Death isn’t so bad for me. I can’t speak to what it’s like for others. I’ve ushered a thousand souls from this life to the next, but I’ve no better idea of what lies beyond than I did before I died.
I died in 1653 and, depending on how you count, again in 1801, 1852, 1907, 1967, and, well, it gets a little tricky after that. Most of my fellow ushers would say I only died the first time. But in 1801, I was hit by a train. Not an experience I’d recommend. Though I understand the pain is short-lived if you’re not immortal. It took me a few years to be able to walk straight after that. In 1852, I starved to death. Though perhaps that one doesn’t count. I mean, it was only eight months without food. Then again, I did lose most of my flesh during those months. Apparently we rot away if we don’t eat. You’d think you get a break if you’re dead. But no.
In 1907 I was shot in the face. That stung and I talked funny for the rest of the decade. In 1967 I discovered LSD. A little too much LSD. Trust me when I say the last thing you want is a reaper who’s high. Not good. Fortunately a friend blew my lower half away with a shotgun before I killed anyone.