Every design starts as a small haunting in my head that won't leave until I make it. I illustrate each one myself, laser cut it from acrylic, and then spend an unholy amount of time on everything that comes after. The details are built through inlay work, with engraving where the finer lines live, and every edge is hand-polished to a standard best described as possessed. 

Every good haunting needs a proper burial plot. The coffin box is a template I designed from scratch and assemble by hand from 100lb linen paper. I tested an indefensible number of papers, glues, and tapes — archival quality, of course — because I'm dead set on this box outliving me. It isn't packaging. It's a proper resting place for the eleven months your ornament isn't haunting a tree.

As for where this one came from: I've never quite recovered from Halloween parties in elementary school. The cheap little trinkets handed out in goodie bags, the ones that broke by November and somehow still felt like treasure — consider this their resurrection. Same nostalgia, better materials, and no risk of it resting in pieces by Thanksgiving.

That's the whole point, really. I make these to be heirlooms — the ornament that rises every December, gets fought over at length, and eventually haunts the next generation of your family. Which also means no two are identical. Small variations and minor imperfections come with the territory when a person makes something instead of a machine, and I have yet to be replaced by one.

Pricing reflects that: quality materials I refuse to cut corners on, and the hours it takes to make each one by hand. The graveyard shift is not a figure of speech around here. Nothing is mass-produced, including the box.