The Midnight Hour & Other Scary Stories

Vita Est Vita

Richter, the name he had taken for this particular job, sat on the train cabin's leather seat. The train had been moving at a brisk pace for nearly an hour now and he was getting closer to the estate. The countryside looked like a lovely blur. It was full of life. He smiled and held his chin in his hand. His black gloves felt cool against his cheek.

Such a fragile thing. Life.

He found himself going out on these trips more and more often. Sometimes, the work is what brought him. Others, it was a stroke of compassion that even he felt strange in hosting. Today was a mixture of the two and as he watched the green fields give way to small buildings, he knew that his time was drawing to a close.

The train came to a stop not but a few minutes later. One by one, the passengers left their seats, and Richter followed suit. He took great care to follow after them and kept his head low as he navigated the crowd outside.

No one paid him any mind, for which he was grateful. The fewer distractions, the better. Finding a carriage waiting for him, the driver motioned Richter to come over. From there, the journey to the estate saw him travel through a great big town and past a factory that had once been owned by a wealthy man but had since been stolen from him by one of his rivals.

Such a shame. Richter thought. For people to spend their entire lives building up something as easily taken as money.

They rode on until the small buildings were replaced by orchards, and at the end of it all, a large mansion. This is where Richter's solemn ride met its end and he stepped out before the imposing structure. He had seen quite a few manors in his time, some grander, some less so. This building, however, had an air of sadness.

The mansion's butler greeted Richter at the set of double doors before guiding him down hallways of marble and dark wood. They then made their way up a flight of great stairs towards the master of the house, or, more specifically, his bedchamber.

Richter took great care to keep his hands to himself, a habit that many thought made him more aloof than he wished to be. In truth, it was a merciful action, if not a friendly one.

When he came to the bedchamber doors, the sadness that soaked every inch of that house threatened to burst from within. He had felt this emotion many times before though never had it belonged to him. Such was his curse.

"The master is this way." The butler said quietly. "Please, sir, help him!"

Richter merely nodded. The butler opened the doors and bid him to enter. Beyond was the source of the house's sadness, a shriveled man whose age hinted at nearly a hundred years. The butler closed the doors behind Richter and the two men were now the only souls in the chamber.

The master of the house, who was sickly and propped up with pillows, said, "Thank you for coming, good man. Your accepting my invitation took my old heart by surprise. Truly, I didn't expect you to answer so quickly... or to arrive so soon."

"Indeed." Richter said, taking his place on a chair by the bedside. "Yours was a special case, however. I make exceptions for men in your state."

At this, the old man began to form tears in the corner of his eyes. He could not meet Richter's eyes. He said, "You are a good soul."

"No." Richter said. "Good men do not collect debts as I do. Now, what is the matter exactly? What plagues you? I know the gist of it, but I require your full knowledge on the matter."

The old man looked out of the window to his side. "Good man, I am dying. I think that should be obvious. But what is less so is my current state of affairs. Did you see that great factory on the way? How could you not? I once owned it all, but it was taken from me by subterfuge. Now, it belongs to my rival through dishonest means."