Bargaining

The bars on the gate were rusting away. Years of rainwater and tired fog have eaten away at the barrier separating the outside world from the Manor. It used to be an impressive show of intricate iron design and wealth, now a strong wind could be its killer. Poor maintenance aside, the fixture still remained menacing; a warning for those about to cross the threshold, a plea to reconsider.

 From a distance, the metalwork resembled a modified paisley design, though on closer inspection, the circles and ovals changed into vines and crescents. It was difficult to tell if the change was intentional or a side effect of corrosion inflicted upon it. 

I pushed the gate open with my right hand. For how heavy it looked, it swung forward surprisingly quickly, the metal hinges being on their last leg, struggling under the weight of time. As I stepped onto the gravel path ahead, I realized dark brown grime covered my hand and adjacent shoulder. I attempted to wipe it on my pants but ended up dirtying my thighs along with my palms, but at least now they are each a functional amount of gross. 

The sky’s turned a dull shade of gray, blue undertones peeking through the gloomy clouds, likely harboring pouring rain. I started walking faster, preferring to gain shelter before water started spitting from above- even if it was under rotting wood and crumbled support beams. 

As I got closer, the gravel diminished, eventually dissolving the path altogether. The rocks merged into the dirt, and the tallgrass took over. The plants were still damp from the morning fog, and there was still a small amount of ice dust on the moss. 

I pushed through the weeds and tried my best to ignore the droplets of water that now littered my pants and coat. The chill soaked into my bones caused me to adopt an almost constant shiver, and I could feel my fingertips start to numb with the cold. Though even as the rain began to pour, I stopped in my tracks and forced myself to look at the Manor and take in its complete picture. 

The building itself was not that impressive (a main house with two annexes on each side), but its complete surrender to nature drew the eye in, even when you wanted nothing more than to look away. I call it a Manor with a somewhat looser definition because most of its qualities have been trumped by the newer and more pristine architecture brought along with the 20th century, making the simple Gothic style a thing of the past. But even time didn’t dampen its menacing aura- for the structure still loomed over its yard in a way that could make even the proudest man feel small. I was stuck under its shadow, a comforting darkness that I’ve been all too familiar with. 

 I opened the door and could hear the planks and metal sigh, letting their guard down just enough for me to enter. It was heavier than I thought it would be, maybe giving me another chance to back out, to turn around and go back to the normal and mundane, the boring and excruciating.  A metal lion knocker was mounted on the front, with eyes that seemed to judge me. It knew I was a desperate man, just how I knew it didn’t quite belong. 

My whole life, I’ve tried to stay purely in reality- feet firmly on the ground, head strictly out of the clouds. And this had served me well. I take what I saw at face value, and in turn, the universe kept most of its philosophical questions at bay. I know it sounds boring, but boring is what kept me sane. I thought I lost that sanity. During the funeral, I wondered if I ever had it to begin with. 

 When I entered that church, part of me drifted away. My surroundings were far removed from my train of thought, like I was stuck underwater with no place to swim. My body didn’t move how I wanted, and my limbs felt too heavy. I was two steps behind reality. I could process things, but they registered poorly and with an unnatural lag. 

Spread out upon silk and overpriced cloth, she looked like she was resting. Maybe that's why they call it the ‘eternal sleep’. But that slumber was too fake, too pristine. I wanted to reach out and touch her, just make contact one last time before they lowered her six feet under, but I refrained. I knew I would just be disappointed by the feeling of cold flesh encasing even colder embalming fluid. 

I remember her hair being styled and curled, and it falling gracefully down her shoulders, though in real life, it frizzed and stuck to her skin when she slept. They must have used an old yearbook photo as a reference- she never did her makeup like that anymore. Her cheeks were unnaturally rosy, and her eyelashes looked too long and black. Or maybe they went heavy on the blush to counteract the gray pigment of death, to keep up the facade. 

 Someone guided me towards the wooden pews. It wasn’t until my thighs touched wood that I realized there had even been a hand on my shoulder. A breeze wafted through the chapel,  quiet murmurs echoing against stained glass windows- sweet nothings and false sympathies. I could almost hear sobs from people who didn’t know her, or who didn’t care about her when she was still breathing. 

There were bibles in front of me. Stuck in little pockets, like the mail-order magazines on the back of airplane seats. But instead of glossy stiff paper,  tired yellowing pages, disintegrated from decades of people looking for hope. I picked one up, rubbing my thumbs on the fraying polyester, trying to remember if I ever even believed in a god. I looked up to the ceiling and felt lucky that I didn’t. 

Part of me wanted to open the book, to see if this whole religion thing could live up to its raving reviews, though the other part of me wanted to slam it on the ground in a display of immature rebellion. Instead of doing either, I moved to put the book back. 

A thin black envelope fell out. 

It seemed to defy all gravitational expectations. It came down to the ground gradually and with unexpected grace, like a feather from a pillow, dancing in the air, moving with the wind. I debated whether or not to pick it up. 

It obviously wasn’t mine. How could it be? It was probably from or to some patron of the church. Forgotten during the service or stuck in as a bookmark. There was no reason, ethically or practically, for me to pick it up. But something drew me in. An unseen force. Like how it felt to put your hand near a bathtub drain as it sucked down water. I could fight against it, but it seemed easier to give in. Use this as a distraction. 

The black paper now sat inside my coat jacket, dense with the weight of opportunity, though as I got farther along in my journey, it slowly got lighter. 

The first thing I noticed when I walked in was the color. I know- it's a strange thing to pick out. Interior design was definitely not my purview; drunken binging of HGTV really being my only expertise. But something about it spoke to me. 

Faded blue wallpaper meshed with greenery growing through the cracks in the wall. Peeling wood varnish. Orange and yellow rotting leaves. Discolored squares where a paintings once hung. The ghostly trace of past residents, each having picked out a small detail to make a home. 

I expected it to be scary, but more than anything, the structure just felt lonely. Waiting for someone new to come along and leave their own mark. 

I quietly walked through the Manor, doubting myself slightly more with every step. This was insane. Walking into an abandoned old building because I read the address and time on an accidentally found envelope. They do say grief clouds your judgment, but for the first time in a while, my head felt clear. 

I stepped into what I assume was a living room, a somewhat ironic name due to its state of disrepair. But when I got a few paces into the space, something in the air changed, and the room came to life- not literally, of course, but more metaphorically.

Warm sunlight instead of rain filtered through the windows, now having perfectly painted trim and soft semi-translucent curtains. The water damage and mold disappeared from the furniture and walls, now plush and pristine, comforting and enticing. Static flowed through the air, and it felt as if there was a vibrant color filter over reality. 

Logically, I should be scared. Reality shouldn’t work like this. Reality can’t work like this. But I felt warm and pacified, like when the buzz of alcohol numbs your senses, or the first step out of an air-conditioned building into the spring sun. 

“You’re not just going to stand there, are you?” 

A woman was sitting on one of the armchairs, staring directly at me, waiting for an answer. She must have appeared when I looked away, but I had the strange feeling she was here the whole time. She just... belonged.  

“I- um… no?” I fidgeted awkwardly, self-conscious under her gaze. She thrummed her fingers against the velvet armrest, perfectly manicured black nails moving in a rhythmic pattern,  glancing at the loveseat next to her.  I moved to sit there, hopefully getting the hint. 

There was a clock ticking in the background. I hadn’t noticed it before. 

She shifted in her seat, her pinstriped grey skirt falling over her knees. She tapped her heels on the floor, pinching her lips, looking like she was debating what to say. 

“You received the letter, correct?” Her voice wasn’t as harsh as I had initially thought; it was simply more… direct. To be completely honest, it was a nice break from all the infantilizing and pitying rhetoric I’ve been exposed to the last couple of weeks. 

I shuffled around and pulled the paper from my coat pocket. It now had little dark spots from the rain and was soft around the edges from all the times I had run my fingers over it. Trying to assure myself it was real. She took it from my hands gently and studied the writing inside. It made me think she wasn't the one who wrote it. I had so many questions swirling around in my head. 

“I’m-I’m sorry, but who are you? And why here?”

She looked up from the envelope, eyes scanning over my face like she was trying to read some secret code hidden on my skin.  

“You will have all your questions answered in due time, but-” 

I stood up, suddenly realizing how insane this was. 

“No. Just.. no. I am not some helpless fool. I don’t know what you wanted to scam out of me- maybe money or information, but I’m done. Take your parlor tricks and creepy letters, and go prey on some other grieving idiot.” 

I marched towards the door before a hand on my shoulder stopped me. It was shockingly cold, like a freezer-burnt icepack with no memorable origins. 

“What the-” 

“Look, I apologize. It’s been a while since I’ve done this. Please, come back. I will explain what I am allowed to, and if you would still like to leave, you are completely free to do so.” 

I looked into her eyes, and there was something honest in them. She swallowed and clenched her jaw, obviously worried but trying to stay professional. A feeling I was all too familiar with. 

“I just- I don’t know, why me?” 

She returned to her seat, silently asking me to do the same. 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’m sure thousands of people die each day-”

“Around 150,000, yes.” 

“Just- out of those 150,000- why me? You could try to help any one of those grieving souls. There’s nothing special about me.” 

As I sat down, she shifted towards me- biting her lip, looking for the right thing to say. 

“That’s where you’re wrong. The things you did for her near the end, were never out of selfishness. You brushed her hair because you knew she hated the tangles, you kept the blinds open so she could feel the sun, and you let her take her final breath so she couldn’t suffer anymore.” 

I swallowed and looked towards the ceiling, fighting back tears. 

“You didn’t come towards me begging on your knees. You wanted to do what’s best, even through the fog of grief.” 

I chuckled, wet and short-lived. 

“Maybe I’m just in denial.” 

For what could have been seconds or even hours, we sat in silence—the clicking of the clock was the only thing helping me stay grounded in reality. 

“You want to see her again?”

I answered without thinking. 

“More than anything. I- I would give up anything, everything.” 

She smiled, warmth in her eyes. She must have been in my place once. 

“I’ll make you a deal.” 

“Am I selling my soul to the Devil or something?” 

“Oh, honey- the Devil hasn’t been with us for a long time.” 

She was holding papers. I knew she hadn't been a moment before, but I couldn’t tell you when they appeared.   

“I can bring her back, but not without a price.” She looked past me, and I had the urge to turn my head back to see what was so interesting. “The universe has a balance. People are born, people die, and occasionally- people make bargains such as these. But everything needs to stay equal. 

I really hope she was coming to a point soon. 

“Simply, every year she spends with you is one year off your life span.” 

“So if I was going to live alone for another 50 years?” 

“You’d live together for 25.”

“What about a year?” 

“You’d get six months. It’s not an exact science.” 

I grabbed the papers from her hand. If you didn’t pay too much attention, it looked like any other bureaucratic contract. But the writing was too curly, too dark in some places and light in others. Symbols were mixed in lettering, menacing but strikingly familiar. 

“Do I get to know how long I was going to live?” 

“No. But would you really want to?” 

The filter on reality was fading, and I could see the dirt start to dust over the walls and floors again. 

“Can I back out?” 

“You won’t. Resurrection can be addicting.” 

The clock was getting louder. A timer starting to go off. 

“And there's no secret agreements? Hidden loopholes to hang me from?” 

“Do we have a deal or not?” 

She reached out her hand, and I set down the contract. 

I know what I have to do now.