Joke for a Sunday

In honor of the Thanksgiving tradition of getting together with family, I'm posting the following tale of a young man's eventful evening at his ancestral home in the hills of western Carolina. This was told to me by Boy Scout Troop 67 Scoutmaster Jeff Irving. In the spirit of campfire story telling, I have changed and expanded upon the original.

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Bob Jones always enjoyed returning to the family farm outside of Boone, N.C. He loved the mountain views, the smells of the livestock and mown hay, and the peace and quiet of being so far from his normal life in the metropolis Charlotte had somehow turned into over the thirty years he had lived there since graduating from Appalachian State.

What Bob especially liked about going back home was sitting up late with Uncle Skeet, sipping some 'shine and hearing stories about the old days. Having majored in English, Bob always meant to write those stories down some day, but his job at Wachovia always seemed to prevent him from getting started on that project.

This particular night, though, Bob just happened to have a notepad and pen in hand when Skeet came in from slopping the Thanksgiving dinner leftovers to the hogs. Bob had been jotting down some bullet points for a meeting on Monday, but he had manners enough to set his work down and accept the mason jar Skeet offered.

As soon as Skeet settled into his chair in front of the roaring fire, he said, "Hear that wind kicking up boy? Makes me think we're due for the first real snow. Also reminds me of another Thanksgiving night in this very house back in, musta been right after the war -- 1946, yeah." Bob knew that Skeet never used the proper name. For his uncle, World War II was always just "the war."

So Bob sunk back in his own overstuffed recliner and prepared to hear about his own father, who had been seriously wounded when fighting through the hedgerows of Normandy alongside Skeet, finally returning home from the soldier's hospital in Washington, D.C., after two years of rehab.

Instead, Skeet started talking about the basement of the farm house. "See that door there, son?" Skeet asked Bob.

"Sure," Bob replied. "That goes down to the old root cellar, right? But I don't know that I've ever seen anybody open it. I know the door's been bolted as long as I can remember, and I was threatened with death itself if I ever tried to open it."

Skeet nodded slowly and then said in a voice almost too low for Bob to hear, "Well, death was the right kinda threat." Before Bob could even ask what that meant, Skeet continued in a louder voice: "That ain't no root cellar, boy. That's the old family crypt. Back when the Joneses first settled this land, the parts that weren't forests was rock. The little land that could be cleared was used for growing food, so the family dug under the house for burying rather than use up good farm land.

Once the road came through around 1940, we could get into town easier, and we started taking our departed kin to cemetery proper. But I reckon there must be five, six generations of Joneses taking their eternal rest not 20 feet beneath where our feet are right now."

Bob was a little unsettled to learn this particular bit of family history, but he was too educated and too much of a city boy by now to feel too superstitious. He fought back the gasp of shock that he knew Skeet was expecting.

Undeterred, even if a little disappointed, Skeet went on: "I never went down there myself, even when it was open. Crypts ain't no place for children, you know. But when I got back from the war, I figured I'd seen just about every evil man can do to man. I reckoned nothing could scare me, and I was naturally curious about what was down through that door.

So after filling my belly with your gramma's turkey and your grandad's whiskey, I threw that door open and tore down those steps. I didn't get five feet before I heard a 'THUMP!' Stopped me cold. And even though I was still close enough to the door to get the light from the living room, I pulled out my matches and struck one to get a better view.

Your grandad handed through a couple of birch switches, and I lit one of those too. I saw that even though the staricase wasn't that long, it had a landing and a full turn about halfway down. I guess some of those coffins musta run to the heavy side, and the bearers woulda needed a break on the way down.

I also saw and felt how the steps was covered with moss since nobody had been down there in so long. I ain't gonna lie. My heart started beating something fierce, and I almost turned around right then. But I was the young, brave war hero. No way I was gonna run from some bones and old pine boxes when I didn't run from living men with guns."

Bob smiled at this. Skeet had never admitted to being afraid of anything.

"Anyway," Skeet continued, pretending not to notice Bob's grin, "I went down to the landing and heard 'THUMP! THUMP!' just as my first torch burned out. I never struck a match so fast in my life. Swiped that matchstick so quick, I nearly slipped on the moss. Still, I wasn't gonna turn back.

I mad a run down the last of the steps and hit the floor of the crypt on my hands and knees, nose to wood with a coffin lid bearing my name, 'Micheal Carter Jones.' And wouldn't you know, my second torch went out right at that moment."

Despite himself, Bob was at the edge of his seat by now. He also realized that he had been scribbling notes on his pad, completely overwriting his bullet points on the risks of subprime mortgages.

Skeet was up out of his chair by now, mimicking his long-ago movements as best as his 86-year-old body would let him. "I scrambled for my matchbox and felt around for my last birch switch as I heard the thumping start up again right by my ear. 'THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!' I had only one match left, and luckily it struck and caught on my torch.

I couldn't believe what I saw. Damned if that coffin with my name on it wasn't raising up off the ground and coming towards me. The lid opened up, and I swear I saw the fires of Hell itself ready to swallow me whole!

I turned and ran, naturally, but that moss wouldn't let me get far. I fell and turned to see that coffin practically on to of me. I was crawling and cursing, and I lost my torch. Pitch black. THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! Barely keeping one step ahead of that pine box."

Bob was writing as furiously as his uncle was talking.

"I finally made up to the top of the stairs, but somebody had closed it from the outside. I knew for sure I was a goner. No light, and the coffin not but a few inches from me. I reached in my pocket for anything I could find to fight off that box.

I grabbed the only thing I had -- a tin of Barry's Bronchitis Bromides, and I threw it as hard as I could!"

Bob couldn't contain himself any longer. "What happened, Uncle Skeet?!" he practically shouted.

Skeet, calm as could be now, just said, "Wouldn't you know, those pills did stop that old coffin."

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Word Count to Date: 19,257