The Corrugated Coffin

The sky is greyer than slate, the grass greener than frogs. Ten-year-olds Billy and Sam stand just twenty feet away from a battered and bruised iron shed. It has stood here for longer than their parents can remember.

“There’s a body in there.” whispers Sam.

“Say’s who?” Billy cuts.

“Mikey.” The wind picks up around them, whisking at their t-shirts. Goosebumps prickle their bare arms.

“I don’t believe him.” says Billy. Sam creeps forth, leaving his best friend by the splintered stile they both carefully traversed. Billy strangles the torch he brought, wringing whitening hands around a thick throat. He doesn’t know why he’s waiting, and hastily tries to keep up.

The loose door creaks like an occupied rocking chair, dangling precariously from the top hinge. A single screw, orange and weathered, looks ready to snap. The wind howls through the panels, split from decades of neglect, slithers of darkness offering no glimpses of what lay beyond.

“Do you smell that?” Sam queries. Billy sniffs a handful of times.

“No. What do you smell?”

“Death!” Sam grins, eyes wide and wild.

“Shut up.” Billy slides past, getting closer to the door. He jumps as it lunges unexpectedly at him, and he nearly loses his balance by catching a foot in a jumble of soft dirt and clingy weeds. “You can go first.”

“Chicken.” Sam reaches for the door, pushing it open as wide as he can. A shaggy cobweb yawns then severs, drifting free before the wind kicks it back up.

“Don’t go in!” Billy gasps, failing to clasp the words with his shivering hands. Sam ignores him.

It’s not very big within, pooled entirely in darkness but for shards of light gleaming through breaks in the corrugated walls. The wind whistles eerily amidst the gloom. Sam can barely make out the shapes of huge boxes and a few metal instruments, unmistakably farming tools long neglected.

“Where’s the torch?” Sam asks. “Billy?” He looks back to find his friend cowering by the door. Sam leans back, grabs Billy’s arm, and tugs hard to drag him into the dark. Billy breathes hard and fast, eyes fastened shut. Sam creeps forth, the old wooden floor cracking under his feet.

“No, wait!” Billy shudders. He grips Sam by the shoulder to stop him. “Can you not hear that?”

Sam waits, listening. Amidst the howling of wind and rattling of iron, the odd inquisitive fly buzzes eagerly.

Billy peeps around the wooden crates and freezes. Sam follows, peering past Billy and gasping out loud. He nips back, hands trembling as he tries to cry. He checks back, seeing that Billy is not watching him.

“Wait... is that...?” Billy steps forward, one foot at a time, slowly edging closer. He can see a shape crumpled in the corner, but can’t make out any features. He scrabbles with the torch, thumb twitching as he reaches for the button. It clicks on, and he drops it in shock. The light illuminates a twisted face.

Sam is in a heap, bloodied eyes wide and skin parched of pink. His lips and cheeks have been chewed to expose muscle, ragged tears streaming his chin and forehead. Curious flies flirt with the wounds. The boy is long dead.

Billy slowly crouches to retrieve his fallen light, and gradually turns on his heels, hoping that the dread that chills his bones is utterly unfounded. But the other Sam is stood tall over him, eyes a shiny red and yellowed fangs jutting from his gaping mouth. Billy roots to the spot like a petrified tree. The creature swoops in to kill not only the torch.