text: The eerie silence permeating the large, tall room was possibly more disturbing than the repetitive, slightly creepy jazz music that the weird woman in the adjacent room was listening to. It wasn’t total silence, though, as it was periodically interrupted by the relentless, slow ticking of a clock high up on the wall. The room where Mr Flores had been waiting for quite a while already looked like the study of an intellectual; two tall bookshelves, spanning the whole width of the room (and probably its height, too), stood on the sides of the imposing door behind Mr Flores, lit by several soft yellow lights. They were bursting with books, yet very tidy nonetheless. In front of the bookshelf on Mr Flores’ right, quite far from him, were a few armchairs and a sofa, resting on a large, dark carpet. At about the same distance but on the opposite side was a large grand piano, with a couple of tall indoor plants around it. The walls were mostly empty, except for a few disquieting paintings of cloaked figures and skeletons visiting terrified, desperate-looking people, and the candelabra mounted symmetrically next to each of the large, Gothic windows. Nothing in that room, or the adjacent one, felt particularly normal; things looked normal (except perhaps the paintings), but that’s not the feeling they gave Mr Flores. Not even the desk--an exquisitely elegant, dark brown writing desk, clearly an antique--felt quite normal, although there was nothing strange in its appearance. Few ornaments were orderly arranged on it, dividing short rows of equally tidily arranged books, probably appointment diaries. An ancient-looking quill and an ink pot sat on the desk, right next to a few yellowish sheets written in the neatest handwriting. It looked like nothing but the fine desk of an academic, and yet, it felt as oddly ominous as the rest of the room. Nothing, though, could look more ominous than the windows--or rather, what lay beyond them. Absolutely nothing. Nothing but pure black, as though there was no world outside that could be seen. More than once, Mr Flores had been tempted to get right up from his chair in front of the desk, where he had been waiting for his mysterious, tardy host for far too long, open one of those windows, and stick a hand out to make sure they weren’t painted black. He wondered what kind of an intellectual could live there. He had to be an intellectual; the nameplate on the door clearly said he was a PhD, a doctor--but of what? With a name like that... It was very much appropriate to the vibe he got from that room, although maybe it was because of that name, not the appearance of the room, that Mr Flores got that vibe in the first place. Every now and again, Mr Flores would cast long, hopeful glances to the door all the way to his right, where he thought his host would finally come from. If this was the study where he received people, whatever lay beyond that door must have been a private room of some kind. The wait was unnerving enough as it was, and the incessant ticking of the clock didn’t make it any better, really. Mr Flores turned his gaze towards the devilish mechanical contraption hanging behind the desk, and much to his annoyance, he found that the clock was as useless as it was pestering--it had no hands to speak of, so that he couldn’t even tell how late it was getting while waiting for his host. To think that Miss Coffins, the weird woman typing away by the main entrance, had said Mr Death was waiting for him! “I apologise for the wait, Mr Flores,” said the voice coming from the right. Mr Death--the tall, slender man in a business suit who had just come out of the room Mr Flores thought to be private--jogged lightly towards him, with mild enthusiasm. “Your case needed one final touch, but not to worry--it’s ready for you now.” Mr Flores observed Mr Death in puzzled silence for a few seconds. His skeletal appearance should have terrified him, and yet, all that Mr Flores could feel was confusion. Mr Death’s empty, dark eye sockets were staring right at him, or so it looked, and his face bore a sinister and only apparently cordial grin. Not for a moment did Mr Flores think that Mr Death was endeavouring to look friendly; rather, it was as though the façade was meant to be obvious. “My... my case?” he finally ventured asking, fidgeting with the ring on his hand. “You look nervous, Mr Flores,” observed Mr Death. “Is something the matter?” “Not really,” Mr Flores stammered. “It’s only...” “Yes?” Mr Death encouraged him. “This... invitation was rather sudden,” he explained. “And unexpected.” Mr Death snorted, stifling a laugh. “If I had a nickel... Ah, you will forgive me, Mr Flores. I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful, but I get that pretty much all the time.” Mr Flores looked away from Mr Death back to those dead windows, and swallowed hard. The situation was like the weirdest dream--nightmare?--and yet, he’d never felt more awake in his life. “Perhaps I could show you around, to calm your nerves, yes?” Mr Death suggested. “I take it you are already acquainted with my study, as I kept you waiting here so unforgivably long.” Mr Flores found himself nodding silently, slowly, looking nowhere in particular. Mr Death’s proposal wasn’t particularly appealing, but he felt he did not have an option. “Excellent,” Mr Death said, looking pleased as he showed Mr Flores the way. “If you cared to follow me.” As they made it for the study entrance, Mr Flores cast a quick glance at the door that Mr Death came in from. He now had a strong feeling that he would not leave the place without being shown that room too. He had a strong feeling he would simply not leave the place. “May I ask you a question?” Mr Flores asked, as they passed in front Miss Coffins’ desk. She didn’t even lift her head up from the typewriter. “By all means,” Mr Death replied. “You talked about ‘my case’.” He took a pause. Mr Death hummed affirmatively. “Are you a solicitor?” Mr Flores asked out of sheer wishful thinking. “Not quite,” Mr Death said, “though in my profession I do deal with people’s last wills quite a bit.” “I see,” Mr Flores murmured, jolting lightly as the door to Miss Coffins’ office shut behind them. Mr Death turned around and stared right at him. “I thought you might be a solicitor, or a barrister, or something,” Mr Flores justified himself, “because of your study, you see... And I understand you’re a doctor, so... Although, you don’t go by ‘doctor’, I gather?” Mr Flores was feeling an indescribable urge to prolong the small talk. For as long as possible. “That’s right,” Mr Death confirmed. “You know, I never cared much for titles. Right. Here we are.” Mr Flores looked around. Nothing but black everywhere. As he turned around, he expected to see a huge mansion behind himself, but there was just a door. An elegant, brown door, bearing the same nameplate as the study door, and nothing else. The door stood literally in the middle of nowhere--in the middle of nothing, as though it had been planted into the ground, as Mr Flores could ascertain by circling it a few times. Somehow, despite the total blackness, he could see Mr Death and himself very clearly. The place was completely silent, except for the howling of a wind that just wasn’t there. It was as though there was no air at all. Yet, Mr Flores drew in a big breath and sighed deeply. “It’s cold,” he said. “And dark. What is this?” “This is me,” Mr Death said, somewhat pleased with himself. “I am afraid I don’t understand,” Mr Flores said, slightly shaking his head. Except he did understand, all too well. “I am sure you will,” replied Mr Death, condescendingly. He opened the door again, revealing Miss Coffins’ office. “Shall we?” Mr Flores followed Mr Death inside, all the way to the study. He’d never thought it, but he was actually glad to be back in. The study was far less disturbing than that endless black, and for that he made it a point not to look at the windows ever again. “Tell me, Mr Flores,” Mr Death asked. “Do you remember getting my ‘invitation’? Or arriving here?” “Not really,” Mr Flores said resignedly, shaking his head with a glassy look. “What is the last thing you remember?” Mr Flores made an effort to recall. “I think I was watching TV. Last night, I think it was.” “Right,” Mr Death said as he moved towards the only other door of his studio, sheepishly followed by Mr Flores. “What next?” Now that he was closer, Mr Flores could see a sign on the door. He felt shivers down his spine as he saw what it read--Collectables. “I’m not quite sure. I think I wasn’t feeling very well.” “Regrettably, my customers hardly ever do,” Mr Death interjected with palpably fake mournfulness. “At the same time,” Mr Flores went on, “I think I was rather sleepy. That tells you something about the entertainment value of programmes these days, I guess.” He chuckled lightly, and Mr Death promptly followed suit. He was hoping that an improbable exchange of pleasantries might somehow temper the feeling of dread growing inside him. “Did you recover from your ailment?” Mr Death enquired. “Well, whatever it was, I don’t feel it right now.” “That is not surprising. At any rate, you don’t seem to recall what happened next. Do you?” “I... think I might have fallen asleep?” Mr Flores said, tentatively. “Indeed,” Mr Death nodded approvingly. “You see, Mr Flores, you’re one of my lucky customers.” “Lucky?” “Why, yes. Not everyone has the good fortune of arriving here in their sleep. But I digress; it is time for you to go.” Mr Flores felt as though he was coming back to life. “I may go?” he asked, hopeful and incredulous. “I don’t mean to sound rude,” Mr Death said, as he slowly opened the door to the Collectables room, “but as a matter of fact, you must go.” Mr Flores looked at the dark chamber before him. Mr Death’s words sounded even more ominous as they echoed inside the large, dark chamber studded with a myriad of small, dim lights stretching far into the distance. His hopes vanished, as quickly as they had been raised. “But I wouldn’t know where,” he stalled, trying to conceal his despair. “Not to worry,” Mr Death reassured him, wrapping a gelid arm around his shoulders. “I’ll show you the way,” he added, as their footsteps echoed deeper and deeper into the chamber.