Page 117 of Death is My BFF

A guy in a terrifying clown mask stuck his head out of the open closet door, covered his mouth with a white-gloved hand, and shook with silent laughter. I gripped the railing of the hayride with white knuckles as the clown held out a knife, bringing it back as if to stab the father.

The girl shrieked. “Behind you!”

The father spun around, but the clown had already ducked back into the darkness.

With a growl, the dad closed the closet door and turned to look over to the daughter. “There, are you satisfied now?”

With a menacing giggle, the clown came charging out of the closet with a large knife, stabbing the father over and over. Fake blood and gore exploded from the father’s clothes. As the clown lunged for the daughter and dragged her across the stage screaming, the lights went off. The music went off. Then it was silent, besides a hurl of frigid air, which made my teeth chatter.

I found myself looking over at Death in the other wagon. His hooded head was already turned toward me, and he watched me from underneath his shadows with his arms spread out on either side of the railing. He inclined his head toward himself, as if to tell me,Ifyou’re scared, angel, come over here.

I shook my head once.Drop dead.

He snickered out loud. He’d heard me.

Despite a few glimpses into his past, I knew very little about Death. I found myself increasingly curious about him. The count-less souls he’d collected over the centuries. The people who had died at his hand. How did someone cope with everything he’d been through? How many friendships had he broken, and enemies had he made? How many times had he fallen in love, had he married?

Did he have kids? How many women had he kissed? How many women had he—? Dang, I really didn’t want to think aboutthat, but there was no way to unthink it now. Did he enjoy being the Grim Reaper? Did he know God?Gods?Elvis?

No, Death said. I assumed that was the answer to knowing Elvis, but I was too mortified to care. He’d read my thoughts again. Now I had to promptly bury my head in the sand like an ostrich.

“He-he-he!” a voice exclaimed from behind me. I whirled around to find the clown from the stage right in my face. With the loudest shriek I could muster, I catapulted across the wagon and fell onto another stack of hay, plastered against the wooden rails parallel to the other wagon.

“Sure you don’t want to hop over into this cart?” asked the velvety voice of my supernatural stalker. I swiveled around, coming face-to-darkness with Death on the front wagon. He leaned over the railing toward me, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “I’ll keep those pesky clowns away.”

“Your personality does tend to repel everything with and without a pulse.”

“Ouch.” He tapped his gloved fingers against the wooden railing.

“And to think I was going to let you sit on my lap.”

“Stay away from my niece,” Aunt Sarah snapped, and suddenly I was yanked back from the edge of the wagon and disposed onto another haystack, landing inelegantly in the process. My mouth gaped in utter confusion, as she now stood fearlessly between Death and me. “Leave us alone. You’re not welcome here.”

Death freed a stunted laugh and looked away from us. “Way to kill the mood.”

“You can see him too?” I asked.

“I asked nicely,” Aunt Sarah continued, her focus locked on the Grim Reaper. She snatched an ancient-looking cross from the back of her jeans and held it up. “Next time, I’ll cast you straight back to Hell with Lucifer, where you belong.”

“I’d rip your throat out two words into that spell,” Death said.

An awful sensation rotted in my gut as I looked between the two of them in puzzlement.

“What’s going on here?” I demanded. When both of them played the quiet game, I looked pleadingly at my aunt. “Aunt Sarah?”

I gestured at the ancient cross in her hand. “Do you have something to tell me?”

The tractor came to a halt in front of a large sign that read haunted corn maze in neon lights. The small group of teenagers on the ride poured out of Death’s cart, screaming and giggling.

Aunt Sarah clenched her jaw. “I’m a demon hunter, Faith.”

“Aslayer? Like . . .Buffy? I thought you owned a bookstore!”

“It’s kind of a side hustle.”

I could not believe what I was hearing. “How long have you been hiding this?”

“There’s a lot we have to talk about, Faith.”

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