Miles To Go Before I Sleep

Near Death Experience

Near-Death Experience

...

Never let it be said that spirits didn't take their jobs seriously – especially Death. In fact, Jack was pretty sure in some sick, twisted, sadistic way, the Grim Reaper even enjoyed his (her? Its? No one was really sure if Death had a specific gender) duties.

Jack was somewhat mystified as he subtly watched the cloaked figure sipping punch in a skeletal hand (quite literally – his hand had no flesh on it whatsoever) while apparently having a somewhat animated conversation with Pitch Black, who, in Jack's opinion, must have been taking style lessons from the timeless spirit.

Maybe he hadn't been quite as subtle as he'd hoped, for the next thing he knew, the hood turned towards him, face hidden in a shroud of darkness, and gently he set down his glass before practically gliding over. Jack's grip on his staff tightened and he fought desperately against the strong instinct to get as far away as was physically possible.

Death stopped in what would be considered a breach of personal space, so close that all Jack would have to do would be to lean slightly forwards and he'd be touching the shadowy cloak. The Grim Reaper loomed over him, bony hand clasped around the handle of his scythe; yet even at this distance (or lack thereof) no facial features could be made out. Jack wasn't so sure that was a bad thing, if the guy's hands were anything to go by.

"Um… hi?" Jack said in a near whisper.

Death replied only silence.

Biting his lip, the winter spirit slowly took one large step back, giving himself room to breathe and lessening the strain on his neck.

'Never has one been snatched so easily from my clutches as you.'

He felt the words more than he heard them. It was like a deathly whisper (pun not intended), where nothing and everything were conveyed all at once.

"…Excuse me?" Jack winced as his voice cracked.

'By all rights I should correct this,' the hand not holding the scythe rose, bony fingers frayed out towards him.

Jack didn't dare move – didn't dare breathe – as the outstretched hand stopped mere centimetres from his face. He had heard the stories that all this imposing figure had to do was touch you and your soul would be taken, but he wasn't sure how that applied to beings that were souls, or spirits at the very least. Would he simply cease to exist? But weren't they supposed to be immortal?

'But it would seem that the Man in the Moon has chosen you for a greater purpose,' the fingers curled into a fist, before Death slowly returned his hand to his side. 'The Man in the Moon, however, is not infallible, nor is he a force that governs us who are not Guardians.'

This time it was the scythe that was raised, the blade curved around the back of Jack's neck so that its edge was only just touching skin.

'Your soul is mine by right,' there was an undeniable animosity in those words, like he had been cheated and was swearing revenge.

Jack squinted his eyes shut, preparing himself for the slice that was sure to come. He had no idea what was going on, or why Death suddenly wanted to kill him, but he did know that even if he tried to fly away it would do him no good. After all, no one can escape Death.

'Take care, Jack Frost.'

There were several moments of nothingness. Finally, Jack found his nerve and slowly opened one eye. The scythe was no longer threatening to lop off his head, and as he took in the lack of Grim Reaper before him, he allowed the other eye to open fully.

A quick glance around confirmed that the spirit was gone, who knows where, and that every other being at the party was staring at him.

The winter spirit startled as a low whistle blew in his ear.

"Man, he doesn't even give the zombies that kind of attention," Jack-O remarked, casually slinging an arm around Jack's shoulders.

"Ah, what just happened?"

Jack-O raised a brow. "Clearly Death has it out for you. What did you do? I've rarely seen him show that much emotion. Like ever."

Emotion? The guy was monotonous for almost the whole 'conversation'!

"I have no idea," Jack said instead.

"Must've been something bad, is all I can say. You'd better watch yourself; Hell hath no fury like Death scorned."

"…I think you have that saying wrong."

...

...

Death, much like Jack, never failed to show up to the Halloween party. And each consecutive year, Jack would find himself keeping as far away as he could, preferably with something hiding him from the spirit's view.

But if the Reaper ever noticed him, he didn't show it. In fact, the guy didn't so much as look at him after that; although there were times when Jack would feel like there were eyes (or eye-sockets – did the guy even have eyes?) boring into the back of his head, a feeling of malevolence washing over him like a wave. But when he looked around there would be nothing there.

So, for the most part, he wrote it off as a one-off occurrence. And if anyone ever noticed the way he would suddenly start walking in the opposite direction, they played it off as suddenly remembering something important and nothing to do with the fact that a cloaked skeleton was up ahead. Nope. Not at all.

At least, he hoped so.