Disclaimer:
This is a work of pure fiction. In tribute to Halloween, I have very loosely based the premise of this story on the cancelled Showtime TV show, DEAD LIKE ME, whose premise I always found witty and a quirky look at life after death. The characters in this story as well as the writing are all my own creation, however the basic ideas were adapted from the show and I wanted to give credit where credit is due.
I hope you enjoy it. Those who know my writing know its not wham bam sex so if you're looking for that kind of story, please kindly pass this one by. Those who choose to read it, please take a moment to comment and vote. Sorry it took so long to post but schools been crazy. Good luck to everyone in the contest. Thanks all.
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The young woman's scream shattered the night, echoing in the crisp night air as she ran. The tree branches tore at her clothing, trying to keep her in the grips of the nightmare she had stumbled into. Just this morning her life had been perfect, full of light and promise, but now she was reduced torn clothing barely covering quaking flesh, stumbling over the rocks and fallen branches that had tore her bare feet to ribbons.
A desperate sob escaped from her parched, cracked lips as the howl pierced the night. She ran towards the glistening glassy surface of the lake. The boat was moored to the dock. If she could get to it, she would escape
Dark hair feathered across her face as she whipped around when a branch cracked behind her, splinters biting into her heels as she backed up onto the dock slowly. When she saw a shadow appear, she gasped. No," she whispered. "Leave me alone, Damian. I don't want this."
"You can't stop the change."
"This isn't my fate! I don't want this!"
"But you do. I can feel your excitement, taste it across my tongue sweeter and thicker than the honey between your thighs."
He smiled as she shuddered. She started to deny it but he leapt forward, knocking her to the dock. She screamed as he pressed her down, his hands fumbling with what was left of her clothing, ripping it off with a sound like flesh tearing.
Her body arched welcomingly under his as the beginnings of the change swept over them. The hair upon his forearms and face began to grow thicker, fuller, his shoulders broadening under her lengthening nails. He leaned his head back, and opened his mouth wide as his face elongated. When he howled again, hers answered...
A shoe bounced against her newly pointed ears a moment before the scene went black, making the fate of the two furry lovers uncertain. I arched a brow as I glanced over in the direction of the stray Doc Marten, calmly munching on a mixed handful of dill pickle chips and M&Ms. I had a craving for a salty sweet combination and I had already polished off two miniature bags of sour gummy worms and half a dozen packages of Tart&Tinies.
"Guess you're not a fan of the warm and furry."
A growl more realistic than the ones we'd been hearing from the tube for the last hour, trickled from between my roommate's teeth. She slumped lower in her overstuffed armchair, black bangs sulkily brushing the tip of her nose.
"Movies like that represent just how perverted the Halloween tradition has become. It's not about pagan magic's and mystery anymore. Most people don't even know the true meaning of Halloween anymore. When I was teaching folklore at the University, young people knew there was more to this night than B-rated horror movies on TV, candy that rots our teeth out of our head and costume parties where people get to live out the tool side of their nature and be applauded for it."
"It's just a movie, Miranda."
"You're telling me that this commercialization of death doesn't bother you?"
"We live in New York. We see more death walking through Central Park at 2pm."
"I can't believe you're making light of this, Allison." "It's just a movie. Actors have to make a living."
"Its not just movies! I mean look at the T.V. guide listings for Christ's sake. Look at this one right here." She pointed dramatically at a spot on the little book with a polished red fingernail long enough to be a talon. I pitied that scrap of paper, but wouldn't have traded places for it for the world.
"
Last Dance; Former prom queen meets death on the dance floor and must decide whether the good life is really the live life.
How can you not be bothered by the fact that most people don't even believe in the afterlife, yet Hollywood makes billions a years by exploiting it?" Her green eyes narrowed; almost disappearing beneath the heavy black liner that made her look vaguely Egyptian though her accent was pure mid-west bumblefuck.
"I bet death will come to meet her dressed all in black and be some A-List Hollywood star."
"I liked the one with Brad Pitt. He was easy on the eyes."
"I don't know how you can be so flippant about the stereotypes, Allison. You of all people KNOW what death looks like. When the hell have you ever seen a self-respecting reaper walking around with a sickle?"
Miranda glowered and I switched my attention back towards my bag, crunching on another mouthful of potato chips, whistling low as the salt stung my lower lip. I've known Miranda long enough to know that when she started in on one of her rants, it was time to get real nice and quiet and pretend that I was part of the scenery. Blend in was my motto. She might have been dead, but she still packed a wallop and I wasn't the fighting type.
I wasn't a lover either to be perfectly honest, because both emotions required a level of passion that I tried to avoid whenever possible. I liked to keep my head down and out of the way. Giving a shit just complicated things and my life had enough complications in it without adding more to the mix.
I chomped a chip. Miranda meant well. Aside from the black clothing and rants about everything and everyone, she still held out hope that there had to be more to life than what was. I on the other hand, firmly believed that life would eventually turn to shit and being prepared for it with a Coke and a smile was the best possible plan of action.
I mean, look at the people of the world for instance. We're governed by laws. Bad people get punished by human law and then get out on parole six months later to maim and kill again. Good people get spit on by most of those parolees and then punished by Murphy's Law which sends them out to my corner of town.
True, those words might have sounded like the diatribe of one of those new age cynic assholes who believed that God was dead and human nature was just leading us all down a path of self-destruction, but they had the general idea - at least about us all eventually destroying ourselves.
As far as the whole death, Heaven and Hell bit, I knew for a fact it was all real. I also knew that God existed-he was upper management. The other guy was lower management but we peons never dealt with either side directly. We were sort of the middle ground, taking souls in our spare time when we weren't struggling through life just like every other moron who wanted to live in a city where the average salary couldn't buy you coffee and a morning donut.
Oh yeah, one important point I guess I should mention.
I'm a reaper.
As in grim reaper, but the not cartoon kind all in black and definitely not to be mistaken with death, because that doesn't go over real with the circles I travel in.
Death is a whole separate division in the bureaucratic hierarchy of the afterlife. We're just the fall guys, there to make sure that souls get where they're going. Where that is exactly, isn't part of our jurisdiction. Actually a lot of things aren't under our jurisdiction, which means we usually feel like we don't know our ass from our elbow.
For me, this state of affairs isn't that different from my past life when I worked 9-5 at a dead-end job and the only stimulation I got on Friday nights was from my purple plastic friend stashed in my panty drawer beside my bottles of Jack and Midol.
Being dead hasn't changed anything except my name and my apartment, a crappy little studio in SoHo. Whoever said that the afterlife is supposed to be all light and happiness is probably on mind-altering drugs and shouldn't be allowed near small children.
My chair creaked as I got up to refill my empty bowl, my gaze moving away from Miranda for a moment to the clock. She continued her rant and I nodded absently, offering a few grunts in acknowledgement to nothing I had actually heard as I studied the bright plastic alphabet letters I had arranged on the refrigerator as a reminder of tonight's gig.
J.B. Duff , E. T. D. 12:00 a. m. Central Park.
Miranda thought it was tacky that I liked to use the kid's toy to keep track of my pick-ups, but it was a sure way of not mixing up our Post-its when we were both home. That had happened once and lets just say I got the short end of the stick there; blood does not come out easily from silk. I yawned as I looked at my watch to make sure that the wall clock hadn't died again.
It was 11:20p.m. Forty minutes till the witching hour and estimated time of death for the unknown J.B who could have been man, woman or child for all I knew. I always hated the anonymous ones. They could be tricky as shit. Family reunions were the worst.
I set the empty bowl down on the tiny two-seater table in the kitchen and grabbed the leather jacket draped over the back of one of the chairs. I'd never owned a leather jacket when I was alive, but the girl this one had belonged to wouldn't need it anymore. This late at night, the tiny bloodstain on the right sleeve would look like ink. I grabbed my keys and dropped a few fish food sticks into Mr. Happy's bowl before I moved back to the living room where Miranda was still going strong.
"What time is your pick-up?"
"Same as yours. Cassandra said it's a double. She thought it would e easier to go together."
"Good. So let's go." I got her jacket from the closet and tossed it to her before I checked my hair in the mirror.
The whole reflection thing still took some getting used to. It'd been five years since I'd joined the ranks of those who gave less than a rat's ass about life because we didn't really live it, and I still got spooked every time I passed a storefront window.
My hand patted nondescript brown hair into place, though the poker straight strands never needed much fixing. They just hung as limply as overcooked spaghetti around a face with a generous mouth with thin lips, a too pointed chin and wide, freckled cheekbones, illustrating that though death might get you a crappy apartment with a fierce looking landlord and fiercer leather jacket, it couldn't make you a knock-down, drag-out hottie. Of course I couldn't really bitch since this was the first time that I had seen the face I'd been born with in a year. Only on Halloween could we be seen for who we truly were."Time to go."
"You haven't been listening to a word I've said, have you?"
"Course I have. The world sucks and so does everyone in it who still needs to breathe air. Let's go. I want to grab some moo-shu pork before we hit the park."
"That's not enough time for takeout." Her eyes narrowed. "We'll see if you're this facetious when they start running re-runs of
The Corpse Bride.
