Don't Fear The Reaper
|Don't Fear The Reaper|
Synopsis - from goodreads
Grief-stricken by the murder of her twin, Keely Morrison is convinced suicide is her ticket to eternal peace and a chance to reunite with her sister.
When Keely succeeds in taking her own life, she discovers death isn’t at all what she expected. Instead, she’s trapped in a netherworld on Earth and her only hope for reconnecting with her sister and navigating the afterlife is a bounty-hunting reaper and a sardonic, possibly unscrupulous, demon.
But when the demon offers Keely her greatest temptation—revenge on her sister’s murderer—she must uncover his motives and determine who she can trust. Because, as Keely soon learns, both reaper and demon are keeping secrets and she fears the worst is true—that her every decision will change how, and with whom, she spends eternity.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for they are with me.
I repeated my version of the psalm as I watched the ribbon of blood drift from my wrist. I’d hoped it would be a distraction—something to stop me from wondering what my sister’s dying thoughts had been. Exhaling slowly, I let the emptiness consume me.
Jordan had kept my secrets and I had kept hers. In the end, it came down to just one secret between us that took her life. Now, it would take mine. I should have said something, but nothing I said or did now could bring her back or make anyone understand what she meant to me.
Are you here, Jordan? Are you with me? Tell me about heaven...
I told myself Jordan was gone, never coming back, but her memories continued to haunt me. I had no idea if there even was an afterlife. If God existed, I was convinced he had given up on me. Not once did I sense he’d heard a single one of my prayers. I wasn’t asking for the world—I only wanted to know if my sister was safe and at peace. What was so hard about that?
She should still be here. It wasn’t fair.
I’d been the difficult one—much more than Jordan. For a while, I’d even gotten into drugs. Mom and Dad had worried I’d get Jordan into drugs, too. But I wouldn’t. Not ever. Besides, that part of my life had been over long before Jordan’s death. A small gargoyle tattoo on my left shoulder was all that remained of my previous lifestyle.
Mom and Dad started treating me differently after Jordan’s funeral two months ago. She and I were twins, so I understood how hard it was for them to look at me and not see her. Sometimes, they wouldn’t look at me at all. Mom went to the psychiatrist, but no one asked if I needed to talk to someone about what happened. No one asked if I needed sleeping pills or antidepressants. Yeah, sure. Don’t give the former addict pills of any sort.
Not one person saw the all-consuming suffering that gnawed at my soul. Why couldn’t anyone see? Jordan had been more than my sister—she’d been my Samson, my strength. I would have done anything for her, and yet, I’d failed her. I wasn’t the one who’d killed her, but I might as well have been. How could I ever live with that? My heart had a stillness to it since her death.
I shall fear no evil.
I couldn’t very well recite the first part of Psalm 23 because it said I shall not want, and I did want. I wanted to go back in time. I wanted my sister back. Clearly, goodness and mercy were never going to be part of my life ever again. In my mind, I saw myself walking through the iron gates of hell with demons cackling gleefully all around.
I didn’t want to die. Not really. I was just tired and didn’t know of another way to stop the pain. Doctors removed a bad appendix. Dentists pulled rotten teeth. What was I supposed to do when my very essence hurt, when the cancer I’d come to call depression made every decent memory agonizingly unbearable?
Before I’d gotten down to cutting my wrist (I managed to only cut one), I’d taken a few swigs of Dad’s tequila—the good kind he kept in the basement freezer. I’d used another swig or two to chase down the remainder of Mom’s sleeping pills in the event I failed to hit an artery or vein. Then I’d set the bottle on the ledge of the tub in case I needed further liquid encouragement. Instead of using a knife or a razor, I attached a cutting blade to my Dad’s Dremel. The Dremel was faster, I reasoned. More efficient.
It would have been easier to OD, I suppose. But I felt closer to my sister this way, to suffer as she’d suffered.
I recited the line from Psalms 23 again. It had become my personal mantra.
The words resonated in my parents’ oversized bathroom. I’d chosen theirs because the Jacuzzi tub was larger than the tub in the hall bathroom. Jordan and I used to take bubble baths together in this same tub when we were little.
Innocence felt like a lifetime ago. I searched the bathroom for bubble bath but came up short. Soap might have made the laceration hurt more so it was probably just as well. Besides, the crimson streaming from my wrist like watercolor on silk was oddly mesmerizing.
The loneliness inside proved unrelenting, and the line from the psalms made me feel better. I prayed for the agony inside me to stop. I argued with God. Pleaded. But after all was said and done, I just wanted the darkness to call me home.
I tried not to think of who would find my body or who’d read the note I’d left. I blamed myself not only for failing Jordan, but for failing my parents, too.
My lifeline to this existence continued to bleed out into the warm water. Killing myself had been harder than I’d imagined. I hadn’t anticipated the searing fire racing through my veins. I reached for the tequila with my good arm but couldn’t quite manage. Tears welled in my eyes.
Part of me foolishly felt Jordan was here. The other part feared she wasn’t.
Give me a sign, Sis. Just one.
I imagined seeing my parents at my funeral—their gaunt faces, red-eyed and sleepless. How could I do this to them? Wasn’t the devastation of losing one child enough?
No. Stop. A voice in my head screamed. Don’t do this. Don’t. Please...
I shifted my body, attempted to get my uncooperative legs under me. I could see the phone on my parents’ nightstand. I could make it that far. Had to. The voice was right. I didn’t want to do this. I felt disorientated, dizzy. Darkness crept along the edges of my vision. Focusing became difficult. A sweeping shadow of black caught my attention. Someone stood in the bathroom—not my sister. A man. Had I managed to call 911? I couldn’t remember getting out of the tub. And why’d I get back in? Did I use a towel?
Mom is going to be pissed when she sees the blood I’ve tracked all over the bedroom carpet.
“I’m sorry,” I told the man in black.
“It’s okay, Keely. Don’t be afraid.” Not my father’s voice. It was softer, with a hint of sorrow. Distant. Fleeting. Later, I’d feel embarrassed about this, but for now I was safe from the nothing I’d almost become. My teeth clattered from the chill. My eyelids fluttered in time with my breaths. The tub water had turned the color of port wine. The ribbons, the pretty, red watercolor ribbons were gone.
Dull gray clouded my sight.
A voice whispered to me, and my consciousness floated to the surface again.
Cold. So cold.
“I’m right here.”
There was no fear in me as the man bent forward, his face inches from mine. He was my father’s age, and yet strangely older. His eyes were so...blue, almost iridescent. The irises were rimmed in a fine line of black, and the creases etched at the corners reminded me of sunbeams as he gave me a weak smile. The oddly. Dressed. Paramedic. A warm hand reached into the water and cradled mine. My fingers clutched his. I sighed, feeling myself floating, drifting. Light—high and intense exploded before me. No! Too much. Too much! I shuddered and labored to catch my breath, but it wouldn’t come.
Finally, the comfort of darkness rose to greet me.
Tell Me About Heaven - The story behind Don't Fear The Reaper
I first came up with the idea for Don't Fear the Reaper after several agents had rejected another novel I’d written and asked if I had anything, darker – more edgy. Oddly, it’s been years, but I still recall coming up with the concept so vividly.
I was cleaning house and mulling over new ideas when Blue Oyster Cult’s iconic 1976 song, Don't Fear the Reaper, came up on my iPod’s playlist. There were several parts that truly inspired me: “Take my hand,” “40,000 men and women everyday,” “Love of two is one. Here, but now they’re gone,” and “the candles flew and the mist appeared, the curtains blew and then he appeared.”
From there, it was a matter of ‘What If’s’ that made my idea unique from the song. What if it wasn’t star-crossed lovers? What if it was family? What if the main character met up with a bounty-hunting reaper and a handsome, but sarcastic demon? And what if all the odds were stacked against my main character and yet, she still found hope and assistance in the most unlikely of fellow characters? What if all it took to save a soul was sacrifice, one born of undying love and devotion? And yet, what if the price of that salvation came at a high price?
I couldn’t wait to write it. What I hadn’t expected was how it’d rip open old wounds, how the pain of writing Keely’s grief meant revisiting my own. I’d lost my grandparents, my parents, my uncles, all my aunts except for one. I’d lost friends and beloved fur babies, all of whom I’d loved with every fiber of my being. I’d witnessed four of their deaths. I even held the head of two in my arms as they passed. Two loved ones died in the house I currently live in.
Up to this point, I’d managed my grief. Now, by sitting down to write about love that went beyond death, I was getting ready to stick a hammer and chisel into the wall I’d built and bring the entire thing down—and with it, all the painful memories I’d carefully placed behind it.
Tell me about Heaven, Dad I really want to know, Because ten long years have passed, And I miss you so…
The above stanza is from a poem I wrote to my father ten years after his death. I cannot begin to describe what it was like to lose my father, whom I loved more than my very being. All these years later, I’ll freely admit it: I’m a Daddy’s girl. We’re so much alike, he and I. I was robbed of him far too soon by multiple myeloma, a brutal and incurable cancer.
For those who have read Don’t Fear the Reaper, it’s easy to see the real life example I used. It’s easy to spot the grief, the emotion I used for my main character, Keely Morrison. All scenes I drew from real life.
Oh, and about those agents? I had several tell me that the opening was one of the best they’d read in a long time and that the concept was truly original. But, in the end, they felt the subject matter was too dark. That’s okay. I think the person best qualified to make that choice is the reader.
That’s my heart on a sleeve, Dear Reader. The story behind the story. Thanks for reading about the journey.
That’s my heart on a sleeve, Dear Reader. The story behind the story. Thanks for reading about the journey.
About The Author
Michelle Muto lives in northeast Georgia with her husband and two dogs. She loves changes of season, dogs, and all things geeky. Currently, she’s hard at work on her next book.
2 winners will recieve an ecopy of Dont Fear The Reaper! This giveaway is international and the ebooks are available in your choice of epub or mobi format.
Please read my giveaway rules before entering (can be found on the giveaway page). If you win you will be emailed and have 48 hours to respond before a new winner is chosen. Good luck!