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Death has a thousand doors (standard:horror, 1065 words)
Author: jopoguerreroAdded: Mar 20 2008Views/Reads: 1716/993Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Balm for eternal suffering

Death has a thousand doors 

Randolf Ines, Jr. made a living writing for the dead. He had other
sources of income through the gift of the pen: news features for the 
dailies, essays for weekly magazines, short stories for anthologies and 
speeches for personalities. 

But he found writing eulogies more lucrative than any other products of
writing because it is not everyday that somebody needs his words for 
the living. But everyday somebody dies, and somebody needs his soothing 
words for the dead. For Randolf, every death is a kaching! in his cash 

Also, eulogy writing had become like a walk in the park for him – easy
and undemanding. A writer for the departed just needs to whip-up a 
salad of gratitude and goodbyes for the good dead (remember, there is 
no bad dead in eulogies). 

In his years of writing eulogies, Randolf had accumulated piles of
functional lines for his craft. Like the words from Byron. Perhaps the 
early grave which men weep over may be meant to save. From Hypsaeus. He 
whom the gods love dies young. From Tennyson. God's finger touched him, 
and he slept. From Milton. Death, the gate of life. But Randolf's 
favorite was the cold reality from Massinger. Death has a thousand 
doors to let out life. It was the opening line for his last eulogy. 

It was only half past eight, yet the chilly January night seemed too
eager to put Randolf to sleep. He tried to ward off the call of the 
doze, but it was unrelenting. Finally, he yielded. He decided to have 
forty winks before he starts attacking the keyboards again. 

Randolf was about to rise from the chair when his peripheral sight
caught a figure slumped in his sofa. It was a man. The room was devoid 
of light that time – save the weak glow from a corner lamp - but he was 
sure it was a man. Sleepiness left Randolf as he swiftly grabbed a 
handgun hidden under his chair. 

“Who are you?” Randolf pointed the gun at the man. “Don't move! Or I'll
shoot your brains off!” 

The man was wearing a leather jacket - hands calmly rested on his lap
while a cowboy hat obscured his face. His presence seemed to emit an 
odd breeze in the room, icy yet sulfuric. He rose from the sofa and 
moved to approach Randolf. 

Randolf squeezed the trigger. Bam! The slug made a yawning hole on the
man's stomach. But instead of blood, maggots and bugs flowed from the 
bullet hole - the grimy insects went in and out of the flapping gap. 
Then, in jumpy motions, the bugs buzzed, flew and attacked Randolf's 
eyes, nose and mouth. 

Randolf shrieked and jerked backward. He let go of his gun as he whacked
and shook off the tiny creatures from his face - they went flying all 
over the room. 

“Randolf Ines, Jr., there is no need to kill me,” the man removed his
hat. “I'm dead.” 

Randolph shuddered at the sight of the man's face. It was his face, only
much older, ashen and brittle. He was like looking in a mirror which 
transformed his reflection into a cadaverous image. 

“Father?” Randolf muttered. 

“Oh, you still recognize me, Son?” the man said. “After twenty years
since you ran away from home - after ten years since I died alone in 
our farm, my body dragged and nibbled by damned animals - after you 
have resolved not to look for my body for a decent burial - you still 
recognize the face of your father?” 

Randolf's forehead was wet with sweat, his cheeks with tears. He cried
and howled like a girl locked in a bloody morgue in the middle of the 

“I was dying Father....I didn't want to be a cursed farmer like you, and

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