As Jessica stood, hesitating, the door opened. Framed in the doorway was a very average-looking man, dressed in blue jeans and a long-sleeved black shirt. His hair was an ordinary shade of brown, his eyes a friendly blue. Jessica stood, rooted to the spot, staring at him.

The man stepped forward, nearly knocking into Jessica.

“Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice faintly accented but in an accent Jessica had never heard before, “I was just on my way out.”

Unable to speak, Jessica merely gaped.

“I’m on my way to an appointment, but I have a minute. What was it you wanted?” the man asked kindly.

“I- I-”

A sudden look of comprehension crossed the very average face of the man standing in the rather average doorway of an extremely average apartment.

“You know who I am.”

Jessica nodded mutely.

“You’d better come in.”

“I couldn’t possibly!” Jessica burst.

“Ah, you do speak,” he smiled, “Come along, there’s nothing to fear. I’ll make some tea.”

“But, y-your appointment?”

“Is not the kind you must be thinking of. Believe me, it will wait. Come on. I’ll make some tea.”

The inside of the apartment was neat and simple. The color scheme consisted of muted greens and browns, and the furnishings were sparse. The sitting room consisted of one comfortable couch and a few chairs. Most of the room consisted of bookshelves, which were full to the bursting point of all manner of books.

“Have a seat,” the man said, then went and busied himself in the adjoining kitchen. This gave Jessica time to think. It occurred to her that what she was doing was completely insane. However, she had gotten this far – she was intent on getting done what she had come to do.

Bearing a steaming pot of tea, the man entered the living room, placed the pot on the coffee table, and settled himself into a chair. Lacing his fingers together, he said:

“Now, why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

Jessica struggled to find her words. What finally came out was: “This isn’t what I expected Death’s house to look like.”

Death laughed – a friendly sort of laugh, the kind that puts you at ease and makes you want to laugh along.

“You know, I get that a lot,” he said, “But I figure there’s no need to surround myself with darkness just because that’s what is expected. Now, that out of the way, what is it you’re looking for? Contact with a passed family member? Do you want to know if someone is dead or just missing? Confirmation of a life-after-death?”

“No.” said Jessica.

“Then what? I am happy to oblige if I can.”

“Do you know who Jackson Howie is?”

“Yes, of course. Jackson Howie – born 27 years, 5 months, 18 days, and five hours ago.”

“That’s him,” said Jessica.

“Well, he’s still alive,” said Death.

“Can you change that?” asked Jessica.

Death, who had just been pouring himself a cup of tea, sloshed some over the table at these words.

“What?”

“I have been trying to kill Jackson Howie for more than a year now, and he just won’t die. So I need your help.”

Death’s kind blue eyes took in Jessica’s light brown pony-tale, plain jeans and T-Shirt, and large brown eyes.

“You look like such a kind young women,” he said, a bit sadly.

Gesturing around at the brightly lit room, Jessica smiled.

“Looks can be deceiving.”

My plan is to write about Death's Door every day, using a different picture each time. This idea is adapted from a writing prompt found on Dragon Writing Prompts.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

♥The Hot Girl in the Comic Shop

Don't knock at Death's door -- ring the doorbell and run, he hates that.