Rousing with a jolt, he felt chilled air streaming through the open window of his chamber. The gelid wind made the drapes sway in a silent apparition. I’m sure I closed the window before going to bed, he thought, as he threw back the blankets to rise and seal the opened portal to the outer world. His involuntary shudder when reaching to pull the window shut only reminded him to be more aware before going to bed. Despite the chill, he stood a moment, quietly in awe of the full moon, and silent flight of what appeared to be a large owl swooping around the trees just on the perimeter of his ornate garden. The ‘Hoot, Hoot’ of the owl sent another unbidden tingle down his spine. He seemed to remember reading something about an owl’s portent for wisdom, or was it a harbinger of death? He couldn’t remember which.



Despite the now firmly closed window, he tugged at the length of his bedclothes to avert the chill in his bones. It was then that he saw it from the corner of his eye, just as he turned to return to the warmth of his bed. Dark, with menacing eyes all lit up with red peril known only to another dimension. The black hood and flowing robe enveloping the otherworldly figure confirmed only that the fear that had arisen in the bishop’s chest was eminently tangible. He felt his heart turn to icicles when he noticed that the scythe held in the spectre’s left hand was even taller than its bearer.

The tic in his left eye, the one that he did most days exert influence over, flickered like it was on steroids, and he could feel his body tremble without volition before this unbidden manifestation from across the ethers. A soundless scream found a way to his strangled vocal cords, and he could do little to control the trembling of his chin. Then a stolen glance at his mitre placed strategically on his desk beside the wall, reminded him who he was, or at least what his title was. It succeeded little as he tried his best to straighten his spine and project a modicum of gravitas.

     “Who, who are you?” was all the bishop could stammer as he leaned toward his side dresser for support.

     The being merely lifted the bones of its right hand to point directly at the man of God.

      “It is time. You must come,” was the only reply from a guttural depth, as if the words were wrenched from a furnace pit of black ooze.

     The bishop’s mouth fell agape, and he pleaded with his eyes, trying to force words through his strangled vocals.

     “Do you mean that death is upon me, and I go to heaven?”

      The otherworldly being did not reply, merely stood silent, eyes aglow and fixed to its purpose.

     A few eternal heartbeats passed as the bishop’s eyes then fired with growing realisation.

     “I’m going home – to God,” he said in confirmation to his inner-urgings. “I am to be welcomed at the Gates by the Holy Hosts. My life as Bishop has seen me to the portals of heaven.”

     Again, the guttural voice resonated like a thousand drumbeats of thunder.

     “Bishop, you are a long way from home,” said the Reaper as he stepped closer to the still trembling man.

     “But I don’t understand. I am a man of God. I have been His voice and hand as Bishop of my See. How can it be? I have brought many souls to His door. Given redemption to His flock …”

     The reaper said nothing more, merely extended its bony index finger to touch the bishop fully between his terror-filled eyes. Suddenly his mind filled with a blinding light. He reeled backwards as a thousand images poured into his being, as a panorama in a moment describing a lifetime. With a slackened jaw and crumpled visage, tears exploded from the bishop’s eyes to flow in a cascade down his cheeks. Then, of the million images that etched across his soul, one seemed to repeat itself ad nauseam. “What have I done? What have I done?” he cried in abandon, to heaven and a fate now uncertain, but surely eternal.