3

As quickly as the clapping starts, it stops. The sound it made reverberated slightly throughout the auditorium. It wasn’t loud, merely quiet, polite, and somewhat robotic. A fleeting image of watching golf with what I assume is my father wafts in my head. I hated watching sports, but sometimes it was easier to go along with the owner of the remote control rather than fight about it. Or at least, I think it is. The image is hazy and gone before I really knew it was there.

All the mysterious robed figures sit down as one. Their hoods turn back to the bone man and I am completely ignored. I realize that I had not been breathing during this entire encounter. So, I lowered my arm and breathe in a deep breath of air and almost cough it all out again. I have to struggle to not make a scene.

Waking up in strange office was one thing, but bearing witness to a skeleton in a robe and being golf clapped at is quite another. An image of Beatrice’s desk appears in my mind. I zoom in on her nameplate.

Division of Lost Souls.

Where am I?

Beatrice gives me a sharp jab in my side. The pain brings my senses back to the present. I mumble a feeble “Ow!” and turn to look at her. In the dim light of the theater, she stands slightly behind me, silhouetted in the doorway. I can’t make out her facial features, and her bun looks like a black potato strapped to the backside of her head. She obviously wants something, but I can’t tell what.

I give her a shrug. Again she pokes my side, harder, and motions her head toward the other hooded figures. I get the impression that she wants me to sit down. So, I turn back around and become immediately aware that I am the only one standing, and the bone man seems to be waiting for me to take a seat before continuing whatever it was that he was doing before we barged in.

I try to move my legs, but they do not respond. My muscles are locked in place. This is all too much for my brain to process. I am shutting down and losing control of my body. My head grows dizzy. My hands feel sweaty, despite the fact that I am cold all over. My mouth is dry, and I have an intense urge to pee. My breathing becomes short and rapid. I fear I am going to pass out.

“No,” I yell in my head, “Not now.”

Slowly, I calm my breathing and will myself to relax as best I can, which isn’t much. However, it seems to be enough to avoid fainting. I will not allow myself to pass out here. My movements are unsteady and my feet feel like jars of molasses, but I force my legs to take a few steps.

I can hear Beatrice behind me, tapping her foot, impatiently. I’ve only heard it twice, but I hate the sound already. I know I am making a spectacle of myself. I am. I should be embarrassed. Yet, the only thing I can focus on is not falling over, unconscious.

I need to keep it together.

Gradually, I ease my way up to the closest bank of chairs. I rest my hands on the back and lean heavily on the first one I can reach. Relieved, I let out a long exhale, but I know that I can’t sit down just yet. So, I just lean and stand there as best I can, hoping everyone will get the point and move on.

When it becomes clear that I am not going to sit, Beatrice lets out a loud “Hpmf!” and storms out of theater, back the way we had come. She slams the two heavy doors shut in the process. I try to swallow but feel only dust and ash on my tongue.

“Well, now. She always one for the dramatic,” The bone man paces over to the side of the stage closest to me and gives a stiff formal bow, “I am Director Schrandle. Again, I say welcome but don’t make this a habit.” His voice is slow, close to monotone, and vaguely hostile. It also resonates and fills the theater with every word, demanding your attention.

He moves back to the center of the stage before continuing. “Where was I?” He thought for a moment before continuing. With his bony hands clasped behind his back, he slowly paces from left to right as he speaks, “Yes, yes, I remember. We were just about to begin the presentation.”

A podium rises up from beneath the stage. Schrandle walks over to it as he talks, “This will be review for all of you,” He pauses and gives a quick look in my direction, “Well, that is, most of you. But the information covered here is quite essential, and it is paramount that we are all working from the same page.”

Schrandle reaches the podium and grasps both sides in his white, bony hands. A monocle appears over Schrandle’s left eye, or, more precisely, where his eye should be. I couldn’t quite make it out at first, but there is a definite glint as the skull moves about in the hood. The top part of his face is still shrouded in shadow, so I can’t be sure. A chilling thought goes through my mind. I wonder if this man, or skeleton, has eyes. He seems to have no flesh of any sort as far as I can tell. So it seems unlikely that he would have eyes. But then again, what do I know about hooded talking skeletons?

I imagine huge, wide eyes with eyelids or skin to mask them staring at me. My knees grow weak again. I quickly move around to sit heavily in the chair I had been leaning on. I had regained most of my composure before having that disturbing thought. Sitting feels nice, now that I can do it on my own terms.

Schrandle looks over the podium and shuffles some papers around. He calls out “Screen.” Moments, later, a giant screen is lowered from somewhere in the rafters and comes to rest near the back of the stage, behind Schrandle and his podium. The screen fills up the vast majority of the wall space there.

“Lights!” Again Schrandle calls out and the stage lights shut off. The theater is completely black. I reach up to rub my forehead and have to wipe the sweat beaded on my brow with the back of my hand. I can hear the others in the audience shuffling and repositioning themselves in the dark. The sound seems so normal. Like Saturday evening at the movies. I have a strange thought. Are they all just like me?

I find a bit of comfort in that thought.

A sudden light blazes on behind me and a huge projected image appears on the screen behind Schrandle. A giant skull leers down at me, cloaked hood, just like all of us are wearing. The eye sockets are wide and dark, the mouth etched into a toothy grin. Twin scythes are crossed below, reminding of a pirate Jolly Roger type flag. Large, elegant letters surrounding the skull and crossed scythes read: Reaper Corps, A Branch of the Lost Souls Division, C.P.

Reaper Corps? I look down at the black robe I am wearing in the dim, reflected light off the screen. My hands close into tight fists. I can’t help but imagine a large scythe held between them both. Instantly, I unclench my fingers and tuck my hands into the folds of my robe’s voluminous sleeves. I cross my arms tightly across my chest and bring my knees up to my chin. I suddenly want to be as small as I can be. I want to pretend I am in a dream. However, the sickness I feel in my bowels is too real to be imagined.

Static crackles behind me and fills the room with noise. The skull image flickers, and I get the sense someone has started an old style reel-to-reel projector. Speakers buzz and snap to life above my head. A male voice from the 1950s speaks as the image on the screen fads to black.

“Congratulations! You’ve been selected for a great honor. Dying is never easy, and the afterlife can be a real drag, but here at The Reaper Corps you will find fun and purpose even as your Material Plane remains rot and decay.”

I huddle my knees closer to my face. The muscles in my jaw are steel rods. My nose fills with the stale aroma of dust and cabbage wafting off my robe.

One phrase is repeating in my head over and over again.

Dying is never easy.