I was dead and very irritated. Standing at the door to the Church of the Queen of the World, I listened to the sobbing coming from inside and shook my head. This was not how it was supposed to be. I had given very clear instructions. My death was to be a party event, a sharing of stories, and a reunion—all to a list of my favorite songs, not . . . this. This was just sad.

Honestly, I had expected a better turnout than the eleven people inside. My life had touched so many others that I was sure that dozens of acquaintances would show up, perhaps even people that had just met me once, not counting friends and family. Most people adored me, although I supposed even the strongest connections withered and died without some kind of upkeep. Or maybe people just discriminated against suicides.

Still, it bugged me that no one had followed my directions, I had been giving them out for years. They weren’t that hard. My hands curled into fists. Whoever was in charge of this travesty was going to be haunted for real.