Reaping Me Softly

revealing freaky things about yourself.”

She lifted her gaze. “I’m sorry I haven’t—”

“Since when?” he interrupted.

It felt like melted ice dotted her brow. “What?”

“Since when can you ‘see dead people’?”

“A couple of years back.”

“A couple of years.” He took off his cap, ran his hand through his hair again, then replaced it on his head—his helmet against all things freaky. “Jesus, Ari. I thought we promised to tell each other everything.”

“Okay, not the reaction I was looking for.” Disbelief exploded in her head. “You mean to tell me you’re pissed because I took so long to tell you?”

“We’re best friends. That has to count for something. Isn’t listening to each other’s secrets what best friends are supposed to do?”

“So, you’re saying you believe me?”

“Why would you lie about something like that?” He engulfed her with his body, strong arms securely around her waist, his Dial scent coating her lungs. “Ari, you should have told me sooner. I’m sure you were scared the moment you saw the first ghost.”

She giggled. “On the contrary, it wasn’t scary at all. I was visiting Pops at the nursing home when I saw the woman. I pointed her out and Pops told me there was no one there. I did some research—”

“Of course you did.” Ben broke the hug. “So, what are you? Psychic or something?”

“I wouldn’t say that.” Arianne dug her nails into the strap of her bag. “I don’t see the future or anything. My research says I’m more like a Medium, although I can’t speak to the dead. Or I haven’t tried. I don’t think I will, FYI. And I see them only for a second or two. They disappear pretty fast.”

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Wouldn’t you?” She rubbed her forehead. “I mean, it doesn’t bother me anymore. It’s like having extra people walking around, you know? Well…they’re naked—”

“Whoa!” Ben surrendered. “Too much information.”

“But it’s true!” she insisted.

“I’ll take your word for it,” he said. Then he crossed his arms. “Why tell me now? Why wait so many years?”

Arianne challenged the tangerine sun to a staring contest until the fading light made her close her eyes. A yellow orb still floated at the center of the darkness. She breathed in the post-summer air and said, “Seeing dead people, you know? I guess I’m just tired of keeping it all to myself.”

Ben wrapped his hand around hers. “Come on, I want to get home some time before dinner starts.”

Arianne thought she must have had an aneurism between the time she’d told Ben her secret and when he’d accepted it as nothing special, because it seemed so surreal that all the scenarios she’d played out hadn’t happened. Especially her favorite one.

“Thanks,” she said as Ben tugged her toward home.

The Reaper brooded like a rebel, sitting on his reading chair with a leg hiked up on an armrest and resting his chin on a fist. He wore tattered jeans and nothing else. His sable hair fell past his knotted eyebrows, messy and still damp from a recent shower. He stared at the flames contained by the fireplace located at one side of his cavernous bedroom. The undulation of red, orange, and white tongues helped clear his mind of the noise and chatter of his thoughts.

His collection of history, mythology, and biographies on the shelves along one wall sang to him, urging him to curl his long, elegant fingers around their spines and pull them out of their confines. He ignored their call—no longer interested in leafing through their pages. Tales of the underworld, accounts of countless deaths, memories of lives gone by couldn’t hold his attention anymore.

Only the snap, pop, and crackle of the burning wood broke the eerie silence. The dark furnishings hugged him, bringing him a measure of comfort and peace. He glanced away from the flames and settled his gaze on the crystal vase filled with white roses on the mantel. It sat below a painting by Kratzenstein of Orpheus trying to grab Eurydice just as she was pulled back into the underworld. The look of disappointment on Eurydice’s face played out as a perfect counterpoint to Orpheus’s dismay at not having the fortitude to maintain facing forward until they reached the outside world. The Reaper snapped his fingers and the roses wilted. Now their dried leaves and desiccated petals matched the emotion the painting portrayed.

He reached out toward the flaming maw of the fireplace, watching shadows dance along his fingers. He lowered his eyelids and waited.

In his periphery, an amorphous figure manifested itself. First as smoke, then as a watermark image.

The Reaper’s solitude diminished with every second it took for his Caretaker to take shape.

“Master?” a gravelly voice said. It filled the room with a chill akin to fog crawling over a grave.

He studied the fire a little longer before he dropped his hand to his side and faced the lanky, pale apparition that floated legless before him. “What is it, Sickleton?”

“Forgive the presumption, but I worry for you, sir.”

“And why is that?”

Sickleton gestured to indicate the room and its dark furnishings, his hand turning to smoke for a second. “This state of ennui has got to end.”

“Ennui?” As if by a system of pulleys, his eyebrow rose. “Good God, stop being so melodramatic.”

“You have been spending more and more time in your room, sir. You have been ignoring your minions and the help they provide. You insist on conducting your duties on your own.”

Planting both feet on the carpeted floor, the Reaper leaned his elbows on his knees and tented his fingers. He narrowed his eyes at his Caretaker. “I appreciate the concern, Sickleton,” he said. “But, I would appreciate it more if you kept out of my business.”

“Sir…”

The Reaper made a fist, and Sickleton’s mouth disappeared. The Caretaker’s eyes bulged. Master and servant stared at one another. Both unmoving. Both silent. A dance that often ended with the servant bowing to his master.

“I’m glad you understand.” The Reaper unclenched his fist, and Sickleton’s lips returned.

“A new batch of Certificates has arrived, sir.”

“This early in the day?”

“I believe so.”

The Reaper of Georgia stood up and cracked his knuckles. “Very well. Fetch my shirt.”

Chapter 2 ACCIDENTS HAPPEN

ARIANNE ENTERED THE KITCHEN one muggy October morning to find her father still sitting at the breakfast table. She stopped by the swinging door and raised her eyebrows until they touched her fiery bangs. He sat there in his suit, reading the sports section, contentment in the set of his shoulders. His brown hair gleamed with touches of gold brought by the sunlight sneaking in from the window.

“You’re still here?” She hid the surprise in her voice well. Or so she had thought when she walked to the fridge.

“Good morning to you too, Daughter,” her father barked, not taking his eyes off the paper.

She flinched before opening the fridge to grab the orange juice. “That’s not what I meant.” The snap of a page being flipped almost made her drop the carton.

“Huge pile-up on I-75. I called work and said I’d be late.”

“What about the 85? I’m sure that’s still free. What are the odds of an accident happening there too?” She