Deadline

The first time I saw the robed, faceless man was three weeks ago. Truth be told, I don’t know if he has no face. He wears a long sweatshirt with a deep, dark hood. I first saw him looming behind a man reading a book at a local café. It is my third place. My safe space to sit in thought and write musings and stories. It was a strange thing to see, this man standing behind the other man and seemingly reading over his shoulder. Which I doubted because that is just odd. After I got my medium roast with honey, the hooded man is gone. The person reading had closed the book. His bookmark, a slip of paper, perhaps a receipt, sits next to the facedown book. The reader’s hands clasped beneath his chin as he stared off in deep thought. I wondered if his psyche is satisfied with the story. If it ended well or set up a continued world.

I considered asking but thought I should let him marinate in the experience.

On this day, three weeks ago, I sat down and cracked open my notebook. I sipped my too hot coffee knowing that it still was all too hot. The ceramic mug clinks against the smooth black paint tabletop. My lips and tongue tingle from the slight burn. I enjoyed it in a slight sadistic way and promptly ignore it after the initial sensation. I leaned over the notebook, hunching like a twisted tree. I needed to remind myself of what was previously stained on the stark white page. I flipped several pages to a starting point that didn’t take me too far back into this fictional realm. I retraced my steps as if sucking the ink back into the pen. Small notes annotated the draft. Small prophecies of change.

Then there was nothing. A future unwritten.

I sipped again as my eyes found the words hidden in the compact bone dust. My pen scratched, dug into the page carefully like it was an archeological site. Like I was searching for lost civilizations and their stories. Prickly longform letters formed words that formed sentences that formed flesh and blood and theatre. I smiled at another page suddenly full.

It filled my arteries with black adrenaline.

The tingling sensation remained on my tongue. I felt it reinvigorated as the still hot coffee rolled over it. The black liquid shivered as I returned the mug, snug onto the small ring it made on the tabletop. The ripples stopped and presented a muted reflection of the café.

I saw myself. Grey skinner, my brown hair dulled, my hazel-green eyes devoid of color but still shined with an aspect of life. That special sparkle. That glimmer I tried to recapture with such dark ink. I found the thought funny. I remember smiling at it.

Movement behind me. A dark shape amidst the black sea. I turned, unable to ignore my paranoia, the hairs that stood on my arms and neck. There was only a single question where there once was movement.

My sightings of the strange man only increased since the first day three weeks ago. I tried to ignore the presence, but it was difficult. Once, only once, I brought a novel I had meant to finish years ago. I saw him hovering over somebody reading a King novel. I opened my own tome and wondered if he would drift, walk, apparate behind me. He did not. I was, at first, disappointed. Then another thought was born from disappointment. Apparition

Fear and disappointment, parents that may too often bear children gave me the gift, a son, a question.

Why did no one else see him?

I considered asking the baristas. We have a good rapport, as I have been coming to this café since it opened several years ago. Despite my relationship with the workers, I didn’t want to look as crazy as I began to feel.

So, I kept my son and my thoughts to myself.

Today, the café is busy. Every seat and table is taken except for one, which seems like a miracle. It’s a small table shoved into one of the shop’s front window. I set my bag on the seat and pull my notebook out, laying claim to the space. The line to order is long. There is a small crowd of people waiting for their drinks and pastries. The concoction of inaudible chatter and steaming milk, grinding coffee beans, pounding out the puck of compressed espresso grounds meld into a perfect frequency of white noise. A frequency in which I do my best work.

My elation is elevated when I see that the man in black is not present. The tension eases in my muscles. Relief washes over as the queue moves forward. A fly buzzes by my face, and I swipe at it lazily. A move made from habit, considering I am just happy that he isn’t here. The barista greets me warmly, and when I ask how they are, their answer are two widened eyes that plea for help.

I nod, all too familiar with the feeling. “But busy makes the time go quicker.”

They comp my coffee and honey. The barista produces a mug they keep for me. It is a small ceramic vessel with polished shining white paint. On its surface is written: Fuck off, I’m writing. I offer my thanks and carefully walk my nearly overflowing mug to my table. I sit, and today I need no reminder. The ink begins to flow immediately. The empty page fills without pause. I flip to the next page. I inhale deeply. It feels like the first breath I have taken after trying to hold it in for as long as I can. I drink.

In my creative flowstate, I had not noticed the crowd of people drip out. The shop is by no means empty. There are two couples that sit in their separate worlds; one pair clearly established for some time judging by their more relaxed and loving demeanor towards each other, and the other set rigid and new while they learn about each other. A group of friends laughs together filling the space with amusement. A man sits at the bar top. He is alone and staring at his computer screen. A college student sits next to him. A large tome-like anatomy book is open while she scribbles notes in different color pens and highlighters. Stress lines her face. There are three other individuals scattered throughout the café. Each with a book. Each with a strange, hooded form looming behind them.

I set the coffee down, staring at the nearest of the three. The woman reading glances up and rolls her eyes at me. Embarrassed, I avert my eyes. I cannot help myself. I look again. Glancing from the woman’s hooded man to the others. There are three now. Three. How? Why am I seeing them? Are they real? Humans? Ghosts? Something else entirely?

The specter looming behind the woman disappears as she slams her book shut. She swiftly walks past me toward the door.

“Creep.” She hisses before leaving.

Any creativity I had evaporates in the heat of my embarrassment and utter confusion. There is a brief thought to defend myself against her disgust in my curiosity. Afterall it was not her I was looking at but them. Whatever they are. Again, I wonder why am I seeing these things? Have the last three weeks been a gentle descent into insanity or a strange ascension to clairvoyance?

The latter seems unlikely. The former, however, is an unfortunate possibility. I could potentially live with such a thing. Provided these things, whatever they are, just loom over others. Just leave me alone, I think.

I shove my notebook a few inches away. I bring my coffee mug closer. I sip absently observe the two remaining hooded men, or specters. I have yet to decide on which to call them. I close the notebook, deciding that I am done writing for now, maybe for the rest of the day, maybe forever if this nonsense continues.

The black liquid splashes from my mug. It begins to bubble, as if boiling. It spills over the table. I grab my notebook and stand, taking three steps back. More coffee comes out than the mug can physically hold. Streams pour from the table to the floor. Then it begins to bubble upward building a humanoid shape.

As the form completes, the black bubbles pop spilling down over newly formed black clothes. A hooded man stands on the table. His face is obscured by the darkness within the hood. Every ounce of liquid is sucked into the black hole fabric.

I look back wondering why nobody is reacting to this. I am about to ask if anybody sees what’s happening, but I clench my jaw. One barista looks at me quizzically.

“You okay?”

It is just me.

She repeats the question.

I shake my head as if to remove the uncertain stupor. “Yeah. Fine. Sorry.” I respond quickly and absently. The hooded man gestures to my seat. It now stands on the other side of the table. I sit. I didn’t know what else to do. We say nothing for what feels like an eternity.

“Do you want something from me?” I whisper.

He nods slowly.

“What-“ What do you want is what I was going to ask. He points to my notebook answering before I could ask.

“Finish.” His voice is strange, like two petrified pieces of wood rubbing together.

“Finish what?” I didn’t understand. I didn’t care. “Why have I been seeing you everywhere?”

I couldn’t read him in the silence. His posture is straight and proper. There are no facial expressions for me to read in the deep shadows of the hood. His voice offers no inflection in its monotonous and inhuman sound.

“If I answer, you will finish?”

My brow scrunches. “I might.”

The hooded man sighs. It sounds like a growl. “I like stories. I want to finish yours.”

“Just… wait until it’s done.” I find myself relaxing a little.

This time he growls.

“Why- Oh.” I interrupt myself realizing something. “Okay that answers one question. Sorta. You’re reading over everybody’s shoulder. Why can’t you just read yourself?” Why is that my question? Why not what the hell are you? How did you appear out of my mug? I glance at it noticing that it’s still full and then wondering how it’s still full, wondering how the hell this guy fit inside it.

“Doesn’t work that way.” He lifts his arm and reaches for my coffee. I don’t know how I didn’t notice moments before this. His hand is skeletal. It passes through the ceramic mug.

“What are you?” My eyes are wide. My heart palpitates.

“I am Death.” He says simply.

“Why? Wha- No, hold on.” I breathe sorting through my thoughts. “How can I see multiple of you?”

“I am everywhere I need to be.”

“So, these people you’re looming over are going to die soon?”

It shakes its head, which I now imagine is a skull within the shadows. “I am everywhere I need to be, and some places I want to be. Those places I am…” Death hesitates. “I am reading.” It says with finality.

“Reading?” Disbelief drips from my tone. Disbelief that this cosmic construct, this force of nature is reading over mere mortal shoulders. Disbelief that I, some random unpublished hobbyist writer, am interviewing, no, interrogating, Death itself. “Why are you reading over-“

“I am the end of all things. The end of all life’s stories. True life. Not life in your mortal imaginations. They… are different from your existences. There is a beauty within that I do not see on this earthly plane. Your lives are bland. Predictable. Will you finish now?”

“Why do you want me to finish so badly?” The story needed so much more work. It was a barely half-finished draft.

“Because you were supposed to die weeks ago.”

“What? Then why… why am I still alive?” I feel pulled away from my body. Like my soul floats untethered, an empty plastic bag thrown across parking lots in the slightest breeze.

“I want to finish it. Your story. It intrigues me.” Death’s voice draws me back. “You see me because your time is up. You are still here because I want to know how the story ends.”

I hadn’t noticed its fingertips clicking against the wooden tabletop.

“What if I don’t finish it?” I sit back crossing my arms.

A fly lands on the table. It crawls around erratically. Death reaches toward it, extending its index finger. It barely grazes the insect, which dies immediately.

“I die?”

“Yes.”

“And if I finish it? What then? I die?”

Death shrugs. “You cannot live forever. I give meaning to your short time alive.”

I laugh. “You don’t give my life meaning. I do. My actions. What I leave behind and the impressions on my loved ones. Look, I don’t want to live forever, but I’m not ready to die yet.” Despite the strangeness of all this, of this entire interaction, which I still am not quite certain is real, I feel calm. Oddly, that frightens me more than facing Death itself. “If I have to die, can I know what’s next?”

“I cannot say.”

“Why?”

“I cannot say what I do not know. I know your lives, your stories, and your ends. That is all.”

“What about religion? The creation of Earth and just existence in general? Is there anything you can answer?”

Death shakes its head. “I know your stories, which I include your religions in. The primitive deities you create. Existence merely is. I do not understand that query. It was and it is.” Its fingers begin clicking faster. “Will you finish now?”

I laugh in the face of Death. “No. Why would I satisfy you? You’re just going to-“

Death’s form erupts. It rises long flowing robes forming around it. Tendrils of black fire radiate casting shadows rather than light. The darkness obscures the café and the windows to the outside world. It was just Death and me.

“The time has come-“ The grating voice reverberates around me.

“It’s come and past.” I call back.

Death shrinks a little. Its shoulders slouch. The dark fire recoils into its robes.

“Look. I understand. I’m human. My time is limited. I already said I don’t want to live forever. It’s true. I don’t. I just want enough time to write my stories. Let me finish what you’ve read, and more. Then take me to wherever, whatever is next.”

The light returns as the window reappears. Death straightens thoughtfully. “A bargain?” It considers. “It will not be as you are. You will be a dream to your fellow humans, a swiftly forgotten cloud of formless thoughts. An observer. Intangible. Severed from your earthly compatriots. Living but not alive.”

I think about it, trying to translate Death’s meaning. “So, I’ll be here, but my interactions I have, say with the barista will be forgotten about in seconds or minutes? That’s lonely. That’s inhuman. If you want good stories, I’ll need to be able to interact more with my kind. My inspiration comes from them. From small moments to large moments with them. From watching them pass by this window. Their mannerisms. Everything that makes them and me who we are, makes my stories what they are.”

“These terms… are acceptable.” Death answers.

I put my hand out to finalize the deal.

And Death grasps it.