Necromancy's fun, once you get past the smell.

Take me for example. Actually, my nose hasn't worked since the accident, and that's fine by me. Means no more obstacles at work. Anyway, I can find work anywhere, and it's always super easy. Need a testimony in a lawsuit? No problem, let me go talk with the victim. Closure for living family or friends? I got you, bud. Cheap labor? Fuck you, go actually hire someone. Cadavers for a zombie-themed haunted house? Absolutely.

That's just the stuff I can think of off the top of my head.

Anyway, you need an extension on life's deadline (get it? Haha), I'm your guy.

Call or message me at XXX-XXX-XXXX or @----- today. My rates are flexible!

-- Your Local Necromancer, Thanias

I wake up at 5:00 a.m. every day. One with my talents needs an early start to the day. I usually chat with 2 of my zombies at the breakfast table while I drink black tea and munch some hardtack. Too bad they aren't very verbal, just moans and groans. At 6:00, I listen for the echoes of the spirits of the dead.

I follow their sounds. Wherever I find them, I start asking around for my next gig. Today, for example, I "cured" a sickly child, decorated a haunted house, diagnosed someone with consumption, and dug a handful of graves.

My schedule is flexible, but my long work day usually allows me to go home around 7:00 p.m. I'll commune with the dead and record some soundtracks with my theremin to lull myself and the restless ones to sleep. I dream of the underworld and those who will soon make the journey there.

This particular Tuesday started like any other—5:00 a.m., black tea, hardtack, two zombies at the table. I named them Harold and Miggs for conversational purposes. Harold’s left ear occasionally falls off when he nods too enthusiastically. Miggs mostly stares. Great listeners, both of them.

Around 6:00, the usual chorus of whispers rolled in. Faint, urgent, echoing through my skull like someone humming in a cathedral made of bone. Most days it’s vague: regrets, unfinished business, the odd complaint about burial attire. But today it was focused.

Hospital.

Now, hospitals are tricky territory. Lots of rules. Lots of fluorescent lighting. Very anti-resurrection vibe.

We have an informal understanding.

They pretend I don’t exist, and I try not to improve their discharge rates.

Still, business is business.

I tucked my business cards into my coat, left Harold and Miggs with strict instructions not to water the plants (they misunderstand that phrase), and followed the pull of the spirits to Saint Bartholomew’s General.

The lobby smelled aggressively of disinfectant. I wouldn’t know personally, of course, but there were enough janitors around to safely assume. Nurses moved briskly. Machines beeped in polite panic.The receptionist handed me a visitor sticker that said “HELLO, MY NAME IS: Thaddeus.”

Close enough.

The whispers led me to the fourth floor.

Room 417. ICU.

Inside lay an elderly man surrounded by family. Machines hissed and chirped. The doctor spoke softly about “comfort measures” and “making him peaceful.”

I stepped in quietly.

“Excuse me,” I said, in my most respectful tone. “I represent an alternative transition consultancy.”

The daughter blinked at me. “Who are you?”

“Thanias. Local necromancer. Flexible rates.”

The doctor stared. “Security—”

It wasn’t intentional. I’d like that on the record.

HIs spirit was already floating around, unsure of which realm it wanted to be in. I merely… steadied the connection. Just a touch. A professional courtesy. The old man’s eyes fluttered open.

He sat up.

Machines screamed.

He looked directly at his family and said, quite clearly, “Tell Gerald I hid the bonds under the shed.”

Then he fell back down.

Flatline.

Absolute chaos.

Now here’s the thing—technically, he was going to pass within minutes anyway. I did not alter the timeline. I just facilitated a brief Q&A session.

Unfortunately, hospitals do not appreciate nuance.

Alarms blared. Nurses rushed in. Someone shouted “Code Blue!” as though it were a particularly aggressive paint color.

I was escorted—firmly—into the hallway.

“You cannot just walk into ICU and— and do whatever that was!” the doctor snapped.

“I provided closure,” I said calmly. “You’re welcome.”

Behind us, the daughter was sobbing—not in horror, but in stunned relief. “The shed,” she kept repeating. “Dad, you stubborn old—”

Security arrived.

Now, I could have made this worse. I could have animated a cadaver from the morgue as a distraction. I could have summoned a whole host of walking limbs, appendixes and tonsils that had been removed and sat waiting to be incinerated.

I did not.

Instead, I chose diplomacy.

“Gentlemen,” I said to the guards, “I understand this looks unconventional. But grief is messy. My work simply… tidies.”

They were unmoved.

As they escorted me out, a nurse hurried past us, pale. “Room 428,” she whispered to another staff member. “The coma patient—he just started talking.”

“I did not touch Room 428,” I said honestly.

The whispers in my head giggled.

Ah.

Residual resonance.

Sometimes when you open the veil, more spirits cross over than you mean for.

Later that evening, back home with Harold and Miggs, I reviewed the day’s events over tea.

On the plus side: one family achieved closure and possibly located hidden bonds.

On the downside: I am now unofficially banned from Saint Bartholomew’s General.

Lessons learned?

Still, as I lay down and played a slow, wavering tune on my theremin, the spirits settled.

Some thanked me.

Some complained.

One asked if I validated parking.

Tomorrow, I think I’ll stick to graveyards.

Lower liability.