Contract Made After Death: Clause I: Seal

By T.J. Sidebottom

Life and deathif one is lucky, they are far between, the latter negligible. Death does not choose who she takes, but she always has the chance.

I was fortunate to be chosen, my end bloody and truly unforeseen. She waited for me on the other side, my new standards of life in hand. Once sealed, I was sent on my way.

But not to Earth.

Mertha, where humans were a minority compared to the dagger-toothed elves, omniscient angellum, and giggling goblins teeming on the four continents. Magic was the norm, technology now the taboo. I arrived in Sildred on Idoliam, an area waged in a war rekindled centuries after.

I had much to learn, mostly through trial by fire. Many a danger lies ahead, some from myself. I will not bow; I will make the if to a when. I will complete my end of the bargain.

I will return home but what truly awaits me there? Would it be better to stay?

Death and lifeif one is lucky, they are far between, but neither is an end. Not when you sign the Contract Made after Death.

Oh, and do play nice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Nov 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781458212313

T.J. Sidebottom

After delving into the proverbial darkness of the human mind, T.J. Sidebottom decided to return to the light, bringing along this fragment. With what tools and skills he had attained from his first years at WVU, he molded it into this text you now hold.

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Copyright © 2013 T.J. SIDEBOTTOM.

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ISBN: 978-1-4582-1230-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4582-1231-3 (e)

Abbott Press rev. date: 11/1/2013

CONTENTS

Preface

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

PREFACE

Close to a decade ago, I had a nephew who was born with a genetic defect: his right arm was stunted at the elbow, with three digits growing from its end. It didn’t seem to bother him, though, and he spent the rest of his days [in my family’s care] in bliss. When his mother was able to return and take care of him . . . Well, it’s speculation. He supposedly died of SIDS (he was close to a year old), but the fact that another child of hers died the same way had cast doubt, nonetheless.

[Being young] I thought it unfair that his life had been taken so soon. He didn’t even have the chance to go to school, let alone be able to communicate to others. I began to wonder what kind of life he would have lived, and found that I would write small snippets once in a while. [Being as young as I was] I began to imagine what life after would have been, and made a world that he would continue to live in.

Years passed, and events had shifted my writing from an optimistic, happy world (as is seen in the goblins later in the novel) to dark, desolate wastelands. The character I had created no longer was this paragon of good and just actions; instead, he had become a monster, an abomination scorned by the common mass with suicidal tendencies.

It was only after that my mind settled had it found a balance between the two, but the work was still . . . raw, still flat. The character was made perfect, knowing how to use everything handed to him instantly, and every choice he made had no consequence on the world around. As a matter of fact, I may have made a world, but it was dead, where people and events only seemed to take place when the character was there.

It wasn’t until college that I decided to scrap that character (named Shadow), and begin anew. This tome is the culmination of everything learned and tested, from a magic system that works like a small engine such as a lawnmower or chainsaw (i.e.: having to be primed—will—and fueled—energy—before a spark—outer manifestation—can occur to allow it to work), to a theme that is complex in its simplicity.

Being the first in the series, I know it is nowhere near perfect, but I believe, in its current condition, it is ready for you, the reader. It is dark fantasy, of which I have been asked multiple times what the difference is between it and general or high fantasy. The best answer I could give is think of general or high fantasy as PG-13, whereas dark fantasy as R or, even NC-17. Scenes are more graphic, language a bit more coarse.

With that being said, this book is definitely not meant for a younger audience, as is seen early in the prologue. In fact, the scenes in the prologue were edited to be less gory, as I thought reader’s shouldn’t be bombarded that early. The same can be said for events in chapters three, four, and nine; however, anything above the double digits is fair game, though the first example could be accounted to the scene at the end of nine. If not, the middle scene in chapter 11 or the entirety of 13 will definitely show.

Another example of how dark fantasy differs from high or general fantasy is that the majority of such tales do not have a happy ending [for the main character]. In most cases, the character may sacrifice themselves for the greater good, but it doesn’t have to be so. Also note that the main character does not have to be a hero, villain, antihero, and any other variation; morality does not play a significance in deciding if a character’s actions constitute it as a dark fantasy.

I hope you enjoy my mind’s work, and your stay.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I want to thank Abbott Publishing for allowing me the chance to distribute my work to the masses; my stepmother for supporting every step and misstep along the way; my stepbrother and sisters for seeing me through the darkness; and my beta readers, for whom must have had to deal with the truest swill I could ever create.

To my mother and grandmother, who always told me to follow through with my passions.

To my nephew, who I fought for so long from entering my heart only to be snatched away when I had.

These fragments I have shored against my ruins

—T.S. Eliot’s The Wastelands

PROLOGUE

Eight P.M.

I glanced out the dirty, cracked window, the street lights ravaged with life. They lit in uniformity, dispelling the gloom on the weathered streets and enduring buildings. The last did not buckle, however. It flashed and sputtered, the worn wires tired of being forced in the machination.

At last, it gave in.

It sparked and hissed, singeing the smog. Starlight invaded through, taking a solemn sigh before fading to the murk, forgotten once more. The splotched white curtain met the glass again, the laptop waiting. A blank document was open, the blinking line mocking.

What I saw gave me inspiration, but for what? The bed frame creaked under, the worn springs prodding. I stared at that empty screen, the eight turning to a nine then ten not long after. The only progress I had made was losing minesweeper twenty times. Wait, twenty-one.

A new record.

I sighed, finally raising the white flag. The desk creaked as I set the laptop on its side, but my thoughts wouldn’t leave me be. Cars passed on the battered streets, the frequent siren rushing to aid another straying soul in this city.

You know, I mumbled, fighting the short death. The curtain flapped to the side one last time. Buildings marred the view; one of the cons of living on top, I would love to leave this city. Something other than the same ole same ole . . . I would give anything for such a chance.

The curtain fell, replaced by sound and light.

Popping, cracking, groaning, and hammering; my body beckoned me to stay in bed, and my mind seemed to have agreed overnight. I favored the snooze button heavily this morning. Great: a normal, routine morning.

I made a beeline for the entrance, throwing on a pair of faded jeans and a cleaner shirt along the way. Scuffed shoes rested under my arm, a battered backpack slipped over the other. The down arrow of the elevator stuck under my assault, gears clacking away.

I slipped on the sneakers, fumbling with the laces.

Damned elevator, I grumbled, leaning on the door, wasn’t a gift from parents, would have moved out by now . . . Some ‘gift’, anyways. Still need to work two jobs to keep place afloat, on top of classes . . . Lousy, freakin’ . . .

The gears silenced, the doors creaking open. The box shook and rattled, descending as my thoughts turned on me again. Fog covered my eyes, and I was back in my apartment.

The phone rang, caller ID showing it my mother. There were two missed calls beforehand, none after. The phone raised from its base, arm covered in bandages.

Hello? I said. It was distant, hollow.

Hey, dear, She said. We were wondering if you were coming home for the holidays.

I turned my head, the pane of glass frosted. Snow blinded anything else. I’m afraid not, Mom. The weather is pretty nasty.

Oh.

Cloth rubbed against the receiver. Her voice was muffled, another talking in the background. Cloth ruffled again, and she sighed.

Well, perhaps we can go up there.

I would love that, but please. Listen to me. The weather is bad. Don’t risk your necks to come and see m-

We appreciate your concerns, dear, but we do have a bit more experience under our belts when it comes to driving in bad weather.

I’m not arguing that. What if something does happen, though?

We’ll be fine. We are on our way. See you soon. Love you. Your dad says so, too . . . Oh, quit being so hardheaded. Of course you do.

Heh. Lo-

The line cut off, tires screeching into a crunch. The fog was lifted, the elevator slowing. A gleam of a tear escaped, but nothing more. The metal gave way to the lobby, and I sprinted out and down and away. A plaque was engraved into the stone housing the steps to the street, immortalizing two souls lost only a year before.

Memories faded with every step, mind calming as I stomped through the city. One block, two, three; only one more, the bus stop teeming with the usual crowd.

How fortuitous: the bus was running late. My feet begged for rest, but I thundered down the block, all the same. My friend, Keith, waved, stepping to the side as I passed.

He patted my back, chuckling as I hacked up a lung. Hey, dude.

H-hey.

What was it this time? Gremlins? Ghosts?

I shook him off, exhaling slowly. Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up.

I plan to. I find it even funnier that you actually run here, knowing Papa Moses is never on time.

One day, he will prove otherwise.

Until then, I get to laugh at you.

Not if I get a new alarm clock. Plan to with my next check.

So you say. Maybe you should cut the cigs, as well.

Already have.

Oh?

Yep. Haven’t been able to buy them for a few weeks.

"No wonder you have been on edge lately.

I straightened, back popping. Anyways, what’s up? What’s going on?

Really? You expect me to repeat myself?

Yeah. Sure. Why not?

Nothing better to do, eh? The bus is running late. Your lucky day.

How’s your mom?

Doing good. She’s painting the entrance today.

One of her good days, then.

Yep.

When is her next appointment?

Next Wednesday. This was her free week.

Ah, Cars crept along the road, slinking away into parking behind the stores. Isn’t it a little too early?

Hmm?

That was Peter’s car, wasn’t it?

It answered itself, the sign on his shop flipped to OPEN.

What time is it? Keith asked.

Hold on.

I reached into my pocket, groaning.

What? He asked.

I forgot my cell at home.

You? Of all people?

Shut up. Why don’t you check yours?

If I had mine, do you really think I would have asked. Hey, He called to the group, do any of you have the time?

Some shrugged, but no one answered. Really? Does no one wear a watch, anymore?

I sighed. Well, if the bus is not coming, we mi-

Of course. Murphy’s Law. The bus rumbled around the corner, speeding down the block.

Hah, Keith said, stepping to the line. You should have said that earlier.

Yeah. Maybe we’ll be in time for BIO.

Can’t wait to copy off you.

There’s a test to—hey, does it look like he’s slowing?

No. Actually, it looks like he is going faster. Hey! We’re here!

The light finally dimmed on the front glass. The driver’s eyes were wide, his face pale. His teeth, what was left of them, were clenched. He honked the horn, waving away as he wrenched the wheel hard.

Keith, I exclaimed, pulling him away.

Not a moment too soon, the bus’s top skidding by. Glass and mortar was strewn across the block, metal screeching to a halt. Peter’s shop was no more, its second level toppling onto the bus.

Before it did, I thought I saw something move within. Something other than the driver.

The group stared after, mouths agape. The dust had finally reached us, paper dancing on the winds. Sirens wailed in the distance.

Keith shook his head, groaning.

What’s wrong, dude? I asked.

I just remembered. I had a term paper due today.

You didn’t do it?

Did you?

. . . Lucky for us, then.

How are we lucky?

Surely, the professor would understand us not showing up today if, say, there was an accident that jammed up traffic.

You can’t be serious. That class isn’t even until three!

And we can miss up to three. I haven’t missed one, yet. So come on. We’ll go to my place.

Very well.

The crowd disbanded, the bus’s turn signal finally dying.

Keith’s house was only half a block away, wedged between an apartment complex and a bar. The parking space before it was empty. I don’t think I have ever seen their car.

His mother was in the entryway. Blue paint speckled her white smock and bandana.

Hey, She said, putting the brush down. A nail chipped off, yellowed and withered. What are you two doing here? Don’t you have class?

There was an accident. It was pretty bad, Keith said.

How bad was it? Are you two okay? What happened?

The bus, and the building it hit, are obliterated. We’re okay, He stated, pushing her away. As for what happened, all we know is that the bus couldn’t stop, the driver tried to make a turn going too fast, and it rolled.

As well as . . . never mind, I said, clearing my throat.

They tilted their heads. As well as what?

Nothing, nothing.

Keith’s mother simply shrugged, returning to the wall. I am simply glad you two are okay.

Keith got lucky; I saved his a-

Yeah, whatever, Kieth said, scratching his head. C’mon. Let’s go upstairs. By the way, Mom, is Dad-

Yes.

The stairs clomped under, Keith’s room at the end of the hall.

Man, you’re lucky, dude, I said. You don’t have to pay for dorms or an apartment.

So you keep saying, He grumbled, opening his room. His desk sat behind the door, littered with wrappers and cans. His bed sat in the opposite corner, right under the window.

You really are.

I would prefer the dorms. Do you know how embarrassing it is to be a freshman in college and have your mom still pack your lunches?

The computer beeped. It flickered and groaned, but gave in, the desktop given to us. I handed him a piece of paper.

What’s this? He asked.

I think it used to a be a part of a tree, but you never know anymore.

I knew that, but what-

It’s my account information. E-mail my professors while I go talk to my boss?

‘‘Kay. Hey, hope I didn’t offend you. Forgot about . . . you know.

It’s fine.

The internet fought us tooth and nail, but it conceded. With a sigh, the computer returned to its slumber. We retreated downstairs, throwing our backpacks by the door with an assortment of others. Mine contrasted, a bright red against the gray.

The television hummed, minds numb to the day. Yet, I could not get the image of the creature out of my head. It seemed to be moldy yellow, and very smooth, almost like bone.

That’s silly. Nothing like that ever existed, least of all in West Virginia . . . I think. It was simply my mind playing tricks on me. Yes, that’s it.

Dusk had settled on the city as I headed home, slithering through the alleys. Decay and filth, little more than an afterthought. The bus was all over the news that night, my bed a welcome site.

. . . From what we could salvage, there seemed to have been nothing mechanically wrong with the bus, The reporter said, the only part I caught.

I shook my head, hoping it would settle. I jabbed the power button.

The creature was reflected on the dying LCD.

A shiver ran down my spine, hair raising as I peered over to the old desk. The creature had blocked it on the screen, but nothing was there. I looked back to the screen and it was gone.

My heart hurt, bruising the ribcage in its attempt to claw up my throat. I turned towards the window, shaking, trying to fall asleep. There was faint scratching, glass screeching, but it faded, my senses failing.

Why? It was probably never there, but my mind continues to torment me so. I even dreamed of it, only ever seeing its back.

We were in Keith’s, in his room.

The moon shined through his window, the crescent slicing the bleak sky. The creature loomed over him, watching, waiting. His eyelids quivered, body tossed and turned. His hand swept by the creature’s head, and he went still. He opened his eyes, widening with each blink. His face contorted into a silent scream, and it was upon him.

The walls were painted red, bones flying.

I tried to scream, hoped to distract the creature, but my lips wouldn’t budge. I attempted to move, to hit the beast, anything, but my body was bound, wrapped in its long tail. I was helpless, forced to watch.

My eyes locked onto his, the light fading into mist.

I sat up straight, body drenched. The sun was cresting over the buildings, morning fog still churning in alleys. I went to the bathroom, splashing water onto my face.

My hazel eyes were still twinkling, still wild under matted brown hair. Streaks ran from each, claw marks dug into the cheeks. Small flecks of blood and skin and hair were under my nails, shaking as I entered the bath-shower. Combo?

Water rushed down my pale frame, pipes rattling. What little hot water there was was truly a blessing. It was short lived, though.

I headed to the laundry room, a towel wrapped around. What can I say? Old habits die hard. A clean shirt awaited, Icarus falling from the sun on the back.

I felt a little better, and headed back to my bedroom, powering up the old laptop. A gust passed, the curtain swaying gently. Odd; that window was shut. How-

A deep cut ran through both panes, a perfect diagonal. It ended near my pillow, a small lock of hair stuck on the sill. N o glass shards could be found.

Did it . . . no. The creature does not exist; it was all part of my imagination. My sick, little imagination. Of which wanted my friend dead, for some reason . . .

I shook my head, shuffling back to the computer. The usual routine: weather, media, and email.

Weather was the same: unpredictable.

Media was a waste, as well.

That left only-

There was only one in my inbox, and it was from Keith.

:D.

My heart sank, a welcome reprieve from having it try to take my throat. The tremors came back, now magnified. Dare I open this?

. . . Click

Pictures.

Pictures of Keith. What was left of him, at least.

His organs were hung, dangling about the bed. It was strewn with his bones, cracked and spread further on the ground. His skull laid on his pillow, the white washed red. One eye was popped, hanging free from the shattered socket. Chunks of gray hung on the broken plates, the other eye staring forevermore. A single line of text waited at the end.

See you soon :).

I slammed the lid, a shadow passing. The scratching was back, and I dared not stay. My jean shorts hung on one leg as I entered the elevator, my feet stinging against asphalt.

An ambulance and a patrol car waited outside Keith’s home. His mother sat on the porch, wringing her hands. She was pale, wads of what hair she had left rolling on the steps.

His father was already at work, though I doubt he ever came home. I couldn’t blame him; after all, the best way to avoid emotions welling up was to keep moving, to keep away from it. A lesson I learned well years before.

Hey, I said, tapping her shoulder.

She reeled away, pressing her back against the railing. She clutched her chest, babbling. A crucifix was shaking in her hand, as was a handkerchief.

Oh, it’s you, She said after a moment, sighing. She sat back down, waving to me. Please, sit.

I nodded, complying. Her mouth opened once, twice, thrice. I shook my head, knowing what must be done.

So . . . where’s-

Keith, She said, gulping. Her eyes glazed over, tears falling gently. Your friend . . . my son is dead.

She wailed, burying her face in her hands again. A policeman trudged passed, bags filled with . . . Keith. His mom was dry heaving, but calming.

. . . How? What happened? I asked.

She sniffed, wiping her face. Some sick bastard came into his room at night, and looks like they . . . ripped him apart. I walked in there this morning, and the room was just . . . just red, and the smell. The smell, oh god.

She turned away. That which must have brewed all night, in a closed room, amplified in its stagnancy . . . I even began to turn green.

. . . I’m-

What was I? Shocked? My dream had been true, the creature, whatever it was, did kill my friend. Being shocked wouldn’t be right. Maybe . . . guilty? Of what?

I gulped, clasping her hands. She was shaking. I’m sorry for your loss. He is . . . was a great friend. I wish there was something that I could do-

She shook her head. It’s okay, but thank you. I . . . I need to be alone. I will tell you when his . . . when his-

She couldn’t finish, sobbing again.

I stood, leaving as another cop approached, his walkie squawking. He talked with Keith’s mother, nothing more than a debriefing.

However, the cop from earlier stepped in front of me, his arms crossed.

May I ask what you are doing here this early? He asked.

That is one of my boy’s friends, Keith’s mom said, the other cop returning to the cruiser. They usually stop over to see him in the morning. Please, they couldn’t have done . . . that.

I’m sorry, ma’am, but we have to question all that may have something to do with the crime scene. Standard procedure. Now, do you have any information about what may have happened here?

I crossed my arms, as well. No, sir. I do not.

He hummed, mumbling as he wrote on his notepad. He shook his head, bouncing the pencil on his cap. Say, you wouldn’t happen to be . . . yeah. Yeah, you are. You were the old chief’s-

Indeed.

Ha! I’ll be damned. I should have known that: you used to hang out all the time at the station. How have you been since . . . well, you know?

Fine, I guess. Kind of wish I still had my car, though.

Yeah. Talk about irony, huh? He shook my shoulder, guffawing.

Yes. Nothing says irony like losing your parents and your car on the same day.

He whistled. Oh . . . sorry about that. All right. You can go, He handed me his card, the midday sun glaring off his badge. If you do hear anything, or need somebody to talk to, call when you can. Got it?

Yes, sir.

Heh. ‘Sir’. I remember when you were little and called me ‘Uncle Bill’. You take care, okay?

No class until much later. Might as well head home. Had I really watched him die? Was it simply a weird coincidence? I didn’t mess with death’s design, did I?

No. Wait. That was a movie. It was playing (one of them; I think the third) on the television. I lounged on the couch in the living room, pencil twirling between my fingers as I did my best to procrastinate.

Junior year of college, and still haven’t broken writer’s block, I muttered, tapping my temple.

My legs were propped up on books, highlighter staining. My feet just touched on the other arm, a pink blanket thrown across them. A large B was stenciled onto it, the very letter making my heart ache.

I stared at the checkered ceiling, yawning. My arms slopped behind, hands slapping on the worn stand. With all that has happened, you would think I would have more than enough material, but no . . . it shouldn’t be this hard to write a paper for midterm.

My eyes drifted close, the pattern spinning . . .

The sky was a dusky purple, the air motionless on the wasteland. Neither a creature stirred above or below. The only life I could see was a woman who sat before me.

She had long, black hair, gently parted away with an ebony crown, almost invisible against the bangs. Her face was smooth as marble, not a single imperfection nor sign of age. Her eyes . . . those pools of darkness. They threatened to swallow you into their depths, but you couldn’t help but look deeper. She blinked, giggling, pulling me to her mouth. Her pale lips were parted into a toothy grin, glinting inhumanly bright.

She was garbed in a heavy black dress, cut off at her wrists and bosom. It seemed to meld into her throne. It showed enough to be enticing but not obscene. Shiny onyx gloves adorned her hands, red studs glinting on the knuckles. Poking out from under the seam were a pair of red-tipped heels, ornate designs fading into the black.

She giggled again, twirling her hand, and behind the chair it rose, finally face-to-face.

The creature.

Three jaws made its head, each lined with razors, the smallest as large as a toddler. Its upper jaw, set firm, curved out far from the others. Its eyes rested on both sides, studying with ravenous hunger.

A long crest stretched and twisted far behind. The other two jowls thrashed and clicked, boney folds extending and shrinking. Saliva frothed near the joints, resting at the base of the upper jaw.

Its body was bone, yellowed from age.

Cloth, changing colors as it flowed on some unknown air, hung from its neck, stretching far into the wastes. Simply looking at that fabric, I thought I heard my friend’s voice screaming. A chorus of thousands behind, echoing even as I looked away.

It had no legs, instead continuing into a long tail. Its tip was a blade, dwarfing the woman. It had a pair of arms, two blackened sickles resting at their end.

The woman snapped her fingers, and it was upon me.

Darkness fell, bones cracking, popping, and twisting as the creature wrapped around. Its jaw chattered and gnawed at my skull, screeching.

I shot awake, blood pounding in my ears. The scratching was louder. Oh, god, it wasn’t my imagination. It loomed outside my periphery, reflecting everywhere. I checked the time, pocketing my phone as I rushed to class, peering over my shoulder every other step.

Class was dull, but I did not care. It kept my mind occupied, for now. That, in itself, was a blessing.

I sat at the same desk, taking the same notes and doodling the same thing as any other day. I had almost forgotten. Almost. The screech echoed in my mind, claws scraping. I kept pushing it away, but . . .

Odd.

It sounded so close, almost-

I glanced around the room, neck popping at the speed. There were no windows. I sighed, returning to my notes. In time, the scratching faded again, replaced by the scribbling.

A shadow passed over.

The hair stood on my nape, breath misting in the warm, spring air.

Class ended, my last bastion.

Home. The doormat slid far, my head slamming against the boards inside the apartment. I locked the entrance, deadbolt in place; sealed the windows; and huddled in the farthest corner of my bedroom, clutching a pillow and knife. Seconds became minutes; minutes becoming hours. I was still shivering, breath frosting, but my eyes began to drift close.

The scratching was back. From the window with the dirty white curtains.

I stood, leaden steps dragging me to that window. Gently, ever so gently, I nudged it open.

And there it was.

I didn’t have time to scream, only to fall back. Its scythe crashed through, folds slithering through the carnage. Its eyes were aglow with the need to feed, jaws clicking fast.

I slammed the bedroom door behind, scrambling to the living room. The door remained in place. The wall beside it, however, did not.

It screeched again, swiping and gouging the couch. It snorted (odd for a creature without nostrils), leaping and following after. The couch melted away, the cut dripping with green ooze before fading, as well.

I had lead it through the kitchen, the guest bedroom, the living room again, before I was back in the bedroom. The beast screeched again, wood splintering, signaling the destruction of the guest closet. Considering its size, did I really expect it to hold?

I had no idea what I was going to do. I was looking for something, anything. My eyes shifted to the broken window.

I had an idea. The first of few.

The creature took the door this time, smashing it across the room as it shrieked again. Its mandibles clicked, scythes biting into furniture. It was causing quite a clangor, yet not one light came on in the old apartment complex, the streets dead below. My bed cracked, mattress hissing.

Then, silence.

Was it gone?

Dare I peak?

My fingers were sore, the windowsill cutting deep as my chin rested upon it. The room was deserted, the bed and desk nothing more than dust. The door laid against the far wall, smashed beyond recognition—I’ll let the irony set in for a minute.

Ha, I barked, gasping.

Stupid!

It could still be nearby. At least it won’t check here again. I simply need t-

My arms shook, refusing to pull over.

I sighed. Well, I was able to out-think it, but now I am stuck. What do I do now?

The answer came all too soon, claws gripping my legs. I looked down and saw a creature. It coiled around my middle, pulling me off with ease.

I had to ask, I mumbled, wheezing as it wrapped tighter.

It scaled the wall with terrifying grace. Its talons dug in around the windows’ moldings, not a sound heard. My fingers trailed along the wall, nails breaking in crevices, but I did not scream. I could not scream.

Below awaited even more, varying in size and shape. Its tail tensed, hurling me onto the concrete, and they swarmed. The smaller ones laid across my arms and legs, my hands and feet numbing. Yet, all they did was wait.

For what?

The concrete thudded as the behemoth made landfall. Its crest alone dwarfed its kin, making it the leader. Allowing it first taste.

I tried to scream, but my lips wouldn’t budge. I attempted to move, but my body was bound. I was helpless.

The creature screeched one last time, and its jaws dug in, clicking and twitching into and under the skin. There was only the slightest pinch, body going cold. Intestines, liver, stomach . . . blood pooling as they were scattered to the side.

My ribcage popped, the sternum flying. I saw my heart beating, slowing in its jaws. The pericardium dangled from its left mandible, tearing holes in the valves. It seemed to laugh as it clamped, heart bursting.

My eyes drifted shut . . . opening a moment later, nightmare turned reality.

CHAPTER 1

Where am I?

No sun shined in the purple sky, not a cloud or bird to be seen. The air was still, silent as the grave. It pressed, choked the dead lands.

My heart sunk, sweat frosting onto my brow. I have been here before.

And on cue . . .

A black puddle boiled and froth on the desolate land. A pillar rose from its depths. It was taller than I, warping, bending, and molding into a high-arch chair.

The Matron in Black sat easily on her throne.

She looked me up and down, a ravenous gleam in her eyes. The only sound was the beating of my heart. Time seemed to stand still, awaiting a response from this . . . thing.

. . . Are you going to lay there all day? She asked, flashing her teeth. Her voice was sultry, velvet pressed against the ear.

I am? I asked. A small spark slipped through, surprised by my own voice.

I glanced down, visions of a carcass picked clean churning my nonexistent stomach. My fears were laid to rest, back in one piece. All squishy organs were inside, as they should be, flesh hidden under gray robes.

She tittered, reminding me where I was. I know it is quite a shock to be alive, but please. I do not feel comfortable talking to one on their back. Please, stand.

O-okay. I’ll try.

I struggled, legs like jelly. The world was spinning around, in my head. I took my first step, foot slow to rise, and my body decided it wanted to walk on air. As quick as I had left it, the dirt was quick to want to re-

Two crests pressed into my shoulders, pushing my feet back onto solid ground. I turned my head, heart beginning to race then drop, seeing the very thing that had destroyed it.

Its head was cocked, gazing into my eyes. My gut dropped again, in more ways than one. I turned back to the woman, another of the creatures encircling her throne, resting by her right hand.

It clicked its jowls, pushing harder into her hand.

Oh, don’t mind my pets, dear. It may look dangerous, but my little tierdon simply want to help, She said.

Tierdon? Help? This . . . thing, whatever it is called, literally ate me alive. How is that helpful?

That one is a tierdon patriarch, a prominent member of its race. Sometimes, it gets . . . eager in its work.

My heart can vouch for that. What is it, though?

That is quite a question, my dear. Do you believe we have the time for such?

. . . Do we?

Yes, we do. You are lucky, indeed.

So lucky that I can die.

Such a charmer.

Yes, yes . . . Well? The tierdon?

You beings from the world called Earth have a traditional story: a being, made of nothing but bone, wrapped in black robes, that harvests the souls of your species when you die. Correct? She leaned forward, eyes probing. I had to look away, uneasy about the lack of . . . anything in those depths. In truth, your species melded two beings into one.

She motioned to herself, then fanned to the beasts. I, the greeter of the fallen, and the tierdon, the ones who do the dirty deed of disposing of flesh and bringing the worthy souls to my realm.

She stood, her dress concealing any movement under. The tierdon patriarch slithered to her. For example, She laid her hand on it, its fabric shimmering. A familiar face appeared, stretching from the weave.

Hey, is that you? Keith asked, jaw swinging on a hinge. Where are we? Who are all these people?

Yes, it’s me, you idiot, I said.

He may not be alive, but I was able to see my friend again, one last time. The things I could say: sorry for not saying anything earlier, sorry for not calling to wake you. Where does one s-

Wait, what people?

What are you talking about? Keith?

He faded into the tierdon’s fabric once more.

I wheeled on the Matron, grimacing. What happened? Where did he go?

Your friend was not a worthy soul, my dear. He put up no challenge for the tierdon, so he fused into its Silk. He is among thousands, if not millions, of others who were just as unworthy.

Of course he put up no challenge; he was killed in his sleep!

Was I worthy? How? After all, I got caught and killed in much the same way. Who, or what, are you exactly?

The tierdon patriarch moved from the woman, pushing its kin from the throne. It tried to be defiant, yelping a youthful shrill. The patriarch slammed its scythe into its head, body crunching and hissing, fading away.

The woman stepped even closer. The air started to buzz, shoulders pressed. Wind gusted, blowing dust from the wastes, yet her dress remained still.

I am Death, She whispered, yet it boomed across the wasteland.

The wind died as the words raced away. Small gusts could be seen in the distance, voice still echoing. The buzzing was silenced, my shoulders freed of . . . whatever it was.

You . . . you are the reaper? The grim reaper?

She began to shake her head only to stop and rub her chin, instead.

Hmm. Yes and no. One could see me as simply that, but I am the very essence of nothingness. I exist because nothing exists, and only will be gone when everything does not.

I shrugged, heaving a sigh. Okay. I am lost. You exist because nothing does? What exists in the absence of nothing?

Everything, of course.

So, when everything doesn’t exist, you exist. Yet, you just stated that once everything does not exist, you will not.

That is correct.

How does that work? My mind pleaded me to shut up. Who knew the dead could get headaches.

It is quite simple. I only exist because everything exists. There is always something, thus I continue to exist. However, if or when the day comes when everything is gone, then no one or nothing will know that I exist. So, I no longer need to exist.

Smile and nod. Smile, and nod. Anyway, was I worthy?

You, my dear, Her voice still carried its boom, each word pushing. The wind gusted again, were able to avoid a tierdon longer than most beings. You have proven to want to fight, to live on. That, my dear, made you worthy.

Flattery. Blatant at that. Forget about it right now; she may slip later. Simply have to keep her talking.

Hey, why were the tierdon there in the first place? Why did all of this happen?

She chuckled, a shiver running down my spine. Isn’t it obvious? You brought them there.

She pointed at my forehead, the tip sparkling. A thought echoed across the plains.

You know, I would die for something new . . . To leave this city one day . . . only in my wildest dreams, I guess.

I was the one that caused all of this? I was the one who brought the tierdon to our world? I ended up killing my friend, and for what?

My eyes shut, headache worsening.

Smooth leather caressed my cheek, the woman chuckling. Yes, young one. You were the one to summon so much butchery to your world. You were the one to kill your friend.

Her words were calm, sobering, but struck hard all the same.

I lashed out, the woman returning to her chair. But . . . but why? Why! Why cause all of this? Why bring me here? Simply to taunt and jeer! Why cause all of this chaos on a thought of wanting something different!

Because you, my dear, are one year late.

What did she mean I was one year late? Only thing that happened last year was . . .

Yes, She drew it out, voice lilting. The world no longer spun, but came crashing down. You see, you were supposed to go visit your parents, but the roads were oh, so terrible, yes? Back when you had your . . . car? It is still called a car, correct? I’ll keep calling it that regardless; less of a hassle than automobile, at least. Such a wonderful car it was, too. Paid off by—what did you amusingly call your friend’s equivalent? Ah yes—mummy and daddy, of course. Instead, you had them try to come to see you, and, wouldn’t you know it, they lost control on your very street. What happened next? Well, momentum crept up. That is never good. When they had hit the only car parked on the street, all the others gone for the holidays. Little was left to recognize who they were, but the fun wasn’t done. Maybe you want to tell the rest, about how their engine suddenly caught fire and their gas tank exploded. About how it caused the second car—your pretty, pretty car—to go up in flames, as well.

Laughter had seeped into her speech, the end lost to the maniacal cackle. The venom laced through all the same, freezing fresh tears on my cheeks. It was quick to die, her face frigid, eyes hard. Let this be a lesson: you can never cheat Death. Once She feels your time has come, you are Hers. Your death would have been quick and painless, as well as somewhat humorous. At least, to the coroners and myself.

She held out her hand, strange mist flowing from her sleeve . . . no, her palm.

I saw myself, walking

Reviews for Contract Made After Death

[jblazarte · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

One of the rare, well-written dark fantasy books I’ve read in months, Mr. Sidebottom’s ‘Contract Made After Death: Clause 1: Seal’ surely deserves a wider audience—I’m hoping for a Hollywood movie version, because if the visuals in the book are ever “translated” into film, then I believe the landscape would never be the same again.The book’s premise is familiar enough: a young man, previously living an ordinary, even unbearably mundane, life, suddenly finds himself in the thick of excitement—the near-fatal kind of excitement, that is. Suddenly, he’s not on Earth anymore—and his new “friends”— creatures he thought only existed in myths and legends, inform him (to put it very mildly) of his new role in an all-consuming situation where death, genocide, and murderous politics hold sway. Yes, the premise is simple enough, but the way the author fleshes it out—in more than one hundred and thirty thousand memorable words—is what sets this book truly apart from the rest. I love how the role of Death is reimagined here—how the mechanism of dying is “explained” first with Keith’s death and, page after page, through the interactions with the Matron in Black and the rest of the other aspects of her “world.” It’s a vivid, uncanny reimagination of many elements you’ve probably seen in other fantasy stories—yet in ‘Contract Made After Death’, everything seems strikingly new. Heck, it’s even funny in the right places.But what stands out the most is the author’s language—sharp yet sweeping like a newly-smithed broadsword, Mr. Sidebottom’s language dazzles with grace and throbs with that certain emotional gravitas that reminds you that this is not just any ordinary fantasy tale—like George Martin’s ‘Song of Fire and Ice’ (remember HBO’s ‘Game of Thrones’ TV series?), ‘Contract Made after Death’ makes no qualms about violence and in dipping its arm in the bloody affairs of human existence.I’m betting my left leg this book is going to be an enduring literary masterpiece, one that will continue to earn a growing number of fans in the years to come. It’s one of the best reading experiences you’ll ever going to get. Good thing it’s only a first in a series—if Mr. Sidebottom releases another book, I’ll buy it in a heartbeat.