From the Grave
Grit slid beneath my fingernails as I pushed hard soil off my face. Cracking open a coffin was one thing. Digging six feet below the surface was another thing altogether.. Each press of my palm brought another layer of dirt on my face making it more difficult to see in the dark space. The dirt was more compact the further down I was but began to muddy toward my exit. Hands slipped and struggled to find purchase.
That damn witch really did put a hex on me.
I shook my head, searching my pockets for anything useful. They should have buried me with a damn candle. Or at least a lighter. What was the point of dying from lung cancer if I didn’t have one in my pocket?