Velli

Two horsemen ride in front ahead, and one in all black stays behind them. To the left is a Dullahan, clad in black and trotting forward with an air of invincibility. He squeezes his head between his hand and his hip. The head itself is alive, conscious, and glaring at me with growling repulsion, like a feral school principal. The headless horseman drops his reins to draw out a silver-tipped whip. As the whip dances at his side, the headless horseman’s cape doesn’t move. It stretches from his back down to the horse like a flattened human body. There’s no wind. Death and morbidity are all around me.

To the right is a rare fairy-tale monster I’m surprised actually exists—the nuckelavee. It has the head and torso of a man connected to the body of a horse. It lacks the beauty of a centaur. The nuckelavee most resembles a man chopped in half and welded onto a horse, skinless, still bleeding, and without fat. How can his arms be that long? They stretch to the ground and drip blood on the grass. This is a creature put together by a madman or a child who doesn’t understand anatomy yet. Its head is too big for its body—bobble, wobble, bobble, wobble. It should be funny, but it’s not. It is frightening and real. Uncontrollable blood drips everywhere. Its head rolls back and forth, up, and down. Its eyes never leave me, and it huffs and roars, unable to contain its excitement.

Behind them, in black robes and with an invisible face, mounted on an all-black Clydesdale, is the Grim Reaper. Because what else could it be?

“Stay where you are! We’re leaving!” I yell at them.

They don’t stop.

“I said stay—”

I’m cut off by the nuckelavee’s fleshless, bloody arm reaching out for me. No way it can touch me. Its arms can’t be that long. It’s like watching a 3D film sped up past reason. I’m only a frightened observer as it does reach me. By some horrible miracle, the nuckelavee fingers my face. I slash with Excalibur. His hand holds onto the blade. I push forward against his palm with a groan of victory to draw first blood.

Wait, blood comes out, but he always had blood seeping. No more, no less. I’m pushing, and it’s not cutting. It’s not pressing any deeper into the skinless flesh of the nightmare.

He can’t be cut.

I put my back into it, press my face almost against my blade, and command my shoulders to apply more strength. The Grim Reaper gets closer, and I can’t beat Death. It’s fate. He still can’t be cut.

The Old Soul doesn’t move. She chooses to play dead at this new development.

A whip cracks. Something flashes ahead of me. The skin on my chest burns like fire. I scream something insane. The Grim Reaper is only five strides away from me. A whip cracks. It flashes in front of me again. My right calf burns. My body can’t take the pain, and I’m brought to one knee. A whip cracks. I close my eyes. I need my other calf. It can’t hit my other calf. It hasn’t yet. It might not. My left calf screams, or I scream. I don’t know. The pain is intense and unjust. I’m on both my knees.

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The nuckelavee’s blood drizzles on me. The Grim Reaper comes before me.

The Grim Reaper begins the process of dismounting its horse, a slow, meandering, patient task. The Old Soul does not move. All I can do is watch and shut my mouth so the taste of blood from the nuckelavee doesn’t get in it. The Grim Reaper takes its time to stand above me, scythe in hand.

“You will come with me.” Its voice sounds like a faraway whisper I can comprehend without error, a conversation I’m not supposed to hear, something taboo.

“To where?” My voice comes out as strained as I feel.

“The other side, where blood does not move in you and your body cannot come.”

The Old Soul rolls away and reaches for her cane. The nuckelavee reaches for her.

I waste no time. “Not doing that.” I leap up, sword swung back and ready to slice off whatever is in those baggy robes. “You’re not even the real Grim Reaper. Just a theme park attraction with consciousness.”

Excalibur meets the scythe of the fake Grim Reaper.

Excalibur breaks. Pieces of it explode everywhere. It would be lazy to say it’s the perfect metaphor for my hope because it leaves out how frightening this is. This isn’t about defeating the Old Soul anymore. This is about not dying. Excalibur stood against the Old Soul’s cane. The Old Soul’s cane has killed over a hundred real people. Yet the Grim Reaper obliterated Excalibur with one swipe. The sword didn’t even put up a fight. I’m left with just the hilt and maybe two inches of blade.

It’s quiet. Why is everything so quiet? The horses don’t even breathe. The nucklavee’s dripping blood is the only sound. Where’s everything else? They were all starving. They ran away. No, he can’t be real. The Old Soul was defeated, and I won.

Grenades. I have grenades! With adrenaline-laced speed that surprises me, I unhook a belt of grenades from my waist, pull one, and throw the whole belt at him. The grenades go right into the opening of his hood. The explosion shocks my ears. The blast pushes me backward. The smoke and dirt punish my nostrils and tongue. The Grim Reaper does not slow down.

“You don’t know what I am,” the Grim Reaper says. “You say I am not the real thing, but I say I am. When I kill you, will you not be dead? When I kill you, will I not remove your spirit from your body? When I kill you, will you not be less than me? Because no one will remember your name.”

The Old Soul grabs her cane. She disappears.

No.

Yes, Fate says.

No.

Yes.

There’s no way.

Yes, Death itself manifested in human form just to kill you like God became Jesus just to save mankind. Death became human just to end your life.

No. No. I’ve got to get out of this. He’s real. He’s real. That’s Death himself. I use my emergency exit plan, a poem to summon an urban legend who will drag me away from all this.

“Man Without a Face!” I yell. My voice cracks like a middle school boy’s. My tongue zooms over every word as I crawl away from Death’s lazy stalk toward me. Has my body always been this wet, this sweaty? “Man Without a Face, I want to come to your place. Man with a Red Tie, take me where I will wish I will die. Man in a Black Suit, I am nothing, treat me as loot. Man in Every Shadow, do not be slow. Man as Slender as Lamb’s Sins, take me in.”

The urban legend I call yanks me away from the Grim Reaper by my collar. The three horsemen watch me, disinterested voyeurs in my new journey.

Because they know they’re not done. They know they’re coming back to get you.