I stood triumphantly, my head held high and my chest swelling with pride. My first successful passing; I had nailed it. It went exactly as the manuals said; scythe sharp as bone and robes dark as the midnight sky. The newly deceased had trembled in fear, like they always did. It wasn’t about comfort – it was about transition, the severing of the soul from the body. I had provided a quick death, an orderly crossing.
My thoughts were interrupted as a shadow shifted at the far end of the room. The figure who had been observing me from the edges all along. They were my superior. I hadn’t been told much about them, just that they were old enough to have witnessed millions of deaths and that they always remained silent. Until now.
“Harbinger,” the figure spoke, their voice slipping into my mind like a whisper through cracks in a door, more a thought than a sound. I resisted the urge to smile. It felt good to hear the title used properly, used respectfully. I really was a Harbinger now.
“Yes,” I replied, failing to hide the eagerness in my tone. “I’ve completed my first passing. Efficiently. No delays.”
The figure shifted, stepping closer, though their form remained indistinct, more an impression than a shape. “Tell me about it.”
I didn’t hesitate. “The soul had just left the cadaver—a woman, late fifties, heart failure. She was frightened at first, of course, but that’s normal. I showed up as instructed, scythe in hand. I loomed, spoke in riddles. She screamed. I waited until she stopped, then I performed the cut. Clean. It was a textbook passing.”
There was a pause. The figure, still difficult to make out in the shadows, seemed to be considering my words. Finally, they spoke again.
“You showed her the scythe?”
“Of course. It’s tradition.”
Another pause. This one felt longer, heavier. My confidence wavered slightly, but I quickly brushed it aside. I knew I’d performed well.
The figure stepped closer, and though their face remained obscure, I could feel their gaze boring into me. “Tell me,” they began slowly, “how did she look?”
I blinked. “Pardon?” I didn’t understand the significance of the question.
“The woman, the soul. What did her face look like when you appeared?”
I frowned, thinking back, trying to recall the details. “She… well, she was terrified, obviously. They always are.”
“And that’s how it should be?”
“Well, Death is meant to be feared. It’s our role, isn’t it? To make sure they understand the significance of the moment?”
The figure remained silent. Then, with a voice that somehow felt colder than before, they asked, “Do you recall your own passing?”
My heart began to race as I struggled to muster a response. I had suppressed these memories for a reason. This was not an experience that I wanted to relive. After a moment’s silence that felt like a lifetime, I managed to splutter out a response, “My… own…?”
“Yes. Your own death. When you crossed.”
I shifted uncomfortably, the memories flickering at the edges of my mind. “That was… a long time ago.”
“Still. You remember.”
It wasn’t a question. I swallowed, trying to push the memories down, but they rose up all the same. My own passing had been… I shook my head. That wasn’t the point. I was a Harbinger now. I wasn’t supposed to dwell on my own death.
“I don’t see how that’s relevant,” I said a little too quickly.
The figure’s voice softened, almost as if they were smiling, though there was no warmth in it. “You’ve followed the scripts well. I see that. You’ve done everything by the book. But let me ask you… did you take pleasure in it?”
I blinked, once again taken aback by the unusual line of questioning. “Pleasure? That’s not… that’s not the point. I’m here to perform a duty.”
“Hmmm,” the figure mused. “And do you believe the souls you guide enjoy it?”
“They’re dead. It’s not about enjoyment. It’s about crossing.”
Another pause. The figure moved closer still, until I could almost make out the features of their face; a vague outline of something ancient and ageless, yet somehow deeply familiar.
“You’ve made a mistake,” they said, their voice low.
I felt a flash of indignation. A mistake? How? I did everything right. I followed the process perfectly… I opened my mouth to argue, but the figure raised a hand, silencing me. “Look at me, Harbinger,” they said quietly. “Do I carry a scythe? Do I wear the robes of shadow?”
I hesitated, studying the figure. They were cloaked, yes, but it wasn’t the same. There was no sharp weapon, no skeletal imagery. Just… presence. A cold, calming presence.
“No,” I admitted reluctantly. “But you’re… different. You’re higher ranking than me so maybe it’s…” My voice trailed off, betraying my lack of a coherent argument.
They chuckled softly. They almost seemed to be enjoying my humiliation. “There are no ranks here, only understanding. You are simply new to this, that is all. You will come to comprehend with time.”
Their words stung. How could they suggest that I was so wrong? I felt my grip on my earlier confidence slipping. “But… the scythe. The tradition. That’s what we’ve been taught. It’s what people expect from us.”
The figure shook their head. “Do you believe the dead want to be frightened? Do you think they long for terror as they pass from one world to the next?”
I hesitated again, the weight of the question pressing on me. “It’s not about what they want,” I said slowly. “It’s about… order. Structure. The passing must be…”
“A comfort.”
The words hung in the air, heavy and cold. I stared at the figure, my mind racing. Comfort? That wasn’t the role of the Harbinger. We weren’t meant to coddle the dead. They needed to face the reality of their end… didn’t they?
The figure’s voice cut through my thoughts. “Do you recall your feelings when you died?” they asked softly. “The fear? The confusion?”
A shiver ran through me. Memories I had buried deep began to claw their way to the surface—flashes of darkness, of a terror so profound I could barely breathe. The moment my heart had stopped. The void. The silence. The overwhelming dread of the unknown.
“I…” My voice wavered. “I remember.”
The figure nodded slowly as if they already knew. “And did you want to be scared?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. The truth of it was beginning to seep into me, uncomfortable and unwelcome. My first passing had been efficient and clean, yes, but had it been right? I thought back to the woman’s face, the wide eyes filled with terror, the way her hands had trembled as she screamed. I had thought it was necessary. That it was how things were supposed to be. But now…
“You’re telling me I’ve done it wrong?” I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
“Not wrong,” the figure replied. “Just… not entirely right.”
I frowned, my mind reeling. “So what am I supposed to do? If not the scythe, if not the robes… then what? How do I guide them?”
The figure’s form shifted again, softening, becoming less distinct. “You must remember, Harbinger,” they said gently. “The act of dying is terrifying enough. The unknown is a vast, empty place. Your role is not to add to that fear, but to help them face it.”
“But… but they need to understand,” I protested weakly. “They need to know what’s happening. That it’s final.”
“They already know,” the figure said simply. “They feel it the moment they die. Your job is to ease that transition. To ensure it is as painless as possible.”
I shook my head, the weight of my own death pressing down on me. The fear, the cold… it had been overwhelming, all-consuming. And I had done the same to her, I had inflicted the same terror that I had once felt.
The silence between us stretched on, thick and heavy. I felt something inside me shift, an old certainty cracking, falling apart.
“I see,” I muttered, though I wasn’t sure that I did.
The figure stepped back, fading slightly into the shadows again. “You will understand in time.”
I swallowed, my mind still reeling. “And… my next passing?”
The figure was already turning away, their form dissolving into the air like a thin mist. “That is up to you, Harbinger,” they said softly. “Choose your own path. But remember… It is not they who serve you. You are there to serve them.”
And then they were gone, leaving me alone in the dim room, the weight of their words hanging in the air like a choking smoke. I stood there for a long time, my hands trembling. I thought about the woman’s face, her fear, her screams. I thought about my own death, the terror I had felt. And I thought about what lay ahead, what I would do when I faced the next soul.
My scythe hung on the wall behind me, gleaming in the dim light. I stared at it, my mind torn between duty and doubt. I had done everything right, everything by the book. But was it enough? I turned toward the door. My next passing awaited me. I hesitated, my hand hovering over the scythe, just for a moment.
Maybe… maybe there was another way.
[Image Credit : Photo by Amr Taha™ on Unsplash]
David is an aspiring writer from the north of England who currently focuses on short stories about inner struggles, self-discovery, and stepping into the unknown. His work often blends reality with surreal elements, inviting readers to explore life’s uncertainties and hidden truths. His other works can be found in 7th-Circle Pyrite.
