Chapter 8 Helena
Seated on my living room couch in my tiny fourth-floor apartment, reading glasses still on, I stared at the slim volume I’d already read cover to cover—twice.
The book stated that, contrary to popular belief, the Grim Reaper didn’t end the lives of those whose souls he went to reap.
Rather, he was a symbolic figure meant to help explain the mystery of death.
A figure who, as I’d hypothesized—to the actual Grim Reaper’s face—was said to only collect and usher the souls of the dead.
Still, I had seen him kill. And the book hadn’t been written from a standpoint that presumed the Grim Reaper was, in fact, real. Even if the note that had been stuffed within, addressed to me, claimed exactly that.
Who had written the note, though? And who had the blond man been?
I frowned, hunkering into the cushions, a chill scampering along my arms.
I seized the overlarge, smiling pineapple Squishmallow I’d bought to use as a throw pillow and hugged her close, bringing my knees up.
“That young man,” I said through a sigh. “He was probably only a few years older than Hunter. His poor family… If they’ve been notified, they must be devastated.”
But whoever he was, what had he been looking for in the elevator?
The doors of which he’d apparently used mystical green mojo to command apart.
And then there was the biggest question of all: Why and how had the Grim Reaper become invested in saving my life rather than letting fate take its course before reaping my soul?
Wasn’t that his job? The book confirmed that it was…
Maybe, in this one instance, the answers I sought couldn’t be found in a book.
I took off my glasses and, frustrated, flopped them onto my notes. Frowning, I stood, and with Maui the ginormous pineapple tucked under one arm, I went to add more “pumpkin spice” oil to my aromatherapy diffuser.
Except the calming scent wasn’t calming me.
Then again, I had almost died that day. Almost died again.
Keeping an eye on that book, which lay in the center of my coffee table next to all the notes I’d scribbled down in hot-pink ink, I paced behind my yellow couch, chewing my thumbnail, Maui cinched in a headlock while I fretted.
Because it couldn’t be a good sign that the infamous harvester of souls had shown up to rescue me from death a second time.
That alone suggested that there could be a third time coming.
I also had no idea why any of this was happening, or why my mysterious rescuer had bothered warning me to “not engage with” and to “hide” from someone he’d then proceeded to take out.
Murder?
Maybe he was a serial killer…
Fighting off another shudder, I shook my head, unable to make sense of anything.
“Even my internet search for people who’ve encountered the Grim Reaper has come up short,” I told the plushie. “Right before leading me down a rabbit hole of Reddit stories that read like fan fiction.”
That said, I hadn’t worked up enough courage to post my own story. Yet.
“What do you think, Maui?” I asked the pineapple, returning her to her usual spot in the crook of the couch’s armrest.
Maui smiled her quiet slip of a smile up at me.
“No, I’m not obsessing,” I told her, folding my arms. “Or… maybe I am. But this is kind of obsession-worthy, don’t you think?
I mean, in the elevator he was all…” Widening my stance, I mimed the way he’d pulled apart the doors Incredible Hulk–style.
“Then, with the scythe thingy he was all…” I grasped the staff of an invisible scythe before taking the same great swipe Reaper Man had taken at the blond man.
“And then he just whooooosh!” I mimed an explosion of smoke with my arms.
Maui said nothing. Though, did her smile seem more knowing than before?
“Don’t give me that look,” I admonished, hands going to my hips. “It’s not like that.”
My phone rang, and I startled hard, eyes falling to where the device lay near the book.
I’d already spent two hours on the phone with my mom that day, assuring her that I really was okay. This call, though, wasn’t from either of my parents.
Instead, the name on the screen read “Peter.”
Peter. Gosh. What was he calling for?
Should I answer?
Maybe it was important. Maybe it had something to do with work. Or maybe…
“I should answer,” I said, speaking maybe to myself, maybe to Maui. “Mom asked about Peter…”
Lamented how I was no longer with him. Didn’t have anyone here to comfort me…
Before I could talk myself out of it, I rounded the couch, plucked up the phone, and accepted the call.
“Hello?”
“Helena,” said Peter, his voice warm, his tone concerned. “My goodness, darling. Are you all right?”
For a moment, I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure what to say. Aside from the fact that I didn’t really know how I was, I still couldn’t piece together why he was calling me. Or why I’d been “Miss Hart” earlier and now “Helena” again. And not just Helena, but “darling.”
No matter what I’d been hoping for, this included, the whiplash stung. And rattled me.
Then again, maybe he was just being kind. There didn’t have to be a deeper reason behind Peter’s call. Probably best if there wasn’t…
Since he’d gotten off the elevator moments before it had taken me on a Final Destination–style ride, maybe he just wanted to check on me.
“I’m okay,” I said. “Just… a little shaken.”
“A little.” He scoffed. “You had quite a fright today. Please tell me you’re not alone at home.”
I didn’t answer. Because I couldn’t tell him that I wasn’t.
Mom and Dad lived half a state away, along with half my undergrad friends—something he knew. My grad-school friends peppered the United States, and no one lived closer than a few hours’ drive.
After earning my MLS, I’d moved to Wyvern to take this job. And even after four years in the city, I still only had a few close friends.
Who were all married now…
“I am thinking about getting a cat,” I said at last. “Does that count?”
“You are alone,” he murmured.
I scowled. And maybe it was the pity in his downward-inflecting tone that stirred my anger. “I’m not alone, Peter,” I blurted out.
“Oh,” he said after a beat. “Brooke is there?”
Brooke was my best friend, a fellow librarian in the school system. Who’d gotten hitched earlier that year. And… busy.
“Um,” I said, gaze sliding back to Maui. “N-no.”
Another pause. And then: “Oh.”
Silence pulsed from his end of the phone. When he spoke again, his tone was even softer than before. “Well, I won’t keep you from your guest. I just… There’s a rumor swirling about that you were the one to find John Doe.”
I flinched as I made my way toward the window overlooking the complex’s parking lot.
“The patron who died,” I said, “they still don’t know who he was?”
I scanned the cars in the parking lot below and the shadowy trees beyond, searching perhaps for evidence of my cloaked follower. Probably a good thing that I didn’t see him since he only appeared when I was about to fall to my death.
“There’s not been a positive ID that I’ve heard of,” he replied. “They say he was younger than us, but they’re citing a heart attack, if you can believe it. But I am curious how you got off that elevator before finding your way to the basement of all places.”
“Um,” I said, fingers trailing down the gossamer fabric of my off-white drapes before I went in search of my tea. “There was… a Good Samaritan. He… got me out of the elevator. I followed him down to the basement.”
All of that was the truth, wasn’t it?
“Samaritan,” Peter repeated. “You’re not saying someone boarded the elevator after I disembarked, are you?”
“Disembarked?” I asked through a small huff of a laugh, finding my favorite Stitch mug, the one where the little grinning alien wore a grass skirt and strummed a ukelele. “It was more like you were Double-O-Seven-ing your way out of a viper pit.”
Silence again radiated on his end.
“Listen, Peter,” I said, “I appreciate your concern. I do. But I’m okay. And I don’t need you to check on me. I really am all right.”
“I suppose I feel a bit guilty,” he said. “That I’d only just left you. I can’t help thinking that, if I’d stayed, I could have done something. I can only be grateful you had help from a stranger. An angel in the flesh.”
I blurted a nervous laugh, which I hoped didn’t hurt his ear. I couldn’t have helped the half-hysterical sound, though. Not when it had come bolting out of me like someone stepping on a raspy squeak toy.
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Peter asked.
No. “Of course.”
“Your benefactor,” Peter pressed. “Did you happen to catch his name?”
“There was so much going on. I… It didn’t really come up.”
“No, of course it wouldn’t.”
Silence again emanated from his end. I frowned, staring down into my mug. The citrus tea had lost its steam.
Seemingly just like my interest in Peter.
Which, on the whole, was good information to have.
Apparently, almost dying—twice now—had done something to me. Or maybe the incidents had simply awakened me to the fact that it was folly to want something—someone—who didn’t want me back.
There’d been my rescuer, too. I wasn’t ready to buy into the idea his plans didn’t include reaping my soul at some point in the near future, but then… why rescue me in the first place?
And if my time truly was limited, then it would be no one’s fault but my own if I ended up wasting it pining for someone who couldn’t seem to make up his mind regarding how he felt about me.
“I have to go now, Peter,” I said to him. “But… I’ll see you around at work.”
“Helena,” he said. “Listen, I am sorry.”
I scowled and, turning, pressed my back to the countertop as I again peered toward my window.
There was no telling what he was apologizing for.
Was he simply offering empathy for what had happened that day?
Or, after months of not so much as a how-do-you-do, was he expressing remorse for the coldness he’d shown me on the heels of so many empty promises… and so much heat?
“I appreciate that,” I said.
Quiet. And then, “Good night, Helena.”
“Cheers,” I whispered in response—and ended the call.