“If I believed Spinoza, then this night I would die, accompanied by this howling. I was scared.
“I lit a match in the pitch darkness. A powerful gust of wind tore at the roof of the house, creating a violent roar. Outside, the window shutter was slamming against the wall, and the small gray door of my fireplace was squeaking, as if asking for help.
“ ‘This is a terrible night for homeless people,’ I thought.
“This thought was quickly snatched away when the sulfur match lit my room, and I cast a brief glance around. What I saw was unexpected and completely horrifying. I regretted that the drafts of wind had not extinguished my match at once, for then I could not have seen this dreadful sight and my hair would not have started to bristle. I cried out, stepping backward toward the door, and closed my eyes because I was overwhelmed by my feelings of horror, desperation and excitement.
“Right before me, in the middle of my room, stood a coffin.
“The dim blue light of my match had briefly lit my room, just long enough to see its design and detailing. Its glazed pink cover shone and sparkled.
“Dear ladies and gentlemen! There are moments in your life that forever remain ingrained in your memory, even if you experience them only for a brief moment. I saw this coffin for only a fraction of a second, but I remember it down to its smallest detail. It was a coffin made for a person of average height and, judging by its pink color, had been designed for a young lady. It was finely made, with carved legs beneath it, and bronze handles on its sides. It was obviously intended for someone well-to-do.
“After taking this all in, I finally rushed out of my room into the dark corridor as fast as I could, filled with inexpressible horror, and ran down the stairs to the first floor. It was completely dark there. My legs were trembling and catching in the tails of my coat. It still remains a great mystery how I did not fall down on that length of stairs and did not break my neck. When I finally reached the fresh air of the street, I leaned against a wet lantern, standing and trying to calm myself down. My heart was pounding, and I felt short of breath.”
At this point in the story, a young lady, who had been listening very attentively, turned up the lights. She moved closer to Mr. Undertaker as he continued,
“I would not have been more surprised if I had a fire in my room, or had run into a thief or a crazed dog. I would not have been surprised if the ceiling had fallen on my head, or the floorboards had cracked open, or the walls had fallen down…. These are all natural things and can be easily explained. But how had this coffin come to be in my room? Where had it come from? How had this very expensive coffin, designed for a rich young lady, come to be in the tiny apartment of a poor office worker like me?
“As I leaned against the lantern, my thoughts were racing. Perhaps the coffin was empty. Perhaps there was a dead body inside it. Perhaps it was the body of a mysterious young lady whose life had ended tragically. And yet, who had arranged for her to visit my house? This remained a terrible mystery for me.
“ ‘If this is not a mystery, then this is definitely a crime,’ was my first thought.
“I gave myself over to my thoughts. During my absences, the door to my apartment was locked. The place where I hide my key was known to only a few of my closest friends. Would any of my friends have placed the coffin in my room? Of course not! Then was it possible that an undertaker had brought the coffin to me by mistake? He could have brought it to the wrong floor in the building, or to the wrong door, or to the wrong address entirely. However, everyone knows that undertakers do not leave until they receive payment, or at least a handsome tip.
Perhaps the spirits who had predicted my death tonight had brought the coffin into my room. I do not believe and I never believed in spirits, but all of these questions could throw even a philosophical mind into a very mystical and depressive state. In the end, I cowardly swept the mystery aside, with simple logic. I thought, ‘That was an optical illusion, and nothing else!’ I felt so gloomy and frightened when walking home, that it was perfectly understandable that my upset nerves had created the coffin. Certainly it had been an optical illusion! What else could it have been?
“Rain was now pouring down my face, and the wind was playing with the tails of my coat, teasing away my hat…. I was cold and wet to the bones. I had to go somewhere—but where? I needed shelter, but my logic abandoned me at the prospect of returning to my apartment. I did not want to run the risk of seeing the coffin again, for that would be more than I could bear. There was not a single human being in sight. Not a single human noise. I was in complete solitude. No, I did not want to be alone, in my apartment, just me and a coffin, and perhaps a dead body inside. I could go crazy up there. At the same time, it was impossible for me to stay outside in this terrible, cold rain.
“I decided to go spend the night with my friend, Mr. Graveyard, who, as you all know, later shot himself. He lived on Dark Tomb Street, in the house of the entrepreneur Mr. Scully.”
“At this point, Mr. Undertaker wiped away the cold sweat that had formed on his face, sighed deeply again, and continued.
“My friend Mr. Graveyard did not answer at my knock at his door, and I feared he was not at home. I then decided to have a closer look, and picked up his key hanging on a nail in the corridor. I opened the door and entered his room. My friend was definitely not at home; still, I gratefully took off my wet coat, felt for the sofa in the darkness, and rested on it. It was completely dark. I listened to the wind howl outside, punctuated by the monotonous noise of a cricket in the fireplace. A huge tower clock started beating its early-morning hours. I took a box of Swedish matches from my pocket and lit one, but the light did not help my mood. On the contrary, the sight before me filled me with unbearable horror. I cried out and, losing control, ran out of his apartment.
“In the middle of my friend’s room, I saw another coffin.
“It was almost twice as large as the one in my quarters, with a dour, dark brown velvet cover. How had it come to be there? My optical illusion theory was shattered, for I had no doubts about this vision; the coffin I had just seen was real. It was impossible to have a coffin in each of the apartments. And if these coffins were not optical illusions, then perhaps I was suffering from a nervous illness, or hallucinating like a madman. Everywhere I went I would see a coffin, a terrible hole where death abates. Therefore, if I was going insane, then I had developed some kind of mania, so to speak, ‘coffin-mania.’
“For a moment I remembered the séance, and the words spoken to me by philosopher Spinoza.
“ ‘I am going insane!’ I thought in horror, clutching my head with my hands. ‘Oh God, what should I do?’
“I now had a terrible headache, and my feet were weak and trembling. The rain was pouring; the wind was howling and piercing my shirt, for I had neither my coat nor my hat on. It was impossible for me to go back inside my friend’s apartment to pick them up; I simply did not have the energy or the courage to do this. I was completely immersed in horror…. My hair rose on the back of my head. My face was covered with cold sweat. I thought it was just a hallucination.”
“What could I do in that situation?” continued Mr. Undertaker. “I felt I was going insane, and at the same time I was running the risk of getting a terrible cold. Luckily, I remembered that another good friend of mine, Mr. Gravedigger, lived nearby. He was a doctor who had only recently graduated, and he lived not far from Dark Tomb Street. He had been present at the spiritualist séance earlier that night. Much later, of course, after all these events, he married the daughter of a rich salesman. But at that time he rented a tiny upper room in the house of the general, Mr. Veil.