Biomortem

What would you do if you woke up and you were buried alive?

In the 1800’s there was a bell by every grave. The bell attached to a string leading underground into the coffin beneath.

Because medicine was not a strong suit of the 1800’s, it was not uncommon for a person to be buried alive, even if barely alive. The bell was for these poor victims to ring should this happen to them.

So it was a cold November day when the priest of the fair town of Fairview went out to the graveyard for his morning walk. He had stopped to smell a flower or pet a stray dog that lived near the church, I am not really sure which, and stopped short when he heard the ringing: the faint ding...ding...ding from the left hand corner. He rushed to the other side to investigate amongst the weeds.

He couldn’t be sure that there was really a problem, as sometimes children would play tricks from the neighborhood nearby, or the wind would catch hold of a bell. But sure enough, it appeared to be coming from the headstone in the corner, whose label read Elizabeth Phagan.

“Miss!” he cried. “Are you okay, miss?”

There was no reply for a moment, then: “Yes, yes! I’m alive! Why wouldn't I be? Please bring me up its stifling down here!” The priest hesitated.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but you were buried three Februarys ago. It’s November now, so whatever you are,” he took out a pocketknife, “you’re no longer human, and you're sure as hell not coming back up here.” The priest cut the string attached to the bell and stuffed the bell and the pocketknife back into his pocket.

He hurried back to the church, the bell’s muffled ringing echoing in the cold air. And the little graveyard has been quiet ever since that day.

_ _ _ _ _

Fairview Graveyard, 150-200ish years later

    She woke with a start.

It was exceptionally dark. She sat up to find where she was-THUMP. Pain echoed throughout her head. Confusion: what did she bump her head on? What could this possibly be above her head? She felt around to her right for a lantern or anything of use. CRACK. A shooting pain rushed down her arm. She reached out to the left and tried to stretch to the bottom of her bed. Thump, thump. Now that she thought about it, her back lay on something hard and uncomfortable. And when she sat up, she couldn’t even completely elevate without slamming her head into whatever enclosed her. She began to panic, what could have happened to her? Where was she?

Whatever it is, she reasoned, it’s probably not going to be easy to get out of. She felt around for holes of openings or anything that might be in the enclosure with her. Wait wait wait- a hole! But it was barely big enough to fit her finger. Upon putting her finger in to discover what was on the other side, something moist and crumbly fell into her imprisonment, dirt maybe?

She pushed on the top of the enclosure. What else was there to do? Another crack and suddenly some small particles fell on her: dirt. This was definitely dirt. She could smell it, and pulled her shirt over her mouth and nose. It reeked of worms and decay.

Her push didn't seem to do much to her imprisonment, it was barely open. There was only a small crack that she had created, so far, and it was already starting to filter in dirt. Pulling her shirt up further for extra protection, she gave the structure another hefty shove. She could feel the dirt fall around her, but there was gradually enough room for her to sit up better, a huge relief to her. After what must have been an hour or so of pushing and shoving and coughing, the dirt filled the box beneath her and she climbed out with a triumphant grunt.

The sunlight, though she had been gradually introduced to it on her struggle upwards, overwhelmed her. Lying down was all she could think to do, so she did, right there in the grass. Though her eyes were closed, she could see the heat shining down on her eyelids and face. Her limbs felt stiff, as though they hadn't been moved in years.

She eventually brought herself to brush herself off and look over her body for possible wounds. She came to recognize that however she got down there, there was likely a person coming back to check on her. She needed to move fast. Dirt, naturally, lay scattered on her clothing. And on her right hand: a large splinter stuck out. Likely from the box she’d bust her way out of.

She’d been buried alive, she realized, evident by her gravestone surroundings. To her right lay Sarah O’Bannon, to her left: a John Proctor. She stumbled upwards, standing with a start and then looking around: a building! Modest yet fancy, with a spiked clock tower. Obviously a church. A perfect place for refuge! Not to mention medical help.

Kicking aside some dirt, she started her walk to the building. Walking after being buried alive was harder than it sounds. But this made sense, I suppose. Lack of oxygen could do that, she reasoned. Must be the problem. After all, her knees only buckled once in a while, they probably simply are recovering from falling asleep.

_ _ _ _ _

It was getting to be late in the evening. Unsuspecting people walked by, with their dogs or strollers with children. Nobody thought to look over and see this poor pitiful being who’d been buried alive. They failed to notice the hobbling person unaware of her suffering.

And she hated to bother them when they were about their business. There was a church in front of her. They were giving people, surely they would help her. If a church wouldn't help her, no one would.

She knocked quietly at first, as if to not wake up something behind the door. Then more firmly, with more purpose. Still no answer. She shrugged and reached for the door handle. The handle creaked, and she cringed at the unexpected noise.

She slowly slipped inside and closed the door behind her. The pews were filled with watchful eyes. It was as if god himself were speaking in the front.

Her misfortune gave her no reason to be rude, so she waited for an opening to ask for help. It was after a few more “Amen”s that she gathered up the courage to speak:

“Excuse me?” Nobody heard at first except a child in the back, who turned around to stare. It seemed to her that the child was wondering how someone could speak out in service especially considering the number of times that he, himself, had been scolded for a similar action.

“Excuse me?” A bit louder now, and the boy’s mother turned around to see what had captured her son’s fascination.

A scream, stifled only by the woman’s thin, ladylike hand covering her mouth in shock. More of the congregation turned to look, and a rather alarmed priest nearly dropped the microphone.

More screams and shouts of surprise.

“Everybody, please, remain calm!” the priest frantically screamed into the microphone.

“Help, can someone help?” she said bewilderedly. From her point of view, it sounded almost muffled. She didn't understand; she assumed that a church would be enthusiastic to help her.

The crowd was taken aback and she found herself backing away. As the priest picked up a long slender object from behind the podium, she backed out the door and stood outside. Now that she had separated herself somewhat from the chaos, she stood  gaping at the actions that ensued from within the building. Men grabbed handguns or rifles from their pockets or nearby closets. Women corralled children to a side room in the small building. The priest tried to maintain order but to no avail. She ran away. There was no other option. Obviously nobody here would help her.

A woman walking her dog was minding her own business when she almost bumped into the victim.

“Oh I’m sor-” she cut herself off upon viewing her.

“Help! Please help me, I’m so scared,” she said, practically shouting. The dog backed away and barked slightly as the woman hurried past, back the way she came.

She had no plan from here. All she knew was to run. Run back to the dirt pile covering the coffin that once buried her. She did, zigzagging in amongst gravestones and weeds and flowers with mementos. She stood, cowering, between the headstone that was hers and the one belonging to the John Proctor next to it. But the men, with the priest leading them, came after her, brandishing handguns, rifles, and a pitchfork, even, for one man.

Women seemed to be evacuating children out of a back road. Some of the children cried. Others curiously poked their heads above the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of the coming action.

She looked to her right, then her left, above her, then to the newly scattered dirt around her headstone. And her hand- the large splinter had left behind some dried blood and slight purple bruising. Her left hand looked like this too, but less so: almost...what’s the word: rotten or maybe decayed is the better word.

Rotten. Almost grey...and even fading slightly, or was it a trick of the light?

Leaning slightly to look at the gravestone below her, she finally read it. The words were eroded slightly, but she could make it out still: Elizabeth Phagan, 1795-1821. And this gravestone was the very same that she had just emerged from.

She felt the fear, and the determination. But never the pain.

The skin on her arms and legs matched the tone of her hands, but was not remotely close to that color that the men all seemed to compare closely to.

And that splinter, and whatever had happened to her other hand: she hadn’t felt it. She hadn’t felt the pain.

Oh.

The men drew closer within that twenty seconds of revelation.

She took one look at the chaos that she, apparently, had ensued.

She sent an mental apology to whoever she had been as Elizabeth Phagan, threw her arms aside, and let them shoot.