The Reaper Arrives

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Death arrives to collect a soul, a soul that has prevented it before. Can she do it again?

Submitted: May 10, 2016

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Submitted: May 10, 2016



In the otherwise dark and utterly huge dungeon-like basement of the old Manor-house, there is light to be seen. Off in a far corner sits a woman wearing a red satin blouse with white wolf-tooth buttons. Her tight fitting English-riding pants are made of Crocodile skin, and of course, she wears snakeskin riding boots as well.

A black riding Crop laid somewhat precariously on the very edge of an oversized oak desk.

The desk bares the weight of at least a half dozen very large leather-bound books, which looked to be very old and hand written. Also, there are several manuscripts, unbound, six copper scrolls, and an additional four made of parchment.

On the floor, next to the desk, is a steamer-trunk and there are skid marks on the floor next to the trunk. The oil lamps on the desk and a side table notes the skid marks lead from the trunk to the doorway of a dark storage chamber.

The three locks that were once on the storage chamber door are now broken and lying on the floor.

I can hear the woman cursing in a low and mumbling voice while thumbing through one of the books, "Where the hell is it! --- Damn, I know I had them written down on a scrap of paper.

When was that? One hundred, no, more like two hundred years ago. So it must be in the Book of Serpents, --- I hope."

The woman is the Countess Dorset and everyone in this valley thinks that she is the descendant of the original family that purchased this land and built the Manor House. But they are very wrong, she is the one who drew the plans and had the house built to her exact specifications, over three hundred years ago.

The house, with its two-story tall rooms and its massive ceiling beams will last forever, just as she will live forever. Well, she can live forever as long as she can fend off death for one night every one hundred years.

When the moon is full, in the month of November, she must recite and write thirteen words in her own blood.  She must write them, using the quill of a Raven's Wing and they must be written on the skin from a bore's head.

Two minutes before midnight and two minutes after the witching hour is her time window for success, everything must be done in that time frame. And only then is she able to keep death from taking her, only then can she continue living for another hundred years.

I feel the presence of the Grimm Reaper, the chill in the air grows stronger; he is near.



What's this? It appears that the Countess Dorset has misplaced her incantation, her method to continue this game of hers, this travesty of nature.

Does she belong to the Reaper, at last?



Frost permeates the air in the room as the Reaper enters and the Countess turns to face the spirit.

"Come," he exclaims while motioning with his boney fingers, "Come now!"

The dark figure moves, floating across the great expanse of this large room, and as it moves closer she seems to panic. She thumbs though another book, a scroll, and then she laughs! 

"Here it is!" she snaps with a sigh of relief heard in her raspy voice.

Then, again she laughs a cackling witch of a laugh.

"I have everything right here, "she said with a crocked grin on her perfect face.”I have a clock, a patch of Bore Head Skin, a small veil of my blood, and now I have the thirteen words to read from; oh yes, and the quill to (?)"

"Where in the hell is my quill?" She questions as she frantically searched the desktop.


"COME!" The Reaper beckoned again.


The Countess exclaimed, "I have three more minutes, you freak! I can still make it if I can only find my quill!"

At that point the Countess Dorset looks up from the table with a distinct look of futility in her cold, dark, eyes.

She has seen the quill; it is protruding from a Rat's nest, high up in the ceiling rafters.


"COME," the Reaper beckons, “Come Now!”


05 - 07 - 2016


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