Two fictions just discovered from the same fox-hole:

 

DOWN THE SPIRIT-HOLE (published 'Daarke World' 1993)

When I retired for the night, I naturally removed my teeth.  By my age, such habits had become second nature, bare gums and me, well, we were like this – (and I crook my two little fingers together, as if in demonstration of the intimacy). I first had false teeth when I was in my twenties.

 

So, when I woke up in the middle of the night, sheet-tossed and sweaty, I was perturbed at finding more than a tongue inside my mouth.  Crammed up against my familiar gums were shards of bone which felt like a cross between real teeth (as far as I could remember them from my youth) and large false ones.  Two were particularly protrusive – and sharper than a new pin, as my tongue soon discovered.

 

Eventually, with growing alarm, I wondered how it was possible to be so coolly detached when faced with such a mouthful.  Indeed, I had been studiously describing my predicament, as if I were an actual character in a story.

 

But it now slowly dawned on me that this was no story. 

 

This was real. Too real for comfort.

 

My bedroom was dark.  Too dark.  Dark for death. 

 

I fumbled beside me to reach the comforting shape of my wife and found her a widow instead. No, I was talking through the back of my head. I could not think straight – (and I place one of my pointy fingers to my temple in a screwing motion as apparent proof positive).

 

I flailed to the other side – with more deliberation this time – and felt the selfsame slats.  More a fence than slats.  A cross between a fence and a wall - as if an earthen material had seeped through the cracks and made it firmer.

 

Indeed, underneath was similar.  And the ceiling, too - so close, I could feel its damp surface with my nose.  I gingerly touched it with my teeth.  I snarled, as I tried to gouge slots into the its grain.  Jawfuls of wood-pulp.  Part of me panicked.  Another part still coolly detached. 

 

I had not read 'Premature Burial' by Edgar Allan Poe, nor that famous chapter from 'The Ka of Gifford Hillary' by Dennis Wheatley.  In fact, I had never heard of them. I was a television man, myself. A straight-up-and-down individual who liked nothing better than a flutter on a horse race.  Thus, the fact that I had been buried alive was furthest from my thoughts.  Not  in a sane world, surely.  If I was dead, I was dead.  Doctors could not possibly mistake death for something else.  Unheard of. 

 

My wife would have wanted to be certain.  She would never have allowed her husband to be carted off, otherwise.

 

But why did I possess more knowledge now than before?  Those two books by Poe and Wheatley – if they existed at all – how had they come into my mind? What was the explanation of the wooden crate in which I found myself embedded? (I am asking these questions aloud, muffled and teeth-tangled). I didn't mind betting it was all a dream.  Some godawful nightmare.  But why couldn't I wake up? 

 

I tried to pinch one hand with the other, to gauge this hypothesis.  (A finger and thumb on my left hand takes a wad of flesh just below the knuckles of the right hand and squeezes it unmercifully).  I shrieked in pain.  But shrieks in such a closed environment did not sound like shrieks, but rather moans and groans.

 

I was a cross between a corpse and a spirit.

 

But I hated crosses.

 

(I prod two fingers down my throat in an attempt to finish it all but only end up being sick - waves of warm salty fluid all over my winding-sheets).

 

The groaning became endless guffaws of ghoulish laughter, as I pummeled upwards.  Evidently, I was stronger, as well as cleverer.  I could move heaven and earth – (and do).  You hoped my up was your down.

 

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FROM THE SPIRIT-HOLE (published 'Penny Dreadful' 2000)

When I retired for the night, I naturally removed my teeth.  So, waking up, sheet-tossed and sweaty, I was perturbed at finding more than a tongue inside my mouth.  Crammed up against my familiar gums were shards of bone feeling like a cross between real teeth and large false ones.  With growing alarm, I wondered how it was possible to be so coolly detached when faced with such a mouthful of horns.  Indeed, I had been studiously describing my predicament, as if I were a character in a story. But, in the overwhelming darkness, it now slowly dawned on me that this was  real - too real for comfort. Too dark for death. 

 

I fumbled beside me in the bed to reach the comforting shape of my wife and felt something that was not my wife - nor even my widow. Nor was it the bedroom wall; unless the wall was made of wooden slats - slats so close to one another that I injured myself by snagging a fingernail on one of the raw splinters. I flailed back to the other side - with more deliberation this time seeking some vestige of my wife. Again, I touched the selfsame slats.  More a fence than slats – or rather some novel combination of the two. It felt as though some earthen material had seeped up through the cracks, making them firmer. Indeed, the surface beneath me and above were slatted as well - the ceiling so close, I could sense the dampness of its surface with my nose.  I gingerly touched a single slat with my teeth; then snarled, as I tried to gnaw slots into its grain.  Jawfuls of wood-pulp gagged within my throat.  Part of me panicked, though another part remained strangely detached.  I wasn't to know which part was which until the end.

 

I have always considered myself to be an ordinary man - thus, the fact that I might have been buried alive was furthest from my thoughts - surely in a sane world, such atrocities could not happen.  If I were dead - I were dead.  Modern medicine could not possibly mistake death for something else.  Such things were simply unheard of.  At least my wife would have wanted to be certain that I was dead.  She would never have allowed her husband to have been carted off, otherwise.

 

But why did I possess a deeper capacity for thought than ever before?  I didn't mind betting it was all a dream - some godawful nightmare - but if s, why couldn't I wake up?  I tried to pinch one hand with the other.  A finger and thumb on my left hand took a wad of flesh just below the knuckles of the right hand and squeezed unmercifully.  I shrieked in pain.  But shrieks in such a closed environment did not sound like shrieks, but rather, moans and groans. I was a cross between a corpse and a spirit. But I hated crosses – even in the abstract. I prodded two fingers down my throat in an attempt to end it all, but only succeeded in making myself sick - waves of warm salty fluid spilling over my winding-sheets.  The slats must have been dripping with it.

 

The groaning became endless guffaws of ghoulish laughter, as I pushed upwards.  Evidently, I was stronger, as well as more clever.  I could move heaven and earth.  Between each slat was a slit.  And the slut moaned as I gnawed my way out of her womb. 

           

The Devil born, at last - blasted horns and all!