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  DON’T

  FEAR

  THE

  REAPER

  by

  Lex Sinclair

  DON’T FEAR THE REAPER

  All Rights Reserved. Copyright © 2016 Lex Sinclair

  KINDLE Edition

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the copyright holder.

  The right of Lex Sinclair to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 sections 77 and 78.

  Published by Diadem Books

  For information, please contact:

  Diadem Books

  8 South Green Drive

  Airth , Falkirk.

  FK2 8JP

  Scotland UK

  www.diadembooks.com

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are products

  of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to persons living

  or dead is entirely coincidental.

  .

  Also by Lex Sinclair:

  Abducted.

  Diadem Books 2016.

  ISBN 13: 978-1326541200

  .

  For Granddad, Chocolate & Teddy

  .

  .

  “Faith is a kind of love you know. Love of what is

  unseen but certain. Love makes us strong and brave.”

  —Dean Koontz: Deeply Odd

  Contents

  Introduction

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  EPILOGUE

  Introduction

  THE GRIM REAPER fled across the land and the antichrist followed. The full moon cast monstrous shadows in their wake. They appeared to float as opposed to ambling. The long, curving blade of the scythe reflected the pale radiance. The white horse was free of the Reaper’s burden and strode forward alongside them. Then a luminous green fog ascended the horizon. Its core pulsed, spreading across the terrain, shrouding the moon and casting pitch blackness.

  The two figures appeared not to notice the fast-moving fog. Yet it shrouded them and was as dense as it was opaque. The fog slowed to a languid pace, coiling like a serpent. There was something inexplicable, not of this world, at the fog’s source. The rolling pastures disappeared and the only part of the land that was visible was the winding country road they traversed.

  In spite of the shiver up his spine and the involuntary quiver, he followed.

  Trepidation escorted him as a faithful lover; curiosity his sole reason of pursuit. The fog acted as though an ally to the two dark figures, preventing him from getting his bearings. The luminous green light revealed the narrow road enclosed by endless hedgerows. His heart imitated the sound of a stampede.

  Did the one he recognised as the Grim Reaper and the man in black know he was pursuing them? What would they do if they pivoted and cast their eyes upon him? Did they care? What could he do?

  Wherever they were heading and whatever their purpose he wouldn’t be able to stop them. His lungs struggled to absorb oxygen due to the humidity. His hay-fever and asthma tended to join forces every summer and assail him, robbing him of breath. And although tonight was no different, there was something sinister causing him to wheeze.

  Still he pursued. For what reason besides curiosity he did not know. It wasn’t like him to be intrusive. He took no interest in gossip, eavesdropping and details of people’s disputes. He was a man of simple pleasures. A Laz-Y-Boy recliner, a glass of juice and a good book was his idea of luxury. Nevertheless, his legs moved without command. Subconsciously, he was aware that what he was witnessing had some sort of significance. The sight of the towering figure carrying a razor sharp instrument and a white horse proved that unequivocally.

  All he knew of the Grim Reaper was it was a conceptual entity depicted as a pale skeletal figure donning a long black cloak with a hood and a scythe in hand. It travelled by a white horse and, according to folklore, escorted the souls of the dead to an unknown territory of the afterlife. That was it.

  He didn’t believe the Grim Reaper existed until now. For now, unless his eyes deceived him, a figure of that exact description moved no more than forty yards ahead of him, its back turned.

  What perplexed him however was his certainty that the man with long black hair and shaven face was the antichrist. Yet he’d wager his life on it. He was as sure of it as waking one morning in June to blinding sunlight in a cloudless sky and knowing it was going to be a beautiful day.

  Something else that perplexed him was the fact that neither the Reaper nor the antichrist left any footprints in their wake. He craned his head over his shoulder and noticed, nor did he. There were no horse droppings anywhere in sight. No traces of mud or soil. It probably didn’t mean anything. However the rolling meadows continued over the vista. The narrow country road was endless. This was quite a trek for man, horse and Reaper.

  Had the Reaper merely materialised out of thin air? If so then this vivid occurrence couldn’t possibly be real. And that thought comforted him. But then wasn’t it fact that the Reaper wasn’t of this world or any other? Instead it moved between the realms of the living and the dead. Thus, it didn’t operate or travel in the same manner than any other living soul. It was merely a shape. An enigma.

  A figment of one’s imagination?

  Although there was credence to that last question it was more hanging on a thread of hope.

  The white horse would appear exhausted by now if it were real. Neither the horse nor the Reaper was real. But what about the man in black? The antichrist would be born as a man. Could be hurt the same as man. Surely, if his certainty of the man travelling alongside the face of death was in fact the antichrist then he must have been real.

  The beautiful white horse, Grim Reaper, and the antichrist disappeared round a sharp bend; one of many on the meandering trail. He slowed his pace as the luminescence ebbed, suddenly aware that he knew not of his arrival to the here and now.

  Did this mean that he was not real?

  How does one define real? After all, what’s real – genuine, happening, fact – to one is not real to another.

  As he cornered the bend his heart leapt into his throat.

  Before him, as real as ever, stood the white horse, the man in black and the towering figure of the Grim Reaper. The luminous green light pulsed rhythmically, backlighting the three unmoving shapes, standing sentinel, blocking the road ahead.

  He gasped an expletive; something he hadn’t done in years. However, the ungodly sight before him erased that sin in a heartbeat. For what he saw was not of this world but had found its way here.

  The white horse’s pupils reflected a face of fear that distinctly resembled his own. The man with long black hair and a young visage stared fixedly at him with eyes that shone scarlet, like taillights. Then the cloaked figure
in between moved forward and lowered the long-handle scythe to the ground. It moved without haste. Slow and precise and fluid. Its overreaching arms folded at the elbow and he could see the gnarled skeletal hands. The bone fingers curled around the edges of the hood and revealed what had never been seen before.

  What he saw he’d never be able to articulate.

  What he saw was far worse than any plague, war, famine or death.

  What he saw threatened to obliterate his body and send icicles into his soul.

  What he saw was the pitch blackness of eternity.

  It was then he screamed… and screamed… and screamed…

  1.

  …and screamed.

  It was the screaming that burned his lungs, made his eyes water and woke him from a deep slumber. He thrashed around atop the mattress, inadvertently hurling the quilt off himself. He kicked and swung his arms at an invisible assailant, drenched in sweat. Then his senses came to full consciousness. Realisation flooded in and his shoulders slumped. He relaxed back onto the pillows and heaved a sigh of relief.

  Reverend Anthony Perkins rested a trembling hand to his brow, opened his mouth and exhaled explosively. He was alive. He was in bed. In his own bed in the stone-walled vicarage five hundred yards or so away from St John’s Church. There was no narrow country road concealed by the high hedgerow. No white horse. No man in black with red piercing eyes, and no Grim Reaper showing him the infinite pit of death. No realm of eternity filled with nightmares, not even the sickest of minds could conjure up.

  Upon regaining his composure, Rev Perkins stretched out his right arm and turned the alarm digital clock around. 8:08. The date in the right-hand corner 06/06/2006.

  His steadied heart skipped a beat at the three sixes

  Today is the first day of the End of Times. He shuddered at that notion. It’s one of the after effects of having such a harrowing and vivid dream, nothing more. He cleared his throat and winced at the burning sensation induced from the screaming. Just a nasty old dream. Been awhile since you had one. And boy was that one scary. Its face! My God! It’d age a man and turn his hair ghost white overnight.

  He laughed at what he thought rhyming.

  Make a poet out of you if not a man of faith.

  Groaning with exertion, Rev Perkins used his arms as levers to raise the top half of his body up off the mattress and ceased instantly. A sharp intake of breath escaped him as his eyes protruded at the sight at the foot of the bed.

  His feet weren’t damp from sweat, like the rest of him, they were wet… and covered in mud and grass.

  The thought that made it impossible for him to move or look away for a good few minutes was… I don’t think you were dreaming after all!

  *

  Rev Perkins got into the shower and watched, mesmerised, as the mud, soil and blades of grass got sucked down the drain. As he ran his fingers through his hair he couldn’t help thinking he’d lost his mind. He’d been so sure he’d dreamt the scene of the Grim Reaper, the white horse and the man in black.

  He finished soaking himself in shampoo and body wash under the steady flow and turned the shower off. Dripping, he emerged from the stall and wrapped a towel around himself. Once he was dry, dressed and had shaved and brushed his teeth he went downstairs and opened the front door.

  It was still early, and although the sun was out at that moment it was obscured by white fluffy clouds. Nevertheless, it was dry and pleasantly warm. A mile up the main road was a café he often breakfasted at. Bishop John Hayes had arranged to meet him there at 9:30 at his request.

  As it was such a nice day and had only just gone nine, Rev Perkins decided to walk up the hill. The din of traffic and kids going to school was somewhere in the background, merely extras in his own film where he was the main character. The light breeze and warm hands of the sun comforted him.

  He arrived at the local café twenty minutes later and ordered a coffee. Then he pulled up a ladder-back chair at one of three tables draped in blue-and-white chequered cloth outside and inhaled the fresh air.

  John Hayes, the bishop, arrived no more than five minutes later and took the seat on the opposite side of the table. ‘Morning Reverend,’ he said.

  The two men exchanged the obligatory greetings. The waiter returned with Perkins coffee and took the Rector’s order (a buttered scone and a glass of orange juice).

  ‘So, what’d you want to see me about?’ the Rector asked.

  ‘I’ll tell you, but let’s wait for your breakfast to arrive. I don’t think I want anyone overhearing what I’m about to say.’

  ‘Sounds rather serious, and troubling.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Rev Perkins said. He took a sip of his steaming coffee.

  The waiter returned with the buttered scone on a china plate and a tall glass of orange juice, ice-cubes jingling. ‘Is there anything else, gentlemen?’

  They both informed the waiter that his services were no longer required, for the time being.

  Once the waiter took his leave and Rev Perkins took another sip of his drink the conversation resumed. ‘I think I’m losing my faith.’

  The Rector frowned. ‘Why do you say that, Anthony? That doesn’t sound like you. Everyone’s faith is tested to define who’s a genuine believer and servant of God and who is not.’

  Rev Perkins had been given up for adoption when he was only two years old. His mother had been seventeen when she’d given birth to him and his father’s identity remained a mystery. All he knew was his mother moved abroad with her parents to Miami, Florida. Not once in his whole life had she tried to make contact with him or find out where he was. Without any qualifications due to a lack of schooling and being moved from three different foster homes, Anthony Perkins faced an ultimatum at sixteen – join the army or the church.

  God had been his saviour. God had rescued him from war and had given him peace. The Rector knew this very well and had known Anthony for almost fifteen years.

  ‘I’ve been having some awfully graphic and disturbing dreams in the last week or so, John. I’m not sure what they mean or what they say about my state of mind.’

  ‘Tell me about these “dreams”?’

  Without any hesitation due to years built on a foundation of trust, Rev Perkins said, ‘The first one I had was about a week ago. I was standing outside the junior school next to the church. The weather was like it is today; warm, sunny. They were having a school sports day in the field. All the teachers, parents, children were watching the four boys running the four hundred meters. Only it wasn’t quite four hundred. It was just one lap of the field. Then all of a sudden it started getting hotter… much hotter. I could feel the heat intensify in the atmosphere. I was sweating profusely. I arched my head back and stumbled backwards in shock. For what I saw with my unblinking eyes was not a bigger sun but dozens of suns plummeting towards us, tearing through the azure sky. The ground started shaking, then cracking. The rumbling was deafening. And I suddenly realised the falling suns weren’t suns at all but asteroids.

  ‘The first one was about to hit, scorching the pastures to charcoal and the roads into lava. Then a massive thousand foot high fire-wave engulfed everything, stripping the flesh from the bone. And as the other asteroids thundered into the earth the bones of the dead – us – disintegrated in the tidal wave of scorching heat that’d melt cast iron steel in a heartbeat.’

  The bishop’s Adam’s apple rolled in his throat. He prudently gulped half the glass of cold orange juice. ‘Well,’ he said, unable to conceal his disturbance, ‘I must admit Anthony that sure is one helluva dream.’

  ‘But that’s the thing,’ Anthony went on, leaning across the table, ‘it didn’t feel like a dream. It was so real. I woke up in bed drenched in sweat. And even days after I could still see the images in my mind’s eye as clear as the sky today. Just like a real memory.’

  The Rector took a bite out of the buttered scone and another sip of his cold drink. When he swallowed, with some difficulty, he gazed off into no
thingness. His voice even sounded as though he were speaking from another time and place. ‘How many of these dreams have you had?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Dare I ask what the other one was about?’

  Rev Perkins explained about last night’s vision/dream and finished his coffee. ‘What d’you think?’

  ‘Well, it’s quite understandable that you are unnerved by these dreams. Anyone would be.’

  ‘What d’you think they mean?’

  ‘What do you think, Anthony?’

  Rev Perkins shrugged. ‘First thing to pop into my mind was the End of Times, or to use the more modern terminology – the apocalypse.’

  The bishop drained the rest of his drink and put the glass back down on the coaster. ‘I don’t think you’re losing your mind. However, what perplexes me most is, are these dreams about the apocalypse related to you alone or to the world itself?’

  ‘You do realise what the date is today, don’t you?’

  The Rector brought to mind what the exact date was and bit down on his lip. ‘The sixth day, of the sixth month, of the sixth year of the new millennium,’ he said aloud, scarcely able to believe it yet knowing it was undeniably true.

  But that wasn’t all that troubled the Rector’s mind.

  ‘A prophet of the Vatican church, according to the archbishop, has foretold that on this very day a child will be born unto the world and soon thereafter anarchy and disorder will befall the inhabitants of earth. Billions will die and hell will rise from the ashes of purgatory and reign supreme on the scorched land.’

  ‘But you don’t honestly believe that because of one child, no matter how evil, the earth will succumb to its ruined demise, do you?’

  ‘Let’s not forget two world wars where what we’re discussing very nearly transpired. Maybe then you won’t be so naïve.’