• Prologue

    Chapter I

    Greensboro, North Carolina
    2009
    Local Bookstore

    I stepped through the rows of books, glancing at each one, attempting to find one I hadn't read before. (This proved difficult. I'd been frequenting this particular store for a good 3 years, and though my job often interrupted my reading, I'd still manage to move through the vast majority of the available material.)

    There. Something I hadn't perused yet, a new installment in a fantasy series I'd gone through, if memory serves it was under a different author. Hopefully it wouldn't suck, I'd quite enjoyed the originals.

    Looking around to make sure no one was watching, (The book, not me. Reapers are invisible to regular humans, though some do claim to see us, more likely they're talking to imaginary woodland creatures, or trying to con others. Either was it's hilarious to witness them talking to thin air.) I slipped a copy off the shelf. (Once the book was in my grasp, it was invisible to humans, part of the whole “existing on a different yet connected plane” thing. It's not something you'd really get.)

    I made my way to the classical section, where I'd made my base. (In other words it's basically the place I liked to read during my off time. At that time my district had been cut down to roughly just Greensboro and the county surrounding it. I was fast enough with soul extraction by then that each day left me with roughly 8 hours of cumulative free-time.) I'd chosen the classical section because it allotted for the most available reading material. My kind may only interact with things on the mortal plain if they have some semblance of a spirit. This means we can touch and change intellectual materials, like well thought-out books, (Wait just a moment, wouldn't that mean I couldn't interact with this idiotic story? Shouldn't the universe be inverting or something? Seriously, the Paradox is mind boggling.) and Classics were the best source (I'd tried the moderns section, but it seems the filter of time is irreplaceable in it's ability to sort through textual excrement.)

    When I arrived I found Owen in his regular pose. Standing in a corner, nose buried in a book of poetry by Edgar Allen Poe. I was almost certain he'd read through it before, but he seemed just as enthralled as if he had just discovered the most unique and amazing piece of literature ever created.

    “I don't see why you read that stuff, it's more depressing than us,” I said. (I was serious here. By the evidence that Owen could touch it, Poe was at least a thought provoker, but from the excerpts of his poetry I'd sampled, Poe's bleak outlook on, well, everything made the job of Grim Reaper look like a field of gumdrops and ecstasy.)

    “Hmm...” Was all I received in response. (For the the love of uninteresting dialogue, I've been with him for nigh a century and he's still this worthless as a conversationalist? Kill me. Right now. Get me out of here!)

    “Very articulate. Anyone ever tell you just how interesting you are? You're way with words is astounding.” (At least the Author let me call him out on it. I swear, I'm the only dynamic thing in this story, aren't I?)

    “Hmm...” He answered, not looking up from his book.

    “See, it's that eloquent way of speaking you have that's your ticket to great things. If you were to share it with the rest of the world you'd be moving on to your own sector in no time flat.” (You may think I'm being too hard on Owen, but you try dealing with such a tacit companion for nearly a century. You have to find ways to brighten up the mood somehow.)

    “Will you please leave? I'm reading.”

    “You really know how to take the joy out of death, you know that?”

    “Mm Hmm.”

    (Wonderful. Don't I have just the most scintillating company? I must be wonderfully blessed to receive such a joyous friend. Don't let the clear contempt and constant badgering fool you, we're really quite the pair of buddies. /sarcasm)

    I was just about to relay similar sentiments to Owen when the pinprick reared it's irritating head. (Oh for literature's sake, that metaphor was downright idiotic. Wouldn't it have been better to just say “when I sensed a death somewhere in the city?”)

    “Well, looks like it's time to punch in,” I announced. (The reply I received was just as riveting as earlier, so unbelievably enrapturing that I dare no repeat it, for fear I would butcher it's brilliance.) “Come on, Sir Articulate, we've got to earn our bread, feed the kids and all that.”

    I grabbed his arm and yanked him from his corner, jarring the book from his hands, and Projected before he could object. (Owen, by this time, had been capable of Projecting on his own, but was so irksomely introverted that, left to his own devices, would most likely become as sedentary as a statue. Also, notice the Author's use of big words here. I think he's trying to make sure you know how smart he is. After all he said “introverted.” That's smart right?)

    Projection is quite the trip, the rush of space itself slipping past you, reality bending as you travel, it's exhilarating. The first dozen times or so, at least. After over a century and a half of it, it had become as mundane as riding the bus. (Apparently the Author wants to instill the idea of how boring eternal life is. We get it! Supernatural powers can't make up for a lack of closure in life. Be careful Mr. Author, that heavy hand may very well crush your keyboard beneath you.)

    We arrived on the scene (*retch*) to find ourselves in a high school auditorium. At least I assumed it was a high school, judging by the size of the young man hanging from the rafters. He wouldn't have been a pretty sight to you, what with the cut wrists and the dead eyes (there was also a piece of paper sticking out of his pocket, which I'm assuming was covered in a rather untalented poem about how the people around him had driven him to this. You know, moody teenagers with their hormones and all, they actually think people will care. They won't. Off yourself right now. It's for the best.)

    Encouraging teens to end themselves for spit and giggles aside, it was all rather a sad thing to behold. Most would probably have seen it as a visual representation of the result of isolation when growing up, and the effect others can have on an individual. I saw it as a perfect target to try out my new game.

    “Let's just get it over with,” Said Owen, finally deciding to speak. With a distant look on his face he began to rise into the air, a knife of his own materializing in his hand.

    “Whoa there, buckaroo.” (Quick question, why did I just start talking like the Author's grandfather? Unless...I AM his grandfather! * Cue Twilight Zone theme *)

    I reached up, grabbed him by the ankle, and jerked him back onto the ground. He grunted when he hit the floor (Purely to be melodramatic I might add. Keep in mind he's spirit. It's not as if he's going actually feel pain. Being ethereal tends to rid you of that mortal hindrance.)

    This time I had my Scythe take the form of a bow and Arrow. Taking quick aim, I notched the arrow, drew, and loosed. The arrow soared upwards, and stuck fast directly in front of the chest. A line of of light appeared, as if drawn by an invisible hand, and slowly the spirit seeped out as the arrow disappeared. Just as the spirit took it's human form, I conjured another arrow, took steady aim, and loosed. Just as the spirit began to descend, the arrow stopped below it, burst, and a rift in the Veil opened, right on time for the spirit to sail threw before the young man's soul could even comprehend where he was. (Okay, I have to give the Author some credit. That was actually pretty cool.)

    As the spirit slipped through the Hole and the portal between the world ceased to exist, I raised my fist up in celebration.

    “Yes! 1 point for me! Keep track Owen, once we find another body up high it'll be you're turn.”

    No reply.

    “Owen?” I turned, wondering if he had brought another book along with him. I instead found him beside me, tensed as if he had just sensed some great disturbance (in the force, perhaps?) and staring wide eyed at the air where the Hole had once been.

    “Owen?” I repeated, waving my hand in front of his face. “Death to emo-boy, what's got you acting like a rabbit in a fox's hole?”

    After a few more seconds, he shook his head, looking disheveled and just as on edge.

    “You...You didn't hear it?” he asked, fear lacing every word. (Wait, what? “Fear lacing every word?” Aren't we getting a tad too melodramatic here?)

    “Hear what? Besides that sack of innards up there,, we're the only people in here. And we're not even “people.”

    “But, I heard a voice, and it sounded like...”

    “Like what? A delusion? A hallucination?”

    “Like...” He drifted off.

    “Like silence? You can't hear silence genius. Now c'mon, start talking again, I know it's great to hear me talking all the time, but even I need an intermission every once in a while.

    “I guess it's nothing. But it seemed familiar for some reason.”

    “The voices in your head do tend to sound familiar, it's not as if you can't know your own overactive imagination.”

    “Yeah...” And to my displeasure he regained the distant, irksome expression that I hated it. (NOOOOOOOO! I was getting responses! Damn you Author! Damn you to Hell!)

    With a frustrated sigh, I resigned myself to more silence from my companion and projected back to the book store. (Great, back to boring. I ******** hate my creator.)