Don't Fear the Reaper

By Michelle Muto

Haunted by memories of her murdered twin, Keely Morrison is convinced suicide is her only ticket to eternal peace. But in death, she discovers the afterlife is nothing like she expected. Instead of peaceful oblivion or a joyful reunion with her sister, Keely is trapped in a netherworld on Earth with only a bounty-hunting reaper and a sarcastic demon to show her the ropes.

When the demon offers Keely her ultimate temptation--revenge on her sister's killer--she must determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, the reaper and demon have been keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true--that her every decision changes how, and with whom, she spends eternity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Autumn Hill Press
• Release date: Jan 29, 2015
• ISBN: 9781507053966

Michelle Muto

Michelle Muto lives in northeast Georgia with her husband and two dogs. She is the author of The Book of Lost Souls, an eFestival of Words winner for Best Young Adult 2012, and Don’t Fear the Reaper, an LDS Women’s Book Review Top Ten Pick 2011. Michelle loves changes of season, dogs, and all things geeky. Currently, she’s hard at work on her next book. Learn more about Michelle: Web: www.michellemuto.wordpress.com Twitter: MichWritesBooks Facebook: Michelle Muto Author Page

Book preview

1

Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for they are with me.

I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood stream from my wrist. I’d hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me from wondering what my sister’s dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let the emptiness consume me.

I wasn’t the one who’d killed her, but I might as well have.

Jordan had kept my secrets, and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I should have said something. But nothing I said or did now could bring her back or make anyone understand what she meant to me.

Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell me about heaven...

I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If God existed, I was convinced he’d given up on me. Not once did I sense he’d heard a single prayer. I wasn’t asking for the world—I only wanted to know if my sister was okay wherever she was. What was so hard about that?

She should still be here. It wasn’t fair.

I’d been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I’d gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad worried I’d get Jordan into drugs, too. But I wouldn’t. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before Jordan was killed. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that remained of my previous lifestyle.

Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan’s funeral two months ago. She and I were twins, so I know it was hard for them to look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn’t look at me at all. When Mom went to the psychiatrist, no one asked me if I needed to talk about what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants. Yeah, sure. Don’t give the former addict pills of any sort.

Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul. Why couldn’t anyone see? She’d been more than my sister—she’d been my Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I’d failed her. How could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her death.

I will fear no evil.

I couldn’t very well recite the first part of Psalms 23, because it said I shall not want. And I did want. I wanted to go back in time. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell, with demons cackling gleefully all around.

I didn’t want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn’t know of another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the cancer I’d come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly unbearable?

Before I got down to cutting my wrist—I managed to only cut one—I’d taken a few swigs of Dad’s tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement freezer. I’d taken another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom’s sleeping pills in case I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I sat the bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement. Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad’s Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.

It would have been easier to OD. But I felt closer to my sister this way, to suffer as she’d suffered.

I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It’d become my personal mantra.

The words resonated in my parents’ oversized bathroom. I’d chosen theirs because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.

Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble bath but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more, so it was just as well. Besides, I found the crimson that streamed from my wrist like watercolor on silk oddly mesmerizing.

The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from Psalms made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to call me home.

I tried to not to think of who would find my body first or read the note I’d left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents, too.

My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm water. Killing myself had been harder than I’d imagined. I hadn’t anticipated the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my good arm but couldn’t quite manage it. Tears welled in my eyes.

Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she wasn’t.

Give me a sign, sis. Just one.

I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—saw their gaunt faces, red eyed and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn’t the devastation of losing one child enough?

No. Stop, a voice in my head screamed. Don’t do this. Don’t. Please...

I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I could see the phone on my parents’ nightstand. I could make it that far. Had to. The voice was right. I didn’t want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy. Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. The effort of focusing had become difficult. A sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 9-1-1? Why had I gotten back into the tub? I couldn’t remember getting out. Did I use a towel?

Mom is going to be pissed when she sees all the blood I’ve tracked onto the bedroom carpet.

I’m sorry, I told the man in black.

It’s okay, Keely. Don’t be afraid. Not my father’s voice. Softer, a hint of sorrow to it. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I’d feel embarrassed about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I’d almost become. My teeth clattered from the chill. Surely, I’d get the help I needed now.

My eyelids fluttered in tune with my breaths. The tub water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty watercolor ribbons, were gone.

Dull gray clouded my sight.

A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface again.

—okay, Keely.

Cold. So cold.

I’m right here.

I wasn’t even afraid. He bent forward, his face inches from mine. He was my father’s age, and yet older. His eyes were so... blue, almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and cradled mine. My fingers clutched his hand. I sighed, feeling myself floating, drifting. Light—high and intense—exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much! I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn’t come.

Finally, the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.

2

Iawoke to the hollow echo of slowly dripping water. The water had cooled, and my fingers were wrinkled. I shivered and rubbed my arms. A cursory glance told me I’d imagined the paramedic in black—I was alone and still in the tub. Chalk it up to blood loss and the hallucinogenic power of tequila and sleeping pills. But I was alive.

Horrorstruck at what I had almost done, I quickly fumbled for the drain. I felt sluggish, my senses dull. But the more I moved about, the more the scrim of fog in my brain lifted.

Somewhere between getting out of the tub, showering, getting dressed, and going back to my room, I had a serious lapse of memory. I definitely needed some espresso. A couple of years ago, I’d have taken an upper. But no more. After tonight’s close call, I’d swear off aspirin if I had to.

My wrist didn’t hurt much. I examined the damage, careful not to tug on the surrounding skin and reopen the wound. It should have been deeper than this. I remembered it being deeper. I walked down the hall, into the bathroom Jordan and I always used. I rinsed cold water over my wrist to get a better look. I’d need stitches. But a visit to the emergency room meant telling my parents I’d almost committed suicide. Groggy or not, I might be able to drive myself to the hospital. But someone there might see what I’d tried to do and put me in the psych ward. It was Saturday night, and my friends were probably at the movies or on dates. The psych ward was not a cool hangout. I could say I’d cut myself by accident, but I feared the ER doctor would see the lie and the regret in my eyes.

I looked at my wrist. I could have sworn the gash was larger, deeper not even a few minutes ago. I decided against the ER. Without stitches, I’d have a wicked scar. I dabbed on some vitamin E and antiseptic and searched for bandages, hoping the gash would eventually heal on its own.

I’d gotten lucky that I hadn’t bled to death. Luckier still that I hadn’t drowned. How I managed to pass out and not fill my lungs with water, I don’t know. I’d heard death by exsanguination rarely worked. Apparently, my subconscious knew this when I’d chosen this method of suicide. After bandaging my wrist, I hung over the toilet and stuck my finger down my throat, hoping to rid myself of any undissolved pills or unabsorbed tequila. I’d felt worse, but I’d also felt better. Regardless, I needed to get all the crap out of my stomach if I could. I wretched a few times, and my eyes watered, but nothing came up. At least I didn’t have that annoying buzzing in my head like I usually did after partying. The jittery feeling was thankfully absent as well, although everything—from my muscles to my breathing—felt muted and surreal.

I’d read in one of the pamphlets Mom got from her psychiatrist that grief was like drugs. Maybe I just had to bottom out. I’d ask my parents for help this time. The pain couldn’t last forever, could it?

I checked the bandage. My wrist had stopped bleeding, so that was something. Looking back, I couldn’t remember how red or pink the water in the tub had been. Water always made the amount of blood appear worse than it really was.

Ribbons. Pretty ribbons.

On a whim, I peeled back the bandage for another look. I frowned. The cut had sealed, looking much more healed than physically possible. Despite the lack of chemical hangover, my brain was clearly malfunctioning. Maybe I’d make a whole pot of coffee, extra strong, and add a few shots of espresso.

I went back to my room and sat on the edge of my bed and bawled, my sobs heavy and wet. I couldn’t even manage to commit suicide right. That was a good thing, but it didn’t do a whole lot to lighten my mood.

My heart thudded wearily, still wounded like it’d been broken into a million shards of jagged glass. I’d never felt so lost. So vulnerable. I wanted my parents. I wanted my sister. I wanted our lives back—the way it was before Jordan died.

My words echoed in my room louder than I’d intended. I miss you so much, Jordan. Just tell me what to do. I only wanted to be with you again. Please, Sis. Tell me what to do.

I hung my head. Please. Don’t go.

It’ll be okay, Keely. Not my sister’s voice. Not even close.

I jerked my head up and looked around. He was just as mysterious as I’d remembered, in his black shirt, pants, and duster. All that black was in stark contrast to his wavy blond hair and those eyes. They were what I’d call a forever blue—the kind of eyes that seemed as though they could read souls. I’d never seen irises like his—bright, like they were lit from behind. He was handsome for someone of my parents’ age—early forties. What was it about those eyes that calmed me when I should be afraid of a complete stranger in my room? Or maybe the effects of the tequila and sleeping pills hadn’t worn off. He definitely wasn’t a paramedic. But he had saved my life and then politely waited for me to clean up and get dressed.

I have no idea what you see in her, Banning. Doesn’t seem worth it to me, another voice said.

I didn’t recall anyone else other than the guy in black. The second guy who entered my room appeared to be my age. He packed pure attitude and a lean, fit physique into a red Harley Davidson T-shirt and a pair of faded Levi’s. His short, brown hair was perfectly mussed, and he had fierce, dark eyes. And apparently, an equally sharp tongue.

Who were these guys? They almost acted as though they knew me. My first semi-coherent thought, based on the man in black’s attire, was that he worked with Dad at the law firm, and the younger guy was his smart-ass son. Dad had done this before—had someone from the firm stop by to pick something up. I stood and shoved past Mr. Attitude.

Relax, Sunshine. Mr. Attitude grabbed hold of my arm. I pulled away, but he blocked my path.

Who the hell are you? I asked, becoming a bit freaked out now that the ice in my brain had started to thaw.

His grin creeped me out. He turned and walked out of my room, into the hallway. You explain it to her, Banning. This is your deal, anyway.

The guy in black, Banning, motioned for me to follow him from my room. Come on, Keely. Let’s talk.

Even in my current dazed state, something didn’t feel right here. Maybe these men weren’t who I’d first thought. I shook my head in an attempt to jump-start my brain. The motion only made my stomach lurch and my vision blur. I really needed coffee. I’m not going anywhere with you. I don’t know who you two—

I’m Banning, he said, extending a hand. I’m here to help you.

I didn’t take his hand. I wanted to sit down and collect myself before I puked or fell over. I steadied myself against my desk instead. You look like the Mafia. Or an undertaker.

My comment made him laugh, and those crinkle lines around his blue eyes lit up his face again. Neither. This isn’t going to be easy to hear, Keely.

Great. He even sounded like Dad. I paused, my brain finally clicking into gear and sending off an alarm. It dawned on me what he was here for. Something horrible had happened to them on the way home from the dinner party. My parents. Are my parents okay?

Banning raised a hand. They’re fine, Keely. Really. But I do have a bit of bad news.

Are you from the firm? I asked, now certain again that he was. Certain he was lying to me about Mom and Dad’s well-being. After all this, I couldn’t imagine something happening to them. I was still having some minor difficulty unscrambling all my thoughts. That did it. Tomorrow, I was becoming a health freak.

Five minutes, I think. They’ll be here, I heard Mr. Attitude call out. "Tell her, Banning. What are you waiting for?"

Tell me what? I asked.

Banning hesitated. I hated when people did that. Just say it!

The younger man returned, still in his perpetual state of annoyance. "You’re dead, Sunshine. Banning here is a reaper. I’m Daniel. I’m the demon who’ll be escorting you and him to hell at the end of next week."

Shut it! Banning spat at Daniel. Can’t you even try to demonstrate some decency?

Just saving time, buddy. Decency is getting her out of here before she sees her corpse or the look on her parents’ faces when they walk into their bathroom. They’ll be in the driveway in another four minutes. In six minutes, give or take, they’ll be screaming—

Banning took a step toward Daniel. "I. Said. Shut it! She doesn’t belong to you. She shouldn’t belong to your side."

Daniel simply stood there, arms at his side, with that disconcerting grin on his face. "Suicide, my friend. It’s a sin against her soul. That’s the rule. And you? Should you belong to my side? We both know why I’m here. We know how all this will end."

"You don’t know how this will end," Banning said.

Daniel looked around, pretending to search for someone. Gee. I don’t see anyone from the opposing team.

Whatever they were arguing about, I took the opportunity to run. If I was fast enough, I could make it down the back staircase and out the side door. I raced down the stairs, into the kitchen, expecting one of them to be right behind me. Daniel had stopped on the last step. I heard the slam of car doors. I screamed and tugged at the doorknob, knowing my parents were only feet away from me, but the knob wouldn’t turn.

Daniel laughed. You’re an earthbound, Sunshine. And here’s a tip for you. Earthbounds can’t move objects when the living are so close to them. We drain each other’s energy.

He pulled me from the door and whirled me around.

I forgot my purse, I heard my mother say outside.

No! Mom! Help! I kicked Daniel in the shin. Get off me! I screamed.

Bad idea, he hissed. Before I could lash out, he wrenched my arm—thankfully, the good arm—behind my back and shoved me up the stairs toward my parents’ bathroom.

Take another look, Sunshine. Take a good, long look.

Banning followed us. Come on. Let her go, Daniel. She’s been through quite enough.

What? And let her have another swing at me? I don’t think so, Sparky, Daniel growled. Banning’s steely blues didn’t need words. Smart mouth or not, Daniel wasn’t the one in charge here. Fine, Daniel said, exasperated. Fine. He released his grip.

I heard the door close downstairs.

You’re nuts, I said, straightening. Both of you.

Do as Daniel asks, Banning said. Please.

If they wanted me to look at the tub, then sure. Whatever. They were crazy, anyway.

I’ll never understand why anyone who commits suicide acts so surprised. Why some earthbounds can’t accept they’re dead, Daniel commented.

I heard my parents chatting softly downstairs, the sound of their footsteps—my mother’s heels tapping against the hardwood in the foyer. I tried to run again, but Daniel blocked me.

Keely! Mom called out. We’re home.

Banning and Daniel exchanged glances but weren’t making any moves.

Help! I’m up here! I shouted, daring either of them to silence me.

Keely? she called again.

"Up here. Call the police! I’m in your room," I repeated, louder. I heard the coat closet opening, heard them talking.

Headphones, probably, my father said.

Maybe she went to bed. Dinner took longer than we expected, Mom suggested. Their voices were louder now, and I heard them walking up the stairs.

Daniel and Banning exchanged another glance. Daniel shrugged and turned away.

Banning’s eyes met mine. Keely, please trust me. You don’t want to see this.

I strode past him. I’d half expected one of them to stop me, but they didn’t. I ran, totally bypassing my mother, who entered the bedroom, took off her earrings, and rested them on the dresser. She was obviously pissed, thinking I hadn’t answered when she’d called. She walked right past me, straight to the bathroom. How she missed seeing Banning and Daniel was beyond me.

That’s when I heard the screaming. Clearly, I hadn’t cleaned up well enough and left Dad’s tequila and the Dremel out. Or I’d forgotten the note on the counter.

My father rushed past me, a blur in a navy suit. Then I heard him screaming, too. I hurried in to assure them I hadn’t gone through with it, although I probably should have. They’d ground me for life. Probably even send me off to some rehab or psycho center for troubled teens. My mother sat on the floor, wailing and clawing at her face. My father bent over the tub and tugged at something in the water.

The water.

The tub was full of red water. And me.

I stumbled backward. "No, no, no! That’s not me. I’m here, I’m right here." But the features, although colorless, were mine. My green eyes stared blankly, my jaw had relaxed, exposing my perfect teeth—the ones that had cost my parents a fortune in dental bills.

I pulled at my father, my attempts futile. He cradled the pale, dead me against his chest. He rocked back and forth and cried out, eyes tightly shut, his face contorted in a way I hadn’t thought possible.

Banning stood in front of me and tried to take me into his arms. I pounded my fists against him, demanding to be let go. What did you do? I shrieked.

In his defense, nothing. At least not what you think, Daniel said. He was leaning against the doorway, legs crossed at the ankles, arms folded, and watching my parents like they were a TV drama rerun.

Murderer! I screamed. Both of you!

No, Daniel added. That was all you.

I don’t commit murder, Banning said softly.

"Anymore," Daniel replied.

Banning gave Daniel a hard, sidelong glare. But I can’t stop it, either. I can’t stop death.

Only take it when it’s time, Daniel chided.

My father rested my limp body against the bathroom floor. With a shaky hand, he removed a cell phone from his pocket. He wiped at his tears and slowly tapped out three numbers on his