She Was Buried Alive... And Survived

Title: She Was Buried Alive... And Survived

The last thing I remember is my sister’s wedding. I wore navy blue. My hair curled perfectly for once. I danced, laughed, drank one glass of champagne. One. Then everything went black.

I woke up in silence so complete it buzzed. No light. No sound. No space. I tried to move. My elbows hit wood. My knees hit my chest. My breath bounced back at me in the stale, suffocating air.

That’s when I knew. I was in a box.

A coffin.

I screamed. Kicked. Punched. My fingers clawed at the wood above me. Splinters shredded my skin, and I felt blood dripping down my wrists. But the worst part?

The air.

There wasn’t enough of it.

Time blurred. Could’ve been minutes. Could’ve been hours. Every breath burned. Every sound of my heartbeat pounded in my ears louder than my thoughts.

Then… a muffled noise. A vibration. Someone was digging. I froze. Relief hit first. Then fear. Who was digging? And why now? Wood cracked.

Light burst through in a jagged line. Then a face. Not someone I recognized. Not a man. A woman, around my age. Dark eyes. Calm—too calm. She reached in, gripped my arm, and pulled me out like I weighed nothing.

I collapsed onto wet earth. Gasping. Covered in dirt and blood. The air felt too sharp in my lungs. My hands trembled. I looked up at her. “W-where... how did you find me?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then she knelt beside me and said: “You weren’t supposed to wake up.”

I didn’t go home. I ran. I ran through the woods until my legs gave out. A truck driver found me near dawn, barefoot, filthy, half-conscious. He called the police. They couldn’t find a burial site. No disturbed soil. No signs of a grave. Not even footprints.

They found my purse in a dumpster 20 miles away. My blood alcohol? Zero. But I’d been drugged.

They asked me if I had enemies. A stalker. Someone who might want to hurt me. I didn’t. Not then.

It’s been six months. I’ve moved cities. Changed my name.

But sometimes, when I close my eyes, I hear the scraping of fingernails against wood. Sometimes I dream of the woman’s face—those dark eyes like bottomless wells.

Two nights ago, I found a small box at my door.

Inside?

A handful of damp soil... and one of my fingernails.

There was a note.

“You were awake too early last time. We fixed that. See you soon.”