Eric St. James had imagined the numerous ways in which he might die countless times—a myriad of dreadful possibilities that were most unwelcome to the thoughts of an otherwise unbothered teenage boy. Though he did everything he could to keep thoughts of his own peril at bay, the plethora of scenarios still crept into the darkest recesses of his mind, a spilled jar of the blackest ink seeping into his every thought. Morning cornflakes were often accompanied by vivid visions of his own blonde, thin form falling from a cliff; homework assignments lay unfinished in lieu of drawings of horrid, creeping monsters; his friends declined to invite him to activities due to his incessant worrying about fatal accidents. 

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Plagued as he was by these morbid visions, never in his fourteen years of living had he imagined a scenario like this. 

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Death, as it so happened, took a most unexpected form. The man standing before him—though, Eric supposed, he could hardly be called a man, given his distinctly boyish face, pert expression, and rumpled hair—was surveying Eric with a polite but expectant demeanor. He wore a dapper blue suit and sensible loafers, which tapped somewhat impatiently in the stretching silence.

 

Eric stared back, mouth lolling open unpleasantly, drinking in the Stranger’s unintelligible expression. Questions were simmering before him in the air—the least pressing of which pertaining to requesting the Stranger take his shoes off when standing on his mother’s new carpet—but he was not shocked. He was not alarmed. Not yet. He was curious, yes. An uncomfortable churning sensation had erupted in his stomach, but he was prepared. 

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The man’s previous words still rang in his ears, scratching deep gashes into the inside of his skull as they clawed to escape: Eric St. James? Please remain calm. I’m afraid your life is over. A quiet stirring in the back of Eric’s mind alerted him to the vague notion that he should, indeed, say something. He supposed he looked rather stupid standing there slack-jawed and silent in his own living room. “I take it you recognize me?” asked the Stranger at last, furrowing his brow when Eric still wouldn’t speak. He had an accent; a formal yet lyrical inflection to every word he spoke. It was otherworldly, timeless. 

 

Eric swallowed painfully. Of course he recognized him. Anyone would recognize Death staring them in the face. After unearthing his voice from somewhere deep inside his chest, he finally spoke. “What are you doing here?” 

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The Stranger grinned—a sight that made Eric infinitesimally more uneasy than he would have been had the man whipped out a rifle. “I’ve come to collect you. Am I correct in assuming your parents aren’t here?” 

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Mr. and Mrs. St. James had said their airy goodbyes to Eric hours ago as they drove away to an antique showing a few towns over. He had stolen away to his bedroom, intending to tackle a large and growing spiderweb in a high corner, but ended up staring blankly at a spider in the center for the better part of an hour, unable to bring himself to knock it down. Hours into this hollow task, a strange urge to venture downstairs overcame him, where he had found the Stranger leaning against the kitchen counter. 

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“Correct. They’re away.” 

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“I suppose I’ll keep you company then, yes? It would be considered common courtesy for you to offer me a chair.” 

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They found themselves in the living room, Eric still unable to take his eyes off the Stranger. No man the likes of this had ever been sighted in the St. James household. His mother was a rigid, hawklike woman who placed order and cleanliness in such high regard that her husband and son were little more than dirt-collecting, dish-using creatures that brought great inconvenience to her otherwise spotless lifestyle. The agglomeration of rumpled hair, lazy confidence, and uninvited presence that stood before Eric would have sent Mrs. St. James into a coma. 

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The thought of his mother brought pinpricks to Eric’s eyes. He blinked, hard, and the Stranger swam before his vision. He had seated himself in Mr. St. James’ armchair, directly beside the fireplace. Eric sat across from him on the sofa. 

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“You’re just a boy,” the Stranger said, not unkindly. “It’s alright to be afraid.”

 

“I’m not afraid.” 

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With a twinge of unease, Eric watched the Stranger smile. “No, of course you aren’t.” At the very corner of his left field of vision, at the precise point where his peripherals faded into fuzzy blindness, Eric caught sight of the landline phone sitting on his mother’s gleaming coffee table. A faint red glow emanated from the button reading ‘SOS’. If he could just stretch his arm out a few inches. . . 

 

“Don’t bother. Help wouldn’t arrive in time.” 

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Eric’s eyes snapped back to the Stranger. His expression was a blank canvas, a roaring river, a baby bird. Had he seen Eric eyeing the phone? Had he seen deeper than Eric’s eyes?

 

“I’m wondering, Eric,” The man’s voice was soft now, barely audible above the low hum of the air conditioning in the corner, whose wind tickled playfully at the leaves of his mother’s precious window lilies. “I’m wondering,” began the Stranger again, “whether you want me to take you.”

 

The thought had occurred to Eric often, as unwanted thoughts did: darting around the dilapidated underbelly of his consciousness, hiding in crevices and evading capture by sprouting concrete roots. Did he want to die? Eric closed his eyes. Death lurked around every corner for him. He had been running from it for as long as he could remember, refusing to acknowledge his own exhaustion. The first time he hadn’t resisted the paralysis of panic was at this very moment; in his own living room, looking into Death’s eyes. The notion that death was a physical presence, looming around corners and lurking just out of reach, was oddly comforting in its tangibility. 

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Death was just as alive as he was. 

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Feeling braver now, Eric held his head up. “No. I’d like to live. I’d like to stay here. I think—I think I’ve been irrational, how much I’ve thought about you.” 

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For the first time since Eric met the Stranger, a look of utter disgust frosted his protuberant eyes. Gone was his boyish demeanor and his airy, cheerful manner of speaking. His handsome features hardened, giving him the ugly impression of a much older, sourer man. There was a glint of something truly horrible, something evil, behind his eyes. Eric, caught off guard, wondered if he had said something offensive. He opened his mouth to backtrack, to apologize, but his words were quelled with a scathing look from the Stranger. 

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“Irrational? I am everywhere,” he spat. “Your naïveté is disgusting, boy. I am a being of a caliber that you have never dreamed—though I know the extent to which you have dreamed—“ 

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He was on his feet now, creeping toward his frozen prey. “Your kind is cruel, greedy, arrogant, disgusting. I took pity on you! I took pity on a boy who lives an empty life, who is obsessed with me. I expected great things from you.”

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The Stranger was so close to Eric that their noses were almost touching. A splash of freckles danced across his cheeks. “Look what I’ve done for you!” With a white-knuckled fist, he seized a handful of his blazer and brandished a small white tag bearing the small print: Property of Samuel R. Peterson. “I borrowed this body,” he hissed, “these clothes, this brain, so as not to frighten you. I did this for you. Mr. Peterson, at the very least, came quietly. It would do you well to behave in a similar manner.”

 

Eric’s nose was slick with sweat. He pushed up his glasses with a trembling hand, yearning for the solitude and comfort of his bedroom. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. You can kill me now—please, just do it.” 

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The Stranger threw back his head and emitted a grating, inhuman noise. It took Eric a moment to realize that he was laughing. “Kill you? No, no, the crude concept of Death that you’ve been taught, of a cloaked figure brandishing an awful scythe and preying down upon the ill and the weak, is a dreadful misconception. Death does not choose its victims. I am merely here to assist with a process that is entirely out of my hands.” 

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“Wh–what?” 

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The man beamed at him; a grotesque contortion of his otherwise handsome features that prompted Eric to recoil backward involuntarily. “My dear boy, you’re already dying.”

 

“But. . .” Eric searched for his next words carefully. “I know. I know that. I just thought I had more time.” 

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“They all say that, the dying do. Time is a fickle thing, boy.” 

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Eric felt himself nod. He was crying now, though he could not remember allowing the tears to fall. Thick, wet tracks lined his pale cheeks, seeping silently into the collar of his shirt. “When will it happen?” His voice sounded faint, as if someone in the next room was asking the question. 

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Death seemed to come back to himself, to reign in the ugly beast that had sprang forth when Eric had denied that he wished to die. He took a deep, slow breath and retreated, seating himself once again in Mr. St. James’ chair. 

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“It will happen now, if you’d like.” 

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“And if I wouldn’t like?” 

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Death’s smile was wry. “Still now.”

 

“And…and how?” 

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Death motioned back towards the kitchen with a long-fingered hand. For the first time, Eric noticed a faint hissing emitting from somewhere behind the pristine stove. “You hear that, I suppose?” 

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“Yes.” 

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“It will be quick.” 

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Silence fell again. Eric’s eyes slid to the cross hanging on the wall behind the man. He couldn’t help but recall the sticky summer mornings with his grandmother in a pew, stuffed into a too-tight suit and trying not to doze off while the priest recited archaic words that Eric could not comprehend. Later in the car, his grandmother would buy him a peach popsicle and chastise him for not paying attention, squawking “Don’t you want to get into Heaven, boy?”

 

Eric steeled himself once again. “So, are you–are you going to take me somewhere now?”

 

“Take you somewhere?” Death cocked his head. 

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“To the afterlife. You know, like Heaven?” The question hung thickly in the air between

them, pressing down upon Eric’s chest. In the entirety of his interaction with the man sitting before him, Eric had yet to see him rendered speechless. He watched a speck of dust float through the air while he waited for Death’s response. 

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“There is no such thing as Heaven, nor is there Hell. The end of your life is, I fear, the end.” 

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“How do you know? How can you be sure?” 

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“Let me show you.” 

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They rose in perfect unison, man towering over boy. Eric’s legs quivered beneath him as he took Death’s outstretched hand. It was warm, calloused. 

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The hissing from behind the stove was deafening now. It surrounded the pair, a blackened snake tightening its grip on Eric’s neck. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. For the first time, Eric St. James needn’t imagine the way he would die. 

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~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ ~~~~ 

Angela Liu’s life was about to begin. A promotion of the caliber she was about to receive meant incredible power, money beyond anything her family had ever thought possible of her, and a shiny new plaque declaring her: Angela Liu, Chief Functioning Officer. She held up her meticulously styled head proudly as she marched into the massive building before her, heels clicking on the tiled floor. 

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“Morning, Miss Liu!” Her assistant, Grace, was at her side at once, hurrying to keep up with Angela’s long strides. “I have everything set for your meeting at eight o’clock today—” She rifled through a stack of paper and held up a Manila folder as they reached the glossy elevators at the back of the lobby. “The financial paperwork for your transfer if the meeting goes well—which, of course it will—as well as the minutes from your conference call yesterday.” 

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Angela regarded her with a calm superiority. “Thank you, Grace. I’d like a coffee before the meeting.” 

Grace squeaked breathlessly and hurried off. Angela entered the elevator and rode it silently, barely returning the polite nods of fellow businessmen around her. Though outwardly quite poised, her thoughts buzzed and rattled incessantly inside of her skull; logistics and numbers and carefully constructed interview answers as well. 

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Upon exiting the elevator on the eighth floor, she entered her office, muttering under her breath, “Thank you very much, sir, I look forward to working with you—”

 

Angela stopped dead. A thin blonde boy sat on her ornate wooden desk, pale hands folded in his lap, peering at her over the rims of his glasses. He was young, certainly young enough to be lost on his way to school, but there was a distinctly aged air about the way he held himself. 

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“You’re in the wrong building,” Angela said curtly. She did not have time for pointless distractions.

 

“Leave before I call security.” 

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The boy simply stared pleasantly up at her. “Angela Liu? Please remain calm. I’m afraid your life is over.”