The Door Between Death
The Mercy of Death — Story Three
By Sean Talbot
The dead were never meant to return. The living were never meant to follow.
The first time Daryl Mercer had spoken to a dead woman, she’d apologized for dying.
The second time, he’d discovered that the dead weren’t always particularly interested in staying dead.
Now, standing in the corridor of St. Catherine’s Hospital at three seventeen in the morning, Daryl was beginning to suspect the universe had developed a personal dislike for him.
Because someone was knocking on a door that hadn’t existed five minutes earlier.
Three slow knocks.
A pause.
Then three more.
Daryl stared at the black wooden door between Rooms 214 and 216.
He’d walked this corridor hundreds of times during his fifteen years working with the dying. He knew every chipped tile, every flickering light, and every peculiar noise the ancient building produced.
There had never been a door here.
Certainly not one framed in silver, carved with symbols that moved whenever he tried to focus on them.
And definitely not one that appeared to be breathing.
“Wonderful,” Daryl muttered. “Apparently, the hospital’s expanding into supernatural real estate.”
The knocking stopped.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then a voice whispered from the other side.
“Daryl.”
He closed his eyes.
“Of course you know my name.”
The voice belonged to a little girl.
“Please,” she whispered. “He’s coming.”
Daryl glanced toward the nurses’ station.
A young nurse named Rebecca was reviewing medication records beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting.
“Rebecca?”
She looked up.
“Everything okay?”
“Do you see that door?”
She followed his pointing finger.
“What door?”
“Right. Excellent. That’s about what I expected.”
Rebecca frowned.
“Daryl, you’ve been working a lot of nights lately. Maybe you should go home.”
He almost laughed.
Going home sounded wonderful.
A warm shower. A cup of coffee. Perhaps eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.
Unfortunately, a frightened child was apparently trapped behind a door leading somewhere that had no business existing.
And Daryl Mercer had never been particularly good at walking away from someone who needed help.
“Probably a good idea,” he told Rebecca.
Instead, he approached the door.
The silver carvings brightened.
Something cold brushed his fingertips before he touched the handle.
The girl’s voice returned.
“Please hurry.”
Daryl wrapped his hand around the Victorian brass handle.
“All right,” he whispered. “Let’s see how badly this ruins my evening.”
He opened the door.
And the world ended.
—
There was no dramatic explosion.
No blinding flash of light.
No sensation of falling through an endless tunnel.
One moment, Daryl stood in a hospital corridor.
The next, he stood beneath a sky without stars.
A vast plain stretched before him, covered in pale grass that moved without wind. Far away, mountains rose like broken teeth against a horizon illuminated by a colourless moon.
And between him and those mountains flowed a river.
It was impossibly wide.
Its black water reflected thousands of tiny lights, each moving beneath the surface like trapped fireflies.
On the opposite bank stood an enormous gate.
Beyond it, towers of dark stone disappeared into mist.
Daryl turned.
The hospital door remained behind him, standing upright without walls or support.
“Well,” he said. “That’s inconvenient.”
He reached for the handle.
It vanished beneath his fingers.
The door dissolved into drifting ash.
Daryl stood motionless.
“Even better.”
A faint sob interrupted his thoughts.
The little girl stood several yards away.
She couldn’t have been older than eight.
Her brown hair hung in tangled strands around a pale face. She wore a yellow dress stained with mud, and one of her shoes was missing.
Her eyes were fixed on something behind him.
“You came,” she whispered.
“Apparently, I did.”
Daryl crouched carefully.
“What’s your name?”
“Emily.”
“Hello, Emily. I’m Daryl.”
“I know.”
“Everyone seems to know that lately.”
She didn’t smile.
That bothered him more than he cared to admit.
“Are you hurt?”
Emily shook her head.
“Are you lost?”
Another nod.
“All right. We’ll figure something out.”
Her expression changed.
“You can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because he knows you’re here.”
A sound rolled across the plain.
Metal scraping against stone.
Emily seized his hand.
“Hide!”
Daryl barely had time to react before she dragged him toward a cluster of black rocks.
They crouched behind the largest.
Something emerged from the mist.
At first, Daryl thought it was a man.
It wore a long grey coat and walked upright, carrying a lantern suspended from a crooked iron staff.
Then it moved into the moonlight.
Its face was smooth.
No eyes.
No nose.
Only a thin vertical opening where its mouth should have been.
The lantern contained no flame.
Inside the glass, a human face pressed against the surface.
Its mouth opened in a silent scream.
Daryl felt his stomach tighten.
The creature stopped.
Its head turned toward their hiding place.
Emily trembled against him.
“That’s the Keeper,” she whispered.
The creature raised its lantern.
A voice emerged from the opening in its face.
“Child of Death.”
Daryl’s blood went cold.
“Your father has been expecting you.”
Chapter Two: The Keeper’s Lantern
Daryl had never particularly enjoyed family reunions.
His mother’s relatives had been manageable enough, although Aunt Patricia had possessed an almost supernatural ability to turn every holiday dinner into an interrogation about his personal life.
But this?
This was considerably worse.
The Keeper stood motionless beneath the colourless moon.
“Come forward, Daryl Mercer.”
Emily gripped his sleeve.
“Don’t.”
Daryl studied the creature.
Its lantern swung gently despite the absence of wind.
Inside, the trapped face continued screaming without sound.
“What happens if it finds us?” he whispered.
Emily’s lower lip trembled.
“It takes you.”
“Where?”
“Somewhere you forget.”
That was an answer Daryl didn’t particularly appreciate.
He examined the rocks around them.
There was nowhere to run without crossing open ground.
And the Keeper appeared perfectly content to wait.
Daryl exhaled.
“Stay here.”
Emily shook her head violently.
“Daryl—”
“I promise I’m not planning anything particularly heroic.”
He hesitated.
“Mostly because I don’t have a plan.”
He stepped into the open.
The Keeper’s head rotated toward him.
“There you are.”
“Yes, congratulations. Excellent detective work.”
The creature tilted its featureless face.
“You possess his voice.”
Daryl frowned.
“Whose?”
“Thanatos.”
The name struck him like a physical blow.
He had heard it before.
In frightened whispers.
In warnings spoken by people who were no longer alive.
And in the strange, impossible certainty that had settled inside him since Margaret Whitmore’s death.
Thanatos.
The Greek god of death.
Apparently, the universe wasn’t finished making jokes at his expense.
“That’s interesting,” Daryl said. “Because I don’t remember inviting him to any family gatherings.”
The Keeper stepped closer.
The grass beneath its feet turned black.
“You carry his blood.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“You should not be here.”
“Believe me, that makes two of us.”
The Keeper raised its lantern.
The face inside twisted.
Daryl heard something then.
Not with his ears.
Inside his mind.
Help me.
He staggered.
The Keeper stopped.
“You hear them.”
Daryl stared at the lantern.
“Them?”
The creature’s mouth widened.
The glass brightened.
For one horrifying moment, Daryl saw dozens of faces layered beneath the first.
Men.
Women.
Children.
All pressing against an invisible barrier.
All trying to escape.
“What have you done to them?”
The Keeper lowered its staff.
“They were misplaced.”
“People aren’t luggage.”
“They crossed without permission.”
“Permission from whom?”
The creature remained silent.
Daryl felt anger rising through his fear.
He’d spent fifteen years sitting beside hospital beds, holding hands, listening to final words, and helping families say goodbye.
He knew what death looked like.
He knew what grief did to people.
And whatever this creature was doing, it had nothing to do with mercy.
“Let them go.”
The Keeper leaned forward.
“You have no authority here.”
“Then I suppose we’ll have to disagree.”
A silver light flickered around Daryl’s fingertips.
The Keeper recoiled.
For the first time, its voice changed.
“Impossible.”
Daryl looked at his hands.
The glow was familiar.
He’d seen it when Margaret Whitmore had finally found peace.
He’d felt it when Thomas Bell had nearly been taken by something that should never have reached his hospital room.
But here, the light was stronger.
Almost alive.
The Keeper retreated one step.
“The Gentle Hand,” it whispered.
Daryl frowned.
“What?”
“The forbidden mercy.”
The lantern began shaking.
From behind the rocks, Emily screamed.
“Daryl!”
The Keeper spun.
Its staff struck the ground.
Black chains erupted from the earth.
They wrapped around Emily’s ankles and dragged her into the open.
She fell hard.
Daryl moved before he thought.
“No!”
He caught the nearest chain.
Pain exploded through his arm.
The metal burned like ice.
For an instant, he saw a memory that wasn’t his.
A little girl riding a bicycle.
A woman laughing in a sunny kitchen.
A hospital room.
A monitor going silent.
Then darkness.
Daryl gasped.
Emily’s memories.
The chain tightened.
And he understood.
The Keeper wasn’t merely imprisoning souls.
It was taking pieces of them.
He closed his hand around the chain.
Silver light flooded the metal.
“Let. Her. Go.”
The chain shattered.
A sound like breaking glass echoed across the plain.
The Keeper staggered backward.
Its lantern swung wildly.
“That power belongs to the First Passage!”
Daryl lifted Emily into his arms.
“Then someone should have explained the rules.”
The creature screamed.
And every light beneath the river went dark.
Chapter Three: The River of Forgotten Names
They ran.
Daryl wasn’t built for running, particularly while carrying a frightened eight-year-old through a landscape apparently designed by someone who disliked the living.
But terror proved remarkably motivating.
Behind them, the Keeper’s screams echoed through the mist.
The ground trembled.
Dark shapes began rising from the pale grass.
Hands.
Dozens of them.
Then hundreds.
They reached toward Daryl as he passed.
Some grasped at his clothing.
Others simply stretched upward, desperate for contact.
Voices filled the air.
“Please.”
“Remember me.”
“Don’t leave us.”
Daryl slowed.
Emily buried her face against his shoulder.
“Don’t listen.”
He looked around.
The hands belonged to people trapped beneath the ground.
Their faces were barely visible through the soil.
A man in a military uniform.
An elderly woman.
A teenager wearing a school jacket.
None appeared angry.
They looked terrified.
“Who are they?”
Emily’s voice was muffled.
“The forgotten.”
“Forgotten by whom?”
“Everyone.”
The answer chilled him.
Daryl had witnessed countless deaths.
Some surrounded by loving families.
Others painfully alone.
But even the loneliest patients had possessed names, histories, and lives worth remembering.
The idea that someone could erase those things was almost unbearable.
He stopped beside a woman whose fingers barely reached the surface.
“What’s your name?”
She stared at him.
Her lips moved.
No sound emerged.
Daryl knelt.
“Take your time.”
The woman’s expression twisted with effort.
“I…”
She began crying.
“I don’t know.”
Something inside Daryl broke.
He reached toward her.
Emily grabbed his wrist.
“You can’t help them all!”
Daryl looked at the countless hands surrounding them.
She was right.
He couldn’t.
Not tonight.
Perhaps not ever.
But he could help one.
He placed his palm against the woman’s fingers.
Silver light spread through the soil.
The woman gasped.
Her eyes widened.
“Anna.”
Daryl smiled.
“Hello, Anna.”
“Anna Whitfield.”
The ground cracked.
Her body rose slowly through the earth, becoming translucent as the silver light surrounded her.
She stared at her hands.
“My daughter.”
Daryl nodded encouragingly.
“Tell me about her.”
“Her name is Sophie.”
A golden light appeared in the distance.
Anna turned toward it.
“She remembered me.”
“Someone always remembers something,” Daryl whispered.
Anna’s form brightened.
Then she disappeared.
The remaining hands reached higher.
Hundreds of voices began calling.
Daryl felt the silver light weaken.
His vision blurred.
A sharp pain stabbed behind his eyes.
He tried to remember what he’d eaten for dinner.
Nothing came.
He knew he’d eaten.
He remembered sitting at his kitchen table.
But the meal itself was gone.
A small memory.
Stolen.
The cost of using his power.
Daryl swallowed.
“Of course there’s a price.”
Emily pulled at his sleeve.
“We have to go.”
This time, he listened.
They reached the river moments later.
Its black surface moved without waves.
Across the water, the enormous gate stood open.
Thousands of pale figures waited along the opposite shore.
Some walked toward the gate.
Others stood motionless.
And some were being dragged away by dark shapes carrying lanterns.
Daryl stared.
“How many Keepers are there?”
Emily didn’t answer.
A boat emerged from the mist.
It was narrow and wooden, with a single lantern hanging from its bow.
An old man stood at the stern, pushing it forward with a long pole.
His beard was white.
His eyes were the colour of wet stone.
He looked at Daryl with open irritation.
“No.”
Daryl blinked.
“Sorry?”
“Absolutely not.”
The boat scraped against the shore.
The old man pointed his pole at him.
“I don’t transport living passengers.”
Daryl glanced at Emily.
“Well, technically, I’m travelling with someone who isn’t living.”
“Don’t be clever.”
“I assure you, that’s rarely a problem.”
The old man studied him.
Then his expression changed.
He lowered the pole.
“Mercer.”
Daryl sighed.
“Does everyone here have access to my personnel file?”
The ferryman stepped closer.
“Your father has been searching for you.”
“That’s becoming a recurring theme.”
“Thanatos doesn’t search for anyone without reason.”
Daryl looked toward the gate.
“Then perhaps he should have called.”
The ferryman’s face darkened.
“You don’t understand what you’ve entered.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Three,” Emily whispered.
Daryl looked down.
For the first time, the little girl almost smiled.
The ferryman sighed.
“Get in.”
Chapter Four: The Price of Passage
The boat moved without sound.
Daryl sat near the bow, Emily beside him.
The ferryman stood at the stern, guiding them across the black water.
Beneath the surface, pale lights drifted like stars.
Occasionally, a face appeared.
A hand pressed against the water.
A mouth opened.
Then the current carried it away.
Daryl tried not to stare.
He failed.
“Are those souls?”
“Some,” the ferryman replied.
“What are the others?”
“Things that learned to imitate them.”
Daryl considered that.
“Comforting.”
The old man continued rowing.
For several minutes, they travelled in silence.
Then Daryl asked the question that had been troubling him since the Keeper’s lantern.
“Why are souls being trapped?”
The ferryman stopped.
The boat drifted.
“Who told you that?”
“I saw it.”
“Where?”
“In a lantern. And beneath the ground.”
The ferryman’s expression hardened.
“Then the rumours are true.”
“What rumours?”
“Someone is stealing the dead before they reach judgment.”
Daryl remembered Thomas Bell.
His terror.
His dead wife’s desperate warnings.
The strange presence that had known Daryl’s name.
“Someone tried to take a patient of mine.”
The ferryman looked sharply at him.
“Did they succeed?”
“No.”
“Then you’ve already interfered.”
“Apparently.”
“That makes you dangerous.”
Daryl looked toward the distant shore.
“I’ve been called worse.”
The ferryman leaned closer.
“Listen carefully, son of Thanatos. The dead must pass. The living must remain. That balance has existed since before your species learned to bury its own.”
“All right.”
“But someone has begun changing the rules.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Daryl studied him.
“You’re lying.”
The ferryman’s eyes narrowed.
“Careful.”
“I work with frightened people every day. You learn to recognize when someone’s avoiding a question.”
The old man resumed pushing the boat.
“Marcus Vale.”
The name meant nothing to Daryl.
“Who is he?”
“A man who refused to die.”
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“He was once a servant of the Underworld. A collector charged with retrieving souls that resisted their passage.”
“What happened?”
“He decided some souls were too valuable to surrender.”
Daryl looked into the water.
“What would someone want with stolen souls?”
“Power. Knowledge. Immortality.”
The ferryman paused.
“Or an army.”
A cold sensation settled in Daryl’s chest.
“An army of dead people?”
“Not people anymore.”
Emily began trembling.
The ferryman noticed.
His expression softened slightly.
“How long has she been missing?”
Daryl looked at her.
“Emily?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t remember.”
“Your family?”
A tear slipped down her cheek.
“I remember my mum singing.”
“What did she sing?”
Emily hesitated.
Then softly hummed a melody.
Daryl recognized it.
An old lullaby.
His own mother had sung something similar when he was small.
For a moment, he remembered her sitting beside his bed, brushing dark hair away from his forehead.
Then the memory shifted.
A man stood in the doorway.
Tall.
Dressed in black.
His face hidden in shadow.
Daryl blinked.
The image vanished.
“Something wrong?” the ferryman asked.
Daryl shook his head.
“Just remembering something.”
The old man studied him.
“Memories are dangerous currency here.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Your gift doesn’t create passage. It borrows from what makes you human.”
Daryl looked at his hands.
“How much can I lose?”
The ferryman didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, “Everything.”
The boat reached the opposite shore.
The Door Between Death
The Mercy of Death — Story Three
By Sean Talbot
Chapter Five: The Gate of the Unclaimed
The gate was larger than Daryl had imagined.
Its black pillars rose hundreds of feet into the mist, carved with names in languages he couldn’t recognize.
A crowd of souls waited before it.
Some stood peacefully.
Others argued.
A few wandered aimlessly, looking as though they’d forgotten why they were there.
Two enormous figures guarded the entrance.
They wore armour made from overlapping plates of bone.
Their faces were hidden beneath silver masks.
The ferryman stopped beside Daryl.
“Take the girl through the smaller archway.”
Daryl followed his gaze.
A narrow passage stood to the left of the main gate.
“What happens there?”
“Lost children are returned to the proper path.”
Emily gripped Daryl’s hand.
“Will you come?”
“Of course.”
The ferryman shook his head.
“He cannot.”
Daryl looked at him.
“Excuse me?”
“The living cannot cross that threshold.”
“Then how do I know she’ll be safe?”
“You don’t.”
Daryl stared at the old man.
“You’re not particularly reassuring.”
“Death rarely is.”
He looked down at Emily.
She was trembling again.
Daryl crouched before her.
“Listen to me. You’ve been very brave.”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“I know.”
“Will he find me?”
Daryl glanced toward the mist.
The Keeper’s lantern was nowhere in sight.
But he could still feel something watching.
“No,” he said.
He wasn’t certain.
But he meant to make it true.
A woman appeared beneath the smaller archway.
She wore a simple white dress.
Her silver hair was neatly arranged.
And she looked remarkably familiar.
Daryl froze.
“Margaret?”
Margaret Whitmore smiled.
“Hello, dear.”
For a moment, Daryl couldn’t speak.
He remembered her hospital room.
Her lifeless body.
Her apologetic smile.
The impossible conversation that had changed everything.
“You look well,” he finally managed.
“Death agrees with me.”
Daryl laughed despite himself.
Margaret approached Emily.
“Come along, sweetheart.”
Emily hesitated.
Daryl looked at Margaret.
“Can you keep her safe?”
The older woman studied him.
“You always did worry too much.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Margaret’s expression grew serious.
“Something is wrong here, Daryl.”
“I’ve gathered that.”
“The lost are disappearing. Even those who’ve already crossed.”
“Marcus Vale?”
Margaret’s smile vanished.
“Don’t speak that name so loudly.”
Daryl glanced around.
“Why?”
“Because he listens through the forgotten.”
A cold wind passed between the pillars.
The carved names began glowing.
Margaret took Emily’s hand.
“Your father is waiting beyond the Hall of Silence.”
Daryl stared at her.
“You’ve met him?”
“Only once.”
“And?”
Margaret considered.
“He’s rather less frightening than his reputation suggests.”
“That’s encouraging.”
“Although he does have your stubbornness.”
Daryl frowned.
“I think you have that backward.”
Margaret smiled.
Then led Emily beneath the archway.
The little girl looked back.
“Thank you, Daryl.”
He raised a hand.
“Take care, Emily.”
The archway filled with golden light.
They disappeared.
For several seconds, Daryl remained motionless.
Then he felt something warm settle against his chest.
A small yellow ribbon.
Emily’s hair ribbon.
It glowed briefly before dissolving into silver sparks.
And suddenly, Daryl remembered her face more clearly than anything else he’d seen that night.
A memory given.
Not taken.
The ferryman watched silently.
“Interesting,” he murmured.
Daryl turned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I hate when people say that.”
“Then you’re going to despise your father.”
Chapter Six: The Hall of Silence
The Hall of Silence stood beyond the gate.
It was an enormous building constructed from black stone, its columns disappearing into darkness.
No torches burned.
No windows admitted light.
Yet Daryl could see perfectly.
The floor reflected his footsteps like polished glass.
Along both walls stood thousands of statues.
Men and women.
Children and elders.
Some wore ancient armour.
Others modern clothing.
Each held a small object.
A book.
A flower.
A broken sword.
A child’s toy.
Daryl stopped beside the statue of a woman holding a pair of knitting needles.
“Who are they?”
A voice answered from the darkness.
“Those who gave something of themselves so another could pass.”
Daryl turned.
A man stood at the far end of the hall.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a black coat that seemed woven from shadow.
His hair was dark.
His face was pale.
And his eyes—
Daryl’s breath caught.
They were his own.
The same shape.
The same dark intensity.
The same faint lines at the corners.
The stranger approached.
“Daryl.”
Daryl stood motionless.
He’d imagined this meeting in a dozen different ways since first hearing the name Thanatos.
Anger.
Confusion.
Questions.
Perhaps even relief.
Instead, he found himself saying the first thing that came to mind.
“You could have sent a birthday card.”
The man stopped.
For one long moment, silence filled the hall.
Then Thanatos smiled.
It was a small expression.
Almost reluctant.
“Your mother always said you inherited her sense of humour.”
Daryl folded his arms.
“My mother also said my father left before I was born.”
“She wasn’t lying.”
“That’s a rather generous interpretation.”
Thanatos accepted the accusation without argument.
Daryl studied him.
He didn’t look like a god.
There was no crown.
No throne.
No enormous scythe.
Just a tired-looking man with the weight of eternity behind his eyes.
“Why am I here?”
Thanatos looked toward the statues.
“Because the boundary is failing.”
“That sounds bad.”
“It is.”
“How bad?”
Thanatos met his gaze.
“The dead are being prevented from passing. The living are beginning to hear them. Soon, the two worlds will no longer remain separate.”
Daryl thought of Margaret.
Thomas Bell.
Emily.
The trapped souls beneath the grass.
“And Marcus Vale is responsible?”
Thanatos’s expression darkened.
“He is part of it.”
“Part?”
“Marcus is stealing souls. But someone is opening doors that should remain sealed.”
Daryl remembered the black wooden door at St. Catherine’s.
“Like the one I came through?”
“Yes.”
“Who opened it?”
Thanatos hesitated.
Daryl noticed.
“Please don’t tell me it was me.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“The door opened because it recognized you.”
Daryl closed his eyes.
“Somehow that’s worse.”
Thanatos stepped closer.
“Your blood allows you to cross boundaries that even gods must respect.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re neither entirely mortal nor entirely divine.”
Daryl laughed bitterly.
“So I’m a loophole.”
“You’re my son.”
The words struck harder than Daryl expected.
For a moment, he couldn’t respond.
Then he looked away.
“You don’t get to say that as though it explains everything.”
Thanatos lowered his gaze.
“No.”
“You weren’t there.”
“I know.”
“My mother raised me alone.”
“I know.”
“She worked herself half to death making sure I had everything I needed.”
“I watched.”
Daryl turned sharply.
“You watched?”
Thanatos said nothing.
Anger surged through Daryl.
“You watched and did nothing?”
“I was forbidden to interfere.”
“By whom?”
“The laws that govern what I am.”
Daryl stared at him.
“Well, congratulations. You’re apparently very good at following rules.”
Thanatos accepted the words.
And somehow, that made Daryl angrier.
He turned toward the statues.
“I didn’t come here for a family reunion.”
“I know.”
“I came because a little girl needed help.”
“That is why you were able to cross.”
Daryl looked back.
Thanatos extended his hand.
Silver light appeared above his palm.
Within it floated an image of Emily walking beside Margaret beneath a golden sky.
“Your compassion is not a weakness, Daryl.”
Daryl watched the image fade.
“It’s gotten me into plenty of trouble.”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t an invitation to agree.”
For the first time, Thanatos laughed.
The sound was quiet.
Almost human.
Then the hall trembled.
The statues began vibrating.
A deep bell rang somewhere beyond the walls.
Thanatos’s expression changed.
“What is it?” Daryl asked.
The god turned toward the entrance.
“Something has followed you.”
Chapter Seven: The First Broken Seal
The doors exploded inward.
Black mist flooded the hall.
Daryl stumbled backward as the Keeper emerged from the darkness.
Its grey coat hung in tatters.
Its lantern burned with a sickly green light.
And inside the glass, the trapped faces screamed.
Behind it stood dozens of shadowy figures.
Each carried a lantern.
Each wore the same smooth, featureless face.
Daryl stared.
“Oh, that’s just fantastic.”
Thanatos stepped forward.
“You dare enter my hall?”
The Keeper bowed.
“Lord Thanatos.”
Its voice scraped against the stone.
“We have come for what belongs to our master.”
Thanatos’s eyes darkened.
“Marcus Vale has no authority here.”
The Keeper raised its lantern.
“Our master serves someone greater.”
Silence fell.
For the first time, Daryl saw genuine concern cross his father’s face.
“Who?”
The Keeper’s mouth widened.
“The one who remembers the first death.”
Thanatos went perfectly still.
Daryl looked between them.
“Would someone care to explain why that sounds particularly unpleasant?”
The Keeper pointed its staff at him.
“The half-born must be surrendered.”
Thanatos moved.
Daryl barely saw it happen.
One moment, his father stood beside him.
The next, he stood before the Keeper.
Darkness erupted from his hands.
The nearest shadow creatures dissolved instantly.
Their lanterns shattered against the floor.
Hundreds of tiny lights rose into the air.
Souls.
Released.
But the Keeper remained standing.
It lifted its lantern.
The faces inside began screaming louder.
The hall shook.
Cracks spread across the floor.
Thanatos staggered.
Daryl stared.
“What’s happening?”
The Keeper laughed.
“Even Death cannot destroy what has already been stolen from him.”
The lantern brightened.
Daryl felt the familiar pull inside his chest.
The trapped souls.
Their terror.
Their desperate longing to be free.
He understood what the Keeper was doing.
It had bound them to itself.
Destroying the creature would destroy the souls imprisoned within it.
Thanatos raised his hand.
Black fire gathered around his fingers.
“Father, wait!”
The word escaped before Daryl could stop it.
Thanatos froze.
Daryl stepped forward.
“Don’t destroy the lantern.”
“It will kill you.”
“Possibly.”
“Daryl—”
“Look, I’m having a very difficult evening, and I’d appreciate it if everyone would stop predicting my death.”
He approached the Keeper.
The creature tilted its head.
“You cannot save them.”
Daryl extended his hand.
“Let’s find out.”
The silver light returned.
But this time, it didn’t remain around his fingers.
It spread across his arms.
Through his chest.
Into the air.
The trapped faces turned toward him.
He heard their voices.
Their names.
Their memories.
Their final moments.
A mother saying goodbye.
A soldier dying far from home.
A child calling for his father.
Daryl’s knees buckled.
Pain tore through his mind.
Memories began slipping away.
His first day at St. Catherine’s.
A birthday dinner with his mother.
The sound of an old friend’s laughter.
Gone.
He gasped.
The Keeper screamed.
The lantern cracked.
“Daryl!” Thanatos shouted.
Daryl gritted his teeth.
He thought of Margaret Whitmore.
Her gentle smile.
The peace he’d seen when she’d crossed.
He thought of Thomas Bell, terrified of what waited in the darkness.
And Emily.
A little girl who had trusted him enough to take his hand.
He refused to let go.
“You’re not forgotten,” he whispered.
The silver light exploded.
The lantern shattered.
Thousands of souls erupted into the hall like a storm of stars.
The Keeper screamed once.
Then dissolved into black dust.
The remaining creatures fled.
Daryl collapsed.
The last thing he saw was Thanatos kneeling beside him.
And the last thing he heard was his father’s voice.
“Not yet, my son.”
Chapter Eight: The Door Remains Open
Daryl awoke in a hospital bed.
For several seconds, he simply stared at the ceiling.
White tiles.
Fluorescent lights.
The familiar smell of disinfectant.
St. Catherine’s Hospital.
Home.
Or at least the closest thing to it during most of his working life.
Rebecca sat beside the bed.
When she noticed his eyes opening, she nearly dropped her coffee.
“Daryl!”
He winced.
“Please tell me I haven’t missed my shift.”
She stared at him.
“You collapsed in the corridor.”
“That sounds about right.”
“You were unconscious for almost an hour.”
“Only an hour?”
Rebecca frowned.
“How long did you think?”
Daryl considered the question.
He remembered a river.
A little girl.
A hall filled with statues.
And a man whose eyes looked exactly like his own.
“Longer.”
Rebecca studied him.
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Define okay.”
“Daryl.”
“I’m fine.”
She gave him a look that suggested she didn’t believe him.
“Your tests were normal. But the doctor wants you to rest.”
“Wonderful. Medical advice I can ignore with professional confidence.”
Rebecca sighed.
“You’re impossible.”
“So I’ve been told.”
She stood.
“Try not to collapse again.”
“No promises.”
When she left, Daryl sat up slowly.
His head ached.
He tried to remember what he’d eaten for dinner.
Nothing.
He tried to remember the name of his childhood best friend.
Nothing.
A cold sensation settled in his stomach.
The price.
He’d saved the souls in the Keeper’s lantern.
But he’d lost pieces of himself doing it.
He looked down.
Something rested on the blanket.
A small silver coin.
One side bore the image of a doorway.
The other displayed a pair of outstretched hands.
Daryl picked it up.
The metal was warm.
A voice whispered inside his mind.
The passage remains open.
He closed his eyes.
“Of course it does.”
Three knocks sounded from somewhere beyond his room.
Daryl froze.
Another three followed.
He turned toward the doorway.
The hospital corridor appeared perfectly ordinary.
Nurses walked past.
A patient laughed somewhere nearby.
A trolley rattled across the tiles.
Then the lights flickered.
For a fraction of a second, Daryl saw the black wooden door standing between Rooms 214 and 216.
Its silver symbols glowed.
And beneath them, someone had carved a message.
THE FIRST SEAL IS BROKEN.
The vision vanished.
Daryl stared at the empty corridor.
Then he looked at the silver coin.
He thought of Thanatos.
Of Marcus Vale.
Of the strange words spoken by the Keeper.
The one who remembers the first death.
Somewhere beyond the hospital walls, something ancient was waking.
Something powerful enough to frighten a god.
And for reasons Daryl couldn’t begin to understand, it wanted him.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
His feet touched the cold floor.
“Well,” he muttered, “at least things aren’t getting boring.”
A woman’s voice answered from the doorway.
“No, Daryl Mercer.”
He looked up.
A stranger stood in the corridor.
She wore a long dark coat, and her black hair fell around a face marked with exhaustion.
In one hand, she held a silver key.
In the other, a photograph.
Daryl recognized the photograph immediately.
It showed his mother.
Evelyn Mercer.
Standing beside Thanatos.
And between them stood a third figure.
A man whose face had been scratched completely away.
The woman stepped closer.
“My name is Mara Voss.”
Daryl stared at the photograph.
“Where did you get that?”
Mara’s expression remained grim.
“Your mother gave it to me.”
Daryl’s heart pounded.
“Why?”
“Because she knew this day would come.”
Mara placed the photograph on his bed.
Then she looked toward the corridor.
“Your father hasn’t told you everything.”
Daryl laughed without humour.
“That’s becoming something of a family tradition.”
Mara leaned closer.
“The doors aren’t opening by accident.”
“Then who’s opening them?”
She hesitated.
For the first time, genuine fear crossed her face.
“Someone who was supposed to remain dead.”
Daryl looked at the photograph again.
At the faceless figure standing beside his parents.
“Who is he?”
Mara swallowed.
“The first soul your father ever failed to collect.”
Three knocks echoed through the hospital.
And somewhere beyond the world of the living, a thousand locked doors began to open.
END OF STORY THREE
To be continued in The Mercy of Death — Story Four.
