Soul Music by Terry Pratchett

outside a large house, set back a little from the road. It was a slightly pretentious residence with more gables and mullions than it should rightly have, and this was a clue to its origins: it was the kind of house built for himself by a rich merchant when he goes respectable and needs to do something with the loot.
    “I’m not happy about this,” said Susan. “It can’t possibly work . I’m human. I have to go to the toilet and things like that. I can’t just walk into people’s houses and kill them!”
    SQUEAK.
    “All right, not kill. But it’s not good manners, however you look at it.”
    A sign on the door said: Tradesmen to rear entrance.
    “Do I count as—”
    SQUEAK!
    Susan normally would never have dreamed of asking. She’d always seen herself as a person who went through the front doors of life.
    The Death of Rats scuttled up the path and through the door.
    “Hang on! I can’t—”
    Susan looked at the wood. She could . Of course she could. More memories crystallized in front of her eyes. After all, it was only wood. It’d rot in a few hundred years. By the measure of infinity, it hardly existed at all. On average, considered over the lifetime of the multiverse, most things didn’t.
    She stepped forward. The heavy oak door offered as much resistance as a shadow.

    Grieving relatives were clustered around the bed where, almost lost in the pillows, was a wrinkled old man. At the foot of the bed, paying no attention whatsoever to the keening around it, was a large, very fat, ginger cat.
    SQUEAK.
    Susan looked at the hourglass. The last few grains tumbled through the pinch.
    The Death of Rats, with exaggerated caution, sneaked up behind the sleeping cat and kicked it hard. The animal awoke, turned, flattened its ears in terror, and leapt off the quilt.
    The Death of Rats sniggered.
    SNH, SNH, SNH.
    One of the mourners, a pinch-faced man, looked up. He peered at the sleeper.
    “That’s it,” he said, “He’s gone.”
    “I thought we were going to be here all day,” said the woman next to him, standing up. “Did you see that wretched old cat move? Animals can tell, you know. They’ve got this sixth sense.”
    SNH, SNH, SNH.
    “Well, come on there, I know you’re here somewhere,” said the corpse. It sat up.
    Susan was familiar with the idea of ghosts. But she hadn’t expected it to be like this. She hadn’t expected the ghosts to be the living, but they were merely pale sketches in the air compared to the old man sitting up in bed. He looked solid enough, but a blue glow outlined him.
    “One hundred and seven years, eh?” he cackled. “I expect I had you worried for a while there. Where are you?”
    “Er, HERE,” said Susan.
    “Female, eh?” said the old man. “Well, well, well.”
    He slid off the bed, spectral nightshirt flapping, and was suddenly pulled up short as though he’d reached the end of a chain. This was more or less the case; a thin line of blue light still tethered him to his late habitation.
    The Death of Rats jumped up and down on the pillow, making urgent slashing movements with its scythe.
    “Oh, sorry,” said Susan, and sliced. The blue line snapped with a high-pitched, crystalline twang.
    Around them, sometimes walking through them, were the mourners. Mourning seemed to have stopped now the old man had died. The pinch-faced man was feeling under the mattress.
    “Look at ’em,” said the old man nastily, “Poor ole granddad, sob sob, sorely missed, we won’t see his like again, where did the ole bugger leave his will? That’s my youngest son, that is. Well, if you can call a card every Hogswatchnight a son. See his wife? Got a smile like a wave on a slop bucket. And she ain’t the worst of ’em. Relatives? You can keep ’em. I only stayed alive out of mischief.”
    A couple of people were exploring under the bed. There was a humorous porcelain clang. The old man capered behind them, making gestures.
    “Not a chance!” he chortled. “Heh heh! It’s