Page 2 of They Call Him Reaper

I’ve been free for six months, but I’m still unable to relax. Innately, I know something big is coming my way, and I don’t know how to combat it. The thunder cracks, and my electricity gives out, shooting my anxiety through the roof. At twenty-seven, I should know there’s no such thing as the boogeyman; however, I know all about killers. I was already on the run whenI found out about my mother; a mysterious package with the answers to all my questions was delivered to my P.O. box. After finding out who my dad was, I did some research. It crushed me. Although he was distant, I thought it was how he showed he cared.

A flash of lightning propels me off the couch until I’m power walking toward my panic room. I know my way in the dark. I’ve practiced for this reason. Images of all the bodies that the serial killer has been leaving behind doesn’t help my panic. They’re calling himThe Reaperand his kills are escalating. Worse, everyone who’s made the news is someone I’ve seen with my dad at some point for one reason or another. I could be next.

I freeze when I hear a sound that doesn’t belong to the rain or usual house noises. I’m paralyzed by fear. My heart beats so powerfully, feeling like it’ll explode

Is this how it ends for me?Panic claws at my spine when I feel a presence to my right. I break to run but release a shriek when a strong arm bands around my abdomen. It can’t end like this. There’s still so much I want to do in life.

“Shh. Shh. Shh. That’s pointless,cariña.”His whisper carries an accent.Spanish?

“The Reaper?” My question comes out like a warbled cry.

“I didn’t name myself that.”

His confirmation makes my stomach twist. He’s killing people associated with my dad. It’s not fair. He moves forward with me in tow. My sobs don’t affect him. The Reaper only cares about killing.

“Please, don’t kill me,” I beg. “I didn’t do anything. I have no part in his operation.” He continues as if I haven’t spoken. Dropping me on my bed, he begins tying my ankles together. I roll, attempting to escape, but he grabs the back of my neck and squeezes until I yelp in pain.

“Don’t try that shit again,” he warns as he drops his body weight on me.

“Please, don’t rape me.”

His chuckle lacks mirth. “Nonsense,Gatita. I don’t steal pussy. Women beg me to take it. You talk too much.”

I feel a sharp prick before the world as I know it slips away.

The darkness easesas the sun shines on my face. Immediately, my fighter’s instincts kick in, prompting me to start kicking and swinging before my eyes open. I stop flailing once I realize I’m hitting air.

Braving a peek, I discover I’m in my room lying in bed. There’s no sign of The Reaper. Upon examination, I find that I’m unharmed. My pajamas are intact and there isn’t any evidence of him doing anything inappropriate.

What the hell?

I rise quietly in case he’s still lurking somewhere toying with me by making me feel safe just to shatter it once more. He’s gone. I become more confused after checking each room. Nothing is disturbed, I’m alive, and am still at home.

If The Reaper wants me to question my sanity, he’s successful. I talk myself into believing it was a news produced hallucination until I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Leaning in, I balance myself on the sink, my palms turning cold from the porcelain and the confirmation that I’m not crazy.

“We’ve never met.” I read my forehead in a whisper. He used my eyeliner to pen his message, and instead of signing his name, he drew a grim reaper like the print he leaves on the dead.

Message received.

I take the quickest and most anxiety-ridden shower ever; the tiniest noises make me jump at the possibility of him returning.

“Your dad’s a bad guy. You should be used to killers,” I reprimand myself, but it’s not working.

It’s not true. While my dad was terrorizing others, I was in a cute little bubble where I’d believed the guards assigned to me were only there because my dad is rich. He’d tricked me into believing that I attended boarding school and studied abroad because he wanted me to have the best education possible. I later found it was because I was a liability and a bargaining chip for his enemies. I didn’t stay in the same place often. While I thought I had an overprotective parent, he was throwing cocaine parties to get his next woman hooked, then selling the rest.

I’d sneaked off one night to surprise him since I was local and surprised myself. He was nowhere near the person I thought he was. I left before he realized I was there. The more digging I did, the worse it got. There’s nothing good about him, yet he’s the only dad I have. Betraying him wasn’t something I could do. I tried, but then eventually found it was easier to disappear.

It wasn’t easy, and I honestly think he just stopped looking. The little comfort I’d had in my disappearing skills whittled down to nothing. The Reaper found me less than a week after his last kill. I need to move.

TWO

Dante

I sit backin the warehouse I’ve occupied for the week. It’s in a seedy side of town where prostitution is high, and druggies are constantly looking for somewhere to squat. It’s not the highest form of luxury, but no one looks for me here. Not that I exist. The news has it all wrong and now the world is running scared of a “serial killer” with no discernable trigger. I’m not a serial killer. Yes, I’ve killed a lot of people for reasons of my own, but I don’t have a compulsion to grab unsuspecting housewives who look like my mother. My motivations are much higher than that. Besides, I have no fucking idea who my parents were as people; even with my memory, her features are faint.

While I eat, I watch the idiot tiptoe around her home with a broom clutched in her hands. I scoff around a bite of my shawarma as she checks each room, looking for me.

What the fuck was a broom supposed to do if I were still there?

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