Rebirth

Grandma Clover died today.

It wasn’t a surprise. She’d been on the downslide for a while now. Dementia’s a bastard like that, kills the person long before they’re dead.

At least she was comfortable. The doctors let us take her home, which I like to think helped a little. She certainly seemed calmer, even if she kept mistaking us for her siblings, most of whom have been gone for years. We didn’t correct her. Hopefully that helped too.

It was after dark when she finally passed. I thought she’d just gone to sleep at first, her face more serene than I’d seen it in months. It took a moment for me to realize that she wasn’t breathing. I’m kind of ashamed to admit I mostly felt relieved. I’ve been grieving for months, watching my grandmother waste away bit by bit until she wasn’t the woman I remembered anymore. 

The woman who took me hiking, who made the best cookies in the world. The one who knew things about me no other living soul did, who caught me when I fell and stood me back up again. That’s the woman who I want to remember. The one who I will remember.

Rest in peace Lucky Clover. You will be missed.

*

Today was lovely, so far as funerals go. Grandma was not lacking for friends, going by how many people showed up. Most of them I’d never even met before, but I was assured they had all known her for decades. It took two hours just to get through the toasts and eulogies everyone kept giving. Some of them were the funniest things I’ve ever heard in my life and the crowd spent as much time laughing as they did bawling their eyes out. Grandma wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

There was one stain on the day though. It was after the ceremony when we’d all moved over to the graveyard. Beautiful day outside, sun shining, the smell of flowers hanging in the air from all the gardens. Her headstone was already in place, tucked away in a quiet little corner beyond all the larger tombs and statues. It was a perfect pair for the one sitting right next to it over my grandfather’s grave. I never knew him, he passed before I was born, but I’d been told enough stories over the years to know he was exactly the kind of partner in crime Lucky Clover would have. Half the stories people had been telling at the ceremony were about all the mischief the two of them had gotten up to over the years.

What caught me off guard was the little gravestone placed between them. It was older than even grandpa’s, weather worn and so overgrown that I couldn’t read any of the words. Didn’t really need to though, wasn’t exactly difficult to work out it was an infant’s grave.

That wasn’t the bad part, just depressing. The bad part was when the fucking reporters showed up.

We don’t know how they managed to find out, the funeral home assured us they took privacy very seriously, but it happened. A crowd of them were waiting at the graveyard when we got there. Podcasters, videographers, writers, reporters for every news station for miles around. They swarmed us the second we got out of the cars, sticking cameras and microphones in our faces, asking every question under the sun about the only thing those people ever care about: the Oakdale Reaper.

Nothing new, really. We’ve been dealing with different flavors of these assholes for a while. Every few years a new one pops up, thinking they’ll be the chosen who will finally convince the only known survivor of the most notorious serial killer of the last century to spill all the juicy details. Exclusive to the “totally not sensationalized murderer fan club feed” of course. Damn vultures.

We sent them packing with a hearty boot up the ass. Dad was ready to start taking swings at people but was held back until the police got there. They stuck around to make sure no one disturbed us while we finished the burial. No more problems thankfully but everyone was pretty upset about what happened. Dad’s already talking about suing people into the dirt, but I doubt anything will come of it.

I’m just dreading when this new crop of stories start coming out. I’ve already lost enough of my grandmother, thank you very much. I don’t need detailed reminders of the single worst night of her life.

*

Where exactly is the line between frugal and hoarder? Because so far as I can tell it mostly comes down to how well labeled everything is. Or at least that’s what grandma seemed to think.

We’re still going through the house, trying to figure out what to do with all her stuff. She made it a bit easier on us at least by keeping things organized, shelves upon shelves of things tucked away in every closet and cranny. Though why anyone would need a bag of bags is beyond me, especially when it hasn’t been opened in years. Worse, I’m worried it might be genetic given that it took more than two sentences to convince mom to throw them out.

Luckily, it’s mostly been peaceful, no fights over who gets what or anything like that. All the valuable things were handled by the will so it’s mostly just curiosities and knick-knacks, first come first serve kind of deal. That’s most of the reason I ended up with the journals.

I found them in a box in the basement. Volumes of handwritten records going back years, from her teens right up until pretty much present day. Guess I know where I get my journaling habit from, though I can’t hold a candle to these. She took the time to bedazzle things, covering them in art, decals, even little artifacts from her life like movie tickets or pressed flowers. Not to mention her handwriting is immaculate. I’m actually kind of jealous.

They’re also, sadly, completely falling apart. When I tried to open one, the spine snapped and scattered the pages everywhere. It was all I could do not to damage anything as I collected them as best I could. Ended up with a stack of pages in completely the wrong order and one stiff breeze away from disintegrating. I’ll have to be more careful handling them in future. Still legible though, and I couldn’t help myself not to read them in the end.

*

Goodness gracious me I’m tired. Mama always said we were lucky menfolk didn’t have to do the childmaking, else we’d run out of people in half a dog’s age. Frankly I couldn’t blame them after just slogging through it myself.

Twelve hours the little guy took to make up his mind about coming out. Twelve hours leaving his poor mother huffing and puffing away, wondering if things were real or not. Then he gets his act together and puts me through the other whole part of the ordeal, which is either worse or as bad in a different way.

Then I laid eyes on him, and all was forgiven. My little Jeremy. The first time I held him, his little face all scrunched up, making the most adorable little noises in the world. I could do anything for him. I could die for him.

A good thing it turned out. I haven’t been able to write in this for days because every waking moment has been about him. Feeding, holding, rocking, it’s been non-stop, especially with all these people showing up to congratulate us. I have no idea how mama did this, but I do know why she did it now.

You do crazy things for the ones you love.

*

It was weirdly comforting to read. Half the grandma I knew, half the Clover I was always told about. Always good to know your heroes are human underneath. I’ll have to look through the rest of these, just to see what else I can find out.

*

I couldn’t help myself. I tried, I really did, but once I knew where to look, I just had to see what she wrote about the Reaper. I know I shouldn’t have. I knew it was probably just going to upset me but, well, what’s that they say about curiosity and cats? Hopefully this is enough that I can bring myself back and never have to think about it again.

*

I swear to god, I’m gonna kill Rose. Bad enough she talked me into going to this stupid party, now I find out it’s happening in the old Henderson house. Something about “authentic haunted house experience” for Halloween or some nonsense. Yeah right, they just want somewhere they can drink where Sheriff Hampton’s less likely to bother driving out.

Though, that’s not fair if I’m being honest. She’s just trying to help cheer me up after everything that’s happened with Ted. Asshole could have at least pretended to be guilty after I caught him with Jessica Lane under the bleachers. I swear if either one of them is there tonight.

Alright, no, that’s just the piss and vinegar talking. Mama always said if you’re gonna be mad, at least be mad productively. Maybe Rose is right, and I just need to blow off some steam, have a little fun. Even if it is at a haunted house out in the middle of nowhere. At least the drinks should be good if Jonesy’s the one bringing them.

Though anyone tries to scare me for a laugh is getting a face-full of knuckles.

*

I can still see his eyes.

They’re cold and dark, no life, no joy, no nothing but the unblinking stare of death itself. Even when I close my own, they’re still there, forever gazing into my soul.

Rose is in those eyes, red still running from her dead, gaping mouth. Ted is in those eyes, untouched in the ruin that was once his face. Jessica is in those eyes, what’s left of her. What he left of her. Jonesy, god help me Jonesy. 

I am in those eyes, staring back, weeping, screaming, begging for it to stop. We are all in those eyes, the Reaper’s eyes, the eyes of one who will come for us all. The eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes the eyes-

*

It was difficult to read that entry, for reasons I can’t really convey here in writing. It wasn’t just the words she wrote, disturbing as they were, it was a bunch of little things. Her penmanship was gone, replaced with this barely legible scrawl that no steady hand could have made. It stops suddenly too, a long line drawn across the page, like someone had to drag her hands away while she was writing it. It’s uncomfortably easy to picture her writing it while sitting in a padded cell.

The next few entries aren’t much better. Most of them aren’t dated so I have no idea how long it was between each one. They go back and forth between descriptions of her stay in the hospital and the scrawling. Good days and bad days, I assume.

She also drew eyes. Like a lot of eyes. On the pages, in the margins, some so deep they tore through the paper. Always the same design, narrow, like a predator and with solid pupils in whatever colour her writing implement was. Mostly pencil, some pen, though there are a few that are faded red. Those ones I’m trying not to think too hard about.

This all lines up with what I know happened. That night of the party they found Grandma wandering the old road back to town, covered in blood and completely catatonic. She was the only survivor they found and when the cops arrived at the Henderson house, it was clear why. The only podcast I could stomach on the subject described the place as a “charnel house”. Grandma was left in hospital for weeks afterwards. Reading all this, it’s kind of amazing she made it back to us at all, physically or otherwise. That’s Lucky Clover for you I suppose.

Think I’m gonna stop reading this now. I’ve already learned more than I wanted to. I know the rest from here. I know my grandma and that’s what I want to remember.

*

Fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!

Me and my stupid fucking curiosity. I just couldn’t leave it alone. I just had to keep reading and now-

Fuck.

*

It was almost a good day today.

Everything was going well. Doctors said I should slowly start trying to go back outside again. Just a little walk they suggested, out into the garden, maybe onto the street if I felt up to it.

Well hornswoggle to that I say. Mama didn’t raise me to back down from a bully and that includes myself so far as I’m concerned. We needed milk and by Suzie, milk I was going to get.

It was a bit of a trial, getting myself presentable for the outside world again. The clothes felt wrong on me and my hair was an absolute rat’s nest. I did my best to wrangle it into place and I must have done an okay job. No one looked at me too funny anyway. Thank god I’m not in Oakdale anymore, don’t think I could have handled any more sympathetic looks.

It took me an hour just to walk down the street. Not for all bad reasons. Some of it was just me enjoying being outside again. Listening to the birds, the wind, even the traffic. I forgot what it was like being around people. A few of them even said hello to me, just to be nice, just to be a person to another person. It was good. The world without him. The world without the Reaper.

The store was a challenge. The lights were too bright, reminded me of the hospital and the shed. I almost ran, more than once, but I somehow managed to hold myself together and get on with things. Picking a carton, checking the date, walking up to the counter, handing over the money. It all felt so very normal, so very good.

Then I saw his eyes.

It was the cashier. He’d been pleasant throughout, smiling at me as he handed me my change. I was reaching out to take it when I caught a glimpse of his eyes. Just for a second, so fast I almost missed it, but in that second, I was certain.

Dark, cold, lifeless. His eyes.

The Reaper.

It was all I could do not to scream. More still to keep myself under control. I couldn’t panic, panicking was what got Rose killed and I wasn’t going to let that happen to me. I made some excuse about double checking the change, all the while trying to look in his eyes again, just to make sure. Nothing happened and I ran out of excuses to keep checking, but I know what I saw.

It was him. I know it was him.

But I needed to be sure.

I spent the rest of the day following him, watching as he worked his shift, ate his lunch, and eventually went home. I don’t think he saw me, though that was because I never managed to get close enough to get another good look at his eyes. It was frustrating, so much that I completely forgot I was still holding the milk until I was standing in front of his house.

Didn’t matter, I wasn’t quitting. Quiet as a cloud, I snuck up to the side, daring not to breathe as I peeked in through the window. He was in his kitchen, just starting to work on his dinner. Still couldn’t see his eyes but I held strong, watching as he walked around fussing with a stove and pulling stuff out of cupboards.

It was when he opened the fridge that I finally, finally, got what I was after. Everything was set at just the right angle that I could see them without him seeing me, more than long enough for me to spot them.

Dark, cold, lifeless. Him.

I know what happened next but also don’t. I can remember flashes, a knock at the door, a thrown together story, sitting at his table. A knife from his counter. I was lucky I didn’t get much blood on me, that would have made things difficult getting home. But I didn’t and there wasn’t and so here I am, writing this.

The Reaper. Somehow, he came back. He was dead, I made damn sure of it that night. No one could have survived what I did to him. Nothing human. But then he never was human, was he? No, not the Reaper, not death walking the earth.

But he won’t win. I put him down once, I’ll put him down again. As many times as it takes.

The Reaper will stay dead.

*

It was the bus driver this time.

I’ve been getting better about going outside now that I need to keep an eye out for him. It’s been easier than I expected, falling back into the old routines. I’ll admit it’s been nice knowing I look human again.

People have taken notice too. Eric, first and foremost. He’s been coming around ever since they let me out of hospital, making sure I’m okay. Gets adorably flustered every time I point it out, but he’s never stopped showing up, the silly dear. It’s nice, knowing there’s someone watching out for you.

That’s what I’m trying to do as well. I took the bus to head across town. Nowhere in particular, just somewhere there’s people, hoping the bastard slips up and shows himself. I needn’t have bothered because the driver gave himself away right off the hop. Didn’t even try to hide his eyes from me.

I rode the lines all day, always making sure I kept the Reaper’s bus in view. Losing him would have meant lives lost as I tracked him down again. He gave me a few weird looks but didn’t say anything. He must not be able to recognize people between his rebirths.

I took care of him only a block from the bus station. Was more prepared this time, managing to lure him into an alley where I was hiding on the fire escape. A dropped brick was enough to daze him, two doing the deed, though I got up close with a third just to be sure.

Eric was beside himself when I got home but I assured him I was just having a bit of a moment. He doesn’t need to worry, I’ll always come back.

Someone needs to keep the Reaper down.

*

What a roller coaster of a day. Eric popped the question on me and boy howdy did he pull out all the stops. Sunrise date hiking up our favorite trail, the best view in the world, wine and cheese. The man knows how to impress a lady. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I found the ring days ago, but I think I’ll keep that little tidbit to myself. He put so much effort in that it seems a shame to spoil the moment.

I said yes of course, I’d known I would for a while now. You don’t often find someone so dependable that doesn’t show a true face eventually. And as Mama always said, you don’t let the good fish go when you got it by the fins.

Of course, the damn Reaper couldn’t let me have a day just for me. I spotted him as we were descending the mountain, another hiker moving up the trail past us. Bastard had the gall to wish us a good morning, all smiles and waves, but I saw through it immediately. His eyes never lie.

I had to think fast, making up an excuse of lady troubles to sneak away from Eric. He’s always been bashful about such things, the dear.

Was easy enough to double back on the trail and catch up to the Reaper. He was moving slow and didn’t see me creeping up on him until I was in shoving range. The cliff took care of the rest.

*

He wore the face of a woman this time. That’s new and terrifying in what it implies. I’ll admit I made assumptions about how he could come back, and it was only by sheer luck that I noticed the cleaner’s eyes. I’ll have to be even more vigilant now that I know he can wear the face of anyone he so chooses. He cannot slip away.

And he almost did this time, mostly on account of me being the size of a beached whale. Waddling around might have helped me get close, no one suspects the pregnant lady, but it was a huge problem when it came time to act. If I hadn’t gotten lucky and knocked her out against the sink, I doubt I would have been able to hold her head underwater long enough. She struggled so much before that.

Hopefully the little one didn’t get hurt while his Mama was doing her work. He will not grow up in a world where the Reaper is free. I promise that.

*

Damn him. Damn him and his evil soul to the deepest pit there is! If there is a pain even the angels themselves fear to inflict, may the Reaper suffer it a thousand-fold.

I don’t know how I didn’t see it at first. Maybe it’s because I was so tired after everything, or maybe I just didn’t want to see it. He’s my little man, my little Jeremy. Maybe it just never occurred to me that he’d be so evil. 

Stupid. Damn him.

I so very nearly missed it. Part of me wishes I had, that I’d just finished feeding him and put him to bed like normal. Part of me wishes that I hadn’t looked in his eyes, that he hadn’t looked back, that I hadn’t seen what lay within them.

Dark, cold, lifeless.

Damn him. Damn him and his eyes his eyes his eyes his eyes his eyes his eyes his eyes his eyes his eyes his eyes his eyes

END