The air hung heavy with the scent of damp earth and wilting lilies. A small gathering stood huddled under the bruised sky, their faces etched with grief, as the coffin of old Silas Blackwood was slowly lowered into the freshly dug grave. The only sound, besides the occasional sniffle, was the mournful creak of the ropes and the distant caw of a crow.
Silas had been a peculiar man, a recluse who lived on the edge of the old forest, whispered about more than spoken to. His passing, though not unexpected given his age, still carried a strange, unsettling quietude. His only attendant at the grave was his ancient, skeletal horse, Barnaby, who had pulled the hearse cart from the decrepit farmstead. Barnaby stood patiently beside the grave, his head bowed, seemingly as somber as the human mourners.
As the coffin settled with a soft thud at the bottom of the earth, something shifted. Barnaby, who had been motionless for what felt like an eternity, suddenly snorted, a harsh, guttural sound that startled everyone. His ears twitched, his eyes, usually dull with age, widened, fixed on the dark rectangle below. A low whinny rumbled in his chest, growing in intensity.
Before anyone could react, the horse reared back on his hind legs, a terrifying silhouette against the grey sky. His front hooves, shod with heavy iron, came down with a thunderous crash, not on the ground, but directly onto the wooden lid of the coffin.
A collective gasp rippled through the small crowd. The gravediggers, who had been preparing to shovel the first clods of earth, froze, their spades half-raised. Barnaby stomped again, a frantic, desperate rhythm, his powerful legs driving the hooves into the wood. Splinters flew, sharp cracks echoing in the sudden, horrified silence.
Then, as the lid splintered with a final, sickening crunch, everybody caught the sound of something wailing.
It wasn’t human. It wasn’t animal. It was a sound that seemed to claw its way up from the very depths of the earth, a thin, reedy shriek that climbed in pitch, laden with an unbearable sorrow and a chilling, unholy rage. It was a sound that vibrated in their bones, making their teeth ache and their skin crawl.
The mourners stumbled back, their grief replaced by raw, primal terror. Some screamed, others simply stared, eyes wide with incomprehension. The gravediggers dropped their tools and scrambled away from the edge of the pit, their faces ashen.
Barnaby, his eyes rolling wildly, continued to stomp, not stopping until the coffin lid was a shattered mess of wood and nails. The wailing intensified, a cacophony of despair and fury that seemed to fill the entire clearing, pressing down on them like a physical weight. From the splintered opening, a cold, putrid draft wafted up, carrying with it the stench of decay and something else… something ancient and malevolent.
No one dared to look directly into the coffin. No one needed to. The sound, the smell, the horse’s desperate actions – it was all they needed to know that old Silas Blackwood had not gone quietly into the earth. And whatever was wailing from his shattered coffin, it was not the sound of peace. It was the sound of a secret, finally unearthed, and it promised to haunt them long after the last echo faded into the whispering trees.
