The scythe glowed red in the rays of the setting sun. It looked bloody. How it reflected the light of the world of the living was indeed a mystery, but neither she, nor the souls entrusted to her benevolence, had ever questioned it.

Certainly, in contrast to the beautiful sunset that was painting the valley, her black silhouette topped by that bleeding crescent moon was beyond disturbing. And Malachi's victims did not refrain from pointing it out.

"Mercy, mercy, don't kill me."

"Gonzalo Tybern, you are already dead," she attempted to explain, appealing to her supernatural aplomb.

"I beg you, I'll do anything you want, anything."

"No, look, you don't understand. I can't kill you, you're already dead."

"Dead? Me?" Mr. Tybern was actually quite confused.

"Look at me, who do you think I am? Now please calm down and get with the others, I will lead you all for the last ride."

"You mean this is the last sunset I will ever see?" he asked with tears beginning to furrow his face.

"Yes, on the earthly world it is..."

But she didn't have time to finish, the man burst into a desperate cry, followed closely by a burly matron.

"Mrs. Twopairs, don't start that again, we had already cleared it up, didn't we?"

Again there was no time to complete the speech, a new soul made its appearance; it was the ninth.

"Welcome Gaudium Ascans, come, I will lead you..."

"For Babuz, but how much did I drink?"

Death made a pause, which the boldest could have even called uncertainty.

"I didn't remember it was a costume party," the young man continued. "And boy, your costume is a knockout."

Death bowed her head, disconsolate, "It's not a costume," she said, opening the lapels of her tunic enough to reveal part of the ribs.

The boy also shook his head, as if to chase away a thought or an image. Then, not satisfied, moved forward two steps and stretched out a hand to insert two fingers between the second and third rib.

At that point, he actually yelled.

"Someone else is working overtime next," Death hissed through clenched teeth.

If there was in fact anything that made the situation worse, it was that all those people, according to the Plot of Destinies, were not supposed to die. But when magic was involved, the risk of distorting the natural order of things was always around the corner. And that Malachi, by the way, seemed to be a real magnet for deformations.

Death, of course, was careful not to point out to those poor people that their end was not programmed for that day, but nevertheless the spirits remained agitated.

"Aaaaah," began to shriek Mrs. Twopairs as well.

"Don't kill me," pleaded the spirit of young Gaudium.

"I kill no one," protested Death in exasperation. "It is he who has done you in!" she cried in turn, pointing to the sorcerer in the world of the living.

Malachi, heedless of the accusations, buzzed around his next experimenter, a man in his fifties who was already pretty beat up in his own right. He hung by his hands from the hook and dangled above a large amphora decorated with roses and gardenias. Malachi felt it with the fingers of his outstretched palm, as if searching for a precise point to strike. Then, without the slightest warning, he whispered incomprehensible words and a wave of water fell into the amphora, as if thrown from a bucket. A dried up mummy remained of the man hanging from the hook.

"Interesting side effect, I must make a note of it," said the sorcerer to himself. He took out a playing card from a box and put it on his lips, pronouncing again those incomprehensible syllables. The figure on the tarot card immediately changed, becoming that of a wrung-out cloth; it was his way of filing spells.

All this left Death indifferent, who was more interested in the unfortunate victim, who appeared in a moment in his presence.

"Welcome Teno Stej, I will accompany you..."

"Aaaaah," cried the man, going behind the concert of the young man and the matron.

"Look, everyone, I understand your upset, but you must understand that I am here to help you." she sketched a desperate attempt to soothe the situation.

"We're all going to die!" someone shrieked.

"We're already dead," replied someone else.

"Mercy, please have mercy," pleaded Teno Stej.

"Aaah," commented the eleventh victim, who had just arrived among them.

"Aaaaaaahhh," added Mrs. Twopairs, who evidently didn't want to be outdone.

It would be silly to quantify the duration of that cacophony of whining, since for them time had lost its sense of measure. If we were to quantify it according to mortal parameters, however, we could say that it lasted a substantial number of minutes.

Death spent them all in silence, the hood lowered over her eyes and her hand clenched on the handle of the scythe. When she felt the wood of the handle creak under her grip, she agreed there was no alternative.

"NOW STOP. SHUT UP."

The result was immediate and definitive. The souls approached each other, shaken by a slight tremor that blurred their contours. In dead silence they waited for the verdict.

"Good. Now, ladies and gentlemen, I will lead you for the last ride, and I don't want to hear a moan anymore. You, too, Miss Figbucket, shut up and follow us," she said, addressing the fifteenth victim.

An intense white light flashed in an unspecified point on the horizon. The souls stared in shock, but immediately felt a sense of peace. Death made way by taking a few steps towards the passage, then invited them to precede her. The spirits arranged themselves in an orderly line and one by one they blurred into the light. Death closed the procession.

When the soul of Marian Goodman, Malachi's last test subject, separated from his earthly body, there was no one waiting for him.