San Fernando Public Library

🌿Folklore Fridays: Back from the Dead—Waking up at your own funeral. A story from Caratal, Gasparillo (1940s)....................................
Jocelyn Trapp recalled a chilling tale from the 1940s her father would often tell, a story that had haunted her since childhood. Set in Caratal, Gasparillo... a quiet place with a restless past. A village that had seen more than its share of strange and unsettling occurrences since the Plein Palais Riots of 1832.....................................
It was about a man named Leonard, a shoemaker by trade, remembered by all as kind-hearted and generous.

"Deh used to call him Lennie," Jocelyn began, “Full name Leonard Wilkinson, an' he was a shoemaker. Everybody had known him as a good man. So when he died, a good bit of people an' more show up to de funeral in Caratal. It was big he say, plenty drummin', plenty singin'... de man was well loved.”

But as the celebration rose, one woman fell into fervent prayer. Her voice grew louder, trembling, until her body began to shake violently. She groaned and twitched, her cries piercing through the rhythm of the drums. Then, without warning, a scream tore through the air... a scream so sharp it silenced not only the mourners, but the drummers, and even the birds in the trees.

All eyes turned to the coffin.

"Yuh know Lennie get up!" Jocelyn remarked, " He sit up in his coffin lookin' like he jus' wake up from ah good sleep."

His eyes fluttered open, glazed and distant, his face a mask of confusion as though he had been wrenched back without warning. Gasps and shrieks erupted, people scattered in terror, stumbling over each other in their haste to flee. Some remained frozen in place, rooted in shock, unable to believe what they were seeing.

"After all that madness," Jocelyn continued, her eyes beaming, "I hear Lennie collapse later that day an' dead again... this time for true. People was frighten, vex, confuse, all kinda thing. Deh used to say he come back jus' to see who come his funeral."

The second funeral was nothing like the first. There was no music, no drumming, no celebration of his life. It was a hushed, uneasy gathering. This time, only his children came to lay him to rest, and even they said little.

Joycelyn shifted in her seat, a trace of sadness in her eyes as her tale wound to its close. It was clear she had relished every moment of telling it.

"Dad used to always bring it up, every so often. He had plenty stories, but this one always had me goin'. Maybe since it was so close to home." ...................................
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⏳Throwback: 1962—Texaco, Pointe-à-Pierre. In the distance, Naparima (San Fernando) Hill can be seen.

Photo found in our archives.
Photo Credit: TEXTRIN (1962)