by R. L. Naquin
“The young girl pulled another pair of pants from the pile of laundry. Between the hot black iron and the fireplace, it was stifling in the small kitchen. The only relief she could hope for was a small breeze coming from the window overlooking the distant waves. Her arm started moving methodically once again and, just as she started to fantasize about a forbidden swim, the iron stopped at a bump in the pocket…”
Throughout the course of this day, I have been drowned, beaten repeatedly against a rock, strangled, and hanged. The only respite I had was spent dangling by my waist, the sea breeze cooling my overwrought skin, caressing and soothing the bruised, abused flesh.
While the wind tossed me about, I sent out a hopeless prayer to the gods that my legs would remain straight and steadfast; to crumple at this stage would invite one last painful indignity. My prayers went unanswered. When I was taken down, I was judged inferior.
I knew what would come next.
She tossed me into a basket with the others. Our limbs tangled together, clinging in desperation. I did my best to burrow to the bottom. There was a chance she would grow weary of her torture and give up before reaching me.
It was dark at first, my security assured at least for a while. But with each snatch of her greedy hands, a little more light reached me in my place of cover.
Once I was able to see her clearly, I noticed her rhythm had slowed. She drew her wrist across her brow, wiping away a line of moisture. Her eyes shifted to the window. I thought for a moment she might quit. The room was stifling for all of us. If she went for a swim, I might make my escape.
It was not to be. She reached into the pile and grabbed blindly. I tried to avoid her touch, but there was nowhere to hide. She pulled me out by the leg and shook me, her cold impartiality at war with the ferocity with which she snapped me straight. She stretched me out across the table, smoothing my skin with hands that were surprisingly gentle.
She paid no attention to my struggles and whimpers of protestation. She took up her instrument and placed it across my bare flesh. I screamed. The heat was worse than I had imagined. It tore through me. I felt it scorch the back of my leg through the front. She cared nothing for my hysterics and carried on with her detached movements, deaf to me. She ran the cruel device back and forth on my body, moving ever higher in her quest to destroy me.
At the front of my hip, she met resistance. The object in my front pocket gave her pause. I whispered another hopeless prayer that she would reach inside and pull it out if she was to continue her torture. Again, the gods refused my petition. She resumed her mission, sliding her equipment over my pocket, pressing down against the object to flatten it.
It began to melt.
I could feel the hot liquid soaking into my skin. I begged her to stop. I pleaded for mercy, but she refused to hear my voice. It was several moments of searing heat and pressure before she took note of the crimson pool seeping out of my flesh and down my leg.
She cried out in dismay.
Already tender from her earlier ministrations, my skin was unprepared for the harsh scrub brush. It tore at me. Bits of skin flaked away leaving bone-white patches. She sobbed in frustration and poured harsh, burning chemicals over me.
I had tried to warn her about the crayon, but she disregarded my advice—just as she had ignored my pleas. Now we both suffered for it.
Exhausted, her face puffy and wretched with tears, she left me. I thought I might escape then, but I found I could not move. I was thoroughly beaten. In the silence of the warm kitchen, my battered mind and body succumbed to the peaceful emptiness of sleep.
I don’t know how long I dozed, but when I awoke, the fire in the hearth had settled into glowing coals, and the shadows had grown long. A considerable length of my body, from hip to knee, had gone stiff with cooled wax.
She stood sopping wet in the doorway wearing nothing but her shift. Her eyes glowed in the low light, and her damp hair clung to her face and bare shoulders. Sea water gathered in a puddle at her feet. In her hand she brandished a pair of sewing shears. They flashed with light from the dying fire, their sharp tips glinting with ominous intent.
She attacked me before I had time to react. The scissors sliced through me. She was quick about her work, reducing me to a gibbering pile of scraps within moments. I was dismembered as neatly as a rabbit destined for the stew pot.
Those parts of me she deemed ruined were tossed behind the house.
~*~
From the rubbish pile, I can see the sea. It’s peaceful. I know eventually I will be set ablaze, but for now, I can await my death in comfort, unthreatened. The rest of me is in another basket.
I am a stack of neat squares piled on top of myself to await her next devious scheme. I cannot fathom what else she might have in store.
She’s humming to herself, the earlier demonic frenzy forgotten. She opens the box beside her and removes a spool of thread. The needle in her hand glints in the light of the rebuilt fire.
Her cool hands lift me out of the basket. She spreads me out across the injured knee of another of her victims. As the dull needle pierces my skin, I try not to scream.
I know I will never be free.
“Reaper’s Tale”
A Monster Haven Short Story
In Monster in My Closet, Riley gives Zoey a brief explanation of how he became a reaper. This is how it really happened.
I saw that girl again this morning. Every time I think I’ve lost my chance to talk to her, the universe spits her out in my path and gives me another shot.
You can’t miss her. Dark red curls dancing around her head to their own beat, brown eyes a guy could stare into forever, and a face like an angel. She stands out in a crowd.
Most women dress like they don’t want anyone to remember what they’re wearing or like they want you to focus on the skin that’s showing instead of the actual clothes. Not this girl. She doesn’t give a damn what you look at. And she gives you a lot of choices—like her shoes covered in what appear to be gummy worms, her tights where butterflies fly up the sides of her legs, or her daisy-spattered skirt and neon green shirt.
My favorite is when she wears the blue fedora with the peacock feather. Nothing says “Fuck you” like a woman in mixed prints wearing a hat with a big feather jutting off to the side. I respect the hell out of that.
It all works on her. Her self-confidence shows in her every step. And it shows in how she talks to people.
I stood in line behind her once at the coffee shop. This guy in front of her snapped at the barista, something about soymilk, then kept making impatient, old-guy sounds while he waited for her to ring him up.
The red-headed girl—who was wearing a string of pink beads around her wrist and a yellow beret that day—put her hand on his arm. He turned and scowled at her. I thought I’d have to jump in and save her.
“Sometimes, the most important thing you can do is stop and breathe,” she said in a quiet, warm voice. “The rest of the day will go much easier.”
I swear, I thought he’d try to punch her. Or at least shake her hand off and tell her to mind her own business. I didn’t know. From where I was standing, the guy was an unknown quantity wrapped around a jiggling vial of nitroglycerin.
But she knew something I didn’t. The creases in his face relaxed, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t do exactly what she said. He took a deep breath, held it, then let it out. He smiled, patted her hand, then turned away and got his coffee.
I watched him walk out the door. His shoulders were where shoulders are supposed to be instead of up around his ears. That was one of those moments when I should have manned up and said something to her. Anything. A comment about the weather. Ask her what kind of perfume she was wearing. Offer to buy her coffee.
I took too long thinking about it. My phone buzzed against my hip. I had a text message I couldn’t ignore. Someone was probably about to die, which meant I had to get to the address as soon as possible.
The last thing I heard as the doo
r closed behind me was the barista asking for the girl’s name. If I’d waited another few seconds, I’d at least have learned that much. But I missed it.
I could only hope the universe would toss her in front of me again and give me another chance.
Turned out I didn’t even need to be at that address after all. It was close. Some ditzy blonde in heels that were way too tall fell off the edge of the sidewalk in the path of a taxi. She would have bought it right there, and I’d have had to collect her soul, but a teenaged girl, in shoes that showed far better judgment, yanked the blonde backward where she landed safely on her ass on the sidewalk.
I stood across the street, watching the beauty queen bitch at the girl who’d saved her, to make sure the designated time passed without further incident.
You never know. Sometimes the obvious death isn’t the right one, and a secondary surprise creeps in. While my client sweats over the close call he had with a bus, a train could jump its tracks around the corner and a leather trunk full of books might hurdle through the air and land on the client’s head. True story. That happened about three years ago. I’ve seen some weird stuff in my line of work.
This trip, however, was totally wasted. I could have stayed at the coffee shop and talked to my mystery girl after all. Still, the job always comes first. Whenever I get a text, I drop everything and go where I’m told, then text my report back, no matter the outcome. That day’s report was of the non-event variety.
No pickup at this time. Client’s need was averted.
I checked the time and sighed. She’d be gone already. My window of opportunity to talk to her had closed. I’d see her again, though. I was sure of it.
Being a reaper didn’t leave much room for a social life.
It had been eight years since I’d made the agreement that saddled me with a 24/7, on-call gig with no vacations. I’d had no chance to have more than a few drinks with someone before having to bail, and women kind of hate it when a guy takes off mid-date. After the first year or so, I kind of stopped worrying about where a relationship might go. First dates were usually all I got.
I saw so much death. All wanted was a chance at a little life from time to time. That didn’t seem like so much to ask.
And there’s something special about that girl. Something magical, though she doesn’t seem to be involved at all with the Hidden world I know of—reapers and soul catchers, monsters and demons. Her magic comes from inside and radiates out to touch the people near her.
Last week, she wore a yellow sundress with purple polka dots, and she’d piled her hair on top of her head in a haphazard mound. That was when I finally figured out why she fascinated me so much. With her hair up like that, she reminded me of Clara.
I only met Clara once, but she’d changed everything. She had magic, too. The real kind of magic, not just the figurative kind, like the red-headed girl with the fedora and butterflies. Clara saved my sister’s life when no doctor possibly could have.
~*~
I was twenty-four back then, and I still hadn’t figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I’d changed majors three times and still hadn’t found my calling. Business seemed like a smart choice, but halfway through the first semester, I remembered how much I disliked math. Art history bored me. Psychology seemed to be a never-ending path to nowhere unless I made a total commitment to a master’s degree or more.
Summers relieved me of the pressure to make a decision. I worked for a roofing company, using my muscles instead of my brain. I could tune everything out and just be for a while.
Until that morning when it all turned into a steaming pile of heartbreak and life-changing decisions.
Frank always had a radio blasting a local oldies station while we worked. We couldn’t hear it very well with all the banging, but it gave a nice background noise. Sometimes I’d try to work to the beat, if it was a fast one. That day, I was hammering my heart out to “Locomotion” and singing to myself, when the DJ interrupted with an announcement. The guys must have been listening to the song, too, because they all stopped to listen.
“A passenger train on its way to Kansas City has derailed in Woolridge. Iowa authorities are unable to release official numbers at this time, but they look to be upwards of seventeen dead and thirty-five injured.”
I swallowed hard and looked at my watch. Mom and Izzy were on their way to Kansas City today. Izzy had won a scholarship to go to a jazz camp for a week at the University of Kansas, and Mom loved the train. They’d driven up to Osceola that morning and splurged.
I didn’t bother to listen to the rest of the report. My hands shook as I gathered my tools without a word. The guys all knew Mom and Izzy had taken the train. I’d worked overtime to help them pay for the trip. I climbed down, and Frank met me at the bottom, his hand held out.
“I’ll take care of your stuff. Just go on and check on them.”
I handed over my tool belt. “Thanks. I’m sure they’re fine.” My gut wasn’t as sure.
“Trains are big, Riley. Lots of people on them. They’re probably sitting by the tracks playing cards, waiting for you to come pick them up.”
I nodded, grateful for the picture he painted in my head, which was so much better than the wreck of blood and misery I’d been imagining.
My cellphone rang before I made it to the crash site, which was probably for the best. Seeing the crash site in person would have haunted my dreams forever.
A nurse from the hospital had found my name and number in Izzy’s wallet. The woman wouldn’t tell me anything useful, only that I needed to come to the hospital right away.
I’d never driven so fast in my life.
What followed was a blur. They had no idea about Mom and, at first, they couldn’t even find Izzy. The emergency room was packed with crying loved ones, people with minor scrapes, doctors and nurses moving through the crowd, and a flow of EMTs coming through the doors with more of the injured. Gurneys of wounded people lined the hallway, since all the beds were already full.
Eventually, I found her myself, at the end of the hall outside room 106. She looked so tiny and still. A bruise the size of a softball covered her right temple, and her eye on that side was swollen shut. Her blonde curls were dark with drying blood.
From time to time, her shallow, nearly imperceptible breaths gave way to a single, racking intake of air that rattled in her chest, wet and terrifying. One small hand lay above the blanket, curled across her chest. I took it in both of mine as gently as I could. My baby sister wasn’t going to last long.
I swung my head around, frantic for someone to help. A nurse strode past, and I grabbed his arm. “Can’t you do something for her? Why is she out in the hall like this? Somebody has to do something.”
He stopped for me, though he clearly had a million things he needed to do. His blue eyes were sad, but didn’t look away from me while he spoke. “We’ve sedated her to keep her comfortable. I’m really sorry. It’s all we can do. There are a lot of injured people here, and not enough of us. We have to concentrate on the people we can save.” He glanced at my beautiful baby sister, lying so still, and his eyes filled with tears. “I’m really sorry.” He patted my shoulder, then disappeared into a room filled with a lot of beeping and yelling.
Logically, I understood what he was saying. Emotionally, I wasn’t going to sit there and accept that my baby sister was going to die because her injuries were too extensive, and there weren’t any doctors available to spend eight hours operating on her.
I bent and kissed her on the forehead, careful to avoid the awful purple bruises. “I won’t go far, sweetheart. I’ll find help.” In my heart, I knew nobody could help. Staff bustled down the hall and in and out of the rooms in a constant stream. More injured came in every few minutes.
I tried to stop a doctor, two nurses, and even an EMT. With every brushoff, I went back to Izzy’s side to be sure she was still with me. Each time she was unchanged—either barely breathing, or sucking in a single, shuddering breat
h.
At the registration desk, I made a last, desperate attempt. “Please,” I said to the tired woman. “Can’t you get someone to look at her again? I don’t think she’s going to last much longer.”
The woman took a deep breath, her eyes already scanning a new inrush of people. “We’re overwhelmed here. I’m sorry. Normally, you wouldn’t even be allowed back there. Go be with her. It’s all anyone can do right now.” She tried to give me a kind smile, but she wasn’t doing much better than I was, I could tell. She was right. The best thing I could do was be with Izzy.
And try not to think about the fact that I hadn’t found Mom.
On my way back to my sister, I passed a small group of people who appeared to be checking the injured along the hallway.
“Excuse me,” I said, squeezing past a portly, balding man in a bad suit.
He grunted over his shoulder and shifted out of the way. The two men with him ignored me and continued inspecting the orphaned patients.
When I made it back to Izzy, she didn’t look any different, but some kind person had left me a chair so I could sit instead of hover.
The three suited men made their way toward us, stopping longer with some patients than others. I held Izzy’s hand, listening to her breathe while I watched them. About three patients away, I saw something I didn’t understand. The tallest of the three men bent over a small boy and placed his hand on the boy’s chest. After a moment, he glanced at the tubby guy and the guy with tortoiseshell glasses, then they looked at the boy’s chart together. They pressed their heads close to each other, nodded together, and the tall guy did something really weird.
He placed his palm across the boy’s forehead, then pressed the ring on his other hand against the boy’s mouth. The motion was quick enough for me to doubt what I thought I saw. He pulled—a quick, short yank—and a silvery substance squeezed through the kid’s lips and attached to the gem on the man’s ring. For a second, I thought I saw a face in the glittering cloud, then the whole thing disappeared, as if it had been sucked into the ring.