Well, Jabber convinced me to write this dream I had a couple nights back. It wasn't nearly as frightning as this, because most of my dreams are random and mean nothing, but this was struck me odd.
I have never read a story about a ghost. All the stories end when the hero lives happily ever after - or dies. What happens to their spirit? Who takes the to heaven? Who takes them to hell?
He is the only spirit who has that power. And everyone knows of Him...
Him
I don’t remember how I died. It all happened rather quickly, you see. I just wish that I could remember the last time that I saw my family. My parents, you know? I just… left them…
I remember specifically falling asleep. Yeah, I’m pretty sure of that. And then what happened? I was feeling very edgy that whole night, as if I knew something were going to happen. As if I knew I wasn’t going to live.
But how did I die?
There was something crawling up the stairs. I could hear it so clearly. Why couldn’t my parents? Everyone was asleep, yes, but still, the footsteps could be heard.
They were coming closer to my room. I was lying on my bed, clutching my blankets. Yes, it’s all coming back. I was there. I was listening to Him creep closer.
My pulse started to rush. My bottom lip trembled. The footsteps grew louder and closer together. I could feel beads of sweat forming at my hairline.
Why couldn’t anyone else hear Him?
And then – it all stopped. Everything was silent. I could barely hear the whimper of my own breath as it escaped from out of my lips.
He was standing outside of my door. Waiting. But waiting for what? I thought. I drew the blankets over my head and shut my eyes.
It’s all just a dream. He couldn’t get me. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t!
And then the door soundlessly swung open. I held my breath and clutched the blankets tighter, my knuckles turning white. He was surprisingly quiet, not making a single fragment of sound as he floated, deathlike, to the side of my bed. Why had I heard the footsteps earlier, but not now? I carefully lifted the blankets so I could look at Him.
He was holding a long, jagged scythe. I pinched my eyes closed and waiting.
Nothing happened. I didn’t die… that’s not how I died. That’s just what started it. He didn’t kill me. Not yet, anyway.
The Reaper couldn’t kill me. I don’t know why. He just stopped, right there beside my bed. He had the chance.
That still doesn’t answer my question, though. How did I die?
I never believed in life after death. It was all just a big hoax. There was no such thing as heaven, as hell. It was all just a big lie. But then, I guess, I never considered that I would be killed. I never thought that one day, I would be there, waiting to be let in. Or down there on the other hand.
So, how did I die? It was shortly after he left that I was diagnosed with leukemia. The doctors said that my bone marrow had cancer in it.
The cancer hit me real fast. It was suddenly there, as if there was another mouth to feed. Another hunger that would kill me sooner or later.
I wasn’t in the hospital long. In fact, less than a week. The doctors had predicted a month. Their analysis was wrong. The leukemia had finished me off.
It wasn’t as bad as I thought dying would be, really. It didn’t hurt. Only occasionally, when the doctors were pricking me with sharp tools and such. But the pain wasn’t nearly as bad as the hunger. I was craving everything while I was in that hospital cot. From cheese to chocolate, I needed it. And they didn’t give me anything.
Hospitals piss me off.
I think it was the fourth or fifth day that I was in the hospital that I saw Him again. I wasn’t as terrified, this time. He entered the room when I was alone, at night. His black hood was draped over his face. He wore all black, just like the stories had told me.
His scythe was carried dreadfully in his right hand. The blade was rigid and pointed. The staff was black, matching the rest of his clothes.
His face was hidden in shadow.
“It’sss time…” He whispered, drawing out the 's'. His breath wheezed. I tried to be brave. I really did. I tried to look away from his frightening gaze. I tried to ignore the scythe that was pointing down, ready to swing.
I tried to ignore the pain as the blade cut into my chest. I grinded my teeth and I winced. The pain was horrible, but not as horrible as what happened next.
The Reaper raised his hood off from his head. I stared into his eyes. There was no pupil. The whole eye was black. Both of them stared at me, searing into my soul.
I tried to fight back. It was a game. I tried desperately to free myself from His deathly stare. He made me focus on the black sclera of his eyes. I looked away, fitfully. He snarled, and finally, I gave up.
He won.
_
Maybe a little cliche, but hey, it was my dream. And this isn't the end. Nope. Just the beginning of a short story. one of the many that I am working on...
Sadly.
BBB
