Necrostatic 2

Exiting the public restroom, I nearly run into a pair of Reno police officers as they troop a handcuffed woman in white between them. Medium height, her hair so blonde it appeared to be silver. She didn’t leave? Some people have no sense. She had to know I was up to something. Maybe she didn’t factor in the mundane…that happened from time to time. No, she was up to some sort of shenanigans.

Those icy blues met my gaping black pits; she was studying the hell out of me. I watched her brief look flit through at least three different types of vision, in a fraction of a few seconds. Her aura was reaching out to mingle with mine, which I casually dissuaded with a snap of my fingers, getting a venomous look for the effort. Perhaps I was the first Reaper she encountered, but that un-cheery spark between us told me this would not be the only time we would meet. Likely she would tell all her Hermit friends about me…

One of the officers stopped dead as he happened to glance at the ground and shifted to look right at me. Following the officer’s look, I winced. My shadow! It still looked like the classic Grim Reaper, scythe included. Forcing it down and back to normal I smiled, albeit cheekily at the officer. “Nice day, officer. Glad to see you…are…uh…doing your job.” I spotted the reason the lady was in cuffs. Tucked under the officers belt was a wicked looking boline. White ivory handle, and its curved blade made of cold hammered copper and it looked obnoxiously sharp. The officer grunted and dismissed what he thought he saw and resumed wrangling the eerily lady in white.

With the officers departing, I walked to the car, not even bothering to wave to the kid as he appeared busy with another pair of authority type adults. Reaching a car I find a sparrow waiting for me on the roof. Sparrows are messengers for death, so I give a quick whispered report and open the door. The bird takes off and I settle in behind the wheel. Tapping the steering wheel I sigh, “I hate this part of the job. It is fucking crap.”

“You shouldn’t cuss so much. It is bad for the aura.” Came a female voice, startling me enough that I nearly went Reaper right then and there. Gripping the wheel I snap my head in the direction of the voice.

Seated in the passenger side was a very see through woman of shifting age. Young face, old eyes, timeless features. Dressed in stereotypical tree hugger wear, jean jacket with an over kill amount of logo pins and talismans. Tattered skirt of faded wine purple and ended with gold laced sandals, looking closely I could see she was hovering about two inches off the passenger seat. Making no apology for cursing, I grumped. “Tracey Whistler. What do you want? Better yet, how did you find me?”

Tracey became a bit more solid, which was generally a sign of proximity or confidence. It still boggled me how she was able to ‘Astral Project’. Just looking at her one would assume she took too much acid or bong hits. Her voice drifted, displaced from where it should be. “I came to see you, because, you know, that is what friends do from time to time. As for finding you, it is not hard. You give me a pen once, a link.” Mental note; retrieve pen as soon as possible.

I kind of just had to accept that I would never be rid of her and the overtures of friendship that she continuously heaped upon me. I don’t even recall how we became ‘friends’, she literally picked me out of a crowd at a party I was reaping at and started hanging out. Psychically and otherwise… Still, she was company and that was in short supply in my line of work.

Mentally I did a count down. Three…two…one… Like clockwork the questions began, pouring forth like a cheerful tidal wave. “Was it hard to stop this one? Are they alright? Got anymore assignments today? Can I go too? Are they ever going to let you be a Reaper again?”

If I had a functioning normal brain I would imagine I’d have a headache about now. I was reluctant to outright ignore Tracey. Like I said I don’t have many people to talk to. “It was tricky, like usual. Yes, they should be fine, look.”

I point out the window as the kid followed by the officers met the father halfway in the park. The father clamped his son in a hug and surely made vows never to let go. Humans are funny like that. Tracey clapped her hands, smiling. “Aww, they look so happy! You really are a good…ma-…per-…being.” Nodding her head triumphantly as she settled on her final answer of what to call me.

“Thanks.” Tracey brought up a good question. Did I have anymore assignments for today? Taking up the note pad, I flipped the page. Tracey gaped as letters began to appear on the page. “WOW! Look at that! You have to be seeing this!”

“I have seen it before yes. Happens every time there is an assignment.” I say, concentrating on the words that were forming for they would be brief and drop down to be lost in the previous writings that overlapped on the page into an unintelligible scribble.

Tracey kept on babbling, “It is like a hole opened up over the notebook and letters fell out and on to the page. How do you guys do that? Hey I know that address! That is my old high school!” Her old school? With her going on I lost the time stamp of when to be there.

Setting the notebook down with purpose I turned to the spectral Tracey. “You can’t come. The work is not for someone like you.”

Tracey blurred and came back into focus an instant later. Her voice carried a hurt tone for the first time that I could recall. “What? Why? Is it because I am a woman? I will have you know this is an age approaching equality, sir!”

“It’s not that…” I started to reply and was immediately cut off.

“Oh just admit it, Maxwell! Half the time I think your brain is stuck back when you were alive! Oooooo you anachronism! Of course you know I mean that in a good way, you just don’t know the strides that are being made and the fight we all face to bring about change.”

“Tracey…”

“No! Look, I put up with a lot from other men out there and I thought you were different.”

“Tracey…”

“I mean what is the big deal if I want to go? I will have you know-“

“Tracey!” I snap finally. That gets her attention so I can get a word in.

Her brow furrows beneath her dreadlocks. “What?”

I am about to open a door I may regret later as the words come forth. “It is not you. It is the fact there could be other Reapers there. If they see you they could mistake you for something else.”

Curious now, “Like what?” Tracey asks.

Expelling a sigh I push on, despite what my lone wolf image is telling me to stop. “Like the mighty dead. Those that have died and refused to cross over for whatever reason. A lot of Reapers are pretty old school and feel this is against the order of things. You die, you cross, then come back later to live again. It is a huge feather in their caps if a Reaper can convince one of the Mighty Dead to cross, one way or the other. I just…don’t want to see anything happen to you.”

Honestly, I didn’t know what would happen if they tried to make her cross. Supposedly astral projection was the soul leaving the body on short trips, but it didn’t feel right entirely. Tracey’s sudden hard line attitude softens, “You mean you care about me?”

“Who else am I going to talk to?”

“That’s a yes!” Tracey chirped gleefully.

******** ********* *********** *********** **************

Driving with Tracey since I really couldn’t get rid of her was interesting. She bobbed along with the car keeping pace. I tested a few theories out along the way. I took a sharp turn and watched her nearly rocket out of the car. Tracey sticks her tongue out at me while half her head jutted through the closed passenger window. A short stop and Tracey goes through the front of the dashboard. Jerking herself back she rolls her eyes. “You did that on purpose.” Yep.

Nearing the school, Tracey resumes her questions. “So how do you get those assignments? How do you know where to be?”

I shrug, “Ghosts. They give us the information.”

Tracey makes a face, “Aren’t ghosts what is left over when someone dies?”

“A ghost is an echo. Echoes go both ways, to the past and to the future. Think of it like a stone you toss into a pond, the ripples go out. We just figured out a way to read the ripples on the other side of the pond.”

Tracey appeared nearly solid, which suggested emotions controlled the focus of her projection. “How exact is it?”

Bitterly I look at the glove box that contained the notebook. “It’s not. Like I said it is like a ripple, it is an event, the when and why is often is often lost. The where lasts a lot longer. We focus on that.”

Tracey digests this and chews her lip. Shifting subjects yet again, “So how do you become a…a…uh.”

“A Reaper?” I finish the tentative question for her.

Tracey nods, “Yeah.”

“You really want to know?”

Shyly, Tracey nods looking at me expectantly.

Pulling into the parking lot of Sparks High School, I begin to hunt down a spot in the now crowded lot. “To be a Reaper, you kill one and take its place.” Hey, she asked…

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…