House Call

Death is many things when it comes to different people, but more than anything he is patient. He has waited lifetimes for individuals to be ready, to come to him in earnestness so they can move on.
But in himself, he detests lateness and sloth. Is reviled by any indication of sluggishness or laziness.
So perhaps that is why, as his album spun to its end and he sat in his comfortable chair, he was already beginning to squirm. Though he could not hear it, he could see the phone ringing, on and on, waiting for his answer. For his next job. But had he not earned this rest? Had he not worked tirelessly, for eons? Was this little joy really too much to ask?
But somewhere deep inside him, he knew the answer would be yes, yes it was.
And so, with increasing irritability, he finished listening to his album, staring at the phone. The final song did not even register in his mind, replaced with nothing but the ongoing, unending, unstoppable ring of the phone, calling him back to work. His fingers tightened on the arms of the chair, but he refused to let them take him before he was ready. His stubbornness gave him that much resolve, at least. As much as it pained him, he would not let them interrupt this. This one little rebellion.
Finally, the record played out, the needle silently sliding along un-recorded grooves. He arose from his chair with a sigh, although if it was one of frustration or relief even he was unsure. He carefully removed the headphones, and placed them gently beside the record player, lifting the needle and turning the device off. His ears, or what was once his ears, slowly filled with the interminable ringing that matched the noise in his mind.
He strode over to the phone and stood square before it, making a choice.
A deep breath in, and he lifted the receiver. Slowly, he put it to his head and waited for the instruction.
"You are old enough to be asking questions." The voice on the line said flatly.
Death cocked his head, confused. "Who is this?"
"Why aren't you?"
Death's jaw opened, shut, opened again, and closed once more.
"If not you, then whom?" The voice said with finality. There was a click, and the line went dead.
Death held the phone out to look at it. No-one had ever called him on this phone, save for work. Ever.
He put the receiver back on its hook, and stared at the device. The voice wanted to know why he wasn't asking questions, but right now he only had one in mind. As it played through his head, a shiver ran down his ancient spine.
Who can call Death at home?