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My Name is Death


I am tall and slim. I am pale and I am quiet. I have a stooped posture and abnormally long fingers. My name is death.

Many of you do not like me. I have taken many people from you. Loved ones, friends, family. Elderly relatives, young children. Pets, acquaintances. I do not discriminate – I merely do my job.

Many of you do not like me precisely because of the job that I must do, but you do not understand that it must be done. You do not understand what happens if it is not done.

If I do not do my job, people suffer much, much more than is necessary. They sit and they rot – they decompose, alive yet not living. They sit in the armchairs of their retirement homes, slowly wasting away. The babies lie in their cradles, the light gone from their eyes, their souls decaying. The decay of a soul is much, much worse than the death of one.

This is why I must do the job that I do.

This is why I slink around, usually at night but sometimes in the daytime, watching and waiting until it is time. When I decide that it is someone’s time, as deciding is part of my job, I wait until the person is alone. Until the dog is playing in the backyard; until the nurse leaves their patient and checks into the nursing station; until the baby is left alone and unguarded in its crib, babbling softly. Then I creep up to them, the ones whose time, I have decided, has arrived. And I do my job.

I do my job, because I have to do my job. Because it is necessary. After, I slink away, into the shadows, out the door, back into hiding, before the blood of my victims is spotted, before my deed is noticed, before the screams of the friends and families can be heard, or the wailing of the police siren audible.

I do not like the names that they give me in the paper. The names that they give me are wrong. I have but one name.

My name is death.


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by reddit user fingersforhooves via source: reddit.com/r/ShortScaryStories

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