Harold

Harold was the mysterious boy that wandered around town. He was mysterious for what he didn't do and he was mysterious for the things that occasionally he actually did. Mostly though Harold never did anything as far as anyone could tell. This pretty much made him a normal young boy. What didn't make him such a normal young boy was that he had a beard of grey. The fact that Harold was also dead probably didn't help his cause for normalcy either.

Despite his fairly youthful appearance, Harold was no longer young. He did not age as a normal boy was expected to. He didn't age at all actually, but rather the world around him did. People came and went, lived and died and all the time, there was Harold. Over the years Harold had acquired a reputation for being either extremely benevolent, or extremely vindictive, but never both at the same time. Depending on who you asked, neither of those were more preferable and most in town avoided Harold and any mention of him like they would avoid a plague.

I was twelve years old when I first saw Harold. I remember this vividly, because that was the same age as he when he fell though the ice. He offered me a beer. People around town didn't talk about Harold much. Not these days anyway. The accident was a long time ago and those old enough to remember it are long gone, both in mind and in spirit.

Years before I had been born the library had been taken down brick by brick. The salvaged bricks had been used to construct the new town jail. The new jail had more walls and more bars than the old one. These were considered more important than books. Now the town officials had found a way to lock up not only their bodies, but also their minds.

Crime had gotten worse since the turn of the century and it was no longer just the outlaws and the bank robbers that constituted a threat. Young girls and women were accused of witchcraft and imprisoned, or worse. Town officials used town funds how they wished and shot anyone that questioned them. First the mayor and then his replacement. They finally just installed one of their own.

What now remained of the library wasn't much. It was a dilapidated mess of rotting timber, discarded liquor bottles and musty old parchment. Anything of use or value that hadn't been nailed down was long since gone. The remainder was target practice for the bullies and their baseball bats and rocks.

There was however a small room in the basement that had survived fairly unscathed. People knew about it I'm sure, they just didn't care. It likely began its life as a periodical room and still was I suppose, but its period had long ago passed it by. All that remained in the small room today were stacks of yellowed newspapers and a few broken microfilm machines. It was in this small basement room surrounded by spires of aging newsprint that I first read the story of Harold.

Harold had been a small boy, living in a small town, full of small people with big, stupid ideas. The spaced reserved for him in their medium sized, small town newspaper fittingly wasn't much more than a small blurb. I am almost positive the author of the blurb sees Harold now too given his obvious narrowmindedness. If only that reporter hadn't lacked for imagination he might have seen the larger implications of Harold's death.

Harold had been the youngest of the Johnson siblings. Of the four only Jerry, the middle child, grew into adulthood. He served in World War Two and now lives on the east coast. He works in advertising. Harold's fate was sealed that cold winter evening long ago. Their brother John lived out his days in an iron lung after contracting polio at the age of nine. He died alone in a state hospital at age twenty-three. Oldest daughter Margaret was convicted in the murders of her two husbands and the murder of an infant. She died aged thirty-four in the electric chair.

Harold and I sat on the decaying concrete steps of the former library. He had been waiting for me. He sat and sipped on a can and motioned for me to join him.

He didn't specifically come for me. He didn't come for anyone. That's something they get wrong about the reaper. He is the harbinger of doom, a master of the ritual of death, but he's not evil. He's not Satan. Harold creates pain and sometimes causes it, but these are unfortunate aspects of the job. The reaper never leaves, nor does the devil. They are you and I. These forces walk beside us everyday.

Though they hide in plain sight, these forces aren't to be feared. It's the good that's hard to spot and deceitful by nature. Without evil there is no good. You cannot have one without the other. Everyone owes a death and even the "good" among us harbor a decaying spirit. You put these things together and you get desperation. You find people trying to play God and cheat the devil.

Then you meet Harold.

Every town has a Harold. Every town has some poor kid or some old bastard the world has cast out and neglected. It's not revenge, this job of ferrying the living from the Earth to parts unknown. No, it's just a job. Someone has to do it. Being dead actually isn't all that different from being alive.

You come to see Harold for one of two reasons: 1) You're already dead, or 2) Your death is imminent and will likely be the result of some sort of terrible accident. If you can't see Harold, don't worry. He, or someone like him in your town is watching and waiting. The letters A-G are usually reserved for accidents, murders, overdoses, etc, while letters H-Z are the harbingers that take you in your sleep, or some other mostly non-accidental messy accident.

I asked Harold how I would die. When and where. He wouldn't tell me. I got angry and threw a stone across the road. His stoic look never waivered. He opened another can and after a long sip, he offered it to me. I took a long look at him and at the can. Eventually, I took it and put it to my lips. I asked him again and again he remained silent. I threw the can down and began to walk off. I don't know if it was the alcohol, fate, or just dumb luck, but I tripped over a piece of concrete that had fallen from the façade of the old library. I lost my footing and then my balance. I tripped and staggered into the street and I was immediately struck by the number 713 bus. It was right on time. For once.

It's a weird thing to see yourself dead. Harold hadn't been ignoring me. While I could see him, I couldn't hear him. Now that I was dead, I not only saw him, but I heard him.

Harold stood up and surveyed the surroundings. "I'm sorry that had to happen. Truly, I am. I didn't do it. I promise. I tried to warn you, but now you know about seeing and not hearing."

I looked at my bloodied, ruined body laying in the street. He continued. "The name's Harold, but I think you probably already know that. Lets you and I go for a walk." He looked down and motioned with his chin at my lifeless body. "Don't worry. You don't need that anymore." Lets get out of here. "Besides," he said with a twinkle in his eye. "The paramedics won't be here anytime soon. They had an accident of their own on the way here."

"Yes sir, this is the office of mental health and addiction, but I'm afraid you cannot go in right now." The girl at the reception desk was very nice. Not bad looking either. I feel like I've been here before, but I don't know when or why. Wait.

Sorry.

She's still going on.

"Mr. Platt is in a meeting."

"Very well." I didn't know if I had anywhere else to be or not. "Would you please let him know I'm here? My name is Harold.. err, Hanssen. George Hanssen. Tell the doctor I believe I'm having another episode." Her smile faded and she began to look concerned. "Oh, my. Dear. Certainly Mr. Hanssen. I'll let him know right away. Please have a seat. I'm sure it won't be much longer."

As a mortician I see and have seen a lot of Death. Probably too much to be honest, but it was the family business and someone had to do it.

Someone always has to do it.

I wasn't there that night at the frozen pond when Harold fell through the ice. I don't know how it happened, or why. I do remember his body though. The body of young master Harold. He came into the parlor straight from the hospital. I was there when they dropped off his body. I wasn't much older than he was really. I was nearly sixteen. I'd never seen a case like it before and I never have again either. It chills my blood to think about it. It was the goddamnedest thing I've ever seen.

All of the blood had been drained from his body and his internal organs were all missing. He was nothing but a hollow shell. Only the skin and bones of Harold remained when they recovered his body from the icy pond. It was as if he had never even existed at all.

It was several weeks. Several weeks turned into several months. I couldn't stop thinking about it. About Harold. It was around that time that the dreams started. Voices followed soon after. I began to find myself waking up in strange places and not knowing how I'd gotten there. I was seeing and talking to figments of my imagination. They were figments to me, but not to Harold. Late one night I found myself sitting on a lifeboat listening to the screams and to the thrashing. I saw myself there but not in the safety of the lifeboat. I was standing on the deck of the ship as the water rose and the bodies were sucked under.

I began to realize that Harold was finally taking over.

At first Dr. Platt and the medication helped, but as the months and then the years passed, Harold began to refuse to let me leave. First it was only just my office but then it spread to the house. I hadn't seen him before it was my time, but he'd seen me. He knew who I was. He knew who I really was. Secrets aren't hidden forever and there is no running away from yourself.

I spend most of my days now collecting the clippings Harold wants. He never speaks of what he does when he goes on one of his walks, but I know and someday you'll know too.

Or you won't.