The Black Hand Of Death

THE BLACK HAND OF DEATH The doorknob creaked, and the sheath of rust encasing it cracked and dispersed. Pieces of grime, rust, and age flaked off the knob, decorating the blanket of dust on the floor. The man who sat shackled to a chair in the center of the dark cell, which was where he had sat for what seemed an eternity of time, shivered nervously. His heart pounded in his throat, and his teeth chattered, for in this cold, desolate room, the floor grew dustier still, as no one had walked upon it once in years. A film of perspiration blanketed his crinkled forehead. Excited tremors racked his whole body. His grossly dilated pupils struggled to focus on the outline of the doorknob. Any doubts were now almost absent from his mind. His morals and values had been viciously slaughtered when he was robbed of all of the innocence and dignity he had possessed. The man was desperate now, and he did not fail to show it. He was a truly pitiful and disgusting sight, fighting to salvage anything he could for himself at whatever price it demanded. Had the doorknob really turned? Was it a cruel hoax or illusion? A hallucination? No! The rust flakes were still silently falling, as tranquil and almost slow-motion as bloodied snowflakes. The door noiselessly opened for the first time in perpetuity, and the man cursed inaudibly and strained against the manacles that bound him. Veins popped out in his body, impatient. Tiny rivulets of blood trickled down his hands from his chafed wrists, dripping off his fingers onto the dusty floor. A whimper escaped his throat, the only sound in the deafening silence. It echoed throughout the room, ricocheting off the walls. Had his savior come? Was he free of his chains at last? His stomach lurched, and he thought he might vomit for anxiety and panic. A splinter of light from the threshold, and the man cried out. Light! The first light in years! Devoid of composure, he distraughtly twisted his wrists, abrading them against his metal cuffs. A skeletal hand curled around the edge of the door, a long black sleeve around the wrist. At first, the man refused to believe it. No, he was seeing wrong, he had to be. Shock flooded his mind as he started to quiver. The man screamed, a bloodcurdling and violent sound that was louder than anything in the world. So helpless and terrified was he that he began to sob mournfully. “NO!” he shrieked angrily. It was, as he could no longer deny, the Black Hand of Death! A foul stench pervaded the cell, making the man shudder. Impossible! Had he not been saved? Did he not deserve forgiveness? He shook his head profusely, biting his tongue so hard he drew blood. The unnatural metallic taste filled his mouth, and he tried to swallow it. Unable to, he spat blood repeatedly at the door as it slowly opened wider. Wider! The shaft of light grew, as did the shadow barricading it. As did the man’s revulsion and terror. A hood came into view, a grotesque face shrouded underneath, a hideous face that reflected all of the man’s crimes, his hopes, his failed dreams. Seemingly by magic, the evil Reaper projected images into his mind: the man’s bloody hands, an even older man than him lying in his arms, his own knife buried in his chest, the men’s families that were one and the same. He was his wife’s face in his mind, his beautiful children. The horrified, unbelieving look in his wife’s shattered gray eyes when she saw that he had killed, the same look on his mother’s face when she discovered her husband dead. The flow of memories would not ebb….

The vision tormented him, and he could feel the Reaper savoring his discontent. He felt as if he would never be rid of this awful guilt, the feelings that haunted his very existence. He gasped as he beheld them, his eyes welling with tears as memories of his gruesome sin flooded him. Never before had his guilt disturbed him so. Never before had he been so aware, so understanding of everything. Why had he killed his father? Why had he felt the need to murder an innocent man? The trial had taken place an eternity ago, and since then he had waited without aging for the verdict, balanced uncertainly on the edge of a dark precipice, not knowing whether he would live or die. So disgusted was he by his deed, he pleaded with the spirit, not for life, but for death. “Surely,” he wept, “Surely I cannot live with this premonition, this ghastly demon from Hell, stalking me. Surely death is kinder than such a life, having this horrid vision in my thoughts, every waking or sleeping moment of my life! Surely I deserve to die!” Without hesitation, he commanded: “Kill me! I know that I will descend to the pits of Hell, but nothing can be worse than this agony!” Death slyly crept slowly closer to the lamenting man. In his left hand, he held his Scythe, the slim blade gleaming menacingly. Death, the Life-Stealer, the SoulReaper, gripped it tightly, his fleshless bones coiling around the hilt, as he advanced steadily. Closer. Closer. The chill that followed Death was upon the man in moments. His teeth chattered madly and his eyes rolled back inside his head; the rest of his body was paralyzed. He struggled to sort through his mind, searching for his final words. In the end, though, he could not find them, his mind being so addled. Death plunged into his consciousness, and the man gasped as a cold even icier than the one enveloping his body wrapped itself around his brain. It slithered through the man’s thoughts, and the man could offer no resistance. Death found the right words, that were identical for each of his victims, and the man felt them being plucked from his lips, though not under his command. “Strike me with your Scythe of Darkness! Choke me with the Black Hand of Death!” As if on a cue, Death raised his cruel Black Hand, and obliged to the man’s final wish.