Chapter 16: Don’t Fear the Reaper

Morrigan tailed Death like a shadow. He handled the first reaping hastily, coming in swift, summoning his scythe and severing Jane Hooper’s soul with no delay. She had been sleeping, so Morrigan supposed that meant there was no need for introductions. She was grateful to be given a break from doing it herself. It was like having a class canceled unexpectedly.

After getting off the elevator, Morrigan began heading for the main door.

“No, no, this way, Morrigan,” Death said, turning the opposite direction.

“Huh? What’s wrong?” she asked.

His hand raised as his cloak slid down to pool around the ball of his elbow joint. Between his bony fingers were a set of keys, complete with a cartoon keychain that Morrigan couldn’t help rolling her eyes at. It was a tiny skeleton with a mustache and a top hat, holding a scythe. “I brought my car,” he explained. “It’s in the parking garage.”

“Of course it is…” Morrigan said under her breath.

Morrigan followed Death through the hospital, to an underground parking garage. The space was poorly lit and smelled of gasoline and wet concrete. As they walked past rows of ordinary-looking vehicles, she found herself wondering what kind of car Death would drive. A hearse, perhaps? Something shadowy and ominous, like a black limousine? Or it could have been that simple black pickup truck from the day she first met him, though she did not remember seeing that goofy keychain last time. Though, she was a corpse at the time and had other things on her mind.

To her surprise, Death stopped in front of a well-maintained vintage car, its lines sleek and elegant, with a gleaming finish that seemed out of place in the dingy garage. It was a far cry from what she’d imagined.

“Seriously? A classic?” Morrigan couldn’t help but ask.

“Rolls-Royce Phantom, 1968,” Death replied, his bony fingers twitching as if he were tempted to caress the glossy finish but refrained to prevent any scuffs. “And yes, it’s a classic—timeless, elegant, just like the work we do. A fitting chariot for a reaper, don’t you think?”

Morrigan was almost speechless. “You’re proud of your car? You’re the Grim Reaper, and you’re proud of a car?”

Death chuckled, a sound that reverberated from within his skeletal frame. “Why shouldn’t I be? Excellence is excellence, whether in the realms of the ethereal or in fine British engineering. Did I mention I’m originally from the region currently known as the United Kingdom? Or at least, I spent several millennia there. Anyway, go ahead, hop in.”

Morrigan opened the passenger side door. The interior was just as opulent as the exterior, upholstered in what looked like rich, dark leather. The dashboard was a work of art, adorned with polished wood and gleaming knobs and dials. What really caught her eye, though, were the fuzzy dice hanging from the rearview mirror. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said, staring at them as she climbed in and settled into the plush seat.

Death chuckled again as he turned the key in the ignition. “Ah, yes, the dice. A little iconic touch, don’t you think? Life is a game of chance, after all.”

Morrigan shook her head in disbelief, fastening her seatbelt. “What’s next? Do you have an afterlife playlist?”

Death’s teeth parted in what she was coming to recognize as a grin. “Why yes, I do,” he said, pressing a button on the vintage radio.

The car was instantly filled with the sound of a recognizable guitar rift and a cow bell. Morrigan’s eye’s narrowed as she thought she recognized the song. By the time she heard the first lyrics, it hit her.

‘All our times have come. Here, but now they’re gone.’

“Don’t fear the reaper…” Morrigan said under her breath.

Death let out a hearty burst of laughter as his jaw separated, clearly amused by his own music selection. Some of his bones clicked and rattled together, and Morrigan wasn’t sure if she found him to be creepy, funny, or downright obnoxious.

“—Quite fitting, isn’t it?” Death said when he calmed down, a sense of delight still filling his voice. “I saw them live, you know. July 13th, 1976. Remarkable performance.”

Morrigan blinked. “Wait, you go to concerts?”

Death shrugged. “But of course. When you’ve been around for thousands of years, you need to find ways to entertain yourself. Otherwise, you’d go quite mad. Reaping souls all day every day is far too monotonous. That’s no way at all to live—errrrr—exist!”

Finally, Morrigan had to let a smirk breakthrough as she shook her head. “Okay, you’ve officially broken all my stereotypes about the Grim Reaper. What’s next? Do you also have a Netflix subscription?”

Death let out another series of clinks and rattles as he laughed. “Oh, I did, but I canceled after they raised their rates, and I felt their poor selection left me quite wanting regardless.”

***

The next hour was spent driving around town so Death could help her finish her list. The first was an apartment building before getting into the city, the occupant an old man who was sleeping in his easy chair, television on in front of him. Morrigan still felt herself hesitating with the scythe in her hands.

Unlike Noir, Death remained silent. She was aware of him behind her, watching her, though he offered no advice or pointers. Noir would have said, ‘Quickly, Morrigan,’ or, ‘Don’t overthink it.’ But Death simply observed, letting her come to grips with the task on her own terms.

She took a deep breath, aiming the blade over the old man’s head, and with a swift motion, she swung down. The soul, a slightly translucent version of the man, slowly emerged, looking around in surprise as it began to fade. The television continued to play the news about some political scandal.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

The old man’s soul looked on the two of them. “Ah, is it time, then?” he mused with gentle eyes.

“Yes,” Morrigan said softly.

He nodded, casting a glance toward his physical body. “Well, it was a good run. Too bad. I had a good feeling about my picks for tomorrow's horse race.” With that, his spirit rose up toward the ceiling and disappeared.

“Well done,” Death said simply, as he turned around. Morrigan followed him out of the apartment and back to his car.

Next was a traffic accident. The spirit of a woman in a business suit tapped her foot impatiently as Death parked his car and Morrigan approached her. The woman’s body, her real body, was halfway through the windshield of her car, arms extended over the hood, blood everywhere.

“Oh, and just what exactly are you supposed to be?” the woman spoke with an edge to her voice, examining Morrigan’s dark clothing and the scythe she held. “It’s not even close to Halloween, kid.”

Morrigan hesitated, searching for the right words. She wasn’t quite sure how to respond. “I’m... here to guide you to the afterlife. It’s your time.”

The woman sighed, exasperated. “Typical. Just when things were starting to go my way.” She took a moment to shake her head then set her eyes back on Morrigan. “Listen kid, I’ve got better things to do right now, so why don’t you just go spend your afternoon doing something else? Here, let me give you something…” She started looking through the purse slung over her shoulder. “Where the heck did my wallet go?”

Morrigan looked over her shoulder at Death, who turned his head slightly but offered her no advice.

“Um… ma’am, I’m sorry but you’re dead. It’s uh…” she glanced to Death for support but once again he offered none. “It’s time to pass on.”

“Are you deaf?” the women spat at her. “Did you not hear a word I just said? I told you I’m far too busy. I’ve got an important meeting to get to and I don’t have time for this nonsense!”

Death finally stepped forward, his voice carrying a sense of finality. “Ms. Johnson, I assure you, your schedule has just opened up indefinitely.”

She clicked her teeth and folded her arms. “Indefinitely. What a clown. Alright, I don’t have to stand around here and—”

“MRS. JOHNSON!” Death roared, his voice coming out in a deep growl. “Take a look. Look at what’s happened! You are dead! You ran a red light while responding to an email, and you died here in this intersection. That’s your body right there if you don’t believe me.”

She froze, took a deep breath and closed her eyes, not looking where Death pointed. Morrigan saw how her hand was shaking, and it moved with her agitated words. “I-I’m sure we can come to some kind of compromise,” she said, trying to maintain her composure. “I-I mean, this is ridiculous. I can’t be.”

“I’m afraid it is so,” Death said, his voice becoming more soothing. “Will you please accept it, and pass on with grace?”

Mrs. Johnson pinched the bridge of her nose, suppressing a soft sniffle. It seemed to Morrigan she knew all along what was happening but was trying to deny it. “I guess… I’m getting that extra week of vacation I wanted…”

“Death comes for all, Mrs. Johnson,” Death said. “I believe it helps to not focus on what you’ve lost, but instead look forward to this as a new beginning. You’ve lived a tireless, ambitious life, and made some hard decisions. Sometimes, you’ve caused hurt to those you were in competition with. Yet, through it all, your ambition has been admirable, and your heart has been in the right place, so you’ve been granted passage into heaven. Now, go forth with grace, and be proud of this life you’ve lived.”

Mrs. Johnson sniffed, hiding her eyes as she quietly cried. “It’s not always easy, you know? Being the bad guy.”

“What do you mean?” Morrigan asked, carefully.

“The business world is tough… you got to be tough,” she dabbed her eyes on the corner of her sleeve. “I was always just doing my job, though!”

Death spoke soothingly. “I understand better than you could imagine.”

She pulled herself together and folded her arms with a smirk. “You know what irks me the most about this? That bald douch-bag I fought for the promotion is now going to get it by default.” She sighed. “Wellp, win some lose some, I guess.”

Morrigan couldn’t help but smile at that.

Death leaned towards Morrigan and quietly said, “Go on, I do believe she is ready.”

As Morrigan stepped forward, Mrs. Johnson raised her eyes to look at her. “So what are you anyway? A trainee or something?”

Morrigan smirked. “Something like that.”

She chuckled. “Just my luck. Hey, be tough, kid. It’s a hard life.”

Morrigan nodded, touched by the sudden humility from Mrs. Johnson in her final moments. She raised her scythe, its blade shimmering faintly in the air. “I will be. Thank you. And, goodbye, Mrs. Johnson. Um… good luck!”

With a quick, sure motion, she swung the blade through the space where Mrs. Johnson stood. The businesswoman’s spirit glowed briefly, then faded as it ascended toward the sky.

Death placed a skeletal hand on Morrigan’s shoulder. She felt a chill from his touch. “I believe people react to their deaths quite similarly to how they deal with adversity in life. Some face it with acceptance, others try to negotiate their way out of it. Some are not convinced it is real, and think they can just ignore it and it will go away. Yet others become angry and resentful, cast blame on whoever is there to receive it. In those cases, that will most often be you.”

Morrigan looked up at him, her eyes meeting the dark hollows of his skull. “In the end, she seemed... at peace. It was like you knew exactly what to say to her.”

“That comes with a millennia of experience,” Death said. “Your job is simply to reap souls so they can pass on. Yet, I find this work much more rewarding if you can offer some comfort in their final moments. Never judge, and don’t let your own emotions control you. You must learn to be detached but maintain your empathy. To become apathetic would mean losing yourself. It’s a delicate balance.”

Morrigan absorbed Death’s words, their weight settling heavily upon her. “Detached, yet empathetic.”

“Exactly. We are neither judges nor saviors; we are guides. We must do so with dignity and respect, no matter who stands before us.”

She sighed. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to it.”

“You will. I believe you have it in you to be a great reaper. That was my thought when I offered you the contract, and thus far you’ve done nothing but prove me correct.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

Death paused to consider his next words. “Doubt is a natural part of any significant endeavor. The question is: What will you do with that doubt? Will it consume you, or will you use it to drive yourself to improve?”

Morrigan nodded, letting his words sink in. He had a way of acknowledging her shortcomings while simultaneously easing her concerns. He was a much more comforting teacher than Noir, who, for the most part, just shouted at her to hurry up and do her job properly.

As she climbed into the car and looked at the skeleton beside her, she felt a sudden rush of surrealism. He turned the key and she watched his skeletal fingers grasp the steering wheel. It was almost an out-of-body experience. She had been living this other Morrigan’s life for two days, but for just a moment, the real Morrigan—the one who would have screamed in horror at a talking skeleton—came back to her. She didn’t scream, though. She looked at him analytically, trying to trace her steps backward and understand how she had arrived at this point, living this other Morrigan’s life—or, existence—now.