By: Chloe Tang
A dark-shrouded figure walked up the steps of the isolated house surrounded by golden wheat fields.
He is Thanatos, the god of death.
For every step he takes, a small patch of grass under his feet wilts and turns brown.
The house in question is old, made of splintery, rotting wood, and a couple of windows with shattered glass. It looks like the owner didn’t bother with cleaning or was unable to.
The figure knocked on the door. A little old man with hair already pure white, a hunched back, and a squinty face lined with wrinkles answered.
“Hello?” the old man asked in a gravelly voice, his eyes staring straight through the mysterious individual.
Without a word, the man dressed in black made a grasping motion with one of his hands, and the older man dropped to the floor.
The darkly dressed man flickered once, much like a specter, and disappeared.
He reappeared inside a different house beside the bed of a sickly young girl. Unbeknownst to her mother, who was busy clattering around in another room, the man made the same grasping motion. The girl ceased her coughing, and her eyes turned glassy.
He flickered twice and disappeared to the sound of the mother’s wails of grief, like nails on a chalkboard.
A different man, with winged sandals, a staff with two snakes, and a friendly yet somewhat mischievous grin, stopped beside the translucent form of the old man. The former extended his hand to the latter, who took it.
He is Hermes, the guide of souls and the god of travel.
Moments later, Hermes and the old man were beside the see-through ghost of the girl, now appearing healthy and whole. The girl glanced mournfully at her lifeless physical form and her crying mother and accepted the man’s outstretched hand.
A sudden jolt and then movement seemingly as fast as light.
The three figures, two spirits, and their guide stood by the edge of a murky river. The banks on the other side were dark and full of glimmering blue spirits, similar to the old man and the young girl.
The guide with winged sandals offered each a coin and waved goodbye to them. There was a flash, his profile blurred, and he was gone.
Another darkly dressed man appeared on a boat and rowed towards the two. His low, flat boat—a skiff— was decorated by dim green light, exceptionally bright among the darkness.
He is Charon, the ferryman of the deceased.
He stretched out his skeletal hand, palms facing up. The two spirits offered up their coins and stepped on the boat.
“Welcome to the Underworld!”