The Magnus Institute’s archives were a labyrinth of paper and whispers, each file a relic of fear and speculation. Jonathan Sims—Jon to most—adjusted the mic on his tape recorder and leaned back in his chair. The dim light from the overhead fixtures struggled to keep the shadows at bay. He pressed record.
"Statement of Joshua Gillespie, regarding his time in possession of an apparently empty wooden casket. Original statement given November 22nd, 1998. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London."
Jon cleared his throat and began reading. "Statement begins."
Joshua Gillespie had been young, reckless, and high when it began—a holiday in Amsterdam filled with blurred memories and poor decisions. One morning, nursing a hangover, he wandered the city’s streets, admiring its architecture. By evening, lost and tired, he stumbled into a café to clear his head. That was when he met John.
John was short, unremarkable, and unnervingly dense, as though he occupied more space than his form suggested. Introducing himself as an Englishman in a foreign land, John offered Joshua £10,000 to hold onto a package. Joshua accepted, despite his misgivings. The money felt too real, too heavy to resist. But as John disappeared, so did Joshua’s sense of safety.
Days passed without word. Joshua flew home with the cash, but his life felt shadowed by the encounter. A year later, having moved to Bournemouth, he spent part of the money on a flat, reasoning that whatever he’d agreed to was long forgotten. He was wrong.
One morning, two towering delivery men appeared at his door, carrying a massive, unmarked box. They left without answering questions. Inside the box was a coffin—unvarnished, pale wood, bound with heavy chains and an iron padlock. Scratched into its surface were three words: DO NOT OPEN**.**
A folded note under the chain read: "Delivered with gratitude – J." Joshua’s heart sank. It was John. But what was he supposed to do now?
The coffin was warm to the touch, unnervingly so, yet it carried no smell of decay. Joshua tried to ignore it, but the casket defied being overlooked. It scratched when objects rested on its surface and moaned whenever it rained. He considered opening it but ultimately chose to obey the warning carved into its lid.
Joshua’s nights were restless. He woke clutching the coffin’s key, despite hiding it in increasingly elaborate ways—eventually freezing it inside a block of ice. Still, he feared the casket’s presence. The fear became routine, as natural as breathing.
And then the moaning stopped. It rained, but the box remained silent. When a knock sounded at his door, Joshua knew who it would be. John stood there, flanked by the same delivery men. They had come to collect the coffin.
Joshua didn’t ask questions. He fetched the frozen key, shattering the ice on the floor. John looked impressed but said little. Joshua refused to watch them move the box, but he couldn’t ignore the screams that erupted as they carried it out. He didn’t see who screamed—or what.
They left as abruptly as they had arrived. Joshua moved to London soon after and never spoke of it again.