I have decided to edit the first chapter a bit, add some stuff, rewrite other things, fix the typos and all the times I used "form" instead of "from". I will be beginning the brand new, version 2.0 of this very, very soon.

Thanks to all my heros who reviewed this for me, and I really hope to get your guys' feedback on my new, improved story writing skills.

It all began the night of January 25th, when standing behind the curtain of Salem High School auditorium, watching Cindy Williams read her award winning essay to an audience that should have belong to me, I offered my soul to any god that would listen if only I could out write her.

Cindy was the captain of the soccer team, and generally excelled at any sport that was thrown at her. Not to say that girls of her type weren’t creative enough to write an essay worthy of mandatory entrance to the Young Writers of America scholarship program, but Cindy herself was less than an A student…hers was more around the C range , just the bare minimum required to stay on the team.

I was the A student, I was the one who was constantly writing poetry and short stories into my binder in class, I was the one people always asked to draw things for them, and to have Cindy trespass into my territory like that seemed almost like a betrayal, though I didn’t know her very well.

However, they say that you should always be careful what you wish for, and as cheesy and this may sound, it was barely a week after the Reading that the chance for my wish to come true came in through my window at 10:30 at night, literally.

I had been staring blankly at my computer screen for the last few hours, willing it to type something worth entrance into the YWA program. It sat contently, staring me down with its soft blue-ish glow, as if saying ‘ You have been beaten in your own arena; I will never again cooperate for the likes of you.’ My fingers were, as always, poised steadily over the keys, ready to jump and leap across the board if any ideas came to me. For now, I sat immobile; the more I thought about beating Cindy, the more blocked my mind became.

It was then that my candle, constantly burning, stopped flickering. I almost didn’t notice it. The flame was still there, still burning…but completely still. Like a photograph.

“Frankie?”

I whipped around in my swivel chair, knocking over my candle, that somehow, in its suspended state, still managed to spill its hot, orangey wax all over my carpet.

Surprised, and somehow unable to speak, I simply stared at the apparition that had found its way into my room.

It seemed to be a boy from one of the local high schools, but I didn't recognize him from mine. He standing by my window as if she had just flown in though it. He was wearing an intimidating black trench coat that looked a little worn, and tall boots with shiny silver buckles in front. He had one had over his chest, and was bowed slightly. He was wearing black gloves.
"Frances Parish," he began again a silky smooth voice, “I’m here.”

"Huh?" I asked, rather undignified. I was still staring stupidly at him, not quite sure if he was real.

"You summoned me, didn't you?" he asked, hiding both his hands behind his back and taking a small step forward. "Didn't you make a wish at 7:45 and 34 seconds tonight asking for help in a competition in exchange for your soul?"

I didn't answer.

"Well, I am here to help it come true"

"I…beg your pardon? I’m sorry but…who are you? How did you get in here? Get the fuck out right now, or I’m calling the police.!" I said in a voice that was quite south of "demanding". I was planning on calling police regardless of whether he actually left or not.

"The phones lines are down. Anyways, I'm here to help. Technically, you are the only one able to see me right now. We are somewhere between 10:55 and 45 seconds, and 10:55 and 46 seconds. "

"Who are you? What do you want? Do I know you?" I asked again, gripping the sides of my chair. I didn't know how to react in this situation, but I was ready to make a break for the door.

“Please,” he said holding up both hands as if that would slow me down, “one question at a time. I’m here to grant you your wish of winning the competition.”

"…in exchange for my soul"

"Yes." he turned away from me to inspect the small ceramic figurines I kept on my dresser. "I will help you write a story that will win that competition of yours, in exchange for 1 year of service. 1 year from the end of your life."

“Service? To who? Doing what?”

“To me, obviously. And we’ll figure out ‘what’ when we come to it.” He was speaking mostly to my dresser, as he wasn’t facing me. For a second, I wondered if I was dreaming. I tried to make something float, or explode. They say you can totally do this in dreams, and that’s your hint that you are, in fact, dreaming, but when nothing moved, I simply sat back in my chair. I was too stunned almost to even consider what he was offering.

“What if I refuse?”

He shrugged his shoulders and turned to me again. "Nothing happens. I leave. You go about your business, this never happened.” He rolled his eyes dramatically. “But your wish was sincere and heart-felt, that's why I came. I figured this would be an offer you couldn't refuse."

I looked down at the candle that had spilled all over my carpet. The wax was already cooled and formed a solid pool 2 inches wide. Then the jar began to roll. I watched in fascination as then it lifted itself off my carpet, into the air, and begin a course towards the table I had knocked it off of. Sliding out the way, I let it pass and land peacefully on my desk. The wax melted off my carpet and composed itself back into the jar. I stared open mouthed at it. Looking up, I saw my visitor had one hand outstretched, index finger pointing at my candle.

"Did you just...?"

"Yes," he said calmly, "that was a demo. I have the means to grant your wish if you are willing to pay for it.”

"I'm not going to give you my immortal soul for some dumb competition!"

"But its not a dumb competition. I wouldn't have shown up here if it wasn't a sincere wish." he heaved a theatrical sigh and rolled his eyes, "But I haven't even introduced myself yet. " He held out a gloved hand, and handed me crisp, white card with black lettering. 'G. Reaper' it read.

"G?" I asked.

"Stands for 'Grim'". He watched my horrified expression. "The Grim Reaper at your service." He placed one hand on his chest and bowed low.

"This is too weird," I said breathlessly. Then I shook my head hard. "No…no, you should leave." I placed the card carefully on the table as though it was an explosive.

"You should at least listen," he said carefully, standing up to his full height, "to my terms."

I leaned back in my seat and wondering if he were giving me a choice about it. I had wanted to beat Cindy, but I wasn't sure that it wasn't a hallucination brought on by exhaustion, staring at my computer for a half hour.

"Alright," I said finally, "what are your terms?"

He grinned at me," from nowhere, he handed me a contract on a piece of waxed parchment, with the words "Terms of Soul Exchange" written at the top. "One, I will grant the wish to the fullest extend of my powers and to your satisfaction, guaranteed." he began pacing my room. "Two, for payment, I will borrow your soul for one year at the end of your life, in which it shall be under my service for a full 365 days." He stopped pacing, at looked at me. "And three, the contract can be broken at any point with both the parties approval. If you agree, sign here." He pointed to a line scrawled at the bottom of the paper.

I read it over silently to myself. It didn’t seem to have any hidden catch, other than the complete and dominant control over my soul for a year…but the prospect of winning seemed like it was worth it.

“I don’t have to sign this in blood, do I?”

“No, pen will do fine. “

I debated silently.

“Fine,” I said, as he handed me a red quill pen, “but this better not be some kind of dumb trick.”

He only smiled at me.

It was barely a week later; I was walking home on a Friday afternoon. The rain was pouring, not frozen into snow, but instead falling as cold, sloppy rain that soaked right through your shoes and ran down your shirt. The dark clouds made it as dark as night, and I had gotten a load of homework that might take me all weekend to do, but I couldn’t be happier. No amount of bad weather or homework could possibly dampen my spirits.

Clutched between my sweatshirt and raincoat was my master piece, a short I had written overnight two days after He had left; he had been true to his word, and within minutes of his departure, the rush of ideas plowed through my writer’s block so violently, that I had not only written my essay, but three short stories, 2 plays, and numerous poetry.

This particular piece I had written about World War II almost brought tears to my English teacher’s eyes (Magnifique! She had told me, though she didn‘t know how to speak any other words in French), and I didn’t even like writing about war. I had no knowledge, but somehow, I had managed to write a heart-wrenching account of a young boy forced to go to war…or something like that. The ideas didn’t seem to flow from me, but from another place entirely. In any case, I had my entrance piece for the YWA program, and that was good enough for me. Cindy was beaten, I was sure of it.

“Be sure to uphold your part of the deal,” he had said after I had written my messy but legible signature on the contract, “you’re going to be pissed if I show up 10, 20, or 30 years from now.” I had been a little apprehensive after he left; I was getting those regrets you get after getting a haircut you didn’t want, or wearing a perfume that made you sick. But it was a minor discomfort, and it had won me a chance to see the face of Cindy Williams as I was announced a winner of a free scholarship. It had actually skipped my mind for a few days, until that Friday afternoon, after I had unlocked my door and stepped into my house.

“Mom?” I called, dropping my bag to the floor, “Mom, are you home?!” Not hearing an answer, I grabbed a candy bar from our sugar stash and retreated to my room, eager to start another typing trip. I seem to get ideas only when I sit down to my screen, and I get “in the zone” for hours.

I walked in on finding Him sitting on my computer chair, casually looking through the stash of magazines I had out. He had his feet up on the desk, near an empty soda can.

“Hi.” he said cheerfully, putting aside the October issue of Seventeen.

“What are you doing here? Where’s my mom? What’s going on?”

“There you go again,” he said frowning, and rising form the chair, “asking too many questions at once.” He stretched, raising his arms above his head as if he had been sitting for some time.

“Okay…where’s my mom?”

“At work.” he yawned. “Something about a computer crash. She’s staying late to help fix it. She left you a note.” He handed me a piece of paper with my mom’s handwriting. And also, there are Spagettios in the fridge.” He seemed considerably happier than the last time I saw him.

“Okay…” I started cautiously, “so then why are you here?”

“For my payment.”

“What?”

“Do I stutter?” he turned frustrated again. “You had your wish granted; that piece you are holding is going to win next month. Therefore, you owe me your soul for the next 12 months. Remember?”

I stared open mouthed at him again, knowing how undignified I must have looked.

“No way,” I stammered, “no way. You said not until the end of my life!”

“Yes, I did,” he admitted, “that means one year before you die. And, In the next 5 minutes and 3 seconds, it will be exactly that.” He whipped out a book, from nowhere, and handed it to me. It was a large black book with gold lettering in the front that read my name, and the year I was born. “Last page love.”

I turned to the back (it was actually quite a thick book, I noticed, even thicker than what it looked like just a second before) and saw my own picture, staring into the camera like a mug shot.

“Frances Carrie Parish,” I read silently, “died 2008 at Lake Towahotawah on January 30th, 3:22 pm. Cause of death: Drowning.” I stared at those words.

“I drowned?!”

“Oh yes,” he purred, pacing my room again, this time slowly and deliberately, “you jumped in to save your boyfriend, a Michael Conwall, and had an asthma attack…your asthmatic, right? And tragically, ended up drowning, due to freezing water temperatures.” He stopped longed enough to poke at my lava lamp, while I had a chance to sort out what I had just heard.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” I stated weakly. “I don’t live near any Lake Towa-blah-blah.”

“You’re going to move. Or, you would have.” he watched the pink wax ooze down the side, “in 2 months, you parents are going to get a letter that they have inherited a house from your Aunt Harriet, who-” here he put a hand on his chest and straightened up, shutting his eyes as if in respect, “died last week of a heart attack. You’ll have moved in 6 months to Colorado, and meet Michael, who you would have eventually married.” He smiled warmly. “And it’s your lucky day. I am going to save you trouble of drowning. It’s quite a painful death, actually.”

“…you‘re lying to me.”

He sighed and pulled another book seemingly out of no where and flipped through it briefly, than handed it back.

“Right here. Ethel Harriet, death due to heart attack.” I was staring at a woman I have never seen before in my life.

“Oh, just cuz its in your fancy book of the dead doesn’t mean its true. You could be making all this up.” I concluded, shutting book and dropping it at my feet. It exploded into a cloud of yellowish-sand, then evaporated.

He took a deep breath.

“When you were eight your parent’s brought home a kitten who’s mother had died, and you tired to nurse it back to health but it died the next day, and they told you the mother came back to take it home. When you were 10, They told you that your Uncle Benji died in a car crash, which prompted you to wear your seat belt religiously to this day, but it wasn’t until last year that you found out from your cousin that he actually killed himself in the basement. And then when you were 12, you – “

“Oh god, Midnite died?” Focusing in this fact, I suddenly felt a bubble of sadness well up in my chest. I opened my mouth to breath and it came out as a squeak. “I thought…I really thought it went home.” I sat staring blindly into the space just below the Reaper’s kneecaps. Far from being sympathetic, he shrugged at me.

“Yes well, that’s life. And death. Shall we continue?”

“You tricked me,” I said quietly, staring off into space, not really seeing anything, “you tricked me. You knew I was going to die. You knew and you still tricked me.”

“Hey, no tricks here,” he shrugged turned back to my lava lamp, “I really can’t tell you when you are going to die, since that against the rules, and I told you that you would get pissed off. Don’t look at me like that, you made the contract.”

“But you can’t! I didn’t even get to read my story! This isn’t to my satisfaction, you broke the contract!”

He sighed again, and held up his hand to count once more on his gloved fingers, “One, I don’t care that you didn’t get to read. We agreed it would win, and it will. Trust me. And two, you were satisfied. Just now, you were happy and content and thankful. See? All my part was fulfilled. Now, it’s your turn.”

“No! You’r cheating!” I had been sitting on my bed for last few minutes, but now the sheer force of my anger at him cheating me forced me to my feet. “You LIAR!! How can you do this to me?!” I grabbed a chunk of my hair and pulled at it viciously, stomping my feet. He looked alarmed.

“Hey!” he grabbed my arm, “hey don’t tear out your hair! Just…deep breath, alright?” Taking his advice, but pulling my arm away from his grip in defiant way, I breathed in deeply through my nose and out through my mouth, like they teach you at yoga clubs to help relieve your stress. It was helping, but I was still upset.

“Tell you what,” he said thoughtfully once I had a chance to calm down, “how about I give you another day? To tie up some loose ends and things. I’ll come back tomorrow night around 4-ish…that sound alright? I admit it was a little cruel of me to cheat you like that, but this way, you can, at least, enjoy your time before your rather untimely demise.”

I nodded weakly and sank back on my bed. He disappeared before I could question him.

“We have to go to the mall,” I told Lydia the next morning. I had a horrible night sleeping, and decided that if I was among people, maybe He would leave me alone. I wanted to, at least, go out and have a little fun. I had torn up my story around 3 am, and deleted every bit of evidence from my computer that it ever existed. I wished I had never made the wish, I didn’t care if Cindy won the Nobel Peace Prize, I just wanted to live out my remaining year as best as I could.

“Why? I don’t have any money.” Lydia said sleepily; it was 11 o’clock, and Lydia was never fully awake before noon on weekends. She yawned into the phone.

“It doesn’t matter!” I said a little sharper than I had meant to. I took another deep breath and added, “neither do I, but I just want to see you. We can hang out. Chill. You dig, mah sista?”

Lydia giggled softly into the phone.

“Ok,” she whispered, as if falling asleep again. “Call me back in two hours.”

Lydia is so reliable, I thought once I had hung up with her, count on her to go mall-ing with me in my time of need. We had been friends since the 6th grade, when I had transferred to her English class and had let her borrow a pen for our essay.

I suddenly remembered all of our adventures, from the time I had helped her get out of a ticket while learning to drive (she had run into a fence; we convinced her parents that it was a squirrel that jumped out into the middle of the street that she had to swerve to avoid) and even that time she had been caught shop lifting and I had gotten in trouble by association.

“I am going to miss her,” I sighed into my pillow.

“Check it out,” Lydia nudged my ribs with her elbow, not looking up from the angel figurine she had picked up. We were hanging out at Blue Moon, a store that specialized in New Age artifacts. It had a supply of ceramic figures of angels, dragons, fairies, and Egyptian Gods. I had been flipping through a pack of tarot cards when Lydia had slyly wandered over. She was pointing her thumb behind her.

There, standing in the book section, flipping through a book of paranormal anomalies (Life after Death: Secrets of the Dead, by Edmond Y. Caller), was Him. He wasn’t even looking in my direction; he was engrossed in his book. But, almost as if he felt my eyes on him from across the store, he slowly raised his head until we were staring at each other.

I felt Lydia poke my back.

He closed the book and pushed it back on the rack without looking, and began to walk towards us, holding his hands behind his back like I’d seen him do before.

I had been wondering how the actual act of him “exchanging my soul”, as he put it, would happen. I imaged him brandishing a large scythe out of that trench coat of his and coming at me full swing, ready to clip my head off my poor little shoulders. I positioned myself behind Lydia just in case he did decide to victimize my exposed neck.

Lydia was fearless.

“Hi,” she said once He had gotten within earshot. He smiled at her with pearly white and perfectly even teeth.

“Hey. “ He leaned off to the side, where I had been trying to hide behind Lydia, and gave me a goofy grin. “Hey, Frankie. What are you doing here?”

“Oh, you guys know each other?” Lydia asked a little hopefully. He straightened and extended a hand, which was gloveless and as pale as the rest of him.

“Yes, actually,” he said a voice I hadn’t heard him use before; normally, he sounds confident and perfectly in control, but here, he sounded slightly confused and bewildered. Exactly like a human meeting someone new for the first time. “I’m a friend of Frankie’s. My name’s Nick.” Nick? Did he just pull that name out of his ass?

“Oh. Hi.” Lydia stepped away from me.

“Hi,” I said timidly.

“So, uh, how do you guys know each other?” Lydia asked, seeing how I was avoiding looking him in the eye.

“Oh, we’ve met a little while ago. Actually, Frankie, I would like to talk to you. “He raised his eyebrows at me. I pulled on the back of Lydia’s shirt.

“Um…we have to go, but I’ll call you later, okay?” Lydia had barely the time to wave good-by before I had pulled her away. Unfortunately, I didn’t get three steps. He grasped my arm so hard it felt as though he meant to tear it right of my socket.

I pulled my arm, away (nearly tearing the skin) and walked away quickly. I felt sick to my stomach. Sick with fear, sick with anxiousness, sick with worry. I didn’t look behind me, but I expected him to fly at me any second.

“Uh, Frankie, what just happened?” Lydia asked as I steered her away from the store. I didn’t know what to tell her. My first instinct was to go home, but Lydia insisted that we go into one more store. A book store.

“Then we go.” she paused. “And call the police if you want.” I shook my head.

Bookstone was a large book retailer. It was easy to get lost, or to lose your way on purpose. And it was mostly empty. I walked up and down the aisles with Lydia, who was searching for a mystery novel. She was a huge fan of mystery books.

Eventually though, I went off on my own, as often happens when we go shopping. Lydia takes forever to pick out a book.

While somewhere in the Sci/Fi aisle, I noticed a book fall off the shelf a few feet from where I was standing. Just like that, it just fell from its secure little place wedged in between two larger books.

Another one fell just 5 feet away, behind me. I took that as a bad sign. I turned and ran from the aisle.

Unfortunately, as soon as I turned the corner, I ran right into Him, Nick. I literally bumped right into him, and while he didn’t budge at all, I reeled away form him, and promptly tripped over a pile of books that some idiot had left carelessly in the middle of the aisle. But they weren’t there just a few seconds before.

I hit the ground hard, the wind nearly knocked out of me.

I saw His face, peering down from his usual tangle of black hair. He didn’t seem very mad. He looked peaceful.

Frustrated, I clapped the heels of my hands over my eyes and bit down a scream of anguish. All of a sudden, it didn’t seem fair to me. I had failed. I hadn’t managed to weasel my way out of dying.

“Life’s sucks, doesn’t it, love?” he asked me rhetorically. I opened my eyes to see that he had sat down cross-legged next to me, his fingers steepled as if in prayer. His gloves were back.

“I hate you,” I dully stated, staring up at the florescent lights.

“And that’s a goddamn shame,” he said softly, “because I like you.” I read sincerity in his voice. “And now, we have to get going before someone comes along.” He stood up, brushing the imaginary lint off his coat. I pulled myself up on my elbows.

“Hey…this isn’t gonna hurt is it?”

He laughed. I had never heard him laugh before, and this one sounded genuine. I was sure someone would hear it; it was echoing around the store.

I wanted to punch his teeth out.

He extended a hand out to me to help me to my feet; I hesitated for only a second, but let him pull me up. I was surprised at his strength as I got to my feet quickly and easily.

“Hey Frankie,” Lydia’s voice carried, slightly muffled, around the book cases. “I found a good one about oh my god. “ she stopped suddenly, hesitated for half a second, then turned and walked very quickly away. I looked down to where she had been, and saw myself, lying on the dirty carpet. My purse was flung a little ways away, when I had tripped over the book pile. My eyes were glazed over. My dead body stared back at me.

At first I only vaguely felt ‘Nick’ pulling me away. I heard my own chest wheeze as I hyperventilated. I heard Lydia’s panicked cries to the store clerks. And then I felt my shoes sink through the floor of the store. The weight of my body was pulling on my arm, the one Nick was holding onto. The rest of me was falling through the floor like a rock through water.

“Focus,” Nick was hissing in my ear, “or you’ll fall through, and I am not coming after you.”

“I died.” I said, the words feeling foreign and heavy on my tongue, “I fuckin died.”

“Yeah, you did.” He told me, finally giving up, letting us both sink through the floor. People were running around, but then they disappeared over the edge of the carpet as I sank through. “Welcome to the other side.”

Okay! Mission accomplished! I officially can't look at this chapter anymore! Feel free to ask me questions about this goodness, kay? I may start a website for it soon.