Customer Service Is Dead—And So Is the Customer

The email came at 3:17 a.m., subject line:

“Your Service Ticket #4928 Has Been Resolved!”

Which would have been great—if Harold Baxter hadn’t been dead for four days.

The only reason we knew about it was because his daughter, Melissa, had been checking his inbox to cancel his subscriptions and, you know, notify people he was no longer available for extended warranties or feedback surveys.

But this email stood out.

“Thank you for contacting Horizon Internet. We value your feedback. Your issue has been resolved. Please take 30 seconds to complete this short survey…”

Melissa stared at it. Harold’s original complaint—attached as a thread—was dated three weeks earlier. Something about “intermittent outages,” “slow download speeds,” and a final sentence in all caps that read:

“I’M GOING TO DIE BEFORE THIS IS FIXED.”

Which, it turns out, was eerily accurate.

Three days later, Melissa visited the local Horizon office with a death certificate in hand and a polite but exhausted look on her face.

“I just want to close his account,” she said.

The rep—whose name tag read “TREY :)”—smiled like someone trained not to blink.

“Of course,” he chirped. “I’m so sorry for your loss. Can I get the account number?”

She handed it over.

Trey typed.

And typed.

And frowned.

Then smiled again.

“So…” he said, elongating the vowel like he was gently poking a landmine, “unfortunately, I can’t cancel the account unless the primary account holder authorizes it directly.”

Melissa blinked. “He’s dead.”

“Right. And I totally hear you.” Trey nodded empathetically. “But per policy, we do require verbal confirmation.”

“You want him to call?”

“Or log in through the app.”

“He’s in a refrigerated drawer.”

Trey leaned forward. “Have you tried Face ID?”

Melissa stared at him for a solid ten seconds. “Are you suggesting I… use my dead father's face to unlock his phone?”

Trey didn’t blink. “I’ve heard it works better if the eyes are open.”

Meanwhile, Harold’s account continued to receive emails.

“Congrats! You’ve been upgraded to Premium Internet Deluxe!”

“Only $29.99 for Cloud DVR Storage You’ll Never Use!”

“Important! Your bill is now past due.”

Melissa, fueled by grief, fury, and too much funeral cake, decided to go full scorched-earth.

She logged into his customer portal, guessed the password (“Password123”), and changed the name on the account to “Harold BAXTER [DEAD]”.

Then she left a review on their website:

“Horizon Internet was so slow it took my father three weeks to die from frustration. Zero stars. Also: he’s literally deceased. Stop emailing him.”

The response?

“We’re sorry to hear you’re unhappy. Someone from Customer Happiness will be in touch shortly.”

And they were.

A chat bubble appeared on her screen:

“Hi there! This is Cassie from Customer Happiness. I understand you’re having some concerns regarding your father’s account? :)”

Melissa:

“Yes. He is dead. D-E-A-D.”

Cassie:

“Oh no! We’re so sorry to hear that. Can I ask: how did he enjoy his service before passing?”

Melissa:

“He didn’t. He said the lag was killing him. AND THEN IT DID.”

Cassie:

“Would he be open to leaving a review?”

Melissa slammed her laptop shut and screamed into a decorative pillow.

The breaking point came when Horizon Internet sent a technician to the house. Not to offer condolences. Not to pick up the equipment.

But to upgrade his router.

The doorbell rang at 9 a.m. Melissa opened it in sweatpants and a rage aura.

The technician, a teen named Greg with a toolbelt and a nose ring, looked up from his tablet. “Uh, hey. I’m here for Harold?”

“He’s dead.”

Greg blinked. “Okay… does he still want the router installed?”

Melissa stared. “You’re serious?”

“I mean, it’s on the schedule.”

“He’s in the ground, Greg.”

Greg shrugged. “Okay. So maybe I should just do the outside install for now?”

Melissa closed the door. And locked it. And posted on social media.

Within 24 hours, her thread went viral:

“My dad died. The internet provider won’t cancel his account unless he calls them. They sent a tech to ‘upgrade his router.’ His tombstone is getting better service than I do.”

#CustomerServiceIsDead #SoIsMyDad #CancelTheAccount

Horizon responded quickly—with a digital gift card for $10. Expiring in 48 hours.

And a new email.

“Your ticket #5001 has been resolved!”

Melissa opened it.

“We’ve escalated your concern to a Level 3 Specialist. Please expect a call within 5–7 business days.”

So she did what any grieving, exhausted daughter would do:

She called a medium.

Madame Violetta operated out of the back of a candle shop and smelled like patchouli and mild regret.

Melissa explained the situation.

Violetta nodded. “You wish to summon the spirit of your father… to cancel Comcast?”

“Horizon.”

“Even worse,” she said darkly.

They lit incense. Chanted softly. The temperature dropped.

And then, the table shook.

A deep voice echoed from nowhere:

“I waited on hold for 73 minutes.”

“Dad?”

“They transferred me four times. The last one hung up. I died before I could choose option 5.”

Melissa sniffled. “They said you had to approve the cancellation.”

“Then tell them this…”

A pause. Then:

“You can take my router when you pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

And the lights went out.

The next day, Horizon emailed again.

“We regret to inform you that your service has been permanently suspended due to a lack of payment. Please return all equipment to avoid charges.”

Melissa smiled.

She placed the modem and router in a box. Wrote “RETURN TO SENDER” in sharpie. And tucked in a little note.

“He didn’t want it back either