NecRosTaTiC

NecRosTaTiC

Ever wonder what you are worth? Yeah, me too…

This has to be the worst part of the job and I have been pulling it for the last two years. I used to be a Reaper, helping those over to the other side when it was time. Cozy, comfy and I was damn good at it! Due to a mix up I got the crap end of the stick. Who the hell names both their twins ‘Mary’ anyways? How was I supposed to know I took the wrong one? Long, messy story short I got demoted and here I am on ‘Second Chance’ duty.

Second chances…pheh. So instead of reaping, I spend my time stopping people from trying to advance their ‘appointments’ with old man Thanatos. I call him, Mr.T for short.

Death is a huge business; all those wandering souls are worth a ton in the right hands. Pure energy, and limitless in potential, even a handful could power cities for a long time. Souls helped keep the world together, paradoxically of course. The planet was quickly approaching eight billion wriggling screaming humans all with the possibility of cleansing their corner of the world. Except most never realize it, nor want to.

There are always a number of people of my ability that want to use those shining gems for their own means. They don’t kill directly or they would be found out by Mr.T and the Styx Foundation, the ever loving establishment I work for.

Soul hording is of course illegal by the conventions regarding all matters Death related. Most of the illegal trafficking is done by proxy; a necromancer enslaves a spirit to convince someone living to off themselves outside of assigned appointment. Spirits are different than ghosts, always keep that in mind. Spirits can be bargained with, ghosts are literally an echo and limited.

So here I am sitting in the parking lot of one of the local parks, watching a father and son play catch from my dusty bone white PT Cruiser. The dad seems troubled, but the kid is only interested in playing. Fumbling in the glove compartment I pull out my ever full notepad. I never write in it, words just appear, listing times and places. It often neglects vital information like names, descriptions, proposed methods of self termination…etc. I suppose it goes along with the number one rule. We cannot directly interfere with choice. I mean think about it, the freedom of choice is the only real freedom anyone truly has. So we have to convince them not to.

Checking the lined paper, this was the right spot and the only people in the park were the father and son. So which one? The six year old? Not likely. That left the father. Dabbing a finger in a vial of grave dust I wince, tasting it. The world instantly becomes shrouded, and the taste is as always disgusting, no matter how much sugar I cut it with. I can almost feel my eyes sink into my head as the sky clouds and the spirits of the area become visible.

Grave dust lasts a few minutes, but the drawback is yes you can see spirits, and they most certainly see you. Sometimes you really don’t want to see what they look like. Instantly I spot what I am looking for, a disembodied mouth hovering over the father’s shoulder, yammering into the man’s ear. I’ve seen these before, they mimic the voice of their prey, blending in as an internal dialogue and filling the victim’s head with all kinds of bad ideas. We call them Chatterboxes, and they are relatively cheap to work with, some of them even roam in groups.

The father hugs his son a little too tightly, a signal of finality in my book. Setting his son on the swings and giving him a few pushes before pointing to the public restroom. The kid nods and daddy makes his way towards the bathroom, and the Chatterbox follows him.

Gazing around I pick up on why the spot was chosen. There is a light enchantment on the fence around the park, just enough to contain a soul for a short time. That meant the illegal harvester had to be close by, I would deal with that later if and when the dad offed himself.

I had to work fast, getting out of the car it was time to get spooky. Moving swiftly up to the kid, I must look ridiculous, black leather trenchcoats just don’t feel cool when you are nearly running. Smiling at the boy, I make my pitch for information. “Hey kid. That your dad, what’s his name again? Bill?”

Kicking his feet the kid arcs higher on the swing set, and gives me a side long glance. “No. His name is Nigel. He doesn’t like it when I call him that. He is not my ‘real’ dad. Who are you?” The kid replies and asks.

I can feel my skin prickle and I know I am being watched, “Dante.” I say looking around quickly. There! Catching a glimpse of fluttering white cloth on the far side of the park through the trees, I grimace. It is a Hermit, one of those love and light types. All rosy on the outside, but have decided to purify the world by occasionally killing people and using the harvested soul to do so. Hermits were always rationalizing their actions to convince themselves that they were in the right. They likely deemed the father to be an abuser of sorts, so of course it was ok to off him.

“Nice to meet you, Dante-“ the kid starts and I cut him off.

“You got a cellphone on you?” Not even waiting for him to nod, I press on. “Call 911. Tell them there is a crazy lady in white with a gun in the park. Get to the sidewalk; I’m going to get your dad.” The kid leaps from the swings and makes for the sidewalk already on his phone. I give the Hermit a rude salute and dash for the restroom. When the police get near she would likely bug out, theoretically of course.

Pushing the door open I spot the father staring into the steel mirror with a snub nose .45 in his mouth. Why do people do it this way? Yes sir, you look fabulous with a gun in your gob! I sigh, and he turns to me. Locking eyes with the man, I can feel his emotions were in flux. Trying to keep my voice level, I engage the man, my words echoing with simple compulsion. “Take the gun out of your mouth, Nigel and put it under your chin. I need to talk to you.” I most certainly could have made him stop but that was against the rule. He had to have a choice to continue.

Slowly the man cocked the hammer back but took the gun from his mouth and nestled it against his neck. The disembodied lips frowned and quickly started whispering to the man. Blowing on my fingertips of my left hand I watched it grow skeletal, my reaping hand. I always loved to make them move and flex, bone on bone harmony to my ears. The guy gave no signal he saw or heard anything, which was good. Sometimes they could see and that was never good.

“Don’t try to stop me!” the man shuddered. I made a motion towards his head with my bone hand and snatched the pair of lips out of the air, leaving it to writhe and try to tongue its way out. Fat chance, you Rolling Stones logo. The man jerks his head away, eyes bugging out. “Don’t do that again! I will shoot! How do you know my name?”

Shrugging casually, “I couldn’t stop you if I wanted to. I just want to know why. As for your name, I just guessed.”

The poor guy is now separated from the chatter that was apparently in his head. “What does it matter? My wife wants to leave me; she thinks I am cheating on her! My job is a dead end, I can barely feed them! My step son hates me too, I try to bond but it is not good enough! They would be better off with out me!” He presses the pistol tighter against his neck, closing his eyes.

People are silly; they parrot nearly everything when they don’t know what else to say. This was just a script that Chatterbox had fed the man, possibly for weeks. Hear it enough and you will believe it. Time for the truth, sort of…

Leaning on the sink I fold my arms, the lips in my clutched hand still working their magic, this time on me. Staying professional, “I am sorry to hear that your life is in a slump, but is offing yourself the only way? I really can’t let you do this, but the option is yours.” I reply.

Tears stream down his face, “I’m just not good enough, never had been. Ask anyone! What do you care? Who the hell are you anyways?”

Crushing the lips in my hand a bit harder, I bowl over the man’s blubbering words. “You are not on the books for departure from this life for quite some time.”

I can feel the scars along my collar bone itch and begin to leak ichors. My inner Reaper wants to come out and scare this man to death. Happens when I get overly emotional, and the Chatterbox is only egging that on. I won’t even get into what it has done to my sex life. Have to work fast.

The man blinks, “What? Are you crazy?”

“Only three ways this is going to end, Nigel. One you shoot and I knock the gun away; it ricochets goes out the door and hits your step son.” I let that sink in, and hit him with the next.

“Second you put the gun down and you go home and work things out.”

I can see my shadow growing into that classic robed figure we all know and in some ways should love. The man swallows, “What is the third?” I enjoy it when they hook themselves.

I smirk, “The third is you shoot yourself, but even that would be not much of a release.”

Confused the man slumped against the wall, gun arm shaking. “But it would be over. I would be gone, and…it would just be better.”

Attempting to roll my eyes I quickly realize I don’t have any, just black pits. If this keeps up the man is going to see me as I really want to be seen deep down. Hurry! I launch into the meanest thing I could think of. “You shoot yourself and yes you will die. Your soul will exit the body. It is often confused and easily led. Except you are not going to the other side, or Heaven or wherever you think you go when you die.”

The man lets his gaze fall to the floor, “I know I will go to hell if I kill myself.”

Shaking my head I can feel the joyous creaks of my bones, “Nope sorry. Not happening. See cheating the appointment lands you somewhere even worse than hell.”

“What’s worse than hell?”

I let him have it with both verbal barrels. “I will take your soul and bind it to your stepson, until your designated appointment. You will get to see everything he goes through. The grief, the tears, the damage you will have done to him. You will get to see all the things you could have prevented by being there for him. All the advice you will want to give, and he will never hear it. You will get to see everything, and be helpless to stop it, encourage it, or even affect it. Now that is worse than hell.”

It worked. He lowered the gun and sank to the floor crying, pistol in his lap. “Why? Why did you stop me?”

Seeing my work was done I exited the bathroom without a word until I got outside. “I like to think even Death cares at times.” I had to kill something; the need was pulling at my very nature crying out loudly. Shoveling the Chatterbox into my mouth, my Reaper feasted upon it, breaking apart its power into a tingling rush. Tastes like stale chicken…