Stave Four: The Last of the Transcendental Troublemakers

Roger Smith turned from the window, only to find someone in his bed.

A small, slight figure, feminine form sinking slightly into the mattress as she perched on the edge of his cold, empty bed. He could not see what she looked like, dwarfed as she was by a huge hooded cloak, the color of fresh blood. The hood was drawn over her head, a well of night.

The night had left him weak and humorless, but he attempted a joke anyway. "If there's a woman in my bed I want to be notified," he said softly, smiling weakly.

The figure on the bed did not answer, staring at him from within the red cloak. No light illuminated the cup of dark; he saw not her face.

Instead of being afraid, he felt as though he knew her. "You are the last, are you not?"

A slow nod, as if her head were heavy, as if she were the reaper come to him.

He walked towards her, forgetting his attire, forgetting the cold. She waited with the endless patience of the...living-impaired. He felt he knew the meaning of the words, now.

"Do you have something to show me?" he asked.

Another slow nod.

He reached out his hand. "Then let us go. The dawn presses against the night. You must have much to show me, and we have no time."

She rose gracefully from the bed and extended a black-gloved hand to him from inside the cloak. He took the small hand carefully in his own; her grip was that of iron, of...death. And then they were off.

She was not as talkative as the other two, saying nothing as she leaned against the wall of the dark warehouse she had taken them to. She seemed to be waiting for something.

"All right," a voice called to the men working. "That's enough for today."

"For crying out loud, they could have let us go a little earlier," one worked huffed, turning off the incinerator. "It's Heaven's Day Eve."

"Where do you think they get the metal for all their pretty Heaven's Day decorations?" another worker joked, jerking a thumb in the direction of the now-silent incinerator.

Against the wall there was a flicker of movement.

Roger and the ghost turned to see, him quickly, her leisurely. Roger felt sick.

Propped against the wall were the remains of an old stove-or rather, an android who had become a stove.

"Poor thing, you'll get to live one more Heaven's Day," a worker called to the android, who gave no response. The lights went out, leaving them in total darkness.

"Spirit," Roger said softly. "Are you telling me this is her future?"

He could not see her, and she did not answer.

"Spirit, please. Take me from this place..."

The lights came on, suddenly. He was back in his own room.

The spirit was still there, pointing to the center of the room, where Norman was making the large bed. "Norman," Roger said to the butler. "Is it morning already?"

The butler did not answer, but continued his work.

"Norman, can't you hear me?" Roger asked.

No response. The red-cloaked spirit stood beside the bed, silent.

"Why can't he hear me?" Roger asked her. She beckoned to him, and he followed her out the door.

She seemed to have elected to walk this time; he followed the red cloak through the busy streets. People were wishing each other a merry Heaven's Day. No one seemed to see him, or her; they parted for her like water, noticing her, by not noticing her.

Roger's heart sank when he saw where she was leading him-the cemetery.

He followed her past Timothy Wayneright's tombstone. The man was probably spinning in his grave thinking about what Roger had done to his beloved nightingale. Roger hurried to pass it and move beyond the other forgotten names.

The spirit had stopped her walk on a nearby hill. She pointed to the grave, waiting for him.

He hurried to catch up to her, breath smoking through the chill air like a dragon's as he read the name on the stone.

Roger Smith.

"So this is my future?" he asked the silent ghost.

A nod; then she turned to look down the hill as if waiting for something.

"Oh, God," he said suddenly. "Does it get worse?"

A nod.

A figure trudged up the hill, struggling to carry a garish bouquet of gladiolus and mums. Falling to her knees upon the grave (so that the spirit moved out of the way, her cloak swirling, as if afraid to be touched by her), she began to wail.

"Oh, Roger!" the woman in pink cried, her blonde curls shaking with her tears. "Oh, my beloved husband. It's on Heaven's Day that I miss you the most..."

Roger actually grabbed the spirit by its thin transcendental shoulders. "Spirit, show me no more! Tell me it isn't so!"

The spirit shook its head slowly, no.

"Please!" Roger begged. "I can change! I can change! I'll honor Heaven's Day! I'll buy something navy blue! I'll give Norman the biggest raise in the history of business and take Dorothy to the Heaven's Day ball! Anything so I don't have to spend the rest of my Heaven's Days with Angel!"

The spirit still shook her head.

"Curse you!" Roger cried, shoving her aside. "Are you saying you cannot change it?"

She fell to her knees, the red hood slipping back to reveal...

"Dorothy?!"

"I am saying it is all up to you, Roger Smith," Dorothy replied, tearing the scarlet cloak from her thin shoulders and tossing it in his face.

"I can change!" Roger protested as the cloth swirled around him, impossibly red.

He struggled against it, pawing at the fabric, tearing, until he found the end and realized he was tangled up in his own bedsheets.