The Reaper (standard:horror, 3286 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jun 24 2002	Views/Reads: 4466/2726	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
An alcoholice recieves an invitation to visit his mother. Her dying wish plunges him into a world of murder and horror.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

“I'm not sure I should have come here.” 

“The letter was most difficult for me to write, John,” she whispered,
her breathing accompanied by a rasping wheeze. “Not one day has passed 
when I've not thought of you. I know what sort of a mother I've been 
and am not proud of it. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt you 
and Paula. You're everything to me... You must understand, your father 
and I had passed the point where we cared about one another. Lust drove 
us apart; a strong emotion that destroys lives, as it did your 
father's.” 

Ryan looked around the room and took in the grandeur of it. “Lust seems
to have rewarded you, Mother.” 

The ailing woman continued. “How ironic that David left me shortly after
your father took his life... I'm not asking you for forgiveness, as I 
realise your hatred for me is as deep as any ocean... Eight years have 
passed since you left, and a new millennium has dawned... Paula has 
made her peace with me, and I wrote this letter in the hope that I 
could see you just one more time before I die... Yes, John, I'm 
dying... Each breath I take may be my last.” 

Ryan could not hide his tears. “What about me? What about Paula? Have
you ever thought that what you did drove this family apart? My father 
took his life because of you, and Paula almost died of a broken 
heart... I lost my wife and child... Yes, they died in a road accident. 
Where were you when I needed you?” 

She coughed before answering slowly. “I tried to come to the funeral,
but Grace's father wouldn't allow it. I never hated Grace and I loved 
little Sarah. I have suffered greatly, and perhaps this is God's 
punishment?” 

“So now you beckon me here to ask for sympathy?” 

“Forgive me, John.” 

He bowed his head and held out his hand. 

“No! You must not touch me,” she screamed. 

“I must not touch you? What are you dying of, Mother?” 

She attempted a smile, her wrinkled eyes moistened by the tears. “I have
AIDS, John.” 

“AIDS, but how?” 

“I was raped, my son. I was raped and left for dead.” 

“My God! When did this happen?” 

“A little over two years ago.” 

“Did they catch who done it?” 

“No. The men had alibis.” 

“Men?” 

“Yes, there were three of them. Each gave the other an alibi.” 

“But surely the DNA would have convicted them?” 

“It was inconclusive... They threw it out, John.” 

Again, he held out his hand, but she waved it away. “Mother, you cannot
catch AIDS simply by touching.” 

“Nevertheless, I do not wish to take that chance.” 

She closed her eyes and was silent before she rasped. “John, these
animals must be brought to justice.” 

“But how? You yourself said that they've been acquitted?” 

“There are other forms of justice.” He could tell by her eyes what she
meant. 

“Oh no, don't even ask. How can you ask this of me, after you've shut me
out all of these years?” 

“It was not I who shut you out, John... I have money... You could pay
someone.” 

“This is not real. I don't believe I'm hearing this.” 

“The list of names is on the dressing table... Do what you think is
best.” 

“Don't you put this on me, Mother! I owe you nothing.” 

“You owe me your life.” 

He was silent, and brought his hand to his aching cheek once more. His
mind was going through a vast spectrum of emotions. “Who is looking 
after you? You shouldn't be on your own.” 

“It was my wish... Go now, John; I don't want you here when I die.” 

He sobbed violently, his shoulders shrugging, as she pointed at the note
on the dressing table with her long spindly finger. He never envisaged 
that he would ever feel like this, but his mind was elsewhere, on a 
sandy beach, many years ago with his mother and father. He was playing 
with his bucket and spade and building a castle, whilst Paula filled 
the moat with seawater. His mother, with her long, jet-black hair and 
pretty face, kissed his father and held his hand. 

“Go!” she demanded. 

Ryan reluctantly picked up the notepaper and left. 

The shabby exterior was in dire need of a lick of paint. Ryan was
standing across from the garage, hiding in the shadows. He swigged 
another mouthful of whisky before stepping forward and crossing the 
road. 

A short, middle-aged, bald man with large side-burns and rotten teeth
wiped his oily hands on a rag and watched his approach. “Good morning, 
what can I do for you?” 

Ryan froze for a moment before stuttering. “Are you Howard D...Dowling?”


“At your service.” 

“Er... a friend of mine recommended you.” 

Dowling lay under the Fiesta and continued the conversation. “Who was
that then?” 

“Bobby Freeman.” 

“Never heard of him.” 

“Oh, you did a good job for him.” 

“That's what I'm here for... What do you need doing?” 

Ryan checked in both directions that the narrow street was clear. The
perspiration ran down his rugged face, and the alcohol seeped out of 
every pore. He bent over and selected a hammer from the toolbox. 
“Remember Maggie Ryan?” 

“Who?” The short mechanic slid from beneath the car and put his hands up
to protect his face, as the hammer came down powerfully, connecting 
with his forehead. 

Ryan stepped back, the bloody hammer hanging loosely in his hand.
Dowling's face was obscured by the flow of blood; his voice squealing 
like a piglet, his body convulsing like a marionette. 

Ryan backed up against the garage wall. He was trembling, watching as
the mechanic attempted to crawl beneath his car. 

Dowling felt the hands around his ankles and clawed the cold wet
concrete, his fingernails breaking with the effort. Ryan brought the 
hammer down again, and heard a deafening crack when the tool made 
contact with Dowling's skull, whose false teeth shot out of his mouth 
and came to rest in a puddle of oil. This time, the mechanic was 
motionless. 

Ryan wiped the hammer handle with the rag and noticed that his jeans
were bloodstained. He left the garage and walked briskly, his breathing 
laboured, his head in a daze. He reached for his whisky bottle and it 
slipped out of his shaking hands and smashed on the pavement. He ran as 
he had never run before. 

Ryan slammed his empty glass down on the bar and received an ugly
hostile stare from the landlord. The intoxicated man watched the large, 
grey-haired man approach, his enormous head seeming too large for his 
body, his thick forearms covered in tattoos. His appearance, with his 
bushy eyebrows and thick lips, reminded Ryan of a Russian. 

“Haven't you had enough?” asked the landlord, checking his wristwatch. 

“I'll tell you when I've had enough.” 

“Ten more minutes and I'm closing.” 

Ryan stared at the tattoos on the lamdlord's arms, as he briskly cleaned
the glasses. The name of Queeny stood out, which repulsed Ryan, as he 
realised that this monster must have a sweetheart, or even a wife. 

The landlord noticed that he was the object of the scruffy man's gaze
and leaned on the bar. “Have you got a problem, mate?” he asked in an 
East London accent. 

“Tommy Craven, right?” 

“Yes, Sherlock, my name's above the door.” 

“Tommy fucking Craven,” slurred Ryan, his eyes half shut. 

“Do I know you?” 

“Bastard!” 

“What did you say?” 

“I said bastard!” 

“That's what I thought you said.” Craven lifted up the hatch and grabbed
Ryan by the collar, dragging him outside into the downpour. He shoved 
the drunk forcefully, and Ryan fell over a dustbin, the contents 
emptying onto the sodden street. He lay on the ground among the 
rubbish, like a discarded piece of litter. 

“You'll get yours Craven, do you hear me?” 

He opened an eye and stared at the drab, stained ceiling. One hand
reached for his head, the other for his swollen cheek. Ryan sat up on 
the bed, his trembling hand groping for the bottle, the unfamiliar 
surroundings taking time to sink in. He stared at the mirror to see 
that he was still fully clothed, his hair matted down with the rain 
from the night before. His memory of returning to the hotel was 
non-existent. 

He swallowed a large mouthful of the amber liquid and swilled it around
in his swollen mouth, attempting to dull the ever-worsening pain. With 
his head bowed, his blurry eyes settled on his hands. He brought them 
up to inspect them, mumbling obscenities under his breath. His hands 
were covered in blood, the memory of the night before unclear. 

A thousand thoughts entered his aching head, before as he swallowed
another generous mouthful of whisky. He spotted the bloodstains on the 
bedclothes and in a rage, he dragged them onto the floor. He recalled 
vaguely the argument in the pub with Craven, who was one of his 
mother's attackers, but everything after that was a blur. 

He carried the bedclothes into the shower and stripped off his clothing,
inspecting them carefully for bloodstains. The coldness of the shower 
shocked him when he fumbled with the regulator. He closed his eyes, as 
the now hot, steaming water cleansed his naked body. The image of Tommy 
Craven now recurrently invaded his thoughts. The dead bloody body that 
was riddled with stab wounds, and was now lying in the car park. He 
recalled the still open eyes, which had registered shock during the 
gory onslaught. 

Ryan applied soap to the sodden bedclothes and rubbed vigorously, in an
effort to erase the evidence. Satisfied, he returned them to the 
bed,covering them with a blanket from the wardrobe. 

A thought entered his tormented mind, as he sat on the chair drinking
whisky. If one of the rapists in fact had infected his mother, then 
that would mean that he was also dying. Dowling and Craven certainly 
did not appear as though they were dying, so that left only one man. 

Ryan produced the piece of paper from his trouser pocket and studied the
name. The grim reaper may be his ally after all, as it would be 
pointless killing him if he was already a dead man. 

A woman in curlers, a cigarette dangling from her top lip answered the
door. A baby was nestled in her arms, and a small girl was standing by 
her side. 

“Yeah?” 

“Is Frankie at home?” 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

“I'm a friend of Frankie's.” 

She eyed him suspiciously, the cigarette never wavering. “If you're a
friend of Frankie's, you'll know he's been dead for over a year.” 

“I'm sorry, I didn't know.” 

“You been inside?” 

“I just got out,” lied Ryan. 

“Well, like I said, he's dead.” 

“How did he die?” 

“Fucking hell, how long were you away for...? Frankie had AIDS. How he
contracted them, I don't know, and I can only thank god that the 
bastard did not pass them on to us... Did he owe you owt? Because, if 
he did...” 

“No, Mrs Drysler, he owed me nothing... Goodbye.” 

Bright sunshine had at last made an appearance and the park was bustling
again. Ryan peered through the railings at the pretty, dark-haired 
girl, who was sitting on the bench and reading a novel. 

“Don't go too fast, Rachel!” she screamed, at the child on the
roundabout. 

Ryan's eyes watered as he watched her. She had not changed much in all
these years. She still had her slender figure, even though she had 
obviously given birth to a child. Ryan smiled as he watched her 
eyebrows move up and down, a habit she apparently still possessed. 

He entered the park gates and faced his sister, who continued with her
book. She raised an eyebrow, and it took a matter of seconds before her 
brain registered recognition. 

“My God, John. It is you isn't it?” She dropped her book, hugged her
brother and wept. “Where have you been, John? You never wrote or called 
in all this time?” 

“Paula, when you left the institute, I knew you were well, and so I let
you get on with your life. I didn't wish to impose my pathetic life on 
you.” 

Paula‘s face registered sadness. “I didn't even know you were married
and had a child. It was only when I read about the accident in the 
newspapers.” 

Ryan sat beside his sister. “This family ceased to function once father
died.” 

“Where are you staying, John? Hell, you look such a mess.” 

“Some slum of a hotel in town... You look terrific, Paula.” 

“Thanks... What happened to you, John?” She looked him up and down, hurt
in her big brown eyes. 

“Since Grace and Sarah died, I've lost the will to live. I contemplated
suicide several times, but the coward in me prevented me doing so. 
Anyway, I received a letter from mother, begging me to come and see her 
before...well you know.” 

“You‘ve been to see her?” 

“Yes. Quite a place she's got there... What I cannot understand, is why
nobody is with her? She ought to have a nurse at least.” 

“A nurse?” frowned Paula, a look of bewilderment on her face. 

Ryan continued. “Why didn't you write to me and tell me that she'd been
raped?” 

“Raped? Whoa, boy! I think we have our wires crossed.” 

“You mean she wasn't raped?” 

“Not unless it was this morning... I went to the cinema with her last
night.” 

Ryan held his aching head in his grubby hands. “That's impossible; she's
dying of AIDS.” 

Paula's eyes drooped and she sniffed the air. “You've been drinking
haven't you, John? Mother is as fit as she‘s ever been.” 

“No! Well, I mean yes, but I'm not drunk. I received a letter from
mother, begging me to see her, and then she tells me that she's dying 
of AIDS.” 

Paula held up her hands. “I don't know why you are doing this, John, but
stop it.” 

“I saw her, Paula... She was dying... Look, here is the address.” 

“That is not mother's address,” said Paula, scanning the letter. I must
admit that it looks like her writing though... Show me this house, 
John.” 

Paula manoeuvred her car outside the gates to the large house. Ryan was
the first out, and he looked in disbelief at the overgrown garden and 
the boarded up house. 

“This cannot be. I was here earlier in the week, I tell you!” He again
checked the address on the gate. 

Paula was adamant. “John, I know this house. You're mistaken. It's been
empty for eighteen months.” 

He reached into his pocket for his whisky. Paula shook her head in
sorrow as he swallowed a mouthful. 

“I know what I saw, Paula.” 

They heard the sirens in the background and Paula hugged her brother.
“John, this house belonged to Queenie Sullivan, a prostitute.” 

“What are you saying, Paula?” 

“Queenie was a high-class hooker and made a fortune in her time; that's
how she could afford this house... As she grew older, she decided to 
retire, well almost. She kept three of her best customers on, just to 
keep things ticking over. Queenie found out that she was HIV positive, 
which she could have only picked up from one of her three clients. She 
died eighteen months ago, vowing to avenge her death, as none of her 
clients visited her...  One of her customers did have AIDS and died six 
months after Queenie.” 

“Frankie Drysler,” muttered Ryan. 

“How did you know?” 

He never answered. “Tell me, Paula; did Queenie know mother?” 

“Yes. You know mother, she had no airs and graces about her. She often
called around for tea... When Queenie realised that she had AIDS, 
mother ceased visiting her.” The sirens were now close. “How did you 
know about Frankie Drysler, John?” 

“It doesn't matter, Paula... Give mother my best love will you?” 

The police car pulled up and two detectives approached. Ryan looked
towards the house to see the upstairs curtain twitch. 

As he was driven to the police station, Ryan reflected on the mysterious
events, realising that he had been duped by a ghost. He chuckled, 
before laughing loudly; his life such a bloody mess. 


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