Hi everyone! I hope you’re all well. Today, I thought I’d share a little horror short that I wrote a while ago and couldn’t decide what to do with. I hope you enjoy it!
Second Death
He felt the spark of consciousness fill his mind. He was aware now.
He tried to move but found that nothing worked; even the muscles that lifted his eyelids failed him. In fact, every muscle in his body was frozen. He was paralysed, though by what or how, he could not say.
His mind was sluggish and foggy, his memory having all but failed entirely, depriving him of the knowledge of who or where he was, but leaving everything else. The only reasoning for his current situation that he could come up with was that he had been in some sort of terrible accident, perhaps having been run over by a horse and buggy, and was now lying on some bed in the London hospital, a poultice wrapped around his head. The streets were a mess with horses and buggies these days. He knew that, at least.
The fact that his mind had woken before the rest of his body did not frighten him. He knew this sort of thing happened every day in London; people being brought to the hospital in all manner of conscious states, and since he felt no pain, he was certain that somebody was taking very good care of him indeed.
As he lay there, waiting for his body to catch up with his brain, some vestigial ember, a flicker of activity deep inside his mind, sparked, sending images rushing to the fore. A jumble of faces accosted him as his memory began to slowly filter through the abstract dam that had thus far held it back; women in long grey dresses with white aprons and white caps, and men, some old and bearded, some young and clean-shaven, but all wearing dark clothes. Somehow, he knew they were doctors and nurses.
However, since waking up, he had heard no doctors or nurses—nor anybody else for that matter—coming to check on him. Had he been forgotten? Had they left him alone, thinking that he might never wake? His heart began to quicken at the thought that he might actually be stuck like this forever, that he might be trapped inside the confines of his own mind, his own mental walls slowly closing in on him. Surely, he would begin to disappear into insanity.
The thought of being left in his current state until his body died of starvation and dehydration filled him with anxiety. He had to wake up. He had to force his mind and body to work in unison once more. He had to move, somehow; his very survival depended on it.
Forcing his mind to work harder, he saw flashes of whitewashed walls and long, narrow corridors, and at first, he thought perhaps he might have been conscious upon his arrival at the hospital.
As sensation began to return little by little to his muscles, it occurred to him rather suddenly that there was a lack of sound. For a brief moment, he considered the fact that he may have gone deaf; he had known it to happen with head injuries, although he didn’t know how he knew, but the sound of his own breath leaving his lungs quelled the fear instantly.
He was further relieved when he began to wiggle his toes, and further still when his fingers began to twitch. With each passing moment and every twitching phalanx, he felt the fear of his being trapped inside of himself ebbing away.
Straining, he tried to open his eyes. He felt his lids fluttering, but everything remained dark. As he tensed and released each muscle in his legs and arms, still unable to fully move them yet, he willed his eyelids to cooperate—but darkness remained absolute. He tried again, and again, panic surging as he considered that he may have gone blind; he knew this, too, could sometimes happen with head injuries and again, how he knew this eluded him.
As his heart quickly became a bass drum inside his ribcage, threatening to burst out at any moment, adrenaline surged through his body, and he felt his spine twitch—he willed his body to sit up, but the most he could manage was a slight raising of his head. He tried to gather himself, taking a deep breath, and then tried again, straining against himself as he attempted to fully reconnect his mind with his body. Drawing on every ounce of strength he could muster, he tried again, straining, straining, straining and… yes… yes… and…
He jerked upward and—SLAM! His forehead collided painfully with something solid. The impact caused a spark, and in an instant, everything came rushing back. He was Eliot Smith, a doctor at The London Hospital. The adrenaline had acted like coal being shovelled into a waiting empty furnace; his whole body was mobile now; he could move his arms, his hands. He reached up, frantically exploring the area around him.
As he felt the silk lining, the unyielding wood, the truth slammed into him with cold brutality—he had been buried alive.
Terror consumed him. He screamed and clawed desperately, tearing at the lining and wood until his fingers bled. He pounded, kicked, and screamed until he felt his heart burst painfully in his chest. And with one final gasp of horror, he fell silent again—this time, forever.
The End.
Thanks for reading, if you did. I appreciate your time, and I hope you enjoyed it!
As ever, thanks for stopping by!
Until next time,
George
© 2026 GLT
Categories: Creative Writing, Fiction
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