A cowardly alcoholic seeking revenge on his lost love joins a group of criminals, only to face a nightmarish reality where escape may be an illusion.
Copyright © Priya Florence Shah
It was in a smoky tavern, deep in the belly of the city, where Ezra Garvey made the gravest mistake of his life. A man once of fair repute, now reduced to cowardice and gin, Ezra’s hands shook as he clasped the rim of his glass.
He had loved Clara once, but that love had soured into bitter hatred when she left him for another. It was not her departure that gnawed at him most, but his weakness. He could not bear the sight of her with the man who now held her heart. Yet every night he drank, drowning his sorrow, doing nothing to stop the ache.
In a fit of desperation, Ezra sought out men whose names were whispered in alleys—men who promised to settle grievances through more permanent means. He found them seated in the shadows, eyes like glinting daggers, and tongues sharper still.
The leader, a tall figure named Thorn, was lean and menacing, his face twisted into a constant sneer as though mocking the world. His companion, Mace, was silent but for the occasional flick of a blade between his fingers, his eyes fixed on Ezra with an unnerving intensity. Then there was Harrow, who spoke softly, his voice like silk but with the malice of a predator beneath.
Ezra, drunk and trembling, laid out his desire: to see Clara suffer, to see her lover dead. Thorn leaned back, his grin widening. “We can help,” he hissed, “but there’s a price.”
Ezra, cowardly as he was, felt a cold sweat break on his brow. “Anything,” he croaked, eyes darting between the men. “Anything.”
The deal was struck. The plan was made. Ezra would be rid of his torment, but as he left the tavern, the stench of rot in the alleyway clinging to his clothes, a deep unease settled in his bones. These men were not simply criminals; they were fiends in human skin.
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The night of the deed arrived, cloaked in fog so thick it clung to the streets like the breath of the dead. Ezra was to serve as a lookout, watching from the alley while the others did the grisly work. Clara’s lover, a merchant by trade, was to be lured into a trap—brutally silenced in a darkened corner where no one would hear his cries.
Ezra stood trembling in the cold, clutching a flask to his lips. His mind raced. Would Clara ever know what he had done for her? Would she—no, it was madness to think so. She would hate him more than she already did. But it was too late to turn back now.
A scream pierced the night, sharp and fleeting, followed by a heavy silence. The deed was done. Thorn emerged from the shadows; his eyes gleaming with malice. “It’s done,” he said softly, wiping blood from his hands. “But you… you still reek of fear, Ezra.”
Ezra shivered, but said nothing, watching as the body was dragged away. His mind swam with alcohol and dread.
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In the days that followed, Ezra could not escape the weight of his guilt. He had thought revenge would fill the void in his heart, but it only deepened the hollow ache. Worse still, he felt a growing unease around Thorn and his men, especially Harrow, whose soft voice now felt like a venomous whisper in his ear.
“Clara will be next,” Thorn had said, his smile razor-thin. Ezra had hesitated, fear clawing at him. Harrow spoke, leaning close, “Unless you wish to take her place, Ezra.” The words had left Ezra cold. He saw in their eyes a hunger, a delight in cruelty that chilled him to the bone.
One night, as they gathered to discuss the next step, Ezra felt a sudden blow to the back of his head. He crumpled to the ground, his world spinning into darkness as Thorn’s laughter rang in his ears.
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When Ezra awoke, he was trapped in utter blackness. His limbs were heavy, his head pounding as if it were filled with molten lead. He tried to move but found himself encased in something close, tight—wooden. His heart pounded, panic clawing at his throat as the realization hit him: he had been buried alive.
Ezra screamed, pounding his fists against the lid of the coffin, his nails scraping at the wood. He could hear nothing but the frantic beating of his heart and the muffled sound of dirt shifting above him. They had knocked him out and buried him alive beneath the earth.
The air was thick, suffocating. His throat grew raw as he screamed for help, for anyone, but there was no one. His hands, bloody now, continued to claw at the wood. He wept, the cowardice that had always defined him was now his final undoing. He had betrayed his beloved and joined hands with monsters, and now they had turned on him.
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Hours — or was it days? — passed and time had no meaning in the dark. Ezra’s fingernails had torn away, leaving raw, bloody stubs. His body was slick with sweat, the air growing thinner with every breath. He had given up screaming, his voice a ragged whisper.
But then, something stirred within him. A sliver of madness, perhaps, or a final surge of survival. He began to laugh — a crazed, hollow sound that echoed in the confines of the coffin. Perhaps he deserved this. Maybe this was always meant to be his fate.
The laughter stopped. He felt something under his fingertips — something wet. Ezra’s breath hitched. The coffin… it wasn’t dry anymore. Was it… leaking? He clawed again, desperately, and his fingers met with softness.
Not wood. Earth.
They hadn’t buried him as deeply as they thought.
With the last of his strength, Ezra began to dig, his hands shaking, his mind teetering on the edge of oblivion. Dirt filled his mouth and his nostrils, but still, he clawed, inching his way upwards. He could feel the cool night air now, could taste freedom. He was almost there.
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Ezra’s hand finally broke through the surface, and with a gasp, he pulled himself from the earth. The cold night air bit at his skin, but he didn’t care. He was alive. He had escaped. He looked around, the graveyard silent, save for the whisper of the wind.
But something was wrong. His vision blurred. His limbs felt heavy again. Had he truly escaped? Or was this another nightmare? The world around him seemed… off, twisted. As he staggered forward, he saw them — Thorn, Harrow, and Mace — standing at the edge of the cemetery, their eyes gleaming like the hungry wolves they were.
Thorn smiled. “Welcome back, Ezra.”
Was it real? Or had he simply clawed his way into another layer of hell?
The night swallowed him whole, and Ezra’s final scream was carried away on the wind.
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