Reaper Man by Terry Pratchett

then the door burst open—
    “Get his legs! Get his legs!”
    “Hold his arms!”
    Windle tried to sit up. “Oh, hallo, everyone,” he said. “What’s the matter?”
    The Archchancellor, standing at the foot of the bed, fumbled in a sack and produced a large, heavy object.
    He held it aloft.
    “Ah- ha !” he said.
    Windle peered at it.
    “Yes?” he said, helpfully.
    “Ah- ha ,” said the Archchancellor again, but with slightly less conviction.
    “It’s a symbolic double-handled axe from the cult of Blind Io,” said Windle.
    The Archchancellor gave him a blank look.
    “Er, yes,” he said, “that’s right.” He threw it over his shoulder, almost removing the Dean’s left ear, and fished in the sack again.
    “Ah- ha !”
    “That’s a rather fine example of the Mystic Tooth of Offler the Crocodile God,” said Windle.
    “Ah-ha!”
    “And that’s a…let me see now…yes, that’s the matched set of sacred Flying Ducks of Ordpor the Tasteless. I say, this is fun!”
    “Ah-ha.”
    “That’s…don’t tell me, don’t tell me…that’s the holy linglong of the notorious Sootee cult, isn’t it?”
    “Ah-ha?”
    “I think that one’s the three-headed fish of the Howanda three-headed fish religion,” said Windle.
    “This is ridiculous ,” said the Archchancellor, dropping the fish.
    The wizards sagged. Religious objects weren’t such a surefire undead cure after all.
    “I’m really sorry to be such a nuisance,” said Windle.
    The Dean suddenly brightened up.
    “Daylight!” he said excitedly. “That’ll do the trick!”
    “Get the curtain!”
    “Get the other curtain!”
    “One, two, three… now !”
    Windle blinked in the invasive sunlight.
    The wizards held their breath.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “It doesn’t seem to work.”
    They sagged again.
    “Don’t you feel anything ?” said Ridcully.
    “No sensation of crumbling into dust and blowing away?” said the Senior Wrangler hopefully.
    “My nose tends to peel if I’m out in the sun too long,” said Windle. “I don’t know if that’s any help.” He tried to smile.
    The wizards looked at one another and shrugged.
    “Get out,” said the Archchancellor. They trooped out.
    Ridcully followed them. He paused at the door and waved a finger at Windle.
    “This uncooperative attitude, Windle, is not doing you any good,” he said, and slammed the door behind him.
    After a few seconds the four screws holding the door handle very slowly unscrewed themselves. They rose up and orbited near the ceiling for a while, and then fell.
    Windle thought about this for a while.
    Memories. He had lots of them. One hundred and thirty years of memories. When he was alive he hadn’t been able to remember one-hundredth of the things he knew but now he was dead, his mind uncluttered with everything except the single silver thread of his thoughts, he could feel them all there. Everything he’d ever read, everything he’d ever seen, everything he’d ever heard. All there, ranged in ranks. Nothing forgotten. Everything in its place.
    Three inexplicable phenomena in one day. Four, if you included the fact of his continued existence. That was really inexplicable.
    It needed explicating.
    Well, that was someone else’s problem. Everything was someone else’s problem now.

    The wizards crouched outside the door of Windle’s room.
    “Got everything?” said Ridcully.
    “Why can’t we get some of the servants to do it?” muttered the Senior Wrangler. “It’s undignified.”
    “Because I want it done properly and with dignity,” snapped the Archchancellor. “If anyone’s going to bury a wizard at a crossroads with a stake hammered through him, then wizards ought to do it. After all, we’re his friends.”
    “What is this thing, anyway?” said the Dean, inspecting the implement in his hands.
    “It’s called a shovel,” said the Senior Wrangler. “I’ve seen the gardeners use them. You stick the sharp end in the ground. Then it gets