This will be posted in several parts.
Short Story: Horror? Psychological Vampire Thing
I hear the shifting of earth above me and think little of it. I’ve long ago quit the attempt to escape my coffin. The marks from my fingernails on the lid are old and worn, etched a million times over in the rotten wood. I once managed to fracture a board in the side of the box, splintering it and letting a small amount of dirt trickle in, but that was my greatest achievement in my fight against the grave that imprisoned me. As the centuries passed, I grew weaker, my will dissolved, and though my ravenous hunger for something I could not identify did not diminish, I learned to live with it.
The sounds above me intensify. I think perhaps I am dreaming, as I used to dream so long ago of digging through the earth with my hands to emerge into the surface. I do still have hazy memories of grass and sun and the faces of people I once knew so well, but they’re only shadows in my mind. Cold and without detail. Certainly I have not always lain in the ground. Surely.
Smeared Black Ink 