The Masked Man

The door to the basement parking lot lurched open; Chuck Fletcher entered with his car fob in hand. He walked with torpid steps to his vehicle — the only one in the lot.

Chuck then detected someone in his periphery; he froze. He didn’t need the use of his eyes to confirm who stood on the boundary of his visual world, for his soul confirmed who it was. One whose dominion exists contiguously with our world; it was the gatekeeper to that sepulchral dimension — death.

The most atavistic fear paralyzed Chuck where he stood.

The figure stepped closer, without a sound. It brought with it an unholy climate that made Chuck shake as though he were in the heart of an unabating blizzard.

His pounding heart synchronized with the footfalls of the reaper of souls to create a most terrifying illusion of tremorous steps.

The figure stopped a mere 6 inches in front of Chuck.

Chuck looked upon the visage, aghast, sharing the preternatural and primordial horror that every man, woman, and child has been met with since mankind had souls to be reaped: there was no scythe nor sable cloak. What stood before Chuck was a man with a blank, uncanny stare wearing modern clothes. He was the type of man to be passed on the street without notice, to bump shoulders with and not feel his touch.

Death then reached up to the hair on his own head and pulled — removing the mask of mortality it wore for the purpose of roving freely amongst us. Unmasked, death’s skull gazed upon Chuck with its abyssal hollows where eyes once were, aeons ago. Death placed its hands on Chuck’s face and forced open his jaws to their extremity. Death subsequently swung open its own jaws and began a long inhale.

A luminescent orb shot out from Chuck’s mouth and into the awaiting jaws of death.

Death released its hold on Chuck, allowing his corpse to collapse to the concrete with a thud.

Once every millennium, death satisfies its hunger by feeding on one unfortunate soul; this soul goes to neither heaven nor hell, but instead experiences a forever death.

Having had its fill, death placed the mask of mortality back on before setting out among the living.

When death comes for you, pray that it will not have an appetite.