The Life and Chaos of a Retired Old God

Ernie ignored the disconcerting feeling of being watched as he turned another corner—the portraits that lined the walls were just trying to intimidate him. Except for the one who was snoring, he was asleep against his frame.

The new hallway looked like all the others, grey on grey, with more pictures, and an endless looking path in front of him. Ernie took a half-dozen steps, then turned at a right angle and walked through the gap in the wall.

Ahead, finally, he could see the exit. Even better, the way looked clear. Ernie walked slowly, ready to dash across the small stretch of open space.

‘Hello?’ The voice ricocheted across the paintings, echoing down the corridor, making Ernie freeze mid-step.

Ernie sighed, then turned slowly to look at the figure, then raised his eyes a little higher to find the face. He blinked—he supposed you could call it a face.

The figure cleared his throat nervously.

‘Why are you so tall?’ Ernie asked carefully.

Something scraped against the tiled floor, and the figure shrunk a little. That was to say, his head no longer brushed the pale grey ceiling. ‘I was experimenting,’ it said sullenly.

‘And the Voice?’ Ernie used the capital letter. It deserved it. The way it bounced around first before reaching him was impressive, if a bit ostentatious.

‘It’s good to try something new.’ The voice was now ordinary, and the figure was almost human sized.

Ernie should have stopped there, but he just couldn’t help himself. ‘And the clothes?’

The figure sighed, and the black cloth shimmered into plain trousers and a white button-up shirt. His face, now fully visible, was that of a middle-aged, average-looking man. The sort that you immediately forgot as soon as you looked away. It said a lot about him that Death chose this as his regular face. He was not the only Death, of course, but this Death had been storing something Ernie needed.

‘Did you come here just to insult my creativity?’ Death asked, crossing his arms. The portrait behind him echoed the movement. ‘Or did you want something?’

‘I just stopped by for a visit,’ Ernie said, putting on his best bewildered old man if you correct me, I will bash your brains in with my walking stick face. It worked better on humans, but even immortals could forget who they were dealing with at times.

Death’s eyes lit up, mouth opening to speak, but Ernie got there first. ‘But you were out, and I have to go now.’

‘Ahh, unfortunate,’ Death said, face dropping. ‘Will you visit again soon?’

‘Sure,’ Ernie said, taking a step back. For them, ‘soon’ was a somewhat relative term. A hundred years could be soon, he supposed.

***

Gard Village—Senior Living was a large, sprawling building that had seen better days. The spring weather had encouraged someone to plant a small patch of flowers around the sign. It might eventually hide the graffitied letters of ‘mid’.

The communal living room was almost empty as Ernie entered. In one corner, a young doctor was comforting a duty nurse, her eyelashes glistening with tears. Standing between them in his boxer shorts was Fred. He was just on the far side of ninety; stringy and gnarled might have described him when he had been wearing clothes. Without them, he looked like an old tree that had been bent over by the wind.

Fred had died during the night, and his ghost self was trying to convince the doctor that he was not dead. He either hadn’t noticed, or didn’t care, that neither of them could see him. Ernie had expected Death to have collected the soul already. It was why he’d chosen today to borrow—

‘Where is it?’ Death said from behind Ernie.

Ernie froze, the feeling of déjà vu making his skin crawl as he forced his hand not to go to his pocket. There was no way Death could know it was missing already.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Ernie said quietly, turning around. Going by the lack of reaction from the doctor, Death had not made himself visible to the humans, but Ernie was in clear view of the nurses.

‘My Scythe. You stole it. I was late picking up one soul, and you want to do my job for me?’ Death growled.

‘Are you dead too?’ Fred asked, walking through the sofa without appearing to notice.

‘No, I’m Death,’ Death said, the image flickering for a heartbeat.

‘That’s what I asked. Are you dead?’ Fred frowned, scratching his ear as he stared at Death, before turning to Ernie. ‘Why are you glowing?’

‘I’m Death. Not dead, just Death,’ Death said, eye twitching. ‘I would have collected you, but someone thought it would be funny to steal my Scythe.’

‘You have a Scythe?’ Fred asked, raising a hairy eyebrow.

Ernie wisely said nothing as Death’s face turned scarlet, his glare now aimed solidly at Fred. At least Ernie knew for sure that he hadn’t stolen the Scythe.

‘Very well. Do you think you can do better? Have at it. It’s not an easy job being Death.’ Death waved his arms wildly. Fred ducked before he got smacked in the face. ‘I’m not collecting another soul until you bring my Scythe back.’

‘I don’t have your Scythe,’ Ernie said, but Death was already gone.

The nurse coughed loudly, making Ernie sigh and glance in their direction. Both were looking at him oddly. One of the good things about being old was that you were suddenly considered quirky for actions that forty years earlier would have been strange, and occasionally even criminal.

Ernie smiled at them. After a silent glare, the nurse turned her attention back to the doctor. Ernie wasn’t one of the regular troublemakers, and today the doctor was far more interesting.

‘So that was the real Death then?’ Fred asked, his foot sinking slightly into the bile green carpet. ‘Not quite what I expected, really.’

‘Rude, that’s what he is,’ Rab said from behind Ernie.

Ernie turned slowly, hoping he had heard wrong. He hadn’t. Rab and two other deceased residents were looking about the room, frowning. They were souls that Death had already collected.

Spinning on his heel, Ernie stalked away to throw himself into an armchair in the corner. He was not getting involved. If Death had lost his Scythe, he could bloody well find it himself.

The ghosts followed him, still talking.