The Reaper (standard:horror, 3286 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jun 24 2002	Views/Reads: 4198/2549	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An alcoholice recieves an invitation to visit his mother. Her dying wish plunges him into a world of murder and horror.

The unshaved, dishevelled man unscrewed the top off his half bottle of
whisky and drank greedily, much to the disgust of the snobbish, 
middle-aged couple. He thrust his head of thick brown hair forward, 
offering the objective woman a glare that would rattle the devil 
himself. He took another swallow for luck, and returned the bottle to 
the pocket of his grubby leather coat. 

To the watching passengers of the train, John Ryan was a bum, a blot
stain on society. In reality, he was a broken man. Just six short 
months ago, he was a successful journalist with a healthy salary, a 
large house, two cars, and a loving wife and child. That all seemed so 
long ago. 

That dark stormy night, when through no fault of his own, the juggernaut
had veered across the carriageway and destroyed his life. That he had 
survived was no consolation, as he blamed himself for the death of his 
wife and daughter. If only he had taken more time fitting the roof 
rack. If only he had put in a litre more of petrol, he would have 
missed the juggernaut; if only. 

John Ryan looked ten years older than his twenty-five years; the effects
of sleepless nights and alcohol abuse being responsible for the heavy 
bags beneath his bloodshot eyes. This once handsome face had been 
ravaged by the grim reaper, who had gatecrashed his once content life. 
Ryan was now unemployed, his once luxurious house a hovel, and his cars 
sold to satisfy his alcohol addiction. 

The blurred sign of Newark stirred him and the train slowed down. He
groped for the letter in his pocket and wondered if he was doing the 
right thing. Why, he asked himself. Why, after all these years? He 
swallowed the remainder of his whisky and flung the bottle out of the 
window and into the hedgerow. The bitter cold wind numbed his face, as 
his tongue sought out the cavity in his aching tooth. The excruciating 
pain offered him another excuse to drink. 

He pulled up his collar and cursed the unusual June climate. His eyes
traced the contours of the long, gravel path, which led through the 
well-manicured gardens to the magnificent house. Ryan checked the 
address on the letter for the third time, surprised how well she had 
done for herself. He ambled nonchalantly towards the house; his cold 
hands buried deep within his pockets. 

He marvelled at the colourful blooms and the stone lions that were
standing proudly outside the front door. He looked up and saw the 
twitching curtains. His immediate thought was to turn around, as he did 
not belong here. His curiosity compelled him to advance, and he rang 
the doorbell. The intercom clicked and a feeble voice ordered him to 
step inside. 

The cool air of the interior of the house did nothing for his already
freezing body; his breath visible as it escaped from his mouth. He 
perceived the magnificent décor, with crystal chandeliers and lavish 
portraits adorning the staircase. He now realised that his mother had 
somehow accumulated great wealth. 

He looked up the splendid, winding staircase and felt to his pocket,
cursing beneath his breath, when realising that his supply of whisky 
had been exhausted. He touched his cheek, grimacing at his aching jaw, 
before starting his ascent. He did not know how, but he was certain his 
mother was upstairs. The tall, walnut door was slightly ajar, and he 
saw the shadows of the flickering flames on the wall. He pushed the 
door and saw the enormous bed that was covered in a transparent shroud. 
“Over here John,” croaked the inhab itant of the bed. The heat of the 
blazing fire was welcome, as he approached the four-poster bed slowly. 

“Come closer, John.” 

He squinted, trying to see through the shroud. Her face was so yellow
and gaunt; and with her hollow cheeks, she resembled a victim of 
Auschwitz. He did not recognise this woman as his mother. With her long 
white hair and despairing eyes; death had already marked her. She could 
have easily been mistaken for someone twice her age. 

“Closer.” 



Click here to read the rest of this story (412 more lines)