The old woman was hanging on to her flesh with the same stubbornness as Nero. Death had come to collect her five times already. Each time she seemed to find another wind and the will to live on. However, her fear showed. She saw what she expected and wanted to see.
Maboz knew she saw a skeletal being dressed in a hooded cloak when she looked at him. The shroud that covered him each time he entered the room left him feeling a bit dirty. That particular mythos had started long ago and he had yet to dismiss that image from the mass consciousness.
The woman reeked of fear and when she looked at him she would pray to god to save her from the devil. Maboz was the being contracted to cross the woman over. The body would fail soon. He could smell it. He hated when this happened because when the transition occurred he usually had to walk them to purgatory or the hall of souls.
Those places were not where people were meant to go. Those were the constructs of fear. It saddened him that so many chose those places to reside. They could leave at any point in time, most chose to stay because the fear was too much to work past. Occasionally, a brave soul would wander out of the river of souls and approach him at his table to request rebirth or guidance. Those days were amazing.