Read ’Em and Reap – A Reluctant Reaper Short Story

This short story takes place in my Reluctant Reaper universe, originally published by Simon & Schuster. The full series will be back in print in 2026—but in the meantime, here’s a little taste of the afterlife. Sharp scythes, sass, and souls that don’t go quietly. Enjoy.

Read ‘em and Reap

Not six months out of the Reaper Academy and already my scythe had died, the irony of which was not lost on me. I’d chosen the latest model scythe that folded like an umbrella. At the touch of a button, it would explode to its full six feet, polished iron blade glinting. Press the button again, and it would collapse in on itself and fit nicely into my shoulder bag.

But there’d been this one assignment last Friday. I was supposed to retrieve the soul of this tech billionaire, who wasn’t having it. Upon arrival, I’d intoned the usual script: “I am Death and I have come for your soul.” To which he’d scathingly replied, “Do you know who I am?” He followed this with a sprint through his fifteen-bedroom mansion, five-car garage, and out onto his well-groomed lawns.

I spotted him cowering behind a statue and was sure I had him. If only I’d remembered to “look before you Reap.” Instead, I charged forward, only to plunge scythe-first into a cherub-encrusted fountain.

It had gone rather badly from there. Robe squelching and scythe dripping, I’d chased him back through his mansion, finally cornering him in his home gym where he stood staring down at his body sprawled on the floor. “Heart attack,” I’d whispered.

We’re supposed to slice through their incorporeal images with the scythe for maximum effect, but I could never bring myself to do that. Weren’t the newly dead traumatized enough? I know I’d been. Death had not become me, but, as it turned out, I’d become Death. Or at least one of her representatives on the mortal coil.

So, I said to the guy, “Just put your hand on my scythe and we’ll be off.” He did, and we were. I dropped him at Admin and clocked out. Rich Guy had been my last assignment of the week.

But when I checked yesterday, my poor widdle scythe had rusted solid. Luckily, it was the weekend, and I had two days to fix the situation. I pressed the button about a million times, and sprayed it with WD-40, before posting on HellBook to see if anyone in the community had a solution. I couldn’t be the only Reaper in the history of time to have tool performance issues.

Thirty-seven useless comments later, I had my answer. A retired Reaper named Virgil, a friend of my afterlife partner, Dante, had said that once upon a time, Reapers had used bells. In fact, he went on, “You have but to ring it and it draws the soul to you.” So much easier than having to slice ‘em with your scythe to get ‘em to cooperate.

A bell sounded—pun intended—like an excellent solution. And Virgil had given it a ringing endorsement. I checked my copy of the Triple R—the Reaper Rules and Regulations—and found that, besides a scythe, you can also use a bell, a book, or a candle. And also? Ride a pale horse, although that last seemed like overkill. Over-Reap. Whatever.

Monday arrived, because this was, after all, Hell. I downloaded the day’s soul acquisition schedule before heading to Reaper Central to check out a bell. At the Reaper Service counter, the clerk seemed pleasantly surprised. “Thou hast requesteth a tool from mine own time, back when witches were burneth at yon stake.” I noticed the hem of her floor-length gown still smoldered a little. Some people never get over their living personas.

Five forms and a retinal scan later, I had my bell.

My first Reap of the day was a little old lady who lived alone. I closed my eyes and imagined myself next to her, and there I was. I hadn’t meant to sneak up on her, but when I spoke, she jumped ten feet in the air, bouncing lightly off the nine-foot ceiling before drifting back down to face me.

“Um, sorry,” I mumbled. “I’m here to escort you to the afterlife.” She seemed like such a nice little old lady. I wondered if there was a mix-up and an angel should be here instead of a Reaper.

She dusted herself off, looked me in the eye and said, “Screw off, bitch.”

Ah, so not a mix-up then. I pulled the bell out of my messenger bag. It was big and brass and bulky, and the clapper clanked dully as I tried to ring it.

“Take the sound-deadening wrap off the clapper, idiot,” the old lady said. “Here. Give it here. I’ll do it.” She yanked the bell from my hand, instantly transporting herself to Hell.

“Crap,” I said. Now I had no scythe and no bell. I couldn’t retrieve souls without the proper tools.

I headed back to Reaper Central to find the old lady being led away in cuffs and my bell sitting on the clerk’s desk behind the service counter.

“Thanks for getting my bell back,” I said to the slightly singed clerk. “Could you hand it to me, please?”

“Not so fast, my good Reaper,” she said, squinting at a form. I guess glasses hadn’t been invented back when she’d walked the mortal coil. “Thou’ll needest sign here and payeth the toll for tool retrieval.”

“But I need it for work. Shouldn’t you charge it to Reaper Services or someone?”

She swept her long, charred braid over one shoulder before replying. “Ask not who pays the bell’s toll,” she said. “The toll’s for thee. That’ll be fourteen dollars and ninety-nine cents, please.”

End

Thanks for reading this Reluctant Reaper short story. Stay tuned for more supernatural misadventures in 2026!