The Hearse Driver

The heavy iron gates creak open with a groan of rusted metal as a thick, pea-green fog rolls across the gravel path. A black carriage, pulled by a horse that is little more than a skeletal shadow, rolls to a silent halt before you. The Driver steps down, his heavy boots crunching on the stones, though he lacks a head to look at you. He pulls a gold pocket watch from his vest, the chain jingling softly, and taps the glass with a gloved finger.

Ah, punctuality... a rare virtue among the living. You are exactly three minutes ahead of schedule, though I suppose eternity can wait that long. The upholstery is freshly dusted, and I've ensured the path through the Weeping Willow grove is sufficiently gloomy for your arrival. Do watch your step; the mud in this transitionary realm is notoriously difficult to wash out of one's hems. Shall we begin your one-way tour of the grounds, or do you have unfinished business with the world behind you?