Jarod and the Empty Coffin
By Sean Talbot
The coffin began knocking three minutes after they pulled it from the ground.
Jarod surveyed the consecrated ground. Beyond the flickering torchlight, darkness swallowed the graveyard. His executioner’s mask concealed his face, while a massive double-bladed axe rested against his broad back.
The knocking wasn’t normal. The dead didn’t move, and they certainly didn’t knock. Jarod glanced around at the members of his crew, searching for the three practical jokers who had made his life miserable with their endless pranks.
With the coffin resting on the ground before him, Jarod consulted the execution and burial records he’d brought to the exhumation.
Devin Macado. Executed for the murder of his wife.
According to the burial records, Macado had been interred with several personal belongings. His children claimed to have spotted some of those items in a local pawnshop, including a silver pendant they recognized from their father’s possessions. They had insisted the pendant was buried with him.
And so Jarod found himself standing over the coffin of a convicted murderer, tasked with verifying that the belongings sealed inside by the family remained undisturbed.
It wasn’t exactly how he’d imagined spending his evening.
Another knock echoed from inside the coffin.
Jarod froze. A sensation like hundreds of tiny spiders crawling beneath his skin crept along his arms and up his neck.
He reached toward the coffin’s handle, his gloved hand trembling despite his efforts to steady it.
Jarod whispered the words of an unsealing spell. A faint glow spread across the coffin’s surface as the protective enchantment began to unravel.
Moments later, the light faded. The magical seal that had prevented anyone from opening the coffin was broken.
Jarod gripped the coffin’s lid with his black leather-gloved hands and slowly lifted it.
He gasped.
The coffin was empty.
No corpse. No burial possessions. Nothing but the cotton lining that had been carefully arranged around Devin Macado’s body when he was laid to rest.
Jarod stared into the empty space.
That wasn’t possible.
Jarod stumbled backward, his mind struggling to make sense of what he’d discovered.
An empty coffin.
Yet something had knocked from within it.
A chill crept down his spine. He’d spent years working with the dead, and he’d never encountered anything remotely like this.
The family had been right about the missing belongings. Unfortunately, that was beginning to seem like the least disturbing part of his evening.
Another thought troubled him. The coffin had been protected by a sealing enchantment, one designed to prevent anyone from opening it without the proper spell.
Yet the body and burial possessions were gone.
Wonderful. Apparently, someone had found a way to rob a grave without bothering to open it.
Jarod’s thoughts returned to the usual suspects. If anyone was foolish enough to turn a grave exhumation into an elaborate prank, it would be those three.
Of course. Why settle for hiding my equipment when you can make an entire corpse disappear? The idiots had finally outdone themselves.
He chuckled at the thought of getting even with them, but the laughter died in his throat when he realized he’d been holding his breath. Without quite knowing why, he’d stepped closer to the coffin and rested one gloved hand against its edge. He slowly exhaled, forcing himself to loosen his fingers.
Jarod turned his attention back to the empty coffin.
There had to be an explanation. Some trick of the wood, perhaps, or a hidden compartment beneath the lining.
He leaned forward and pressed his gloved hand against the cotton fabric.
Three knocks.
Jarod froze.
The sound had come from directly beneath his hand.
From inside a coffin that held absolutely nothing.
Jarod recoiled, stumbling backward over the uneven ground. His boot caught against a half-buried branch, nearly sending him sprawling.
Wonderful. An empty coffin that knocks back. What’s next, a corpse asking for its belongings?
He glanced toward the burial crew, desperate to see whether anyone else had heard it.
The men stood several paces away, their faces half-hidden behind the flickering torchlight. None appeared to have noticed anything unusual.
Wonderful. Apparently, he was the only one being haunted tonight.
But his attention kept returning to the coffin.
Something had knocked beneath his hand.
And whatever it was, Jarod had no intention of touching it again.
For several moments, the knocking stopped.
Jarod held his breath, waiting for another sound from the empty coffin.
A faint scratching sound broke the silence.
Jarod watched as the coffin’s lid began to move.
Slowly, impossibly, it lowered itself until the wood met the frame with a hollow thud.
Then came three deliberate knocks.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Silence.
Three more knocks.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Jarod scrambled backward on his hands and feet, his eyes darting between the coffin and the surrounding darkness.
He tried to stand.
His legs refused to cooperate.
For a man who had spent years sending others to their deaths, the sudden discovery that his own legs had apparently resigned from duty was deeply inconvenient.
He planted one gloved hand against the ground, struggling to force himself upright.
A thick mist crept between the gravestones, swallowing the edges of the flickering torchlight.
Jarod narrowed his eyes. He’d seen smoke spells before, but those usually drifted with the wind.
This mist moved against it.
Worse, it seemed to be gathering around Devin Macado’s coffin.
Jarod finally managed to get his feet beneath him. He brushed the dirt from his gloves and straightened his executioner’s mask.
Wonderful. Apparently, even standing upright had become an accomplishment tonight.
He drew a steadying breath and approached the coffin once more, careful to keep his distance from the lid.
Jarod’s attention shifted to the coffin’s closed lid.
Something marked its outer surface, standing out against the dark wood.
Handprints.
Several of them.
Jarod frowned. He hadn’t noticed them when he’d first approached the coffin.
Then again, he’d been rather distracted by the knocking.
They varied in size and shape, as though different people had pressed their hands against the surface.
But something about them was wrong.
Jarod leaned closer, studying the impressions.
Each handprint showed only four fingers.
He examined the edges carefully. There were no smudges, no broken impressions, and no signs that the missing fingers had simply failed to leave a mark.
The hands that had left these impressions appeared to be missing a finger each.
Every hand. Every print. The same impossible detail.
A memory stirred at the edge of Jarod’s thoughts.
An execution yard. A prisoner kneeling before the block. Two hands resting against the cold stone.
Four fingers on each.
Jarod frowned beneath his mask.
That hadn’t been the only prisoner with such an injury. Jarod remembered seeing others brought before the execution block, some condemned by his own hand and others by fellow executioners. He couldn’t immediately recall how many.
Had Devin Macado been one of them?
Jarod couldn’t remember. A junior executioner had carried out Macado’s sentence, and Jarod hadn’t been present for the execution.
But the similarity was too unsettling to dismiss.
Jarod had never examined the evidence behind Macado’s conviction. As an executioner, he’d been permitted to review the sentencing record, but the investigation itself belonged to the Crown’s magistrates. His duty was to carry out the sentence, not question the verdict.
Until now.
He looked from the empty coffin to the strange handprints marking its lid.
Something was wrong. Not simply with Macado’s missing body, but with the executions themselves.
For the first time in years, Jarod found himself questioning whether the men he’d helped send to their deaths had truly deserved their sentences.
And that thought disturbed him far more than the knocking.
Jarod turned to leave, but something caught his attention.
Carved into the outer wooden frame, just beneath the edge of the closed lid, was a small symbol almost hidden beneath the accumulated dirt.
Thirteen short lines formed a perfect circle, each mark pointing inward toward an empty centre.
He brushed the dirt away with his gloved thumb.
The symbol was familiar.
He had seen it before, stamped into the sentencing records of certain prisoners. Their convictions had been publicly recorded, but the evidence supporting those verdicts had been sealed by order of the Crown.
Jarod stared at the marking.
Wonderful. Apparently, someone had forgotten to mention that the dead were keeping records of their own.
Jarod straightened and turned away from the coffin, already considering which sentencing records he would need to examine first.
Behind him, the coffin knocked again.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Jarod slowly turned.
The lid remained closed. The handprints were still visible against the dark wood.
But something had changed.
The thirteen lines carved into the coffin’s frame had begun to glow.
Jarod stared at the symbol, his earlier amusement fading.
For the first time that evening, he wondered whether the knocking had been a warning.
Or a summons.
Jarod stared at the glowing symbol.
“Well, that’s just wonderful,” he muttered. “Apparently, the dead have decided that knocking isn’t getting enough attention.”
The thirteen lines pulsed with a dull crimson light.
He glanced toward his crew. The men stood motionless beyond the mist, their torches burning steadily despite the wind.
“Marcus!” Jarod shouted.
No response.
“Marcus, if this is one of your jokes, I swear I’ll personally introduce your backside to the flat of my axe!”
Nothing.
Jarod took several cautious steps toward the nearest man. The mist parted around him, revealing Marcus standing with his mouth slightly open.
His eyes were fixed on the coffin.
Jarod grabbed his shoulder.
Marcus didn’t move.
A cold sensation settled in Jarod’s stomach.
He placed two fingers against the man’s neck.
There was a pulse.
Slow.
Steady.
But Marcus might as well have been a statue.
“Wonderful. I’ve apparently been promoted to supervising furniture.”
A voice whispered behind him.
“Thirteen were condemned.”
Jarod spun around, drawing his axe.
The graveyard was empty except for his frozen crew.
“Show yourself!”
“Twelve were innocent.”
The voice seemed to come from everywhere.
“And one was guilty.”
Jarod tightened his grip on the axe.
“Devin Macado?”
The mist shifted.
A figure emerged beside the coffin.
He was a thin man wearing the burial clothes of a condemned prisoner. His face was pale, his eyes sunken, and his hands hung loosely at his sides.
Each hand was missing its smallest finger.
Jarod raised his axe.
“You’re supposed to be dead.”
The figure smiled.
“So are twelve others.”
“That doesn’t explain why you’re walking around my graveyard.”
“I’m not walking, executioner.”
Jarod looked down.
The man’s feet hovered several inches above the ground.
“Of course they do,” Jarod muttered. “Why would anything tonight make sense?”
The apparition approached.
“My name is Devin Macado.”
Jarod studied him.
“You’re looking remarkably healthy for a man who’s been buried for six years.”
“Six years?” Devin whispered. “Has it truly been that long?”
“Depends. How long does being dead usually feel?”
Devin ignored the question.
“The records. You must find the records.”
Jarod lowered his axe slightly.
“Funny you should mention those. I’ve developed a sudden interest in reading.”
Devin lifted his mutilated hands.
“Thirteen of us were condemned. Each accused of a terrible crime. Each executed under the authority of the Crown.”
“And twelve were innocent?”
Devin nodded.
“Then which one was guilty?”
The apparition’s expression changed.
“That is what you must discover.”
Before Jarod could respond, the thirteen-line symbol flashed.
Devin vanished.
The mist collapsed inward, rushing toward the coffin like water draining into a hole.
Marcus stumbled forward.
“What in the seven hells just happened?”
Jarod looked at his axe.
Then at the coffin.
“Marcus, remind me never to volunteer for graveyard duty again.”
—
The Royal Hall of Records stood beneath the eastern tower of the palace.
Jarod arrived shortly before dawn, exhausted, covered in graveyard dirt, and thoroughly irritated.
The elderly archivist looked up from his desk.
“Executioner Jarod. An unexpected pleasure.”
“Trust me, the pleasure is entirely one-sided.”
“What brings you here?”
“Thirteen prisoners. Sealed evidence. Missing fingers.”
The archivist’s expression hardened.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Excellent. Then you won’t mind showing me the records.”
“Those documents are restricted.”
Jarod leaned forward.
“Last night, I opened a coffin containing no corpse. It knocked at me, closed itself, and introduced me to a dead murderer who floated above the ground.”
The archivist stared.
“So you’ll understand,” Jarod continued, “why I’m not particularly interested in administrative restrictions.”
The old man slowly rose.
“Follow me.”
They descended a narrow staircase into a chamber lined with iron cabinets.
The archivist unlocked one and withdrew a leather-bound volume.
Stamped into its cover were thirteen short lines arranged in a circle.
Jarod felt his stomach tighten.
“That’s the symbol.”
The archivist placed the book on a table.
“The Thirteen Condemned.”
Jarod opened it.
Thirteen names filled the first page.
Devin Macado appeared last.
Beside each name was a drawing of two hands, each missing a finger.
“What does it mean?”
The archivist hesitated.
“Three hundred years ago, the Crown discovered a method of imprisoning something that could not be killed.”
“Something?”
“A creature known as the Hollow King.”
Jarod folded his arms.
“Naturally. Because an ordinary king wasn’t troublesome enough.”
“The Hollow King feeds upon guilt. Not merely the guilt of criminals, but the guilt of those who condemn the innocent.”
Jarod looked down at the names.
“The executions.”
The archivist nodded.
“Twelve innocent souls were sacrificed to bind him. The thirteenth was a murderer whose guilt anchored the prison.”
“Devin.”
“Yes.”
Jarod turned another page.
“Why remove their fingers?”
“Each finger became part of a magical seal. Twenty-six in total, divided among thirteen burial charms. The condemned were buried with those charms to maintain the binding.”
Jarod remembered the missing possessions.
The silver pendant.
“The charms were stolen.”
The archivist went pale.
“Then the prison is breaking.”
Jarod closed the book.
“Wonderful. And here I was hoping someone had simply misplaced a corpse.”
—
The pawnshop stood in the poorest district of the capital.
Its windows were crowded with tarnished silver, broken clocks, old weapons, and objects that appeared to have been stolen from people who were no longer in a position to complain.
Jarod pushed through the door.
A small bell rang overhead.
The shopkeeper looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m looking for a silver pendant.”
“You’ll have to be more specific.”
Jarod placed his executioner’s axe on the counter.
“One recently removed from a dead man’s coffin.”
The shopkeeper swallowed.
“Ah. That pendant.”
“See? We’re making progress.”
The man disappeared into a back room and returned with a small wooden box.
Inside lay a silver pendant shaped like a circle.
Thirteen lines pointed toward its centre.
Jarod reached for it.
The pendant was warm.
Then it began knocking against the wood.
Three times.
Jarod closed his eyes.
“Of course.”
The shopkeeper backed away.
“I didn’t steal it! A magistrate brought it here!”
Jarod opened his eyes.
“Which magistrate?”
“Lord Varrick. He said it was an old family possession.”
Jarod knew the name.
Varrick had signed the execution orders for Devin Macado.
He had also overseen several other cases involving condemned prisoners.
Jarod picked up the pendant.
A scream filled the shop.
The silver split apart.
Inside was a small blackened finger bone.
The shopkeeper fainted.
Jarod stared at the bone.
“Well,” he whispered, “that explains why the jewellery was so unpleasant.”
A shadow moved across the wall.
Then another.
Thirteen shadows stretched toward him, though only Jarod stood beneath the shop’s lantern.
A woman’s voice whispered from the pendant.
“Bring us the guilty.”
—
Lord Varrick’s estate overlooked the capital from a hill surrounded by black iron gates.
Jarod arrived after sunset.
He had spent the afternoon studying the sealed records.
The twelve innocent prisoners had been accused of crimes that never occurred. Witnesses had disappeared. Evidence had been fabricated.
And every conviction bore Varrick’s signature.
The magistrate greeted Jarod in his private study.
“Executioner. To what do I owe this intrusion?”
Jarod placed the pendant on the desk.
“Thirteen dead people would like a word.”
Varrick’s face drained of colour.
“Where did you get that?”
“A pawnshop. Lovely establishment. Terrible customer service.”
“You don’t understand what you’ve found.”
“Then enlighten me.”
Varrick stood.
“The Hollow King cannot be destroyed. Every generation, the seals must be renewed.”
“By murdering innocent people?”
“By sacrificing twelve lives to protect thousands!”
Jarod stared at him.
“And Devin Macado?”
Varrick looked away.
“The guilty soul completes the binding.”
Jarod stepped closer.
“Who killed his wife?”
Silence.
“Answer me.”
Varrick’s voice trembled.
“I did.”
Jarod felt the room grow colder.
“Devin discovered the ritual. His wife helped him gather evidence. I couldn’t allow them to expose it.”
“So you murdered her and blamed her husband.”
“He was going to destroy everything!”
Jarod drew his axe.
“And the twelve innocents?”
“Necessary.”
The word hung between them.
Jarod had heard it before.
From magistrates.
From nobles.
From men who never had to look into the eyes of those they condemned.
He lowered his axe.
“No,” Jarod said quietly. “They weren’t necessary. They were convenient.”
The pendant began to glow.
Three knocks sounded from inside the study walls.
Varrick staggered backward.
“What have you done?”
Jarod looked at the silver pendant.
“Apparently, I’ve finally found someone who deserves an execution.”
The floor cracked.
Black mist poured through the gaps.
Thirteen figures emerged, their hands reaching toward Varrick.
Devin Macado stood among them.
“The guilty,” Devin whispered.
Varrick screamed as the shadows closed around him.
Jarod stepped forward.
“Wait!”
The figures stopped.
Jarod looked at Devin.
“If you take him, what happens to the prison?”
Devin’s expression softened.
“The Hollow King will lose the guilt that feeds him. But the binding will break.”
“And he’ll be free?”
“For a moment.”
Jarod understood.
A moment might be enough.
He lifted his axe.
“Then we’d better make it a short one.”
—
The Hollow King emerged from the darkness beneath Varrick’s feet.
He wore a crown of broken bones and robes that moved like living shadows.
His face was a hollow space filled with countless whispering voices.
Jarod had executed hundreds of prisoners.
He had faced murderers, sorcerers, and men who smiled while describing terrible crimes.
Nothing had prepared him for this.
The Hollow King extended one skeletal hand.
“Executioner.”
Jarod swallowed.
“Your Majesty. I’d bow, but I’ve had a difficult evening.”
“You carry the guilt of the condemned.”
Jarod remembered the prisoners kneeling before his axe.
The hands missing fingers.
The sentences he’d carried out without questioning them.
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Then you belong to me.”
The creature reached toward him.
Jarod raised his axe.
“There’s just one problem.”
The Hollow King paused.
“I haven’t finished my work.”
Jarod swung.
The double blades struck the creature’s crown.
Bone shattered.
The Hollow King screamed.
The thirteen spirits surged forward, surrounding the creature in a circle.
Their missing fingers began to glow.
Devin turned toward Jarod.
“The seals were never the fingers,” he said. “They were the souls forced to surrender them.”
The spirits raised their hands.
Light poured from their wounds.
The Hollow King struggled, his body collapsing inward beneath the weight of the thirteen condemned.
Jarod watched as the creature disappeared into a shrinking circle of darkness.
Then silence filled the room.
The spirits began to fade.
Devin remained.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
Jarod lowered his axe.
“I helped kill some of them.”
“You carried out the sentences you were given.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
“No,” Devin replied. “It doesn’t.”
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Devin smiled sadly.
“Perhaps now you’ll ask questions before swinging that axe.”
And he vanished.
—
Three days later, Jarod stood before the Royal Council.
He presented the sealed records, Varrick’s confession as he remembered it, and the silver pendant.
The Council ordered an investigation.
The names of the twelve innocent prisoners were cleared.
Their families were notified.
And Jarod submitted his resignation.
The Chancellor stared at him.
“You’re one of the Crown’s finest executioners.”
Jarod shrugged.
“Apparently, I’ve developed an unfortunate habit of questioning whether people deserve to die.”
“What will you do now?”
Jarod considered the question.
He had spent most of his life carrying out the judgments of others.
Perhaps it was time to discover the truth for himself.
“Investigations,” he answered.
The Chancellor frowned.
“You’re not a magistrate.”
Jarod smiled beneath his executioner’s mask.
“No. I suspect that’s going to make me considerably more useful.”
That evening, Jarod returned to the graveyard.
Devin Macado’s coffin had been reburied beneath fresh earth.
A simple marker stood above it.
Jarod placed thirteen small stones around the grave.
One for each condemned soul.
Then he turned to leave.
Three knocks sounded beneath the earth.
Jarod stopped.
He stared at the grave.
“Don’t even think about it.”
Silence.
He took another step.
Three more knocks.
Jarod sighed and reached for his axe.
“Wonderful. Apparently, retirement is going to be complicated.”
Behind him, thirteen faint lights appeared between the gravestones.
And somewhere beneath the consecrated ground, something knocked back.
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