My dad is the Grim Reaper

Is the work of a reaper ultimately a blessing or a curse? Ever since I returned from the office, my mind has been incessantly occupied with that very question.

Around seven in the evening, Mark and another childhood friend, White, called to say they would come over. After hanging up, I ventured to the supermarket and procured a case of beer along with some provisions. No sooner had I returned home than I found them already waiting for me.

We have been inseparable since our kindergarten days—over twenty years of friendship. Though we rarely keep in touch in our daily lives, whenever one of us is in need, the other two never hesitate to help. Just as during my dad's recent funeral—every detail was arranged by those two—and in the days thereafter, they frequented my company, fearful that solitude might lead me to overthink.

We poured our drinks, partook in our modest feast, and conversed—first about current events, then our childhood, and eventually even about automobiles—until, quite unexpectedly, someone mentioned the uncanny tale of encountering a ghost while driving at night.

At that, the mournful cries of that little girl from this afternoon resurfaced in my memory.

"Honestly, do you two believe that ghosts truly exist?" I inquired.

Mark passed me a cigarette and lit one for himself. "Of course—I see no reason not to," he replied, playfully shaking his cigarette pack.

White merely gestured with a slight shrug.

Mark laughed heartily and teased, "White, you're the best—always abstaining from smoking, unlike us!" 

I continued, "I used to doubt the existence of ghosts. I cannot claim that they are nonexistent, yet I never imagined that one day I would actually encounter one."

White frowned and straightened in his seat. "Sam, what exactly do you mean by that?"

"Allow me to speak plainly," I said, "suppose there exists someone—a reaper—who escorts lost souls to the underworld. Would you say that his work is virtuous or malevolent?"

By then, Mark's speech was becoming slurred. "Naturally it is a blessing," he declared. "To help those wandering souls reach the underworld swiftly, sparing them an endless aimless drifting—is that not a noble deed?"

"Granted, it is beneficial—but circumstances vary. If the soul belongs to a benign spirit, it is a mercy; yet if it is an avenging ghost whose grievance remains unavenged, hastening its passage might not be welcome," White remarked.

I nodded. "Indeed, if a scoundrel dies, it matters little if he is taken away, but for a virtuous soul, my heart would not allow it."

Mark grasped my arm and chuckled, "What use is your reluctance? It sounds as if you are already accustomed to this work!" 

I smiled faintly, and soon our conversation drifted to other topics.

Before long, the case of beer was nearly finished. Glancing at my watch, I noted it was well past half-past eleven. Mark rose and waved me goodbye, "It's late, Sam. Let's call it a night—tomorrow we must work, and I must be off." 

White also nodded, and I helped both of them into an Uber, ensuring they were dropped off at their respective homes, thankfully not too far away. After handing over the fare and exchanging a few parting words with White about looking after Mark, I watched the taxi disappear into the night.

Stepping outside, I faintly heard the plaintive cry of a child. At first, I assumed I had misheard—after all, it was nearly midnight in the dead of winter; who would be crying at such an hour? Standing by the flowerbed before my house, I listened intently and, indeed, discerned the sorrowful cry of a small child. Summoning my courage, I called softly, "Who is there? Who is crying?" 

To my astonishment, a voice answered, "It is me."

Rubbing my eyes, I beheld a shadowy figure emerging from the flowerbed. It was a vaguely defined, translucent silhouette, seemingly that of a child, indistinct in the dim light.

"Wh - who are you? What are you doing here?" I stuttered, my words faltering—perhaps from the lingering effects of drink or sheer terror.

"Sir, will you please help me?" the voice pleaded. Leaning closer, I saw it was indeed a little boy, no older than ten, clad in summer clothes despite the bitter cold; his garments were soiled, as were his face and hands.

"And who might you be?" I asked.

"I have lingered here for over a year, and no one has ever seen me. Uncle, will you help me?" he implored.

"But it is so cold outside—aren't you freezing in such scant attire?"

The boy shook his head. "I feel no cold. Ever since I died, I have lost the ability to sense warmth or chill."

Died? In that moment, my suspicions were confirmed.

At that wintry midnight, I found myself conversing with a ghost beneath my doorstep—a scene that still sends shivers down my spine. 

"Perhaps you should come with me—follow me home?" I offered, almost immediately regretting the words as they left my lips.

He nodded, and with a sense of resigned duty, I escorted him to my house. Once inside, I switched on every light, and he drifted in silently and halted before the television, or rather, seemed to hover in front of it, unmoving.

I walked slowly past him and took a seat on the sofa opposite. "Please, sit down and speak," I urged.

He complied; the small chair which Mark had occupied earlier creaked and slid behind him before he settled down. My heart raced—as if I were witnessing a scene from some surreal film. Possessing such spectral power, it appeared I had unwittingly invited further misfortune.

For over ten minutes we sat in heavy silence. Glancing at the clock, I realized it was already one o'clock in the morning. How long would this eerie encounter endure?

At last, I ventured, "Kid, what is your name?"

"I do not remember," he replied softly. "Since my death, so many memories have faded."

How pitiable his plight.

"Then, what did you mean when you asked for my help? How might I be of service?"

He raised his head slightly, and only then did I notice his face was streaked with blood, and one of his eyes protruded grotesquely—a void of black, devoid of an iris. Though I had long suspected he was a ghost and steeled myself for such a revelation, his appearance nearly made me gasp.

"Sir, I know you are a reaper," he whispered, "and I beg you—help me leave this place."

"How do you… how do you know I am a reaper?" I stammered, my speech growing increasingly unsteady.

"Other ghosts have told me that ordinary mortals emit a white glow, angels a golden radiance, spirits a green shimmer, and reapers a red aura."

I examined myself, yet saw no such red glow.

He smiled faintly. "That light is imperceptible to you."

"Very well," I conceded. "Indeed, I am a reaper, though I have only recently taken up this duty and know little of its intricacies. I am at a loss as to how I might assist you."

He recounted his tragic tale: "Last year, along the road by your house, I was struck by a drunk driver in the dead of night. The man did not report the accident; instead, he removed my body, placed it in his car, and later abandoned it by the river. For over a year I have wandered these parts in search of the man responsible. Yet in that time, my form has grown ever more translucent, and the memories of my former life are slowly fading. The other ghosts say it is because my body was cremated—rendered incomplete—and so I cannot be reborn; my spirit fades more each day until it will vanish entirely. Unless someone helps restore my body, I shall remain here, doomed to disappear gradually."

I listened with scant attention, barely catching enough to understand that he sought my aid in reassembling his remains. I couldn't help but wonder—why, after his death, had no reaper like myself come for him? Do even we sometimes shirk our duties?

After much further inquiry, I learned that in the fatal accident his left eye was blown away. When the driver removed his body, that eye was left behind. Later, his family reported the incident and recovered his remains, yet the missing eye was never found. Thus, the reapers could not escort him to the underworld, for they require a complete body. And so he has wandered these parts ever since.

"I understand," I murmured, "but how might I possibly help you retrieve your left eye?" I had only recently assumed the role of a reaper and was utterly unversed in such matters.

He pointed; following his gesture, I saw a small box—containing the ring my dad had bequeathed me. I retrieved it. "Is this what you mean?"

He nodded. "Indeed. The other ghosts say that if you hold this ring before your eyes and peer through its tiny aperture, you can locate my missing eye."

I examined the ring—it indeed possessed a small hole.

Since that was so, I resolved to help him; after all, the poor child was truly pitiable. The little boy led me southward for a while until we reached the doorway of a convenience store. Pointing to the middle of the road, he said, "I was struck here; my eye must be somewhere nearby, though I have searched in vain."

Following his instructions, I held the ring before my face, peering through its diminutive opening with my right eye. In that instant, the familiar world transformed—where once stood houses, trees, and roads, now there lay only a vast expanse of barren ground, dotted with ethereal forms drifting aimlessly.

"Hey, kid," I called, pointing ahead, "are all those floating shapes ghosts?"

He glanced in the direction I indicated and replied, "Yes—they are ghosts. Should they wish to be seen, they reveal themselves to reapers and mortals alike; otherwise, you can only perceive them through this aperture."

At that moment, several drifting apparitions gathered around me, curiously observing. One brazen spirit drifted so near as to confront me face - to - face; his pallid, ghastly visage rendered me speechless. Noticing the ring in my hand, he recoiled in alarm and shouted, "It is a reaper!"

At his cry, all the nearby ghosts scattered in an instant.

I composed myself and resumed scanning the vicinity through the tiny aperture, finding nothing amiss.

"How might we locate your eye?" I inquired.

"We ghosts do emit a faint, gray glow—so feeble that only the keenest eye discerns it. I believe my missing eye too would shine with such a light, sir. Please, do search for it a little longer."

After approximately half an hour of careful observation, I discerned a shallow pit from which a dim glow emanated. Removing the ring, I discovered it to be a sewage well. Procuring a wooden stick from nearby, I pried open the lid, and once again peered through the ring's aperture—the glow now intensified. Using the stick, I probed within; the well was choked with debris and leaves, its stench overwhelming. After a laborious search, I extracted a small, grimy sphere enshrouded in filth. Fetching another branch and with repeated efforts, I managed to extract the object. The little boy, upon seeing it, rushed forward and eagerly cleaned away the grime with trembling hands, revealing a diminutive, black orb that shimmered faintly when viewed through my ring.

"Truly, thank you, sir—thank you so very much!" the little boy exclaimed, cradling the "eyeball" in wonder.

"Now that it is found, your long wait is over—you may finally cross over to the underworld," I said.

With care, the boy nestled the orb into the hollow where his left eye had been; gradually, the swelling subsided, and his countenance returned to normal.

"Sir, I have one more request!"

"What else might I do for you?" I asked, heartened to see a smile replacing the earlier sorrow.

"Will you take me to the underworld?" he pleaded.

Alas, what was I to do? Never had I been tasked with actively escorting a soul; I had merely responded to summons. Now, to be asked to guide him to the underworld—I was at a loss. I explained that, as a fledgling reaper, I knew little of how to accomplish such a task. The boy then said he could fetch a ghost who might know what to do, provided I agreed not to detain that ghost. I readily consented—for one, I had no desire to capture anyone, and secondly, I was at a loss as to how to do so.

The boy bade me wait upon a long bench by the roadside while he went to find this ghost. Alone, I sat on the empty street past one—nearly two in the morning. Though I had encountered ghosts before, the loneliness of the night filled me with an eerie unease.

After a while, the little boy returned. "Come now—I have assured the reaper that he will not seize you, so fear not!"

No sooner had he spoken than a strangely attired ghost appeared beside him.

That ghost nodded at me and said, "Good evening, sir. My name is Williams."

His accent was peculiar. "And where do you hail from?" I inquired.

"I was born in 1901 in Philadelphia. In 1927, my family and I ventured to New York for business, and we were robbed by a group of gangsters, and we were all killed. My family was taken away by the Grim Reaper, but I was dismembered by the gang,and my complete remains have never been recovered. Hence, I have wandered these parts for decades."

He had perished in 1927—now, in 2021, he had been dead for 94 years.

"I understand," I said, "no wonder your manner differs so greatly from that of the living."

"This little boy's remains—I have only recently helped to restore them. He wishes to be escorted to the underworld, and, truth be told, I too am new to this calling and am uncertain how to proceed. He said that you might know—could you perhaps instruct me?" 

At this, Williams readily assented. It turned out that all I needed to do was use the ring to trace a cross upon my palm, then press my palm against the little boy's forehead to capture his spirit; thereafter, by drawing a circle in the air with the ring, the portal to the underworld would open.

Following Williams' instructions, I etched a cross upon my palm and succeeded in gathering the boy's soul. When Williams inquired if I required any further assistance, I replied, "No, thank you." With that, he uttered a brief farewell and vanished in a whoosh.

I then escorted the little boy to the threshold of the underworld; watching him join the procession, I exhaled a long - held sigh. In six days as a reaper, I had now guided three souls to their final rest—at last, a good deed accomplished. May this little boy ascend to Heaven.