The Scythe I Carry: A Short Story

I stand alone on my usual hill, covered in mist the red light of the blood stained moon. A vast ebony cloak made of fraying rags sags on my bony figure. It hangs so low that the bottom lays amongst the decaying grass beneath my lifeless feet. Decorating my cloak is the skulls of my victims. The unravelling hood covers my face but what face you see demands on the illusion i chose for you. Sometimes a face may not appear, just a void, the passage to hell. It could be the flesh of someone you’d loved in the past, or the skin of a stranger, someone you’d never met. My right hand is in a constant state of clutching my Scythe with my bare bone fingers. The Scythe i carry was crafted by hand, made of the horn of the last unicorns the world had ever