Property of the Shadow Reaper

Monday, 7:00 a.m.: The University Campus

The cool of the morning chills me to my bones as I step out the door of my flat. My breath turns into crystalized clouds. I clench my coat tight to my breast and head off to class. The sun is just barely starting to rise, peeking its head over the tip of the tree line, not yet kissing the snowy campus below. A thin fog lingers at my feet. It's not unusual for mornings to feel uneasy, but today feels particularly disconcerting.

A lanky black peacoat brushes past me and hurries off into the fog, dropping a little black book at my feet. I stop to gather my startled nerves, and pick up the leather-bound journal, dusting the snowy powder off its face.

"Hey! Hey!" I call out. "You dropped your notebook!"

The man, still just barely in sight, keeps walking and I dash farther after him, waving the journal back and forth. I watch him steadily as he rounds the corner into the birch alleé.

"Hey, you dropped this--" I repeat, cut off by the awe that strikes me when I turn the corner and find nobody there.

Left only to my senses I open the journal, slipping off the elastic band that holds it safely shut, and hope for a name. Inside the cover in a spellbinding script are the words, "Property of the Shadow Reaper - Read at your Risk." I scoff and flip through the soft pages, scanning over the collections of incoherent nonsense and nonsensical scribbles.

"This is nothing but the diaries of a misanthrope that thinks he's some martyr of the depraved society we live in," I mumble under my breath as I grab the book's ribbon and flip to the center pages, finding a hand-drawn map with coordinates and a message scrawled haphazardly on the fine lines.

"In the alleés you'll find your prize, take the book with you or meet your demise... Tuesday, 10 p.m."

I walk farther down the gravel path, tracing the map with my finger, keeping an eye on my surroundings. The Shadow Reaper is nowhere in sight, not even a footprint in the snow.

But where could he have gone? I think as feelings of perplexity swirl around in my head, my mind racing with panicked superstition. Only one way to find out.

Tuesday, 10:00 p.m.: The Birch Alleés

As I walk slowly through the tunnel of the birch alleés, I get the feeling that I'm being watched. I move cautiously, scanning my flashlight from left to right, looking for any signs of others. I hold the little black book tight to my chest as if it were a treasure trove of goodies waiting to be unleashed. With every step, I grow more and more anxious. My heart is racing; I hear its beating loud and firm in my chest. I can't seem to swallow the knot in my throat.

Consulting the book, I trace my finger along the map until I find a narrow pathway jutting off into trees. Shallow footprints slink down in the forest before me. Not without hesitation, do I follow them thinking, It is all too late to turn back now.

Then, tucked deep behind the trees, I find him, the mysterious man I've been looking for all day, slouched at the base of a birch, throat slit, eyes wide, blue-lipped, and frosted over with snow.

I gasp, but am unable to speak, and freeze in fear, gawking at the sight of him for quite some time before I move closer. Beside his lifeless corpse is a book bag splashed with dots of red. Trembling, I open it. Stacks of sealed cash are concealed underneath a ratty old dish towel. A note lays crinkled up on top.

"$20,000 is your reward. Finish the quest or meet my sword."

Wednesday 12:00 a.m.: Claire's Bedroom

My mind is racing, I can't breathe. My fingers fly through the pages of the little black book, searching for answers, anything that could allude to this mysterious quest. Someone is dead. And worse, I'm most certainly next.

Why didn't I call the police? Why did I run? Is it just flight instincts? A fifth sense maybe? What do I do?

I panic. I wheeze. Suddenly I feel like the weight of a thousand elephants is strapped on my shoulders as my finger glides over letter after letter. I turn the page and my heart drops deep into my stomach.

"Wait til dusk to feel his last breath, don the Grim Reaper and bring him his death."

Tucked in the pages is a folded up piece of paper scribbled with a weekly schedule and a sketch of a girl labeled "Valentine Thatcher." A feeling of paranoia washes over me as I realize, much like dear Valentine, the Shadow Reaper is watching me and my only option now is to complete the quest.

Wednesday 9:00 p.m.: The Forest

With effort and a thud, I drag the bag down below a high wall in the woods near the university. She's dead alright. Marissa Kline, the straight A, tight-laced biology student, known to the Shadow Reaper as Valentine Thatcher. I don't know why she was on this hit list and I didn't care to ask. The job is done. She's dead alright.

I shovel the bag loosely under some snow and dirt I dig up from hardened winter ground. It's dark. The flashlight trembles in my hands. In its light, blood shines out furiously against the clothes I'm wearing. I'm trembling with anxiety. My mind whirs from the evil of my sins. My body convulses with hate. Rejection of my existence.

I have to get out of here.

I feel my feet moving under my body. I feel the feeling of being out of control. Running, running, running, but from who? From what? I'm panting and tears dribble down my cheeks, freezing with the brisk air of wintery night. A crushing, unbearable weight sinks in my stomach.

The feeling of inescapable doom.

I fumble to get back into my car. Finally unlocked, I sit in the driver's seat, close the door, and take a deep breath. With the closing of my eyes, a damp rag clamps firm over my nose and mouth. Startled, I breathe in as if to scream. My eyes snap open as I drop the black book onto the passenger seat. Within seconds my vision goes fuzzy, my eyelids are heavy, and the last air of consciousness disappears from my body.

Alas, he's caught up with me. The Shadow Reaper.

Thursday 11:00 a.m.: The Martindale Motel

My eyes flutter open slowly. My limbs feel numb. My hair is tousled, my head feels heavy. There's a tingling pain in my shoulder but I can't clear the fog in my brain to think of why. I roll over and clench the trash can beside the bed, feeling the urge to vomit. The drapes are pulled, but it's all too bright and the hum of the ceiling fan is all too loud. A tall glass of water sits on the nightstand with beads of condensation hanging on the sides.

Where am I? How did I get here? I fight hard, trying to coax out something that will jog my memory.

When I finally sit up and gather my senses, I take in the room and find that I'm in a motel alone, hours away from the university. Nothing seems familiar.

On the desks sits a set of new clothes, my clothes, a box of hair bleach, that damned book bag stuffed with $20,000, a fake passport, and a plane ticket to Russia.

On my arm, an unfamiliar tattoo of small symbols and squiggles lay inked on irritated skin. A little raised bump lies underneath it.

Identification, a mark to find me later - I realize.

I pick up a note nestled in the myriad of things left at my bedside. It reads,

"Take your money and run. Never come back, you've had enough fun. And remember little fae, dearest Claire, The Shadow Reaper is always watching near."