Sam couldn’t move, couldn’t even speak, his every thought tumbling into the Grim Reaper’s fiery eyes.
“Now, to business,” the Reaper said, hopping off the coffee-table and breezing past Sam, who twisted around, not daring to let it out of sight.
The Reaper stopped at the fireplace, drumming its gloved fingers against the mantle. It turned this way and that, glancing around the room, the odd items on its toolbelt jangling softly. Like a peculiar assortment of keyrings, each seemed a miniature version of itself: a yoyo, an armchair, a glowing potion, a teacup, a compass, a book, and dozens of things Sam couldn’t even identify.
The Reaper cleared its throat. “As of right now, this place is a trap-house. The offensive magic should only activate when Acheron gets here, but to be safe I’d recommend staying away from any exits. You need to move all this furniture up against the walls. I’d hate for this whole thing to go south because I trip over a sofa. That would be embarrassing.”
Sam silently stared – his brain overloaded by a terrified stream of alternating swears and prayers.
“Well?” The Reaper gestured around the room. “The furniture isn’t going to move itself.”
“I —” The words died in Sam’s throat as he struggled not to throw up.
“I’ll make this simple,” the Reaper said. “Usually, when I turn up and start giving orders, there are three possible outcomes. Either you do as I say, or you get out of my way.” The warped echo lingered for a moment.
“Three,” Sam blurted out.
“Excuse me?”
“You said there were three things that can hap—?”
The Reaper adjusted its grip on the scythe, catching the sunlight on the edge of the blade.
“Oh,” Sam said meekly. So this was it, he thought, a lump building in his throat. “Please don’t kill me!”
“Have you been listening to a single thing I’ve —?”
Sam threw himself from the armchair, on his knees before the Reaper, hands together in a three-fingered prayer. “Please — I’ll do anything! I’ll go to temple three times a day! I’ll study to be a Trisworn!”
“Get off your knees,” the Reaper said curtly.
“No, no, please! Not like this! Tell me what the Tersiark wants and I’ll do it! Just please don’t kill me!”
The Reaper lunged and Sam cried out. But all that happened was a gloved hand grabbed his shoulder and dragged him to his feet. “If you’ll recall I specifically said I was here to save you, moron.”
“I… I…” Finally, the Reaper’s words lodged in his brain, but slipped loose a second later. Sam pulled free of the Reaper’s grasp. “No! This is what you do isn’t it? You mess with people before you kill them, don’t you? I bet this is what you did with those people in the other town! I saw the seedug’s message. They got in your way so you killedthem! And now…” Sam felt his lips trembling, “now you’re gonna kill me!”
“Great. Stupid fear, my favourite,” the Reaper grumbled, and in the darkness of its hood, those two burning points of light bobbed to the left. It took Sam a second to work out: had it just rolled its eyes at him?
Disgust cut a path through his terror. “Me being scared… is annoying you?”
“No,” the Reaper leant forwards, Sam taking a step back, “Stupidity can be cured with a decent teacher and fear can be a good motivator. But someone who is wilfully stupid, because of fear? Yes, that annoys me greatly.”
Sam didn’t understand. For some reason the Reaper still hadn’t killed him. It could still be toying with him, Sam considered. Maybe he could keep it talking, until he found a way to escape?
“So you’re not here to kill me?” Sam said, playing along with the Reaper’s game.
“Precisely.”
“So why are you here?”
The Reaper gave a low chuckle. “You are a part of events far beyond your tiny understanding. But if all goes well, I’ll soon reap the soul I came for and you can carry on living your pointless little life.”
“‘Pointless?’”
“I’ve seen you wandering around,” the Reaper waved one hand, turning away. “Far too stupid to amount to anything.”
“I’m not stupid!” Sam snapped, visions of Harry Feltzer, of everyonewho’d ever laughed at him, burning in his mind.
The Reaper looked back, orange eyes studying him. It seemed to decide something, then grasped the scythe in both hands and went to the window. “Before nightfall, a magician named Acheron Beachis will come to Besfen and when he does, he’s going to try and kill you. Unless —” The Reaper whipped around, slicing the scythe through the air, as if ‘Acheron’ was there “— I kill him first.”
Though the sudden slash hadn’t touched Sam, the shock of it sent him reeling backwards, tripping over his own feet and falling to the floor. Seeing this drew a rumbling chuckle from the Reaper. Sam took his chance to shuffle backwards beside the fireplace. He inched one hand to the right and the metallic surface of the fire-poker met his palm. He curled his fingers around it, steadied his breath — then threw it at the Reaper.
Sam raced from the spot the same instant he made the throw, not waiting to see it connect. He scrambled to the hallway, then the kitchen, and the backdoor. Slamming into it, his fingers fumbled over the key still in the lock. With a click the door unlocked and he yanked it open. He rushed forwards but was unable to pass the threshold, an unseen force blocking his path. Pushing with all his might against the thin air did nothing, the invisible barrier vibrating against his shoulder. Abandoning the door, Sam darted to the window, and whilst it opened without resistance, he couldn’t pass here either.
“Well?” the Reaper said behind him and Sam whipped around, seeing it in the kitchen doorway. The Reaper casually tossed the fire-poker at his feet.
“You’ve done something… magic, so that I can’t get out?”
“What a wonderful use of words,” the Reaper said, orange eyes arching again. “As you’ll recall this is now a trap-house. It’d be a poor trap if people can simply walk out. All conceivable exits and windows have been covered.”
“Ah!” Sam pointed an accusing finger at the Reaper. “So you are trying to trap me!”
“No, I’m trying to trap Acheron. When the magic is this intricate there’s no time to be picky about who is or isn’t trapped as well,” the Reaper said, wandering back down the hall, to the living room.
Sam followed. “But now you’re trapped too?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Unlike you, I’m a magical genius and know the one way to get out.” The Reaper cast its eyes around the living room. “You know what? The furniture’s probably as good as it’s going to get. I don’t want the room to look too ‘arranged’. Now I need to find somewhere with a good view, so I can keep an eye out. I should get going.”
“Really?”
“Again, the trap would look a little off if Acheron sees me standing here, scythe at the ready,” the Reaper said, once more staring out of the window. It gazed intently at the scarecrow in the opposite field, as if the two were having a silent conversation.
“So you’re just going to leave me trapped in my own house?”
“Not for very long,” the Reaper said, looking back at him. “Acheron’s sure to appear soon, so look at it this way: in the next few hours either he’ll be dead — or you will.”
Crack!
In the space of a blink the Reaper had vanished and the scarecrow was standing in its place. Sam ran to the window, catching sight of the Reaper vanishing between the wheat-rows in the setting sun. Sam kicked the scarecrow, which fell to the floor with a soft hay-filled ‘pssh’.
Maybe the Reaper wasn’t trying to kill him, Sam thought, did that mean it was telling the truth about Algernon (or whatever the magician’s name was)? What had Sam ever done for a magician to want him dead? He wasn’t going to sit there and ‘hope’ the Reaper killed the magician in time.
He had to get out.
Sam double-checked every door and window, but none would let him escape. Flicking the lights off and on, he hoped someone in Besfen would take it as a signal, but the rest of the distant town was unmoved. Desperation growing, he opened the front door and called for help. Again, the house was too far for anyone to hear.
Stupid trap-house, Sam thought to himself, returning to the living room.
The scarecrow lay upon the carpet, painted mouth smiling cheerily. In spite of Besfen’s attempt at ‘education’, Sam knew magic was something you had to be born with. Even if he had been, he didn’t know how to transport himself outside as the Reaper had. As if sensing the evening gloom, winter’s icy chill sneaked into the living room. If he was stuck figuring a way out, he might as well be warm whilst he did it. He chucked a few coals into the large fireplace, already picturing a cosy fire great enough to heat the whole room.
But he didn’t go for the matches. He sat there, staring at the big, wide fireplace. A silly idea whispered at the edge of his imagination. The Reaper had said all conceivable exits had been covered.
Sam raked the old coals and ashes out of the fireplace, spewing murky blackness over the carpet. He rolled onto his back, wriggling his way into the fireplace. Looking up the chimney, moonlight greeted his eyes. He stretched up, moving his arms around, fingers brushing against the old brickwork where, here and there, the mortar had worn away. Awkwardly, he stood, legs slipping into the hearth beneath him. It was so tight he couldn’t lower his arms, he could barely see, and his nose was full of smoky ash. Little by little he climbed the chimney, fingers and feet finding every uneven brick. Near the top the cool night air teased his face. After his cramped climb, Sam was desperate to get outside. Almost losing his footing, he scrambled up the last few feet, throwing himself up and out the head of the chimney.
Glad of the wintry chill, he stretched his arms and legs across the roof’s tiled surface, revelling in the freedom of movement. After his ordeal in the chimney, getting off the roof was a simple matter of shimmying down the drainpipe. Sam leant against the front door and took a deep breath, before worriedly springing away. He turned to look back at the house, fearful it would try to swallow him up — trapping him once more.
He took a step backwards and bumped into someone, a curious warmth snaking up his back.
“The chimney,” the Reaper’s haunting echo rang in his ear, “how in the world did I miss that?”
Sam spun to face his tormentor, the Reaper’s eerie eyes gazing, like twin fireflies in the night-time gloom. “Guess your trap-house isn’t so unescapable after all.” Sam smirked, unable to help himself delighting in his one tiny victory.
“Yes, very clever.” The Reaper motioned with one hand and Sam heard the front door creak open behind him. “Now get back inside.”
“No,” Sam said defiantly, crossing his arms and planting his feet.
“I was being polite,” the Reaper snarled, advancing a step. “You can either walk through that door or get thrown through it.”
“Try it. I’ll find another way out.”
The Reaper grabbed the front of his jacket and hoisted him into the air. “Don’t try to be precocious, it doesn’t suit you.” It swiftly added, “Besides, the chimney was an oversight. There’s no other way out.”
“I’ll think of something!” Sam shouted more with feeling than thought, as he tried to fight free of the Reaper’s gloved, vice-like grip.
“I am more than happy to remove every bone in your body, fold you in half, and put you on a shelf, if it means you’ll be back inside the trap-house.”
Sam gulped, sensing the Reaper’s building frustration and knowing he may have pushed his luck too far. “And when Ackerman —”
“Acheron.”
“Yeah him. When he gets here and finds me folded up on a shelf, won’t your precious trap-house start to look a tiny bit suspicious?”
The Reaper didn’t answer, instead treating him to another of those long, curious stares. “Maybe you’re right. You’re probably not stupid,” the Reaper said, releasing him. “It seems we’re at an impasse.”
“So?” Sam grunted, rather than admit he didn’t know what an ‘impasse’ was.
“So you’re in my way. You know what happens to people who’re in my way.”
The seedug’s message flashed through Sam’s mind. “Then tell me what’s going on. What’s really going on. None of this ‘I won’t understand’ stuff, because you just said I’m not stupid.”
“‘Probably,’” the Reaper corrected.
“Well, still.”
“And if I tell you, you’ll go back inside, no fussing about?”
“Probably.”
“Fine, but not here, we’re too exposed,” the Reaper said, looking about furtively. “Best to get back to my look-out point.” It thrust the scythe past Sam, making him flinch as a bolt of purple light shot back into the house. Sam was about to ask what that was for when the Reaper interrupted with, “How do you feel about slugs?”
Sam blinked, taken aback. “How do I feel about — what?”
“Slugs. Small molluscs. They eat leaves and move slowly.”
“I know what a slug is, what I meant was —”
“Wonderful,” the Reaper said over him, marching to the end of the garden path. “Then let’s get a move on, we haven’t a moment to lose.”
The Reaper whipped about and jabbed a finger at him. A wave of yellow light threw Sam from his feet, his body seeming to collapse in on itself, shrinking as the world around him suddenly magnified a thousand times. Still falling, his tiny body turned slick and grey — and he finally understood. He’d been turned into a slug. A smooth, gloved hand snatched him out of the air, the Reaper’s surprisingly gentle fingers closing around his soft slimy body.
But then the leathery glove turned sharp and rigid. As the fingers holding him morphed into talons, Sam wriggled his eyestalks around, watching as creases in the Reaper’s cloak became glossy black feathers, the hood tapering into a beak. The beak of what was now a raven — clutching a slugified Sam in its claws.
The Reaper-raven’s wings flew out, like two all-consuming curtains of darkness and they took to the skies, the ground rocketing away from him, as Sam was carried off into the night.