It Doesn't Hurt To Die

“Angel, I need you to come, now.”

“I’m kind of busy; what’s so urgent?”

“I can’t tell you on the phone. You have to come, NOW!”

“She can explain it… I hope. She has to. It is weird, very weird. I… My God, what is happening?” Renne’s mind was racing.

“What is her damned emergency? I’m going to smack the shit out of her if it’s another of her conspiracies or made-up phobias.” I speed to Renne’s. I race up the gravel drive, tires kicking stones into the lawn. I brake hard, cut the motor, and bound up the steps, flinging open the unlocked door. “What is your emergency this time, Renne?”

“Look, Angel,” Renne said, pointing at the television screen. On the static-filled screen, the emergency alert scrolled: We mean you no harm. All must gather at City Hall at 3 o’clock. This is not a request.

The words scroll continuously, a voice-over reading them. My phone blares an emergency alert, and the same voice drones the message repeatedly. Renne’s iPad and Mac do the same. The message is broadcast loudly on all “smart” devices and on anything with a Wi-Fi connection. Ring cameras shout the message to the street and neighbors in unison, like a loudspeaker.

WE MEAN YOU NO HARM. ALL MUST GATHER AT CITY HALL AT 3 O’CLOCK. THIS IS NOT A REQUEST. <Static, static > WE MEAN YOU NO HARM. ALL MUST GATHER AT CITY HALL AT 3 O’CLOCK. THIS IS NOT A REQUEST. <Static, static > WE MEAN YOU NO HARM. ALL MUST GATHER AT CITY HALL AT 3 O’CLOCK. THIS IS NOT A REQUEST. <Static, static > WE MEAN YOU NO HARM. ALL MUST GATHER AT CITY HALL AT 3 O’CLOCK. THIS IS NOT A REQUEST.    

We stare at each other. The time is 2:30. Waze says it will take us an hour to get to City Hall, when it’s normally a ten-minute drive. The roads are jammed with frantic people trying to follow a message that’s being broadcast everywhere, but we don’t know where it’s coming from. “We have to run. Come on, Renne!”

I turn to go.

The message changes.

NOT YOU. NOT YOU. NOT YOU. NOT. YOU. YOU. YOU. NO, NOT YOU.

“What do you want?” I shout, spinning around. “I’m doing what you said.”

NO, NOT YOU.

“Then WHO?”

EVERYONE. BUT. YOU.

Renne is looking at me, terror in her eyes. She tugs my arm, but I shake her off. “GO. Go on, get to City Hall.” As I tell her this, the message on my phone changes. Only on my phone.

“We mean no harm, but all will die. It is a foretold event. You are not included. If Renee doesn’t get there in time, YOU will die with the rest.”

Renne gasps in horror and leaps off the porch, running toward the meet-up point. “I’ll make it, Angel, don’t worry. I ran track all four years. I will make it.” I watch her disappear into the distance.

THIS IS A FORETOLD EVENT. WE ARE HERE. YOU ALL WILL DIE. WHETHER YOU COME TO CITY HALL OR NOT. THIS IS FORETOLD. WE MEAN YOU NO HARM, ONLY DEATH. IT WILL NOT HURT. NO HARM. ONLY DEATH.

I try to call Renne, but the phone won’t respond; it just keeps scrolling through the messages.

Until…

A face appears on my screen. I jump. She peers at me so closely that I realize she is on the other end of the line, watching me in real time. “Angel, dear. Remember when I said we’d meet again?” Her emerald eyes shine, her smile ghoulish.

My heart is in my throat, and my head is turning, no, no, no, no, no. “Ah, you do remember.”

“Why are you killing the people?” I realize my mistake the minute I say it.  “No, no, it wasn’t meant to be like this. I didn’t mean…”

A live newscast appeared on my phone. “We are at City Hall, and tens of thousands of people are here. Some drove, some walked. We await the announcement of what the message means and who is sending it. Oh yes, it sounds like the meeting is beginning.”

WE MEAN YOU NO HARM.

An enormous monitor appeared with pictures floating across it. The monitor was the size of a football field, hanging above the people and City Hall. Scenes scrolled, changing, repeating.

Floods, earthquakes, deserts, dying and dead people.

Then.

My face. My face filled the entire monitor, but in a tiny corner, I saw Renne arrive on time. Renne stared at my pixelated face on the screen, and tears slid down her cheeks. The devastating pictures floated across my face, like a ghostly wallpaper.

The scene shifted, and the crowd gasped. The emerald-eyed woman stood in her pale blue hooded gown, as novitiates in lavender robes approached. All watched as she beckoned, and I climbed the dais to stand beside her. Each novitiate sipped what she handed them, then stepped in front of me.

NO, NO, NO, I hear myself scream, and she gleefully laughs. “Angel, aptly named, yes? You remember now, don’t you? How you traded your soul and what the price was? And so it is, Angel. They have all come for the pre-ordained event you created. Even your best friend, Renne, is there. These are the same souls, reincarnated, and here again, for you.” As she says this, she appears, alive, in front of me, in an ivory gown, not the pale blue. Her black hair, streaked with auburn, escapes the hood in strands. Her eyes burn as she watches the images, her lips curled upward and her cheeks vivid pink.

The screen shows each novitiate baring their neck, and I slit each one as they come forward. The final novitiate’s face is shadowed…until…she turns her head.

The message blares: SEE WHAT SHE DID? ARE YOU READY? WE MEAN YOU NO HARM. JUST DEATH. IT DOESN’T HURT TO DIE. WE MEAN YOU NO HARM.

“Renne! Noooooooo!” I scream her name over and over, and on the large display, she turns her head upward. “I didn’t mean it. Let them go.”  The green-eyed woman grins at me.

A realization hits me. Renne wasn’t there. We hadn’t met yet. I didn’t kill Renne. Something is wrong. This evil woman is creating an edit.

Renne looks at the screen and frowns. She sees something I cannot. My phone changes to Renne’s face. “Angel?” she says. My phone screen goes black.

The horrific scenes scroll across the enormous monitor floating above the crowd.

SEE WHAT SHE DID? ARE YOU READY? WE MEAN YOU NO HARM. ONLY DEATH. IT DOESN’T HURT TO DIE. WE MEAN YOU NO HARM.

I hear a movement.

IT DOESN’T HURT TO DIE. WE MEAN YOU NO HARM, the message drones.

Renne is next to me; then, in a rapid movement so fast that no one could stop it, she ejects the stiletto from the switchblade and slashes the throat of the emerald-eyed woman.

“You’re right, you crazed bitch. Death doesn’t hurt. Death becomes you. Who said that?” Renne looks at me.

I shout, "Edit that!" and high-five my buddy.

The screens all turn white simultaneously, then back to normal. The newscaster begins interviewing people about why they are here, and the answers range from paying a bill to just taking a walk.

It’s been a month, and Renne and I are preparing the séance room for our monthly meeting on the occult and paranormal. The Ouija board, tarot cards, and angel card deck sit on the table. We’re lighting 13 candles as our guests arrive. We expect nine guests and have nine chairs ready, but only eight show up.

I notice the Ouija board planchette covers the letters L, M, X, and Y and points toward the words Good Bye.

               Copyright © 10/11/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin