Continued from Night of the Cauldron: Part VII, The Scythe of the Reaper
The Tree of Death
The pumpkin faced reaper leveled its baleful gaze upon Traci. It moved to her and lifted her face in it's skeletal hand, examining her with the same detachment it had viewed her uncle's body. She tried to pull away, but it held her fast. The creature stunk of earth.
"Tt tt," The reaper released her face and walked about as if it were smelling the air or listening to some silent melody. As it turned its back to her, Traci reached over and wrapped her hand around the length of the shovel.
"Remember this night," The reaper gestured to the green air, "Though surely it is not likely that you can forget it." It chuckled and touched the tip of the scythe blade into the green column of flame. It stood silently for a long moment, watching the flames dance around the scythe's tip, much like a child burning ants with a magnifying glass. Small sparks flew upward, dancing into the green fog. Through it, a firetruck's siren clearly blared.