The necromancer’s cottage sat at the edge of a well-trimmed cul-de-sac, just beyond the ironwood fence where the cobblestones began to fade into cracked moss and old roots. Smoke curled lazily from the stone chimney, carrying the scent of black sage and cinnamon bark through the morning mist. Inside, the hearth crackled gently, and a kettle of bitterroot tea hissed over low flame. Books, scrolls, and the occasional tibia lined the high shelves.

The necromancer himself—Doran by name—sat in a threadbare robe at a small round table, sipping his tea and reading “The Ethics of Posthumous Labor: A Treatise.”

That was when the pounding began.

Three heavy knocks. A pause. Then again, louder.

He sighed, set down his tea, and opened the door.

Outside stood Maribeth Talwyn, president of the Briar Glen Homeowners Association. Her hair was tightly wound into a bun, and she held a femur like one might hold a pointing rod.

“You,” she said sharply, “we need to talk. Again.”

Doran blinked. “Maribeth. To what do I owe the grave displeasure?”

She held up the bone.

“This,” she snapped, “was found in the Parkers’ birdbath this morning. And—again—your… yard staff were seen mowing at two in the morning. Two!”

He leaned on the doorframe, folding his arms. The faint scent of myrrh clung to his robe. “Well, it is called the graveyard shift for a reason.”

She was not amused.

“Don’t play clever with me, Doran. This is the third complaint this month. Children are frightened. Mrs. Hedger nearly fainted when one of your... one of your menials waved at her from her begonias.”

“I assure you, that was just Arthur. He’s quite fond of begonias. Used to be a florist, actually. Before the plague.” He gestured behind him. “Would you like some tea? I have a blend that helps with irritation.”

“I’m not here for tea!” she barked.

From somewhere deeper inside, a soft humming could be heard—faint and bony, the kind of hum that rattled more than it carried a tune.

Maribeth’s eye twitched. “What is that noise?”

“Oh. That’s Reginald. He’s trimming the hedges.”

“At seven-thirty in the morning?”

Doran shrugged. “They don’t sleep. Frankly, they get restless if I don’t give them something to do.”

“Then don’t let them do it at night!”

“I tried that. They just dig holes. Everywhere. Honestly, this is better for the neighborhood.”

She glared. “We’re a peaceful community, Doran. We have standards. No necromancy in public view. No reanimated staff after dark. And no bones—none—left where the living might step on them!”

He looked at the femur she still clutched.

“Well, that’s definitely Elric’s. He’s always losing parts. I’ll have a word with him. Perhaps a sturdier stitching spell.”

“You will write a formal apology. And you will sign the HOA compliance sheet. And if this happens again…” Her voice sharpened. “We will escalate. You’re not exempt just because you raise the dead.”

Doran smiled pleasantly. “Of course. I wouldn’t dream of haunting the peace.”

She narrowed her eyes. “See that you don’t.”

With a huff, she turned and marched back down the moss-edged walk. As she passed through the gate, a skeletal hand rose from the flowerbed and waved politely.

She screamed.

Doran sipped his tea and closed the door with a sigh.

“Honestly,” he muttered to no one, “some people just don’t have the guts to appreciate good help these days.”