The Chosen: Strangetown, 1985 Part III
Strangetown, 1985
What was it with humans and their desperate need to avoid or reverse death? I've had to deal with their greed for centuries. Why can they not get it through their skulls? Humans are mortal. Finite. They are not meant to live forever. That is not how their souls were constructed.
It was no surprise that I would be alerted of a necromancer's actions on the night of a full moon. The moon gave witches power, increasing the success of spells and limiting the possibility of a spell fizzing. It was also the perfect night to resurrect creatures and create zombies.
Ah, zombies. My most finest punishment for those who dare touch my domain.
I found my necromancer at 13 Dead End Lane, in a small hellhole called Strangetown. Her choice of location for the ritual was ironic, and I did not fail to notice her interest in the abandoned house that stood next to the graveyard. Huh, we have a creeper here.
I decided to watch her, to see if she was brave enough to go through with the ritual. I was also testing her - has she sensed me yet? My answer came when she continued and magic started swirling around her dangerously. I had to make my move.
When she opened her eyes, she startled and scrambled back, exiting the magic circle and losing her connection.
“Dear, oh, dear,” I hummed. “What have we here? Another necromancer? You seem to breed like rabbits.”
A rumble of disgust crackled in the back of my throat. Why couldn't the necromancers just stop popping out new ones? I had enough on my plate already.
The witch stared at me, eyes wide.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
Curious, she does not show fear. In fact, she seemed more impatient than anything. Her forehead was puckered and her lips pursed. If this wasn't such a serious situation, I would probably have taken the time to admire her beauty.
I snorted at her question. “What do I want? Why do you humans always ask that question?”
The witch frowned. “Then what should I ask?”
I admit, she startled me. No human had ever attempted to understand anything I said or did before. This was little, and probably insignificant in the eyes of many, but her acknowledgement was something I never knew I wanted so badly. Of course, she cannot know this. So I quickly regained my composure.
“You shouldn't be ask anything,” I pointed out. “You should just fall on your knees and beg for mercy.”
“Why?” the witch demanded.
“Because the Dead belongs to me. And you phony witches better withdraw your nasty green claws from my realm. I do not appreciate humans trying to play Watcher.”
The witch gaped, and I could see the recognition in her eyes. She scrambled to her feet.
“Death,” she whispered.
I laughed. “And so the simol drops! However, I have not been called that in a long time. I must admit it's...refreshing.”
And it was. Most called me the 'Grim Reaper' or 'Reaper' now. Only one other person called me by another name.
The witch frowned. “Who calls money simols these days? What are you, from the dark ages?”
That amused me. The dark ages? She was intuitive, indeed. And well versed in her history. Simols was a dead currency now, replaced by the ever orange simoleon. It was the modern-day note for the modern Sim.
They are all a bunch of idiots in my opinion, but my opinion rarely matters unless you're squashed to death by a bag of money.
“Youngsters,” I hummed. “I am old, witch. Much older than you. Now, will you kneel and beg for mercy?”
“No,” was the defiant reply.
I tilted my hood to the side. “No?”
“I am resurrecting my mother, whether you like it or not.”
Demanding little thing, isn't she? Her attitude wasn't humouring me much anymore.
“You will regret challenging me, little girl,” I hissed.
The witch held her head high. “And you'll regret challenging me, old man.”
Old man? Old man!? Okay, I admit, I am old. And I was a man when I was still a human. So I suppose her insult holds merit. But still, old man?
“Old man! What on earth makes you think I am a man?” I laughed.
“Your attitude,” was the deadpan reply.
I snickered. “I am not technically of any sex, but I suppose I identify to the male gender. How...intuitive of you.”
“Thank you.”
I decided to take this chance to move around her and study her closely. She intrigued me, even if I don't really want to admit that out loud. And now that I can see her face better due to the change of angle, I realise she's beautiful. Although the lack of eyebrows is questionable.
A surge of magic whipped me, but I was fast and quickly deflected her with a barrier. She pursed her lips again. I made a mental note to tell her she looks sinful when she does that someday.
“Impressive,” I chuckled.
“What is?” she demanded.
Your beauty was what I wanted to say, but I know that would land me in trouble. With several people. “Your magic. It is powerful and very deep.”
“Wish I could compliment yours, but you deflected me.”
I stopped circling her and faced her directly. “You don't want to dig so deep, little girl. My essence will kill you. After all, I am Death.”
I am also the father of vampires, creator of mummies, zombies and poisonous Pina Coladas, but I don't think she needs to know that.
“Why haven't you killed me yet?” the witch changed the subject.
That was a good question. Why haven't I snatched her soul? It was probably due time I did so, one less necromancer won't destroy the world.
“Are you all talk and no action?” she taunted.
I just laughed again. For a second there, I thought I had just witnessed Hecate in one of her 'moods'.
“You remind me of someone, with that spitfire of yours. It's amusing,” I hummed.
“What?” the witch blanched.
I chuckled and started to move away into the shadows. I think this woman can live a bit longer. Next time I'll punish her appropriately. I reached out to her soul, searching for her name.
“I shall spare you tonight, Olive Muenda. But know this, the next time you try to take what is mine, I shall take something of yours.”
“I'll gladly give my life for my mother!” Olive yelled back.
I smirked. “I wasn't talking about your life.”
I was talking about your heart.