3 Oh No, the Grim Reaper is... Daddy Material?

I speared through the darkness, cricket-song in my ears. My legs beat a rhythm on the path as I settled into my stride.

I thought of the flurry of today. Things were shaping up much better than I'd imagined. That is, until classes hit. Then I might get my butt kicked by my biology major.

I shrugged off the thought, enjoying the thrum of the night. The woods were alive with sounds – leaves rustling in the breeze, bats clicking above. I came to a thick copse of trees that bordered the lake, losing sight of the water. Blackness threaded around me from the leaves' shade. After minutes of running I found that I was off the trail.

I whipped out the light on my phone, but there was no trace of the beaten dirt. The tree trunks wove ribbons around me. I was in the midst of thick, twisting pine.

I walked cautiously forward, calling out for Baxter.

No reply.

I cursed my brick of a flip phone for not having GPS. I'd gotten lost before on runs, and sometimes it had taken hours to get home. But the College Woods were alien terrain, not the familiar forests of home, and I feared as I kept walking that I was stumbling deeper into the middle of nowhere. Hortense was surrounded by wilderness, near swampland that was uninhabitable, feeding into the James River. It would be easy to get lost.

My palms sweat.

I called Rosanna. I got directed to voicemail. I tried Divya – same deal. Begrudging, I called Mo, only to find he too wouldn't answer. Probably passed out in the tub. With no one else to call, I continued on, cursing myself for not bringing my flashlight. After a while, my phone battery died, and I was truly lost in the College Woods – if I was even still in them.

I was distracted from my anxiety by the hoo of a barred owl, whose calls were supposed to precede rain. Sure enough, the sky blanketed with clouds, and a light drizzle began. I trudged onward, making sure not to slip on wet roots.

"I'm an idiot. Drunk in a storm in the middle of Chainsaw Massacre territory."

I tripped into something metallic. Lightning struck, illuminating what lay before me. It was the ruins of an old church with a graveyard, ivy and briars twined round the headstones. I'd walked into the fence's gate. It creaked open on unoiled hinges, revealing a stone path to the church.

"Well that's convenient. No questions asked and I won't get murdered," I said, entering to seek shelter from the rain. I scanned the rotted pews.

An altar lay at the front, beneath cracked stained glass. An angel was depicted in milky blues and golds. I inhaled, appreciating what was left of it. Thankful the roof was intact, I sat down on a rock.

Where was I? How would I get back to my dorm before anyone noticed I was gone? I so did not want to be known as that freshman that got drunk and lost. Feeling guilty, I stared up at the rafters and looked through a hole high in the wall.

The storm abated, leaving behind the soft patter of drops. A voice echoed through the walls: someone singing in a low, gravelly base. I pinched myself, thinking I'd fallen asleep, only to be reassured I was awake. Someone was out there, in the graveyard, doing god knew what. Was Baxter pulling some kind of prank? Or was I panicking so much I was hallucinating?

A metallic snip interspersed the song. It sounded like a weapon. Images of a switchblade flashed through my mind.

I sat still, barely daring to breathe.

The song continued. Whoever it was sounded like a cross between Nick Cave and Tom Waits. I couldn't make out the words, but their tone iced my bones. The snipping grew louder, and a shadow passed over the stained glass.

The spice of expensive aftershave and autumn leaves drifted through the window. I gulped down air. The shadow was tall, too tall, and he was holding something, like a staff with a – a – what?

It had a curved blade, like a scythe. He brought it down in a sweeping arc and chopped ivy off a gravestone.

What was he doing, cleaning a graveyard with gardening tools that were cutting edge at the advent of the plague?

He paused to survey his work, then crouched over, brushing back ivy to reveal the inscription. The weirdo murmured the words to himself.

I could barely make out any details of his figure, other than that he was tall, dressed in a garment that seemed stitched together of shadow. What did he think he was, St. Francis? He was like a creepy monk.

I could sneak out through the front door, run away, and he would never know-

"Are you going to sit there like a toadstool and spy on me? Beelzebub was right: manners really have disappeared among Millennials. What, are you taking a selfie or something?" came a low voice.

A gust of wind picked up. The gale blew hair into my face. I scampered behind the boulder.

"There there. I don't bite, unless you have a safe word."

Laughter. The storm grew, and lightning flashed, illuminating his face.

He had sharp Middle Eastern features – a strong nose, thick brows, and a jaw-line that could cut. Black hair spooled down his back. His eyes were shovels scooping out my brain.

He smirked, revealing pointed canines, like he'd picked up plastic fangs at a Halloween sale.

Before I could move, he was at the door. One of his robe's tendrils crept across the floor and coiled around my ankle. Was it animatronic? I tried to kick it off, only to have it knot around me.

"Just a precaution," he said, pointing to the knot. "I need to know how you found me, and it won't do to have you bolt for the door. Not that that'd be much use, anyway." He planted the butt of his scythe in the ground.

"I didn't know hallucinations owned churches." This thing wasn't real. Baxter must have roofied me. He was too pale, all razor lines.

"Well, I don't really own it." He looked at his nail-beds. "I'm the only one who comes here, though." He glanced at me with amusement. "You're not very friendly, are you?"

"I'm either high or insane. Sorry if I'm not Miss Congeniality."

The apparition flinched. "I'm just making small talk. We both must be pretty bored to be here."

With that, he reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a cigarette, lit it somehow without a lighter, and took a drag. He breathed out smoke. "You're not hallucinating. You've just stumbled into a place you don't belong: my territory."

"Sorry, did you piss on the trees?" I said. "Never thought I'd meet a werewolf."

He snorted. "Do I look hairy to you?"

"You've got fangs. Jeeze, why am I talking to you?" I pinched myself again. Unfortunately, the creep was still there. "Crap. I'm still asleep or god knows what."

"What are you going to do, piss yourself in terror?"

Offended by the rude-mouthed delusion, I glared. "No."

"Honestly, you're not really in the position to have attitude-"

I kneed him in the crotch.

He bit down on his lip. "You're as friendly as a maggot. That is to say, you're rotten."

"Get out of my way."

He straightened to his full height, towering over me. "You waltzed into my realm, and I need to figure out how."

"This is a odunk church. Are you some vampire wannabe that squats here?"

"I'm nothing like a leech," he said.

"I didn't say anything about leeches."

"Vampires," he said. "Better known as the crap I wipe off my boots after walking Cerberus." He wiped his sleeves of dirt.

I laughed wildly. "You're telling me vampires are real? That you have a complex about them? Maybe you shouldn't wear Party City fangs, Bela Lugosi."

The knot around my ankle pulled me closer to Undead Fred. "You're dense," he said. "What in the pits of Abaddon am I going to do with you?"

"What are you, a Satanist?" I said. I'd be damned if I let some Goth roleplayer hurt me.

"No. That'd be redundant," the apparition said. He set his scythe – or whatever – down on a broken pew. He advanced until he was a hair's breadth away. No personal boundaries, big surprise. "You still haven't introduced yourself," he said.

I stepped back. This hallucination could not take a hint. "Yeah right. You'll just murder me in my sleep."

"You're not very imaginative," he said. "My name is Sam, and I'm incredibly bored."

"You're insane."

"Maybe. Nothing to do on a Friday but grounds-keep. But you're not the picture of sanity, exploring the woods alone."

"I'm drunk, and it was a dare. Don't lecture me, Boniface," I said, remembering my Sunday school classes. Heh. Boniface. That was a good one.

"What?"

"You're white as a cadaver."

"Boniface is a saint, and there's nothing holy about me."

"You got that right." I crossed my arms. "Now let me go."

"Not until you answer my questions."

"Ugh. You're unbearable, Sam."

"Don't use my name yet. You still haven't said yours."

"Fine!" I snapped. "I'm Shannon. Can I go now?"

"No. The path back to Earth isn't easy."

I gawked.

He quirked his brows. "Do you want me to throw you to the hellhounds?"

"This isn't Dungeons and Dragons, Sauron."

As if in answer to my question, the baying of something like a hyena echoed. "What the holy frapppacino was that?"

"Hungry," Sam, or whoever he was, said. He looked at me sidelong. "And you look delectable."

"Ew." I was so not being hit on by a hobo, or hallucination, or whatever he was, even if this creep was hot, in an undead Goth kind of way.

He shrugged. "I'm talking about your soul, not your body. Nice piercing, by the way. Very macabre."

I blushed, realizing my shirt had ridden up, revealing my skull belly button ring. "Thanks," I said. "Now stop checking me out."

He laughed like a knife. "You really think I'd be interested in you?"

I opened my mouth to respond, but shut it, cut off by the howling.

"I don't like gingers," he said. "I don't like humans, either. Too material."

"You're human," I said, wanting to bash his head in with his stupid scythe. "Can we go? The coywolves are getting closer. I've heard they came to Virginia, but I didn't know they were near Hortense."

"They're hellhounds, not coyote-wolf hybrids, and I'm about as human as them."

"Okay, whatever, let's leave before we get rabies."

"You wouldn't live long enough to get infected. Not that you're going to leave. You're safer here."

"Not with the ghost of Danzig."

"The hellhounds can't enter holy ground."

"Of course they can't." I gritted my teeth. "Do we roll the twelve-sided dice next?"

"Depends," Sam said, "would you like to live?"

"I don't know, yes?"

Sam took a drag of his cigarette. "How did you find this church?"

I sighed. "I was out for a run. It rained. I took shelter. End of story."

He muttered to himself. "Impossible."

"About as possible as you being sane."

"There's no way a human could have entered a hellmouth, unless-"

I cut him off. "Oh, sure, this is Sunnydale and I'm Buffy, minus the stakes."

Sam narrowed his glacial eyes. "This doesn't make sense," he said, brushing hair back from his face. "I can't smell any immortal blood in your veins, but you crossed Hell's border on your own."

"Wait, what, you think I'm in Hell?" His grip on sanity, already loosened, was fading by the second. "I'm agnostic, so you can shove your Christian crap and stop proselytizing me. I don't belong in Hell. I behave well – mostly."

Sam snorted. "Behavior has nothing to do with entering the underworld. Only immortals can cross through hellmouths." He peered at me like I was a butterfly he was about to add to his collection. "You could be useful," he said. "Very useful."

"Oh heck no," I said. "I'm not spending another minute here."

The howls grew louder. "You don't have much choice," Sam said.

"Screw you," I said, stomping away, only to trip when the fabric knotted around my ankle caught me. Sam offered his hand to help me up. I swatted it away.

"Wench." He ground his teeth.

"Psycho hobo," I said.

"Do you have a death-wish?"

"No. Which is why I'm trying to get away from you. I'd rather face coywolves than your insanity-"

He hissed. Literally hissed at me.

"What are you?" I demanded.

"I told you," he said. "I'm Sam."

"That drink was spiked! You're not human."

"Obviously." He dusted off his sleeves.

"Then what are you, all-knowing apparition?" I said. If exasperation could be etched on a face, a master sculptor would have chiseled mine.

"Many things, none of which are pleasant, and none of which should associate with girls. I forgot that teenagers are such headaches." He massaged his temple. "Usually humans are too awestruck to annoy me. But these are unusual circumstances." He straightened the collar of his robe and stamped out his cigarette on the ground. "I need a drink," Sam said, reaching into his pocket to withdraw a flask. He took a swig and offered it to me.

I curled my mouth. "No thanks. I don't need to make contact with anything your clammy lips touched."

"I'm nothing like a corpse."

"Then maybe you shouldn't wear black. It makes your paper-whiteness stand out."

"Lilith said black looked good on me," he said, "and I'm not pallid." It was almost a question.

"Sure you're not," I said.

"I try to tan." He cursed in a guttural language. "Even in summer, it never works!"

I picked up the scythe. "So does this thing really work?"

"Don't touch that!" he said, grabbing it from me.

"Calm down. I just wanted to see it."

He looked at me, then at the scythe, then back again. "How did you – what?" He shook his head. "You should have died when you touched her."

I stepped back. "Your scythe is a girl."

"Yeah," he said. "Like how people name cars. Beelzebub's balls, you're infuriating."

"Can you not talk about demonic family jewels?"

"You should be dirt," Sam said slowly. "Piecemeal. Nothing." It was his turn to be terrified. "What are you?"

I gave him a long look. "Um, a college student?"

"Lies." He hissed again.

"Stop talking like Voldemort!"

"Are you an assassin?" he said. "Did you really think you could hurt me?"

"God, you're crazy." I grabbed the scythe and cut myself free of his robe. I bolted through the gate.

Howls followed my feet.

"Oh crap." I ran every which way, trying to evade the coywolves. I'd read about them attacking poodles and toddlers, and though I wasn't that small, at 5' nothing, I was still pretty short.

The sound of paws hitting dirt drew closer. A gully appeared, leading down to a stream. It glinted red, like-

"Blood?" I choked.

My voice was met by howls. I turned to see black chimeras of wolf and god-knew-what baring their teeth, their mouths foaming. They yipped, then made for me. I waded into the red stream, disgusted to find it clotted in places, as if it were a congealing scab.

"Oh god," I said, revolted.

"God doesn't like this place very much," came a voice from above. I glanced up to see what looked like a raven, all black wings, land on the bank behind me. No, not a raven – it was taller than most men – it was Sam, feathers sprouted from his back – brandishing his scythe. He swiped it in vicious arcs, severing the attacking coywolves' – hellhounds' – whatevers' heads as they dove towards us. I was splattered with gore.

I made my way to the other bank only to be faced with a steep, steep incline. I turned around, trapped between an avenging angel and an onslaught of beasts.

"Stay still," Sam said.

"What are those things?"

"Hellhounds." He punched one in the nose and kicked it until it coughed up teeth.

"And – and you?"

He wiped blood from his forehead. "Not a hellhound."

"Thanks, Captain Obvious."

He faced off against another beast and sliced its underside so its guts spilled onto the dirt. The last one howled, making for his throat, but he kicked it into a tree, spearing it on a branch. The grisly corpse hung there as if staked by Vlad the Impaler. The hellhound whimpered then slumped against the bark. Sam cleaned the blade of his scythe with his robe.

He glanced at me, grin feral. "That was fun," he said. "I don't think I'm bored now."

I flinched. "We were almost killed. Is this how you get your kicks?"

"Sometimes. I also like chess."

I gaped at his wings, iridescent black like a raven's. "What are those?" I said weakly, pointing at the luminous feathers.

He flexed them. "Pretty self-explanatory."

I sunk to my knees. "I'm roofied. Either that, or I'm dead. College was supposed to be fun. Not the death of me."

His face softened. "You really are just a human, aren't you?" he said. He glided over to me. He patted my back awkwardly. "Erm, sorry if I scared you. I have that effect on people."

I choked on snot, leaning against him. "Take me home, please," I said.

"Damn it, I hate it when people cry." He gathered me up in his arms and carried me across the stream.

"Who are you?" I murmured, brain fried.

"Just Sam."

He pressed two fingers to my forehead, whispered in a strange language, and before I could say any more, sleep flooded my mind.