Knock on the Coffin Lid — rain is knocking on the coffin lid, the wagon bounces on the bumps of a village road, a gloomy charioteer spurs horses to catch it before dark before the ghouls go hunting, and looks displeasedly at the edge of the visible forest, hearing a wolf howl. An unremarkable wooden coffin, like the three others before it, remains in a cold crypt and a gray-haired middle-aged man in a dark mantle passes a bag of coins into the driver’s hand, which the latter hides grumbling in his bosom and, with his free hand, makes a protection gesture from the evil eye and rushes to the wagon in a hurry to leave home.