July 22, 1819
Here I am, trapped for five endless days. I replay over and over the events that dragged me into this cursed situation, while the sounds intensify—whispers and moans emerging from the coffins. I am paralyzed by terror, curled up in a corner of the crypt, trying to distance myself from the macabre scenes unfolding before my eyes, but it’s in vain.
Desperate, I decide to climb into one of the empty niches, seeking refuge atop the coffin of Samuel Brewster Ames, the child who left this world at the tender age of eleven months. I curl up in that dark and cold space, now destined for my torment. The noises grow deafening. Only the gloomy light of the moon penetrates through a small skylight, casting dancing, eerie shadows. And then, the infernal sound of a heavy lead lid sliding sends a shudder through my entire being.
My breath falters, my limbs go numb. The coffin lid crashes down with a deafening thud. I want to hide my head, curl up even more, disappear into the darkness, but I can’t take my eyes off it. Then, a guttural sound, as though someone is drawing in air after years of not doing so, and suddenly, a skeletal hand emerges with long, twisted nails from the edge of the leaden coffin, causing my heart to stop. Next, a decaying, putrid head rises, with sparse, faded strands of hair. The grotesque hands with their monstrous nails, the head with its worn yet long hair, remind me in my madness that hair and nails keep growing in death.
The corpse of Colonel Thomas Chase rises in full, a macabre puppet devoid of flesh. With slow, deliberate steps, it moves to the center of the crypt, where it stands motionless, wrapped in the gloom that highlights its grotesque silhouette. I can’t make out its face in the dark, but I can’t look away from my perch, three meters above the ground. What is its purpose? What is it waiting for? Why has it stopped in that sinister spot? I refuse to blink, silently praying that it stays still or, at worst, returns to its coffin. I can’t even imagine the horrors it would unleash if it discovered me here, high above, in its realm of death and decay.
Three in the morning. It has been three hours, frozen in that place, as if it were a statue. The stench of rot permeates the air, mingling with the ominous silence that surrounds everything. The pale, spectral moonlight has shifted its position over the night, revealing only the sinister outline of the corpse. I don’t know if it faces me or is turned away, but suddenly, the moon reaches its zenith in the sky, and its relentless rays illuminate the corpse's macabre face. Two chilling eyes, sunken into empty sockets and surrounded by withered skin, stare at me! It has been watching me from the shadows while I naively thought I was hidden!
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The terror that overwhelms me is indescribable. My heart races wildly in my chest, its frantic beat echoing in my ears. My mind fills with chaotic thoughts, a mix of anguish and desperation. The sensation of fear paralyzes me physically, leaving my muscles tense and immobile. Fear seizes me, a cold chill running down my spine.
In an instant, I lose all control. My bladder gives way to panic, and I wet myself, the warm moisture mixing with the cold air. Who the hell made me enter this nightmare? What the hell does it matter to me to uncover the truth behind this macabre mystery? Right now, I just want to flee, escape this infernal place. But reality hits hard: I am trapped, with no way out.
My lips seal, the desperate scream gets stuck in my throat. A feeling of helplessness and abandonment takes over. I look at the corpse in terror, begging it to sink back into the darkness, to vanish from my sight. But I know I cannot look away. The vision of its penetrating eyes, its cadaverous face, terrifies me to the very core of my being.
Uncertainty and anguish consume me. Every second in this place feels like an eternity. I desperately long for dawn, for the expected opening of the crypt. The feeling of despair clings to me, and I understand that all I can do is endure, praying that the macabre figure does not move or approach my makeshift refuge, three meters above the ground. My mind clouds, and my only plea is for this nightmare to end as quickly as possible.
The metallic sound of several lids sliding simultaneously filled the air, creating an unsettling cacophony. One after another, lifeless bodies emerged from their graves and moved with determination toward the center of the crypt. At that moment, I fervently thanked that the niche I hid in was above the coffin of little Samuel Brewster Ames, whose short time of death led me to assume his body would be unable to move. But how wrong I was. My reckless idea turned against me with ferocity.
A guttural breath, sharper and more sinister, resonated right below me. Without warning, the disfigured face of the dead child appeared before my horrified eyes. Its movements were quick and agile, like that of a crazed creature. It gripped the edge of the niche where I hid, its putrid head peeking out and exhaling a foul breath of years directly onto my face. A scream of terror escaped my lips as I violently recoiled, smashing my head against the hard concrete floor. In the last flicker of consciousness, I watched from the floor as the corpses surrounded me, staring at me with their lifeless eyes, their twisted faces a grotesque mix of curiosity and malice.