Never Play WIth Death

(This was a horror story writing project we had in school back in October)


In a small village in the country, there was a very powerful, yet very popular, family. They were well known for their wealth and kindness. But of all their traits, the most common was their insane amount of luck. And the father, Phero, had the best luck of all. Constantly, he managed to escape Death’s cold embrace by sheer dumb luck. But as a person who has recently become a man, he was still incredibly headstrong.
That day was like no other day. For now, Phero went too far…
During a duel, the sword of Phero’s opponent had missed a vital area by the width of a hair, while Phero’s dagger was guided, as if by magic, to his enemy’s heart. As Fulta, the town’s medicine man and Phero’s best friend, tended to Phero’s wounds, Phero began to speak in a mocking tone.
“Ha! That was too easy! Once again, Death, you cannot claim my soul!” Phero exclaimed. A few of the villagers laughed along with him.
“Phero, hold your tongue!” Fulta hissed. He was young, but wise for his age of eighteen.
“Fulta, calm yourself,” Phero answered. “I will be fine.” Then, returning to a mocking tone, he exclaimed, “In fact! I will challenge Death himself!”
At first, nothing happened. Nobody moved. Challenging Death himself meant nothing but unavoidable doom. Finally, when some people began to relax, thinking Death had ignored his challenge, they heard the cry of a raven as it flew into the town. As it flew, the sky was blanketed in black storm clouds. The raven landed on the tombstone next to the grave of a priest that lived in the town a long time ago. Sometimes, people would come to the grave to ask for guidance. Amazingly, some of the dirt on the top shifted. For five minutes, it continued to shift. Then, as strangely as it began, it stopped. For thirty heart stopping seconds, nothing happened. Not even the wind blew. In an instant, a hand erupted form the grave; but it was no mortal hand. The hand was made of faded, scratched, yellowed bone. Another hand! For a moment, the hands moved around on the ground until they found the edges of the grave. Though no one saw muscle, the hands began to pull the body out of the grave. A chest made of yellowed ribs appeared first. Then, a skull of the purest white followed the chest. He appeared to be sitting up. He continued to pull himself out, until he was completely free of the grave.
For a few seconds, he stood there, hunched. Then, darkness that is born of fear and hate formed in the ribs where his heart should have been. As he began to stand straight up, the darkness spread to cover the body of bone, a robe as dark as night. The sleeves ended at the elbows, as if they had been ripped off. The pure white skull remained the only thing not covered. But the darkness continued to flow. Wings of black feathers began to sprout from his back. More darkness created a sphere in his hand. It then lengthened out, and at the end, a curved blade sprouted form the shaft. At last, a hood formed, covering the top half of the skull in shadow. Death, the Grim Reaper, had arrived.
In a voice as blood chilling as his appearance, Death proclaimed to the crowd, “Who is the mortal fool that challenges me, The Grim Reaper!”
The only movement in the town was a cold wind, softly blowing. Phero sat on the ground, his face as pale as the Reaper’s skull. At last, he said, “It is I, Death. I have challenged you,” he said. He occasionally stuttered, for even the bravest man must stand in awe at the sight of Death.
The Reaper slowly turned his head to look at Phero. Even though the eye sockets were empty, Phero could feel Death studying him.
“Very well,” it said. “I accept your challenge. But I shall choose what challenges you shall face.”
“Agreed,” Phero replied.
“Good,” Death stated simply. It began to walk around Phero in a circle. “If you survive these challenges, and show no weakness whatsoever, I will grant you eternal life,” it continued. “But, the first time you show weakness, I will send your soul to the deepest depths of Hell.”
Phero was confident he could survive, maybe a little too confident. He had evaded Death thousands of times before; he could do it one thousand and one times. “I accept your terms!” Phero exclaimed.
To everyone’s surprise and fear, the Reaper smirked. “Then, welcome to Hell,” it whispered. It lifted the scythe above its head and brought it down with enough force to completely wedge the blade into the ground. It grasped the bottom of the shaft with his left hand, and pulled backwards until the scythe was free of the ground. Flames exploded form the canyon before Death had completed the process. Everybody present could sense nothing but pure evil. As the flames reared back, a few grabbed Phero around his arm, legs, and torso. No matter how much his body and mind told him to, he did not scream as he was dragged into Hell.
The next thing Phero saw was a post. He also noted that he was tied to it, and that his shirt was missing. His fears were confirmed when he saw a small demon walk up to the post with a whip. As he passed Phero, Phero looked over his shoulder to see the demon hand the whip to the Grim Reaper.
“One hundred lashes, I think,” Death said, obviously aware that Phero could hear him. Phero did not protest, for that would show weakness. But as the whip was brought down on his back, he wished that he could scream. Even through the intense pain, he noticed that the whip attacked the soul as well as the body. After what felt like an hour, he heard the Reaper say, “22.” Phero could not believe it. He sill had over seventy-five lashes to go! Then, after what seemed like a year, Phero felt his body hit the ground. He looked around and saw he was back in his town. He also noticed that his back had no wounds on it, despite the one hundred lashes. That’s strange…Phero thought. Why is my back…? Phero thought no more as he saw, to his horror that his arm was slowly being ripped off, piece by piece. He could felt every strand of his body scream in pain.
In the town, no one could understand what was happening. Phero was thrashing around, blood pouring from his back, his face twisted in pain, trying not to scream. Finally, after many minutes, he stopped. His eyelids burst open and stared at his body as if it were a miracle he was still alive. Just then, he noticed he was out of the fine clothes he had been wearing. Out of instinct, he turned and looked to the north of the town. The mansion he had grown up in and lived in now was gone. All that was there was a small hill.
“Are you ready to submit?” a voice said. Phero knew who that voice belonged to and did not want to look; but he could not help himself. As he turned around, he saw the Reaper standing there, a short distance behind Phero’s youngest daughter.
The scythe in its right hand, death looked at the daughter. “Amazing how, in an instant, you can lose everything you hold dear, and have only one family member,” it began. Then the Reaper flipped the scythe up and beheaded Phero’s daughter. “And in another, you become the last…”
Phero wanted nothing else than to destroy Death. He wanted to leave nothing left of it but a tattered piece of cloth and a bent feather. But he knew it was pointless. If he showed that weakness, he would meet the same fate. Even though it felt like a piece of his soul had died, he found the one way he could ease the pain without showing weakness.
“Is that the best you can do to me?” Phero asked, even as the words burned his throat. “I did not know Death was this weak…”
This enraged the Reaper. “Even after this torture, you have the nerve to continue to insult me?!” it yelled. “Now, you will become nothing but an empty shell of a man, even if you obtain eternal life!”
Then, Death did something no one present would ever forget. It walked up to Phero, hand outstretched. As it reached Phero, its hand sunk into Phero’s chest. Then, it pulled out what looked like a small heart. It took the ‘heart’ and put it in its own chest. “I have taken the one thing you humans seem to have. Hope. Always talking about it, always bragging about it. And with it, I have taken all of your emotions. All, but one. Anger,” the Reaper whispered.
First, Phero did nothing. After a moment, he looked up to the sky and screamed, “Damn you, Death! lemons you to oblivion!” he screamed.
The Reaper looked at him as if it were disappointed. “I’m afraid, you have shown weakness, and lost; and I’m afraid it is you who will be damned,” Death whispered. The Reapers scythe began to glow with a black aura as he brought it down on Phero. It did not cut through the skin, but rather the soul. As soon as it was severed form the body, the soul fell into the ground, into Hell.
Many years later, all who had seen this event transpire warned all they knew about what they saw. As a permanent reminder, a skull was placed atop the tombstone by Phero’s grave; leaning on it was a black shafted scythe. An everlasting reminder to never…play…with…death…

Pretty good story ^-^ Although it is difficult to read, thanks to the background and color of the letters.
I liked it =D It really got me in the story, good job!