In a wide open field not far from Rawensgrym town, there were five massive stone coffins — they stood tall, raised up in a large circle. Each coffin was about four meters apart, and curiously nothing grew in the middle of the circle. It was said that whoever could open one of the coffins would find a door to what they desire the most. There was none to confirm this because if anyone did manage to open a coffin they would most likely not be around to tell the tale, at least that’s what people claimed. So the tale kept being just that — a tale. 

It was a cold morning, Cavan could see his breath like steam from a hot kettle. He zipped up his dark brown jacket and pulled on a pair of maroon leather gloves, his fingers shivered in the autumn breeze. His short dark brown hair fell into his pale face as he got onto the bicycle – it was time for the morning rounds, the newspapers were not going to deliver themselves – however much he wished they would. 

He cycled slowly through town, feeling every bump of the cobblestone streets. He tossed a newspaper at one of the brick houses now and then – every morning was the same. He wished he had chosen warmer clothes, the cold nipped at him all the way to the end of the road. 

“Cold today isn’t it, Cavan?” Mrs. Roland, the old lady at the last house, said in the most nonchalant manner as she stood waiting for the newspaper. 

He nodded, “Yeah, it’s freezin’, Mrs. Roland.” 

She sniggered and snatched the newspaper before hurrying up the steps to her house, “You should move to the city. Get a better job for yourself.” 

Cavan sighed and turned his bicycle around, she always said the same thing, and he always thought the same thing; “I wish I could.”

He cycled towards the small town centre and stopped outside the local pub, it’s red exterior seemed to brighten up the otherwise dull brick facade. He got off the bicycle, pushed his hair back as he squinted his eyes and gazed inside. The pub was already full of tourists eating breakfast, they all flocked there to see the stone coffins. Cavan couldn't blame them, it was probably the only interesting thing about Rawensgrym. He opened the door and stepped inside, the warmth hit him like an embrace as he entered. He removed his gloves and placed himself at the bar. 

“Cavan, the usual, eh?” Ben asked with a grin, golden curls danced around as he spoke. 

Cavan nodded, not giving any smiles – he had hated Ben since primary school. 

Ben didn’t seem to notice his lack of smiles, pouring him the usual cup of coffee. Cavan gripped the warm cup and stared into it, the fingers on his other hand traced the wood on the counter. He needed to get back to his father soon, to make sure he took his medicine. 

“How’s your dad these days?” The old man next to him suddenly squeaked. 

Cavan looked up from his coffee, “Oh. He’s alright I suppose. Same, which is better than worse.” 

The old man gave him a toothed smile, “Hear hear.” He raised his morning pint, “Careful not to pass any more bad luck to him.”  

A small crack formed in the old man’s pint, Cavan got up from his seat fast, “I- Um… I have to get going, excuse me, Mr. Denison.” 

He slipped out of the pub, into the cold again. His breath was visible the moment he stepped outside. A distinctly familiar feeling rose inside of him again, the feeling of not belonging. He had never belonged. Always the odd one out in every setting of this small town. The strange things that happened around him didn’t help one bit. Cavan had lived in Rawensgrym for as long as he could remember, his parents had adopted him when he was one, but it had always been apparent that he was not a normal child. Things would break, glass would shatter, something would go wrong. 

“He’s bad luck.” Is what they all had told him at different points in his life, even his parents. 

Perhaps he was bad luck. His mother had died in a terrible accident when he was eleven. His father had gotten ill and required constant care. Cavan did quite a few odd jobs, delivering newspapers, painting houses, showing tourists around at the stone coffins – whatever jobs came his way – he was not choosy as long as he had time to care for his ill father. He couldn’t get anyone to hire him for a proper job anyway. 

He kicked a small pebble as he pushed his bicycle along. He felt it surging through him; the hate for this small town. They had all collectively decided he was bad luck. Which had made Cavan himself decide he was bad luck. 

“I’ll show ‘em back luck,” he huffed and threw his bicycle onto the lawn in front of his house.

“I’m home dad,” Cavan shouted as he entered the house. 

The house always seemed dark; brown dated wallpaper and dark wood floors, furniture which had been in the family for at least a hundred years. Cavan went to his father’s bedroom, the old man was still fast asleep. 

“I suppose I’ll let him sleep in,” Cavan mumbled and went to the living room. 

He fell back into the brown corduroy sofa, it smelled like cigarettes and cologne. The tv was a big old box, his father hated modern technology. Cavan flicked through the channels – morning tv was the worst, a tirade of people talking about meaningless things like flowers and cakes – he quickly turned it off and stared up at the ceiling. That feeling from earlier remained inside of him. He wished he knew where he came from; who or what he was… The window started cracking, little by little. He took a deep breath and pushed it all deep inside again. 

“Cavan?” He heard his father from the bedroom. 

“Comin’,”he replied. 

He knew what he wanted to do. That night itself. 

And the night came creeping slowly, Cavan wrapped himself up in warm clothes and stepped outside. It seemed even colder than before. He didn’t care at that moment, the bicycle taking him back toward the pub. He pulled his thick scarf up high and covered his mouth. Music and laughter escaped from the pub into the street. Cavan stared through the window, an old woman danced by herself next to the bar. 

“Hey, it’s bad luck Cavan.” He heard someone shouting from across the street. 

People he had gone to school with. Cavan was sure they had moved away for college or university. 

“I hear you’re still stuck here, working the newspaper delivery,” the young man laughed mockingly. 

Cavan sighed and stared at the three young men, they were obviously drunk, "Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s true.” 

The three of them all laughed and crossed the street, “You’re hilarious, bad luck Cavan.” 

“I am?” He felt bewildered by their statement.

A cold wind hit his face, the stars twinkled above, their breaths were like fog as they stood together. “Come have a drunk with us. We’re gonna, we’re gonna…” He trailed off and stared at Cavan. 

“Go down to them coffins,” one of the other three slurred and put his arm around Cavan. 

“Yeah, come with us, bad luck.” The other two said in unison. 

Cavan was puzzled, but followed them as they walked. He wasn’t sure why he went with them, or why they would ask him to come with them. Either way it had made him forget all about what he was going to do that night. 

“Look at the stars, they’re fantastic,” one of them shouted out as he spun around on the street. 

Cavan gazed up, the stars were quite fantastic that night. He wanted to reach out and touch them all.  

The stone coffins were not far outside town, a twenty minute walk. The three young men stumbled into the circle and took out a few bottles of booze. Cavan stopped at one of the stone coffins, it seemed to tower over him. He came there a lot for work, but somehow it was different at night. They seemed more ominous somehow, these massive, solid rocks, shaped like coffins. 

Each stone coffin was covered by a set of runes which everyone seemed to have trouble deciphering. The runes seemed nonsensical to all the scholars and researchers. Cavan found them beautiful. His fingers traced the lines, the rough stone surface. How long had they been in this very place? Thousands of years? No one seemed to be sure of that either. Solid rocks shaped life coffins. No openings. No doorways to fulfil your deepest desires. 

“Hey, bad luck, remember when Joe fell out of the window?” One of the three asked Cavan. 

“What?” He turned and looked at them. 

“Was bad luck wasn’t it?” The other one said. 

“He was clumsy,” Cavan muttered. 

“Nah. Everyone knew it was you.” 

Cavan swallowed hard, “It was not.” 

One of them came closer and shoved Cavan back against the stone coffin, “Liar.”

“Get lost.” Cavan shoved him back. 

“Don’t shove our friend.” The other two came closer, “How about some bad luck for bad luck Cavan.” 

“Piss off,” Cavan hissed, ready to fight them if he had to. 

They shoved him again, harder against the stone coffin, “The town doesn’t need you.” 

Cavan shoved back. One of them fell hard into the ground. Cavan could hear something cracking. A bottle shattered in another one’s hand. 

“Stop it.” The third one shoved Cavan harder. His head thumped into the stone coffin. 

Was it bleeding? Cavan felt dizzy. He saw the expression in the young man’s eyes, what was his name again? Cavan had forgotten. He saw them all scramble and run. 

Was it that bad? He let out a small groan as the pain hit him.  

Memories of school days resurfaced in his mind, the same boys poking and teasing. He reached his hand behind and touched the back of his head, it was wet. He looked down at his hand, covered in blood. 

Cavan felt sick. Bile rose in his throat. He fell to his knees as his stomach seemed to turn upside down and threaten to empty itself all over the ground. Why was he like this? Why did he go with them?

He heard a loud cracking sound again, but not glass this time, it was the sound of rock cracking. Cavan turned around slowly, only to see the stone coffin open up wide to him with a loud rumble. Stairs that seemed to lead upward emerged inside.

“What?” Cavan gazed from side to side, “I must have hit my head really hard.” 

“Welcome.” A clear female voice boomed from inside the stone coffin, “You may enter, young one. Your desires have been deemed worthy.”