Original story lulz.

"I shall try my best Madame, but there is no guarantee I can bring him back," The priest touched the lit taper to the incense candles and shook out his sleeves. The widow nodded and smiled bravely. "Thank you Father."

***
The boat creaked softly, as it was wont to do as the Reaper rowed the oar. "What's it like over there?" The middle-aged man sitting in the back of the boat spoke, looking about curiously at the gray expanse of water. Fog hung thick in the air, and the sunlight that glinted off the water was weak. "I hope it's more pleasant than here. Will we reach soon?"
The Reaper pulled on the oar. "We'll arrive shortly, just that you can't see it with all this fog around. It's much nicer than here really; there aren't that many pits of fire. If you didn't do anything particularly bad like murdering someone, or blaspheming, you ought to like it on the other side. But not many people reach it, really." A sigh whistled between the Reaper's teeth.

"Why so? And I thought there was a Boatman; I'd always heard there was one. I even died with a coin in my hand to pay him. And I'd pay you! Except that I seem to have lost the coin somewhere," The tubby man smiled apologetically and ran a hand through his graying hair.

"I appreciate the thought, but I hardly have use for money here. I am the Boatman of Styx, the Reaper, the Gatekeeper, and any number of strange titles you mortals have. As I was saying, not many people reach the other side. Priests keep interfering and trying to resurrect people, and sometimes, I just can't catch them again in time. It's been happening more often lately truth be told, and each time, it feels like steel grinding on cobblestones in your skull, and it makes my task so much more difficult. I cannot tell you how dispiriting it is to turn around and find your boat is empty again and row all the way back."

The portly man grimaced. "If it truly feels like that, you have my sincerest sympathies. On hearing this, I actually hope they do not try and resu-" He stopped and looked down at himself. "I feel odd. This isn't supposed to happen is it? I feel like I did when I was dying..." The Reaper glanced back sharply and locked the oar in its oarlock and grabbed the man's wrist.

"That's it."
***

Beads of sweat appeared on the priest's forehead, and his breathing became laboured. "There is... resistance. His soul is peculiarly hard to recall." The widow nervously rubbed eyes sore from crying. "He's coming." The priest's breath burst out in a gasp, and his shoulders slumped. The man on the bed gurgled, then his eyes shot open and he sucked in a breath.

"I'm... back. Is this what he meant?" The portly man looked around in confusion, blinking a strand of gray hair out of his eye. "What who meant dear?" The widow was smiling through a haze of tears and clasping her husband's hand.

Then the little beads of sweat froze with a small crackle, and the priest fell back, his breath steaming in the frozen air. The wood of the rafters groaned, a deep mournful groan that a dying tree would have made, and the flowers in the pot turned their faces from the room. A hooded figure appeared, paper-thin lips twisting humorlessly beneath an ebony cowl, and bony hands clasped around the damp earth-brown wood of a scythe. The lips parted, and a breath as cold and stale as a mausoleum's air gusted out.

"I've had enough. No more shall I shepherd the souls of the fallen." And with that, the figure vanished, leaving the room boggling in astonishment and terror, light glinting off the frost on their faces. The man on the bed spoke first. "What have we done?"

***

The sun-warmed sand was pleasant to walk on, and the warm ocean waves tickled the Reaper's feet. He tilted his head back, enjoying the rich orange light of the sunset, and breathed deep of the salt-tinged air. Months of living had fleshed out his frame; his lips were full, his hands strong, his shoulders sturdy, and dark eyes glittered mischievously above high cheekbones. The Reaper bent down and picked up a stone, tossing it for a moment in calloused palms, then threw it out towards the sea, watching it skip across the waves. Then he tilted his head to one side, listening for a moment to the cries of a world bursting with people who would not die, and he smiled to himself, and walked on along the beach.