Horror Tales

The Scratching

The scratching started on the third night.

At first, I thought it was just the wind, or maybe a rat in the walls. But it didn’t come from the walls. It didn’t come from the attic either.

It came from inside my wife’s coffin.

My wife, Elara, had died only a week ago. The house felt empty without her — every corner carried her memory, her scent, her laughter that used to fill the air. I kept her coffin in the living room for a few days, unable to bury her yet. I told myself I just needed time to say goodbye.

But then the scratching began.

At first, it was soft — a faint tap-tap, like something brushing against the wood. I ignored it. I told myself it was my imagination, or maybe the house settling.

But by the third night, the sound grew louder. It was a dry, scraping sound, like fingernails clawing wood from the inside.

I froze every time I heard it. My heart would pound so loudly I thought it might burst. I tried to convince myself it wasn’t real — that grief was making me hear things.

But deep down, I knew where the sound was coming from.

Late that night, I couldn’t take it anymore. The sound came again — scratch, scratch, scratch.

It was steady. Desperate. Human.

I walked slowly to the coffin. My hands shook. The room felt cold and heavy, as if the air itself was watching me.

I placed my palm on the lid.

The scratching came from right beneath my hand.

I should have called someone. I should have run. But love makes you foolish. What if she was still alive? What if she had been buried too soon?

Without thinking, I grabbed a metal tool and began to pry the lid open. My breath came fast. The wood creaked.

Then the smell hit me — old flowers, damp earth, and death.

I stared inside.

Elara lay there, pale and still. Her hands folded across her chest. Her lips slightly open. She didn’t move.

For a moment, I felt relief. Maybe I really was imagining it.