Flimsy Boggarts
Kevin Dillinger

“Holy fucking shit, Ezekiel!” I cried out, my heart racing from the fear and caffeine that rushed through my veins. “What the hell was that?”
Ezekiel half climbed and half fell from his tree stand, his rifle slung over his shoulder and a bottle of beer in his hand. Despite nearly falling on his face, he somehow managed to not spill a drop of the bronze liquid. He composed himself and straightened his hunter's orange vest before inspecting the clump of cinders and cloth that lay on the ground in front of his tree stand.
“Hell if I know, but it's dead now,” he said, not concerned in the least bit it seemed.
The entity had come out of nowhere, a strange thing garbed in black, a scythe in hand. It glided effortlessly through the air towards Ezekiel, scythe poised to cut him down with a single swing. But all at once a loud gunshot rang out, entering the being of cloth and mist, causing it to burst into cinders and fall to the ground in a heap.
“Is that thing . . . the Grim Reaper?” I asked, a ting of worry in my voice as I kicked the unwieldy scythe that had landed near the singed cloak.
Ezekiel did not justify my question with an answer. Instead, he took the time to waddle over the clump and poke through its contents as if seeking something.
“Ah shit!” he said, screaming in drunken anger.
His sudden inflection startling me, I jumped back. “What the hell is it?!”
“Not a damn thing here to field-dress,” he said with a condemning tone. “Oh well . . . that doo-dad will retail for something,” he chuckled, pointing at the scythe.
With that, he picked the scythe up, slung it over his shoulder, and began walking out of the woods. I followed, ready to go home after this fruitless hunt. Giving the pile one last, concerned stare, I turned and left for the van, hoping the bastard hadn't drunk every last beer yet.