growled angrily. “Why the hell couldn’t the cab just take us wherever we’re going?”

  Elliott stood, still softly wheezing as he responded. “No one must see you near an assignment, Reaper—no one should remember your presence. The guide does what it must to ensure your anonymity. You do not want mortals to associate you with death. It can lead to…problems.”

  I shivered, imagining what kinds of problems Elliott might mean.

  The pulsing light flared up suddenly, taking shape. A glowing red, ghostly figure stood before me, facing ahead. Its cape was clearly visible, rustling lightly in a nonexistent breeze. The cowl was drawn to obscure its features—not that I needed to see them. In its right hand, it held a scythe which towered over its head.

  A red Reaper.

  The quintessential Angel of Death.

  My heart leaped into my throat; I tried, and failed, to swallow it down. Emma’s words had struck an emotional chord, had spurred me into action.

  I hadn’t stopped to think.

  The very thing I feared, that I’d vowed to avoid, was here.

  If there was any other way, I’d take it; tonight had cruelly taught me there was no other option.

  Terrifying.

  Inescapable.

  It was time to wear the uniform.

  It was time to be a Reaper.

  IX

  The Reaping

  I took several deep breaths, staring through the glowing form at the houses beyond. The street was empty; other than Elliott, I was completely and utterly alone.

  The cat watched me quizzically, looking for what had caught my attention.

  He couldn’t see it.

  “What is it, Reaper?”

  I took a deep, shaky breath.

  “It’s time to suit up,” I said, partially in explanation, but mostly to steel my own nerves.

&nbs
p; The cat nodded. He sat on his haunches in the street, watching me with curiosity. If he had any advice, he chose not to share it.

  No one had instructed me on this basic job function. Joshua had tried, but I’d refused to listen. It was my own damn fault, but I was furious with him all the same.

  No one could expect me to move forward when I didn’t know how.

  Right?

  Maybe it was something simple, like the locks.

  But then again, maybe I shouldn’t risk it without knowing more.

  It was common sense, after all. I should find Joshua…have him walk me through it.

  Elliott’s voice cut across my struggle. “What are you waiting for, then?”

  “I don’t know how,” I responded sheepishly.

  Elliott raised his eyebrow, making it clear we both knew I was lying. “I am confident the robe does the hard part.”

  I knew he was right, had known it even before he spoke, that I could and would do this. It was no different than the locks, or the clothing, or the money. All I had to do was imagine myself as a Reaper.

  An image began to form in my mind—Henry Michael Richards as the Grim Reaper. It wasn’t exactly what Joshua had revealed to me, his own unique interpretation of the universally recognized figure, nor was it the classic decaying ghoul from the movies. My picture borrowed aspects of both, with touches of my own unique personality.

  I fought desperately to clear my head, to picture anything better…friendlier…happier. The harder I struggled against the image, the clearer it became. When you fight to not think about something, you can ultimately think of nothing else.

  A bell tolled in my head, much harsher and more powerful than the simple vibrations that previously answered my requests. My body was bathed in that same bright, shimmering light, but the waves that passed over me weren’t of comforting warmth; they were the icy cold of the grave.

  Despite my disgust, I watched with morbid fascination as the skin on my hands shriveled and vanished. A tall, black oak handle, polished until it gleamed, appeared in my bony right fist. The weight of my chosen Reaper’s cloak settled heavily on my shoulders.

  The nearby streetlights flickered erratically during my transformation. One light across the street exploded; a shower of sparks rained down. Like a line of mirrors in the fiery illumination, the house windows revealed in stark detail what I’d fought so hard to hide.

  I was dressed all in midnight black: a button-down shirt with open collar, tucked into black jeans; heavy motorcycle boots; and a thick floor-length black leather duster that would make Neo weep.

  The scythe in my right hand stood over seven feet tall, carved from a single piece of highly polished black oak. It twisted in an odd helix that would allow me to easily swing it, two-handed, around my entire body. The handle’s length was carved with a twisted rope pattern that gave my hands a secure grip no matter how I held it.

  The half-crescent blade was over four feet long and tapered to a wicked point. Its mirrored surface was so perfect it seemed to almost cast its own light. A subtle flame pattern was etched over the entire blade.

  If you’re going to have the biggest damn knife in any room, it should at least be tasteful.

  I wore no hood, hat or cowl. My skull, shockingly stark white, was on display for all to see. It grinned menacingly back at me from the reflections, seeming to dare the world to do its worst.

  I was a monster released straight from the world of nightmares.

  I felt strong.

  I felt confident.

  For the first time in days, I felt in control.

  And that feeling made me nauseous. Frigid cold settled directly into my bones. A rough shadow passed over my mind, like oil across water.

  I wanted desperately to tear off the disguise—to prove, somehow, that it was nothing more than a disguise. If I wore this face too long, it might actually drive me insane.

  Or, worse yet, I might start to like it.

  Elliott examined me critically. With a nod toward the scythe, he sniffed. “And for what, exactly, are we compensating?”

  With a quick pull, I whipped the scythe through the air. It whistled as it flew, until it struck the closest window that held my reflection. The blade silently sliced a clean eight-foot line through glass, brick, wood and steel, as if passing through butter.

  A dark smiled crawled across my lips. “Everything.”

  My companion raised his eyebrow. He looked from the scythe to the wound it had opened in the house façade without cracking, bending or shattering any of the materials. The cat would never admit it, but I could clearly see he was impressed.

  Turning back to me, he spoke dryly. “People will have a very hard time explaining that.”

  I winced. My testosterone-fueled show of bravado might ruin some poor homeowner’s day.

  Hell, their whole week.

  Hopefully this house was abandoned, like so many of its neighbors.

  Elliott smiled at my obvious discomfort; he may have even purred. He was, however, above gloating. With a nod down the street, he asked, “Shall we?”

  Two blocks away, a single house lit up with the pulsing red beacon. My destination was obvious, and the way before us clear.

  I took a deep breath, laying the handle of the scythe against my shoulder. Still, I hesitated.

  “What are we waiting for, Reaper?”

  I shrugged. “Literally any other option.”

  The street grew darker as we advanced; Elliott once again started to glance around suspiciously. It was as if he expected a thief to sneak up and steal, well…his tail, I suppose—his only real possession. “I do not like this place, Reaper.”

  My anxiety began to ratchet up, my breath shortening, my pulse racing. I tried to watch all directions at once—see everything. Bony fingers tightened around the scythe’s shaft. “I’m sure it’s perfectly safe.” The words probably sounded as unconvincing as they felt.

  Across the street, three women stood together on the porch of an obviously abandoned house. The front door and one window were missing. Half the garage was collapsed inward. Weeds and grass grew nearly three feet tall.

  Just a heartbeat before, the porch had been empty.

  One woman appeared middle-aged, perhaps the mother of her late-teen companion. The third was much older, slightly stooped, with a hand on what remained of the crumbled railing. All three wore the same simple white dress, with long hair pulled back: one blond, one graying, and one stark white.

  A thick, grainy fog swirled about the trio, in constant motion despite the lack of breeze.

  “Elliott,” I whispered, “who are they?”

  He turned to look, squinting as he did so. “Who?”

  I pointed at the porch. “Those three.”

  The teenager raised a single finger to her lips, shaking her head with a small, wicked smile.

  My companion squinted a second time. “Reaper, there is nobody there.”

  A shiver ran the length of my body, and the deathly cold cooled another notch.

  “My mistake.”

  Nodding, the oldest woman settled onto a chair that didn’t exist and, unsupported, began to rock slowly.

  I acknowledged her with a nod of my own, then turned quickly away.

  The red light, tour guide through the strange world of my new life, led us from the three eerie spectators to the last house on the street.

  There was nothing to set it apart from the rest of the neighborhood. Maybe it was a little less run down, maybe not. Without my blazing beacon, I’d never have picked out this residence from its neighbors.

  The door, at least, was closed, unlike many others on the street. It was locked with four deadbolts.

  I took a deep breath, resisting the urge to look back. The situation felt ominous enough, even without the strange women watching my back.

  If they were there at all.

  “Ready?”

  Elliott looked from me to the door. His tail swished and he emitted a brief whine.
“No.”

  I addressed my thoughts to the door, asking it politely to open.

  The locks groaned as they struggled to obey; they clearly had not moved in a very long time. After nearly a minute of effort, the door swung slowly inward with a creak.

  Putrid stench struck me like a physical wall: blood, death and decay. Beyond the threshold, the house was dark…and quiet; spooky damn quiet.

  My heart started to throb in my ears. It was hard to believe that anything could be alive here. Basic instinct tells every living creature to avoid places like that house at all cost. You’d have to be an idiot not to run; given the option, I would have done just that.

  I’m not a brave man—I just didn’t have any other option, and I didn’t understand how dangerous my new life had become.

  With a deep breath, I stepped inside. To Elliott’s credit, he didn’t hesitate to join me.

  Well…not long, at least.

  The interior of the home was pitch dark. It took tense minutes for my eyes to adjust, while my survival instincts pleaded to run screaming.

  I stood in a small entry, separated from the rest of the house by a wall directly in front of the door. Both sides of the wall opened into the next room. A three-legged, semi-circular table against the wall held a vase of dead flowers, a worn wallet, and a ring of keys. Everything was covered in a thick layer of cobweb and dust.

  I’ve never liked guns; not much raises my anxiety faster. At no point have I fired or even held one. Until the seconds leading up to my death, I can honestly say I’d never heard a gun in action, except in the movies.

  Despite my inexperience, the sound of a pumping shotgun was unmistakable.

  I dropped hard to the floor barely an instant before a concussive thunderclap split the air, disintegrating a section of entry wall. The explosion consumed the tabletop, along with its precious few items. Behind where I’d been standing, the door was blown violently backward on its hinges; small pieces broke off and flew out into the yard.

  Just a moment slower and I’d have been dead.

  You know, again.

  Elliott’s fur was covered in a layer of fine white sheetrock powder. Otherwise, he seemed unharmed; his size had put him well below the shooter’s aim.