This story was submitted by Long Beach resident Evan Baughfman as part of the Signal Tribune’s 2026 Scary Story Contest.
Pistol in hand, I made my way to the stable.
I shambled past our largest wheat field, an expanse of dry, cracked earth that patiently awaited rain that would never come.
The sun breached the horizon. In previous years, dawn’s light signaled the beginning of a long but successful day. Now, twenty months into a drought, it foretold only continued failure.
At the stable, I pulled open the entrance doors. They creaked on weathered hinges.
The sound usually triggered a series of snorts from our plow horse, Avalanche, a white Clydesdale annoyed by sudden noises and early mornings.
The hinges were met with silence.
Avalanche had died in his stall overnight.
He lied in the dirt, vacant eyes already rimmed with maggots.
I sighed relief. I wouldn’t have to use a bullet on my old friend.
As the drought progressed, it became difficult to feed him, to give him the amount of water he required.
I’d no longer fear him breathing too sharply and piercing his emaciated flesh with a broken rib.
I should’ve put him down a while ago, but my boys protested. They loved that horse. So did their mother. I loved him most, however. I’d raised him from a foal into a formidable beast.
From the shadows, a voice croaked, “Help me.”
Sunlight encroached through the doors. A figure in a dark robe slumped against the far wall of Avalanche’s stall.
The figure had no face. Only a blanched skull perched atop a man’s shoulders. There was no skin, no flesh on its limbs. Only bone.
The Grim Reaper sat in my stable.
A scythe, its staff splintered in two, rested in the Reaper’s lap.
At first, startled, I stepped away from the stall. Was I seeing things?
Like Avalanche, I, too, had been drinking little and eating less. Was this some hallucination brought on by malnutrition?
“Please, I need your help.”
I stepped back to the stall, rubbing my eyes, attempting to erase delirium.But there the Reaper sat, staring with hollow sockets. “Your horse kicked me,” it explained. “I’m suffering.”
I’d told the boys plenty of times: never stand behind an animal. It can sense you there and may attack, especially if it feels like it has nowhere to run.
Cornered in his stall, Avalanche had lashed out and taught the Reaper an invaluable lesson.
“I can hardly move,” said the Reaper. It wheezed as it spoke. “Your horse broke my spine.”
I asked, “What were you doing here?”
“I’ve always ridden horses, but they only last for so long. I came here hoping to gain another equine companion.”
“He had other plans.”
“I promised him a longer life. He resisted my offer.”
“You killed him for it.”
“I was angry.” The Reaper lazily waved a hand. “I took the air out of the room.One of my many tricks.”
“What do you want me to do? I’m no doctor.”
“I want you to kill me.”
I froze. Had I heard the creature correctly?
“Come, strike me down with my blade. It’s the only way I can die. End my suffering. Please.
”I didn’t know how to reply.
“You have a gun. I know what you intended to do with it here. You see death for what it is: mercy. In this condition, I can’t fulfill my duties. This is important. Strike me down.”
Finally, I said, “If I do this, what happens to death?”
With the Grim Reaper gone, would anyone ever die again?
“You’ll replace me. My responsibility will fall onto you. Just as, years ago, it fell onto me.”
I gulped. “I don’t know if I can…”
“You understand death’s necessity. I’ve watched you hesitate in the past, but, ultimately, you’ve always made the right decision.”
I’d lived on farms all of my life. Participated in the deaths of countless livestock. It was true. I was already a killer.
“Today, you woke up ready to end your own misery,” said the Reaper. “Understandable, considering your wife’s passing and your sons meeting the same fate.”
Within six weeks, pneumonia had taken my family. My oldest boy, only four days ago.
Yesterday, I learned the bank was taking our home. My everything.
A bullet for breakfast seemed reasonable.
“The mercy you seek for yourself…” said the Reaper. “Give it to me instead. Perhaps… don’t think of it as mercy. I stole your family’s final breaths. Does that not fill you with contempt?”
After some time, I nodded, putting the pistol in my waistband. I opened the stall door and stepped inside.
“Thank you.” The Reaper held the broken scythe out to me.
I took its pieces in my hands. The tool fused back together beneath my touch. It felt as light as a child’s toy.
“You’re the perfect choice. As a farmer, you’ve used a scythe before. You’ll know exactly how to sever life’s many tethers to this world.”
Had the Reaper planned this all out from the start?
“With this, I give you purpose. In this line of work, you’ll never face a drought.”
I clasped the scythe tightly. “Good.”
I swung the weapon, removing the Reaper’s skull from its neck. It ricocheted off a wall, rolling back beside Avalanche’s body.
I shook the Reaper’s skeleton out of its robes. I slipped on the velvety fabric.
Overhead, thunder roared. A bolt of lightning exploded through the stable’s roof, striking Avalanche.
Another bolt struck. Another, reviving my old friend.
The horse stood tall. He somehow looked as he had years before. Tough. Strong.
With a heavy hoof, he stomped the Reaper’s skull to dust.
Rain fell.
We were not hit with water, but with warm droplets of blood.
It washed the flesh from my bones. My old self drowned in the dirt.
I climbed atop my steed, scythe in a skeletal grip.
I left the stable, riding high on a pale horse. Ahead of us, numerous paths revealed themselves through red rain.
No matter where we ventured, we’d do what had to be done.
