by Robert Bloch
The moon was bright, and he read the plain block-letters.
HANNAH MORSE
1870–1949
Hannah Morse was Grandma. The flowers were fresh. The grave wasn’t more than a day old—
Ed walked back along the path very slowly. He found it very hard to get back over the fence without dropping the bouquet, but he made it, pain and all. He opened the kitchen door and walked into the parlor where the fire had burned very low.
Grandma wasn’t there. Ed put the flowers in the bowl anyway. Grandma wasn’t there, and her friends weren’t there, either. But Ed didn’t worry any more.
She’d be back. And so would Mr. Willis and Mrs. Cassidy and Sam Gates, all of them. In a little while, Ed knew, he might even hear the faint, faraway voices under the kitchen window, calling,
“Oh, Ed-deeee!”
He might not be able to go out tonight, the way his chest was acting up. But sooner or later, he’d go. Meanwhile, they would be coming, soon.
Ed smiled and leaned back in the chair before the fire, just making himself at home and waiting.
Reaper
“After the kids have grown up and moved away, a new child comes into your house.
“His name is Death.
“He comes quietly, without the wail of an infant, and he won’t keep you up at night or make daily demands on your attention. But somehow you’ll know he’s there to stay. As he keeps growing, getting bigger and stronger with each passing day, you become smaller and weaker. Sooner or later there’ll be the inevitable confrontation—and when it comes, you’re the one who’ll have to go.”
Ross wrote these lines on the morning of his sixty-fifth birthday, then put them aside.
He was tired of writing about Death with a capital D. As an author of dark fantasy he’d done more than his share of dramatizing man’s mortality, and it was difficult to find a fresh approach. Too many writers had exhausted the idea—Death as an angel, Death setting an appointment in Samarra, Death taking a holiday, Death trapped up a tree, Death forestalled, Death deceived. And it was all wishful thinking. There’s nothing angelic about the Grim Reaper; he takes no holidays, he won’t be fooled or forestalled. Death is an impersonal force, not an articulate and articulated skeleton swinging a scythe.
Ross shrugged and left his desk. After all, a man is entitled to take time off and celebrate his birthday, even if nobody else cares whether he lives or dies.
His parents and relatives were long gone and he’d never married. During the years he spent here in an old house on the peninsula of upper Michigan Ross formed no friendships. He corresponded with his agent and editors, but his only personal contact with other people came when he drove into town for groceries.
Ross was a loner, but he never felt lonely. Newspapers, magazines and books came from his mailbox, and his children kept him company.
His children stood on the bookshelves of his workroom, row on row—the novels with their stiff spines and sturdy skins, the short stories secure within the pages of magazines and anthologies. Some of them, transformed by translation, spoke in foreign tongues. Others appeared only in original editions, their voices weakened to a whisper by the passing years. But here and abroad, in or out of print, they still lived, still possessed the power to speak to new readers in time to come.
Ross regarded them with parental pride, for even the least of the lot contained something of himself. He loved his children—and envied them, because they would outlive him. Eventually, of course, they too must die—their spines would sag, their bindings fall apart, their pages crumble. But long before that happened his own spine would cease its support, the skin binding his body would wrinkle and wither until what was within disintegrated.
It was already beginning to happen now. Now, as the years took their relentless toll; as eyes blurred, teeth decayed, aches and pains proliferated, memory dimmed, and thought strayed from his control to focus on fear.
Ross sought the sunlight outside his house and went for a walk in the woods. But there were shadows lurking among the trees, and fear walked with him. Try as he would, he couldn’t shake off the thought of Death—Death with a capital D. Sooner or later it would come, bringing eternal sleep.
To sleep, perchance to dream—
This was what he really feared. The mind continues to function when you sleep. Suppose it continues to function when you die? Suppose consciousness lives on, even in the grave, in the deep, damp darkness where the brain lies buried within a rotting corpse, imprisoned yet aware, unable to escape from the ultimate eternity of hopeless horror?
Does pain still register? If you avoid the terrors of entombment, will cremation bring a torment like the fires of hell?
His mind dwelt on the ways the end might come—the sudden violence of accident or even murder, or the slow agonies of terminal illness. As Ross walked on, the sunlight faded and the shadows deepened. There was no solace to be found here in the woods.
Back at the house he prepared a solitary meal, then had a few drinks, but it was hardly a birthday celebration. The thought obsessed him—how would he meet Death?
And that night, after sinking into troubled slumber, he met Death in a dream.
There he was, the King of Terrors himself, a gleaming skeleton standing at the foot of Ross’s bed. The bony fingers dangling from his left wrist were curled around an old-fashioned hourglass; the fleshless talons below the right wrist grasped the handle of a scythe.
Ross stared at the cruel curve of the scythe-blade—the blade of the Grim Reaper. Death, he realized, was not a child. The apparition before him embodied all the attributes of legend, the skeletal symbol of tradition and the Tarot.
Ross also realized he was dreaming.
“Wrong.”
There was no sound, but Ross heard the word, even as he saw the movement of the jutting jaw.
“No!” Ross was talking in his sleep. “You can’t be real—you’re just a figment of my imagination.”
Death laughed soundlessly, but Ross heard him, heard the unspoken words that followed.
“What about those books and stories you’ve written? All of them are figments of your imagination too, but they’re real enough. They exist because you created them.”
“I didn’t create you,” Ross murmured.
“That’s because there was no need,” said Death. “Imagination possesses a power of its own. And the imagination of millions of men before you gave me semblance and substance. Believe me, I’m as real as you are. Even more so, since you will die and I’ll go on forever.” Once more the soundless chuckle came.
“Why are you here?” Ross whispered.
Death motioned with his scythe and the sound of the swishing blade was audible enough. “Your hour has come.”
Ross’s head stirred on the pillow. “But I don’t want to die!”
“Few men do, unless prompted by unbearable agony. Consider yourself lucky to be spared such suffering.”
Ross shuddered. “Please, I beg of you—”
“Beggars die. And so do kings. That’s true democracy.”
Suddenly Ross became conscious of the creeping chill. His body was invaded by a numbing cold that turned blood into ice.
“No!” he gasped. “There’s got to be some way—”
Slowly the skull nodded atop its bony perch. “You want to make a bargain, I take it.”
“Can that be possible?” Ross murmured.
“Of course.” Skeleton fingers stroked the scythe-blade with a rattling sound. “Once I walked the world with this weapon and wielded it upon each man, woman or child at the appointed time.”
Death shifted the hourglass cradled against his rib-cage. “But the world changed. Instead of a few thousands, there are millions of mortals, far too many to fall beneath a single scythe.
“At first I had help. Famines and pestilence, epidemics of cholera, bubonic plague, a score of other fatal diseases. But medicine advanced and the numbers of survivors grew again.
“
For a while wars solved my problem. Genghis Khan, Attila, Tamerlane and a hundred others in the past—men like Napoleon, Hitler, Stalin—gave me battles where fifty thousand fell in a single day.
“I still have wars, even new drugs and bugs, but it’s never enough, not in this era of population explosion. That’s why I’m prepared to make an offer.”
Ross scowled in sleep. “I’m not a ruler or a general—just an ordinary man.”
“I don’t expect anything extraordinary,” said the voice that was not a voice. “But every little bit helps. What do you say to dealing with me on a one-to-one basis? One extra year of life for each death?”
“Immortality?”
“I don’t promise that. You may grow weary and decide to end our bargain. Meanwhile let’s call it a stay of execution.” The jawbone of the skull quivered in silent mirth.
Again Ross frowned. “But you’re asking me to become a murderer—”
“You’ve already committed murder many times in your mind and described the deeds on paper.”
“That’s different. I couldn’t actually kill another human being.”
“Why not? Life is meaningless. Everyone dies, sooner or later.” The skull’s grin gleamed. “And you can choose whoever you wish. Think of the power I’m giving you.”
“I don’t want such power!”
“Not even if it’s power to do good?” Once more the bony fingers caressed the scythe. “Look around you. The world is filled with those who deserve to die. Make the proper choices and you won’t be dealing death—you’ll be dealing justice.”
“It’s still murder,” Ross whispered.
“Consider yourself an Avenging Angel,” Death murmured. “Isn’t there someone you know of who has forfeited the right to live?”
Ross hesitated, then nodded in slumber. “You’re right, there is someone. A man named Wade, the one who butchered all those women and got off with a life-sentence, which means he’ll be out again in a few years. I wouldn’t mind killing a mass-murderer.”
“Sorry,” Death told him. “Wade happens to be one of my emissaries. We made a deal long ago and he still has years to live, in or out of prison.”
Ross sighed. “Then I’ll settle for the people who permitted such a miscarriage of justice. His scumbag lawyer, the nit-picking judge, the stupid jury—”
The skull’s grin seemed to broaden. “Don’t forget the parole officer who was supposed to keep an eye on him after a previous conviction, or the juvenile authorities who turned him loose before that. If you expect to do away with everyone connected with the case you’ll be quite a mass-murderer yourself.”
“But there must be somebody who’s ultimately responsible!”
“You decide. The power to slay or spare will be yours alone. I’ll never force you to act if you don’t want to. That’s part of our contract.”
“I still don’t like the idea—”
Death swung his scythe. “Do you like this better?” He leaned forward over the foot of the bed. “Think of what I’m offering. One whole year in return for one little life. Choose your own time, your own candidate, your own method.”
“Suppose I get caught?”
“You won’t. Your whole career has been devoted to devising fictional fatalities, putting perfect crimes on paper. Use the same ingenuity in your own behalf and there’s no danger.” The bony arm raised the scythe and a blast of freezing air fanned Ross’s face. “So what will it be? Do or die?”
Ross stirred restlessly. “And if I accept your offer—what then?”
Skeleton shoulders shrugged. “Nothing. No contracts signed in blood, no hocus-pocus. Just a verbal agreement. One life, one year. Call it a birthday present.” The skull’s eye-sockets fixed on Ross’s face. “Well?”
“Done,” Ross whispered.
Death raised the hourglass and reversed it. Slowly the sand began sifting down into the lower half, grain by grain.
“One year,” Death murmured.
And vanished.
If, indeed, he had ever been there.
In the light of the morning sun Ross wasn’t sure. The mind plays tricks.
So does the body.
By midafternoon he was back in bed, shivering in the sudden onslaught of chills and fever. Dreams can herald illness, he told himself. But as darkness deepened, the fever flamed, bringing visions—Death, with his fleshless face and soundless voice, his scythe and hourglass. How soon would the sand run out? When it did, the scythe would swing, and he feared that scythe. Isn’t there someone you know who has forfeited the right to live?
Ross tried to think. The mind is a computer, and in delirium the computer was down. Those rich writers with their fancy word-processors—did their expensive equipment ever go down too? His mind was blank, blank as a computer screen, but now something flickered into view.
A face was forming. He’d seen it many times before, in close-up on television talk-shows, peering out at him from newspaper pages, smiling smugly on the backs of book-jackets.
Kevin Colfax. He knew the name. Thanks to the media, everyone knew Kevin Colfax. Famous author. Owner of a villa on the Riviera, a fleet of classic cars, a sixth wife and a dozen mistresses.
Romans à clef, that’s what they called his books. He cannibalized from the pages of the National Enquirer and People magazine, took the lives of celebrities and turned them into pornography—grossly-explicit sex and vulgar violence to feed the fantasies of mindless millions bent on mental masturbation. His steamy sleaze boosted him to best-seller lists and the A-lists of parties where lines of coke were snorted by upwardly-mobile arrivistes who no longer had any place to go except where tripping might take them. But now he was where he really belonged—on Ross’s hit-list.
The face faded in the flush of fever and Ross murmured through dry, cracked lips. “Kill Kevin Colfax.” Perspiration bathed his body as he sank into slumber.
When he awoke the following morning the fever was gone but resolution remained. Kevin Colfax deserved to die.
The only question was how—there must be a way that left no clue.
Poison?
Over the years Ross had researched toxicology and amassed an imposing number of reference-works. Amazing how many lethal compounds existed that were easy to procure, or concoct from simple substances found in almost every household. Fast-acting, fatal, and almost undetectable if proper precautions were taken.
Once he knew what to look for, Ross lost no time in finding it. The insecticide had been outlawed years ago but he’d never bothered to throw it away and still had half the contents in a spray-can. A bit of boiling on the stove and the stuff condensed, leaving a deadly distillate that would kill on contact.
But how to make that contact?
He didn’t know Kevin Colfax or anyone in the privileged circles which he orbited. There was no way of introducing a pinch of the poisonous substance into his food or drink or the powder he inhaled through his nasal passages. Colfax was surrounded by personal security designed to protect him from friends, foes and fans alike.
Fans.
Ross sat down at the typewriter and wrote a letter. A fan-letter to Kevin Colfax, asking for an autographed photo.
He typed it quickly; the rubber gloves he’d donned didn’t interfere with his speed. Nor did they interfere as he added a drop of water to a smidge of the poisonous powder, turning it to a paste which he carefully smeared on the gummed flap of the stamped self-addressed return envelope enclosed in his letter.
The name and address on the envelope were faked, of course, but the poison was real. Real and reliable. One lick and the tongue would absorb the fatal dosage, bringing death in a matter of minutes.
Ross found Colfax’s address in Who’s Who, copied it on the outer envelope, affixed a stamp. Then he drove to a town thirty miles away from his own zip-code area and his gloved hand dropped death into the mail-box.
After that, all he had to do was wait.
Four days later he read the item in his morning pap
er.
Police Probe
Mystery Death
NEW YORK (UPI)—Authorities here are investigating possibilities of foul play in the sudden death of Florence Rimpau, 23, personal secretary of best-selling novelist Kevin Colfax. According to her employer Miss Rimpau appeared to be in perfect health at the time of her collapse while working on correspondence. Paramedics were unable to revive her and an autopsy has been ordered after medical reports indicated poison as a possible cause.
Ross let the paper slip from trembling fingers, and several anxious days followed before a follow-up story appeared. Florence Rimpau was more than a secretary; she had ambitions of pursuing a writing career herself, and according to grieving family-members she was eagerly awaiting the publication of her first novel when death came.
There was more. Results of the autopsy confirmed the poison theory but investigation uncovered no clues. Kevin Colfax himself was quickly exonerated of any connection with the case. Apparently the source of the poison and the method used to employ it were not discovered by police or pathologists. Ross could congratulate himself; he’d never be caught. It was indeed a perfect crime.
The perfect crime—but the wrong victim.
Ross read and shuddered. He was responsible for the death of an innocent girl, blighting a bright future and bringing sorrow to her family and friends. Why hadn’t he anticipated such a possibility?
He knew the answer, of course. His eager act had been prompted by envy; it was jealousy, not justice, that motivated him to murder.
And to what end? His self-appointed enemy, Kevin Colfax, was still alive. If anything, the publicity surrounding the mysterious tragedy actually boosted the sales of his books.
The following months passed quickly, but to Ross each day seemed an eternity, and the nights were endless agonies of guilt-haunted dreams.
But time has a way of healing trauma and mending memories; as his next birthday neared Ross realized that he had indeed survived another year.
Of course it really had nothing to do with his bargain, he told himself. That was only a dream. He would have lived on even without the nightmare about dealing with Death. And once the pangs of guilt lessened he found life sweet again. Just as he’d wished there was time to read, relax and enjoy comforts and diversions.
