The Grim Reaper’s Moving Day

The Price of Moving Could Kill You

Death had never paid much attention to money.

He had no mortgage, no dependents, and no need for a pension.

His job came with excellent security; he had a job for life, or death.

He requested several moving quotes.

The first company asked him to complete an inventory.

“How many beds?”

“One.”

“Single or double?”

“Coffin.”

There was a pause.

“Is that a brand?”

The second company requested a video survey.

Unfortunately, the film showed only strange shadows and several disembodied faces.

The moving company surveyor resigned.

The third company promised to move his entire household for $299.

Death was impressed.

He telephoned the company.

“Does that include everything?”

“Absolutely, sir. Although there’s an additional charge for stairs, furniture, packing, loading, unloading, and delivery.”

“What exactly does the $299 cover?”

“The booking.”

Death sharpened his scythe.

“I believe we need to discuss your business model.”

He eventually found a reputable moving company that provided a proper written estimate, explained its charges, and answered his questions without demanding cash in advance.

It wasn’t cheap.

But Death had learned long ago that bargains sometimes came at a terrible price.

Especially those involving souls.

The Trouble with Having an Eternity to Accumulate Clutter

Death had never considered himself a hoarder.

He owned one black cloak, one favorite scythe, and an extensive collection of artifacts acquired during several millennia of employment.

Then he began packing.

There were Egyptian burial masks, medieval plague bells, funeral urns, cursed jewelry, broken hourglasses, and a dusty box marked Souvenirs — Pompeii, AD 79.

He also discovered a collection of unread self-help books.

Seven Habits of Highly Effective People.

How to Win Friends and Influence People.

Live Your Best Life.

All having been bequeathed to him.

A professional decluttering consultant was summoned.

“Does this item bring you joy?” she asked, holding a medieval skull.

“Not particularly.”

“Then perhaps it’s time to let it go.”

“It belonged to my first client.”

“Well, you can’t keep everything forever.”

Death stared at her.

Forever was rather his specialty.

She picked up a bundle of ancient scrolls.

“And these?”

“The names of everyone who died during the Black Death.”

“Oh, how lovely. Family history?”

“Not exactly.”

The consultant suggested sorting everything into three categories: Keep, Donate, and Discard.

Death added a fourth.

Awaiting Judgment.

The consultant left before lunch.

Her invoice arrived the following morning with a surcharge for emotional distress.

Packing for the Next Life

The packing company arrived at dawn.

By eight o’clock, the crew had encountered its first difficulty.

“What exactly is in this box?”

“Souls.”

“Right. Are they fragile?”

“Extremely.”

“Any liquids?”

“Only tears.”

The packer wrote FRAGILE on the box.

Death added ETERNALLY.

The ceremonial scythes were wrapped in protective blankets. Ancient scrolls were carefully packed into reinforced cartons. The coffin was measured, photographed, and added to the inventory.

Then someone discovered the cupboard beneath the stairs.

The door was locked.

From inside came a faint scratching noise.

“What’s in there?” asked the foreman.

“Regrets.”

“Can they be dismantled?”

“No”

“Well, they’ll cost extra, then.”

Death had heard many unreasonable demands throughout eternity, but charging separately for regrets struck him as particularly cruel.

For the tenth time since his moving ordeal began, he sharpened his scythe.

Moving Day. A Fate Worse Than Death

Moving day arrived with dark clouds, freezing rain, and a bitter wind.

An excellent omen, thought Death.

A terrible forecast, thought the movers.

The truck was delayed in traffic.

The foreman telephoned to explain that the crew would be arriving two hours late.

Death was not pleased.

“I have appointments this afternoon.”

“Can’t they be rescheduled?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Important, are they?”

“To the people concerned, yes.”

The foreman promised to hurry.

When the truck eventually arrived, the movers began loading.

The ceremonial throne proved impossible to maneuver through the doorway.

The grandfather clock, which had stopped at midnight in 1666, began striking thirteen.

And one of the packers accidentally opened a box containing several hundred wandering spirits.

“Should we call pest control?” he asked.

Death rubbed his temples.

By lunchtime, two workers had resigned, one had requested an exorcist, and the foreman was demanding an additional charge for hazardous materials.

Death considered killing them all.

Then remembered he’d have to complete the death certificates himself.

He put down his scythe.

Even eternity wasn’t long enough for that much paperwork.

At three o’clock, the foreman approached with another problem.

“We’ve lost a box.”

Death went very still.

“Which box?”

The foreman checked his clipboard.

“Number thirteen.”

Death closed his eyes.

Inside box thirteen were the souls of several particularly unpleasant medieval tyrants.

Not the sort of people one wanted wandering around a suburban neighborhood.

After a frantic search, the box was discovered at the back of the truck beneath a mattress.

The foreman apologized.

“These things happen.”

Death made a note of his name.

Just in case.

The Final Destination

By the time they reached the new house, darkness had fallen.

Death was exhausted.

He had not felt so weary since the Spanish flu pandemic.

The movers unloaded the truck in silence.

The coffin was installed upstairs. The scythes went into the cellar. The books were stacked in the library.

Then came the ceremonial throne.

It would not fit through the front door.

“Did you measure it?” asked the foreman.

Death tightened his grip on his scythe.

“I assumed it would fit.”

“Never assume, sir.”

Death stared at him.

This was a creature who had watched entire civilizations collapse because of misplaced assumptions.

Yet here he was, being lectured by a man called Darren about the width of a doorway.

Darren suggested removing the front door.

Death suggested something considerably more permanent.

Eventually, they reached an understanding.

The throne remained outside.

It looked rather impressive beside the garden gnomes.

At last, the moving crew departed.

Death stood in his new hallway, surrounded by boxes.

The lights didn’t work.

The heating had not been connected.

Somewhere upstairs, a tap was dripping.

His favorite scythe had been packed in a box labeled Kitchen — Miscellaneous.

He had no idea where the kettle was.

For the first time in human history, Death genuinely wanted to die.

Knocking at Death’s Door

There was a knock at the door.

Death opened it.

A cheerful man in a cardigan stood on the doorstep.

“Hello! Nigel from next door. Just thought I’d pop round and welcome you to the neighborhood.”

Death said nothing.

Nigel peered past him into the dark hallway.

“Goodness! You have got your work cut out for you!”

Death nodded wearily.

“Moving house is murder, isn’t it?” Nigel chuckled.

“Not usually,” replied Death. “Although I’m beginning to see the appeal.”

Nigel laughed.

“Well, at least the worst is over. You’ll soon be settled in. Lovely quiet neighborhood. We like to keep it that way.”

“How reassuring.”

“Actually, I’m president of the homeowners’ association. Very important that we all do our bit to maintain standards.”

Death’s expression darkened.

“Standards?”

“Oh yes. Strict rules about exterior decorations, garden ornaments, noise, parking. All sorts of things. You’ll find a welcome pack inside.”

Nigel glanced at the scythe leaning against the doorway.

“That, for example, wouldn’t be permitted on the front porch.”

Death slowly followed his gaze.

“I see.”

“And you’ll need to remove that rather dreadful throne from the front garden. We have rules about unsightly furniture.”

“It was forged in the fires of eternity.”

“Well, I’m afraid the regulations make no exceptions.”

Nigel smiled brightly.

“Anyway, mustn’t keep you. I’m sure we’ll get along splendidly. What did you say you did for a living?”

“Collections.”

“Debt collection?”

“Something like that.”

“Tax?”

Death looked offended.

“Good heavens, no. I have standards too.”

Nigel smiled.

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood!”

With that, Nigel returned to his immaculate little house next door.

Death closed the door.

He stood in the darkness for a moment, listening to the dripping tap upstairs.

Then he noticed his appointment book lying on the mantelpiece.

He had almost forgotten that tomorrow was a working day and he had never missed an appointment.

He opened the book and turned to the next morning’s schedule.

9:00 a.m. — Nigel Pritchard, 14 Willow Close.

Perhaps moving house wasn’t going to be quite so dreadful after all.

A Moving Experience to Die For

Moving house can test the patience of a saint.

Or, apparently, the patience of Death himself.

Fortunately, most moving nightmares can be avoided with a little preparation, a reliable moving company, and the good sense not to pack several hundred wandering souls in an unmarked cardboard box.

At MoveAdvisor, we can’t promise you’ll live forever.

But we can help you find a moving company that won’t make you wish you hadn’t.

Because moving home should be the beginning of a new life, not the end of one.

And if your new neighbor turns out to be the president of the homeowners’ association?

Well, some things really are beyond our control.

Happy Halloween from MoveAdvisor.