29 Mar The Mortuary in Memphis

The following is a collection of letters and documents found by my family, all addressed to my great-great-great-grandfather. None are dated, nor are any properly signed. It can be assumed that they were written by someone after his time at the University of Memphis, due to the context of the letters. The writer of the letters is assumed to be a colleague or classmate of my ancestor. The last (and most crucial) document pertaining to this mystery comes courtesy of a nun who knew the writer, and documents the series of events that led to this.

What follows is the series of letters in their entirety.

* * * * * *

Letter # 1

Friend,

My melancholia has returned. My life has entered a period of darkness, from which I believe I shall never escape. As you remember, I had dreamt of being a poet since childhood, but now all I do is recite Byron and Keats at taverns, trying to impress people I despise. I have spent my inheritance on absinthe and think of nothing but my past. My goddamn past. Goddamn it all.

You may be asking what has triggered this, this melancholy. I have taken a new position as warden of a churchyard. The abandoned abbey beside the mausoleum is now where I write and drink; it is this town’s dead house—a mortuary in the heart of Memphis. This will serve as hospice until my fortune returns again.

I am what is called a “dead ringer.” I am the one who listens to the bells of the dead. At burial, a piece of string is wrapped around a corpse’s toe. That piece of string is connected to a bell, which is rung once the poor devil knows of the predicament that they are in. Why do they do this, you may ask? Some dead people are not truly dead. There come times in which accidents—deadly accidents—occur, such as the accidental burial of the living. There are such cases from time to time in which drunks, the ill, and other poor folk fall into deep sleep and are unfortunately buried alive by their loved ones. My job is to save them. I am like Raphael from Tobit, except I save souls, instead of taking them.

I do not think much of my new duties. No bells have been rung. I smell of wax from the candles I carry, and the lime poured onto the corpses. My situation reminds me much of the parable of the prodigal son, but I have no additional inheritance, no farm to return to, and no prized calf to slaughter for my return. I only have these letters and the writings of Keats and Lord Byron. No older brother or blessed father awaits my return.

I do not expect this job to be exciting, or that I shall encounter grave robbers or anything of that sort. Paupers and prostitutes are buried here, not poets and pompadours such as ourselves.

Please pray that my situation gets better.

Your friend,
The elegist turned grave digger

* * * * * *

Letter # 2

Friend,

I had my first encounter last night! The events, I fear, are so outlandish that you will declare them fiction. It happened at a late hour of the night. I had come home from a drunken stupor, as always, and made myself sober by dunking my head into the Abbey’s fountain.

Maybe the poor devil died of fright once he realized the predicament he was in, since, when I arrived at the mausoleum, the body was stiff. Dead. Truly dead.

I had to check his bell, to see why it had rung, but they had quickly stopped. I spent a whole hour inspecting the yard, trying to see if it was unsettled. What an odd predicament. I do not believe this has ever occurred in the history of this profession. What a conundrum, crafted exclusively for me.

Maybe it is caused by my habitual drinking, or by my eating late into the night. It is said that drink causes tinnitus.

The nun who hired me must suspect something, suspect my drunkenness, having taken a sudden interest in my comings and goings.

I am highly attracted to her. She is a thing of beauty, but she will never be mine. She belongs to Christ. I don’t know why she wouldn’t want freedom from such shackles. Why would she bury herself in such a thing? But what is freedom, if not the search for shackles? We all find our own eventually.

Maybe she knows of this place’s peculiarity.

I anticipate the ringing will happen again, as it is part of my profession, and I will prepare for its return.

Your friend,
The haughty idyllist

* * * * * *

Letter # 3

My dear friend,

She was not dead, she was in a state of drunkenness! Drunkenness! By Jove! By God!

I will tell you about the matter. Yesterday, all the bells rang in unison before stopping. Once they stopped, only a singular bell could be faintly heard. Her bell. The newest addition to the mortuary. I opened her coffin as quickly as I could.

She lunged at me and grabbed hold of my collar. She screamed at me and asked why I did not hear her. I did not hear her. My god, why did I not hear her?

The police have made a thorough inspection of the premises. They have inspected every corpse, every tomb, and crevice of this damned place, just as I have. They have no clue what has caused my previous claims, the ringing of the bells. They state that Memphis’s nature is to have powerful winds. But I do not believe them. This has not been the cause of drink, or nature, or of my eccentricities. No, this is the work of something more.

The ringing will happen in about an hour, the eleventh hour, and there is nothing for me to make it stop. I have been at my post for only a week’s time, but now I am fully aware of its irregularity. I have checked every coffin, every sarcophagus, and every mausoleum to no avail. The ringing will happen regardless, at the eleventh hour.

I drink beforehand so that I might withstand the insanity.

You may be wondering what I am stating, dear old friend. Demons, demons from hell have enveloped this town, I am sure of it. They have taken the form of these bells, the dreaded bells.

I have spent last week’s wages on new bells, new bells that cannot, will not, falter. But the ringing will happen regardless. The poltergeists will have their way with the bells.

I do not expect you to understand, brother, but the insanity of noise will wash over me again. It is inevitable.

God damn me if I fail again.

Your friend,
The mad man

* * * * * *

Letter # 4

Friend,

My mania has calmed down. You must forgive my writings. Your lack of response is concerning, to say the least, but I understand. I will pay no mind to the rudeness. I, too, would not understand the predicament if it were told to me. I eagerly await your response.

I have not encountered any phenomena, but something else has taken its place.

A woman from my past, a Beaumont of beauty, has come to my poor stead, her corpse, that is. My beloved is dead. Died during childbirth. That man from the university, the callous one, the fickle one, made her his bride.

Very few came to the funeral. I was one of the few in attendance. I put a great deal of care into the preparation of her corpse. I spent the remainder of the day under a cherry tree watching the procession and, eventually, the very somber burial.

I did not drink that night, out of respect for her. No bells were rung.

Your friend,
The mourner

* * * * * *

Letter # 5

Friend,

I must write hastily, before the thoughts leave my head. Hastily, very hastily!

I opened her coffin—the coffin of the woman, the woman whom I once loved. She lay dead. Nothing new had changed. Her beauty remained the same, even in death, but by God, new scratch marks lined the walls! Like the scratches of before.

I tell you, even under rigor mortis, her beauty was still there. But there was something different about her face. Her eyes! Her eyes had opened. The sewn skin had peeled, and her radiant green eyes stared right at me. They were like green maelstroms.

My God, what if she were awake? What if my drunkenness has gotten the better of me? No matter how these premonitions have occurred, I cannot take this any longer. I did not tell you before, but I tried to end my suffering, but the bells had stopped me. I was to hang myself, right beside Christ, as I knew of his pain, the pain of being forsaken.

It was the eleventh hour. The bells were loud and immediately drew my attention. I quickly jumped off the abbey’s altar and made my way to her corpse.

Was she dead before I came to her aid? Maybe she was pounding, thrashing at the coffin! Maybe she called my name! I know now that she calls my name. Her specter entered the abbey by the end of the night, right while I was taking a drink in order to calm my nerves. She disappears before I can make an acquaintance. Her green radiance enveloped the room before shuttering away. Why didn’t I make her my bride? If I had, we both would not have to incur such damnation.

Please, please respond to my letters. I cannot handle your silence, nor the sound of these bells.

Your friend,
The suicidal poet

* * * * * *

Letter # 6

Friend,

Only her bell rings. I wait for it to fall silent as well.

Please respond soon. I believe I have fully gone mad.

* * * * * *

The prior letter cut off abruptly, unlike those which came before it. Following it was just one other.

* * * * * *

Letter # 7

Friend,

I chose to spend the remainder of yesterday under the sedation of absinthe. Tomorrow, I will do the same. I cannot listen to the bells, tolling for those I cannot save. The bells sing in waves, echoing around the park, all of them chanting in unison.

I await their silence, the end of their crescendo.

* * * * * *

A Letter From Sister Maria, Caretaker of the Abbey and Its Souls, Days After the Events

“To whom it may concern,

I will be sending this document in addition to the past letter addressed to you. It is the last document, and the final letter, written by your acquaintance.

The following document was found tucked away in the poet’s breast pocket. He was buried shortly after the last letter was written. The letter was found in his study, beside his other written ramblings.

The day after the burial, the corpse’s bell was heard ringing at the eleventh hour but quickly stopped, much to the dismay of the police, and the Abbey’s current “dead ringer.” The man was not alive at the time of its sounding, as confirmed by the authorities.

The poet was buried alive, his drunkenness likely mistaken for death. He used the candles, the pen and the paper he always kept nearby to produce the final document.

They have concluded that he must have died of fright while inside the coffin:

‘I must write hastily. I have no time. The candle will be extinguished in a short while. No one can hear my bell. I have been tugging the line with my toe for the better part of a day. I am certain I will perish. Either they cannot hear me, or they refuse to. They know of the lives I haven’t saved. They know that I deserve to be here.’

That was all that was written.

I pray for his soul from time to time. I hope you do, too.”

* * * * * *

From what we know, the letters of the poet were kept away for some time. His work, sadly, was hidden away in the abbey before being later destroyed by the building’s demolition. His ramblings, his academic letters, and his body—which remains in the same mausoleum, in the very coffin in which he was buried alive—survive as the only evidence of the incident.

---

Strange and Unexplained

🎧 Available Audio Adaptations: None Available

Written by Miguel Alejandro Marquez
Edited by Craig Groshek
Thumbnail Art by Craig Groshek
Narrated by N/A

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