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.

I am a wedding planner entrusted with guiding couples through every intricate detail of their nuptial celebrations—from selecting the perfect venue and coordinating with vendors to orchestrating the entire sequence of events. Over the years, my expertise has alleviated the stress of preparations for countless couples, ensuring their weddings proceed with flawless elegance.

My mom succumbed to illness over a decade ago, leaving my dad and me to rely on each other since my high school days. Fortunately, my dad’s steady income ensured that, despite our solitude, our life remained comfortably secure. Reflecting on my upbringing, I scarcely recall ever fretting about money—perhaps, as my dad once foretold before his departure, those destined for an early end tend to enjoy a comparatively prosperous life.

In what seems like the blink of an eye, it has been over ten days since my dad passed away. During this period, Mark and several other friends have intermittently joined me for drinks and conversation. In quieter moments, I have mused that perhaps this grim reaper is not so malevolent after all; with work consuming most of my hours, even idle moments might be regarded as a kind of second vocation. Yet, I cannot help but wonder if this promised abundance might bestow upon me some unexpected fortune.

This morning, the company called to inform me that a couple wished to meet. Though we had only just concluded a family funeral, duty beckoned, and I arranged to see them at the office at two in the afternoon.

As always, I arrived at the office thirty minutes early. In our trade, we rarely adhere to fixed hours—when duty calls, we convene at the office; when not, we repose at home. Today, upon my arrival, my boss was absent, leaving only our young attendant, Alen, to watch over the premises.

“Sam, the couple just phoned—they’ll be here shortly. Please, have a seat,” he instructed.

I nodded, settling onto the sofa and perusing the latest news on my phone, when I soon heard footsteps ascending the stairs. Hand in hand, the couple appeared. I stepped forward to introduce myself and led them to the seating. The groom, around forty, and the bride, in her early twenties, exchanged pleasantries before revealing that the groom was entering his second marriage while the bride was a maiden. The groom exuded an air of flamboyance—almost that of a nouveau riche—commanding every decision between them and leaving the bride with scarcely a chance to speak.

As we discussed the finer points of the wedding itinerary—such as the groom kneeling on one knee to present the bride with flowers and proclaim, “My dear, I love you; will you marry me?”—the groom interjected with a dismissive glance. “Why should I tell her that I love her?” he declared, before turning to the bride and adding, “Don’t you agree?” The bride, with a touch of sorrow, merely nodded.

At a loss for words, I ventured, “It is customary for the couple to begin by offering the bride flowers and reciting vows.”

“Indeed,” he replied. “That was the case at my previous wedding. Yet, I find myself incapable of uttering such words. Perhaps, my friend, you might speak on my behalf?”

My incredulity was palpable. Must I truly be the one to voice his sentiments? I managed a resigned smile and replied, “I cannot possibly imagine standing on stage declaring on your behalf that you love her, only to follow by proclaiming that she loves you in return.”

To my utter astonishment, he responded simply, “I think that would be splendid.”

In all my years, I had never encountered such an audacious groom, nor had I ever been rendered speechless by a client. I found myself irresistibly curious—what quality in this bride could have captured his heart so completely?

Eventually, I mustered the fortitude to see them off. As they departed, Alen burst into laughter, exclaiming, “That man is extraordinary!”

I shook my head ruefully. “Indeed, his remarks left me utterly speechless.”

“Sam, if your eloquence left you mute, then he is truly something else,” Alen remarked.

I nodded in silent agreement. “I am in awe—and already apprehensive about their upcoming wedding.”

We exchanged a few more light-hearted banter before Alen mentioned he needed to film some footage. Observing that the day was still young and that I would soon return to an empty home, I decided to linger a little longer. Yet, scarcely had I taken a seat when a sudden vertigo seized me—I thought, not again!

Sure enough, I found myself once more venturing into the realm of the departed, encountering the infernal adjudicator who, without uttering many words, handed me a slip of paper inscribed with:

“02/02/2021 17:32 · New Orleans · St. Anne District, No. 113, Valeria, Female, Cerebral Infarction.”

This assignment, too, hailed from afar. Although I was a native of New Orleans and had frequented its streets many times, I was utterly unfamiliar with the whereabouts of No. 113.

Emerging from the netherworld, a portal bathed in a crimson glow appeared before me. As before, I stepped through and emerged into a quiet living room. I wandered about, noting the apparent absence of any inhabitants. Suddenly, the creak of a door reached my ears, followed by its opening. An elderly woman, perhaps in her sixties, entered carrying a supermarket bag in one hand and keys in the other. Barely had she set her bag upon the table when she collapsed, falling lifelessly to the floor. I raised my right hand—and, as before, my palm shimmered with a red luminescence. The elderly woman’s brow then mirrored this glow; as I lifted my hand, a stream of red light leapt into my palm. Just as I was about to depart, a piercing cry of “Nana!” echoed from behind.

I turned to see a small girl, no older than six or seven, clutching a windmill that had slipped from her grasp. She darted to the fallen woman’s side, weeping, “Nana, Nana, what has happened? Speak to me, Nana!”

The sight of the little girl trembling as she cradled the frail form stirred a profound sorrow within me. Before I could ruminate further, a sharp pain shot through my right palm—as if urging me to return and report my findings. Without hesitation, I rushed into the portal; as it closed behind me, I distinctly heard the girl’s heart-wrenching cries.

When I next opened my eyes, I found myself once again seated on the office sofa. Glancing at the clock, it seemed as though time had frozen during my absence. I rose and approached Alen. “Alen, did I just fall asleep?”

“No, how could you?” he replied.

Quickly, I explained, “Perhaps the tumult at home has robbed me of sleep these past few days, and I merely drifted in a daze. If nothing urgent arises, I shall take my leave.”

“Very well. The past is past—cheer up,” he advised.

I nodded and departed the office.

Yet, throughout my journey home, the plaintive cries of that little girl haunted my ears, stirring an unease deep within. Alas, I am beginning to suspect that this reaper is far more capricious than I had ever imagined.

Is the work of a reaper ultimately a blessing or a curse? Ever since I returned from the office, my mind has been incessantly occupied with that very question.

Around seven in the evening, Mark and another childhood friend, White, called to say they would come over. After hanging up, I ventured to the supermarket and procured a case of beer along with some provisions. No sooner had I returned home than I found them already waiting for me.

We have been inseparable since our kindergarten days—over twenty years of friendship. Though we rarely keep in touch in our daily lives, whenever one of us is in need, the other two never hesitate to help. Just as during my dad’s recent funeral—every detail was arranged by those two—and in the days thereafter, they frequented my company, fearful that solitude might lead me to overthink.

We poured our drinks, partook in our modest feast, and conversed—first about current events, then our childhood, and eventually even about automobiles—until, quite unexpectedly, someone mentioned the uncanny tale of encountering a ghost while driving at night.

At that, the mournful cries of that little girl from this afternoon resurfaced in my memory.

“Honestly, do you two believe that ghosts truly exist?” I inquired.

Mark passed me a cigarette and lit one for himself. “Of course—I see no reason not to,” he replied, playfully shaking his cigarette pack.

White merely gestured with a slight shrug.

Mark laughed heartily and teased, “White, you’re the best—always abstaining from smoking, unlike us!”

I continued, “I used to doubt the existence of ghosts. I cannot claim that they are nonexistent, yet I never imagined that one day I would actually encounter one.”

White frowned and straightened in his seat. “Sam, what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Allow me to speak plainly,” I said, “suppose there exists someone—a reaper—who escorts lost souls to the underworld. Would you say that his work is virtuous or malevolent?”

By then, Mark’s speech was becoming slurred. “Naturally it is a blessing,” he declared. “To help those wandering souls reach the underworld swiftly, sparing them an endless aimless drifting—is that not a noble deed?”

“Granted, it is beneficial—but circumstances vary. If the soul belongs to a benign spirit, it is a mercy; yet if it is an avenging ghost whose grievance remains unavenged, hastening its passage might not be welcome,” White remarked.

I nodded. “Indeed, if a scoundrel dies, it matters little if he is taken away, but for a virtuous soul, my heart would not allow it.”

Mark grasped my arm and chuckled, “What use is your reluctance? It sounds as if you are already accustomed to this work!”

I smiled faintly, and soon our conversation drifted to other topics.

Before long, the case of beer was nearly finished. Glancing at my watch, I noted it was well past half-past eleven. Mark rose and waved me goodbye, “It’s late, Sam. Let’s call it a night—tomorrow we must work, and I must be off.”

White also nodded, and I helped both of them into an Uber, ensuring they were dropped off at their respective homes, thankfully not too far away. After handing over the fare and exchanging a few parting words with White about looking after Mark, I watched the taxi disappear into the night.

Stepping outside, I faintly heard the plaintive cry of a child. At first, I assumed I had misheard—after all, it was nearly midnight in the dead of winter; who would be crying at such an hour? Standing by the flowerbed before my house, I listened intently and, indeed, discerned the sorrowful cry of a small child. Summoning my courage, I called softly, “Who is there? Who is crying?”

To my astonishment, a voice answered, “It is me.”

Rubbing my eyes, I beheld a shadowy figure emerging from the flowerbed. It was a vaguely defined, translucent silhouette, seemingly that of a child, indistinct in the dim light.

“Wh - who are you? What are you doing here?” I stuttered, my words faltering—perhaps from the lingering effects of drink or sheer terror.

“Sir, will you please help me?” the voice pleaded. Leaning closer, I saw it was indeed a little boy, no older than ten, clad in summer clothes despite the bitter cold; his garments were soiled, as were his face and hands.

“And who might you be?” I asked.

“I have lingered here for over a year, and no one has ever seen me. Uncle, will you help me?” he implored.

“But it is so cold outside—aren’t you freezing in such scant attire?”

The boy shook his head. “I feel no cold. Ever since I died, I have lost the ability to sense warmth or chill.”

Died? In that moment, my suspicions were confirmed.

At that wintry midnight, I found myself conversing with a ghost beneath my doorstep—a scene that still sends shivers down my spine.

“Perhaps you should come with me—follow me home?” I offered, almost immediately regretting the words as they left my lips.

He nodded, and with a sense of resigned duty, I escorted him to my house. Once inside, I switched on every light, and he drifted in silently and halted before the television, or rather, seemed to hover in front of it, unmoving.

I walked slowly past him and took a seat on the sofa opposite. “Please, sit down and speak,” I urged.

He complied; the small chair which Mark had occupied earlier creaked and slid behind him before he settled down. My heart raced—as if I were witnessing a scene from some surreal film. Possessing such spectral power, it appeared I had unwittingly invited further misfortune.

For over ten minutes we sat in heavy silence. Glancing at the clock, I realized it was already one o’clock in the morning. How long would this eerie encounter endure?

At last, I ventured, “Kid, what is your name?”

“I do not remember,” he replied softly. “Since my death, so many memories have faded.”

How pitiable his plight.

“Then, what did you mean when you asked for my help? How might I be of service?”

He raised his head slightly, and only then did I notice his face was streaked with blood, and one of his eyes protruded grotesquely—a void of black, devoid of an iris. Though I had long suspected he was a ghost and steeled myself for such a revelation, his appearance nearly made me gasp.

“Sir, I know you are a reaper,” he whispered, “and I beg you—help me leave this place.”

“How do you… how do you know I am a reaper?” I stammered, my speech growing increasingly unsteady.

“Other ghosts have told me that ordinary mortals emit a white glow, angels a golden radiance, spirits a green shimmer, and reapers a red aura.”

I examined myself, yet saw no such red glow.

He smiled faintly. “That light is imperceptible to you.”

“Very well,” I conceded. “Indeed, I am a reaper, though I have only recently taken up this duty and know little of its intricacies. I am at a loss as to how I might assist you.”

He recounted his tragic tale: “Last year, along the road by your house, I was struck by a drunk driver in the dead of night. The man did not report the accident; instead, he removed my body, placed it in his car, and later abandoned it by the river. For over a year I have wandered these parts in search of the man responsible. Yet in that time, my form has grown ever more translucent, and the memories of my former life are slowly fading. The other ghosts say it is because my body was cremated—rendered incomplete—and so I cannot be reborn; my spirit fades more each day until it will vanish entirely. Unless someone helps restore my body, I shall remain here, doomed to disappear gradually.”

I listened with scant attention, barely catching enough to understand that he sought my aid in reassembling his remains. I couldn’t help but wonder—why, after his death, had no reaper like myself come for him? Do even we sometimes shirk our duties?

After much further inquiry, I learned that in the fatal accident his left eye was blown away. When the driver removed his body, that eye was left behind. Later, his family reported the incident and recovered his remains, yet the missing eye was never found. Thus, the reapers could not escort him to the underworld, for they require a complete body. And so he has wandered these parts ever since.

“I understand,” I murmured, “but how might I possibly help you retrieve your left eye?” I had only recently assumed the role of a reaper and was utterly unversed in such matters.

He pointed; following his gesture, I saw a small box—containing the ring my dad had bequeathed me. I retrieved it. “Is this what you mean?”

He nodded. “Indeed. The other ghosts say that if you hold this ring before your eyes and peer through its tiny aperture, you can locate my missing eye.”

I examined the ring—it indeed possessed a small hole.

Since that was so, I resolved to help him; after all, the poor child was truly pitiable. The little boy led me southward for a while until we reached the doorway of a convenience store. Pointing to the middle of the road, he said, “I was struck here; my eye must be somewhere nearby, though I have searched in vain.”

Following his instructions, I held the ring before my face, peering through its diminutive opening with my right eye. In that instant, the familiar world transformed—where once stood houses, trees, and roads, now there lay only a vast expanse of barren ground, dotted with ethereal forms drifting aimlessly.

“Hey, kid,” I called, pointing ahead, “are all those floating shapes ghosts?”

He glanced in the direction I indicated and replied, “Yes—they are ghosts. Should they wish to be seen, they reveal themselves to reapers and mortals alike; otherwise, you can only perceive them through this aperture.”

At that moment, several drifting apparitions gathered around me, curiously observing. One brazen spirit drifted so near as to confront me face - to - face; his pallid, ghastly visage rendered me speechless. Noticing the ring in my hand, he recoiled in alarm and shouted, “It is a reaper!”

At his cry, all the nearby ghosts scattered in an instant.

I composed myself and resumed scanning the vicinity through the tiny aperture, finding nothing amiss.

“How might we locate your eye?” I inquired.

“We ghosts do emit a faint, gray glow—so feeble that only the keenest eye discerns it. I believe my missing eye too would shine with such a light, sir. Please, do search for it a little longer.”

After approximately half an hour of careful observation, I discerned a shallow pit from which a dim glow emanated. Removing the ring, I discovered it to be a sewage well. Procuring a wooden stick from nearby, I pried open the lid, and once again peered through the ring’s aperture—the glow now intensified. Using the stick, I probed within; the well was choked with debris and leaves, its stench overwhelming. After a laborious search, I extracted a small, grimy sphere enshrouded in filth. Fetching another branch and with repeated efforts, I managed to extract the object. The little boy, upon seeing it, rushed forward and eagerly cleaned away the grime with trembling hands, revealing a diminutive, black orb that shimmered faintly when viewed through my ring.

“Truly, thank you, sir—thank you so very much!” the little boy exclaimed, cradling the “eyeball” in wonder.

“Now that it is found, your long wait is over—you may finally cross over to the underworld,” I said.

With care, the boy nestled the orb into the hollow where his left eye had been; gradually, the swelling subsided, and his countenance returned to normal.

“Sir, I have one more request!”

“What else might I do for you?” I asked, heartened to see a smile replacing the earlier sorrow.

“Will you take me to the underworld?” he pleaded.

Alas, what was I to do? Never had I been tasked with actively escorting a soul; I had merely responded to summons. Now, to be asked to guide him to the underworld—I was at a loss. I explained that, as a fledgling reaper, I knew little of how to accomplish such a task. The boy then said he could fetch a ghost who might know what to do, provided I agreed not to detain that ghost. I readily consented—for one, I had no desire to capture anyone, and secondly, I was at a loss as to how to do so.

The boy bade me wait upon a long bench by the roadside while he went to find this ghost. Alone, I sat on the empty street past one—nearly two in the morning. Though I had encountered ghosts before, the loneliness of the night filled me with an eerie unease.

After a while, the little boy returned. “Come now—I have assured the reaper that he will not seize you, so fear not!”

No sooner had he spoken than a strangely attired ghost appeared beside him.

That ghost nodded at me and said, “Good evening, sir. My name is Williams.”

His accent was peculiar. “And where do you hail from?” I inquired.

“I was born in 1901 in Philadelphia. In 1927, my family and I ventured to New York for business, and we were robbed by a group of gangsters, and we were all killed. My family was taken away by the Grim Reaper, but I was dismembered by the gang,and my complete remains have never been recovered. Hence, I have wandered these parts for decades.”

He had perished in 1927—now, in 2021, he had been dead for 94 years.

“I understand,” I said, “no wonder your manner differs so greatly from that of the living.”

“This little boy’s remains—I have only recently helped to restore them. He wishes to be escorted to the underworld, and, truth be told, I too am new to this calling and am uncertain how to proceed. He said that you might know—could you perhaps instruct me?”

At this, Williams readily assented. It turned out that all I needed to do was use the ring to trace a cross upon my palm, then press my palm against the little boy’s forehead to capture his spirit; thereafter, by drawing a circle in the air with the ring, the portal to the underworld would open.

Following Williams’ instructions, I etched a cross upon my palm and succeeded in gathering the boy’s soul. When Williams inquired if I required any further assistance, I replied, “No, thank you.” With that, he uttered a brief farewell and vanished in a whoosh.

I then escorted the little boy to the threshold of the underworld; watching him join the procession, I exhaled a long - held sigh. In six days as a reaper, I had now guided three souls to their final rest—at last, a good deed accomplished. May this little boy ascend to Heaven.

In the quiet depths of night, as I slumbered, the little boy I had bid farewell to reappeared at the edge of my bed, accompanied by an angel standing silently behind him. The child gently patted me before turning to glance at the angel, who offered a slight nod before abruptly turning away.

Leaning close to my ear, the boy whispered, “Sir, I bring you joyous news—remember these numbers well…” Before I could fathom his meaning, he recited a string of digits, then straightened up and declared, “Moreover, I have come to bid you farewell. Thank you, sir; in a little while, I shall ascend to Heaven, and rest assured, I will be well!” Suddenly, he covered his mouth and murmured, “You must remember these numbers.” With a final wave, he turned and, together with the angel, passed through the wall of my room, vanishing from sight.

Having spent the night helping the little boy recover his lost eye, I returned home past three o’clock; compounded by a few drinks, I slept soundly until well past eleven in the morning.

After rising and tidying up, I changed and set out in search of a fine meal. Not far from my home lies a delightful Mexican restaurant—a favorite haunt of mine. Having placed my order, I reached into my pocket only to find that my cigarettes were gone. Crossing the street to a nearby convenience store, I bought a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and noticed someone purchasing a Powerball lottery ticket. In years past I, too, had dabbled in Powerball—with winnings scarcely exceeding four dollars, and never a larger prize.

My goodness, could it be that the sequence of numbers the little boy recited last night were the Powerball numbers? Recollecting the dream, I found indeed there were six digits. What the heck— I decided to buy a ticket. “Please, get me a Powerball ticket with the numbers…” I instructed.

With the ticket in hand, I returned to the Mexican restaurant where my meal had already been served. Today, being Wednesday, the Powerball draw was scheduled for this evening, and after dining I switched channels at home to watch the drawing.

Heavens above—I had truly won, with a prize exceeding two hundred and ten thousand dollars! Ha ha ha, such fortune was utterly unexpected. Could this be the reward for serving as a reaper? What the heck—I'll collect the prize money in a few days and see.

I took out my phone, opened WhatsApp, and promptly shared the news with Mark and White. Mark replied, “Congratulations—you're rich now!” and White added, “Indeed, you must treat us!” I responded, “Very well, tomorrow evening then. Invite your wives and children—Mark, let’s meet at that French restaurant near your home; make a reservation tomorrow, for I shall treat everyone!” Mark sent an “OK” emoji in reply, and White mentioned, “Incidentally, Jenny said a few days ago that Sam was alone at home.” After a brief further chat, both excused themselves for sleep, leaving me free. Exiting WhatsApp, I indulged in a mobile game for a while.

While engrossed in the game, a sudden knock at the door startled me. Glancing at the clock—well past eleven—who would be calling at such a late hour? Approaching the door and peering through the peephole, I saw not a human, but a ghost—it was Williams! What business could he possibly have at this hour?

I opened the door, and he bowed profusely, saying, “Sir, forgive me for disturbing your rest.” I nodded and replied, “Come in, then—lest the neighbors wonder what I am doing.” Once inside, Williams casually closed the door and stood in the hallway with his head bowed.

“Please, come in. What matter brings you here tonight?” he inquired, taking a few steps forward. “Sir, I require your assistance with a matter,” he continued. “Last night, did you not aid a small spirit? I have since told the local ghosts, and they all extol your kindness.” I interjected, “Enough with the flattery—speak plainly, please!”

He stammered, “Yes, sir—for here, countless souls yearn to cross over to the underworld, yet are unable to do so. The moment they learn of your willingness to help, they clamor to accompany me to see you! And now, I have brought one who also seeks your aid…” He trailed off, elongating the final syllable as he bit his lip and fixed his gaze upon me. It seemed that once this matter began, it would never end.

Seeing my silence, Williams advanced two more steps and said, “Sir, I know your heart is kind, and indeed this task is rather troublesome. We ghosts have conferred amongst ourselves, and should you assist us with this one favor, we pledge our unwavering service to you.” I replied, “That is not my intention; now, explain to me—how may I help you this time?”

No sooner had I spoken than Williams coughed softly, and through the door entered a white-clad female ghost—dressed in nineteenth-century attire—who approached me with a slight nod. Williams explained at length that her name was Alice, even older than he; born in 1879, she married a wealthy merchant at the age of twenty, but soon suffered constant abuse at his hands until, overcome by despair, she ingested poison and ended her life.

“Sir, I beseech you—please, escort me to the underworld,” she implored, bowing deeply. I hastily stepped forward, “No, no, there is no need for such ceremony!” I gently grasped her arm, and as she slowly lifted her head, I noted that supporting her felt not unlike aiding a living person, save for the unmistakable chill that emanated from her very being.

“Please, tell me—how may I assist you?” I urged.

Alice bowed slightly and replied, “After my death, my husband interred me in a place ten miles north of New York City. Lacking a tombstone, I remain nameless, and thus I cannot cross over to the underworld.”

I turned to Williams and asked, “Do not all souls, upon death, receive an escort from a reaper? The little boy mentioned yesterday that incomplete remains preclude passage—so why is it that this lady, too, cannot cross? Must one’s identity be the final requirement?”

Williams explained, “Sir, those who die naturally find their way to the underworld without aid. But for those who perish untimely or violently, we reapers are tasked with guiding them. Alas, the number of such souls far exceeds our ranks, and the underworld imposes numerous conditions, leaving many stranded. Over time, the number of these forlorn spirits has grown. I, for one, have been dead for nearly a century, with my remains incomplete, and though I have grown accustomed, countless others still wait, year after year, for their chance. Yesterday, you graciously aided us; today, I must shamelessly ask for your help once more.”

Hearing this, I realized that, beyond the usual bureaucratic hurdles, even as ghosts, myriad conditions must be met to cross over. Countless wandering souls have waited for decades without a chance—truly a pitiable plight. For me, lending assistance is but a trifle; if I can help, I shall help them.

It would seem that to aid Alice, I must first locate her burial site and erect a tombstone in her honor.

Around midnight, I drove northward with two ghosts in tow. Along the highway, with Alice as our guide, she led me onto an obscure road. After about ten minutes, we arrived at a clearing overgrown with wild grass, where several abandoned vehicles lay. Alice directed me to park, then escorted me to the southwest corner of the clearing. Pointing to a great tree, she said, “Sir, it is here that I was interred.”

“And what am I to do then?” I inquired.

Williams whispered in my ear, “Use the ring your dad left you as a pen to inscribe upon this ground the words ‘Alice’s Graveyard.’”

“Is it truly that simple?” I asked. Williams nodded. Following his instructions, I wrote those words on the earth; with each stroke, the ring’s path shone with a dazzling red light.

When I finished, Alice bowed once more, “Thank you, sir.” Then, with sudden fervor, she plunged her hands into the earth, and upon withdrawing them, held a small red wooden box. Opening it, she presented several pieces of jewelry. “Sir, I cannot repay you; these were my funerary treasures. Please, accept them as my gift.” I protested, but Williams urged me to accept, insisting it was her heartfelt offering, and in the end, I took the box.

Already familiar with the remaining steps—much like the previous night—I again traced a cross upon my palm with the ring and escorted Alice to the underworld. Upon my return, Williams awaited me by the car. I nodded, “Let us depart—the task is complete.”

On the drive back, Williams and I conversed at length. He confided that reapers like myself now number only some seventy or eighty across America—others have vanished for reasons unknown. Moreover, in this day and age, money reigns supreme; apart from the fixed three soul-retrieval assignments each month, reapers tend to conduct their own business and rarely assist these wandering spirits. Some even exploit their positions, charging exorbitant fees for a soul’s reincarnation, leaving the penniless without even such a chance. What a world—where even the passage of souls has become mere commerce.

Williams recalled that he had known both my granddad and my dad, who often aided wandering souls without ever demanding compensation, remarking that I possessed their same charm. I cannot claim to be supremely noble—who does not cherish wealth? Yet I have always believed in claiming only what is rightfully mine, and with a car, a home, and a stable income, I am content. Thus, I assured him that should such matters arise again, he need only ask, and I would endeavor to help.

Williams was effusive in his gratitude and promised henceforth to serve as my subordinate, ever ready to assist me.

The next day, I visited a jewelry store and sold the pieces Alice had bestowed upon me for over fifty thousand dollars. From that day onward, in addition to my daytime occupation, I embraced two additional roles: one as the customary guide for departed souls, and the other—during the evenings—assisting with the ghosts that Williams would bring to me.

Upon reflection, having only served in this position for a scant eight days, fortune has smiled upon me: in that brief span, I won the lottery—netting approximately $160,000 after taxes—and on that very day, plus the jewelry Alice gave me that day, I got another 50,000 dollars. In combination, these two windfalls have garnered me over $200,000 in just a few days—a sum that far exceeds the earnings of my usual work as a wedding planner. At this rate, might my career in wedding planning soon be relegated to a mere sideline?

That evening, I arranged a dinner with the families of Mark and White. After a leisurely luncheon, I drove to the Smith Haven Shopping Center, an area replete with boutiques, intent on selecting exquisite gifts for the children of Mark and White. With a modest fortune freshly earned, I felt compelled to indulge—a sentiment that brought me great satisfaction.

After an afternoon of perusal, I procured a remote - controlled airplane for Mark’s son and acquired a plush teddy bear, over a meter in height, for White’s daughter. I wager that these tokens will elate the children beyond measure tonight!

Having stowed my purchases in the car and noting that it was nearly six o’clock, I made my way directly to Jackie Restaurant, situated near Mark’s home. Upon entering, I announced Mark’s name to the hostess, who promptly escorted me to the reserved table. There, White was already awaiting my arrival.

“Sam, you’re here! Come, have a seat—I shall join you immediately after work, as the others have yet to arrive!”

“And where are Mary and Beth?”

“Beth remains at home; Mary will bring her along shortly.”

I opened WhatsApp and selected Mark’s profile picture, typing, “Mark, White and I have arrived—right by your residence. Should you delay further, the arrangement might fall apart!”

Seating myself beside White, I remarked, “Do you still frequent this establishment? Ever since I relocated, it has been three or four years since I last dined here.”

“In our neighborhood, this is the sole venue of any repute; there is little else to choose from!”

“That may be so, yet this restaurant has stood for many years—perhaps two decades, if memory serves.”

At that moment, Mark entered with his wife and son.

“Bob, meet Uncle Sam!” Mark declared, gently supporting his son as he gestured towards me.

“Hello, Uncle Sam!” Bob greeted warmly.

“Hello, Bob. Mark, I must say, Bob has put on quite a few pounds recently! With each gain, he increasingly resembles you—albeit a paler version of your younger self!”

Amid our banter, I swiftly rose to guide Mark’s wife, Dotty, to her seat. Though jests flowed freely among the three of us, I have always held Beth and Dotty in high esteem, for they have consistently looked after me ever since they learned of my single status and frequently invited me to share their meals.

“Sam, how have you been? I am deeply sorry about your dad.”

“Rest assured, I am well.” I turned to Mark’s son, Bob, and inquired, “Bob, come here—can you operate the trunk of Uncle’s car?”

Bob nodded eagerly, “Yes, I can!”

“I knew you were the most capable, Bob. Now, take Uncle’s car key, proceed to the door and into the parking lot, and retrieve the two gifts from the trunk—one for you and one for little Beth.”

Before I could finish, Bob seized the key and sprinted off.

“Remember to lock Uncle’s car afterward!” Mark called out hastily from the doorway.

Before long, Bob returned cradling the items. “Uncle, here is your key.”

“Well done, Bob. The airplane is yours, and the bear is for Beth.”

The plump little fellow casually tossed the teddy bear onto the sofa while clutching his airplane with both hands. “I know, but no boy would ever play with dolls!”

“Bob, you must thank your Uncle,” his mom admonished as she rose.

“Thank you, Uncle!”

We conversed a few more minutes until White’s wife, Mary, arrived with their daughter, Beth. The instant Beth stepped through the door, Bob rushed over, exclaiming, “Beth, behold the airplane Uncle Sam procured for me—isn’t it marvelous? And here is your gift as well!”

Each child, embracing his or her gift, radiated unbridled joy.

Mary tugged at my arm, chiding, “Why on earth did you purchase such an enormous bear for her? It must have been exceedingly expensive! You are spoiling the children!”

Before I could reply, White stood and proclaimed, “Sam, you struck the lottery yesterday—$160,000! What are such trifling sums compared to that, isn’t it so?”

After a bit more playful chatter, Mark, seated nearby and tasked with ordering, announced, “As per our usual custom, I have ordered for everyone. Speak now of your preferences, lest I order for all!”

I truly savored this convivial atmosphere. In the days when my dad was alive, our meals were intimate affairs for just the two of us, punctuated by the occasional drink, as he was a man of few words. Even now, after meeting with clients or following a wedding, I often receive invitations to elaborate banquets organized by newlyweds. Yet, I have always endeavored to decline such gatherings, for I find them rather stifling; I prefer the warm camaraderie of this circle.

By a little past nine, with the children needing to be in bed for school the next day, Mary and Dotty took them home, leaving only the three of us to engage in a spirited conversation covering all manner of topics. Eventually, Mark arranged for a designated driver to return me home.

Upon my arrival, just as I was preparing to rest, I heard a knock at the door. Glancing out, I saw Williams. “Come in—no need to wait at the door; I was just seeking you!” he announced.

“You have been running about these past days, and you have imparted much wisdom to me. I insist on giving you a small tip, haha.”

Williams, taken aback, replied, “Sir, what are you doing? I have exerted little effort, merely assisting a friend. Moreover, serving you is something I do willingly.”

“Enough of the formalities. Since today marks our third encounter, simply call me Sam!”

“Yes, Sam!”

“Now then, let us attend to business. You are here today to arrange something for me, are you not?”

“Sam, I have come to introduce you to a few friends.”

“Friends, you say?”

With a clap of his hands, two phantasmal figures emerged from behind a wall. One, towering over Williams by more than a head—easily around 1.8 meters tall; the other, shorter at barely 1.6 meters yet exceedingly rotund. Though I consider myself somewhat stout, in comparison, I felt remarkably balanced.

“Sam, these two—the tall one is named James, and the portly one is called John. They are among my dearest friends. I have recounted to them your recent exploits, and they earnestly implored me to bring them here, so that they might serve you.”

Surveying the trio—one slender and tall, one short and stout, with Williams in his century - old attire—the scene was most surreal.

I nodded and said, “Effectiveness matters little; since they have come with Williams, henceforth consider them friends, and like Williams, address me as Sam.”

They bowed in unison, “Yes, boss!”

At that moment, I could not help but feel reminiscent of a cinematic mob boss.

Williams proceeded to introduce them: “James is a Mexican who, in the 1970s, clandestinely immigrated to America and labored on construction sites without legal clearance. Tragically, he met his end after a fall from a building; fearful of liability, the site manager hastily concealed the incident by burying him in obscurity. John, conversely, succumbed to an overdose of sleeping pills around 1983 over matters of the heart. With no kin or friends to claim him, his decaying remains were discovered months later, and his unclaimed body was ultimately cremated.”

When asked why they did not venture to the netherworld, one remarked that mingling with ghosts among the living was far more liberating, while the other expressed a desire to remain a free spirit.

Indeed, each soul harbors its own peculiar notions—these two are, without a doubt, rather eccentric.

I inquired of Williams, “Should I need to summon them in the future, what is the proper procedure?”

He replied, “Simply inscribe the name of any one of them on a piece of paper using your ring; then, by burning the paper, they shall appear.”

At that moment, I recalled an important matter and imposed one solitary condition: henceforth, whenever they arrive, they must first knock—no one is to enter by phasing through walls unannounced. I fear the day when they might appear at any given moment, for I could scarcely bear it.

Since my dad was young, he had an insatiable passion for cinema—not merely attending movie theaters but also frequenting video rental shops. The term “video tape” might sound alien to many of today’s youth, yet I grew up accompanying him to rent videos, and thus watching movies remains one of my greatest pleasures.

After the era of video tapes came DVDs. In my childhood, numerous small rental shops dotted the streets, where new releases were eagerly sought. Icons such as Leonardo, Brad Pitt, Will Smith, and Johnny Depp graced our screens.

In retrospect, I was but a seven- or eight-year-old child, spending one day marveling at Leonardo and the next at Brad Pitt. I cherished those moments with my dad, listening as he elucidated the plots before my eyes.

Because my dad adored Hong Kong action films, I spent my early years immersed in the movies of Bruce Lee and Jackie Chan. Gradually, I came to adore their films myself, watching them repeatedly—indeed, some films I viewed dozens of times without ever tiring. Classics like "Enter the Dragon," "The Way of the Dragon," and "Police Story" have become etched in my memory through countless viewings.

Yet time has transformed all things; Bruce Lee is gone, and although Jackie Chan continues to release films annually, neither his martial prowess nor the overall quality of his work can now compare to his prime. I vividly recall when Jackie Chan’s new film, "The Duel in London," premiered—my dad and I bought tickets the very day. Although Chan delivered what might be considered his finest performance, one cannot help but acknowledge that even legendary heroes grow old.

My dad and Jackie Chan were contemporaries. While my dad lamented the gradual decline in Chan’s film quality, he would always remark that if he were in Chan’s place, he might struggle even to perform a simple somersault. Yet Jackie Chan perseveres on the silver screen with undiminished vigor—indeed, his spirit and tenacity alone are to support him.

I had always believed that, like Chan, my dad would remain sprightly and forever by my side. But just before the New Year, he passed away so suddenly—a man whose robust health had never once betrayed a hint of frailty. Before his departure, he entrusted me with a peculiar errand; after attending to his final rites and a few days of “harvesting” work, I have finally found a moment to rest.

I turned on my computer and found an old film online—one of my all-time favorites, Jackie Chan’s "Police Story." To me, it is among his most quintessential works. I recall watching it while still in school, amused by its whimsical plot and captivating duets of combat; in hindsight, the film boasts a plethora of cameo appearances and every fight sequence is a masterpiece. I once rented it and, for over a week, could not bear to return it—watching it daily until I nearly memorized every line.

Yet, as soon as I began watching, my vision blurred and, in a moment, I was confronted by the reality that it had been thirteen days since my dad’s passing. I recalled the last time we watched this film together, sharing beers as the scenes unfolded...

Now, everything has changed. The film remains the same—the elegance of Chan’s movements and the humor of the storyline unaltered. But who, after the film ends, will join me for a drink?

It is only in growing up that one realizes how profoundly elusive a dad’s love can be. My dad, like many, never explicitly expressed his affection. In my early years, when my mom was still alive, any misstep on my part was met with his firm hand while my mom shielded me. For a time, I harbored resentment, feeling that he loved me only enough to discipline me. Yet after my mom passed, my dad seemed to age overnight; within less than a year, his hair turned mostly white. He never spoke of her again nor did we reminisce together, though I sensed that without her, a part of his very soul had faded—visible in his once-bright eyes, now dull and vacant.

After my mom’s departure, he never struck or scolded me again. He would simply say that now that I was grown, I should have my own ideas and make my own arrangements. Gradually, the two of us began to share common topics, and I came to appreciate the subtle, unspoken love he harbored for me.

In that moment, memories played before my eyes like a film reel: my dad teaching me to ride a bicycle, to play basketball, to fish—as if these moments had occurred just yesterday. Tears streamed uncontrollably, and despite my efforts to stifle them by rubbing my eyes vigorously, the memories persisted.

I turned around and looked around the empty room. It seemed that every corner had traces of my dad. At the end of the bed, he had carefully sorted out the clothes and socks I had thrown around; on the sofa, he sat in front of his phone, sharing the latest interesting things; in the kitchen, he was busy for a while, but shouted at the door: "You bastard, dinner is ready!"

I could not endure the flood of recollections any longer. For these past days, I had strived to keep myself incessantly occupied—even if it meant sleeping whenever possible—fearing that the memories might surge forth like an overwhelming torrent. Deep down, I knew I could never escape them. Whether at my dad’s funeral or when Mark and the others came to console me, I never broached the subject. I feigned composure, unwilling to burden them, knowing full well that no one could truly ease or replace this loss. The emotion was like a breached dam: once a small crack appeared, it inevitably burst forth uncontrollably.

Dad, how I long for you. Why did you depart so suddenly? Not long ago, we would argue and defy each other, and now, I am filled with regret.

I should have learned to cherish every moment together long ago. Now, though I understand, what use is it? Time cannot be rewound. All that remains is regret. I went to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face, then retrieved two bottles of beer from the refrigerator—after all these years, I have never enjoyed drinking alone;Guess it’s become our thing – Dad and I each having our own bottle. As I closed the fridge, it struck me that I had even taken his beer—and yet, he was no longer here.

Settling on the sofa, I opened both bottles as before, switched the TV to the NBA—my dad’s favorite—and raised one bottle to clink lightly against the other. “Cheers, Dad!” I murmured.

I cannot recall how many bottles I eventually consumed, yet I know I never truly became intoxicated. In truth, I wished never to be fully conscious, for in drunken stupor the memories would be less sharp. Yet, inexplicably, the more I drank, the more lucid I became, as long-forgotten memories gradually resurfaced.

My vision grew dim, and after fumbling about on the table, I found a cigarette and a lighter. I retrieved a cigarette from the pack and placed it between my lips. Just as I was about to light it, I saw my dad seated before me, glaring: “Still smoking? When will you quit?”

Startled, I hastily removed the cigarette and flung it to the floor. “Dad, rest assured—I’ll quit from now on…”

It was then I realized that my dad was not truly there; only my solitary shadow remained.

“Dad, I’m smoking again! Come out—scold me if you must, even beat me if you like. I so desperately miss that feeling!”

I lost track of time as I drank, and eventually I set the bottle upon the bedside table and collapsed onto the bed. Though my mind remained awake, I yearned for sleep to bring solace to my aching heart.

That night, I dreamed incessantly—not only of my dad but also of my mom. In my dreams, they strolled hand in hand under the moonlight, admired blossoms by a lake, and cooked together. In the end, our family sat together, dining and conversing, with my dad occasionally gazing at me, his face graced by that long-missed smile. I had awaited that vision for far too long.

I awoke with a splitting headache, unsure how long I had slept, and found the world outside still cloaked in darkness. My throat was unbearably parched, so I rose to pour a glass of water and, glancing at the clock, discovered it had scarcely passed midnight.

At that moment, a gentle knock sounded at the door. Expecting Williams, I was surprised to see that it was instead James and John. I invited them in and asked why they had come unannounced.

James exchanged a glance with John, who nudged him forward and signaled discreetly.

“B-boss, John and I have urgent business to discuss!”

Judging by the tension in their expressions, I knew trouble was afoot. “Spare me the dithering—speak plainly. And why hasn’t Williams arrived?”

“It’s about Williams—he… he’s been taken!”

“Taken? By whom? Explain!”

After a long while of stammering, I finally understood: they claimed that beneath an ancient, centuries-old tree—where a wolf demon lurked—Williams had been captured.

“What? There are demons in New York?”

“Of course there are! Along the banks of the Hudson stands a four- or five-hundred-year-old oak. Within its gnarled branches dwells a tree spirit, and beneath it lurks a wolf demon endowed with formidable powers. We lesser specters must tread carefully, lest we incur his wrath.”

I knew of this venerable oak well—I had grown up near it at my grandmom’s house, where I often played beneath its boughs. To think that a wolf demon might dwell beneath its roots was beyond my wildest imaginings!

Just a fortnight ago, I believed ghostly tales were mere myth. Yet these past days have forced me to accept the existence of the supernatural. Now, to hear that in New York there are not only tree spirits but also wolf demons—it is almost too terrifying to fathom, as though it were a script for a film!

“And how, then, did Williams come to be seized?”

“Boss, you see, Williams has always had a penchant for petty thievery. This time…”

John continued, “This evening, as the three of us ambled along the Hudson, we noticed some fruit beneath the oak—of unknown origin—and in jest, we dared each other to pilfer one.”

With his head bowed, James murmured, “It’s all my fault—I should never have joked about it. I never imagined that stealing a single apple would lead to his capture!”

After further prodding, they hesitantly revealed the whole tale: among the phantoms, Williams was known as one who was often bullied. Yet, emboldened by his association with me, he had grown boastful of his newfound stature. A careless remark from John had given him the chance to flaunt his mettle, only for the situation to spiral disastrously out of control.

Truth be told, I am uncertain of the true extent of my own powers as the Reaper; in the eyes of those more illustrious, I might be nothing more than an inconspicuous pawn. And now, while I have not yet grown conceited, Williams has already become arrogantly self-assured. With this debacle unfolding, I find myself at a loss as to how to resolve it.

“Did you not say that the ancient oak harbors a tree spirit? Surely, if this misdeed occurs beneath its very gaze, it should intervene?”

“The oak’s spirit is old and nearly deaf, and the wolf demon is a master of deceit and sycophancy—he has the tree spirit wrapped around his finger and will not help us; besides, we rarely catch even a glimpse of him!” James shook his head in exasperation.

“I truly do not know what to do. I have held this post for scarcely half a month, and never have I encountered such a predicament. Yet, since the matter is now upon us, let us venture together to ascertain the demon’s disposition.”

The two phantoms assented immediately. Fortunately, the ancient oak was not far from my abode. Having imbibed a bit and opting not to drive, I mounted my bicycle and reached it in about ten minutes.

At the oak’s base, I circled it thoughtfully, pondering how I might summon this elusive tree spirit. Just then, a deep, resonant voice spoke from behind, “Reaper, welcome to our domain!”

I turned to see a middle-aged gentleman clad in a tailored suit extending his hand. His attire betrayed that he was no ordinary man, yet I dared not ask outright what sort of creature he was. Instead, after shaking his hand, I inquired, “Good sir, might I ask your name?”

“You may call me Wolf!”

Wolf—could it be that he was indeed the very wolf demon in question? At that moment, James and John arrived; John, hiding behind me, whispered, “He is the wolf demon!”

I nodded. “Mr. Wolf, greetings. I am new to this vocation and scarcely acquainted with its customs. Hence, I shall be frank: I have a friend named Williams who is said to have incurred your displeasure tonight. Pray, where might he be now?” I adopted the measured cadence of a gangster from a noir film, amused by the affectation.

“Oh, Williams—I know of him. This very evening, as he passed by, I invited him to my abode for a cup of coffee. Why not join me there for a cup as well?”

That invitation suited me perfectly. Though it was just past midnight and the streets were nearly deserted, I dreaded that a passerby might misconstrue my solitary conversation with thin air as lunacy.

“Very well, lead on!”

With a genial smile, Wolf waved his right hand, and in an instant the surroundings transformed; when my vision cleared, I found myself in a sumptuous living room.

Wolf ushered me into the parlor and invited me to take a seat upon a chair by the coffee table—an act of deference that bolstered my confidence. I seated myself slowly as Wolf sat beside me and, gesturing toward James and John, added, “Gentlemen, please, be seated!”

They exchanged glances with me before taking the two chairs to my right.

“I have heard that an Oak Spirit dwells here as well—might I be so fortunate as to behold him tonight?” I ventured, striving for an air of nonchalance.

“Are you referring to Mr. Oak? He is advanced in years and presently at rest; it would be unseemly to disturb him,” Wolf replied. With a flick of his wrist, a cup of coffee appeared before me.

“Please, sir,” he said, as another cup materialized in his own hand.

Before sipping, I hesitated—dared I partake of coffee offered by a wolf demon? Yet, having been so graciously invited, I felt compelled to drink. A single sip revealed that the coffee was exquisitely fragrant; though I am no connoisseur, its rich aroma was unmistakable.

“Ah, splendid coffee!”

“Sir, I had summoned Williams for a meeting today and did not anticipate disturbing you with his unannounced arrival. Had he mentioned your esteemed name, I would have sent him away, sparing you this late-hour inconvenience,” I remarked.

“Not at all. I have heard from James that it was Williams who inadvertently troubled you. Allow me to apologize on his behalf!”

“Tonight’s affair is of little consequence. Now that you have graced us with your presence, I shall not trouble him further. Come, fetch Williams!” With that, from a small door behind him, two figures emerged—the foremost being Williams, followed by a towering, burly man.

At the sight of me, Williams hurried to stand behind me. “Sir, I have returned your friend to you. That is all for today. Now that you know where I live, you are always welcome to come for coffee if you pass by next time!”

I managed a prompt, cordial smile. “Certainly, certainly.”

Glancing at Williams, I saw him lower his gaze at my stern look.

“Mr. Wolf, it is very late; we shall not detain you. Perhaps another day we may reconvene for coffee.”

“Very well, as you wish. I shall not linger.”

In a sudden flash of light, my surroundings shifted once more, and when clarity returned, I found myself again beneath the ancient oak, with Williams, James, and John in attendance.

“Then I shall take my leave. Good sir, please,” Wolf said, extending his hand.

I nodded and clasped his hand in farewell. Turning to Williams and the others, I whispered, “Let us depart at once!”

Without a backward glance, I pedaled away into the night, the eerie encounter lingering in my thoughts as I rode home.