My dad is the Grim Reaper

You may have heard that once a person dies, a grim reaper arrives to claim their soul. However, I can assure you that such tales are mere legends—or at least not entirely accurate. In truth, after death an emissary from the netherworld does indeed come to escort the departed's soul, but these agents do not don black cloaks, wield scythes, or appear as skeletal figures. Rather, they are not creatures of the underworld at all, but ordinary mortals who inherit this duty through the ages.

In my own family, I was blissfully unaware of this legacy while my dad was alive. To my eyes, our home was as ordinary as any other, and my dad, an unremarkable man, fit the part perfectly. Yet, just last month, he began to act most peculiarly. Over several consecutive days, he systematically transferred all our property and savings into my name. When I inquired about the reason, he refused to offer an explanation. Only after he had arranged every last detail of our affairs did he summon me, and in a most formal manner, he presented me with a ring. I examined it closely—it appeared ancient, as though it had withstood centuries. The front bore a solitary "M," while the reverse was inscribed with an indecipherable Latin word which my dad explained meant "reaper." Before I could question the ring's provenance, he launched into the following tale:

Over six centuries ago, Europe was ravaged by war, famine, and the Black Death, claiming countless lives. The number of reapers charged with escorting souls was woefully insufficient, so God decreed that a select few among the living should assume this solemn duty. These chosen individuals were permitted to live ordinary lives until summoned by the underworld—when they were required to escort departed souls back to the realm of the dead. Yet, due to the need for secrecy, it was decreed that none of those who accepted this charge were to reveal their role before death, and that each generation could produce only one heir destined to inherit this responsibility. In return, these families have enjoyed prosperity for generations, and in their final days, they are forewarned of their own demise so they may settle their affairs and embrace a peaceful end.

For over six hundred years, countless generations have borne this burden, scattered across the globe. My dad confessed that he had lost track of where the others might be, and that his own time in this vocation was drawing to a close. Now, the mantle is to be passed on to me. He added that once he had imparted all that was necessary, he would report to the underworld.

To be candid, when my dad recounted these events, I dismissed them as fanciful tales—a jest, no doubt. Yet, that very night, he departed this world peacefully in his sleep.

After attending to my dad's final rites, I secluded myself in my room for a long time, clutching the ring and wondering at the absurdity of it all. My dad had always been robust; how could he vanish so suddenly? And if this whole business of reaping souls were true, why had fate chosen me? I knew nothing of the art of escorting souls, of what precisely one was to do. It was not until yesterday afternoon that I came to believe in the reality of it all—when I received my first assignment since assuming the role.

Yesterday, as I returned home, a dizzy spell overtook me; I slid along the wall and soon lost consciousness. When I awoke, I found myself standing in a long, dark queue. Glancing about, I saw that everyone around me kept their heads bowed, their faces shrouded in a faint mist, yet I noted that each bore a ring identical to mine. After a while, my turn arrived. Before me sat the fabled demon. Before fear could even take hold, they handed me a sheet of paper and, with a mere gesture, bade me leave, calling the next soul forward. I turned to read the paper: "January 1, 2021, 3:15 PM, New York, Seventh Avenue near Times Square, David Thompson – Cause of death: Car accident."

Clutching the paper, I was swiftly ushered from the crowd. Was this truly the work of a reaper, as my dad had foretold? I raised my eyes and discovered that I had emerged onto Seventh Avenue near Times Square—the very same avenue I had traversed earlier that afternoon. The streets teemed with people, their faces alight with jubilant smiles; after all, it was New Year's Day. Suddenly, a deafening crash shattered the festive air. Turning, I saw a black sedan barreling from east to west, colliding with a man. I dashed forward, only to be astonished as I observed those chasing me passing right through my body! I extended my hand in disbelief—indeed, it had turned translucent. When I attempted to steady an elderly man by the arm, my hand passed through him as if he were nothing more than a ghost. It was marvelously inexplicable; my hand appeared unaltered, yet those around me seemed unable to perceive my very presence.

Before I could test further, a searing heat suddenly spread across the palm of my right hand. Lifting it, I noticed a crimson glow emanating from it, mirroring a similar flash upon the brow of the man who had been struck. In an inadvertent motion, the red light leapt from his head to my palm, and in an instant, his head slumped lifelessly. This astonishing sequence unfolded in a heartbeat, leaving me utterly perplexed. Then, a blood - red vortex materialized behind me—a swirling portal that faced me squarely. I approached from the side and observed only a delicate, crimson filament where nothing else was visible. Tentatively, I stepped through; as soon as I did, the portal vanished, and I realized that I had returned to the underworld. Following the flow of souls, I again encountered the demon. They surveyed me and pointed toward a table where I saw another individual whose right hand glowed red. As he pressed his hand to the paper on the table, the crimson aura instantly faded. The paper then ascended slowly, transforming into a semi - transparent human figure, which joined a long procession disappearing into the distance. I imitated his gesture, and a spectral figure of my own emerged and joined the line. In the next moment, I opened my eyes—only to find myself seated by the wall at my home's entrance.

Today, as I passed that same intersection en route to a convenience store for cigarettes, I overheard the clerk speaking with a friend. They mentioned that just yesterday afternoon, a fatal accident had occurred at that very crossroads where a man had been struck dead by a sedan.

Heavens, all of this is indeed real. My dad's words were true: reapers exist, the ring is genuine, and even my journey to the underworld yesterday was not an illusion. Who could possibly believe such a tale? In the twenty - first century, there is an underworld, reapers, and demons—a notion so outlandish that even I struggle to comprehend it. And yet, it has all transpired—truly, without a doubt.

For the rest of that day, I dared not venture out, tormented by uncertainty about how to face these revelations. It all seemed utterly preposterous. Lost in my thoughts, I was startled by a knock at the door. Opening it, I found my childhood friend, Mark. I immediately pulled him inside and shut the door. Startled, he asked, "What's wrong, my friend?"

"Mark, do you believe that hell exists?"

He nodded, somewhat puzzled, "Yes, my friend. Could it be that your dad has come back to see you?"

"No—listen, do you believe in the existence of hell and demons?"

He nodded once more and replied, "Indeed, my friend. Besides, your dad left some seven or eight days ago. Don't overthink it—rest assured, I'm here for you. If you need anything at all, you know I will help without hesitation."

Mark, who has been my confidant since kindergarten and remains one of my dearest friends, has helped me manage nearly all of my dad's affairs. He has always treated me as if I were his own brother.

"I'm fine," I managed to say, "but I must tell you—I ventured to hell yesterday and discovered that our family's legacy has been passed down through the generations…" When I reached the word "reaper," I found myself at a loss for words. I paused, swallowed hard, and continued, "I mean, I have become…" Yet those words refused to leave my lips. Suddenly, I recalled my dad's solemn warning that I must never reveal the truth of my identity to anyone.

"My friend, what troubles you? Are you overthinking things or simply sleep - deprived? I understand—life has not been easy for you and your dad over the years, and with your dad's sudden departure, it is natural to be overwhelmed. But please, do not let these thoughts consume you. Speak your mind if you feel burdened; do not keep it all inside."

I felt a torrent of unsaid words welling up, so overwhelming that beads of sweat formed on my brow. Yet, recalling my dad's admonition, I shook my head wearily and said, "It's nothing, Mark. I suppose I haven't rested well these past couple of days, hence my disarray. Rest assured, I am alright."

Still unconvinced, Mark immediately called his wife to request leave, insisting he stay with me for the night. That evening, he offered countless words of consolation, though I scarcely heard them, for my mind was consumed by one thought: Am I destined to serve as a reaper for the rest of my days?

Ah, I nearly forgot to introduce myself—my name is Sam.