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Time with the Reaper
by
Mark Dirschel



It happened one day while walking through the woods near home. I came upon a stranger dressed in black, sitting by the fire. He heard me approach, no doubt had been tracking my progress and bade me welcome to come and sit with him moments before I said hello. He didn’t look up, merely asked that I come, his hands folded and tucked neatly inside the large cuffs of his robe. I obliged him. I felt neither fear nor comfort with his geniality, in fact my inner workings were more neutral than sparked with a certain emotion. Perhaps I was foolish, perhaps not.
We sat together for some time, staring at the fire. It was odd, yet in a way, quite comfortable after all. In time, I asked his name.
“Mortay.”, he said, with a slight inflection at the end. It was a bit difficult to understand him mainly because he rasped when he spoke, like a very old man who’s lost his voice due to many years of smoking. “You trust easily, my young friend. I mean you no harm, let me say that up front. And even if I did, what harm could a frail, old man possibly bring to you? You are strong and when one is strong, I am weak.”
He paused, allowing his words to sink in - an unnecessary event. Then, “Let me tell you a story, hm?”
I could not see his face, but I imagined his wrinkled skin creasing upwards in a smile, gray-blue eyes staring brightly. He wore a hood which covered his visage in shadow. In truth, thinking back on it now, there was not a bit of skin I was able to see. One arm unfolded and a stick protruded from the robe that hung over his hand, still not revealing flesh. The air was chilly and the way he dressed appeared comfortable, if nothing else. At the end of the stick was a marshmallow and he dipped it over the fire.
“I came upon a young man earlier, about the same age as you, which is why I will tell you this.”, he said. “He’d been driving, a little too fast for his ability, and lost control of his car. More ego than responsibility, he was. The car skidded off the road and hit a tree. Delicious. He was wandering, in a daze when I found him. There was blood on his face and more seeped from a nasty gash he sustained across his forehead, probably from hitting the steering wheel. In truth, his skull was cracked and I let him know it.”
My own forehead creased, I felt it move and tighten. Being a curious creature, I looked around - glanced here and there, looking for any sign that the person he spoke of might be lying on the ground nearby. There was no one. He sensed my interest although he never looked up from the fire. I could tell merely by the way he remained silent until my inspection of the area was complete.
“Where is he?”, I asked.
“He is... where he needs to be. He came to me willingly, reaching out to touch me as I approached. I could have turned and walked away, might have done that actually if he hadn’t punctured a lung to boot. His breath was short and his shock was great. he would never have made it. He was ripe for the picking.”
I didn’t understand. I was confused.
“I took him easily, my young friend. A necessary task for those who live foolishly. His soul clung to my robe, weeping in fear. It could have been you, if you’d been on the road when he came. It could have been you, if you’d come upon someone with a colder heart than my own, here in the woods. Be careful of your trust. Be wary of your comfort. Pay attention so that you do not die a foolish man like the young soul I sent up river.”
“What are you saying?”, I asked. He ignored me.
“I will not be back for you today, that much I can tell you. But we may meet again tomorrow, or next week, or next year or perhaps it will be fifty years from now. Whatever, although the next time will not be as pleasant as this, at least not for you.”
My anger rose, along with my unease. I wanted to run but I didn’t necessarily feel threatened. How dare he?
“Who are you?”, I spat. “And who do you think you are?”
He paused again, his marshmallow having turned black on the stick. It sagged, dangerously close to dropping in the fire. When it did, he dropped the stick in as well and reached up. For the first time, the long sleeves fell away and revealed the bleached bones they were hiding. My blood ran cold and my stomach twisted violently. Mortay grabbed hold of his hood with those segmented protrusions and pulled it away. Black eye sockets grabbed sick hold of my attention while the whiteness of his skull drained my flesh of healthy pigment. I believed, for a moment, that I would pass out.
“I am death.”, it rasped at me, that lower jaw sliding down and then up. “And that is all I am, except for you right now. Right now, you may call me advisor.”
Mortay stood before me then, his bony legs beneath the cloak moving without benefit of connective tissue and lubrication. My world rolled violently as he stared down with those black holes where eyes should have been. Real and not real; and when he reached inside his cloak and brought out his sickle, my consciousness burst. I fell backwards, drifting off to horrible nightmares while the sight of him burned into my brain.
I awoke some time later and Mortay was gone. The fire had died out, leaving behind ash and smoke. How long was I out, I wondered. He said he would not be back for me that day and now the day was almost done.
I wandered from the woods and soon found the road. In time, I came upon the flashing lights of both a police car and tow truck. The officer saw me approach and I asked for a ride back to town. He asked me if everything was all right. The tow truck pulled away, dragging behind it the mashed hulk of a wrecked vehicle. I sat in the cruiser, almost weeping as a chill ran down my spine. Somewhere down the road, a dark figure waved as the cruiser made its way home.