In the dark sounds the tinkling of hammers. The grave hammingas - the ghosts of gravestones echo it and it is as if the deadies in the night are signalling to each other. Gothic Hare and Deadly Root take turns hammering nails into the dry pale wood.

"The art of making a good coffin," Coffin Maker states in their rattling falsetto voice, "is first of all the right size. Take this one - which of you is it for?"

Coffin Maker looks at Deadly Root critically.

"If it is for this round one, then the coffin must be square," he concludes, then turns to Gothic Hare."But if it is for you, then with your long ears an extra cubic metre will have to be calculated. Unless they are tucked behind your collar at the funeral."

"Um," Gothic Hare coyly sighs, "it's for us together."

The cold unblinking gaze of the tall and lean Coffin Maker remains fixed on him. There is an obscenely long pause.

"Saving on coffins is a big mistake," Coffin Maker sticks a skinny finger in the air, "you will be dead much longer than alive. Brawls between the dead ones are common, and once you are dead you cannot leave."

"You misunderstand," Hare interrupts him, "we are not going to die. At least not anytime soon. Right, Rooty?"

"Right," quacks Root and his colour changes to crimson.

He now resembles an overripe beetroot and the colour also makes his crown itch obnoxiously.

"A coffin as a spare, so?" nods Coffin Maker with satisfaction. "I totally support it. The second secret of making a good coffin, is..."

Another ominous silence follows, during which a damp mist drifts by.

"What?" ask Hare and Root in unison, echoed by the hammingas, dark and slippery as sea pebbles.

Again they seem to be the deadies chatting to each other. But Gothic Hare already knows that deadies are not very chatty. Coffin Maker peers in disapproval towards the tombs.

"Planning ahead," he announces solemnly, "is the only way to get the best quality stuff."

A gust of wind extinguishes the black candle illuminating the long white planks. Under the dusty roof, it immediately becomes completely dark. Deadly Root hits one of his twigs with the hammer.

"Aaah!!!" his lonely cry resounds throughout the hushed cemetery.

"Not quite," in the ominous stillness that follows comes the voice of Gothic Hare. "It's not exactly a coffin."

"I don't get it," Coffin Maker blinks for the first time since the work began. "So you claim I don't understand my job? I assure you that this is a real coffin. Of beautiful wood," he strokes the light-coloured boards with affection.

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Hare relights the candle. The flame illuminates the three figures leaning over the table.

'Sure,' agrees Hare, 'but if we put wheels under it, it won't just be a coffin. It will be a means of transport."

"Excuse me?"

Coffin Maker picks a dirty rag from his pocket and dries his utterly dry forehead. His skin is pale and yellowish, like old paper. Deadly Root is jealous that Coffin Maker's bald crown never changes colour or itches when it turns crimson.

"It will be a coffin on wheels," Gothic Hare announces with pride. "In it we shall ride for Night Watcher's business and await the day for when it overtakes us along the way. Daylight is no friend to the children of the Night."

"And what business, may I ask, has our Watcher outside the cemetery?" Coffin Maker asks displeased.

"Cemetery business only. The relatives of the dead should be sought out," Hare explains, recalling his recent conversation with Night Watcher. "The cemetery will not be seen as abandoned if they start visiting the graves again. A cemetery that has visitors cannot be cleared."

"The relatives of the dead are the future dead," Coffin Maker speculates aloud, "and thus the residents of future coffins. Well, well, well, this is a noble cause!"

He rubs his pale palms together excitedly. There is an unpleasant crackle.

"And the third, most important secret of making a good coffin, like any good thing," he says conspiratorially and lowers his voice, "why do it yourself when you can use black magic?"

He slides the hammers to the edge of the table and hurries quickly, like an owl's shadow invisible in the darkness, to the nearest grave. From there, the desperate squeak of a hamminga can be heard.

As the bald graveyard rooster begins to crow, Coffin Maker slams the lid of the brand-new coffin shut with satisfaction. Left in the cramped and pitch-dark darkness, Gothic Hare nods in contentment to Deadly Root.

"Now we know what grave darkness means."

"Eek...," hiccups Rooty.

He tries not to move so as not to touch the black magic-loaded sides of the coffin. And not to open his eyes. What worries him most is the presence of the vengeful hammingas. The bottom of the coffin teems with gravestones's ghosts.

"One and, two and, one and, two and," counts Hare steadily.

The hammingas stop stirring haphazardly and now turn in one direction. It seems to Root that Gothic Hare's voice is very similar to Coffin Maker's. His crown begins to itch again. He can't stand it and rubs it against the tightly closed lid. This brings relief and the cramped space no longer seems so cramped to him.

Unseen by them, the morning is ageing. The badly oiled cemetery gate creaks and lets a long whitish coffin through…