Ray Bradbury Stories, Volume 1 by Ray Bradbury

closet! There was a sound of a body dancing and cavorting. There was a thudding of flesh and fists. There was a squeaking and a kind of wind from a frightened man’s lungs. There was a rustling like paper and a shrilling as of many pipes simultaneously played. Then there was a real fine scream. Then—silence.
    Richard Braling lay in the coffin and relaxed. He let loose all his muscles. He began to chuckle. The smell of the box was not unpleasant. Through the little perforations he drew more than enough air to live on, comfortably. He need only push gently up with his hands, with none of this kicking and screaming, and the lid would open. One must be calm. He flexed his arms.
    The lid was locked.
    Well, still there was no danger. Rogers would be up in a minute or two. There was nothing to fear.
    The music began to play.
    It seemed to come from somewhere inside the head of the coffin. It was green music. Organ music, very slow and melancholy, typical of Gothic arches and long black tapers. It smelled of earth and whispers. It echoed high between stone walls. It was so sad that one almost cried listening to it. It was music of potted plants and crimson and blue stained-glass windows. It was late sun at twilight and a cold wind blowing. It was a dawn with only fog and a faraway fog horn moaning.
    ‘Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, you old fool you! So this is your odd coffin!’ Tears of laughter welled into Richard’s eyes. ‘Nothing more than a coffin which plays its own dirge. Oh, my sainted grandma!’
    He lay and listened critically, for it was beautiful music and there was nothing he could do until Rogers came up and let him out. His eyes roved aimlessly, his fingers tapped soft little rhythms on the satin cushions. He crossed his legs idly. Through the glass lid he saw sunlight shooting through the French windows, dust particles dancing on it. It was a lovely blue day.
    The sermon began.
    The organ music quieted and a gentle voice said:
    ‘We are gathered together, those who loved and those who knew the deceased, to give him our homage and our due—’
    ‘Charlie, bless you, that’s your voice!’ Richard was delighted. ‘A mechanical funeral, by God. Organ music and lecture. And Charlie giving his own oration for himself!’
    The soft voice said. ‘We who knew and loved him are grieved at the passing of—’
    ‘What was that? ’ Richard raised himself, startled. He didn’t quite believe what he had heard. He repeated it to himself just the way he had heard it:
    ‘We who knew and loved him are grieved at the passing of Richard Braling.’
    That’s what the voice had said.
    ‘Richard Braling,’ said the man in the coffin. ‘Why. I’m Richard Braling.’
    A slip of the tongue, naturally. Merely a slip. Charlie had meant to say ‘Charles’ Braling. Certainly. Yes. Of course. Yes. Certainly. Yes. Naturally. Yes.
    ‘Richard was a fine man,’ said the voice, talking on. ‘We shall see no finer in our time.’
    ‘My name again!’
    Richard began to move about uneasily in the coffin.
    Why didn’t Rogers come?
    It was hardly a mistake, using that name twice. Richard Braling. Richard Braling. We are gathered here. We shall miss—We are grieved. No finer man. No finer in our time. We are gathered here. The deceased. Richard Braling. Richard Braling.
    Whirrrr. Spung!
    Flowers! Six dozen bright blue, red, yellow, sun-brilliant flowers leaped up from behind the coffin on concealed springs!
    The sweet odor of fresh-cut flowers filled the coffin. The flowers swayed gently before his amazed vision, tapping silently on the glass lid. Others sprang up until the coffin was banked with petals and color and sweet odors. Gardenias and dahlias and daffodils, trembling and shining.
    ‘Rogers!’
    The sermon continued.
    ‘—Richard Braling, in his life, was a connoisseur of great and good things—’
    The music sighed, rose and fell, distantly.
    ‘Richard Braling savored of life, as one savors of a rare wine, holding it