Hope
by
DJ Tyrer
The weight of the soil seemed
to constrict his lungs, despite the lid of the box that lay between him and it.
Was he running out of air? How long had he been down here? How much oxygen
could a coffin contain?
His
fists slapped uselessly against the casket lid. It was nailed down tight. And
the soil. . . .
The
soil! He began to panic again, his screams echoing around him as the narrow
space seemed to shrink in on him. Desperate, he lashed out, his feet striking
the far end of the coffin. Was that movement?
He
kicked again. Yes, it was loose!
The box
was only simply constructed and, as he kicked, the end tore free. His feet
touched nothing but air.
In the
pitch blackness, he couldn’t see where it led, but he slowly wriggled his way
down the length of the coffin and out into what had to be some sort of
crawlspace beneath the cellar. He sobbed with relief: The idiot had buried him
right up against it. There was a way out.
He
rolled over onto his belly and began to crawl backwards along the low passage,
feeling about himself for any way out. Then, his hands touched on a square of
metal above him. He pushed up at it and it shifted free.
Slowly,
awkwardly, he pulled himself up.
It was
still dark, the merest hint of light diffused about him, but he recognised the
smell of mould: he was in the madman’s cellar. He felt a surge of hope at the
thought he’d soon make it out; he just needed to be careful, quiet. He didn’t
want the man to hear him moving about below him.
Like a
life-or-death game of blind-man’s bluff, he slowly fumbled his way forward in
the direction he hoped the stairs lay.
Silently,
he prayed he’d make it out alive.
If I
do, I’ll never accept a stranger’s offer to see the John Wayne memorabilia they
keep in their cellar again. Hell, not even that they keep in their front
parlour.
#
In the
darkness, his host watched and smiled, night-vision goggles enabling him to see
his victim’s every move clearly. This one was smart, or maybe just lucky,
having found his escape route. He liked to offer them that chance, allow them
to feel that surge of hope before the end.
They
never had a chance of winning the game; the cards were stacked against them
from the start.
It was
nearly time to act, bring the charade to its brutal end. He unhooked the knife
from his belt and readied it for use.
#
He gave
a sigh of relief. He’d found the stairs, could feel the rough wood of the steps
beneath his fingers. All he had to do was climb them and slip out the rear door
of the house and he was free.
He
started to climb, looking forward to setting the police on the psycho.
DJ
Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing and
has been widely published in anthologies and magazines around the world, such
as Chilling Horror Short Stories (Flame Tree), All the
Petty Myths (18th Wall), and EOM: Equal
Opportunity Madness (Otter Libris), and issues of Sirens Call, Hypnos, parABnormal, and Weirdbook,
and in addition, has a novella available in paperback and on the Kindle, The
Yellow House (Dunhams Manor).
DJ Tyrer's website
is at https://djtyrer.blogspot.co.uk/
DJ Tyrer's Facebook
page is at https://www.facebook.com/DJTyrerwriter/
The Atlantean Publishing website is at https://atlanteanpublishing.wordpress.com/
Sean
O’Keefe is an artist and writer living in Roselle
Park, NJ. Sean attended Syracuse University where he earned his BFA in
Illustration. After graduation, Sean moved to New York City where he spent time
working in restaurants and galleries while pursuing various artistic opportunities.
After the birth of his children, Sean and family move to Roselle Park in 2015. He actively
participates in exhibitions and art fairs around New Jersey, and is continuing to
develop his voice as a writer. His work can be found online at www.justseanart.com and @justseanart on Instagram.
