Ghost Story

Death, ignoring her, brought his scythe down in a perfect parabolic arc between her and the form she had until recently inhabited. Betty felt a sudden twinge as the invisible thread was cut. Death nodded his head in a satisfied sort of way. Betty closed her eyes, waiting for... well, for whatever was to come next.

Nothing happened.

She opened one eye, then the other. Nothing had changed. Death had turned away from the body and appeared ready to depart the scene.

"Wait a minute!" she cried. "What happens now?"

Death just shrugged his bony shoulders.

Betty peered at him closely. Yes, this was Pratchett's Death, no doubt about it. There was just something in his attitude, some gleam in the depths of his eye sockets that easily distinguished him from every other possible robed, skeletal, scythe-wielding avatar of the cessation of physical existence. And from what she remembered of the rules pertaining to this particular entity's function... "Isn't it supposed to be that whatever I expect to happen after death happens? Why aren't I fading into oblivion or something?"

Death shrugged again. MAYBE YOU DON'T FEEL LIKE IT? he suggested.

"Damn right I don't."

WELL, THERE YOU GO, THEN. GOOD-BYE.

"Wait! Wait! Where are you going? What's going to happen to me? I don't want to be a ghost! I don't even believe in ghosts!"

HOW UNFORTUNATE FOR YOU, said Death, sounding bored by the whole thing.

"Unfortunate! Listen, you..."

But he was gone.

Great, Betty thought to herself with a sigh, Just great. And what the hell was the Discworld Death doing here, anyway? Damned pandimensional crossroads...

1. Temporarily reconciled to her noncorporeal state, Betty turned her attention back to the situation around her.
2. Betty was interrupted from her melancholic musings by the sound of someone shouting "It's a g-g-g-ghost!"

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