Death is My BFF Rewritten (Book 1 of the Rewritten Death Chronicles)

Chapter 32: The Boy Who Died: Part 1

DOUBLE UPLOAD! Chapter 32 and 33 are new! 

;)

The feels are real.

* * *

This was going to seriously suck.

 “Woo! Ditching the parents! Ditching the rents!” Aunt Sarah bounced up and down in her seat on the hayride, doing a little dance. She shook my shoulder playfully. “Whoop! Whoop! Aren’t you excited?”

“Not particularly,” I said dryly.

Aunt Sarah had bribed me with a huge caramel apple to go on the haunted hayride with her.

 I was now thoroughly regretting being a sucker for caramel apples.

 “It smells like shit,” Andrew muttered when we hit another bump in the trail. He took the words right out of my mouth.

The hayride had two carts hooked to a huge tractor. The railings were painted a dark orange and the tractor had a pumpkin painted on the side. I sat all the way in the back of the second cart and my Aunt and her boyfriend sat to my left. The carts were practically empty, but my eyes were trained on a hooded man with his back to us, leaning back against the cart in front of us, his long arms draped over the top of the railing. He had appeared out of nowhere, of course, but nobody seemed to notice except for me.

He’s up to something.

Aunt Sarah pouted. “You guys are downers!”

On cue, the tractor driver stepped on it and we lurched forward.

Death took a casual drag of his cigarette, letting out a lazy puff of smoke, which hit Aunt Sarah, Andrew, and myself directly in the face.

“It’s that guy, “Andrew whispered. “The smoker.” At first, he seemed to nervous to say anything about the smoke, but then when Death did it again, Andrew opened his big mouth. “I’m pretty sure you aren’t supposed to smoke on a hay ride, buddy!”

Aunt Sarah beat me too it and smacked him on the chest. "Stop,” she hissed. “He could be crazy.”

She had no idea.

“I’ll knock his lights out,” Andrew muttered bitterly.

 “Good luck with that, Polo-boy,” Death snarled.

Andrew shrunk into his seat. “How the hell did he hear that?” he muttered shakily to us, then tried to control the tremble in his voice when he replied to Death with, "Aren’t you a little too old to be riding this thing alone?”

 Death turned sharply around, his voice pure ice. “If you bitch anymore, your girlfriend might start thinking it’s that time of the month for you.”

Andrew finally shut up.

Aunt Sarah turned to me. “Do you know that man?” she asked softly.

“No,” I said steadily.

            The hayride passed a filthy sign that hung over us reading, "Welcome to Hell," in crooked red letters.

Stereotypical scary music began to play through old speakers and the tractor rolled to a stop in front of a small stage, cutting its engine. The small stage was set up to look like a little girls room, with a small pink bed beholding a frilly pink comforter, pink walls, and a prominent closet door that nestled at the far end of the girl's room.

It was an incredible coincidence.

The room looked just like mine when I was a child.

Lying on the bed on the stage in front of the hay ride, pretending to sleep, was a girl around my age, dressed as her part as an innocent child, with her blonde hair up in pigtails, curling gently like a halo around her pillow, and a bright pink dress to her knees, which matched the frilliness of the comforter she lay on. In her hands lay a giant teddy bear that resembled my childhood teddy bear and favorite cuddle buddy to this day, Mr. Wiggles.