Free story #1

Batesville Day

 

Where do many mortuaries source the caskets they offer to the public? From none other than Batesville Casket Company. Founded in 1884 in Batesville, Indiana, the company began as the Batesville Coffin Company before adopting its more familiar name. Once a month, rain or shine, their truck arrived at Pierce Brothers Central Services in Los Angeles, a quiet ritual I came to think of as Batesville Day.

The early 1990s. The driver always backed his truck discreetly to the rear loading dock at 720 Central Services, careful not to startle the mortuary’s neighbors. Inside, six to eight of us, young, strong, and half competitive, waited for the heavy work. That crew usually meant Tony, Jeff, and me, the first call drivers, along with Mario and Bob from casket deliveries. Between us, we could move just about anything.

Each casket could weigh up to three hundred pounds, and the unloading was part choreography, part endurance test. Inside the Batesville truck, three levels of aluminum rollers held ten to fifteen caskets apiece. A built-in forklift-like device, mounted to the truck walls, allowed the driver to lower the middle and top levels down to the hydraulic platform at the rear.

When a casket hovered just above the platform, one of us would roll a wheeled aluminum cart, our casket mover, beneath it. The driver lowered the casket onto the cart, and the platform descended smoothly to the ground. From there, the work became ours.

Tony usually called out the rhythm—“Watch your fingers!”—as Jeff and I guided each casket off the platform and into position. Mario, methodical as ever, would already be stripping away the outer layers of bubble wrap and Styrofoam, while Bob stacked the plywood crates to the side for disposal. The rest of us followed in sequence, unwrapping, inspecting, and checking for flaws.

Each new Batesville casket came wrapped in layers of protective materials: bubble wrap, plastic sheeting, and thick Styrofoam corners, all secured inside a snug plywood crate. The casket key, taped to the casket lid, came off first. Using it, we unlocked the two lids, one for the head, one for the foot, and tested them twice, listening for the smooth movement of the hinges. We checked the lining… the polish… the metal finish. And no, despite the temptation, none of us ever climbed inside. Our boss, Mr. Pickett, was watching carefully.

Once inspected, the casket was locked, covered, and wheeled into the aluminum storage rack, thirty-five slots wide, gleaming under fluorescent lights. Our goal was always the same: to clear the truck quickly and send the Batesville driver back on the road. From start to finish, the process took thirty to forty-five minutes, a small but mighty act of precision and muscle.

In the early 1990s, the average Batesville casket cost between $1,100 and $2,700—a significant investment for a family, and often the single most expensive part of a funeral. Today, that range runs closer to $2,000 to $5,000, with custom models reaching much higher. Protecting these products wasn’t just company policy; it was respect for the people and the purpose they would one day serve.

I remember looking forward to Batesville Day. It broke up the rhythm of mortuary driving, those long hours spent collecting the deceased or staffing funerals, and gave us a rare chance for camaraderie. Tony and Jeff would tease each other about who could move faster without a scrape, while Mario and Bob turned unpacking into a well-choreographed dance. Amid the clang of aluminum rollers and the hiss of hydraulics, there was laughter, machismo, and a quiet pride in doing the job right. We all wanted to impress Mr. Pickett.

It’s a funny kind of intimacy, the kind that comes from handling something both industrial and sacred. A casket, after all, is the vessel for someone’s final appearance on this Earth.

 

Caskets and Coffins: A Brief History

A casket has four sides; a coffin has six. The six-sided coffin—diamond-shaped at the shoulders—was favored in the 1700s for keeping the body snug and easier to transport, especially during wartime. By the early 1900s, the rectangular casket had largely replaced the old form, seen as more dignified and easier to produce. The word coffin itself comes from the Old French cofin, meaning “basket,” and entered English around 1380.

Beneath the earth, a casket often rests within a burial vault, a concrete or reinforced concrete box designed to protect it from collapse or intrusion. Vaults first emerged to deter grave robbers, who once prized the valuables, clothing, and even the bodies themselves. Over time, they became symbols of preservation rather than protection.

When I think back on those mornings at 720 Central Services—the rhythmic clatter of rollers, the scent of new metal and oil, Tony’s sharp whistle cutting through the air—I realize that Batesville Day wasn’t just about restocking inventory. It was a quiet ritual of care, a moment when strength and reverence met.

Every month, the truck came. Every month, we unloaded, inspected, and stored. And every time, as the Batesville driver pulled away and the echo of the loading dock faded, I felt the same small satisfaction: in the work, in the teamwork, and in the knowledge that even the routine tasks can hold meaning.

 

🥀.                    💀                        🥀.               💀                   🥀.                  💀                   🥀.               💀                   🥀.            💀             🥀

Story #2

MRS. NORWOOD

 

The mood was perfect for something unexpected. Other than the soft music, and Bill’s occasional dirty joke, the room was quiet. 

All of a suddenly, at 10:10 p.m., Bill and I heard the mortuary’s outer back door slowly open and shut. The mortuary’s outer door was three car lengths away from where we stood in the preparation room. The prep room door, and a hallway, separated us from the outer back door. Supposedly, Bill and I were alone in the building. All other employees had gone home for the night. With our eyes wide open, Bill and I looked at one another. Complete silence grabbed hold of the room. I leaned over toward Bill.

"Did you hear that?” I whispered to Bill. 

"Yes,” Bill whispered back, his eyes squinted with suspicion. “Sounded like the back door." 

"Yeah, I heard it too," I acknowledged, still whispering. 

We stood motionless for what seemed like half a minute, waiting to hear footsteps, or any other noise. Moments past before Bill leaned over the still topless plywood casket that separated us and whispered directly into my right ear. 

"It may be manager Sharon. She likes to spy on us at night. She's known for her surprise visits." 

A twinge of anxiety entered my stomach. Bill turned and looked toward the door to the room we were in—the embalming room. Bill then stood up straight, defiantly, and folded his arms, still staring at the embalming room door. Bill’s actions spoke to his being annoyed as he readied himself to let Sharon have it, if in fact it was Sharon at the outer back door. Clearly, he didn’t like the intrusion. 

Moments later, Bill and I, still each staring at the door to the hallway, began to hear footsteps. That of ladies high heel shoe crossing the cement floor. The sound was unmistakable. A faint echoing sound followed each step. I counted the footsteps. One, two, three—all the way to eight distinct steps. Each step slightly louder than the last as they approached the door Bill and I were staring a whole through. Suddenly, Bill turned and tiptoed a few feet to turn off his Mozart CD. The eighth step stopped just behind the hallway door, and then there was quiet. Dead silence.

 

Whomever this was standing behind the hallway door wanted to be unnoticed. Unseen. Dead silence filled the air as we both watched… and waited to see if the door’s doorknob would turn in either direction. But it didn’t turn. From our standing positions yards away, both Bill and I bent and squatted down to look under the door frame, but the light from the hallway behind the door revealed nothing. No shadows to be seen. There was no doubt, Bill smelled a rat.

"Yeah… its gotta be her," Bill whispered from a foot away as a knowing grin came to his face. 

He lifted his right index finger to his lips—"Shhhh!"—making the sound to “be quiet” before he slowly and silently walked to the door. Once there, he positioned himself and reached for the nob. Turning the nob, Bill yanked it open quickly and… no one was there! With wide eyes, Bill looked at me. Then, he walked into the hallway. He looked left and he looked right, but again found no one. He faced me again from the doorway with puzzled eyes. Neither of us knew what to say. Until this moment at Oakdale Mortuary and Cemetery, I was a confirmed disbeliever in ghosts. But that night, I know what I heard and I know what I didn’t see.

Bill stepped fully into the hallway, still scanning both directions, as if someone might materialize if he just stared hard enough. I watched him from the threshold, my hands still resting on the cold edge of the plywood casket.

“Nothing,” he finally muttered, scratching the back of his neck.

“No one could walk off that fast without making more noise,” I said. My voice sounded smaller than I expected.

Bill gave a short nod, not taking his eyes off the hallway. Then, a sound—a single click—echoed faintly down the corridor. It wasn’t loud, but it was unmistakable. Metal on metal. A doorknob? A latch? It came from further down, toward the corridor that led to Viewing Room Three.

He turned back toward me. “You heard that, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, already stepping around the casket to join him. “If Sharon’s trying to scare us, she’s about to get an earful.”

We walked in silence, the soles of our shoes soft against the cement floor, our shadows flickering beneath the harsh overhead fluorescents. The hallway stretched in front of us, too long, too quiet. Bill’s pace slowed as we neared the hallway intersection.

Then, a breeze. A light, cool draft—unnatural, considering we were indoors and the air was still as death just seconds ago. I felt it brush across the side of my neck, like a hand not quite touching. I stopped in my tracks.

“Did you feel—”

“Yeah,” Bill said quickly, glancing around. “There’s no windows open back here.”

We passed the staff lounge and the old supply closet. Both dark. Both empty. Then, as we approached Viewing Room Three, we saw the faintest light shining under the door. Bill looked at me. “That room should be locked.” I swallowed hard, not because I was scared—at least that’s what I told myself—but because something about the hallway felt wrong. Like it had stretched, elongated, like we were being pulled toward something we didn’t want to meet.

Bill reached out and tested the doorknob.

Unlocked.

He paused, breathed in, then slowly pushed the door open. The room was lit only by the dim wall sconce over the viewing table. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, and in the center of the room lay a casket—closed—on a chrome stand. A familiar one.

“That’s Mrs. Norwood’s casket,” I whispered. “We wheeled it into storage this afternoon.”

“I know,” Bill muttered, already stepping inside.

But what made me hesitate wasn’t the casket—it was the faint sound, just beneath the buzzing fluorescent, that caught my ear. A whisper. Too soft to understand. Too steady to ignore. Then it stopped. Bill circled the casket slowly, eyes narrowed. “Why would they bring this back out?” He reached toward the lid. “Wait,” I said, but it was too late. He unlatched the side and opened the top half of the casket.

Empty.

We stood there, barely breathing. The room seemed colder now, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. And then, just as Bill was about to close it again, we both heard it—click-clack… click-clack…

The sound of high heels.

Only this time, it wasn’t outside the room. It was coming from inside the room. Behind us. We turned in unison, but there was nothing there. Nothing we could see. And yet, I swear to you, the next sound we heard was the unmistakable creak of a chair—the chair in the corner of the viewing room, which had just shifted slightly… as if someone had just sat down to watch.

 

 

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