One day, in the middle of the afternoon, halfway through sketching a character for the next scene, Declan suddenly dropped his pencil, stood up from his desk, and stared, wide-eyed, at nothing in particular. He realized, at that moment, that he had seen Death.

Not the black-robed skeleton with the scythe. That would be too obvious. Death could not sneak up on you wearing something like that. Rather, it had been a well-dressed young woman. Someone who would easily fit in. Someone who had fit in – until now.

He had seen her off and on, recently. Passing him on the sidewalk on his way to work. Once in the subway. Once in a gallery at the Museum of Natural History.

These sightings were not remarkable, all by themselves. It was the last two, on successive days, that now caused the pieces to fall into place. When he was coming out of the hospital after visiting his ailing mother, she was there – waiting on the bench, right outside.

His mother was soon to have an operation – an operation that would save her life, the doctors had said. It was hard to tell what her real chances were. The doctors always spoke in probabilities. They always tried to put a good face on things. But if Death was waiting for her right outside, well … that was not a good sign.

This wasn’t just a figment of his imagination. He was sure of it. He had recently taken a class in folklore, at the Adult Education Center, where one of the themes was the personification of death. So he knew what to look for. There were subtle characteristics, repeated over and over in stories throughout history with remarkable consistency. There were tells.

He had not thought to look for these before, but now, as he recollected his other past encounters with the young woman, he could see that they were there.

At the reception in the Museum gallery, for instance, she had introduced herself to him as Catherine. She already knew that he liked dinosaurs, and that he sketched fantasy characters – without even asking. Death already knows personal things about people. This is well documented. And everyone seems to vaguely recognize Death, even though they can’t recall ever having met before. He couldn’t remember which was the first meeting, but she always seemed very familiar to him.

There was plenty of food and drink at the reception, and everybody was having some – except her. When a caterer had approached, she waved him off. Death doesn’t eat or drink.

And when she shook his hand, it was cold. Death’s body is always cold.

Death always seems to be going where their next client is going, showing up unannounced. Following them. Waiting. But his mother wasn’t going anywhere. She was in a hospital bed. And Catherine was waiting right outside.

Animals recognize Death before people do. Horses rear, dogs growl for no apparent reason. And cats go out of their way to avoid Death. He had seen this happen on the bench outside the hospital today. A feral cat had started to approach her, then suddenly turned away.

He now knew what he must do. His mother’s operation was scheduled for tonight. That must be her appointed time with Death. He had to somehow prevent Catherine from getting into that room and touching her. But how?

In a near panic, he abruptly left the office, and headed straight for the hospital. Catherine was sitting on the bench again in her usual place. He hatched a plan on the fly.

He sat down next to her.

“Hi, Catherine. Remember me, Declan, from the Museum?”

“Yes, of course, Declan. How are you?”

“Remember you said you knew someone – a studio exec – that might be interested in my drawings?”

“I do, yes.”

“Well, I have a whole portfolio of them at home I could show you. You could take it with you, if you’d like.”

Catherine glanced at her watch. “Well, now might not be the best time. I have an appointment coming up soon that I can’t miss. Maybe you could show me some other time.”

“Oh, it wouldn’t take long! I live nearby. We could go and come back in about … fifteen minutes – tops.”

Catherine dithered for a moment, then said, “OK. I guess I can spare fifteen minutes.”

“Great! Just follow me.”

That was part one of the plan. On the way back to his apartment, he started hatching part two.

When they arrived at his apartment, he was suddenly nervous about his plan’s feasibility, though he tried not to show this. He didn’t actually have a portfolio of drawings, but if he did, would it be believable that he kept it in the closet?

“I keep my portfolio in the closet, if you can believe it. Right over here.”

It was a deep closet, full of all kinds of odds and ends, so the non-existence of the portfolio wouldn’t be obvious at first, he thought. He opened the closet door and turned on the light from the switch on the outside wall. He motioned for Catherine to enter.

“It’s right back here,” he said, pointing.

She entered first. Then he quickly stepped back, closed the closet door, and locked her in.

When Catherine heard the lock, she turned around in surprise and tried to open the door. Yes, he had locked her in.

“Declan? What are you doing?”

“I’m locking you in the closet, that’s what I’m doing.”

“Why?”

“Because I know who you really are.”

This made no sense to Catherine. But it was also clear from the circumstances that there was something a little off about Declan. She would have to stay calm and try to reason with him.

“Who do you think I am, Declan?”

“Don’t try to play dumb with me. It won’t work. We both know who you are.”

“Well, then humor me, Declan. Who do we both know I am?”

“Death.”

Catherine was not expecting this.

“Declan, listen to me. I don’t know where you got this idea, but you have to let me out of here. I have an appointment I have to keep at the hospital.”

“Exactly! With my mother, right? You are not going to make that appointment now, are you?”

“What? I don’t even know who your mother is.”

“Then why have you been waiting outside the hospital for her for several days now? Always on the same bench. I’ve seen you waiting.”

“I work at the hospital, Declan. I’m a doctor there. I often sit on that bench during breaks, if it’s nice weather outside.”

“Aha! Then why aren’t you wearing a white coat like all of the other doctors? Death often gets this wrong, you know. Unaware of the appropriate clothing for the character they are trying to impersonate.”

“I’m a psychiatrist. Most of us wear normal business or casual attire, to make our patients feel more comfortable in our sessions with them. You didn’t know this?”

This cast Declan into a sudden moment of doubt – but then he recovered. “Don’t try to fool me. You are Death, waiting to take my mother tonight during the operation.”

Catherine could now see the narrative that he had concocted, and her role in it. So she dropped into clinical mode.

“Declan, listen to me. I understand why you are concerned about your mother. That’s only natural. But don’t you think you might be mistaken about me. What makes you think I am Death? Why me?”

“Don’t try to confuse me. I know what you are trying to do.”

“What am I trying to do, Declan?”

“You’re trying to convince me you are not Death, so I’ll let you go. So you can keep your appointment with my mother.”

“I see. But why do you think I’m Death, and not someone else who was sitting on the benches, or who was waiting around the hospital?”

“Because I’ve seen you before, several times, and you have all of the signs.”

“What signs would those be Declan?”

“You already know. I don’t have to tell you.”

“Humor me.”

“At the Museum! You knew I liked dinosaurs, and that I drew fantasy characters – before you even met me. Death already knows things about people before they’ve been told.”

“I guessed you liked dinosaurs because you were in the Hall of Dinosaurs. I knew you liked to draw fantasy characters because you were drawing one. Don’t you remember?”

He did … but there was more. “You didn’t want to eat or drink anything, like everybody else. Death doesn’t eat or drink.”

“Not everyone was eating and drinking. You weren’t either, as I recall. Does that make you Death?”

He hadn’t thought of that. “But your hand was cold when we shook hands. Just like Death.”

“My hands are always cold. So are my feet. I’m relatively tall and thin, with long fingers and toes. Not much body fat for insulation. So circulation at my extremities is a little inefficient. Many people, with similar body types,  are like this.”

“But I saw the cat avoid you when you were sitting on the bench, this morning. Cats go out of their way to avoid Death.”

“I don’t recall any cat, but don’t you think there might be plenty of other reasons why a particular cat doesn’t approach a particular person? Maybe the cat was suddenly interested in something else.”

“I know what you are trying to do. You are trying to talk me out of this, aren’t you.”

“Well, in one sense, yes, Declan. I’m trying to get you to see how circumstantial all of your evidence for the personification of Death is. Where did you learn all of these things?”

“From a class in folklore at the Adult Education Center.”

“Ah … and you like folklore, don’t you Declan.”

“Yes.”

“And you like fantasy. You draw fantasy characters.”

“So?”

“So … don’t you think, perhaps, that you might sometimes be confusing fantasy with reality?”

“Folklore is not the same as fantasy. It’s actual history. It’s what people have believed was true for centuries.”

“People have also believed that diseases were caused by evil spirits – for centuries. We don’t believe that now, do we? It’s really viruses and bacteria, right?”

This shook his confidence a little more. “I’m just trying to protect my mother, don’t you see?”

“But think, for a minute, what else you are doing. You are holding a psychiatrist against her will. That’s kidnapping. My colleagues will come looking for me. Do you want to be responsible for that, Declan?”

“If you’re Death, none of that matters. You have no real colleagues. Maybe they can’t even see you.”

“Why don’t you find out for yourself? Death has no reflection in a mirror, right? Do you have a mirror? You could see if I have a reflection.”

At first, this sounded reasonable to Declan. He did have a mirror. That would settle the issue, wouldn’t it? Or would it? Was that a definitive test for Death? Or was that the test for vampires? It was definitely a vampire thing, but now he was less sure about Death. Death sometimes appears different, or as someone else, in a reflection. And if Catherine could do that, couldn’t she also make herself appear as Catherine if she wanted? She wouldn’t have offered the test unless she was sure she could pass it. And how would the logistics work? If he opened the closet door, she might try to escape.

“No. We’re not going to do that. You’re going to stay right there until the operation is over, and my mother is out of danger.”

“It could be tomorrow before you’ll know that. You can’t keep me here all night!”

“Why not?”

“I’ll need water, and food.”

“Death doesn’t eat or drink.”

“But what if I’m not Death, Declan. Have you considered that?”

“You’ll last one day.”

With that, Catherine became resigned to her fate – at least for one night. She would have more leverage tomorrow, when Declan’s mother was still alive. And even if his mother didn’t survive the operation, Declan’s reason for her incarceration would be moot as well.

She sat down on the closet floor, and leaned against the back wall. She looked around, and found a blanket she could use for sleeping.

After a while, she called out, “Declan?”

“Yes?”

“When you’re ready for bed, could you turn off the closet light so I can sleep?”

“Yes. I can do that.”

When the time came, he did.

* * *

The next morning, Catherine was awakened by the sound of Declan’s phone receiving a call. She scooted over to the closet door to hear better. It was from the hospital. His mother had recovered from the surgery, it had gone well, she was now awake, and he could come visit her.

“Declan?”

“Yes?”

“I heard the call. Your mother is fine. Can you please let me out now?”

Declan had not thought this far ahead. If Catherine was Death, she had now missed the key event. Was his mother safe now? He didn’t know exactly how this worked.

“Declan? Can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can hear you?”

“Well?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What is there left to think about? If I’m Death, I clearly wasn’t coming for your mother last night. If I’m just Catherine, you’ve kidnapped an innocent person. The longer you keep me, the more serious you make the kidnapping charge for yourself.”

“How do I know you might not still come for my mother later, if I let you go? It was a risky operation. There might still be complications.”

“Declan, if you think like that you’ll never let me go. Then I’ll die in here, and you will have committed murder.”

“Only if you’re not Death.”

“Are you willing to risk that?”

There was a long silence. Then, “I don’t know. I need to go see my mother now.”

“Declan. I’m a psychiatrist. You need help. If you let me out, I promise I won’t report this to the police. I can help you. This is what I’m trained to do.”

“I’m not mentally ill! That’s not going to work on me. I’m going to see my mother now.”

There was a long silence. Catherine could see that she would have to try another approach.

“Declan?”

He didn’t answer.

“Declan, you’re right! I am Death. I thought I could fool you, but I can’t. You’re too perceptive. No one has ever put all of those telltale characteristics together like you did.”

This changed everything. “I did? You are? Really?”

“Really, Declan. But you missed one thing. I really need to use the bathroom, if you don’t mind. I’ve been in here a long time. It’s the same as with mortals. Can’t get around that. Could you let me out just to use the bathroom? Then I’ll go back in.”

Declan was confused. “But you might try to escape.”

“I won’t. I promise. Lock the door to your apartment. That way I can’t get out.”

This suddenly seemed so reasonable that Declan walked over to the closet, unlocked and opened the door, and showed Catherine the way to the bathroom.

“Thank you,” she said, gratefully.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Catherine walked slowly into the main room where the closet was, but took a seat on the couch. She knew it would be harder for Declan to keep her captive, or put her in the closet again, if he had to deal with her face to face. This would also make it easier to talk to him, because she could make eye contact and be able to read his face.

“Let’s talk about this, Declan. OK?” She said this with a softer voice, now that she didn’t have to shout from behind the closet door.

Declan was still confused, still sorting out the apparent new reality of the situation, and now forced to confront his captive as a sympathetic young woman.

“OK,” he replied, tentatively.

“You do know that death is inevitable, don’t you? If I had really come for your mother last night, she would be dead by now. You could not have stopped me. It doesn’t work like that.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I’ve come for someone else. Not your mother.” She smiled as she said this.

“But you said you had an appointment last night.”

“It wasn’t that kind of appointment. Just an ordinary one. All you managed to do by holding me here was to stand up some poor psychiatric patient – and make me wait forever for the bathroom. Your mother is fine. She’s not on my agenda.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Because she’s still alive, Declan! Didn’t they teach you any of this in your class? You can’t stop Death. No one ever has. I’m surprised this wasn’t covered. There are so many references to this across history. You didn’t hear the fable about the servant in the marketplace?”

“No.”

“Well, it was a common fable in medieval storytelling. It always starts in Baghdad, but the second location changes depending on the version. I’ll tell you the version retold by Somerset Maugham. A wealthy man in Bagdad sent his servant to the marketplace for provisions. When the servant got to the marketplace, he saw Death. When Death saw him, he made a threatening gesture, so the servant turned and ran back to his master’s house. He told his master about the encounter, and asked if he could borrow his master’s fastest horse to flee immediately to Samarra, to avoid Death. His master agreed, and the servant galloped off as fast as he could. The master then went into the marketplace, and when he saw Death, he asked why he had threatened his servant. I didn’t threaten him, Death said. I was caught off guard, and raised my arms in disbelief. I was just surprised to see him here in Bagdad, because I have an appointment with him in Samarra this evening.”

Declan just sat there, in contemplative silence.

“Don’t you see, Declan? You accomplish nothing by holding me here. You can’t keep me from my real appointment. It has nothing to do with your mother.”

Declan was still silent.

“Tell you what. I have to get back to the hospital. I’ll go with you to see your mother. She’s not involved. I won’t file a police report. I’ll make a psychiatric referral instead, and we’ll pretend this little incident never happened. Would that be OK?”

“But how can I trust that you won’t try to touch her and take her anyway. If you were really coming for her, you wouldn’t admit it to me?”

“Declan, that’s another thing you’ve gotten wrong about this whole business. There is no touching. Wherever did you get that notion? I don’t kill people. They die of whatever they die of. I merely come to collect their souls after the fact. I’m a psychopomp. A guide that eases you from the mortal world into the next. I’m here to help. Your mother doesn’t need my help, Declan. Someone else does.”

This helped Declan finally reach a conclusion. “So if you are Death, since my mother’s still alive, you are not coming to collect her. If you’re not Death, but just a psychiatrist, I’m guilty of kidnapping. But you’ll let that slide?”

“Yes. Deal?”

“OK.”

So the two of them walked back to the hospital, then to Declan’s mother’s room. When they entered the room, Declan suddenly blurted out “Are you OK, Mom?”

His mother first looked quizzically at Catherine, then back at Declan to say, “I’m fine! The operation was much easier than they expected. The doctor says I’m going to live a long life.”

Catherine filled in the missing piece for her. “Hi, I’m Doctor Catherine Phillips, a psychiatrist here at the hospital.”

“Oh. Nice to meet you Dr. Phillips.” Then she looked at Declan, and back at Catherine. “And how do you know Declan?”

“Shall I tell her, or should you?” Catherine asked Declan.

Guilt then overwhelmed him. “I’m sorry Mom. I thought you were going to die. And I thought she was Death coming to take you away. I really did.”

“Oh, my,” his mother said, with some concern.

“So I locked her in my closet … overnight … so she couldn’t get to you.”

“Oh Declan,” his mother said, with even more concern. She turned to Catherine and said, “I’m so sorry, Dr. Phillips. Declan has some … issues with his imagination.”

“Has anything like this happened before?”

“Oh, nothing like this. It’s been mostly harmless. But I suppose I’ve always been afraid that something like this might happen.”

“Why, Declan?” his mother pleaded. “Why would you think this lovely young woman was Death?”

“I thought that if she touched you, you would die. I had to prevent that, don’t you see?”

His mother then suddenly reached out toward Catherine.

“Don’t!” Declan cried out. But before he could stop her, she had grasped both of Catherine’s hands.

“See,” she said, smiling. “I’m still alive.”

“Thank you,” Catherine told her, with a smile.

“No, thank you!” his mother replied. “I’m so sorry for what he’s done. Can you … ?”

“Yes, I can help. I’m a psychiatrist. That’s what I do, after all.”

“Oh Declan, please listen to her, will you. She can help you. Will you do that for me?”

“Yes, Mom. I will.”

“Why don’t you come with me to my office, Declan. I’m a professional. I can help you.”

Declan looked at his mother, who said “Go. Go with her, Declan. She’s here to help you.”

“But …”

“We can chat more when you get back. Go with her, please, Declan.”

Dr. Phillips reached out her hand in a gesture of friendship. She smiled warmly. Declan grasped her hand in a gesture of acceptance. It was still cold, he noticed, but now he understood why that was. That was no longer important. Her hands might be cold, but her heart was warm. That’s what really mattered.

As she led him down the hall, they had to cross over from the surgical wing to the wing that housed the psychiatry section. The two wings were separated by the Emergency Room entrance bay at street level. A glass-covered bridge spanned the two wings on the second story, which allowed people to cross over without going outside.

When Declan and Dr. Phillips reached the other side, a first responder vehicle was just pulling into the ER entrance bay from the street. At this point, the scene was behind them, so they didn’t see it. And the insulated glass of the walkway bridge prevented them from hearing any of the resultant conversations at street level. As they disappeared down the next hallway, the EMTs were just emerging from the back of the ambulance.

The ER doctor who had come out to meet them inquired, “What have we got?”

“Male. Late twenties. Expired on the way here. Most likely cardiac-related. Here’s the tape.”

He handed it to the doctor. The doctor examined it, then looked up.

“Cause?” the doctor inquired.

“Unknown. When we got there, his officemate told us there was no apparent prior distress. He was just working at his desk, like normal, when suddenly he dropped his pencil and stood right up. Stared, wide-eyed, at nothing in particular. Then collapsed in a heap.”