Without further ado: A Grim
Tale
By Elle A. Rose
Copyright © 2012 By Angela Watkins, Elle A. Rose
All rights reserved
The characters and
events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarities to real persons,
living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Blood has a distinct
scent when it burns. Take the aroma of rusted sheet metal, boiling in a
cast-iron pot, with seawater, and you have the smell of caramelized blood. This
fragrance drifts passed me as the body of the recently deceased sizzles in its
inferno tomb. I move swiftly to the driver’s side door. The car, which moments
ago swerved off the side of the road, is being swallowed by orange and blue
flames. In general, from the time of death, whatever the cause may be, it takes
the soul twenty seconds to a full minute to leave the body. It depends on how stubborn said spirit is
before it realizes that it must exit its host. My job is to be there moments
before the time of death. You see, I am a vampire, or another term, which
coincidently most do not refer to in the same sentence is, the grim reaper. I
and others of our kind are dispersed to a scene or accident where just before
the human is expected to die, we step in.
Draining the body of its blood moments before its death, we then wait
for the soul to emerge from the corpse, to collect it if you will, for its
final destination.
With the understanding
that its body’s remains can no longer house its spirit, I feel a tingling
sensation move across my skin as the soul and host detach.
“Where
am I? What happened?”
I don’t know the soul’s name, and I really do
not care to ask. I’ve grown numb to this job.
Over eight centuries of this burden has become routine.
“You’re dead. See your
car?” I direct his attention to the object he once called his automobile. He turns and gawks at the wreckage. The
emergency crew is now on the scene, working franticly to get the fire under
control.
“That’s your body
burning in the car. You were drunk driving and crossed over the lane and almost
hit that van.”
I point towards the other vehicle that is
pulled over onto the shoulder. They’re safe. They’re the ones who called for
help, although there was no saving this kid. I can’t say if I care either way,
if the other motorist lived or died too, it’s just a job. “Come on, it’s time
for you to go.”
“Wait!
What do you mean? What’s going to happen to me?”
I should’ve figured
with the amount of time it took him to exit his body, he’d be full of
questions. A firefighter brushes by me in a hurry to help with the fire. Since I‘ve covered myself in the shadows of
darkness, they cannot see me standing here waiting for John Doe to grasp that
his time is up. “I mean that you’re dead. Seconds before your car smacked into
that concrete wall, I joined you in the vehicle and drained you of your blood.
Indubitably releasing your essence before your body was smashed and burned.” I
like to think of that being the kind way out. I know of some who will wait
until the body is damaged before they drain the corpse of its blood.
“So you killed me?”
This kid must have killed a lot of brain
cells. It doesn’t surprise me. He was pretty drunk before he drove his car off
the road. “No, I helped the process along. You were going to die tonight
regardless of my actions. I just like my blood body temperature and not boiling
hot.”
Time is of the essence,
I reach out to snag his arm. He is going to make me late for my next
appointment, and I don’t want that. Only two types of creatures can touch a
spirit, vampires and faeries. We both have jobs to do. I believe the vampires’
job is unpleasant, since we are the ones to welcome the souls to the afterlife
of Hell. Yes, vampires, aka, grim
reapers, are the transporters of all those individuals that are condemned to
Hell. Well, at least the souls that we make it to in time. Faeries, aka,
angels, are the spirit gatherers most human beings would want to be collected
by. The faerie gets to give the
welcoming news that the individual has lived a life which has led them to those
pearly white gates. I’ve been asked over
the centuries, ‘how do I know I’m not making a mistake in the collections’ and
my response is: ‘I am only sent to the location.’ I know nothing, no name, or
reason why. All I recognize is the calling or draw which propels me into
motion. Once on the scene, I follow the
scent of death. There is always a trail, a trace of death that begins to be
emitted from the body seconds before the demise occurs. That’s one of the
reasons vampires move so fast. We need to be able to step in quick enough to
extract the blood from the body. Part of the eternal torture of Hell is the
burning sensation. That phenomenon starts once the system is drained of the
crimson liquid. This kid doesn’t know it yet, but as the last bit of that
lovely substance dries up, he will start to experience the burn from the inside
out. Damned spirits tend to moan in pain and as the burning increases, their
cries become louder. I try to get them to the gates of Hell before that point.
The hollow sound of their screams can leave a feeling of someone scraping the
meat and flesh from your bones.
“So,
you aren’t an angel?”
We are moving at a fast pace. A human body
would not be able to keep up with the speed in which I’m traveling. But as a
spirit, they’re no longer limited by the unconditioned muscles humans rely
on. “No, I’m not. I hate to break the
news to you, kid, but you are not headed to heaven. Do you feel that burning
sensation? That’s the first step in your eternal damnation.”
“But…wait!
Why?”
He tries to pull away from me when he notices
that his feet do little to stop his movement. The soles of his feet glide over
the dirt and tree stumps as he is forced to continue on the path that I’m
leading him. The gate is close by. I can
sense the pull towards the fiery passage. Coming to a stop in the middle of the
forest, I wait for the doorway to materialize.
The gatekeeper can always recognize the arrival of a new soul. Only appearing in the darkest of locations-
which could be an abandoned building, unlit parking lot, dark alley or in this
case, the middle of the forest, the entrance can be revealed.
Gatekeepers and their
companions, hell hounds, are more sensitive to the light than us vampires.
Death occurs at all times of the day, including while the sun is out. Because
of this, vampires in the olden days would wear black cloaks to help keep our
pale skin from burning. Many pictures of grim reapers depict us as skeletons
under those hooded robes, but I believe because our skin is so pale and we move
so swiftly, that most images the human eye could detect appear as a bone. Therefore, black clothes are vital to
keeping us protected. Any amount of sunlight on our skin will leave our pale
flesh blistered and peeling. We’ve since done away with the robes, wearing all
black, like a hoodie, jacket, and pants will do the trick now.
Feeling the rays of sun
on our skin, would probably compare to what my John Doe is experiencing. He has
started to moan and rock as we wait for the gate to appear.
“Please,
can I go back?” he whispers. “What will happen to my body?”
I glance and find him rubbing his hands up
and down his arms. His semi-transparent eyes give a ghostly appearance. “You
cannot go back. There is nothing left but charred remains.”
“My
mom, what will she think?”
I shrug my shoulders. I’m sure his mother will
think the same thing all mothers think.
The warmth from the
gate draws me forward. I slam into the invisible wall and a hiss escapes from
my lips. I’m not allowed to enter. Even
the bowels of Hell do not allow me passage. The two Hell hounds perk their
ears, but do not move from their seated positions; not until they’re given the
commanded. Undisturbed by my movement,
Eskil, the operator of this entry bows.
“Evening, Cyrene. How
be you tonight?”
“Well, Eskil. And
yourself?” As he contemplates my question, he brings his blackened fingernails
to his stubby chin. The act of his nails moving across the stubble sounds of
steel grinding upon steel.
“Yuh got a busy night ahead of you? Don’t know if I’ll be seeing you again,
though. I’m being pulled towards the south.”
“Yes, the weekends tend to bring out the
casualties. This one here is my first of the night. I’m being pulled towards
the west after this.”
“Reckon you better be getting on your way. No
one ends up happy when they go unclaimed.”
“I think you’d be right
on that.”
Eskil gives the quietest of sounds, and the
two Hell hounds shift into action. Both massive two hundred pound beasts, move
from their seated position and come forth to guide the soul towards its new
home. Besides the soul, the Hell hounds are the only ones able to cross the
invisible line. Although Eskil craves for the coolness of the night air to
brush his ashy skin, and I want to experience the heat that is being released
from the depths of the gates, neither one of us can cross that line. John Doe sees the huge hounds shuffling
closer and turns to flee. One of the hounds gives a grisly howl and the spirit
stops. John Doe then turns on the silent command to face the passageway, and
the hounds, one in front and one behind, march the boy forward.
“No,
please! I don’t want to go! Take me home! Please! I’m sorry!”
“You’ve got a talker on your hands.” I say.
“That we do. Those are
always the fun ones.” Eskil rubs his hands together in anticipation as he watches
the boy cross the threshold. Without another word the gate slams shut and the
warmth disappears.
I turn on my heels and
head towards the west. I must move as
fast as possible. The next death will occur soon, and I don’t want to miss it.
No spirit collector wants to miss the separation of a spirit from its body.
Father Time is always working against us, then again, so is Mother Nature.
Besides the bickering between themselves, they also try to keep us from
collecting the souls. Any spirit that is not gathered within the minute or so
that it takes to depart from its body, will enter into Purgatory, as some would
call it. In other words, they become a ghost.
Left in limbo in the area in which they lost their lives, that
apparition will not enter Heaven or Hell. It doesn’t transpire often, but the
humans that happen to occupy those locations after the body has been removed
are known to have visits from said ghost.
It typically occurs
when a great number of deaths take place all at once. Take for example, the civil war. In
Gettysburg alone, there were so many casualties that neither vampire nor faerie
working side by side, were able to reach all of the bodies in time to collect
the souls. In that case, as with the rest of the civil war, Father Time seemed to
be pushing time forward, making the surroundings move faster if you will. You
see, he likes to have the restless apparitions moving about the earth. Making
the occasion move faster or slower depending on the situation leaves soul
collectors nothing but hard work. If we don’t make it in time to gather the
soul, the ghost is left to terrorize the living. Father Time recognizes
poltergeists put the living on the edge, and when such fragile beings as humans
are on guard they are more open to hurt one another. Father Time since the Beginning has been
racing to the finish line. He wants nothing more than for the world to turn on
itself, so once there are no living breathing objects left, and he can rest.
Mother Nature is his
worst enemy. She loves everything living…including vampires- if you want to
consider us living. She refuses to sit back and watch Father Time ruin her
world. Because of this, she and her minions work constantly to keep the world
moving smoothly. Her fleet of minions or shape shifters will stop at no cost to
keep humans alive. Taking on a form that will best suit the scenario, her
shifters will try to defuse, block, or divert death. These are only in
instances where Father Time has had his hands in things. If it is a natural
death, her creatures will back down. But
take for example, the John Doe I just deliver to Hell. Let’s say before getting
into his car and driving drunk, he was at a house party, where of course he was
drinking heavily. A girl walks up to him and asks him to go home with her. Now
this is some stranger that he has never met, and if he had gone home with her,
he never would have seen her again after that following morning. The girl would
have been one of Mother Nature’s shifters. Most likely before the minion
changed into the pretty girl trying to coax John Doe into not getting into his
car and driving drunk, she was a fox running through the woods. Since the boy turned down the invite, he was
then set in my path. However, Father Time seeing he was a stubborn soul knew
that I would be slowed down. Alas, I may have collected that one soul, but in
the mist of the sluggish departure, I must now work harder to make it to the
next soul so that it will not be stuck in Purgatory. If Father Time
accomplishes what he has set out to do, the question for us vampires is: Where
does that leave us?
Being a vampire is punishment. Of course we
are not allowed into Heaven, or Hell, and because we are in a flesh and earth
bound Purgatory there is nowhere left for us to go. Without the warm substance
we drain from our departing souls, we will be left to walk the earth as the
living dead. The thought of going without blood forever is torture enough, but
to know that we walk this land of the living because of the act of kindness is
the biggest punishment of them all. You see, everyone has a path in life, and
once your path has been marked with death, once that final decision is made
that will end your life, there should be no stopping it. Nevertheless, there
is. My un-souling came five days after I wed my husband.
Our neighbor seemed to have thought a few
acres of our farming land were his. The men bickered for two days. Come the
third day, things became physical. In the mists of the quarrel, the neighbor
lunged forward with a pitchfork in hand, and I having sensed the danger my
adoring husband was in, stepped in the way at the last possible second. Hence,
I became a grim reaper. Everything
happened so fast. There were two moving objects, one was the pitchfork going
towards my husband’s chest, and the other was a black blur. As the manure
riddled prongs began to pierce my chest, the vampire paused, sensing that a
chain of events was about to occur. After falling to the ground, pitchfork
nicely wedged in my heart and lungs, I was lifted into the hands of what felt
like cold metal. Moving quickly, the vampire, Dugan, transported me to a new
location where the exchanging of blood commenced. Because it was during the
day, Dugan was not able to shroud himself in the cover of darkness and my, like
so many other births of reapers was public, which leads to legends of vampire
attacks.
Being older and wiser, my reaper knew it was
best not to change me on the spot. He relocated me, but not too far away, to
make it easier for those who loved me to find the body. As the exchanging of
blood continued, he explained that I’d committed the worst crime known to
mankind-the shift in history, some call it the butterfly effect. The butterfly
effect being that history is already written, and if for some reason it is changed-as
a result of stepping in front of a pitchfork at the last second that was meant
for someone else- you have in effect changed the course of history. The Powers
that be have to then work in overtime to make sure this history that isn’t
already written remains correct. Once the change was complete, I was then
enlightened on my new role in my life of the undead. You can say it was a rude awakening to the
real universe. My husband of five sun rises remarried in less than twelve
settings of the sun, and I was stuck walking the earth as a blood sucking, soul
snatching, Hell greeting beast.
Besides welcoming souls
to Hell, this undead life hasn’t been too bad. With seniority, I don’t have to
travel as long of distances as in the beginning and have been located in the
States for the last five hundred years. Willem, my mate of two hundred years
and I share a small underground residence. He also is a reaper, having pushed a
young slave out of the way of his father’s pistol, he, too joined the ranks of
the undead. Our underground house dwelling is modest, but necessary so we can
walk around without all black on. There are times when we are both drawn to the
same occurrence, however, most days we have to go our separate ways, and
sometimes weeks will pass without seeing each other.
I’ve found my next
destination. Still holding the cover of darkness around me, I watch as the next
death transpires. I always find it a shame when an elderly person dies of
something other than natural causes. I know the next demise will be of an
elderly lady. The trail of fatality is shining bright and leading its web
towards her. It appears that she has just left the local corner market. There
are two men waiting at the end of the dimly lit street for her. I can hear
their murmurs. The guys have tracked the old lady for two weeks, and tonight
they plan to rob her of everything on her person. Once they have her keys to
her house, they’re going to shoot her and then raid her apartment. These are times that I would like to be a
corrupted soul snatcher, like Dracula. Choosing the souls I’d like to drag to
Hell would be nice. No one knows how he, like so few others are able to break
from the internal commands we receive. Although, I wouldn’t go around trying to
turn others and taunting the living, yet, I would definitely choose to snatch
the souls of these two men with the gun before having to take the old lady’s
soul. However, on second thought, I’m bringing her to the gates of Hell, so
perhaps she isn’t as she appears either. Besides, like the barrier that keeps
me from entering the warmth of Hell, the same barrier holds me in place as I
wait the next death.
The street light has
caught the reflection of my insignia, reaching up I place my hand over the
small piece of silver. Centuries ago, when there were more farmers than
townspeople, us grim reapers used to walk around with what most call a sickle;
it was part of our disguise. To the untrained eye, we carried farm tools, but
it was actually a replica of our fangs. As times have changed, we have done
away with the sickles and now we wear such insignias as necklaces, bracelets or
anything else we can find on the internet that resemble fangs.
Other things have
changed with the ages. Vampire hunters aren’t as prevalent. As the world
revolutionizes most don’t believe mythical creatures exist, which leaves less
and less men of the cloth wearing garlic around their necks hunting us. Outside
of smelling really awful -garlic for some reason has the strongest smelling
aroma, and makes us gag- it has no real effect on vampires. We just don’t like
the smell. Garlic or no garlic, men of
the cloth are the only ones who can end a vampire’s life…with a stake. The
stake must be blessed in holy water and the man must be of the purest heart and
soul to accomplish the task. So all-in-all, most attempts to stake a vampire
fail. But those that succeeded… well, it only begs the question, what happened
to that vampire? We have no souls to become a ghost stuck in Purgatory, and we
are not allowed into Heaven or Hell. Some believe when we are staked, we become
reincarnated. I only wonder if you need an essence for that.
Another change that
doesn’t partially go with the shift in the world, but with a vampire becoming
reestablished in the world, is after a few decades we no longer need to carry
our caskets around with us. You see, while the transformation to a vampire is
processing, our systems go into a sort of hibernation. This usually gives the
family time to bury our bodies. Once the change is complete, most vampires need
to dig themselves out of their grave and find somewhere to hide, or locate
black clothing to keep them protected from the sun. It’s an instinct to bring
your casket with you. Besides the clothes on your back, the casket is the only
thing you enter your new life with. That is, if you’re lucky enough to be
buried. That was another ‘pitchfork’ in the heart for me. Thankfully Dugan
wasn’t called to his next reaping right away, so he waited to see if someone
would claim my body. Realizing no one would, he moved me to his dwellings and
clothed me. He no longer needed his casket since he had a proper shelter, thus
as I moved into the world alone, he allowed me to take his for protection.
Vacant buildings weren’t as prevalent as they are now, and unless we are
removing a soul from a residents in which is occupied by the living, that
invisible wall blocks us from entering. Furthermore, all holy grounds are
completely off limits…even if a death occurs on the premises. As a result, most
vampires aren’t left with many places outside of the casket to seek shelter in
the beginning.
I’m commanded forward
to the shuffle. I watch as the taller man on the left pulls out the gun. I
reach the elderly lady seconds before he fires. Sinking my teeth into her neck,
I draw her warm blood into my mouth. As
I drain her essence, I hear the booming click of the gun. The woman gasps as
the bullet enters her body. Dealing with weapons is a part of the job, but I
hate it. I let out a sharp hiss as the bullet exits her body and enters mine.
It comes with the territory. Letting her body drop to the ground, I step back
into the darkness and attempt to pull the bullet out of my abdomen. This is why
vampires heal quickly. Outside of my own death, I have, over the centuries been
shot more times than I would like to count. I was thankful when sword fighting
lost its attractiveness. But buses,
knives, cars, axes, baseball bats and even a fishing pole are some of the
weapons that have battered my body over the centuries. Not to mention those
times I‘ve arrived late and found myself jumping off of tall buildings or boats
and other such things to make the draining before their lovely blood makes too
much of a mess for me to lick up. Ironically, there has never been another
pitchfork to pierce my skin. The Powers that be have a sick sense of
humor.
Digging deep into my
side, I find the bullet and yank it out. The tissue and skin around the wound
begin to heal. Hissing again, I throw the metal on the ground. My Jane Doe has exited her host and is
staring at me. Her murderers have begun their retreat.
“Aren’t
you going to stop them?”
Her voice is a high pitch wail. She turns and
stares down at her body, and the blood that’s left, as it slowly leaks out onto
the sidewalk. “No, not today, but maybe
one day I’ll get the calling to.” I glance through the new hole in my shirt and
I find the puncture is completely closed. “Come on, it’s time to go.” My Jane
Doe faces the direction in which the men ran and spits a saliva-less spit
before turning back towards me.
“Well,
now what? I’m assuming I’m dead.”
“That you are. Follow me.”
We need not travel as
far this time to the next gateway. I can sense it materializing. Making a
right, we head for a dark alley that smells of urine and has a hobo sleeping
under a box next to the garbage bin. As we walk past the bum, the old lady
mutters an ungodly word and attempts to kick him. Her foot goes right through
his leg, and he feels nothing. I stop and once again and I’m greeted by the
warmth of the depths of Hell. Ormand is the operator of this opening. He, too,
is flanked by two hell hounds.
“Must be those weekend
things or whatever you call them. This is my six emergence of the night.”
“How are you this fine
evening, Ormand? Yes, it is a weekend, but I have a feeling it shall soon slow
down. I do not sense the calling of another as of yet. This is my second of the
night.”
Ormand nods at me, and flashes a toothless
smile towards our Jane Doe.
“Burning yet?” he
questions with an unworldly beam. He then gives a slight click of his tongue
and the two hounds stand and position themselves.
Jane throws her nose in
the air and says, “I need no assistants
from these mongrels. I’ve known this was coming for some time.”
She attempts to push past the beasts whose
muzzles stop at her shoulders. With her head held high, she marches into the
gates of Hell.
Ormand smiles at me and says, “It wasn’t too
long ago that I saw Willem, perhaps he’s close by.”
Gatekeepers have no way to tell time, other
than what information us vampires pass onto them. He may have seen my Willem,
but it possibly was not on this evening. It could have been months ago for all
I know.
“Perhaps. There are no
other calls for me as of now, so I shall go home and await his company.”
Ormand steps back,
pulling the gate closed, and I draw the shrouds of darkness around me. Heading out of the alley, I head home and
await Willem or my next calling, whatever happens first.
