Ladies, gentlemen, and the recently deceased:

  My name is Keith Flannery, and I am proud to serve in the employ of the Re-Burial Department, the official U.K. franchise of the greater Infernal Bureaucracy. We’re currently ranked as Britain’s third-largest re-burial agency, just behind Corporeal Adjacent Inc. and Stay Dead LLC.

  My job brings me joy. The dead rise. I fill out Form 4C: Notification of Re-Burial. And we bury them again.

  We are always busy, what with all the “unfinished business” business. When I’m not on a re-burial run or handling the occasional reanimated client complaint, you’ll find me in my office. A cozy space, but with my own distinct touch: purple curtains, a coffin-shaped paperweight, and neatly lined-up HB pencils. A small jar of peanut-filled chocolates—regulation standard. It exudes a certain post-mortem style.

  I am especially proud of my newest addition: a small plaque, presented to me by Dreadlord Marketh himself, that reads: Dead Employee of the Month. Proof that I was successfully descending the corporate ladder.

  Today, my descent was halted. I’d just returned from a site inspection at Liam’s Cemetery, having surveyed Martha’s freshly undug grave for the third time this month. The tell-tale paw prints were everywhere; Anthony, the persistent terrier-geist, had struck again. I hadn't received the official recovery request yet, but the breach was clear.

  I brushed a clump of spectral mud from my sleeve (the ethereal dog hair would be harder to clean) and decided the time for pleasantries was over. The time for angry letter-writing had begun.

  My quill worked frantically.

  Dearest Dreadlord Marketh Jr. the Third, Director of U.K. Spectral Containment (may your flame burn eternally),

  I write to inform you of a most grave infraction. An infraction of graves. Anthony has been digging up Martha again, and without jurisdiction. Every time we re-bury her, Anthony is there, snuffling at the dirt.

  I have tried everything:

  Burning sage

  Burning sages

  A strongly worded letter

  Yet Anthony persists.

  My hope is that you might descend from the Executive Purgatory on the 18th floor and perform an exorcism.

  Yours, groveling, Keith Flannery

  I signed my name with a flourish and re-read the letter. I find everything is better in a loop. Where would re-burial be without it? I picked up the parchment, still wet with ink, and slipped it neatly into an envelope.

  “Floor 18, please, Florence,” I chimed in my most acquiescent voice.

  She didn’t answer. She rarely did - Florence was a big fan of non-verbal communication. From the waist down, Florence was a war machine of twelve powerful tentacles. From the waist up, a startlingly beautiful purple figure with freckles on her nose and ocean-blue eyes.

  One tentacle broke rank, flipping me off. Ah, there's that communication now.

  “One day, Florence, I’ll win you over with biscuits,” I called after her. She didn’t stop. Florence is great. I should get her a plaque. And biscuits.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  My phone rang.

  “Re-Burial Agency, where the dead stay dead,” I answered.

  It was Liam’s Cemetery, one of the cornerstones of our business. The caretaker sounded panicked, exhausted, and dangerously close to joining the residents. Apparently, the retrieval and re-burial of Martha had become less of a job and more of an unwelcome tradition.

  “Anthony’s back,” the caretaker blurted. “That mutt is going to be the death of me, and the life of all my buried.”

  The phone went quiet for a moment.

  "Err, he also seems to be carrying a business card," Liam noted.

  Why the hell does a ghost-mutt have a business card?

  “Sorry, Liam,” I responded. "I was just in the process of dealing with the geist. I will be right there."

  "Please hurry," Liam responded desperately. "Half of Martha is up, and the other half will be following soon."

  “Florence, hold the letter!” I called. "I am heading to Liam's."

  Florence flipped me off again, flicking dark green kelp out of her eyes.

  She really needed to cut her hair. It was well past regulatory length.

  The afternoon was overcast as I pulled up to the large wrought-iron gates. The name Liam’s Cemetery was expertly crafted from faded copper.

  The gates creaked open and I drove into the lush grounds. Definitely somewhere one would love to be buried—or re-buried.

  I passed the towering weeping willows that hung over a small, quaint pond and crunched up the gravel path to Martha’s grave—a funeral march for a never-ending funeral.

  The air was crisp with the unmistakable odor of freshly dug earth, Anthony's work.

  I snuck up behind him quietly, and yanked the business card that had been neatly placed behind his collar.

  Delightful yellow words blazed across the front: You should never have to rest easy. Join Immortality-Corp. I hated it. It wasn’t even laminated.

  I sighed staring at Anthony. "You know Marketh will need to be informed, about you... and the business card."

  I looked at my watch. It was not a P0 issue. It could wait till tomorrow.

  What couldn't wait was Martha.

  “Up we come, Martha,” I chimed brightly, lifting her carefully to ensure no additional bits broke off. “Let’s get you re-buried.”

  Anthony watched from a distance, his semi-transparent tail wagging so fast that a small dust cloud formed around him. For some reason it never bothered him when I re-buried his retrievals.

  “You look so proud of yourself,” I called at him, putting my shovel away. He wagged faster.

  He started to follow me as I descended the path back towards my car. I wasn't aware ghosts could be cute.

  “My apartment has a strict no-ghost-dog policy.” I eyed Anthony sternly, and his tail drooped slightly.

  I grabbed a few spare sheets of A4 from my pocket, carefully placed them on the ground, and put my knees on them, descending to Anthony’s level.

  “I don’t hate you, Anthony; one might even say I tolerate you. But you cannot keep digging up Martha.” Anthony looked at me, uncomprehending. I pointed at Martha’s grave and gave a firm “No.”

  His tail rose midway and gave an uncertain wag.

  “I’ll tell you what: if you agree not to continually unearth Martha, I will speak to the old-age home and see if you can be an emotional-support spirit.

  “That way you can hang around with the near-deceased. Mortals are always so jumpy when crossing over. I will even call off the exorcism. It’s not free, though; I will need your paw print on several legally binding documents.”

  He ran up towards the grave but didn’t dig. Time would tell if he accepted.

  My journey home was a familiar rattle on the District Line. The carriage was filled with the usual suspects: tired humans staring at their phones and the less-opaque minority they couldn’t see.

  A ghoul in a tattered suit was reading the Evening Standard over a living woman’s shoulder, its fingers tracing the stock market report.

  The train screeched to a halt and I disembarked. The business-ghoul gave me a courteous nod and continued his analysis.

  My home was in Settlers Rest, an over-80s retirement community. I had the best of both worlds: the dead and the near-deceased.

  My home was a nondescript affair, comfortable and orderly. It smelled like a well-run library and visually wasn’t far off. Vaulted ceilings offered a sense of space, while my display cabinets showed off a wide array of rubber stamps, evocative inks, and historic paraphernalia. One of my secret favorite articles was Your Signature and You: How a Confident Curl Inspires Order. Sure, it was a popcorn read, but we all have our weaknesses.

  I sat down to make myself tea and toast. The toaster glowed and grumbled menacingly. It was currently haunted by Barry, a low-level humanoid poltergeist with a gambling addiction.

  Why Barry chose to haunt my toaster, I have absolutely no idea.

  I prepared my food and sat down to eat. The toast tasted like coal roasted over an open fire; Barry had obviously lost at the tables.

  “May your soul burn eternally, and your watch be forever off by one minute,” Barry muttered darkly.

  “Now, Barry, I don’t mind my toast burnt, but let’s not mess with one’s time-keeping.”

  The yellow card sat on my nightstand. Tomorrow would be eventful.

  OFFICIAL ADVISORY

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