Favorite Installation Artists

Saturday, October 24, 2009


One dark and foggy night, a man hurries home through deserted streets, his feet squelching on wet leaves with every step. His breath rushes out in front of him in a white stream as he wraps his arms tightly around himself trying to conserve the warmth inside his long wool trench coat. There are night sounds. The dripping rainwater is now turning to ice. Frozen twigs snap as the wind whistles through tight places.

At the edge of his hearing, he is aware of a small bumping sound growing steadily louder. Almost, but not quite, like a door left open that is blowing back and forth, slamming against its frame.

Bump, bump.......bump, bump.........bump, bump.......

Its more like someone in heavy boots, and its getting closer and louder still. The man feels the hair on his neck rise and he begins to walk much faster, as he turns to look behind him to see what is causing that horrible clumping. The icy air catches in his throat as he sees through the fog, the image of an upright wooden casket, banging right down the middle of the street toward him!

BUMP, bump......BUMP, bump........BUMP, bump.............

Terrified, the man turns and runs toward his house. but the casket keeps pace with him. He thinks of the safety of his home and tries to put more distance between him and the grotesque thing following him when he suddenly hears a slamming noise. Over his shoulder his watches in horror as the casket lid bangs open and shut, revealing the grotesque thing inside.

BUMP, BANG!.......BUMP, BANG!..........BUMP, BANG!........

The man races to his front porch, fumbles the key in the lock, then wrenches open the door and leaps across the threshold, slamming and locking it behind him. He stands with his back against the heavy door, his chest heaving as his gasps for breath. The thing in the casket is on the porch! It crashes through the door, knocking the man forward. He takes the stairs three at a time, desperate for any sanctuary from the unspeakable monstrosity in the casket following him up the stairs.


He locks himself in the bathroom and looks around desperately for something, anything, to use against the cadaverous thing slamming through the door and stretching out its hands for him. The smell of wet earth and rotted flesh is all around him when SCREAMS and SCREAMS and SCREAMS erupt from his throat. His thrashing hands grab the first thing he feels and he hurls the cough syrup at the specter facing him when.............

(........get ready.........)

The Coffin Stops.


(Although I would happily acknowledge the author of this idea, I do not know who that is; it has been making the rounds for years. The considerable verbal embellishments and use of stock photos are all mine.)

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