The world has changed.
But I haven't.
Cars got faster. Cities grew taller. The living got louder.
But the dead?
They still whisper.
In 2025, death doesn't ride on a pale horse or wear a hooded cloak.
No, death rides the subway.
Death pays for coffee.
Death blends in.
And me?
I am death.
In a black coat.
With tired eyes.
And a name that makes even spirits hesitate.
Adam Doore Rift.
Tonight, I stand in the foyer of a house that has seen more graves than guests.
An old Victorian build—cracked walls, groaning floors, and a scent in the air that doesn't come from dust or mold…
It's the scent of things that never left.
A family sits across from me, tense. The father clenches his hands. The mother holds her two kids tight.
Their eyes plead for answers. Or maybe just hope.
"It was built in 1902," the father says, voice shaking. "There were… accidents. People died. Strange things kept happening. But we thought it was just old wiring. Bad plumbing."
I don't respond right away.
Instead, I raise my hand slowly… and place it over my face.
The mother flinches. "Why do you… do that?" she asks. "Is it part of the ritual?"
I speak through my fingers, voice calm—measured like a heartbeat fading.
"It helps me focus," I say.
But that's not the truth.
Behind the gesture, I'm channeling.
Calling the Rift.
Letting it bleed into my eyes.
The room around me darkens—
not physically… spiritually.
The veil thins.
To them, I'm just standing still.
But what I see is something else.
Every wall hums with pain.
Every step I take echoes through unseen layers.
There are shadows here…
but they aren't cast by light.
I move deeper into the house. Slowly. Methodically.
From the outside, I look like a psychic, maybe a fake.
But inside, I walk through a grave.
There are legs without bodies crawling along the ceiling.
Faces trapped in the woodgrain.
Blood that seeps upward, against gravity.
A noose hanging from a beam that isn't even there.
Children laughing in reverse.
I've seen worse.
But not much.
I turn to the family. They look at me, confused, frightened. The children huddle behind their mother.
I speak softly. "Your home… it's not haunted."
They blink.
"It's a gate."
The air stills.
"A tear in the boundary. A spirit gate. Something got in. Or worse—something never left."
Suddenly—
CRASH!
A chair slams across the room. A photo frame explodes off the wall. The lights flicker, violently.
Screams erupt behind me. The kids cry. The mother holds them close.
But me?
I don't move.
Another slam. This time a door. Then heavy, dragging footsteps from the upstairs hall—where no one's standing.
I take a breath.
A spirit steps out from the shadows—skeletal, grinning, twisted with the weight of decades. It inches forward, face twitching like a glitch in reality.
It lunges.
I raise my voice.
"I see you."
It stops.
Tilts its head.
"You see me?" it hisses. "Then why don't you fear me?"
I turn fully to face it. Calm. Quiet.
And then, without a word, I remove the glove from my right hand.
The skull and scythe tattoo glows faintly.
But it's the glow in my eyes that makes the room freeze.
One gold.
One red.
Both inhuman.
The spirit laughs—at first.
"A tattoo? What is that—some edgy little charm? You think that scares—"
Then it stops.
The laughter dies in its throat.
It stares.
Because what it sees is no longer just a man.
For a fraction of a second—reflected in the mirror across the hall—my true face flashes through the veil.
A hollow stare.
A crown of silence.
The eyes of every soul I've ever taken.
And the spirit recoils in horror.
"You… You're HIM?!" it screeches.
Its form flickers, panics, claws backward like it's burning.
"YOU'RE THE RIFT!"
The family watches in terrified silence, unsure what's happening—seeing only a man standing calmly while a cold wind floods the room.
I step forward once.
The spirit begins to scream.
"Please… no… I didn't know… I didn't know it was you!"
I say nothing.
I don't have to.
The Rift speaks for me.
And just like that, the spirit is gone.
The house stills.
The air clears.
Only silence remains.
I slide the glove back on.
The father stammers. "Wh… what did we just see?"
I look back over my shoulder.
Just a glimpse of a grin beneath the shadows of my coat.
"You saw what happens," I say, "when the dead forget who's in charge."
"What do you mean?" the father asks, voice trembling, eyes wide.
I glance at him. Just enough to let the weight in my stare settle on his spine.
He wouldn't understand. They never do.
"It means the spirits here don't like me," I say evenly.
"But that's fine. I'm not here for their approval."
A pause. A breath. The room tightens.
"I can exorcise them. Close the gate. Just a small gift I carry."
"But… I need you and your family to step outside."
They don't question it.
They just go—
like something primal in them knows what's about to enter the room is no longer human.
The door closes.
And I unleash it.
A sudden stillness consumes the house.
Not quiet—dead.
The walls creak. The lights dim—not from power loss…
but from fear.
Then—
a hum of black energy flows through my arm.
And in a blink, my scythe appears.
Seven feet of curved judgment. Not steel. Not blessed.
Born from the Rift itself.
The spirits feel it.
And they remember.
"It's him—"
"No… no, it can't be—"
"IT'S HIM!"
"THE GRIM REAPER!"
"RUN!!"
"THE RIFT WALKS—THE END COMES!"
Their voices shriek like wind through a battlefield.
Spirits claw through floors, slip behind furniture, vanish into walls.
It doesn't matter.
I remove my glove.
The tattoo glows—
a skull beneath a scythe, now pulsing with spectral flame.
My eyes ignite—one red like vengeance, the other gold like judgment.
And then…
They see my face.
The illusion peels like cracking paint.
For a split second—reflected in a mirror across the hallway—
my true form bleeds through.
Hollow. Ancient.
Crowned by shadows. Eyes older than sin.
The face the dead pray not to see.
The face of Death.
They scream.
"It's HIM! IT'S REALLY HIM!!"
"WE HAVE TO ESCAPE—HE'LL SEND US BACK!"
"THE GATEKEEPER WALKS—THE REAPER STANDS!!"
I raise the scythe like a prophet raises a torch—
and speak in a voice not meant for the living.
"Tz'ra eth haBayit."
(Seal the house.)
A pulse of green-black light blasts outward.
Every door, every window, every fracture—sealed.
The spirits slam against invisible walls, clawing, shrieking.
"No—NO!"
"PLEASE! LET US OUT!"
"HE'S LOCKING US IN—WE'RE TRAPPED WITH HIM!"
I walk forward. Calm. Unflinching.
The ground bends beneath each step.
Then I speak again.
"Tif'tach haShe'ol."
(Open the Rift.)
The floor cracks with light.
From the center of the house, a vortex opens—
swirling green like fire, like life inverted.
The Rift.
They know it.
And they break.
"NOT THE RIFT—ANYTHING BUT THAT!!"
"WE'LL BE ERASED!"
"HE'S CASTING US TO HELL!!"
The house howls with screams and wind and the scraping sound of death collecting its due.
The scythe burns in my grip like a star.
The Rift begins pulling. One by one—
spirits are ripped from their hiding places, dragged across the air like ash in a storm.
They kick. Cry.
They beg.
"We didn't know!"
"We didn't mean to stay!"
"Have mercy—"
"You were warned," I say.
And still, one by one—
they're pulled into the Rift.
They burn.
They vanish.
Erased.
Until only one spirit remains.
A boy. Small. Hollow-eyed.
Standing near the stairs, trembling.
But not running.
I lower my weapon.
Step forward.
He watches me carefully. Voice soft, barely a whisper.
"They wouldn't let me leave…"
I kneel down.
The Rift still glows behind me like a mouth to the underworld.
"You don't belong with them," I say. "You never did."
He looks up at me. Hope—raw, fragile—flickers behind his eyes.
"Can I… go home?"
I raise my hand.
Not with fury. Not with judgment.
With light.
A soft, radiant glow rises from my palm.
Warm. Gentle.
The opposite of the Rift.
A gate opens above.
Bright. Peaceful. Silent.
He hears a voice.
A name spoken in love.
Tears fall down his face.
He nods.
Smiling.
"Thank you…"
And then he rises.
Weightless.
Free.
He vanishes into the light.
I lower my hand.
Close the Rift.
Seal the house.
And I stand in silence.
The storm has passed.
Death has walked through.
And left peace behind.
The door creaks open.
The family enters slowly—hesitant.
They feel it.
The house is lighter. Warmer.
Safe.
The father tries to speak.
The mother breaks into tears.
The children look around, wide-eyed, sensing that the nightmare is finally over.
"Thank you," the father says, stepping forward. "I don't know what you did… but thank you."
He reaches for his wallet.
I stop him with a glance.
"This one's on me."
I turn.
Step outside.
The night greets me like it always does—
cold, quiet, and waiting.
I get into the car.
Start the engine.
Glance once into the mirror.
For just a second—
my reflection shifts.
Not a man.
Not flesh.
But a shadow.
A crown.
A force older than angels.
Because I am not a hero.
I am not a savior.
I am not hope.
I am the Rift.
And Death still wanders.