There's a special kind of panic that comes from realizing your roommate is on a first-name basis with the Grim Reaper.

  Alex had thought he'd reached peak supernatural weirdness. He'd accepted the immortal roommate, the ageless wife, and the closet of world-historical relics. His last shred of doubt was a distant memory.

  But when he came home from his soul-crushing data analyst job to find John sipping tea with a guy who’d stepped out of a gothic novel, Alex's reality didn’t just crack; it shattered.

  The Odd Man and the Tea Party

  It was a dreary Wednesday evening, and Alex trudged into the Brooklyn apartment, ready to collapse after a day of spreadsheets and a boss who thought “urgent” meant “yell at Alex.” He expected John to be there, maybe polishing his “prop” sword or humming a sea shanty from 1712. Instead, he walked into a scene straight out of a Tim Burton fever dream.

  John was at the kitchen table, pouring tea from a porcelain teapot that looked older than the pyramids, chatting with a man who made Alex’s skin crawl.The guy was tall—too tall, like he’d been stretched by a medieval rack.

  His posture was weirdly stiff, as if his spine had forgotten how to bend. He wore a three-piece suit, immaculate but outdated, like something a Victorian undertaker would wear to a funeral.

  His skin was pale, not corpse-like but close, with a waxy sheen that caught the low light of the apartment’s flickering bulbs. His eyes were the worst: too still, like they didn’t blink enough, and when they locked onto Alex, he felt like his soul was being audited.

  The guy’s hands, wrapped around a teacup, were long and bony, with nails that were just a tad too sharp.

  John looked up, unfazed as ever. “Oh, hey, Alex! Meet my old friend, Morton Graves. Just catching up.”

  Alex froze, his backpack sliding off his shoulder with a thud. Morton Graves? His brain, sharpened by months of decoding John’s lies, kicked into overdrive. Mort—Latin for “death.” Graves—as in, where dead people end up. This wasn’t just a creepy dude named Morton. This was Death. The Grim Reaper. Sipping Earl Grey in their kitchen like it was book club night.

  “Uh… hi?” Alex squeaked, his voice hitting a pitch reserved for karaoke disasters. Morton turned those unblinking eyes on him and smiled—a smile that was polite but felt like it could sign your death certificate. “A pleasure, Alexander,” he said, his voice low and smooth, like gravel wrapped in velvet.

  The Name Game and Alex’s Panic

  Alex wasn’t dumb. He’d spent months piecing together John’s immortal puzzle—swords, crowns, military papers, Merlin’s ageless face. So when John introduced “Morton Graves,” his brain lit up like a conspiracy theorist’s corkboard. Mort. Graves. Death. Grim Reaper.

  It wasn’t a stretch; it was a neon sign. This guy wasn’t here to borrow sugar. He was here to collect souls, or at least to remind John that immortality came with a VIP pass to dodge the scythe.

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  Alex sat—more like collapsed—onto the couch, pretending to check his phone while eavesdropping. John and Morton were chatting like old war buddies, which, given John’s Civil War medals, wasn’t impossible. “Remember that mess in Pompeii?” Morton said, stirring his tea with a spoon that looked suspiciously like bone.

  John chuckled. “Yeah, you were not happy about the cleanup.” Alex’s blood ran cold. Pompeii? As in, Vesuvius, 79 CE? Was Morton there, reaping souls while John… what, dodged lava?

  Morton’s laugh was a dry rasp, like leaves on a crypt floor. “You owe me for that one, Harrow. And the Black Death? You and Merlin made my job harder than it needed to be.” John grinned, passing a plate of Merlin’s cookies (because of course she’d left a batch).

  “We were just trying to help. No hard feelings.” Alex’s phone slipped from his hand. The Black Death? John and Merlin were running around during the plague? And Morton—Death—was complaining about it like it was a bad day at the office?

  The Grim Reaper’s Chill Vibes

  Despite the whole “I’m the personification of mortality” vibe, Morton was… polite. Creepily so. He complimented the apartment’s “rustic charm” (it was a dump) and asked Alex about his job with an interest that felt like he was sizing up his lifespan.

  “Data analysis, fascinating,” Morton said, those still eyes boring into Alex. “Numbers are eternal, in a way. Like some people.” He glanced at John, who coughed and offered more tea.

  Alex wanted to bolt, but his legs were jelly. Instead, he grabbed a cookie and mumbled, “So, uh, how do you two know each other?” John, predictably, deflected. “Old friends. Met at a… history convention.”

  Morton’s lips twitched, like he was suppressing a laugh that could end the world. “Yes, a convention. I’ve always been fond of John’s… longevity.”

  The way he said “longevity” made Alex’s hair stand on end. John just smirked and changed the subject to the weather, because of course he did.

  The weirdest part? Morton didn’t act like a cartoon Grim Reaper. No hooded cloak, no scythe (though Alex swore he saw a shadow on the wall that looked suspiciously pointy). He was more like a bureaucrat of the afterlife, sipping tea and reminiscing about disasters like they were office gossip.

  But every move he made—too precise, too deliberate—screamed not human. When he stood to leave, his shadow seemed to linger a second too long, and Alex swore the room got colder.

  The Aftermath and Alex’s Breaking Point

  Morton left with a handshake that made Alex feel like he’d aged a decade. “Until we meet again, Alexander,” he said, and Alex prayed that wasn’t a promise.

  John walked Morton to the door, whispering something that sounded like, “Tell her I said hi.” Her? Merlin? The Devil? Fate itself? Alex didn’t want to know.

  As soon as the door closed, Alex rounded on John. “Morton Graves? Really? You’re drinking tea with the Grim Reaper? What’s next, John? Is Santa Claus coming for Taco Tuesday?”

  John, unfazed, started washing the teacups. “Grim Reaper? Nah, Morton’s just a guy I know. Bit pale, sure, but he’s harmless. Want tacos now?”

  Alex threw up his hands. “You fought in the Civil War, crashed a police database, and now you’re buddies with Death! Stop gaslighting me!”

  John’s smile didn’t waver. “You’re stressed, man. Let’s play Smash Bros.” Alex wanted to scream, but the smell of Merlin’s cookies still lingered, and John was already heating up leftover chili.

  He texted Sarah: “JOHN HAD TEA WITH THE GRIM REAPER. NAMED MORTON GRAVES. I’M MOVING TO MARS.” Sarah’s reply was a string of skull emojis and, “GET HIS DNA. WE’RE CALLING MYTHBUSTERS.”

  Alex didn’t get Morton’s DNA. He didn’t even get answers. But he ate the chili, because it was delicious, and John promised to make waffles tomorrow. He was 1000% sure John was immortal, Merlin was his eternal accomplice, and Morton was Death himself, probably on a coffee break from reaping.

  The rent was still cheap, the food was divine, and Alex wasn’t ready to face the void of moving out. But if John ever invited the Four Horsemen over for poker night, Alex was packing his bags and calling Sarah. And maybe an exorcist. Just in case.