=========================================================================== BBS: Mt Perry BBS (New Lexington, Ohio) Date: 07-03-92 (07:35) Number: 1 From: Ed Geiger Refer#: To: Anyone who wishes it Recvd: Subj: THE COFFIN...... Conf: (1) MAIN --------------------------------------------------------------------------- THE COFFIN Listen my children, and I will tell you a story, assured to make your hair stand on end. This is not a story for the weak of heart, no....read on only if your heart is strong, your knees won't knock, and you can sleep without persistent dreams. This story starts in a small New England town. It wasn't that different than many found dotting the coast of Maine. It's inhabitants continue the occupations of their fathers, and their fathers before them. Some continue to run the small groceries, bakeries, and fishing repair shops. Other's continue with their forefather's occupation as seafarers. It was in one of the stoic white clapbaord houses that our story began. A seafarer, whaler to be exact, during the 1800's returned after a two month's stay at sea. He ship docked in a larger town 10 miles down coast late one evening, and he rented a horse to arrive home to surprise his wife of two years. Before he left to make that ride, he stopped in a shop to buy his wife a new bonnet... a bonnet made of straw and beautiful flowers of spring. In his haste to get home, he followed the narrow coastline road as dusk came to the fishing village. This route was the fastest way to his own. Now if he was a weaker man, he would have waited for the next day, and most certainly have taken the more widely used road. For on this coastline road there were many perils: at points the road passed sheer cliffs abutting the sea, and wild cougars were known to prowl in one section of the road. About midway between the harbor and his village, where the road weaves between tall rocks, there were highwaymen, known to rob *and* kill passer-bys. It was at this spot that our seaman was accosted by a pair,-- dark, hooded ruffians whose introduction was, "Stop! or we'll drop you where you are." The seaman stop; the highwaymen ordered him to empty his pockets. Two months wages fell to the ground and the clang of gold on the ground rang an ominous sound. Collecting the loot, the first highwayman noticed a round case attached to the sailor's horse. "what's this?" he asked. "A gift for my wife," was the response. It was obvious the highwaymen were not going to be satisfied with the gold on the ground, so the sailor pushed the first against the horse of the second, jumped to his steed, and whipped the horse towards home. Had the road bent sooner to the east, the shot from the gun of the second highwayman might not have even got off. But fired it did, and a sharp round ball entered the back of the sailor, and slowly dripped blood down his back, over his saddle, and over the bonnet case. The seaman arrived at his house, crawled from the horse to the door and entered with a faint yell for his wife. His cries went for naught. You see, this young wife, after months of her husband's absence, grew tired of sitting home alone. She went out earlier that evening to enjoy herself. Expecting his wife's return momentarily, the seaman plopped himself down on a chair grasping the bloodied bonnet box firmly in his hand. As he sat, the blood continued to flow out of his back, onto the chair, down his arm, and still more onto the bonnet case. The loss of blood made him woozy; and he had to fight off the sleep that his body desired. After a small nap, the sailor was awaken by a noise outside his house. He pulled himself from the chair, to the door; the case was still firmly within his grasp. As he reached the door, he realized the sounds he heard were no more than the wind brushing a tree against the house. Again he crawled back to the chair, weaker for the trip. Again he nodded off, again by a noise outside, again another noise common to all but those who spend their nights at sea. Each few steps to the door and back left the sailor with a reopened wound, additional bleeding, and a weaker state for the return trip to the chair. In the fourth and final trip to the door, he returned to fall face first into the chair...this time the nap would bring eternal rest. With his head looking longingly into space, his knees propped against the chair, as if praying, he laid over the chair. His hand, though now lifeless, still firmly grasped a redden box ... his arm was outstretch over the side of the chair, as if presenting it to his beautiful wife. That wife arrived about an hour after he breathed his last breath. She found him draped over the chair, kneeling in a pool of blood. His arm pointed towards the rear of the house, cold, helpless, and holding a now blood dried box. She wept as she saw him, and prying his fingers loose, opened the case. There, inside, she found the lovely bonnet. On one side it was stained with the blood of her husband, a husband who might still be alive had she not left that evening, or at least, not stayed out so late. She remembered how she giddily laughed at jokes that evening. She remembered how she even flirted with a stranger during dinner. Guilt surrounded her like a shroud, and as she looked back at her husband, his arm still pointed towards her, almost accusingly. Well with all the sadness that befits the death of a young, virile man, and all the pity a young widow brings, the sailor was to be buried the next day. But at the service, the new widow stared straight ahead as she sat in the church's pew. She wore the bloodied bonnet; it looked so out of place with the rest of her black garb. As the pallbearers were about to take the casket to the grave, the new widow gave out a cry, "Please, no... don't put him in the ground. I want him brought back to the house, near my bedroom. He'll never leave me again, nor will I him." They tried to console her, but to no avail. Each attempt to move the casket to the grave was met with hysterical cries. They finally decided to placate her. They took the casket to the rear of the church while other's told the widow that they would honor her request. They took the body of the sailor out of the coffin..arm pointing and knees still bent. They nailed the lid back tight and left him there. They would carry the empty coffin back to the house, place it in her bedroom, and return later to place the sailor to his final rest. As the procession of mourners left the church and started towards the widow's home, she gave a dry smile. It almost seemed as if she might overcome this madness. Give her time, and care, and she too would come around. Well they brought the casket into the bedroom as she asked. And the later buried the sailor, but the madness they hoped would be temporary was not. She stayed in the home, most often in a chair to the left of the of the wooden box, wearing the bonnet everyday. A stack of letters laid on the table, sent to her by her dearly departed from many different ports. She spent her days, reading and re-reading these letters. Friends would call daily. They prepared her meals, they would visit, they hoped they would see her come out of this fugue. At each visit, the same thing happened. They knocked on the door, the widow, after a few minutes, came down the stairs, and answered the door. As they talked at the door a noise was heard upstairs. The widow quickly turned towards the steps, then glanced back at the visitors, thanked them for the food, and said, "Excuse me, I have to get back to John." All the protestations went for naught. She would close the door, turn towards the stairs, and reentered her bedouir. The town doctor tried to enter, to no avail; his visit, like all the others, stopped at the door and ended when a noise was heard upstairs. The minister's visit went the same. Relatives tried to visit, one even tried to push by her, but she shut the door each time & returned to her John. These visits lasted for about a month. At that time, no one answered the door, no one responded no matter how loudly the door was rapped. One man present at that trip rammed down the door, and fell to the floor as it broke opened. Laying on the floor, he heard a familiar sound. It was a creaking upstairs, as if someone was pulling something across the floor, very slowly. The sound persisted; it seemed as though it was coming from the bedroom of the widow. Perhaps she was moving furniture and didn't hear their rapping on the door. Or maybe she had gone deaf...for surely she would have heard him break open the door. Well he rose from the floor, and walked toward the stairs. Now it seemed that the sound was also moving in the direction of the stairs, but from the bedroom. He began to walk up the stairs, hearing the sound, louder and louder. As he reached the middle of the stairs, he stopped dead. Those with him at the time, as they told the story later, say he stiffened like a board and turned as pale as an white pine. What he saw is what stopped him, and what he saw was the coffin at the top of the stairs, moving. It moved around the corner, and made its way to the edge of the stairs, and stopped. But the widow didn't push it, nor did anyone else. IT MOVED BY ITSELF! The others at the door were also startled, but it was easier for them to leave than the man. He ran down the stairs, and turned right as if to enter the kitchen. There he found the widow, sitting in a chair, her head laying on the kitchen table. He picked her up and out of the house, but as he lifted her in his arms he knew she too was dead. Apparently, she left upstairs to get a drink of water, sat down at the chair, and mercifully slept the last sleep. Outside the visitors cried, and looked at each other cautiously, but non would talk about what each saw. Perhaps it was fear, perhaps fear that others might think them mad. But throughout the next days and the weeks thereafter, not one would talk about the moving coffin. An out of town relative of the widow came to the house weeks later. He came to put the estate in order, sell the house, and visit the grave of his sister. As he entered the house, he too heard a sound, a sound too much like someone had entered the house and was pushing something across the upstair's room. Pushing something very slowly. Quickly he raced towards the stairs, even quicker he ran the stairs, the sound, much more slowly moved in his direction. As he reached the top of the stairs he too saw the coffin turn the corner; he too saw that no one was pushing the coffin. He stood motionless, but the coffin didn't. It moved, slowly towards him, . As the coffin neared his leg, the brother's wits must have returned; he turned quickly, but his pant leg caught on the edge of the coffin, and down the stairs he tumbled. Others, wondering what happened to the brother, found him at the foot of the stairsthe next day, with a broken neck. The coffin, still at the top of the stairs, as if it looked on. There began that noise again , until the coffin teetered at the edge of the top step. They quickly grabbed the body of the brother and raced out of the house. Since that day in 1873, the house remained, a little more shabby, a little more run down. But none but the bravest would even enter the grounds. Every so often, a then brave soul would take a dare, and enter the house, but none stayed more than a brief moment, none, that is, that left alive. Those who entered the doorway left differently, one's hair turned white in a matter of minutes, another couldn't speak again. Some who left the house, did not get far, only to fall dead on sailor's unkept grounds. Stories persisted throughout the years. One day, a young man, passing through the town, overheard the talk at a local pub. He heard stories of those who tried, and even some who left alive. He found it hard to believe that this kind of superstition could persist. He braggartly said that there is nothing in the world that scares him, and certainly, not a wooden box. As the townsman continued to try to convince him, the visitor became more obnoxious. I'll go up to the house now, if you want. I'll put an end to this crap right now!" he said. Now no one wanted to go near the house, but they would drive this braggart near-by, just to teach him a lesson. As the visitor and three townsmen loaded into the car, one of the townsmen thought to himself that he didn't want to have this man's blood on his hands, no matter how obnoxious he was. He asked to have the car stopped. He got out, and watched the car proceed north, pushing small swirls of dust to each side as it moved quickly down the road. As the remaining two and the visitor approached the house, the car slowed, and finally stopped. out popped the visitor, and before he had a chance to unruffle his clothes, the car sped back towards town. He shook his head, part in disbelief, part in disgust at how so many cowards could live in the same town. He turned towards the house and jauntily walked towards the porch. The shutters, once keeping the cold winter air from entering windows, laid bleached grey against the house. Ivy-like weeds surrounded the porch, and waist high weeds covered what must have been a yard at one time. He wondered what kind of animals and bugs would have claimed the house. It was obvious that even teenage kids didn't use the house as a hideout. He noticed that the door was till down, but someone covered the entrance with nailed boards. It took only a moment to pulled them from the entrance. As he entered what was the salon, he heard a faint noise up-stairs. He wondered if the noise was one of the animals that squatted in this empty house, or perhaps, this trip and pub arguments were a ruse to play a joke at the expense of an out-of-towner. "Well, they're not going to enjoy the joke, if that's what they had in mind," he mused. All I have to do is bring back something from this house that will prove I was here. He looked around, but nothing appeared near-by that couldn't be purchased from any antique shop in the region. He would have to find some personal item...one that would have their names on it. So he went upstairs, closer to the location of the noise. He reached into his backpack for a flashlight, since it was beginning to grow dark. At the top of the stairs he looked right into a bedroom. "Well, the locals really went out of their way with this joke," he thought, "They even made a wooden coffin & put it here. The old house still moves with the evening wind, or did the `townies' add sound effects too.. What next! In the corner he spied the table, a small stack of dusty letters laid neatly on the table, one appeared still open. He pointed his flashlight at it and from behind him he heard another sound . That one caught him by surprise, a small flutter in his chest. With a shake of the head in his own disbelief, he moved towards the table . Now this joke has gone too far. Turning he scanned the room, listened intently. He saw no one, nor could he hear a suspected guffaw. Back to the.., a quick turn and still nothing. "Now," he thought, "my mind is starting to play tricks on me....that damn coffin looks closer!" Again he turned, , and turned back. This time he saw it move! Then, , it almost lunged at him. Stepping aside, he jumped around the coffin, looking for hidden wires , he found none. He reached into his knapsack, and darted to the side of the coffin. With the hammer he carried, he quickly used the pronged end and pried the edge of the wooden cover. It broke easily into shreds. Again, he moved quickly to the right, the coffin followed, and again he darted, but this time he used the hammer against the top of the cover , . He hoped no one was inside. They'll surely be hit with the hammer or at least be cut with the splintering wood as the hammer again & again struck the top. Dart to the right ; this dance continued for minutes, until a large whole was clearly showing the insides of the coffin . This time he darted toward the coffin, pointing the flashlight at the hole. There was nothing there , that last move bumped his leg and knocked him down. But the coffin didn't stop slowly making up the short distance between the wooden case and the fallen visitor. He tossed the hammer at the side of the coffin; it splintered the wood as if it had passed through glass but the coffin wouldn't stop. He got up, but now the letters on the table were the farthest thing from his mind. He heard his words in the pub ring in his ears, "I'm not afraid of anything." He quickly arose and headed for the door, , but the coffin was picking up speed too --- the coffin wouldn't stop. Down the steps he ran . He waited at the bottom of the stairs, he thought he gave the locals their laugh, if it was a joke. They'd come out now that he showed some fear. Instead, the coffin made the turn at the top of the stairs and continued to move in his direction . He ran from the house, jumped off the porch and began to run towards where he remembered the car heading. Running at top speed through the waist high weeds came with small bristles attaching to his clothes and small twigs snapping as he passed. He heard a sound like a large object crashing down the steps, then . As he looked back the coffin was on the porch, and off into the weeds. Without looking he reached a small garden fence hidden by the weeds; he fell. As he dropped he could see the weeds moving near the house, and heard . It appeared to be moving even faster. Pain shot through his left foot, . He noticed he had wedged his twisted foot in the fence . Now his attention was divided between the pain in his foot and the beating in his heart . He noticed he still had the flashlight in his hand. He tossed it at where weeds continue to part . Didn't do a thing; the coffin wouldn't stop. He reached behind him for his knapsack and pulled it off. Inside were two cans of fruit, assorted knives & forks, a small first aid kit, and a pack of Vicks cough drops. He grabbed the first can just as the weeds immediately before him parted and tossed the two cans in rapid procession, but the coffin didn't stop. One by one he tossed the knives and then the forks...but the coffin didn't stop. it was now no more than two feet from his outstretched arm, but the coffin didn't stop. He grabbed the first aid kit and flung the metal case as hard as he could at the coffin. More wood splintered off, but the coffin didn't stop. All he had left were the Vicks, cherry flavored. As if a madman clinging to a straw as he drowns, the visitor flung the box of cough drops at the coffin. As it hit the front of the coffin, the box exploded and small red triangles flew in all directions. Two of the lozenges even entered the hole previously made by one of the cans. They entered....and the coffin stopped. OK, for those who are a little dense....coughing (coffin) stopped! Oh, big deal, it's sick....but just look at how intensly you read this tome.