Sympathy for the Devil (Songs of Life and Death side story)
Being a ghost isn't really all it's cracked up to be. People can't see you, you can't walk through walls, and you can't affect the world in any way. All that poltergeist stuff? Bunch of crap. Believe me, I would know. Mostly all you can do is wander around and hope that no one shuts you in a room. Honestly, it sucks. Is it really that much of a surprise that I would do anything to free myself from such a depressing state of existence? But maybe I should start at the beginning.
My name is Kaelus Sorensen, and I was born to a pair of hippies in the summer of 1968. A lot of stuff happened between then and when this story really starts, including the deaths of my parents, but we won't get into that right now. The important parts are that I eventually met a beautiful woman named Cynthia, married her, and we had a daughter together. Aradia was the light of my life for two years - until all of a sudden, I didn't have a life anymore.
It was a dark and stormy night...well, not really. That just sounds like a better beginning to a ghost story than “it was a bright and sunny morning.” Well, in any case, it was bright, especially because it had snowed the night before - a layer of ice coated the world around me. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have been on the road, but I'd been at a conference for a week, and I was eager to get home. I was doing fine for a while, the roads were mostly clear. But then a large pickup started tailgating me, and it made me reckless. I started going a little faster, crossed into a poorer county with crappier roads, hit a patch of ice...and then, of course, there was the tree in the road. I tried to swerve out of the way, but I guess the universe had decreed that I hit a tree that day, because I promptly went off the road and wrapped my car around a different tree. After that, everything went dark.
I woke up in my house, curled up in my favorite armchair. I didn't really remember how I'd gotten there - my best guess was that the crash had knocked me out, the tailgating jerk had called 911, and the girls had picked me up from the hospital, concussion and all. I wasn't really planning on worrying about it too hard, though. I was too happy to be home.
My wife bustled around the kitchen, clearing dishes from the table. I smiled slightly at the scene - funny to think that the high-spirited college student I'd married three years ago had settled so comfortably into the role of wife and mother. Our two year-old daughter was sitting on the kitchen floor, happily babbling to her alphabet blocks.
After a few moments, Cynthia turned away from her domestic chores, scooping up the little princess in her arms. Tears welled in my wife's eyes as she carried our daughter to her little room on the second floor.
Concerned at Cynthia's unexplained distress, I followed my girls into Aradia's room. By now, Cynthia wasn't the only one getting teary. The tucked-in little blonde sniffled as I approached, perching on the edge of her bed. I smiled reassuringly and stroked her hair, hoping that my presence would calm her a little. God only knew how my face looked. “Don't worry, sweetheart, Daddy's okay.”
My daughter turned watery blue eyes on her lovely mother, crouched beside a bookcase. Her voice was plaintive but clear enough: “Mommy, want Daddy read story.” She always had been a Daddy's girl. The thought brought a smile to my face. How long would that last?
Cynthia just shook her head. “No sweetie, remember what I told you. Daddy has to stay at the hospital for a little while.”
My hand stopped its soothing ministrations. What the hell? I was sitting right there.
Aradia just burst into tears, punctuated with unintelligible gibberish. I leaned forward to take her into my arms, but my hands would not hold her. I could feel her, but my fingers did not stir her hair, my weight made no indention on the bed. It was like there was nothing to me, no weight, no substance.
Horrified, I leaped up from my daughter's bed just as my wife moved in to take my place. My hands balled into fists as I watched my wife able to do what I could not. I was suddenly aware of everything: I still breathed, still blinked, still felt air whispering softly over my skin. Everything about me was completely normal. I cleared my throat to speak - I called my daughter's name, then my wife's - but neither showed any sign. They remained on Aradia's tiny bed, clutching each other and sobbing.
That night was the worst I've ever had, and I've seen a lot of messed-up shit since then. I followed Cynthia as she readied for bed, and I tried everything; from screaming and pleading to trying to physically interact with her. She seemed to slip around me, unconciously avoiding me, but not knowing that I was there. She eventually went to bed and succumbed to exhaustion. It was then that I found out that, hard as I tried, I couldn't sleep. I'd never felt so completely helpless as right then, trapped in the room that I shared with my wife, forced to endure her sobbing in her sleep. It was nearly unbearable.
The next day was seemingly normal, breakfast and hair-brushing and playing with dolls. I spent most of the time watching my daughter, talking to her, and pretending that she just wasn't paying attention to me, as small children sometimes do. Morning slid by, until Cynthia bent down to scoop up Aradia. “We're going to have lunch with Daddy, okay?”
I ghosted after them, slipping into the car when the wife opened doors to load the kid and all her accessories. The ride to the hospital was quiet, with Cynthia's hands white-knuckled on the wheel. I usually did most of the driving. Then again, that was what had gotten us into this whole mess in the first place, wasn't it? More than anything else, though, this seemed to drive home to me how extraordinarily weird this whole experience was. Like I had woken up one morning and the universe had tilted a degree or two, slightly out of alignment.
I wondered what I would see in our hospital room destination. The question nibbled at the edges of my mind as I trailed along after my wife and daughter, as they met with a woman that I could only assume was my doctor. I didn't really pay attention to anything she said after the words “irreversible brain-damage” and “coma.”
The importance of the words slowly sank in as the woman guided a sobbing Cynthia and quietly bewildered Aradia into the hospital room. Through the open door, I could see machinery, the end of a hospital bed - and vaguely, a foot-shaped lump under the covers. I walked into the room, feeling more lost than I had since my parents died. That was me in the bed, hooked up to wires and beeping machinery. That was my body, kept alive through the miracle of modern medicine; but for some reason, I had been trapped outside of it.
I crumpled into a chair next to my hospital bed. I paid little attention to the words of my wife and the doctor, instead focusing on my daughter, who had climbed up onto the bed and snuggled up with my unconcious body. She was quietly sniffling - she and Cynthia had had a talk on the way here, about how “Daddy was sleeping” and shouldn't be woken up.
The doctor left shortly thereafter, leaving my wife to sit next to our daughter. She looked utterly miserable - whatever news the doctor had given her about my condition, it hadn't been good. Her light brown hair fell around her face in strings that I longed to smooth back, but no longer could. I buried my face in my hands, feeling empty.
So consumed with thoughts of this terrible turn of events, I missed it when Cynthia gathered up our daughter and left. It wasn't until the door clicked shut that I realized that something was wrong. I blinked in subdued surprise and strode over to the door. Even though I knew it was futile, I clasped the handle, but the damned thing wouldn't turn.
“Having some trouble?” A warm, faintly amused voice sounded from behind me.
A man was leaning comfortably against the far wall. I really couldn't help but think that he looked like an extra from an old western, with his long brown coat and large cowboy hat. I instantly disliked him, but then, I don’t think I would have cared for Helen of Troy at that point, if she had been there, giving me crap.
“Who are you? And why can you see me?”
“I’m here to hustle you on to the next existence. Unless of course you’d like to hang out here with your body for a while longer, but that don’t look like much fun, if you ask me.”
Uh, right. I would have called him crazy if I wasn’t clearly having an out-of-body experience at that point in time. “You don’t look much like the grim reaper.” A weird calm had overtaken me - this was all kind of funny, in a surreal sort of way. It probably wasn’t a good sign that my own death amused me.
“And how, exactly, would you know what the bloody reaper looks like, huh?” He snorted derisively. “Damn mortals, always thinking they have the right of it. Well then, come on. I’ve got things to do, other souls to send on.”
“Wait. I don’t want to go. My wife and daughter - they need me.” Now I understood the reasoning behind all those old ghost stories; about the unfinished business that keeps a spirit tied to this world. The thought of not seeing my family again was frightening enough that I couldn’t process it properly. I didn’t feel anything, really, beyond a fierce desire to remain on Earth.
“No can do, kid. You’ve been left to run around free for too long. Let you linger any longer, and you’ll start losing your humanity. I reckon it’s already started - not feeling like you used to, are you? Everything sort of muddled and gray?”
He was right, of course. Only the living have emotions, and the only reason my body was alive at that point was because of my wife’s sentimental nature. I didn’t know that then, though, so I just blankly stared at him.
“Thought as much. Let me fill you in on what’s going to happen if you hang around any longer: you’ll lose all semblance of emotion, and eventually even the memory of it. Then, if your will is weak, you’ll start to dissolve into nothingness, which is unpleasant enough by itself. But given the fact that you’ve managed fairly well for this long, I’m thinking you’ll go the other way. Your will won’t let you just fade away into the ether, so you’ll get really hungry. You know what spirits eat to keep themselves anchored to this world? Life. Your attachment to your family will make you look at them as food, and then you’ll consume their life energy, shortening their lifespans drastically, maybe even killing one of them outright. Even worse than that, after you feed, you’ll get your emotions back for a while, and be able to fully appreciate what you just did. You’ll go on like this forever, repeating the cycle of feeding and guilt, until you lose your will to go on. And that can take a very, very long time.”
Horror finally managed to cut its way through the fog enshrouding my mind. I shuddered, hard, but still could not make myself leave. It was like my mind and my will were completely disconnected from one another. So I clung to denial, still vivid in my heart. “There has to be another way. Those can’t be my only options.”
The man tilted his head at me, with the same look that I imagined he might give a horse’s mouth - judging, assessing. He blew out a long, reluctant breath. “There is…one way. It involves trading your afterlife for an eternity bound to the earth, guiding souls on to destinations that you will never see.”
“But my alternatives are either to leave and hope to see my family in the afterlife, or stay and eventually go crazy?” That was like getting ready to be crushed to death between a rock and a hard place, and your only escape is to jump right into a sewer.
“Pretty much.”
“And I'll be able to see my family if I do this?”
“Sure thing.”
“I'll do it.” I won't lie, I was desperate. There was no way I was going to be able to move on peacefully, and I wouldn't allow myself to harm those I loved. That really left only one option. “What do I have to do?”
The reaper reached into his coat and pulled out a small, short-bladed sword, almost like a machete. He deftly flipped it around and offered it to me, hilt first. “Take the sword, and you're golden.”
My hand reached out almost of its own accord, long fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt. As soon as the man released it, the blade began to curve and lengthen, taking on a silver sheen. In a few moments, I was holding an simple but elegant Asian-style blade. Beautiful, but functional. I loved it, and told the man as much.
“The blade reflects the bearer. Of course you like it. Feel better now?”
He was right. Five minutes ago, I didn't think that I would have so much as glanced at the sword, but now...I glanced over at my nearly-lifeless body, and felt a surge of regret. “I can feel things again.” My lips curved in an involuntary smile. I was happy, purely for the joy of feeling happiness. You never know how much you miss your emotions until they've been deadened like that.
“Yep. Try opening the door.” He gestured behind me.
I strode over and grabbed the handle, turning it and pulling the door open. It wasn't easy, and the door swung openly slowly, almost as if it hadn't been latched properly, but I wasn't trapped. I could touch the world again.
The reaper pulled himself off the wall, straightening his coat. “You'll get your first reaping assignment first thing in the morning. I would go say your goodbyes to your lady and little girl.”
Shock pulsed through my veins. “What? You said I could see them anytime.”
He chuckled, a smirk on his lips. “I said you'd have the ability. Never said anything about having the time. Death waits for no man, or so they say.”
The shock turned to anger, and I awkwardly slashed at the man with my new sword. He just let the blade pass through him, leaving him completely unharmed. “Reaper blades don't work on reapers, boyo, or anything else that's already dead. Save it for the live ones.”
“You lying asshole!”
He threw his head back and let out a full-throated laugh. “What? You expected charity? Lemme give you a little life lesson - if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is. And don't even think of trying to shirk your duties. It's not possible. You're a reaper now - even if you fight it, you'll unconciously be drawn to people that need you to send them on, and the few that you manage to avoid? Well, let's just say that fate can be a nasty bitch when she doesn't get her way. If she's denied one life, she'll take another. And I don't think you want to be responsible for a bus full of nuns that spontaneously catches fire after spending a day with your ladies.”
I just stood there, unable to say or do anything. I had sealed my fate. And there was no way that I was going to let an ill-considered decision on my part end someone else's life. Maybe I wouldn't be able to see Cynthia and Aradia 24/7, but that was sort of creepy now that I thought about it, anyways. I'd do my job, and keep an eye on them as best I could. It would have to be enough. And it is.
The man gave a sardonic tip of his hat in my direction, and ambled into the hall, singing off-key: “Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste. I've been around for a long, long year, stole many a man's soul and faith...” Laughter echoed through the hallway.
I still hate that guy, though.
My name is Kaelus Sorensen, and I was born to a pair of hippies in the summer of 1968. A lot of stuff happened between then and when this story really starts, including the deaths of my parents, but we won't get into that right now. The important parts are that I eventually met a beautiful woman named Cynthia, married her, and we had a daughter together. Aradia was the light of my life for two years - until all of a sudden, I didn't have a life anymore.
It was a dark and stormy night...well, not really. That just sounds like a better beginning to a ghost story than “it was a bright and sunny morning.” Well, in any case, it was bright, especially because it had snowed the night before - a layer of ice coated the world around me. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have been on the road, but I'd been at a conference for a week, and I was eager to get home. I was doing fine for a while, the roads were mostly clear. But then a large pickup started tailgating me, and it made me reckless. I started going a little faster, crossed into a poorer county with crappier roads, hit a patch of ice...and then, of course, there was the tree in the road. I tried to swerve out of the way, but I guess the universe had decreed that I hit a tree that day, because I promptly went off the road and wrapped my car around a different tree. After that, everything went dark.
I woke up in my house, curled up in my favorite armchair. I didn't really remember how I'd gotten there - my best guess was that the crash had knocked me out, the tailgating jerk had called 911, and the girls had picked me up from the hospital, concussion and all. I wasn't really planning on worrying about it too hard, though. I was too happy to be home.
My wife bustled around the kitchen, clearing dishes from the table. I smiled slightly at the scene - funny to think that the high-spirited college student I'd married three years ago had settled so comfortably into the role of wife and mother. Our two year-old daughter was sitting on the kitchen floor, happily babbling to her alphabet blocks.
After a few moments, Cynthia turned away from her domestic chores, scooping up the little princess in her arms. Tears welled in my wife's eyes as she carried our daughter to her little room on the second floor.
Concerned at Cynthia's unexplained distress, I followed my girls into Aradia's room. By now, Cynthia wasn't the only one getting teary. The tucked-in little blonde sniffled as I approached, perching on the edge of her bed. I smiled reassuringly and stroked her hair, hoping that my presence would calm her a little. God only knew how my face looked. “Don't worry, sweetheart, Daddy's okay.”
My daughter turned watery blue eyes on her lovely mother, crouched beside a bookcase. Her voice was plaintive but clear enough: “Mommy, want Daddy read story.” She always had been a Daddy's girl. The thought brought a smile to my face. How long would that last?
Cynthia just shook her head. “No sweetie, remember what I told you. Daddy has to stay at the hospital for a little while.”
My hand stopped its soothing ministrations. What the hell? I was sitting right there.
Aradia just burst into tears, punctuated with unintelligible gibberish. I leaned forward to take her into my arms, but my hands would not hold her. I could feel her, but my fingers did not stir her hair, my weight made no indention on the bed. It was like there was nothing to me, no weight, no substance.
Horrified, I leaped up from my daughter's bed just as my wife moved in to take my place. My hands balled into fists as I watched my wife able to do what I could not. I was suddenly aware of everything: I still breathed, still blinked, still felt air whispering softly over my skin. Everything about me was completely normal. I cleared my throat to speak - I called my daughter's name, then my wife's - but neither showed any sign. They remained on Aradia's tiny bed, clutching each other and sobbing.
That night was the worst I've ever had, and I've seen a lot of messed-up shit since then. I followed Cynthia as she readied for bed, and I tried everything; from screaming and pleading to trying to physically interact with her. She seemed to slip around me, unconciously avoiding me, but not knowing that I was there. She eventually went to bed and succumbed to exhaustion. It was then that I found out that, hard as I tried, I couldn't sleep. I'd never felt so completely helpless as right then, trapped in the room that I shared with my wife, forced to endure her sobbing in her sleep. It was nearly unbearable.
The next day was seemingly normal, breakfast and hair-brushing and playing with dolls. I spent most of the time watching my daughter, talking to her, and pretending that she just wasn't paying attention to me, as small children sometimes do. Morning slid by, until Cynthia bent down to scoop up Aradia. “We're going to have lunch with Daddy, okay?”
I ghosted after them, slipping into the car when the wife opened doors to load the kid and all her accessories. The ride to the hospital was quiet, with Cynthia's hands white-knuckled on the wheel. I usually did most of the driving. Then again, that was what had gotten us into this whole mess in the first place, wasn't it? More than anything else, though, this seemed to drive home to me how extraordinarily weird this whole experience was. Like I had woken up one morning and the universe had tilted a degree or two, slightly out of alignment.
I wondered what I would see in our hospital room destination. The question nibbled at the edges of my mind as I trailed along after my wife and daughter, as they met with a woman that I could only assume was my doctor. I didn't really pay attention to anything she said after the words “irreversible brain-damage” and “coma.”
The importance of the words slowly sank in as the woman guided a sobbing Cynthia and quietly bewildered Aradia into the hospital room. Through the open door, I could see machinery, the end of a hospital bed - and vaguely, a foot-shaped lump under the covers. I walked into the room, feeling more lost than I had since my parents died. That was me in the bed, hooked up to wires and beeping machinery. That was my body, kept alive through the miracle of modern medicine; but for some reason, I had been trapped outside of it.
I crumpled into a chair next to my hospital bed. I paid little attention to the words of my wife and the doctor, instead focusing on my daughter, who had climbed up onto the bed and snuggled up with my unconcious body. She was quietly sniffling - she and Cynthia had had a talk on the way here, about how “Daddy was sleeping” and shouldn't be woken up.
The doctor left shortly thereafter, leaving my wife to sit next to our daughter. She looked utterly miserable - whatever news the doctor had given her about my condition, it hadn't been good. Her light brown hair fell around her face in strings that I longed to smooth back, but no longer could. I buried my face in my hands, feeling empty.
So consumed with thoughts of this terrible turn of events, I missed it when Cynthia gathered up our daughter and left. It wasn't until the door clicked shut that I realized that something was wrong. I blinked in subdued surprise and strode over to the door. Even though I knew it was futile, I clasped the handle, but the damned thing wouldn't turn.
“Having some trouble?” A warm, faintly amused voice sounded from behind me.
A man was leaning comfortably against the far wall. I really couldn't help but think that he looked like an extra from an old western, with his long brown coat and large cowboy hat. I instantly disliked him, but then, I don’t think I would have cared for Helen of Troy at that point, if she had been there, giving me crap.
“Who are you? And why can you see me?”
“I’m here to hustle you on to the next existence. Unless of course you’d like to hang out here with your body for a while longer, but that don’t look like much fun, if you ask me.”
Uh, right. I would have called him crazy if I wasn’t clearly having an out-of-body experience at that point in time. “You don’t look much like the grim reaper.” A weird calm had overtaken me - this was all kind of funny, in a surreal sort of way. It probably wasn’t a good sign that my own death amused me.
“And how, exactly, would you know what the bloody reaper looks like, huh?” He snorted derisively. “Damn mortals, always thinking they have the right of it. Well then, come on. I’ve got things to do, other souls to send on.”
“Wait. I don’t want to go. My wife and daughter - they need me.” Now I understood the reasoning behind all those old ghost stories; about the unfinished business that keeps a spirit tied to this world. The thought of not seeing my family again was frightening enough that I couldn’t process it properly. I didn’t feel anything, really, beyond a fierce desire to remain on Earth.
“No can do, kid. You’ve been left to run around free for too long. Let you linger any longer, and you’ll start losing your humanity. I reckon it’s already started - not feeling like you used to, are you? Everything sort of muddled and gray?”
He was right, of course. Only the living have emotions, and the only reason my body was alive at that point was because of my wife’s sentimental nature. I didn’t know that then, though, so I just blankly stared at him.
“Thought as much. Let me fill you in on what’s going to happen if you hang around any longer: you’ll lose all semblance of emotion, and eventually even the memory of it. Then, if your will is weak, you’ll start to dissolve into nothingness, which is unpleasant enough by itself. But given the fact that you’ve managed fairly well for this long, I’m thinking you’ll go the other way. Your will won’t let you just fade away into the ether, so you’ll get really hungry. You know what spirits eat to keep themselves anchored to this world? Life. Your attachment to your family will make you look at them as food, and then you’ll consume their life energy, shortening their lifespans drastically, maybe even killing one of them outright. Even worse than that, after you feed, you’ll get your emotions back for a while, and be able to fully appreciate what you just did. You’ll go on like this forever, repeating the cycle of feeding and guilt, until you lose your will to go on. And that can take a very, very long time.”
Horror finally managed to cut its way through the fog enshrouding my mind. I shuddered, hard, but still could not make myself leave. It was like my mind and my will were completely disconnected from one another. So I clung to denial, still vivid in my heart. “There has to be another way. Those can’t be my only options.”
The man tilted his head at me, with the same look that I imagined he might give a horse’s mouth - judging, assessing. He blew out a long, reluctant breath. “There is…one way. It involves trading your afterlife for an eternity bound to the earth, guiding souls on to destinations that you will never see.”
“But my alternatives are either to leave and hope to see my family in the afterlife, or stay and eventually go crazy?” That was like getting ready to be crushed to death between a rock and a hard place, and your only escape is to jump right into a sewer.
“Pretty much.”
“And I'll be able to see my family if I do this?”
“Sure thing.”
“I'll do it.” I won't lie, I was desperate. There was no way I was going to be able to move on peacefully, and I wouldn't allow myself to harm those I loved. That really left only one option. “What do I have to do?”
The reaper reached into his coat and pulled out a small, short-bladed sword, almost like a machete. He deftly flipped it around and offered it to me, hilt first. “Take the sword, and you're golden.”
My hand reached out almost of its own accord, long fingers wrapping tightly around the hilt. As soon as the man released it, the blade began to curve and lengthen, taking on a silver sheen. In a few moments, I was holding an simple but elegant Asian-style blade. Beautiful, but functional. I loved it, and told the man as much.
“The blade reflects the bearer. Of course you like it. Feel better now?”
He was right. Five minutes ago, I didn't think that I would have so much as glanced at the sword, but now...I glanced over at my nearly-lifeless body, and felt a surge of regret. “I can feel things again.” My lips curved in an involuntary smile. I was happy, purely for the joy of feeling happiness. You never know how much you miss your emotions until they've been deadened like that.
“Yep. Try opening the door.” He gestured behind me.
I strode over and grabbed the handle, turning it and pulling the door open. It wasn't easy, and the door swung openly slowly, almost as if it hadn't been latched properly, but I wasn't trapped. I could touch the world again.
The reaper pulled himself off the wall, straightening his coat. “You'll get your first reaping assignment first thing in the morning. I would go say your goodbyes to your lady and little girl.”
Shock pulsed through my veins. “What? You said I could see them anytime.”
He chuckled, a smirk on his lips. “I said you'd have the ability. Never said anything about having the time. Death waits for no man, or so they say.”
The shock turned to anger, and I awkwardly slashed at the man with my new sword. He just let the blade pass through him, leaving him completely unharmed. “Reaper blades don't work on reapers, boyo, or anything else that's already dead. Save it for the live ones.”
“You lying asshole!”
He threw his head back and let out a full-throated laugh. “What? You expected charity? Lemme give you a little life lesson - if something sounds too good to be true, it usually is. And don't even think of trying to shirk your duties. It's not possible. You're a reaper now - even if you fight it, you'll unconciously be drawn to people that need you to send them on, and the few that you manage to avoid? Well, let's just say that fate can be a nasty bitch when she doesn't get her way. If she's denied one life, she'll take another. And I don't think you want to be responsible for a bus full of nuns that spontaneously catches fire after spending a day with your ladies.”
I just stood there, unable to say or do anything. I had sealed my fate. And there was no way that I was going to let an ill-considered decision on my part end someone else's life. Maybe I wouldn't be able to see Cynthia and Aradia 24/7, but that was sort of creepy now that I thought about it, anyways. I'd do my job, and keep an eye on them as best I could. It would have to be enough. And it is.
The man gave a sardonic tip of his hat in my direction, and ambled into the hall, singing off-key: “Please allow me to introduce myself, I'm a man of wealth and taste. I've been around for a long, long year, stole many a man's soul and faith...” Laughter echoed through the hallway.
I still hate that guy, though.