Malcolm remembered the first time Death approached him. He was sitting in the dark, his body wracked with sobs, Monique lying on the floor, motionless. Something terrible had happened, but he hadn’t been able to process it. He just rocked, back and forth, back and forth, until a hand settled on his shoulder, both hot and cold, reassuring and terrifying.
And Death spoke to Malcolm, telling him that it was Monique’s time, that she had passed beyond the physical world, that she was in a better place. He tried to argue with Death; he wanted Monique here, with him, not somewhere else. Death was sympathetic, but firm. Every being had its time and place, and this was hers.
And then Death offered him a deal. If Malcolm agreed to to act as Death’s agent, to carry out Death’s duties in the mortal world, Monique would be able to visit him from the beyond. Malcolm agreed immediately. Anything to keep him from being alone.
Which is how Malcolm found himself, three years later, receiving another order from Death. He was in a small, grimy café, nursing a cold cup of coffee and watching the waitress. She was young, plain, but had a nice smile, when it showed. It was always harder when they were young. Malcolm took another sip, Death whispering in his ear.
“Yes, her. Her time comes.”
“But why?” Malcolm mumbled, keeping his head down.
“Because,” Death said simply, “I am Death, and I say so.”
Malcolm nodded, accepting what he already knew to be true. It didn’t matter what he thought, what he did. He was a servant of Death, and he served.
He stood, jostling the rickety table and causing coffee to slosh over the side of the cup. He threw a few bills down on the table, took one last look at the girl, and left. He walked down a block, two, then circled back, ducking into the alley behind the café. He leaned against a wall, shielded from view by the large, stinking dumpster. There he waited, as the alley grew dark, and the traffic out on the street slowed to a trickle. Finally, he heard voices from the door nearby. It was time.
The cook left first, her face red and hair frizzy from standing over a hot griddle all day. Then came the other servers and the busboys, loud, animated, despite the long day. Finally, slowly, she came out. She glanced up and down the alley, watching her coworkers disappear around the corner. She carefully locked the door, giving it a tug to make sure it held. She knew what kind of neighborhood this was. She knew to be careful.
But clearly, she didn’t know enough. Malcolm was behind her, grabbing her, pulling her behind the dumpster before she could even whimper.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured in her ear, as she struggled against his hold. “But this is your time, and your place.”
He raised an arm, the knife glinting in the dim light that reached them from the streetlamps. He plunged the blade down, into her stomach. She tried to scream, but he held his arm across her throat, and no sound emerged.
Malcolm quickly looked around, ignoring momentarily the wriggling woman in his hold. There. A shimmer filled the air before them, and he almost cried in relief. The shimmer solidified, and there stood Monique, as beautiful as the day she died, whole and luminous.
“Malcolm.” Her voice was like a spring breeze, light and full of hope. “You know what you need to do. You know I don’t have much time.”
“I know,” he rasped, staring at her. “I know.”
He looked down at the girl. “I’m sorry,” he said, lowering her to the ground. “But in order for her to stay, you need to suffer.”
–
Malcolm knew he should avoid the café, stay inside for a while, but the sound of sirens drew him out of his hiding place. He trudged along the bumpy sidewalk, dodging between people as he went. He was always more sensitive, more highly attuned to the people around him after doing a job for Death.
He finally made his way to the café, watching as police spread that yellow tape around the opening. He listened to the murmurers around him:
“-so young-”
“-third this month-”
“What kind of manic-”
“-haven’t got a clue-”
“-sick bastard-”
Malcolm shrugged off the mutters. They didn’t know what they were talking about. Death had very few servants like him. How could anyone truly understand? It was her time, and her place, and he got to see…
He stumbled forward, his eyes racking the crowd. No… how… could it have been? He thought he had seen Monique across the crowd, across the yellow police tape. There. She was bending over a sheet of plastic, exactly where she had stood the night before. She was back. Death had told him it was nearly impossible for someone to work their way back from the beyond, but they had done it.
Monique was back, and he was going to bring her home.
–
It had taken some doing, and more violence than Malcolm would have liked, but she was here. Monique, back in their home, after all this time. She had been confused, hadn’t recognized him when he approached her outside of an apartment building, but he knew she just needed some time. Maybe their home would bring her memories back.
For now, he had her tied, as gently as he could, to a chair in the center of the living room. Well, and kitchen, and bedroom – they never could afford much, him and Monique. He watched her, tracing her features with his eyes as she rested. There were some slight differences; her eyes were smaller, her lips a bit more pouty, but he didn’t mind.
Monique groaned, shaking her head slightly, and he jumped.
“Here,” Malcolm rushed over, spilling water from the glass in his jittery hand. “Have some water.”
She leaned away from him, opening her watery eyes. “Where am I? What-what have you done to me?”
“Silly Monique,” he chuckled, waving his arms around the gloom. “You’re home. You’re finally home.”
She seemed to be fully awake now, looking around their home, detached.
“My name is Olivia Feldman. I am a police officer. You need to let me go.”
Malcolm sighed, shaking his head. “I was worried this might happen. Monique, you were dead. And now you are back. I think your soul found its way back through someone else’s body.”
“My name is Olivia,” she repeated, eyes darting around the room. It looked like she was trying to escape, not like she was happy to be home.
“No, it’s not,” he growled. “Your name is Monique, and you are finally back. After all that work, all that sacrifice, you came home to me.”
“My name is Officer Feldman, and you have abducted a police officer. That is a serious crime. Let me go, and you might be able to have a lighter sentence.” She sounded confident, cool, but he could see the lies in her eyes.
“Stop lying. Stop pretending you don’t know who you are.” He stormed over to the crate in the corner of the room, brushing pieces of paper and candle stubs off the surface. He dragged the box over to her, to Monique. Maybe this would jog her memory, jolt her back to herself.
“You died, Monique. You have to face that before we can move on, and be together again.”
He lifted the lid to the crate, and she screamed. He supposed it couldn’t be easy to be confronted with your own corpse, especially after all this time.
“It’s you and me again, Monique. Just like it was supposed to be.”
She continued to wail. Maybe she wasn’t ready yet. Maybe he had pushed her too far. He slammed the lid back in place, making her jump. She had always been jumpy, hadn’t she? He sat on the crate, staring at her. She would come around. She had to.
It was his turn to jump when he heard Death whisper to him.
“This isn’t Monique.”
“I know it is!” Malcolm shouted, leaping from his perch.
She gasped, and strained at her bindings.
“No, it isn’t,” Death said, coldly. “You know it isn’t. She is an imposter, trying to confuse you. She’s from the Other Side, trying to stop me, us, from doing our work. She has bewitched you, you fool.”
“No,” Malcolm whimpered, staring at the woman tied to the chair. “That’s her. Monique. It has to be.”
“It’s not,” Death crooned. “You know what you need to do, Malcolm. You know. It’s her time…”
“And her place,” Malcolm breathed. He took a step toward her, two, pulling his knife from its sheath. “It’s her time and her place.”
He raised the knife high. She screamed, high, keening, desperate.
Before he could finish his work, the door banged open. Smoke filled the room, the shouting deafening. Before Malcolm could move, do anything, explain that he was working for Death, and this had to be so, he felt something hit him in the chest, once, twice, three times. He stumbled back, the knife clattering to the floor.
He sank down, hidden behind the crate. He could see a sliver of Monique’s hair, her eyes staring back at him, through a rotted piece of wood.
“It’s my time,” he breathed, and watched as she smiled at him. “It’s my place.”
–
Serial Killer Caught, Killed
The serial killer who had been terrorizing our neighborhood for the last six months has finally been uncovered and killed by police in a daring raid carried out early yesterday morning. The killer, only identified as John Doe, is suspected of at least seven deaths in our area, if not more across the country. His most recent victim was Officer Olivia Feldman, who is currently recovering in the hospital.
The killer’s motive is unknown at this time, although a criminal psychologist working with the police told us that the killer had strange writings and drawings in his lair, and was obsessed with death. The psychologist, who wishes to remain anonymous, suspects the killer had a psychotic break, and was possibly a paranoid, clearly violent schizophrenic.
This is a developing story. For more details, make sure to follow Blood Letter, the best local, true-crime blog for your community!
© The Lightning Tower, 2020