Coins For the Reaper by MN Wiggins Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast.
Many people believe you see a white light when you die—or you don’t. And then you follow it to a better place—or get tossed into the other place. But that’s Hollywood. The truth is, you don’t go anywhere without a reaper. And it’s a myth there’s only one reaper who magically appears like Santa Claus of the Dead. Oh, now, that’s a movie I’d watch: Santa Claus of the Dead. When you die, a reaper from the appropriate team ferries you either Upstairs or Downstairs, depending. That’s my job, and there are lots of us—more every day with Earth’s exploding population. And as long as we’re myth-busting, no matter what Charles Dickens says, reapers don’t know the future. We don’t know when you’re going to die. If you glimpse us hanging around your bed, it’s because we’re guessing it won’t be long. But until you’re near death, you’ll never see us. The living aren’t allowed. Here's how it works. A person passes and becomes the freshly dead. The freshly dead glow purple. It’s as if they have four purple glow sticks glued to them, one on each side of the rib cage and one on each thigh, acting as a flashing neon sign to a reaper. To us, the glow distinguishes an Upstairs dead versus one tagged for Downstairs. I’m on Team Downstairs. Don’t read anything into that. According to the Company, the entity that organizes and regulates our activities, we’re assigned teams based upon statistical need and not prior acts. So, if you’ve got a Downstairs aura, and I’m the first reaper on the scene, then you and I will journey together to your final destination. Want to know what that looks like? First, the idea that the dead free fall into a pit of fire is overly dramatic and completely inaccurate. The truth is, you have to wait to get into eternal damnation. Yup, they may say the path to Hell is wide, but I’m telling you the entrance is a single-file line. Imagine a theme park. You’re standing on rickety planks with wooden railings on either side. The railings spiral around with a line so long you can’t tell where it ends, and a never-ending stream of souls has filed in behind you. Nothing to do but wait your turn. There’s no escaping this ride, and no one cuts in line. As torment goes, it’s ingenious. What was worse as a kid, getting a spanking or waiting to get a spanking? Downstairs dead have ample time to worry over what lies ahead and to ruminate on why they’re here. But they do have one thing that reapers don’t. They can remember. How do you become a reaper? It’s not like you sign up. You live, you die, and then you’re here. You know nothing. Memories of your former life are gone. But not to worry. The Company is there with open arms. They scoop you up and take you to what we call Reaper Academy, where you’re indoctrinated into the Company religion: who we are, what we do, and our role in the cosmos. Most importantly, this is where you learn the rules. And there are many. When you have a grasp on things, you get assigned to Team Upstairs or Downstairs and put with an experienced partner. One of the first things you realize, disappointingly, is that we are not Santa Claus of the Dead. We can’t magically teleport, and we can’t walk through walls. If we’re coming for a soul, we have to break in. If you’ve ever heard a sound when you’re alone and blamed it on the wind or the house settling, odds are, that was us. You might think we roam in some bleak plane of existence with jagged rocks surrounded by fire and sand, but again, that’s Hollywood. We live in your world. After all, this is where we work. While we’re on the topic, let’s put to bed the notion of a black robe over a skeleton Hell-bent on harvesting. That image came from a reaper named Maurice. Around 1620, Maurice bet he could scare a dude to death. So, he puts on this black hoody, grabs a scythe, and stands at the foot of the man’s bed, pointing at him. Being nearly dead already, the man sees him and screams about the Grim Reaper to anyone who’ll listen over the next three days before he dies. And that’s all it took. Forever after, that’s how you see us. Thanks, Maurice. It’s also important to know that we don’t ferry souls for free. Once we drop you off at Hell like a kid on the first day of school, we get a gold coin. We live for coins. Every reaper has a leather pouch sewn to their belt. The Company teaches that reapers move on to a better place once we collect enough coins. The catch is, the required number isn’t known. But the coin purse is only so big, so it must be reachable. You might be thinking, “Easy enough. Hang out in intensive care units, ferry a few a day, then, Bob’s-your-uncle, you move on.” Unfortunately, that’s not how it goes. The Company has been around since the dawn of humanity, and most reapers are employees. We’re only allowed to reap as assigned. Choice locations, such as hospitals, nursing homes, maximum security prisons, and the entire state of Florida, are reaped exclusively by Company executives. If you set foot in any of these places, you get shredded. Yes, the dead can die again. No one knows where shredded reapers go, and no one wants to find out. Not all reapers work for the Company. Freelancers live on the street, hoping to find freshly dead by chance. This is a hand-to-mouth existence, getting a coin maybe once a decade and taking an eternity to move on. Thus, many freelancers join gangs. Gangs are the worst. They sometimes ferry souls, but these reapers mainly lie in wait to beat and rob other reapers for coins. It’s better to work for the Company where we’re enrolled in profit sharing. Coins you collect after a ferry are submitted to the Company for distribution up the chain. Employees are credited a small fraction of the coin and given a whole coin when a full fraction is reached. Sounds like a raw deal, but at least you get paid. Plus, gang members know that Company reapers are off-limits. Mugging us will get you shredded. Another rule is never to ferry a freshly dead to the wrong destination. You will get shredded. Fail to complete a Company assignment, and you get banished to live off scraps with other freelancers. When I became a reaper, I was teamed with Randy, who died in the '70s—1870s, to be exact. Randy is never happy. He complains incessantly about the Company and regards Company rules as mere suggestions. Randy also claims to have seen me die in a car wreck in 1994. With no memory, that’s all I know about my prior life, and he may be yanking my chain. I doubt the Company would pair me with someone with that information. They stress that memories are dangerous and would distract us from our duty. I can see their point. Randy also says the Company’s wrong about who becomes a reaper. The Company claims we were people who straddled the fence in life, not fully committing to good or evil. Randy believes reapers were life-takers, people who killed or committed suicide. According to him, humankind wasn’t meant to dictate the time of death. And for that transgression, we serve Death until our debt is repaid. In my thirty short years of reaping, I’d have to say that Randy is the grimmest damn reaper I know. Today, we got an assignment to reap a man in a condo. Based on Company intel, he’s headed Downstairs. Outside the man’s building, Randy reminds me, once again, that it’s the junior partner’s job to break in. I scale the outside of the building because, of course, he lives on the fourth floor. Once I finally make it up there, it takes me forever to jimmy the window. Why not ride the elevator and pick the lock on the front door? Because after thirty years of trying, I still can’t pick locks. Randy finds this hilarious and never lets me hear the end of it when we hit the bars. Yes, reapers hang out at bars. We can’t drink, but we love eavesdropping on the intoxicated. Plus, accidents happen to drunks all the time. We were at a bar called McKeen’s just after the condo thing. I didn’t get the ferry because the cheating bastard repented in his final moments, punching his ticket Upstairs. This meant I had to wait for an Upstairs Team member to arrive while protecting the soul from gangs and freelancers. And who did the Company send? Francis, the arrogant prick. All Upstairs reapers have that better-than-you, entitled attitude, but Francis is the worst. He strolls through the front door I’ve unlocked for him, barely acknowledges my existence, then makes a big song and dance to the freshly dead about how he’s here to save him from my clutches. And right before he whisks him away, he turns to me and divulges that Team Upstairs gets a bigger cut of the coin than Downstairs. He wants me to think about that after he’s moved on, and I’m stuck here doing grunt work. What a dick. While I’m complaining about Francis to Randy in the bar, he’s ogling some living redhead—like it matters. We can’t touch the living. It’s a myth that a reaper’s touch kills you. We’re not allowed until after you’re dead. Touch a living, and you get shredded—instantly. Hence, Randy’s hoping she has a tree-nut allergy as he invisibly nudges the bowl a little closer. Then, Emily floats in. Emily is an apparition. Apparitions are the lowest rung of sentient beings—if you even consider them on the ladder. Unlike us, they can’t interact with the world. They float through walls and moan like in the movies, but mostly, they complain—about everything. I turn my head and ignore her. This was the first thing Randy taught me. Never make eye contact, speak to, or otherwise acknowledge apparitions. All they do is lie and manipulate and are to be ignored. Here’s why. Ideally, a person dies, and a friendly neighborhood reaper ferries the purple-glowing freshly dead to where they should go. But the glow fades if we don’t find them in time. Without a glow, we can’t read the destination. The odds are fifty-fifty, but if we’re wrong, we’re shredded. Even if we guess correctly, no one pays for ferrying glowless dead. Thus, no glow equals no go. Reapers won’t touch them. The dead eventually disintegrate into apparitions, destined to roam the Earth in torment as a misplaced soul. And apparitions love to bitch about it. If they think there’s a snowball’s chance in Hell you’ll ferry them, they’ll swarm you with every sob story you can imagine. Usually, I can blow them off by mentioning I’m Team Downstairs. But sometimes, even that doesn’t work. For apparitions, anywhere is better than here. Grim Randy’s right. Apparitions lie, beg, and manipulate your emotions. Emily floats around to where I’m facing. I turn away. She doesn’t mind talking to the back of my head, though. She’s used to it. For some reason, she’s sought me out from Day One. I wave my hand backward and right through her, hoping she’ll get the hint. But she blathers on with the same crap she always dishes. She claims we were in love, and she died in the crash with me. She points out that apparitions keep their memories. Like I didn’t know. But Randy swears she wasn’t there, that she’s just another lying ghost, floating around for centuries searching for a sap. But something’s different about Emily’s voice tonight. She’s more persistent than usual. She tells stories of my little brother, how my parents are still alive, and how they miss me. As much as I’d like to know about all that, I don’t encourage her. It’s all a ploy. She floats around to face me and claims she can prove it. She has a plan. I ignore her. I’m still a relatively young reaper, but I’m no fool. Emily insists she’s not here for a ferry. She only wants to help me because we were once in love. This raised an eyebrow. I’ve never heard an apparition use this tactic. She claims she purposely hid from reapers after the crash because she couldn’t bear to leave me. She says her torment here is worth it—that I’m worth it. All she wants is to be seen by me, to be noticed, and spoken to. In return, she’ll take me to my family. Then, Emily launches her nuclear option. She claims she can get my memories back. Memories are as precious to reapers as coins. We ache at the loss and déjà vu like crazy. The Company promises our memories will be restored when we pass on. That promise is all we have. But Emily asks if I’ve ever seen a reaper move on. I pause and stare at her absent-mindedly. It’s the first time I’ve ever looked directly at her. She’s absolutely beautiful, and the joy in her eyes at being seen melts my heart. Randy grabs the back of my jacket, drags me to the far side of the room, and slams me against the wall. “This is treason talk,” he says, inches from my face. Spit flies with his words, and I wonder how his breath could be this bad. Reapers don’t eat. We don’t have bacteria. We don’t even breathe. Randy slaps my face. “Wake up. Do you know what the Company will do if you go with her on this little fantasy? You won’t just be banished.” He gives me his grimmest frown. “They’ll shred you just for spreading the idea we can get our memories back. Don’t be an idiot. Walk away.” My surprised eyebrows lower into a frown, and I push him off. “You’re worried. Why?” I study his eyes. “You think there’s a chance it could work. But that would mean—” My eyes widen. “Emily was in that crash with me, wasn’t she? You bastard. You lied to me. And now you’re quoting the rulebook after I’ve watched you break them for thirty years? What are you now, a Company man?” Randy drives his finger into my chest. “They told me the magic number, kid. They called me into the office and told me. I’m three coins from moving on. And nobody, especially some snot-nose from the 1990s, is keeping me from my reward.” I shrug him off, nod to Emily, and head out. She floats through the wall while I wait at the door for a living to open it. As I go, Randy yells, “They’ll be coming for you, kid. Watch your back.” Emily and I take empty seats on a city bus. I can tell she wants to hold my hand. I let her try. “You were my girlfriend, huh? So, what’s the plan? How does this work?” She points out it’s October 28th, and I get it. All Hallow’s Eve is a time when the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest. Movies make it out to be only on Halloween, but it’s also the days around it. Reapers take extra care not to be seen during this time. Apparitions, on the other hand, love it and do everything they can to get noticed. We head deep into suburbia. Emily leads me through manicured streets all gussied up for Halloween. We stop at a two-story gray house with a large porch decorated in orange lights, cobwebs, and witches on brooms hung from the roof. The yard sports a blow-up of Linus and Sally waiting for the Great Pumpkin. And in the rocking chair on the porch is the pièce de résistance, a life-sized hooded Grim Reaper and scythe. As we near the porch, the Grim Reaper stands and points a bony finger at us. Emily and I stop dead in our tracks. I give a what’s up head nod. It was a thing in the 90s. “Hi, Maurice. How’s it hanging?” In a foreboding voice, Maurice replies, “Last chance. Go now or be shredded.” I look at Emily. She’s searching my eyes and likes what she finds. I turn back to Maurice. “You died in the 1400s, right? In all that time reaping, why haven’t you passed on?” Maurice’s outstretched arm drops. “Gangs stole my coins.” I nodded. “But you had time to earn more. How many times did you get mugged?” He held up seven bony fingers. “Seven?” I asked. “But the Company’s supposed to protect us. Tell me, Maurice, were you out on assignment all seven times?” The hooded figure nodded slowly. “So, every time you had enough coins to pass on, the Company sent you on assignment, knowing where you’d be, and gangs found you every time? Did you think that was just bad luck?” Maurice said nothing. “Consider this,” I said. “Have you ever personally seen anyone move on? Or ever seen anyone get shredded? The Company execs get big cuts of every coin. Ever known any of them to pass on?” Two tiny fires appeared in Maurice’s eyes. He straightened his posture and did what no reaper had ever done. He knocked on the door of the living. A woman in her fifties opened to an empty porch. She called out threats to neighborhood kids and closed the door, but I was already inside. She returned to her TV in the living room as Emily fluttered about nervously. I wandered around, touching objects, hoping to jar a memory. “I’m getting nothing. Maybe I grew up here, but it’s not working.” I entered the living room. “And who’s the lady? Is she my mother? Honestly, she looks more like you than me.” Then, I saw a picture of Emily on the fireplace mantle. “This wasn’t my house. This was yours.” Emily nodded. “How is this going to bring back my memories?” She led me to a bedroom door. With no livings nearby, I quietly nudged it open. It belonged to the woman. I saw another picture of Emily on the dresser. She had her arm around the woman. They looked about the same age. “What’s going on here?” I demanded. Emily sheepishly pointed to the dresser drawer. “There’s a diary inside,” she said. “I need you to pull it out and write a message to my sister, Susie. I need to tell her that I’m sorry.” My eyes caught reaper fire, and my voice deepened. “That’s what this is? Some message from beyond the grave bullshit?” She streamed tears. “I can’t do this without you. You owe it to her. You owe it to me!” “Randy was right. All you do is lie and manipulate. You weren’t in the crash.” Her tears stopped, and she screamed, “Yes, I was, Tony. That’s your real name, by the way. Not the stupid one the Company gave you. Want proof? There’s a green box in that closet with your picture in it. Heaven knows why Susie kept it.” I looked. Sure enough, it was there. The back read: Tony Manchester, 1994. “I don’t get it,” I said softly. “Your sister held onto a picture of your boyfriend?” “That’s her boyfriend, a week before you died.” “But you were in the car with me that night.” She wiped a tear. “Yeah, I was. Think about it.” Things became clear as I stared at her. Emily hadn’t skipped going to her destination for me. She’d done it for Susie. She owed her for what we’d done. We owed her. I pulled out the diary, wrote her message, and lay it open on the bed. I looked up to Emily, expecting relief in her eyes, but fear stared back. I spun around just as Randy grabbed my throat and hoisted me into the air. “Sorry, kid. End of the line.” I held up three coins from my pouch. Randy body-slammed me to the floor. “A bribe? You think that will save you?” I shook my head, and he allowed me to stand. I picked my precious coins off the rug. “Not a bribe,” I said. “You’re three coins short. Whether you kill me or not, I freely give them to you. I want you to pass on, to be happy.” Randy stared at them. I grabbed his wrist and placed the coins in his palm. “Yours now. Do what you will.” Randy blinked as he stared at the three pieces of gold that punched his ticket. He dropped them one at a time into his pouch, listening to the clink of each deposit. He closed his eyes, turned his face to the Heavens, and outstretched his arms. “Can you see a light?” I asked. “No, but they say it’s not instant.” Randy sniffed. “Everyone knows it takes a day or two to pass on. There’s processing to be done.” I nodded. “Yeah, of course.” He put a hand on my shoulder, the closest thing to a thank you I’d ever seen him give or ever would. And then he was gone. By that, I mean he walked out. It takes a while to pass on—processing and all. I walked into the living room, took a deep breath, bent down, and ever-so-lightly kissed Susie’s lips as she watched an episode of Dr. Who. Emily cried as Susie smiled and gently touched her lips with a finger in remembrance. I smiled, too—happy for Susie, but mostly that I wasn’t instantly shredded. I hovered my hands over Emily’s shoulders and then touched her. She was an apparition no more and radiated a fresh purple glow. I ferried her Upstairs. Why not? As a freelancer, I can do whatever the Hell I want. Randy never passed on. He was mugged the next day and lost all his coins. Bad luck, I suppose. I continue to convert and ferry apparitions to their destination. There are hundreds of thousands, and I am the only one on Earth willing to help. I no longer accept coins for my ferries. I don’t need pointless placations. I never regained my memories, but at least I know my real name. And I never told other reapers what I’d learned. There’s a role for what the Company does, but my silence was not for them. It’s for the reapers. Hope is all they have. That’s my story. Believe what you will. Sooner or later, your time will come, and you’ll see that it’s true. And on the day you glow purple, just relax, and ask for Tony. Until then, we’ll be watching. 💀💀💀 MN Wiggins is an internationally published author, surgeon, voice actor, and humorist from the American South. His recently released novel, Physician’s Guide to Homicide, completes the Arkansas Traveler trilogy, featuring Wiggins's most well-known character, Dr. Melvin Napier. Dr. Wiggins’s short stories have been featured in The Hooghly Review, Black Petals, Medicine and Meaning, and read on the podcasts Creepy and Frightening Tales. He has forthcoming stories in The Horror Zine, Symphonies of Imagination, Close to the Bone, Flunk magazine, AcademFic, Thirteen, and The Night’s End podcast. Dr. Wiggins’s complete works may be found at www.MNWiggins.com
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Deadeye by Daniel Gene Barlekamp Click here to listen to this story on the Kaidankai podcast. “Any of you ever heard of Deadeye?” Glen asked the group of teenagers lounging in the bleachers. “Stop it, Glen,” Jane said. It was a Saturday night in October of 1959. Halloween was just around the corner, but already the air felt ripe with the promise of football, Thanksgiving, and more football. It was like a religion in the town of Bellhaven. Once the season started, there was no escaping it. The four friends in the bleachers—Glen, Jane, Steve, and Linda—couldn’t care less about football. They hung out next to the field at night because it was far from the prying eye of authority. They weren’t supposed to be there after dark, but if they got caught, they knew they could outrun any parent, teacher, or police officer in town. Especially Glen. Glen was a born runner. He was also the unspoken leader of the group. His motorcycle jacket hung off his bony frame, the buckle clanging against the metal seats whenever he changed positions. The distant lights of town reflected dimly in the pomade he used to slick back his thick, dark hair. “Who’s Deadeye?” Steve asked. “Where’ve you been living?” Glen asked. “He’s Bellhaven’s only ghost. Only real one, anyway.” “I said knock it off,” Jane said. She fidgeted, and the skirt of her floral dress swished around her penny loafers. “Wait a minute, I want to hear this,” Steve said. “How am I the only one who doesn’t know about him?” “Beats me,” Glen said. “My uncle told me about him a while ago. Matter of fact, we’re on Deadeye’s turf right now. He hangs around this very football field, especially during the season.” “Come on, Glen,” Linda interrupted. “Jane asked you to stop.” “Why?” Glen asked with a grin. “It’s just a story, right, Jane?” “I just don’t like it, that’s all,” Jane said. “It isn’t nice to make fun of things like this.” “Who’s making fun?” Glen asked, raising his hands and looking around at the others. “Alright, you’ve got me going,” Steve said. “Get on with it.” Steve looked at Glen, waiting. Linda rolled her eyes. Jane stared at the tips of her shoes with her lips pursed. In the silence, music crackled from a transistor radio sitting a few feet away. Glen relished the moment. He cleared his throat, cracked his knuckles, and began. “OK, it’s like this. Back in the thirties, Bellhaven High had a big football rivalry with Pinecrest.” “Pinecrest?” Steve cut in. “They don’t even have a football team.” “If you shut up for a second, you’ll find out why,” Glen snapped. “Anyway, it was the day of the big Thanksgiving game. Bellhaven was hosting, right here on this field. Team banners hung from the telephone poles, the pep band was getting everyone geared up, all that garbage. So the game got going. It was really neck and neck.” Here, Glen chuckled to himself before continuing. “By halftime, there was still no score. Then, in the third quarter, the Pinecrest wide receiver started running for a touchdown. I guess they called him Deadeye because he never missed a pass. Just before he made it over the line, two or three of our guys tackled him—as it turned out, a little harder than they should have. Everyone went nuts. Our side was cheering, their side was booing, but eventually, the field got quiet once people noticed Deadeye hadn’t gotten up. Actually, he wasn’t moving at all. When the medics rushed over to him, they found—” Jane covered her mouth with one hand and closed her eyes. “They found him dead,” Glen finished. “But it’s not like he just whacked his head or something. His neck was broken, and his head was turned all…the way…around.” For effect, Glen grasped his chin with one hand, the top of his head with the other, and pretended to twist his head like a cork, making cracking sounds at the back of his throat. “Like I said, the game was really neck and neck.” “That’s enough, Glen,” Linda said. “Alright, gross,” Steve said. “But what does all that have to do with a ghost?” “I’m getting there,” Glen said. “After the accident, the Pinecrest parents got together and voted to get rid of football as a school sport. They figured it was too dangerous. That’s why Pinecrest doesn’t have a football team anymore. There was one player, though, who didn’t get the memo.” “Deadeye,” Steve said. “You got it. They say if you stand on Deadeye’s turf—right there in front of us—and challenge him to a race to Bellhaven’s endzone, he just might take you up on it. And if he takes you up on it, you’ll be dead before you reach the other side. But you won’t just be dead. Your head will be turned all the way—” “Stop it!” Jane shouted. “That’s nice, Glen. You’re a real charmer,” Linda said. “Can we forget it now?” “I don’t know, Steve. Can we?” Glen asked, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “W-what do you mean?” Steve asked, his eyes widening. “You were the one who wanted to know about Deadeye,” Glen said. “Now you know. Are you going to leave him hanging? Or are you going to challenge him to a race?” “Oh, brother,” Linda groaned. “Seriously, guys? How old are we?” Glen ignored her. “What’s it gonna be, Steve?” Steve dropped his eyes. “I… I’m not much of a runner,” he stammered. “That sounds like an excuse to me,” Glen said, his tone mocking. “Why don’t you do it, Glen?” Linda demanded, standing. “Me?” Glen asked. “Sure, if you’re so tough. He’s your ghost. You race him.” “Linda, no,” Jane said. “Everyone just stop.” But Linda soldiered on. “Unless you’re chicken,” she said, sitting back down and pretending to examine her nail polish. Glen’s cheeks reddened. His eyes blazed. “Chicken?” he repeated. “Yeah,” Linda said. “It’s easy to tell other people what to do. Why don’t you do it yourself?” For a full minute, no one spoke. A rock and roll song whined from the transistor’s tinny speaker: I’m feelin’ stronger than a grizzly bear Soarin’ like an eagle flyin’ through the air When I get you in my arms, you’d better beware I go insane ’cause I can’t be tamed Glen stood up, took off his leather jacket, and held it out to Jane. When she didn’t take it, he shrugged and draped it over one of the bleachers. After a few calf stretches, he trotted down the aluminum steps to the field. “Glen, wait,” Jane called after him. He waved her away. “Don’t worry, Jane,” he called back. “This won’t take long.” Once on the sidelines, Glen whistled through his fingers. The piercing sound carried across the field on the breezy October air. “Hey, Deadeye!” Glen shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. “C’mon, I’ll race you! You know the drill… Last one to the Bellhaven endzone’s a rotten egg!” With that, Glen was on his way. His friends watched as he shot toward Bellhaven’s side of the field. His lean arms and legs pumped with the effort. The thud of his motorcycle boots faded the farther he got from the bleachers. On the radio, the verse repeated as the song neared its end: I’m feelin’ stronger than a grizzly bear Glen ran. He had thirty yards to go. Soarin’ like an eagle flyin’ through the air Twenty yards. Fifteen. When I get you in my arms, you’d better beware As Glen receded into the darkness at the far end of the field, Jane, Steve, and Linda could just make out his white t-shirt rippling in the wind. I go insane ’cause I can’t be tamed When he was only a few yards from the Bellhaven endzone, Glen pitched forward, face first, and lay motionless on the turf. Jane took the steps two at a time and ran toward Glen, following the same route he had taken across the field. Steve and Linda called after her. “Jane, wait!” She ignored them. They charged after her. Glen lay a few feet short of the touchdown line. When Jane reached him, she froze, then sank to her knees, trembling. Steve and Linda came up behind her, panting. As soon as they looked down at Glen, they turned away in horror. Deadeye had won the race. 💀💀💀 Daniel Gene Barlekamp is the author of fiction and poetry for young readers and adults. His middle-grade ghost story “The Curse of the Cat Man” appears in the anthology The Haunted States of America (Godwin Books/Macmillan, 2024), and his poetry has been translated into Mandarin by Poetry Hall. Originally from New Jersey, Daniel now lives with his wife and son in Massachusetts, where he works in immigration law by day and attends law school by night. Find him at dgbarlekamp.com and on Twitter @dgbarlekamp. |
About the PodcastLinda Gould hosts the Kaidankai, a weekly blog and podcast of fiction read out loud that explores the entire world of ghosts and the supernatural. The stories are touching, scary, gruesome, funny, and heartwarming. New episodes every Wednesday. |