The Knockers, a creepy little tale

The Knockers by Susan Buffum

The gaslights guttered in the front room of George Jackson, Undertaker, a nondescript wood-framed structure on Darby Road. The building had a somewhat wider than usual front entrance door, and a tall display window to either side. In the display window on the left were several coffins of various sizes. The tallest was standing on end in one corner, a somewhat shorter one in the other, both angled toward the three small caskets ranging from infant-sized to child-sized that lay full length vertically between them, the heads of the caskets propped up on blocks. A black velvet drape hung behind them. At night, they were barely visible, however, during the daylight hours they stood out well enough against the curtain that they could be seen from the street. In the window to the right of the door was a dressmaker’s mannequin modeling somber widow’s weeds. A tiered display stand stood between the mannequin and a tall funeral urn draped in white material. On the tiered display stand, Mr. Jackson showed several hats with veils, pairs of black gloves, handkerchiefs, several pieces of mourning jewelry, and two pair of black women’s shoes, one with laces, the other with buttons. There was no curtain behind this window display, so one could see directly into the undertaker’s front room.

On this particular night, George Jackson was having a game of cards with several of his assistants, their having enjoyed a late dinner. A few hands of cards and several small glasses of good cognac were what they enjoyed after conducting a funeral during the day. George was a trim man in his middle-forties. He had inherited the business from his father, also named George. He had a wife and young son, who had been named George also, so that one day he would be placed in charge of the business and the name of it could remain the same. He resided with his wife and their young son lived in a small house directly behind the business. George didn’t have far to walk to reach his home.

George Jackson’s father was one of the men seated at the table holding cards in his hand that night. He, at sixty-three, still lent a hand when necessary. Thomas Winters, a man in his early thirties, a recent widower, his wife having died in childbirth, and Martin O’Rourke, a twenty-four year old young man with carrot-colored hair and an Irish brogue who had a sweetheart back in Ireland who would be brought over to marry him when he had enough money saved for her passage, both worked for George and were also at the table.

Behind the shop was a large room where many coffins were stored, all standing upright in rows. They had quite a few in stock, in all sizes, for they had a reputation as a trustworthy undertaking business. Harper’s over on River Street had once had that sterling reputation, but Frank Harper had taken over from his father after the elder Harper had died in an accidental fall down the basement steps after having had too much to drink, and Frank, a rumored wife beater, just hadn’t had the same respect for the deceased that his father had had. Spirits had corrupted him in his youth and made him surly.

The clock on the wall marked the passing of the minutes as the game of cards continued. The minute and the hour hand steadily drew nearer together as both approached the numeral twelve at the top of the clock face. Martin had cast a few nervous glances toward the resolute clock, anxious as the hour of midnight drew near to be on his way home. Thomas, unable to bear the apartment he had shared with his late, beloved wife Sally, had moved into two rooms above the undertaker’s shop. They were rooms George Jackson, the elder’s father had lived in with his wife and family. George the elder had built the house behind the shop for his wife. But now he had the other two rooms above the shop, a hallway with a steep, narrow staircase at one end separating his rooms from the rooms Thomas was currently occupying.

Thomas and George the elder did not seem inclined to call it a night. George held a good hand at the moment, and though he thought it would be nice to go home and kiss his wife goodnight, he was reluctant to forfeit the game when he might win the small pot of coins at the center of the table.

Martin was about to make an excuse of a sudden stabbing headache so that he could go home when from the back room there came the sound of sharp knocking. All four heads at the table turned toward the doorway to the back room. Martin had visibly jumped, startled, but the other three men were more curious than frightened. “Whatever could that be?” George asked.

The rapping came again, more forcefully, more urgently. Martin blanched, jumping to his feet, his chair falling backwards with a loud crash that made the other three men jump and turn toward him with wide eyes. Without a word, Martin grabbed his coat and cap and fled the shop through the front door. The others heard his rapid retreat down the street, boots clattering on the cobbles.

“Did someone lock a cat in the storeroom?” George asked.

“There was nothing there when I locked up,” Thomas replied, sounding slightly offended that anyone would even think that he had not checked to make sure that any animals had gotten inside. The Jacksons owned several cats, all of them fine mousers. From time to time they allowed the cats into the shop to hunt when there were signs of mice discovered.

The knocking came again, more demanding of their attention. George the elder sighed as he laid his cards face down on the table. “I’ve heard this before,” he said. “It’s just the coffins drumming up business. They don’t like to stand empty for long.” His son and Thomas both looked at him. “Mark my words. Someone is going to die tonight. Tomorrow morning we’ll have a caller who’ll want to hire us for a funeral. You’ll see.”

“I say we call it a night then as we’ll be busy tomorrow,” George said, more anxious now than before to head to the little house behind the business.

“I won’t get a wink of sleep if this ruckus continues all night,” Thomas grumbled as he gathered up the abandoned cards and tucked them back into their box.

The three men rose simultaneously. Without a prearranged signal, they all took their tumblers in hand and raised them in a silent salute to the passing of a soul that night, draining the contents. George collected the tumblers to bring home. Alice would wash them with the breakfast dishes in the morning. He bid his father and Thomas a goodnight and departed through the front door, not wishing to walk through the back room where the ghostly knocking still persisted, although with a decrease in urgency and volume.

The following morning George and Thomas were in the shop. George the elder was in the back room taking inventory and checking to make sure that none of the coffins had been damaged or knocked awry by the knockers last night. Martin had not yet arrived for work. He was supposed to be raking the yard and cleaning the stable today.

At a quarter past nine, a man with orange hair and a smattering of freckles came into the shop. He appeared to be in his early forties. His face was pale beneath a mottling of emotion, and his blue eyes stood out vividly from swollen, reddened lids. He was so distraught that he’d forgotten to remove his hat upon entering. “I’ve come to hire you,” he said. “I’ve come to tell you…” His voice broke and he raised his hand to cover his tortured eyes.

“You’ve lost someone, then?” George asked gently. The man nodded. “Yes, of course. We are at your service, sir. May I inquire as to the name of the deceased?”

“He is…he was…no, he is my son. You know him, sir. His name is Martin O’Rourke.”

In the sudden silence that fell upon the undertaker’s establishment, the sound of George the elder dropping his inventory book in the back room startled them all. However, only the two Georges and Tom fully understood that this time the knockers had come calling for one of their own.