The Grim Reaper

I grabbed the gun just in case but felt ridiculous for doing so. All this talk about occultism and satanic baby killers had made me crazy. Michael made me crazy. I believed him. I didn’t believe him. I know what I saw. I didn’t know. Stuffing the gun into the waistband of my pants, I figured I was as crazy as Michael. Products of our childhood who never sought help, never got clean and never healed, that’s what all of this was. There’s no such thing as the boogieman. The sun flooded the air with clarity and awakened my appetite as I slammed the door and decided to grab a bite to eat. I couldn’t remember the last time I ate, and my empty stomach refused to go ignored for one minute longer. Weakness set in, a slight head rush and my vision slightly blurred, I leaned against the van and waited until the episode passed. The weight of the last two days crashed down on me. I needed food and rest. Too much too soon. Too much movement and thinking. Too much worry, panic and fear. Comforted by the sun and the crisp morning air, I leaned against the van and briefly closed my eyes until a deep voice called out my name.

I whipped around and scanned the parking lot. Nothing. I stepped away from the van and checked the rows of vehicles, slowly circling in place and bobbing up and down as my eyes searched for the man with the cane. Looking out across the street, I noticed three figures draped in black robes standing at the bus stop. My legs trembled as I forced them to move closer and walk to the edge of the curb. The hooded figure in the middle clutched a plastic scythe while the two standing next to him fidgeted with their robes. One of them scratched his head and bent down to tie his shoe. The grim reaper and his distracted cronies. I’d been spooked by everyday people dressed in Halloween costumes. I definitely needed some food.

Someone had called my name though, and the voice I might have recognized. Muffled and sounding more from within than outside in the parking lot, the deepness of the man’s voice reminded me of a slowed-down audio recording. I didn’t recognize the voice as anyone I knew, but I’d heard it sporadically throughout my life as a child. On the outskirts of sleep where dreams had yet to materialize, the deep voice would call out my name and rip me off my pillow. As a young child, I feared it was demonic, something from the underworld summoning me by name. As an adult, I see it as my subconscious mind playing drill sergeant to ward off sleep. It had been at least ten years since it last happened, but outside by Billy’s van I heard that same subterranean voice louder than I ever thought possible, much too loud for the subconscious mind.