This was back when live burials were common. Bells would often be placed above a grave with a string leading into the coffin so a person could ring for help should they wake up from a deep sleep, buried. Alive. Bells were made of metal, though, and not so easy to come by—and it certainly was not cheap in those days as there were wars going on and metal was needed for bullets. John, being a stingy man, refused to pay for a bell in the case of his burial.

     “I’ll be dead,” John said gruffly to the attorney helping John write his living will. “What need would I have of making music?”

     “Very good, sir,” the attorney said looking oddly pleased as he jotted a note down.

     With that, the two finished for the night. John’s office was all but buried in paperwork because of the time he had taken off to work on that blasted last will-and-testament. By the time he finally got out of the office the sun had set. He realized he hadn’t seen the sun all day, being cooped up in the office as he was, discussing the grim topic of his inevitable death.

      John decided to walk home since the trains had stopped running for the night and he refused to pay for a carriage. He passed a hungry looking child and though his pockets were full of more coins than he could spend in a month, he didn’t give the child any money with which to buy food to eat. John simply flicked a coin in the air and caught it again. The boy’s hungry eyes followed it as John placed it back in his pocket.

      John laughed and said, “Get a job, boy.” He passed closed businesses and dark houses until he heard a gathering just ahead. Just down at the bottom of a very large flight of stairs there was a party going on. Wasting coin on food and drink for rotten company and music—John scoffed. He’d never spend a penny on entertainment.

       The city bells tolled to signal that it was midnight. The sound startled John. His loafers had little grip, so when he came upon a puddle just before a steep set of stairs, he slipped, distracted by the loud bells. He stumbled and tumbled and plummeted down those stairs. For so long he fell that he was met with the blackness before hitting the bottom. He was knocked out cold.

      Those who saw and the doctor, too, must’ve thought John was dead, for he awoke in a small wooden box. It was too dark to see that it was wood, but he could feel it with his finger tips: the grains, the knots, the solidness of it. He’d picked the coffin out himself just the week before, so he knew it at once. It was cheap and bare.  Suddenly it set in: the realization that he had been buried alive!

     Hours passed, or so it seemed. It felt like so very long with so very little to do. Every now and then, John would shout for help, but thought better of it after a few tries. No one would hear through six feet of dirt and he’d just waste his air. The only sounds John could hear were his breathing and the twiddling of his thumbs. Besides this there was only silence.

      He thought the silence was the worst part—worse than the cold, worse than the hard walls that hugged his shoulders too tightly—that is until he heard the slinking of wet bodies and the nibbles of toothless mouths at the coffin walls. As time wore on, he heard more of the sounds. Wet, disgusting sounds and nibbling. Every so often John heard the loud crack of splitting wood. He feared that the earth would collapse on him at any moment.

     After a particularly loud crack he heard a light, soggy slap on the coffin floor. Then another, then two more, and so on. He felt small, slimy bodies climbing up his arms and onto his chest, and then, to John’s great surprise, they spoke.

      “We are the worms and we’ve come to feast on your flesh!”

     “Please don’t!” John said, terrified, for he could not move in so tight a space. “I’ll give you money.”

     “Money! Money! What use have we of money?” they sang in chorus.

     “I’ll give you my time, then.”

     “Your time?” they asked, confused. John could hear one stifle a laugh.

     “Yes,” he said. “I’m a lawyer, an important man up there.” He tried to point up, but couldn’t in the tight space. “If you wish to sue someone I can lend you my ear and my advice. Time is money after all!”

     “Pff!” The worms spit mouthfuls of dirt and wood on John’s face. “Money! Money! We have no use of money!”

     “What, then?” John asked the worms. “What do you want?”

     “We want to devote our time to your soft flesh. It’s the only thing of any value that you have left down here.”

     John had saved a lot of money—never being charitable, never paying for luxury or entertainment, or even a hot meal with friends—and now it would do him no good. He hadn’t even fond memories to look back on to distract him as he was devoured. He wished he had spent the money on the coffin bell after all. At the very least.

     He screamed a few times before he realized once more that no one would hear. It was then that he heard it: the bells. Tiny, muffled tings. The whole rest of the graveyard seemed to be resounding with the bells. They pealed with their calls for help. It was a lot of graves to dig up and the gravedigger wouldn’t think to unbury John with so many bells all ringing out at once. Perhaps the bells wouldn’t bring help at all. Perhaps the others had wasted money on them. Perhaps, John thought, not without a little cruel pleasure, the others were just making music to fall on deaf ears.

     No, that wasn’t quite true. The worms would have music to eat to. In any case, John thought, the bells tolled for him.