by Thomas Grave
Shackled to the floor by the still spreading ooze, his nervousness evolved into full-blown panic. He thrashed and screamed, desperately trying to pull himself away from the horror crawling up his arms and legs, until at last the puddle released its grip on his hands.
When he pulled his hands out of the murky pool, he realized they were sporting a brand new pair of jet black gloves. The material was thick and matte, something he’d never seen before. And they were tight, far too tight, like a pair of twin vises were squeezing relentlessly on his hands. He tried to pull them off but they were stuck tight. He tried to stand up, expecting the black ooze to hold him fast, but it released him. He leapt up and found that on his feet, instead of his white sports socks, he wore heavy black boots. So heavy, and so tight. Too tight. His feet cramped.
A screeching wind tore through the room, bringing with it a haze of purple smoke. The smoke swirled around him, obscuring his surroundings and becoming denser by the second. His heart thumped furiously in his ears. He was about to die.
Ariel’s familiar voice chimed in from somewhere beyond the darkness. “Don’t be afraid,” she soothed. “You don’t have to fight it.”
Easier said than done, but he did his best to heed her advice. Relaxing his muscles and taking deep breaths yielded immediate results. The crushing sensation from the gloves and boots stopped. The smoke, however, thickened. Taking in such deep breaths had filled his lungs to capacity with the strange mist. He fell to his knees in a coughing fit, hacking uncontrollably. His chest burned as though he’d sucked in an open flame.
The floor around him gave way, hardwood board by hardwood board, into an abyss of swirling darkness, leaving him kneeling on a small floating section of his bedroom floor. In utter amazement, he stared below him into the darkness. From the deepest recesses of the void, tentacles of cloth sped toward him. They coiled around his form in waves, tightening around his neck and pulling at his limbs. Fear gripped him. The cloth surrounded him, covering even his face, and he was no longer able to see. With life of its own, the black fabric slithered over his body, the material soft and warm. Under the ever-deepening ocean of strangling cloth, Sebastian screamed in silence.
Again, Ariel’s voice broke through in his mind. “You have nothing to be afraid of. These are your robes, a physical manifestation of your power. Calm yourself and take control.”
Sebastian braced himself. There could be no more nervousness, no more fear. If this power was his, he would find a way to control it. His fists clenched along with his jaw. With every fiber of his being, he mentally commanded the robes to stand down. They did not. They squeezed him tighter, trying to squeeze the life out of him.
He opened his eyes with fierce determination.
“Stand. Down,” he commanded, his tone harsher, determined, confident.
The layers of cloth loosened their grip immediately. The fabric in front of his face parted, leaving a space for him to see out, creating a thick hood.
He felt drained of energy, and weakened, just as he’d felt when Sara’s roof had exploded. Unable to stand straight, he lowered himself down to one knee.
The Book was once again on the bed, closed. Waiting. What had just happened? Hopefully answers would be in the Book. With all the energy left in his body, Sebastian pushed himself off his knee and propelled himself towards the bed. His vision blurred. When it came back into focus, the Book was gone.
A numbing feeling crept into his hands. No, his fingers. He tried to shake it off, but the tingling sensation wouldn’t go away. Instinctively, not understanding why, he snapped his fingers.
The ripples, just like the ones he’d seen in Mr. Thompson’s classroom, flowed out of his fingers, flooding his room. They brought with them a dark flare. And then the world changed again, as it had before. He was still in his room, still leaning against the bed, only now it was replaced with the creepy, haunted house version.
He stood in front of a half broken mirror, frozen in fear. In place of his jeans and red t-shirt he wore a dark robe, black as midnight. It was made of many layers of cloth, the deepest layers tattered and ancient, edges frayed.
Staring back at him from his cracked reflection was the Grim Reaper.
The thunder hit so hard, it sounded like a bomb had gone off in the sky. Mr. Thompson’s house shook a bit and he jerked upright. The mug on the glass of the coffee table rattled.
Mr. Thompson rushed to the windows in his living room and brushed the curtain aside. The clouds were moving in unnatural ways. A huge funnel of black and purple fire circled the neighborhood. He knew any normal person walking by couldn’t see what he saw. To others, the clouds would seem normal. This was wrong. It wasn’t supposed to happen until he was twenty-one.
I thought I had time. I failed him.
“It’s happening,” he told himself, the words escaping in a hushed whisper.
His wife, Imogen Thompson, came into the living room. She was in the process of putting her long black hair up in a ponytail, her bangs swept to the side. “What are you looking at?” she asked.
He couldn’t answer her.
She paused, seeing the expression on his face. “What’s wrong?”
A few seconds passed. Then she joined him at the window and saw the black and purple funnel. The dark clouds twisting, lightning crackling at the center.
“He’s awakened,” Mr. Thompson whispered.
Imogen sucked in a breath. “Already? What are we going to do? I like this life we have here. I don’t want to pack up and move,” she stammered.
He gazed into her sparkling eyes and brushed a finger over the tiny mole on her right cheek. He loved that mole. It was his favorite thing about her otherwise flawless skin.
“I know,” he said, “but it might not come to that.”
He knew his words were unconvincing.
“If he’s awakened, they will come for him. And if you’re around, they’ll discover Paige. If they try and take my child, I will kill them,” she said with deadly seriousness.
He nodded in agreement. He’d do the same, in a heartbeat. But one step at a time. Outside, the wind howled as it picked up force.
Things were about to change . . .
Monday, 9:09 pm
The layered black robes surrounded his body, flowing in a supernatural wind. They stopped a few centimeters from the ground. The Reaper cocked his head and breathed out. Cold mist exhaled from within his hood.
An ominous presence surrounded him, covering every surface of his room. His sketchbook, with all of his half-drawings, lay burnt and torn. His door-length mirror webbed with cracks, and was missing pieces, leaving jagged edges like shark’s teeth. A black oil-like liquid oozed from the ceiling and dripped down the walls.
The smell of burnt wood was carried by gusts of air through the room, and the sound of a crackling fireplace could be heard, yet Sebastian didn’t have one in his room.
Though everything was dark and strange, this place—this horrifying, terrible place—felt natural to him. Somewhere inside him, he understood that he was from here, born of this land. The familiarity of this place crept through his body, filling him with the warmth of home. If he had a couch in his room, the temptation would be to settle back, kick up his feet and turn on the TV.
The robes dissolved into purple and black vapor that glided over to Sebastian’s bed like a mass of writhing, intelligent snakes. There, hovering over his duvet, the vapor reformed, becoming solid, turning back into the Book.
The mist left him once again in his regular clothing. Then, a mysterious ripple was expelled from the binding and the sound of crashing waves echoed off the walls. His bedroom returned to normal, no longer dark and gloomy with cracked mirror and sagging floor, but bright and warm. Alive.
“What was that?” Sebastian asked himself.
The Book hummed, a small glow coming from it as Sebastian heard the Book’s words in his head, Purgatorium. Its voice was deep and resonant, like the voice Batman would have if he really existed, b
ut there was something disconcerting about it too. It was eerily familiar.
“I—I know you. I feel like I know you.” He sensed something above him.
Yes. Old friend.
“And, I know this,” Sebastian said as he reached into the air, about to grab something that wasn’t there. But something was there. When his hand made contact, he closed around something hard, solid. A scythe. A faint memory of a dream tickled something inside him, the fear now gone. This was an old friend. The scythe was translucent. He tried to pull it down to examine it closer, but something fought him. He pulled harder, forcing the scythe to become solid. It crackled into existence, blue arcs of electricity snapping around it until it slid free, leaving a trail of dark purple mist that faded into the air.
The wooden staff had a smooth, worn texture, perfect for Sebastian’s now gloveless hands. The blade itself was massive, large enough to weigh over a hundred pounds at minimum. Strangely though, its body was equally balanced, even with the large blade on one side and nothing on the other. To Sebastian, it seemed to weigh no more than a broom.
“This . . . is all so familiar.”
Your memory will return in time, the Elder said.
He let go of the scythe. It fell and shimmered away a split second before it hit the ground.
“I can feel it, wanting to return.”
The Book remained silent.
A thought struck Sebastian. “Do you know anything about my memory? On why I feel like I should know things and I don’t?”
The Book remained silent.
“Okaaaaay.”
My apologies. Certain topics are blacklisted. Even from me.
“Well, that’s going to be helpful,” Sebastian muttered.
Let’s start from the beginning. I am The Elder. And you are the reincarnation of Death. You have been asleep, resting, for more than five hundred years. It is your responsibility to—
Buuuuzzz.
Sebastian glanced down at his phone. What timing. “Oh, hang on. It’s a friend. I really got to take this.”
The Book remained silent.
Buuuuzzz.
After pressing the “accept” icon below Hope’s picture, he brought the phone to his ear. “Hey, what’s up?
“I got it,” she replied.
“Got what?”
“Ahold of Jared. Well, sort of. You see, I have this app on my phone that lets anybody within our plan locate each other. I didn’t think about using it because I didn’t know how to set it up.”
“And you got it set up?”
“It took me a few minutes, but yes. He’s in the downtown area.”
The Elder spoke. Jared Ryan, age 17. Time of death: 9:14pm.
Awkward silence.
Sebastian turned to face the book. “What did you just say?”
He knew exactly what the Book had said. Still he stared at the Book, waiting for a response.
Hope answered instead. “I said he’s downtown. I’ve been driving around, looking for him. I’m worried.”
Something crept in his chest. His gut told him not to look at the clock, but he couldn’t help it. His eyes darted to it.
9:10pm
His face suddenly flushed.
The hairs on the back of his neck stood. Goosebumps blanketed his arms. Every muscle was tense. His heart beat fast and hard. A warning. “Hope, no. Listen to me. Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it.”
“Sebastian, you don’t have a car. I do. I called to let you know not to worry.”
“Hope! No, listen!”
“Relax, Sebastian, don’t worry. You’re being silly. I’ve been to the city before. I’ll be fine. Good night.”
She hung up.
Tapping his finger, Sebastian felt a stab of panic. “Damn, I need to get to—”
. . .downtown?
Directly in front of him was the Chesapeake Bay with the Baltimore city skyline behind it. The bright lights from buildings and street lamps reflected in the rippling water. Off in the distance, police sirens wailed.
He glanced around and quickly took in his surroundings. He was standing in what appeared to be a corner of an alley with the large Book, what he now knew as the Elder. Now, it was as light as a paperback in spite of its size. He heard a skittering noise coming from his right, and turned to see a rat running between two green dumpsters on one side of the alley. Beer bottles and torn open bags of trash surrounded the dumpsters. Farther back past the dumpsters a late model, abandoned car sat on deflated tires.
“How did we get here?” he said aloud.
You did it . . . with my help.
“I did?” Sebastian asked, hearing the confusion in his voice. God, if his mom caught him in the city, especially this late at night, she would kill him.
Yes.
“What are we doing here?”
Think about it, Reaper. You are—
“I am . . .” Sebastian blew out his breath explosively. “I have no idea what I’m doing here,” he replied, shaking his head.
Reaping. And here is your first assignment.
Near the front of the alley, Jared was coming out from the backdoor of a coffee shop. In one hand, he held some sort of pastry. He took a sip from the coffee cup in his other hand, grimacing as though it burned his tongue.
“Jared,” Sebastian whispered, his stomach suddenly heaving and churning sourly.
After a long day of pain and misery, Jared decided it was time to head home. Hope had called him numerous times, but he couldn’t bring himself to answer. He just couldn’t deal with anyone right now, not Hope, and not Sebastian either. Jared knew he was being selfish by avoiding everyone, but he just needed to be alone. True, Sebastian needed a best friend, but he could wait a day.
He pitched the coffee cup into the dumpster a few feet from him then fished his phone out of his pocket. Scanning through his contacts, he found his sister and was about to click on her name when a familiar voice called out to him.
“Jared. That’s your name, right?”
He thought he recognized the voice but he wasn’t quite sure. He turned to see one of the guys from the subway car.
“Guppy? Is that you?” he asked.
“What did you just call me!?” Guppy yapped, his left eye twitching vigorously.
“Step. Aside,” called a voice from the darkness.
Shifting his attention cowardly to the ground, Guppy moved away as a tall, skinny figure stepped out from the darkness. He appeared older, maybe in his thirties. His pale skin glowed white in the dim light, but his eyes were pure darkness.
Guppy beamed, still avoiding Jared’s eyes.
“His name is Rufus,” he announced, triumphant.
A moment later, like a hound dog, Rufus began sniffing the air. With each sniff, Rufus stepped closer to Jared, eventually nearly touching him with his nose. “I can smell the heart on this one,” he said.
Jared thought about that statement. With a heavy sigh, he said, “What does that even mean?”
Rufus eyed him once more. “There is no turning this one.”
He snapped his fingers. Shadowed figures emerged from the darkness, appearing from different locations in the alley. Some spilled out of manholes, others emerged out of dumpsters, some came from fire escapes and nearby roofs.
They huffed and puffed as they spread out. Heavy booted steps echoed off the concrete. All of them had different types of weapons: chains, bats, brass knuckles, knives, and one even had a katana.
“So what, that’s it?” Guppy asked. “You’re not going to make him suffer?”
“Vipers tend to strike quickly,” Rufus answered. “Question me again and you will find out just how quick.”
Gang members came from behind Sebastian, stepping by him without looking at him, as if he didn’t exist.
The Elder pulsed in Sebastian’s left hand.
It’s time for you to don the proper attire for the occasion, it whispered.
The book dissipated into a purplish, almost black mist.
The palm of Sebastian’s left hand tingled. He shook his hand, trying to remove the sensation. The tingle increased to pinpointed spots of stabbing pain. He shifted his gaze to his palm and saw what appeared to be swirling lines of tiny crawling ants, only the lines weren’t ants, but black threads. The threads laced into each other and wrapped around his fingers. He felt the same from his right hand now. The lines pulsed in time to his heartbeat, racing faster and expanding to fully envelope both of his hands. The pulsing stopped, leaving his hands encased in the tight, leather gloves, blacker than any shadow he had seen before.
Booming thunder vibrated the air, causing the hairs on his arms and neck to stand up. Wind blew in from somewhere beneath him, carrying with it whispers and strange words. He turned slowly as the familiar black and purple mist rose from the ground around him, snaking up his ankles, shrouding his legs in darkness. Lightning struck the ground all around him, splitting the darkness as a black, tattered shirt formed around his chest. Multiple layers of frayed cloth as dark as black holes formed from the darkness, surrounding him and writhing over his body. The final layer formed a thick robe that felt like liquid on his skin, not quite wet, but soft and cool.
The mist around his head pulsed, growing lighter and darker until he released a deep breath. The mist moved from his face, forming a ragged and deep hood. A final flash of lightning, forked and pure white, struck the earth right before him. As blinding as the light was, it couldn’t penetrate the darkness from his cowl.
The Elder’s disembodied voice came to Sebastian’s ears like a pair of mystical headphones.
This is the form of Death. Since the beginning of time, you have walked the Earth, taking the lives of both aged and babe. You took no pleasure in most of those you reaped, and your duty left a heavy weight in your heart. But there were others you enjoyed taking. You stood over their corpses, their Souls quivering in your hands, ready to give them the punishment they rightly deserved. You are one of the most powerful beings that has ever come into existence. You have many names: The Destroyer, Reaper of Souls, Bringer of Death. Taker of life. Mors. Ankou. Dullahan. Azrael.