The Reaper's Cloak

 

by Delia Hartman

Jesse Monroe awoke to darkness. His body was stiff, as if he’d been sleeping in a coffin. He tried to move, but his limbs refused to respond. Panic gripped him. He’d been shot in the head, at point-blank range, in the middle of that alley. He remembered the cold metal pressing against his temple, the sudden, blinding pain, and then…nothing.

The darkness pressed in on him, thick and suffocating. He tried to scream, but the sound was trapped inside his head. He could see faint flickers of light through his closed eyelids, but there was no real vision, only a crushing void. He wanted to scream, to move, to wake up, but nothing happened.

Then a sensation like icy fingers brushed against his skin. His heart, or at least the remnants of it, thudded in his chest. A figure appeared in the dim light. It was clad in a long, tattered cloak, its edges frayed and shifting like a living shadow. The figure moved closer, and Jesse could feel a presence, a powerful force that made the air around him seem to tremble.

The figure was tall, its features obscured by the hood, but Jesse could feel its gaze piercing through him. The dark, cavernous eyes bore into his soul, and Jesse felt an inexplicable fear. The figure reached out with a skeletal hand, brushing against his lifeless body. There was a shimmer, like the glint of steel in moonlight, and then Jesse's spirit was torn free.

He floated above his own corpse, staring down in horror. His body was splayed awkwardly, a grotesque tableau of death. Jesse tried to comprehend what had happened, but the figure spoke before he could ask.

"I am Mortis," the figure intoned in a voice that sounded like the rustling of dead leaves. "You are Jesse Monroe, recently deceased. It is my duty to guide you to your new role."

Jesse tried to speak, but no words came out. Mortis seemed to understand. "You have been chosen as a reaper. To perform this duty, you must first learn how to release the souls trapped in their mortal prisons." Mortis gestured to the body on the ground. "Touch the corpse."

Jesse hesitated, his spectral form hovering. Mortis’s gaze, intense and unblinking, compelled him. He reached out, his ghostly hand passing through the air to touch his own body. An overwhelming wave of cold surged through him, and the sensation was like piercing through an endless layer of ice. There was a sudden jolt, and Jesse felt the lifeless bonds of his own death unraveling.

"You will now guide the dead," Mortis said. "Remember this: never interfere with the living. There are consequences to meddling with fate."

Mortis's eyes narrowed, and he began to recount a tale. "Once, I became enamored with a young artist during the chaos of World War II. He was a prodigious talent, destined for greatness. But greatness is a double-edged sword. His death was imminent, but I warned him. He avoided his own demise and went on to bring untold suffering to millions. His name was Adolf Hitler."

Jesse felt a shiver. The weight of Mortis’s words hung heavily in the air. The thought of one’s actions altering the course of history was terrifying.

"That is why you must follow the rules," Mortis said, his voice growing colder. "One misstep, one act of defiance, and the balance will be disrupted. You will carry this burden."

Mortis extended his hand, and Jesse saw an object materialize in the dim light. It was a cloak, but not of any fabric Jesse had ever seen. It writhed and shifted, an undulating mass of shadow and substance, a living entity that seemed to breathe and pulse. Mortis handed it to Jesse with a solemn expression.

"This is your cloak of death," Mortis explained. "It will grant you the power to escort souls and perform your duties. Embrace it, but never forget its purpose."

Jesse reached out. As his spectral hand touched the cloak, it seemed to merge with him, its material melding with his very essence. The sensation was bizarre, a mixture of warmth and cold, as though he was becoming one with something ancient and powerful. The cloak wrapped around him, its texture shifting beneath his ethereal form, like a living entity.

Mortis watched with a detached air. "Now, you must fulfill your duty. The time has come for you to learn and adapt. The realm of the living is a fragile construct. Do not falter."

With that, Mortis began to fade, his presence diminishing into the shadows from which he had emerged. Jesse tried to speak, to ask more questions, but no words came. Mortis was gone, leaving Jesse alone with the weight of his new reality.

Jesse's new form, with the cloak of death wrapped around him, seemed to grow accustomed to the strangeness of his existence. He looked down at his own body, now a mere shell. He felt the pull of the cloak, the urgency to perform his duty. His first task awaited, and he had no choice but to comply.

The nights became a blur of spectral travel and somber tasks. Jesse learned to guide the souls trapped between realms, their forms slipping away as he touched their bodies, releasing them from their mortal bonds. The cloak of death became a part of him, an extension of his will, and he felt its weight, both literal and metaphorical, pressing down on him.

As the years passed, Jesse became more adept at his role. The cloak moved with a life of its own, adapting to his needs, helping him perform his duties with an efficiency that was both awe-inspiring and disconcerting. Yet, the warning of Mortis was ever-present in his mind. The temptation to interfere with the living was always there, lurking in the shadows of his thoughts.

One night, while guiding a particularly troubled soul, Jesse thought of Mortis’s story, the tale of the artist who became a tyrant. The realization that even the smallest change could ripple through time was a heavy burden. The fear of disrupting the balance kept him in check, but it also gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his limitations.

And so, Jesse Monroe continued his work, a reaper of souls bound by duty and the ever-present cloak of death, forever haunted by the knowledge of what could happen if he strayed from his path. The darkness remained, as it always would, but with it came a purpose, a grim and relentless purpose that defined his new existence.

The realm of the living continued its uncertain dance, oblivious to the reaper who walked among them, ever vigilant, ever bound by the cloak that marked him as a keeper of the dead.