Story 1229: Buried Alive

Lena awoke coughing dirt from her mouth.

Her arms were pinned above her head, wrists scraped raw from the rope that bound her to the wooden post. Cold soil filled her boots, and something small and sharp crawled down the back of her neck.

Around her: darkness. The smell of rot. Damp, enclosed space.

Then—chanting. Muffled, rhythmic. Just above her.

She was underground.

Buried alive.

She screamed, but the sound bounced back at her. Muffled by the dirt-packed ceiling of the pit. She tried to kick, but her feet were caught in a tangle of old bones and viscera.

A coffin? No. A crypt.

The walls pulsed faintly—veins of some organic growth embedded in the clay. They moved like they were breathing. Feeding. Listening.

“You were chosen,” came a whisper from the earth itself.

“Shut up,” Lena hissed. “You’re not real.”

“You carry the silence of the old world. But silence is not death. It is rebirth.”

She thrashed. Pain spiked down her spine. Then—click.