Grim

By Rachel Dib

“Plan on harvesting some wheat?” Jake asked, lifting a brow.

“Or hacking your way through the jungle?” Trent snorted.

I rolled my eyes. “This”—I proffered the scythe—“is a souvenir from my latest investigation.”

“Another spirit taking issue with his new living conditions?” Jake paused. “Or, I guess, lack thereof?”

“Did this one move on, or is he still lingering like Mr. Grumpypants upstairs?” Trent asked.

“I take offense at that.” The ethereal form of the late Reginald von Hilderbrand popped head-first through the wall, glaring at Trent. He adjusted his monocle. “Don’t mistake my good breeding for disgruntlement, gentlemen. I am perfectly content to dwell within the confines of this house.” Then, in a barely quieter tone, he added, “Even when the company I’m forced to keep is so tiresome.”

“Oh, come on, Hildy, old buddy,” Trent teased. “You know I’m only messing with you.”

Taking further offence at the misuse of his name, the ghost puffed out his chest and turned up his nose at the youth. He flicked his gaze to me. Noticing the scythe, his eyes widened, and he drifted halfway back through the wall. “I daresay, wherever did you acquire that?”

Smirking, I lifted my chin. “Recognize it, do you?”

“It was the last thing I saw…” The ghost disappeared further until only his eyes and the top of his head remained. “Or perhaps it was the first…” He vanished.

“Um.” Jake eyed my new apparatus, lips pursed. “Why is your souvenir spooking our ghost?”

“Probably because it once belonged to the Grim Reaper.” Grinning wickedly, I slashed the air. “One of them, anyway. Pretty sure more than one hooded figure has the job. Can’t be in multiple places at once, after all.”

“Grim Reaper?” Trent eyed me dubiously. “As in, Death?”

I shook my head. “One of Death’s servants. You didn’t think he released souls himself, did you?”

“I mean, I figured it was part of his job description,” Trent muttered.

“No. He’s too busy.” I held up the instrument. “I was investigating a haunting today. While I was searching for the offending ghost, I stumbled across a reaping.”

A shiver crept down my spine as I remembered the experience. “It was somewhat disturbing, actually. I’m used to ghosts, but I’d never seen one come into being before. One moment, a man was clutching his chest—probably a heart attack or something—and the next, a robed figure was slicing through a silver mist connected to the body.”

Jaw clenched, I relived the moment the mist had taken a human shape; the spirit had decided to become a ghost rather than dissipate and move on. After so many years of coaxing ghosts to retake their spirit form and release, it was heartbreaking to witness the opposite.

“Are you okay?” Jake asked.

Pushing the images aside, I nodded. “The reaper didn’t even explain anything to the newly formed ghost. He just took off, leaving the unfortunate to stare at his remains in utter shock.”

“Wow, that’s horrible,” Jake commiserated, and then tilted his head. “Wait, if the reaper disappeared after separating spirit from body, how did you get its scythe?”

Realizing my mistake, I averted my gaze. “He dropped it, and I picked it up.”

“The reaper just dropped his scythe?” Jake narrowed his eyes. “His main work tool—the one thing that gives him power.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Okay, so maybe I grabbed it and ran.”

“You did what!” Jake and Trent asked simultaneously.

“That reaper didn’t deserve to wield the scythe’s power.” I ran a hand through my hair. “You should’ve seen that new ghost. He was confused and scared. And the reaper didn’t even care. He was just going to leave.”

“That’s terrible, Roland, but—”

“I bet that’s why poltergeist activity has been on the rise,” I cut Trent off. “All these new ghosts don’t know what to expect, so they grow frustrated and act out. Surely, if someone explained their new circumstances and laid out their options, the number of hauntings would drop.”

“And you, what? Thought you’d take on that responsibility?” Jake asked.

“Why not?” I shrugged. “I’ve used my sight to help hundreds of ghosts—bad ghosts. Maybe as a reaper I can stop them from turning evil to begin with.”

Jake’s brows shot to his hairline. “As a reaper?”

“Roland, you’re human,” Trent pointed out.

Realizing what I’d said, I clutched the scythe in both hands. As a reaper. Is that possible?

As soon as the question crossed my mind, the scythe’s handle scorched my palms. A rush of energy seared through me, and I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing myself against the sudden influx of power.

When I reopened my eyes, both of my friends were watching me, their faces pale and eyes wary. Their fear sparked a burning glee in my chest.

“Roland? Buddy?”

I smiled upon hearing the tremor in Trent’s voice. He should be afraid. They should all be afraid. I brandished the scythe, admiring the blade’s sharp edge. Its previous owner had kept it in excellent condition. I’d have to thank him for that—right before I released his spirit. Couldn’t have him trying to take the tool back, after all.

“Boogada! Boogada!”

Startled by Reginald’s sudden yell, I jerked around and tripped over a fallen broom. Releasing the scythe, I flung out my arms to catch myself.

“Kick it away!” Reginald von Hilderbrand commanded, and Jake lunged forward to acquiesce.

“No!” I growled as the energy drained from my body.

“Whatever you do, don’t let him touch that again.” Reginald disappeared through the wall, but then popped his head back in and added, “Bring it to a graveyard. A reaper will retrieve it.”

Curling into a ball, I shuddered as the last shreds of power left my system—then I relaxed.

“Roland?”

Hearing Jake’s tentative tone, I flipped over onto my back. “You know, maybe it’s better I continue helping ghosts as just myself.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rachel Dib is a stay-at-home mom of three small children. After marrying a soldier, she left her home state of South Carolina to live in random places across the United States. Her works of short fiction have been published by On the Premises Magazine, Havok Publishing, and Ye Olde Dragon Books. She has also had short stories published by Toasted Cheese Literary Journal under the name R.J. Snowberger.

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