By

Matthew Spence

Harold Wiggins had always been a meticulous man. The kind who organized his sock drawer by color and pattern, who kept a daily log of his meals, and whose calendar was marked months in advance for every appointment. So, it was no surprise when he called Gloria Ashford, an experienced funeral planner, to help him prepare his own funeral.

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” Harold explained over the phone, his voice calm and collected. “I want everything to be perfect. I want it to reflect me. Every detail.”

Gloria, a seasoned professional with years of experience, had seen her fair share of eccentric requests, but something about Harold’s tone intrigued her. It was less about sorrow and more about control, a curious desire to shape his own death with the same precision he applied to every aspect of his life.

When she arrived at his home, she was struck by the silence. The house, a large Victorian in an old part of town, seemed frozen in time. The furniture was immaculate, the curtains drawn just so, and the air smelled faintly of old leather and pine.

Harold greeted her at the door, a thin man in his late sixties, dressed in an impeccably pressed suit. He led her through the hall to a small study at the back of the house, where a massive oak desk was cluttered with books, papers, and a large, leather-bound notebook.

“Please, take a seat,” he said, motioning to a chair across from his. “I’ve made a list of everything. The location, the flowers, the music, the exact order of the service. But there’s one thing I need your help with.”

Gloria nodded, flipping open her notepad, her pen poised. “Of course. What can I do for you?”

Harold leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. “I want to be buried exactly where I died.”

Gloria froze for a moment, unsure if she had heard him correctly. “Pardon?”

“Where I die,” he repeated, more slowly this time. “I want to die in my own home, and I want to be buried right here. In my backyard. It’s… important to me.”

The request was odd, but it wasn’t entirely unheard of. Some people, especially those with deep connections to their property, requested burials on their land. But Harold’s words lingered uneasily in the air, as if something were off.

“Mr. Wiggins, are you sure?” Gloria asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “That’s a very… unusual request. It’s not something most families would go for.”

“I don’t have a family,” Harold replied with a faint smile. “I’ve thought this through. And I’ll make it clear in my will, in case anyone tries to stop it.”

Gloria paused, considering how best to respond. “I understand. But if you’re planning your death, shouldn’t you be more focused on the comfort of those who will be left behind? A cemetery might offer a certain peace of mind.”

Harold’s gaze sharpened. “I’m not interested in peace of mind for the living. I want what I want. What’s mine, not what society dictates.”

There was something unsettling in his tone, a coldness that made the hairs on Gloria’s neck stand up. But she had dealt with difficult clients before, and she wasn’t in the business of judging. She wrote down his wishes, making note of the specific spot he wanted for his grave—a secluded area behind the garden, beneath a cluster of tall oaks.

The next few weeks were a blur of planning, with Gloria arranging every detail with precision. Harold approved every choice—every flower, every piece of music. But the odd requests didn’t stop there. Harold had specific instructions for his coffin: no velvet lining, no fancy carvings. It had to be simple, plain, just like him. The exact dimensions of the casket were meticulously measured. Gloria began to wonder how far Harold was truly willing to go for this bizarre arrangement.

Then, on a Thursday afternoon, she received a phone call from Harold.

“It’s time,” he said, his voice disturbingly calm. “I’ve made my decision.”

“Decision?” Gloria asked, her heart rate quickening. “What do you mean?”

“I’ve decided on the day,” he replied, his tone flat. “And I want everything to happen exactly as planned. Including the burial.”

Gloria felt a sinking sensation in her stomach. “Mr. Wiggins, I don’t think—”

“I’ll see you soon,” Harold interrupted, before hanging up.

A sense of dread clung to Gloria as she drove to his house that evening. What was he planning? She had assumed he meant to pass peacefully in his sleep, but something about the finality in his words suggested otherwise. When she arrived at the house, the lights were dim, and Harold was waiting for her at the front door, dressed in his suit again, but with a strange serenity in his expression.

“I’m ready,” he said, as if he were about to attend a party, not his own funeral.

“Mr. Wiggins, I think we need to—” Gloria began, but her words faltered as she noticed something disturbing.

Behind Harold, there was an open door leading to the garden. The ground had been freshly dug, a large hole at the center of the yard, surrounded by piles of earth. The coffin was already there, placed by the edge, waiting.

Her blood ran cold.

“Mr. Wiggins, no,” Gloria whispered, stepping back. “You didn’t.”

“It’s all part of the plan, Gloria,” Harold said softly, his eyes gleaming with an almost manic excitement. “I’ve arranged everything. I will be buried in this spot tonight. You’ll help me.”

Gloria backed away slowly, shaking her head. “No, Mr. Wiggins, you don’t understand. I’m not here for this. You can’t just… do this. People will—”

Harold cut her off, his voice suddenly low and dangerous. “You don’t have a choice, Gloria. I hired you to do this. And you will follow through. Just like every other detail.”

Before she could protest further, Harold moved with surprising speed, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her toward the grave. “You’ll help me, won’t you?” His grip tightened. “I need this, Gloria. For me. You promised you’d help.”

Gloria struggled, her heart pounding in her chest. She knew she needed to leave, but something kept her rooted to the spot, as though the air itself were suffocating her.

With a final, desperate effort, she wrenched free, stumbling backward. “You’re insane, Harold!”

But Harold only smiled, his eyes gleaming with a chilling calm. “It’s already done, Gloria. It’s my time. And it will be perfect. Just like I always wanted.”

As Gloria ran for the door, she could hear the faint sound of digging behind her. The sound of a man preparing for his final rest, with no intention of waiting for death to claim him.

And just as she reached the front door, she heard the unmistakable sound of a shovel hitting the earth. Harold Wiggins had begun his final arrangement.