My dad is the Grim Reaper

In the quiet depths of night, as I slumbered, the little boy I had bid farewell to reappeared at the edge of my bed, accompanied by an angel standing silently behind him. The child gently patted me before turning to glance at the angel, who offered a slight nod before abruptly turning away.

Leaning close to my ear, the boy whispered, "Sir, I bring you joyous news—remember these numbers well…" Before I could fathom his meaning, he recited a string of digits, then straightened up and declared, "Moreover, I have come to bid you farewell. Thank you, sir; in a little while, I shall ascend to Heaven, and rest assured, I will be well!" Suddenly, he covered his mouth and murmured, "You must remember these numbers." With a final wave, he turned and, together with the angel, passed through the wall of my room, vanishing from sight.

Having spent the night helping the little boy recover his lost eye, I returned home past three o'clock; compounded by a few drinks, I slept soundly until well past eleven in the morning.

After rising and tidying up, I changed and set out in search of a fine meal. Not far from my home lies a delightful Mexican restaurant—a favorite haunt of mine. Having placed my order, I reached into my pocket only to find that my cigarettes were gone. Crossing the street to a nearby convenience store, I bought a pack of Marlboro cigarettes and noticed someone purchasing a Powerball lottery ticket. In years past I, too, had dabbled in Powerball—with winnings scarcely exceeding four dollars, and never a larger prize.

My goodness, could it be that the sequence of numbers the little boy recited last night were the Powerball numbers? Recollecting the dream, I found indeed there were six digits. What the heck— I decided to buy a ticket. "Please, get me a Powerball ticket with the numbers…" I instructed.

With the ticket in hand, I returned to the Mexican restaurant where my meal had already been served. Today, being Wednesday, the Powerball draw was scheduled for this evening, and after dining I switched channels at home to watch the drawing.

Heavens above—I had truly won, with a prize exceeding two hundred and ten thousand dollars! Ha ha ha, such fortune was utterly unexpected. Could this be the reward for serving as a reaper? What the heck—I'll collect the prize money in a few days and see.

I took out my phone, opened WhatsApp, and promptly shared the news with Mark and White. Mark replied, "Congratulations—you're rich now!" and White added, "Indeed, you must treat us!" I responded, "Very well, tomorrow evening then. Invite your wives and children—Mark, let's meet at that French restaurant near your home; make a reservation tomorrow, for I shall treat everyone!" Mark sent an "OK" emoji in reply, and White mentioned, "Incidentally, Jenny said a few days ago that Sam was alone at home." After a brief further chat, both excused themselves for sleep, leaving me free. Exiting WhatsApp, I indulged in a mobile game for a while.

While engrossed in the game, a sudden knock at the door startled me. Glancing at the clock—well past eleven—who would be calling at such a late hour? Approaching the door and peering through the peephole, I saw not a human, but a ghost—it was Williams! What business could he possibly have at this hour?

I opened the door, and he bowed profusely, saying, "Sir, forgive me for disturbing your rest." I nodded and replied, "Come in, then—lest the neighbors wonder what I am doing." Once inside, Williams casually closed the door and stood in the hallway with his head bowed.

"Please, come in. What matter brings you here tonight?" he inquired, taking a few steps forward. "Sir, I require your assistance with a matter," he continued. "Last night, did you not aid a small spirit? I have since told the local ghosts, and they all extol your kindness." I interjected, "Enough with the flattery—speak plainly, please!"

He stammered, "Yes, sir—for here, countless souls yearn to cross over to the underworld, yet are unable to do so. The moment they learn of your willingness to help, they clamor to accompany me to see you! And now, I have brought one who also seeks your aid…" He trailed off, elongating the final syllable as he bit his lip and fixed his gaze upon me. It seemed that once this matter began, it would never end.

Seeing my silence, Williams advanced two more steps and said, "Sir, I know your heart is kind, and indeed this task is rather troublesome. We ghosts have conferred amongst ourselves, and should you assist us with this one favor, we pledge our unwavering service to you." I replied, "That is not my intention; now, explain to me—how may I help you this time?"

No sooner had I spoken than Williams coughed softly, and through the door entered a white-clad female ghost—dressed in nineteenth-century attire—who approached me with a slight nod. Williams explained at length that her name was Alice, even older than he; born in 1879, she married a wealthy merchant at the age of twenty, but soon suffered constant abuse at his hands until, overcome by despair, she ingested poison and ended her life.

"Sir, I beseech you—please, escort me to the underworld," she implored, bowing deeply. I hastily stepped forward, "No, no, there is no need for such ceremony!" I gently grasped her arm, and as she slowly lifted her head, I noted that supporting her felt not unlike aiding a living person, save for the unmistakable chill that emanated from her very being.

"Please, tell me—how may I assist you?" I urged.

Alice bowed slightly and replied, "After my death, my husband interred me in a place ten miles north of New York City. Lacking a tombstone, I remain nameless, and thus I cannot cross over to the underworld."

I turned to Williams and asked, "Do not all souls, upon death, receive an escort from a reaper? The little boy mentioned yesterday that incomplete remains preclude passage—so why is it that this lady, too, cannot cross? Must one's identity be the final requirement?"

Williams explained, "Sir, those who die naturally find their way to the underworld without aid. But for those who perish untimely or violently, we reapers are tasked with guiding them. Alas, the number of such souls far exceeds our ranks, and the underworld imposes numerous conditions, leaving many stranded. Over time, the number of these forlorn spirits has grown. I, for one, have been dead for nearly a century, with my remains incomplete, and though I have grown accustomed, countless others still wait, year after year, for their chance. Yesterday, you graciously aided us; today, I must shamelessly ask for your help once more."

Hearing this, I realized that, beyond the usual bureaucratic hurdles, even as ghosts, myriad conditions must be met to cross over. Countless wandering souls have waited for decades without a chance—truly a pitiable plight. For me, lending assistance is but a trifle; if I can help, I shall help them.

It would seem that to aid Alice, I must first locate her burial site and erect a tombstone in her honor.

Around midnight, I drove northward with two ghosts in tow. Along the highway, with Alice as our guide, she led me onto an obscure road. After about ten minutes, we arrived at a clearing overgrown with wild grass, where several abandoned vehicles lay. Alice directed me to park, then escorted me to the southwest corner of the clearing. Pointing to a great tree, she said, "Sir, it is here that I was interred."

"And what am I to do then?" I inquired.

Williams whispered in my ear, "Use the ring your dad left you as a pen to inscribe upon this ground the words 'Alice's Graveyard.'" 

"Is it truly that simple?" I asked. Williams nodded. Following his instructions, I wrote those words on the earth; with each stroke, the ring's path shone with a dazzling red light.

When I finished, Alice bowed once more, "Thank you, sir." Then, with sudden fervor, she plunged her hands into the earth, and upon withdrawing them, held a small red wooden box. Opening it, she presented several pieces of jewelry. "Sir, I cannot repay you; these were my funerary treasures. Please, accept them as my gift." I protested, but Williams urged me to accept, insisting it was her heartfelt offering, and in the end, I took the box.

Already familiar with the remaining steps—much like the previous night—I again traced a cross upon my palm with the ring and escorted Alice to the underworld. Upon my return, Williams awaited me by the car. I nodded, "Let us depart—the task is complete."

On the drive back, Williams and I conversed at length. He confided that reapers like myself now number only some seventy or eighty across America—others have vanished for reasons unknown. Moreover, in this day and age, money reigns supreme; apart from the fixed three soul-retrieval assignments each month, reapers tend to conduct their own business and rarely assist these wandering spirits. Some even exploit their positions, charging exorbitant fees for a soul's reincarnation, leaving the penniless without even such a chance. What a world—where even the passage of souls has become mere commerce.

Williams recalled that he had known both my granddad and my dad, who often aided wandering souls without ever demanding compensation, remarking that I possessed their same charm. I cannot claim to be supremely noble—who does not cherish wealth? Yet I have always believed in claiming only what is rightfully mine, and with a car, a home, and a stable income, I am content. Thus, I assured him that should such matters arise again, he need only ask, and I would endeavor to help.

Williams was effusive in his gratitude and promised henceforth to serve as my subordinate, ever ready to assist me.

The next day, I visited a jewelry store and sold the pieces Alice had bestowed upon me for over fifty thousand dollars. From that day onward, in addition to my daytime occupation, I embraced two additional roles: one as the customary guide for departed souls, and the other—during the evenings—assisting with the ghosts that Williams would bring to me.