chapter 1

Elisabeth had had a normal life. Until she was murdered by her father. Can she save the rest of her family before it's too late? And can she get help from the only person who believed she never left?

This is the story of how I died. Literally. It's not some “die and then come back to life” thing. Believe me, I wish that was how it happened. No, I'm dead. Perfectly. You probably think I'm my spirit or something. A ghost “not able to move on”. And you'd be right, I suppose. How am I suppose to move on when my body is still in that damned wooden box that he buried me in? Alive. That had been my worst fear too, when I was living. To be buried alive. Of course, he knew that. He knew all my fears.

I could remember it like it was yesterday. Maybe it was yesterday. Maybe it had been fifty years. Who knows? Time flies when you're dead. Anyway, I can picture it in my mind. His hand on my neck as I tried to resist his grimy hand that had been secured on my waist. Even though I was dead and I couldn't feel anything, I imagined the fear as he squeezed on my neck. So, even though I had known I should have been fighting, I didn't fight. If I didn't fight, he would have let go of my throat, right?

Correct!

He did let go of my throat. To blindfold me. To this day, I still don't understand why he did that. Was it to add fear of the unknown? Was it to shield me from what he was going to do? Was he seriously trying to protect me from seeing the harm he was going to inflict upon me? I doubted that. The man was sick and tortured in the head. He wouldn't have let me have any mercy.

I remember the knife coming to my throat threateningly. I remember him whispering into my ear, “Quiet now, Lissy. Not a sound or you die right here. You don't want that do you?”

His voice had been so gentle. So . . . fatherly.

As it should have been. Seeing how he was my father.

I touched my neck gently where the knife had pricked. Even in death, the little scar would always be there. As a reminder. A reminder that my job wasn't done. Not until my body was in a proper coffin. A coffin with a tomb stone with my name on it. That a*s hole had made it impossible.

“We're almost there, Lissy,” he had whispered into my ear. We had been deep into the woods by then. What a predictable plan. Every sadistic killer brought the girls into the woods. Oh great plan, Daddy. Great plan you had! Barry me alive in the woods. That's very creative.

So, in the woods, he had tied me to a tree. It had itched, and I moved a lot. He had screamed at me, telling me to stop trying to escape. I wanted to shout back. I wanted to show him that I wasn't afraid. I had always envisioned it that way. I had always thought that if I were ever stolen or attacked that I would stick up for myself and die brave.

But who could possibly act brave when it was someone you had loved hurting you?

I had cried like a little baby. “Dad,” I had whined. “Dad, please let me g-go!”

“I'm sorry Lissy, but I can't do that,” he had murmured in response. “Now if you don't stop crying, I'm going to have to duct tape your mouth shut. You don't want that do you?”

And I had stopped crying. Just. Like. That.

Now, you make think me foolish. Why would I stop? Why wouldn't I try to break free of my bonds? Why wouldn't I even scream for help? Well, it's quite simple really. There was a single reason for each and every questions. I stopped because some part of me had really believed that he would let me go. I hadn't tried to break free because they were too tight, and just moving caused pain. And I didn't scream for help because I was afraid he would drive that knife straight through my heart.

Sick images right?

I remember hearing the sound of digging. I remember knowing then how I was going to die. I could still imagine how my blood had run cold, and how I had stopped breathing all together. I had contemplated screaming out, hoping he would stab me instead. Stabbing had always been better in my eyes than being buried alive in the dirt.

“N-n-n-n-no!” I had cried. “Anything but this! Stab me, shoot me, anything but in the ground!”

“This is what's best for you, sweety,” he had soothed. The sound of ripping tape had been audible. “Don't be afraid, Lissy. It'll be nice and cozy.”

Nice and cozy. Huh. Maybe someone should shove him in a stinky wooden box to die deep in the ground. Hot. No air. No sight. The only thing that could possibly run through your mind down there in that box is how you're going to die. You're never going to get out. Not only that, you will die slowly. Nice. And. Slowly. Now how's that for nice and cozy?

He hadn't been gentle with putting the duct tape on. It had pinched my cheeks, making me want to cry out. It was like when I was little and my mom had put my hair up too tight. Of course, my mom had been nice and fixed it.

I couldn't even ask my dad to fix it for me.

The digging had continued for hours. I had imagined myself ripping myself out of my bonds and getting away. It was a stupid fantasy really. There had been absolutely no hope for me to escape. My whole body had been stuck to the stupid tree. Just the way he had wanted it. That stupid sicko.

I remember how mortified I had been when the digging had stopped. I had heard him trudging toward me. I had kept as still as I could, fighting not to cry. I will remember the words he spoke to me. The last words I had ever heard. “It's time, Lissy. Time for you to move on from this life and onto another. Don't worry, baby. Everyone will be joining you soon.”

I hadn't known what he meant then. It had distracted me. I had still been pondering it as he ripped the duct tape off my mouth and set me into a wooden box. By the time I had finally come back to the real world it had been too late. I was in the box, the lid was closed, and he was filling the hole.

I looked down at my hands and saw the bloody and chipped nails. I had tried to scratch my way out. I had been frantic, crying helplessly for him to let me out. He had simply smiled, waved, and continued his work.

Then everything had gone black.

Ha! You thought that was when I kicked the can didn't you? I like that term: kick the can. It's a total cliché, but hey, it's meaning is clear. Anyway, no that was not when I died. I didn't die for hours. It might have even been a day. I remember how suffocating it had been in there. I had barely noticed how my breaths were coming up shorter and shorter.

I wonder if he stood there, until I died. Probably not. One, how could he possibly know when I had been dead and gone if I was deep under ground? Two, he wasn't dumb enough to stick around in what would become a crime scene.

If only it had become a crime scene.

You see, my dad had always been bright. The cops never even looked through the woods. My father had wept to the idiotic police officers about how two men had stolen me. He had put on a show too. It had been quite irritating as I had observed from the living room.

My mother had been crying hysterically, gripping my father for comfort. I had tried to yell out to her, trying to protect her from the monster. But, of course, being dead wasn't the best for communication. She hadn't heard my pleas to move away, and only gripped him harder.

This is my story.

But I'm getting ahead of myself here.

Why don't we start from the very beginning, when I was, you know, alive?

Author's Note

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