When Death Comes A-knockin

The rustling of painters plastic came from the living room. Samantha didn't even bother looking up from the half-crusted pot of old rice she was cleaning out in the kitchen. It had to be the heat coming on in the house, of course. It always rustled the plastic, ever since her father hung a sheet of it over the window when he started the construction on the house. The plastic sheets were, naturally, conveniently near the vents.

"Don't always expect the obvious." came a voice from over her shoulder. It was faint, almost like a whisper, and had an airy tone to it, like cobwebs.

Samantha jumped about half a foot in the air, spinning around. No one was there. She furrowed her brow in confusion for a moment, before shaking her head in disbelief.

"Oh quit it, Samantah" she commented to herself, turning back to the dishes. "You just heard something in your mind. No one is here. You'd have to be crazy to think thats true, and you're not crazy. Crazy people spend their lives alone talking to themselves over silly thin - - Oh, shit. Welcome to the nuthouse."

"Heh heh heh..." came the voice again with its dry, airy tone, once more behind her.

Slower this time, Samantha turned.

A figure in a hooded black robe was sitting atop the oven, legs dangling down off the edge. The robe was covering what would have been the figures legs, draping all the way down until they reached the tile floor. Death wiggled a set of bony fingers in greeting from his oven seat.

"Yo," he commented, a grin forming on his face. What Samantha could make out as a face, anyway. Like the rest of him, it was hidden under the cloth and shadow of the black robe.

"...I'm nuts, right? Imagining you as part of my daily, yet unscheduled delusions? You're here in place of the pink bunny-rabbits that will tell me to kill things?"

Death shrugged once, leaning back against the spice rack behind the stove, "Eh."

Samantha raised an eyebrow at him. She'd always imagined Death to be a bit more intimidating than this. Before she could say a word about it, however, Death spoke up again. His whispered tone drifted through the air slowly, like a breeze.

"Yes, not as you'd imagine, is it? I bet you thought I'd sneak up behind you and go 'boo!' or something."

Samantha nodded once.

Death planted his hand on his face for a moment, sighing stale air. "It figures. You actually expect someone that's been carrying out the same job every day since the dawn of time to still be energetic about their work?"

"I suppose not," Samantha spoke slowly, considering that. "But 'yo'? It makes you sound more like a stupid teenager more than anything. Its weak."

It could almost be said that Death looked purely hurt from that comment. Or he would have, if a skeleton in a robe could really show actual facial emotion. After a brief pause, he spoke again, changing the subject. "So, are you ready to play This Was Your Life yet, or do you wish to continue your criticism? I'd much rather play you play the game. It's quite fun, really."

"Continue my criticism." A rather flat reply as far as tone went.

Death shrugged, tapping his wrist. "If you must. Just hurry it up, I've got another appointment to make by seven."

"Gladly," Samantha commented, turning to fully face Death now. "I mean, what's the deal? You're supposed to come visit a person after they've died. Not before."

"So?"

"...So what did I die from?"

The figure thought. "Old age?" he suggested hopefully.

"Strike one. I'm twenty. Try again."

Death thought a moment. "The Plague, mayhaps? Quite a deadly thing it is."

Samantha snickered, "Was. The Plagues ancient and over with, pal. Strike two."

"Darn. One strike left, right?" Death asked, boney fingers rapping away on the oven's top.

"You bet. One more wrong, and I live," she said with a grin. "So, your final guess?"

Death stared at Samantha and grinned darkly. "Not a guess," he chuckled out, the laugh sounding more like a wheeze than anything.

"Then what is it?" Another raise of Samantha's eyebrow commenced.

"It's behind you."

As by instinct, Samantha glanced behind her, only to see all too late a flash of metal fly towards her quickly. She had no time to dodge as the knife, picked up from the silverware tray of the dishwasher, pierced her skin. She fell backwards, only getting a seconds worth glance at her killer, her dying eyes seeing a blurry image of the front window.

It was open, the sheet of painters plastic hanging in front of the window pushed aside.

Death hopped down from his seat on the oven as the killer stood over the sink, washing the blood off the knife. He held out a hand, a black and twisted scythe forming in his grasp.

"Such a pity, he said, "Never even got to play the game. She would have much enjoyed that."

He swung the scythe across Samantha's body, the weapon itself going right through her body. What emerged, however, was not just the scythe. Samantha's soul, gray in color, was swept up out of her body, soon dissipating in all directions.

Death could've sworn her heard her make a sarcastic remark as it did so.

"Gee, thanks for the warning, bonehead."