Nail in Her Coffin: The Devil's Witch Book 1

The stale, moldy air suffocated me. My back itched, begging me to sit up as I instinctively wiped a layer of dust from the soft fabric of my dress. Finally, my eyes sprang open, and a primal scream of anger tore from my throat. I pounded at the wooden plywood above me, my coffin, swallowing dusty air until I gagged and dry-heaved. My skin felt like aged leather, the skin on my knuckles tearing like tissue paper from the repeated impact.

My eyes stung as if doused in acid, the skin around them feeling wrinkled and ancient. A sick feeling twisted in my gut, imagining myself a shriveled raisin. If I could see, I was sure I'd make out the decayed crevices of my skin, rotten flesh clinging to bone in some holes on my arm. Yet, the pain was numb.

"Let me out!" I shrieked, choking on the scent of my own decaying body. I stopped banging, steadying my ragged breaths. It felt as though my heart was being dragged down, slowly, to a stop. But it hadn't stopped. Whoever did this to me was going to pay. I had been fine dying alongside my family. I knew it must be another witch, bringing me back as a torment.