The Writer and The Desk

A widowed writer lives alone in a weather-beaten cottage somewhere along the eastern coast.
Rain claws at the windows. Thunder rattles the bones of the house.
Candle's flicker like nervous witnesses while water drips steadily through the roof into a rusted pan beside his desk.

He has not written anything worth reading in years.

Then, sometime after dusk...

Someone is hammering on the door.

Three massive men stand in the storm in slickers, their hoods pulled low. Between them is a black tarp-covered object. His first thought is:

"Is it a coffin?"

He soon realizes it's his father's black writing desk, so heavy it leaves grooves in the mud.

They refuse to stay long.
Refuse to answer questions.
Refuse to touch the thing any longer than is necessary.

One mutters,
"Damn thing is heavy."

Another whispers,
"Damn thing is cold as a winter's day, it is."