#or perhaps sawyer in the rain after he shot that man

[simptasia]

LOST: Season One

[autolovecraft]

His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about.

Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you got what you deserved. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon.

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude.

And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity.

Perhaps he screamed. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity.

He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him. I suppose one should start in the cold December of 1880, when the ground froze and the cemetery delvers found they could dig no more graves till spring.

He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales.

In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you always did go too damned far!

[autolovecraft]

His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about.

There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

Birch, though dreading the bother of removal and interment, began his task of transference one disagreeable April morning, but ceased before noon because of a heavy rain that seemed to irritate his horse, after having laid but one mortal tenant to its permanent rest. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. Birch, though dreading the bother of removal and interment, began his task of transference one disagreeable April morning, but ceased before noon because of a heavy rain that seemed to irritate his horse, after having laid but one mortal tenant to its permanent rest.

He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry.

Perhaps he screamed. Birch, just as I thought! Davis, an old-time village practitioner, had of course seen both at the respective funerals, as indeed he had attended both Fenner and Sawyer in their last illnesses.

Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin!

He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. I thought! Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer.

[autolovecraft]

Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling.

The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he did not heed the day at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last.

His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass.

The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Birch, though dreading the bother of removal and interment, began his task of transference one disagreeable April morning, but ceased before noon because of a heavy rain that seemed to irritate his horse, after having laid but one mortal tenant to its permanent rest. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit.

His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. Why did you do it, Birch? It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you always did go too damned far! He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. Perhaps he screamed. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. He could not walk, it appeared, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus.

[autolovecraft]

I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live.

He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles!

Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him. Davis. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer.

In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight.

He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked.

The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked.

Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. God, what a rage! His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate.

The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar.

He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude.

It may have been mocking. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer.

You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. Sawyer.

His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. Clutching the edges of the aperture. It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you always did go too damned far! Perhaps he screamed. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness.

The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. Birch, though dreading the bother of removal and interment, began his task of transference one disagreeable April morning, but ceased before noon because of a heavy rain that seemed to irritate his horse, after having laid but one mortal tenant to its permanent rest.

Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced.

Armington helped Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box.

[autolovecraft]

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. An eye for an eye! For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Perhaps he screamed. There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Birch still toiling. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

Sawyer was not a lovable man, and many stories were told of his almost inhuman vindictiveness and tenacious memory for wrongs real or fancied. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. An eye for an eye! At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Just where to begin Birch's story I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course.

Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Why did you do it, Birch?

[autolovecraft]

An eye for an eye!

In this twilight too, he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply.

An eye for an eye! In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit.

That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.

The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. He was a scoundrel, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! Great heavens, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had chosen it, how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before.

He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner.

Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Sawyer in their last illnesses. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. I thought! Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. Perhaps he screamed.

Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not an evil man. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep.

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had chosen it, how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had chosen it, how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had chosen it, how he had chosen it, how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you got what you deserved. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it.

It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider.

Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

[autolovecraft]

Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine.

His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate.

The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him.

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. It may have been mocking. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.

It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before.

The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. It may have been just fear, and it may have been mocking. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been mocking. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.

He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. When Dr. Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. Why did you do it, Birch? Perhaps he screamed. Over the door, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been mocking.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb.

Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here. Why did you do it, Birch? Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box.

What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it.

And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course.

Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb. God, what a rage! The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer.

[autolovecraft]

You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor.

He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you got what you deserved.

Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape.

His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation.

His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles.

Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the tomb. The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate.

Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the unexpected tenacity of the easy-looking brickwork was surely a sardonic commentary on the vanity of mortal hopes, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. Being without superstition, he did not heed the day at all; so that he was wise in so doing.

Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb.

The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was wise in so doing. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the latch of the great door yielded readily to a touch from the outside. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture, he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you got what you deserved.

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.

He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. Birch, in his ghastly situation, was now too low for an easy scramble out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. Perhaps he screamed. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he did not care to imagine.

[autolovecraft]

An eye for an eye!

Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant.

He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. It may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you always did go too damned far! He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. Clutching the edges of the aperture.

Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch.

Davis. I live.

You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was. Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he vaguely wished it would stop. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. He changed his business, but something always preyed upon him. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep.

The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground.

Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine. Clutching the edges of the aperture. Perhaps he screamed. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom.

In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age.

He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died.

The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he vaguely wished it would stop. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer.

Being without superstition, he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. The tower at length finished, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had chosen it, how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, but you always did go too damned far! He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. The vault had been dug from a hillside, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. The pile of tools soon reached, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door.

His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. I suppose one should start in the cold December of 1880, when the ground froze and the cemetery delvers found they could dig no more graves till spring.

Birch.

[autolovecraft]

Sawyer died of a malignant fever.

He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone.

There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he vaguely wished it would stop. I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer.

I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before.

His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. Birch heeded this advice all the rest of his life till he told me his story; and when I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the tomb. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last.

For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles.

Perhaps he screamed. Great heavens, Birch, but you always did go too damned far! He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought!

[autolovecraft]

I can hardly decide, since I am no practiced teller of tales.

But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer.

It may have been encouraging and to others may have been fear mixed with a queer belated sort of remorse for bygone crudities. It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. At any rate he kicked and squirmed frantically and automatically whilst his consciousness was almost eclipsed in a half-swoon.

He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not care to imagine.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. God, what a rage! Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. As he planned, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Perhaps he screamed. That was Darius Peck, the nonagenarian, whose grave was not far from the tomb. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit.

Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. Birch, but you got what you deserved.

What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

Being without superstition, he did not care to imagine. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted.

His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible.

Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. I thought! I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. He cried aloud once, and a hammer and chisel selected, Birch returned over the coffins to the door. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! His questioning grew more than medically tense, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course.

Birch, though dreading the bother of removal and interment, began his task of transference one disagreeable April morning, but ceased before noon because of a heavy rain that seemed to irritate his horse, after having laid but one mortal tenant to its permanent rest. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom. Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go.

[autolovecraft]

Perhaps he screamed.

It is doubtful whether he was touched at all by the horror and exquisite weirdness of his position, but the other was worse—those ankles cut neatly off to fit Matt Fenner's cast-aside coffin, but you always did go too damned far! Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. You know what a fiend he was for revenge—how he ruined old Raymond thirty years after their boundary suit, and how he had chosen it, how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer. Dusk fell and found Birch still toiling.

He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. That he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

The undertaker grew doubly lethargic in the bitter weather, and seemed to outdo even himself in carelessness. He was a bachelor, wholly without relatives.

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought! An eye for an eye! The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the source of a task whose performance deserved every possible stimulus. He could not walk, it appeared, and the degree of dignity to be maintained in posing and adapting the unseen members of lifeless tenants to containers not always calculated with sublimest accuracy. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week.

His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. Another might not have relished the damp, odorous chamber with the eight carelessly placed coffins; but Birch in those days was insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things.

Birch, being by temperament phlegmatic and practical, did not shout long; but proceeded to grope about for some tools which he recalled seeing in a corner of the tomb. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. This arrangement could be ascended with a minimum of awkwardness, and would furnish the desired height.

Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! Several of the coffins began to split under the stress of handling, and he vaguely wished it would stop. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. Perhaps he screamed. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that it was possible to give all of Birch's inanimate charges a temporary haven in the single antiquated receiving tomb. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he planned to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. Birch, before 1881, had been the village undertaker of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live.

Birch still toiling. I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. He could not walk, it appeared, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his hands shook as he dressed the mangled members; binding them as if he wished to get the wounds out of sight as quickly as possible. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week.

It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. He was a scoundrel, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. An eye for an eye! He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. Birch heeded this advice all the rest of his life till he told me his story; and when I saw the scars—ancient and whitened as they then were—I agreed that he was wise in so doing. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that. He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. For an impersonal doctor, Davis' ominous and awestruck cross-examination became very strange indeed as he sought to drain from the weakened undertaker every least detail of his horrible experience. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. Perhaps he screamed. He cried aloud once, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry. Never did he knock together flimsier and ungainlier caskets, or disregard more flagrantly the needs of the rusty lock on the tomb door which he slammed open and shut with such nonchalant abandon. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the right grave. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol. I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks. The afflicted man was fully conscious, but would say nothing of any consequence; merely muttering such things as Oh, my ankles! He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture.

[autolovecraft]

What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. He had, indeed, made that coffin for Matthew Fenner; but had cast it aside at last as too awkward and flimsy, in a fit of curious sentimentality aroused by recalling how kindly and generous the little old man had been to him during his bankruptcy five years before. The borders of the space were entirely of brick, and there seemed little doubt but that he could shortly chisel away enough to allow his body to pass. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. Certainly, the events of that evening greatly changed George Birch. In either case it would have been appropriate; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit. He would not, he found, have to pile another on his platform to make the proper height; for the hole was on exactly the right level to use as soon as its size might permit.

I'd hate to have it aimed at me! Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box.

Over the door, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. Birch, but you got what you deserved. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and was concerned only in getting the right coffin for the platform; for no sooner was his full bulk again upon it than the rotting lid gave way, jouncing him two feet down on a surface which even he did not heed the day at all; so that he was reduced to a profane fumbling as he made his halting way among the long boxes toward the latch. When he perceived that the latch was hopelessly unyielding, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face.

Davis left, urging Birch to insist at all times that his wounds were caused entirely by loose nails and splintering wood.

It was just as he had recognized old Matt's coffin that the door slammed to in the wind, leaving him in a dusk even deeper than before. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley; and was a very calloused and primitive specimen even as such specimens go. The wounds—for both ankles were frightfully lacerated about the Achilles' tendons—seemed to puzzle the old physician greatly, and finally almost to frighten him.

The thing must have happened at about three-thirty in the afternoon. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but he could do better with four. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least in a city; and even Peck Valley would have shuddered a bit had it known the easy ethics of its mortuary artist in such debatable matters as the ownership of costly laying-out apparel invisible beneath the casket's lid, and the coffin niches on the sides and rear—which Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. The light was dim, but Birch's sight was good, and he vaguely wished it would stop. You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. Davis, an old-time village practitioner, had of course seen both at the respective funerals, as indeed he had attended both Fenner and Sawyer in their last illnesses. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. Birch?

Birch to the outside of a spare bed and sent his little son Edwin for Dr. Davis. Three coffin-heights, he reckoned, would permit him to reach the transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try.

Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation.

As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made. In this twilight too, he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed?

Perhaps he screamed. The hungry horse was neighing repeatedly and almost uncannily, and he vaguely wished it would stop. Whether he had imagination enough to wish they were empty, is strongly to be doubted. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. Instinct guided him in his wriggle through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. There was evidently, however, the high, slit-like transom in the brick facade gave promise of possible enlargement to a diligent worker; hence upon this his eyes long rested as he racked his brains for means to reach it. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste.

Birch, just as I thought!

[autolovecraft]

Great heavens, Birch, just as I thought!

After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. His day's work was sadly interrupted, and unless chance presently brought some rambler hither, he might have to remain all night or longer. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. In time the hole grew so large that he ventured to try his body in it now and then, shifting about so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider. In this funereal twilight he rattled the rusty handles, pushed at the iron panels, and wondered why the massive portal had grown so suddenly recalcitrant. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

Steeled by old ordeals in dissecting rooms, the doctor entered and looked about, stifling the nausea of mind and body that everything in sight and smell induced. At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb.

Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been mocking.

I agreed that he was wise in so doing. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but gathered his energies for a determined try.

That he was not an evil man. Most distinctly Birch was lax, insensitive, and professionally undesirable; yet I still think he was not perfectly sober, he subsequently admitted; though he had not then taken to the wholesale drinking by which he later tried to forget certain things. I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the rejected specimen, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. On the afternoon of Friday, April 15th, then, Birch set out for the tomb with horse and wagon to transfer the body of Matthew Fenner. Then he fled back to the lodge and broke all the rules of his calling by rousing and shaking his patient, and hurling at him a year ago last August … He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I believe his eye-for-an-eye fury could beat old Father Death himself. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it.

Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had distinguished it from the inferior duplicate coffin of vicious Asaph Sawyer.

I've seen sights before, but there was one thing too much here.

Better still, though, he would utilize only two boxes of the base to support the superstructure, leaving one free to be piled on top in case the actual feat of escape required an even greater altitude. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been mocking.

The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. He had, it seems, planned in vain when choosing the stoutest coffin for the right grave. He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. He always remained lame, for the great tendons had been severed; but I think the greatest lameness was in his soul. The day was clear, but a high wind had sprung up; and Birch was glad to get to shelter as he unlocked the iron door and entered the side-hill vault. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the way in his quest for the Fenner casket. An eye for an eye! The body was pretty badly gone, but if ever I saw vindictiveness on any face—or former face. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the emerging moon must have witnessed a horrible sight as he dragged his bleeding ankles toward the cemetery lodge; his fingers clawing the black mold in brainless haste, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom step of his grim device, Birch cautiously ascended with his tools and stood abreast of the narrow transom. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin! Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the narrow ventilation funnel in the top ran through several feet of earth, making this direction utterly useless to consider.

It was Asaph's coffin, Birch, but you always did go too damned far! There was evidently, however, no pursuer; for he was alone and alive when Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. Perhaps he screamed. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin!

He was curiously unelated over his impending escape, and almost dreaded the exertion, for his form had the indolent stoutness of early middle age. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. It may have been encouraging and to others may have been just fear, and it may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. The pile of tools soon reached, and a little later gave a gasp that was more terrible than a cry.

In this twilight too, he began to realize the truth and to shout loudly as if his horse outside could do more than neigh an unsympathetic reply. Sawyer died of a malignant fever. He changed his business in 1881, yet never discussed the case when he could avoid it. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. I thought! Only the coffins themselves remained as potential stepping-stones, and as he considered these he speculated on the best mode of transporting them. What else, he added, could ever in any case be proved or believed? He was oddly anxious to know if Birch were sure—absolutely sure—of the identity of that top coffin of the pile; how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he had been certain of it as the Fenner coffin in the dusk, and how he stepped on the puppy that snapped at him a succession of shuddering whispers that seared into the bewildered ears like the hissing of vitriol.

Clutching the edges of the aperture, he sought to pull himself up, when he noticed a queer retardation in the form of an apparent drag on both his ankles. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, just as I thought!

His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. To him Birch had felt no compunction in assigning the carelessly made coffin which he now pushed out of the enlarged transom; but he could do better with four. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to let no other doctor treat the wounds. Birch decided that he would begin the next day with little old Matthew Fenner, whose grave was not far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. His head was broken in, and everything was tumbled about. The narrow transom admitted only the feeblest of rays, and the company beneath his feet, he philosophically chipped away the stony brickwork; cursing when a fragment hit him in the face, and laughing when one struck the increasingly excited horse that pawed near the cypress tree.

[autolovecraft]

Neither did his old physician Dr. Davis, who died years ago.

The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. He was just dizzy and careless enough to annoy his sensitive horse, which as he drew it viciously up at the tomb neighed and pawed and tossed its head, much as on that former occasion when the rain had vexed it. The air had begun to be exceedingly unwholesome; but to this detail he paid no attention as he toiled, half by feeling, at the heavy and corroded metal of the latch. Then the doctor came with his medicine-case and asked crisp questions, and removed the patient's outer clothing, shoes, and socks.

Why did you do it, Birch? Davis. Tired and perspiring despite many rests, he descended to the floor and sat a while on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. As he remounted the splitting coffins he felt his weight very poignantly; especially when, upon reaching the topmost one, he heard that aggravated crackle which bespeaks the wholesale rending of wood. Horrible pains, as of savage wounds, shot through his calves; and in his mind was a vortex of fright mixed with an unquenchable materialism that suggested splinters, loose nails, or some other attribute of a breaking wooden box. Being without superstition, he did not get Asaph Sawyer's coffin by mistake, although it was very similar. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. He gave old Matt the very best his skill could produce, but was thrifty enough to save the stoutly built casket of little Matthew Fenner for the top, in order that his feet might have as certain a surface as possible. For the long-neglected latch was obviously broken, leaving the careless undertaker trapped in the vault, a victim of his own oversight. The tower at length finished, and his body responding with that maddening slowness from which one suffers when chased by the phantoms of nightmare. Why did you do it, Birch?

Finally he decided to lay a base of three parallel with the wall, to place upon this two layers of two each, and upon these a single box to serve as the platform. He could, he was sure, get out by midnight—though it is characteristic of him that this thought was untinged with eerie implications.

You kicked hard, for Asaph's coffin was on the floor. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily?

Would the firm Fenner casket have caved in so readily? And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course.

I'll never get the picture out of my head as long as I live.

He worked largely by feeling now, since newly gathered clouds hid the moon; and though progress was still slow, he felt heartened at the extent of his encroachments on the top and bottom of the aperture. The boxes were fairly even, and could be piled up like blocks; so he began to compute how he might most stably use the eight to rear a scalable platform four deep. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.

Armington, the lodge-keeper, answered his feeble clawing at the door. He would have given much for a lantern or bit of candle; but lacking these, bungled semi-sightlessly as best he might. Birch seldom took the trouble to use—afforded no ascent to the space above the door. After a full two hours Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. There was nothing like a ladder in the tomb. He was the devil incarnate, Birch, and I don't blame you for giving him a cast-aside coffin, but you knew what a little man old Fenner was.

It must have been midnight at least when Birch decided he could get through the transom, and in the crawl which followed his jarring thud on the damp ground. Fortunately the village was small and the death rate low, so that the coffins beneath him rocked and creaked. It was generally stated that the affliction and shock were results of an unlucky slip whereby Birch had locked himself for nine hours in the receiving tomb of Peck Valley Cemetery, escaping only by crude and disastrous mechanical means; but while this much was undoubtedly true, there were other and blacker things which the man used to whisper to me in his drunken delirium toward the last. His thinking processes, once so phlegmatic and logical, had become ineffaceably scarred; and it was pitiful to note his response to certain chance allusions such as Friday, Tomb, Coffin, and words of less obvious concatenation. But it would be well to say as little as could be said, and to use it when Asaph Sawyer died of a malignant fever. In the semi-gloom he trusted mostly to touch to select the right one, and indeed came upon it almost by accident, since it tumbled into his hands as if through some odd volition after he had unwittingly placed it beside another on the third layer. The moon was shining on the scattered brick fragments and marred facade, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; though ever afterward he refused to do anything of importance on that fateful sixth day of the week. As he planned, he could not shake clear of the unknown grasp which held his feet in relentless captivity. And so the prisoner toiled in the twilight, heaving the unresponsive remnants of mortality with little ceremony as his miniature Tower of Babel rose course by course. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. He had even wondered, at Sawyer's funeral, how the vindictive farmer had managed to lie straight in a box so closely akin to that of the diminutive Fenner.

He had not forgotten the criticism aroused when Hannah Bixby's relatives, wishing to transport her body to the cemetery in the city whither they had moved, found the casket of Judge Capwell beneath her headstone. As his hammer blows began to fall, the horse outside whinnied in a tone which may have been encouraging and to others may have been encouraging and to others may have been mocking. He confided in me because I was his doctor, and because he probably felt the need of confiding in someone else after Davis died. Perhaps he screamed. In another moment he knew fear for the first time that night; for struggle as he would, he could not but wish that the units of his contemplated staircase had been more securely made.

I'd hate to have it aimed at me! An eye for an eye! Maddened by the sound, or by the stench which billowed forth even to the open air, the waiting horse gave a scream that was too frantic for a neigh, and plunged madly off through the night, the wagon rattling crazily behind it. The tower at length finished, and his aching arms rested by a pause during which he sat on the bottom box to gather strength for the final wriggle and leap to the ground outside. The practices I heard attributed to him would be unbelievable today, at least to such meager tools and under such tenebrous conditions as these, Birch glanced about for other possible points of escape. Undisturbed by oppressive reflections on the time, the place, and the overhead ventilation funnel virtually none at all; so that he was wise in so doing. He was merely crass of fiber and function—thoughtless, careless, and liquorish, as his easily avoidable accident proves, and without that modicum of imagination which holds the average citizen within certain limits fixed by taste. His drinking, of course, only aggravated what it was meant to alleviate. The skull turned my stomach, but the bald fact of imprisonment so far from the daily paths of men was enough to exasperate him thoroughly.

Well enough to skimp on the thing some way, but you always did go too damned far! At last the spring thaw came, and graves were laboriously prepared for the nine silent harvests of the grim reaper which waited in the tomb. When Dr. Davis left Birch that night he had taken a lantern and gone to the old receiving tomb. His frightened horse had gone home, but his frightened wits never quite did that.