Buried Alive: The Echoes Beneath

The sun had just slipped behind the horizon, draping the village in shades of rust and violet. A cold wind brushed past me, whispering secrets through the dry leaves, as I walked briskly along a seldom-used path. My shortcut home passed dangerously close to the graveyard — a place even the bravest avoided once the sky darkened.

Tonight, however, I had no choice.

As I neared the low stone boundary, something unusual caught my attention. It wasn’t the rustling of trees or the call of an owl. It was a sound I couldn’t name — a faint moan, soaked in agony, carried on the wind. I froze. Every instinct screamed at me to run. But something deeper — perhaps fate — held me in place.

Then, another sound: a dull, rhythmic thud. It echoed like a heartbeat under the earth.

Driven by an indescribable force, I climbed over the wall. The graveyard was older than the village itself, its stones worn and weeping with moss. As I ventured deeper, the sounds became clearer — moans, gasps, desperate thuds.

They came from a freshly dug grave.

I knelt beside it. A simple wooden plaque bore a name I recognized: Zainab. A young girl, no older than twenty, recently declared dead after being struck by lightning. The village had mourned her sudden loss — I remembered the somber procession.

But now, her grave was alive with movement.

I whispered, “Hello?” My voice cracked in the silence.

The earth shifted.

From behind a twisted tree, a hunched figure emerged — Old Man Qasim, the graveyard keeper. His eyes met mine, tired and hollow.

“You heard it too?” he rasped. “It’s Zainab. She won’t stay quiet.”

My breath caught. “What do you mean?”

“They say her spirit’s trapped. Been like this since we buried her.”

Just then, the soil shifted again — violently. A small fissure formed in the mound. I reached forward, brushing away the loose earth with trembling hands. And then I heard it — a gasp. Wet. Real. Alive.

Qasim and I dug with frantic urgency. The earth flew from our hands. And then — we saw it. A hand. Pale. Clawing upward.

With all our strength, we pulled open the cheap wooden coffin.

And there she was.

Zainab. Her wide, terror-filled eyes met mine. She gasped, choking on the stale air. She was weak, shaking, filthy — but alive.

We lifted her out, her fragile body barely responding. She was rushed to the doctor — a young woman from the city. Shocked, the doctor examined her and unraveled the truth.

Zainab had never died.

The lightning strike had induced a coma so deep her breathing and heartbeat had slowed beyond detection. The villagers, terrified by her sudden collapse, mistook her state for death. Bound by custom and fear, they buried her within hours.

But Zainab’s body had fought. Deep beneath the soil, she regained consciousness. Trapped. Alone. Suffocating.

Her sounds — the thuds, the moans — were cries for help.

The village reeled with guilt. The miracle of her survival was shadowed by the horror of what could have been. Zainab’s story became legend — not just of fear, but of awakening, of listening closely to the things we dismiss.

As for me, I never took that shortcut again. But I still hear it, sometimes — the echo of her whispers beneath the ground.

A reminder that sometimes, the dead are not dead at all.