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been accidentally buried alive.
    It was the storm. The wind.
    He listened.
    There it was again; the sound of a bell,
clear even over the rain and distant thunder. He picked up his
candle lantern and jogged toward the widow’s grave. The ringing
stopped as he neared. He stood, waiting.
    There. It rang again. Amund dropped to his
knees to examine the bell. Did the wind cause this? The bell was
enclosed on all sides, with only a hole for a cord to reach into
the bell’s housing, and a few other strategically placed holes for
amplification.
    Amund pinched the bell cord lightly between
his thumb and index fingers.
    He felt a slight tug. Good God!
    He let go of the cord, stood and ran to the
church as the sound of the coffin bell grew more and more urgent.
He rushed up the steps of the three-story bell tower. He pulled on
the thick rope and rang the large church bell until he felt a tap
on his back. Amund whirled around.
    “ Easy, boy. Easy.” It was Pastor Blom
accompanied by a handful of men.
    “ The coffin bell,” Amund said
breathlessly. “The widow Ingebretson – ringing! ”
    “ Settle down.”
    “ You have to believe me.”
    Pastor Blom turned to the men. “Shovels!” he
demanded. “Start digging. Hurry, now!”
    The men hurried off.
    The pastor said to Amund. “You’re absolutely
sure it was the widow Ingebretson? You weren’t dreaming it?”
    “ I swear to you,” Amund
said.
    The pastor patted Amund on the shoulder. “Go
rest yourself. I’ll have Mrs. Blom pour you a pint.”
    Amund sat on the stone floor of the narthex,
witness to the dawn slowly illuminating the large, stained glass
window over the back door. The pint of weak beer did little to calm
his nerves, and he decided to go back outside and check on the
progress of the diggers. More townsfolk had arrived, curious as to
what they’d find. Was there to be another miracle? It would have to
be a real miracle this time, if the widow turned up
alive.
    The town’s banker, Mr. Thune, finally struck
wood. “Here!” he said
    An excited murmur ran through the crowd. The
digging crew cleared the top and edges of the coffin with renewed
vigor. Someone tossed Thune an axe. He struck at the lid with the
blade.
    “ Careful,” someone shouted. “She may
be alive in there.”
    Thune got down on hands and knees and
shouted at the coffin. “Mrs. Ingebretson, if you can hear me, stay
clear of the lid. I’m going to chop through it.” He jumped back to
his feet and took another couple whacks until he’d cracked through
the lid. Again, he dropped to his knees and put his mouth to the
crack. “Mrs. Ingebretson, can you hear me?”
    He tried looking through the crack. “I can’t
see!” He stood and took a few more swings, widening the crack.
“Mrs. Ingebretson!” He dropped to his hands and knees again and
peered into the crack. The crowd waited silently above.
    He stood up, a queer look on his face.
“She’s gone,” he said.
    “ You mean she’s dead,” undertaker Ruen
said.
    “ No,” Thune said, shaking his head. “I
mean she’s not there.”
    A gasp went through the crowd, and then
there was talking and shouting. Undertaker Ruen jumped down onto
the cracked coffin lid. “Impossible!” he said. “I put her under
myself!” He got down onto his stomach and peered through the crack.
“Sweet Jesus,” he muttered. “The axe!” he demanded. “Hand me the
axe!”
    Thune handed the axe over. Ruen splintered
apart the coffin lid until there was a large enough opening for all
to see.
    It was perplexing. Horrifying. The bottom of
the coffin had been broken through, the bedding that the widow had
laid on torn to shreds. There was dirt mixed with the bedding, and
in the center a depression, as if a hole had caved in beneath.
    “ What the hell kind of undertaker are
you?” roared Thune.
    “ How dare you?” Ruen responded. “You
think I – ”
    “ Gentlemen!” cried Pastor Blom. “I’ve
seen Ruen’s work, I watched the widow’s burial.