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Rated: ASR · Short Story · Folklore · #2140187
I hadn't expected him to visit so soon.
I slowly made my way to the door when the doorbell rang.

Who could that be? I wondered, I'm not expecting anyone today.

I peeked through the peephole, but only saw darkness. I opened the door to the black-cloaked man.

"Come in, come in, Mr. Reaper!" I said, "My, you're here early! Or am I behind again?"

"No, I'm early," the man said, stepping inside. He used his scythe like a staff, the end tapping the floor as he walked.

"Sit down," I suggested, "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you," Grim declined politely after taking a seat.

I sat next to him.

"So, how's the wife?" I asked.

"The screeching drives me crazy sometimes, but the Banshee's a nice lady, overall."

There was a moment of silence, which allowed me to remember my first meeting with the Grim Reaper.

I was a little girl when I nearly died. Somewhere around seven years old. The Grim Reaper was there right when I started choking.

He was supposed to wait until a few minutes had passed, then take me away with him, but then he mumbled something about it not being right. I guess the other Reapers followed the rules better, but by breaking them, he saved me.

Soon after, he visited me to see if I was okay. We ended up chatting and we became friends. From then on he came to my house twice a year. He told me that any more than that and his boss would notice.

But this time he was almost two months ahead of schedule. I had a feeling this unexpected visit was related to his work.

"So . . . why are you here right now? I thought we agreed long ago that twice a year was as often as we could visit."

"Yes, we agreed seventy years ago, I remember. I have some work in the area and I thought I'd come by."

"Which house?" I asked.

Grim hesitated before telling me.

"This one," he said finally.

It took a moment for me to comprehend even just those two words.

"You mean . . . " I started.

He gently nodded his head.

"So, can I see what your face looks like under the hood?" I asked. I had never seen his face in the entire time I had known him.

He slowly lifted his hood up. When he brought his arms back to his sides, I recognised him, even though it had been over seventy years since I had seen his face last.

"Grandpa Greg?" I asked.

He nodded and smiled. I just hoped I could be with my grandfather for the rest of eternity. That was the last thing I remembered before I went to sleep.
© Copyright 2017 Abby Gayle (fourfootlocks at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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