COFFIN THIEVES CURSE: THE DAY WE STOLE A COFFIN FROM THE GRAVES… OUR BLADDERS STOPPED BELONGING TO US
I work in a mortuary, and for many years, we have been doing something that none of us are proud of. Something we whispered about only in locked rooms and dark corners. Something that we always knew was wrong, cursed, and dangerous — but greed can blind the wisest man, and poverty can push anyone into the kind of darkness you only read about.
For years, whenever a client bought a very expensive coffin, we would wait until the night after the burial. At midnight, after the cemetery gates were locked and the world was asleep, we would go back with shovels, torches, and gloves. We would dig up the fresh grave, push aside the soil, open the coffin, move the body into the cheapest coffin in our parlour, and then secretly resell the expensive one to the next wealthy family.
It became a business within a business.
A silent income.
A secret hustle.
We told ourselves that the dead don’t care. That coffins don’t matter underground. That no one would ever know. And for years, we were right. No family ever suspected a thing. No one ever caught us. We became experts — professional thieves of the dead.
Until this year.
A few months ago, an elderly man passed away. His family loved him deeply, and they insisted on burying him in one of our most expensive coffins — the one that cost R98 000. It was beautiful, polished, imported, and crafted like royalty would be buried in it. The moment we saw that sale, we already knew we were going back for it.
As usual, the night after the burial, we went to the cemetery like we always did. The moon was faint, the wind was sharp, and everything felt heavier than normal — but we ignored the signs. We dug up the grave, lifted the coffin, removed the body, and placed him in a R7 000 coffin.
To us, it was just another job.
But it became the last one we will ever do.
From the very next morning, our lives flipped upside down.
Every one of us who touched that grave… all of us… started experiencing something we couldn’t explain. A curse that sticks to the body like a shadow, something you can't wash away with water or prayer. Every night, without warning, we urinate on ourselves in our sleep. Grown men — fathers, husbands — waking up in soaked beds like toddlers. Some of us sleep next to our wives, and the shame is unbearable.
During the day it’s worse.
We can be walking in a mall, sitting in a taxi, standing in a queue — and suddenly our bladders release by themselves. The urine runs down our legs, our clothes get soaked, people stare, and some even move away from us. We have lost control of our own bodies. It is like something else is controlling our bladder.
But this is nothing compared to what happens on the 10th of every month.
On that day, without fail, we all wake up with muddy feet. Our toenails filled with wet soil. Our hands shaking. Our bodies sore as if we’ve been digging the whole night. Our beds smell of dirt. Our clothes look like we were crawling on the ground. And all of us — every single one — dream the exact same dream:
We are in the cemetery.
Digging.
Digging.
Digging.
Trying to reach that same grave again.
But when we wake up, the mud is real. The soil is fresh. The dread feels like it’s stuck in our bones.
That’s when everything became clear.
This wasn’t guilt.
This wasn’t coincidence.
This wasn’t nightmares.
This was a curse.
A curse from the last man we disturbed.
We gathered our courage and went to the old man’s family to confess everything. We expected to be shouted at, chased away, maybe even arrested. But their calmness terrified us more than anger ever could. They simply said:
“Return the coffin and ask for forgiveness. Then things will go back to normal.”
We did exactly that. We returned the coffin. We apologised. We begged. We cried. We knelt on the ground like children asking for mercy.
But nothing changed.
The curse stayed.
The urine still flows whenever it wants.
The nightmares continue.
The 10th of each month haunts us like a deadline to hell.
Some of us are losing our marriages.
Some are losing their jobs.
Some can’t even leave the house without wearing adult diapers.
The shame is killing us slowly.
We write this confession with trembling hands and broken spirits, not for attention or gossip, but because we need help. Desperate help. If anyone knows what this means — spiritually, traditionally, or otherwise — please guide us. We are reading every comment, trying every suggestion, hoping something will save us.
Please do not judge us.
We have judged ourselves more harshly than anyone else ever could.
We just want our dignity back.
We just want sleep without nightmares.
We just want dry beds.
We just want our lives back.
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