It is a fact, universally acknowledged, that walking through a graveyard hardly ever turns out to be a short cut. There’s always just too much to look at. Well, a fact for everyone, apart from Freddy, who, for no good reason, found himself strolling randomly through a graveyard one wet Saturday afternoon.

But this wasn’t just any graveyard. For one, it had a certain well-maintained look about it, the sort of place where the dead didn’t just rest, they reclined luxuriously. For another, every tombstone bore not just a name, but a final, presumably unfiltered, comment from its owner, chiselled into granite with solemn precision.

Freddy adjusted his coat, in a futile attempt to stop ice cold rain running down the back of his neck, and took a hesitant step forward. The inscriptions were, to put it mildly, intriguing.

“Of course it isn’t loaded.”

“It’s just a harmless mushroom.”

“I’m sure that rope’s secure.”

“Nope, it’s a solid as the rock of Gibralter.”

Each phrase stood as a tiny, tragic monument to the moments when confidence exceeded wisdom. Freddy moved along, letting the graveyard’s collective regrets wash over him like a tide of cautionary tales.

Then he saw it. The tombstone that made him stop. Well, there’s always one.

It was an ordinary-looking slab of stone, as unassuming as any could be when designed to last longer than the person beneath it. The words upon it, however, were what made Freddy’s blood run cold:

“Oh, hello Freddy.”

Freddy took a step back. He glanced behind him, half-expecting to see someone, perhaps Death itself, lounging behind him with a cup of tea and a knowing smirk.

But the graveyard was as silent as before.

“Right,” he said aloud, because speaking made things feel real, and real things could be dealt with. “Well, that’s a bit weird.”

He took a closer look at the inscription, hoping to find some loophole, some small reassurance that the stone was meant for another Freddy entirely. But below the words, chiseled in the same painstaking detail, was today’s date.

Freddy sat down rather quickly on a nearby rock.

“Right,” he said again, because the first time hadn’t helped much. “Right.”

There was no immediate answer from the grave. Which was a bit of a worrying concept anyway. Did he want it to answer him? In many ways, that seemed to be a worse idea.

Now, Freddy was neither unfamiliar with, nor immune to the occasional existential crises. In fact, he had them often, usually while trying to determine how much enthusiasm to feign in conversations about what other people thought was interesting. But this was different. This was someone, or something, setting up an appointment. But for what?

A rustling noise made him jump. A shadowy figure emerged from behind a row of headstones, moving with the careful precision of someone who very much did not want to be noticed.

It was a small man, draped in a long coat with too many pockets and the general air of someone who was about to offer you a once-in-a-lifetime deal, possibly involving you purchasing some postcards of dubious content and heritage, that you would regret for exactly that long. The man was holding a spade, which, whilst very workman-like, did not help Freddy’s nerves.

“Ah,” said the man, stopping short when he saw Freddy. “Didn’t expect you here so soon.”

“Didn’t expect to be here at all, if I’m honest.” Freddy folded his arms in what he hoped was a confident manner. “Care to explain why my name is on that headstone?”

The man shifted uncomfortably. “Bit of an administrative mix-up,” he said. “It’s the back-office. Happens more often than you’d imagine.”

“Back office? Administrative…?” Freddy’s voice went up a full octave. “I am not a tax form, you can’t just…” He gestured wildly at the gravestone, which remained.

“I’d say ‘no harm done,’” said the man, “but, well.” He glanced at the date again. “Might be a bit early to say.”

Freddy took a step back. “Are you here to kill me?”

“What? No! Absolutely not!” The man looked genuinely horrified. “Not as such, no. No. I’m just here to, er, prepare.”

“For my death.”

“Well, when you put it like that—”

“I can’t die today,” Freddy interrupted. “I have things to do.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” the man said. “Death’s very accommodating. Just drop everything and it sorts itself out.”

Freddy was not reassured. He felt a distinct need to renegotiate the terms of his continued existence, preferably with someone who wasn’t carrying a spade. In a graveyard. By a gravestone with Freddy’s name on it.

“Listen,” he said, mustering all the authority he didn’t have. “I’m very much alive, I’d intend to stay that way, and if some necromancing bureaucrat thinks otherwise, I’d like to have a word.”

The man considered this. “Well, there’s always appeals,” he admitted. “Dreadfully long wait time, though. Horrible process.”

“Is there a way to… I don’t know, opt out?”

The man scratched his head. “Not really. Best you can do is avoid it. Be somewhere else.”

Freddy narrowed his eyes. “You’re telling me I can escape my own death by not being where it happens?”

“Well, it makes it harder, doesn’t it?” The man shrugged. “Death’s a bit like the postman. You move house, you make his job tricky. Well, trickier, anyway.”

Freddy looked at the headstone again. It was still there. Grim. Grey. Upright.

“Right,” he said, taking a deep breath. “I’m leaving.”

The man blinked. “Just like that?”

“Yes,” Freddy said. “I’m simply going to make sure I am anywhere but here for the rest of today.”

The man hesitated. “I mean, that might work. I suppose”

“Might?”

“Well, you might just end up somewhere else where you die anyway.”

Freddy scowled. “How do I improve my odds?”

“Hmm.” The man tapped his chin. “Maybe just… keep moving. Don’t sit down. Don’t do anything reckless. Stay away from mushrooms, firearms, precarious ledges and other rope-based situations—”

“Yes, I’ve read the epitaphs.”

“Good. And, er, avoid ominous strangers with spades.”

Freddy gave him a pointed look.

The man coughed. “Anyway, best of luck!”

Freddy wasted no time. He strode away briskly, determined to outmanoeuvre whatever unfortunate back office administrative paperwork had him slated for an early demise.

And behind him, unseen, the grave slowly began to change. The letters softened, shifted, until they read something new:

“Clever boy.”

And then, a few minutes as he crossed the road out of the graveyard and into town to: “Oh… bus.”