My Friends Dared Me To Break Into A Funeral Home And What Happened Down There Changed Me Forever

The blackness was piercing.

It was accompanied by a feeling of abject loneliness. Though I knew my friends were just on the other side of the coffin, I felt an almost supernatural isolation. It did not seem to come from within. It was being imposed on me. I felt… buried in it.

I sniffed the air and nearly retched. The smell of death lined the tomb. The aroma of rotting flesh entered my nose and invaded my brain.

Panic began to build in my chest and radiate to my limbs. It was a foreign feeling, like my veins were being seized by terror. I tried to control my breathing, but it did not help. My heart threatened to beat out of my chest. My consciousness was beginning to slip.

It felt like dying.

It was then that I became aware of how confining the coffin was. I could feel the walls of it closing in with each drawn out breath.

I began to seriously regret my hubris. The thought of lying in a shut coffin is nothing compared to the actual act of doing it. I wanted nothing more than companionship to crush the feeling of isolation. Only thirty seconds had gone by, but it began to feel like a lifetime. If I was going to last a full minute, I would need to illuminate the stifling darkness. I pulled out my lighter and flicked it on.

My eyes were immediately drawn to the lid of the coffin, and I found the source of the noise I had heard.

It definitely hadn’t been a rat.

Scratch marks perforated the lining, clawed with fury and violence. It was streaked by the unmistakable hue of blood. I reeled in horror when I realized fingernails sharp and mangled were caught in the crimson streaked fabric. I gagged as I saw strips of flesh dangling from the detached cuticles.

All pretense went out the window. I kicked and screamed and shrieked.

“Let me out! “Let me the fuck out!”

I was greeted with silence. I pushed at the lid of the coffin with strength I didn’t even know I had but to no avail.

“This isn’t funny! Open the coffin! NOW!”

I continued to struggle. Seconds turned into minutes. Minutes turned into hours. Eventually I gave up in exhaustion. Had they really left me? The pervasive sound of silence seemed to indicate this.

My mind searched for a reason behind my abandonment. They had just gone to get help. Sure. That must be it. I waited and waited still steeped in fear but holding on desperately to any sliver of optimism…

After the second day of my confinement, hope waned until it was finally gone.

An indescribable hunger and thirst took over my body. Weak and fading, I was ready to throw in the towel.

Out of nowhere, something sparked within me. I decided to give it one last try. With every fiber of my being, I kicked and scratched at the lid of the coffin. I scratched until my nails broke free of my fingers. The pain severe but muted by the intense struggle. Exhaustion overtook me once more.

I thought about how unfair it all was to die so young.

So alone.

My mind went to my mother and father craving the warmth of their hug. I’d sell my soul just to see them one more time. I envisioned Samantha’s unkissed lips as a tear streamed down my face.

It was then that I gave up, body and soul. Resigned to my fate, I wept openly.

Then I felt it. A presence had entered the coffin. An intangible feeling like I was no longer alone. I relished it momentarily. However, I convinced myself that this must be the last glimmer of hope playing tricks on my perception.

My fingers found themselves in my pocket. I had to be sure. I flicked the lighter on.

A high pitched shriek escaped my lips when the apparition was revealed. I immediately regretted my longing for company.

The face that I had seen when the coffin was first opened stared back at me. It appeared to me more vividly than it had the first time. The face twisted in agony and horror. The pale skin stretched perversely across its cheek as it lingered in front of me. Its dead eyes boring a hole into me with such intensity I couldn’t help but stare back.

Grotesque and gnarled, its mouth opened as it began to descend ever closer inch by inch. I closed my eyes and prepared for death.

The ghost spoke.

Confusion ran through me. Had I heard it right? Before I had time to react. The coffin swung open.

I leapt out screaming as I did so.

Everyone stared at me with incredulous eyes. My appearance and demeanor must have been shocking to say the least. Jason, that insufferable asshole, chimed in.

“Jesus dude. You were only in there for like two seconds. Chill the fuck out!”

I ran out of the basement on feet that no longer belonged to me and biked home. The thought of Samantha’s lips completely secondary to something else I had to do (I never did get that kiss by the way. Something I regret to this very day). I got home and hugged my mother and sobbed into her arms until I fell asleep.

The next day when I woke up. I was a boy on a mission. This being the pre internet days I hightailed it to the local library. I had to know what really had occurred at the Thompson Funeral Home.

My research was fruitful. This is what I discovered.

The funeral home had shut down a year prior, and its owners were thrown in jail. Harry and Anthony Thompson had done something so despicable that it became our town’s shame. To make money, they had dug up recently buried bodies in the cemetery plot. They sold the corpses to unwitting medical schools and recycled the coffins.

Digging deeper I could not find any information about someone being buried alive in relation to this case, but I knew for certain they had done it. Maybe it was someone that stumbled across their nefarious plan. Maybe it was a genuine mistake. I guess I will never know.

Jason and the rest will swear to this day that I was only in that coffin for five seconds at the most, but I know better. When I think about that fateful night, I recall what the ghost had said to me spoken in a barely perceptible whisper.

“Let it be known.”

With the power of hindsight, I’m not even that mad at what he put me through. The apparition just wanted some empathy. He sought someone to share in the agonizing terror and loneliness of premature burial.

He just wanted his story to be told, and that, precisely, is why I wrote this down.