Full Body Chills - Dig

Episode Date: October 5, 2022

A story of a man struggling to survive a grave situation.DigWritten by Jordan GrupeYou can read the original story and view the episode art at fullbodychillspodcast.com. Looking for more chills? Follow Full Body Chills on Instagram @fullbodychillspod. Full Body Chills is an audiochuck production. Instagram: @audiochuckTwitter: @audiochuckFacebook: /audiochuckllcTikTok: @audiochuck

This episode was produced with audio effects in full surround sound. For the best experience, we kindly recommend you listen with headphones. Hi listeners, I'm Mike Siporkin, and I have a story I want to tell you. A story of a man struggling to survive a grave situation. So, gather round and listen. Close. So, gather round and listen close. I woke up to the soft sound of scraping. Despite my eyes being open, I saw only darkness. The sensation was strange,

like when you fall asleep too early in the day and wake up in the morning to find that it's still night. I blinked my eyes again and tried to rub them with my palms, but my hands hit with a thud that echoed in my heart. I could barely move. Rigid walls were firmly fixed on all sides of me, boxing me in on the left and the right and from above as well. From where I laid on my back, my nose nearly brushed against the ceiling. Terrified, I desperately tried to break out of this pitch black prison.

Pushing upwards with all my strength, I attempted to lift the cover to whatever was holding me, but it wouldn't budge. I began to bang my fists against the roof, but all I managed to do was scrape my knuckles on solid wood. They were soon aching, and I felt the blood trickling down my forearms. Coughing, I realized that my movements were kicking up dust and dirt, and a cloud of it was now hanging around my head in this coffin. The word came to me suddenly and irrevocably. I knew that it was true, and there was no taking it back. And then another word came to me. This time, a name. Vladimir. Greasy hair, gangster fashion, cheap sunglasses, and too many bulky rings. Vladimir. He was responsible for this. I knew it somehow. He'd threatened me recently over a $200 gambling debt. A debt, I explained, I only needed one more week to pay.

He was new at the bookie business, but his position as a bet taker was a symbol of his rise in the mob. I had heard that he wanted to assert himself quickly, and that meant making an example of someone. I was hyperventilating. I tried to calm myself down, repeating over and over, everything's going to be okay. But it wasn't okay. I was having trouble breathing and there was only so much air left. Whatever I was going to do, I had to do it fast. Suddenly, I remembered my pockets. Digging through my pants, I managed to grab hold of my pocket knife. Good, Vladimir hadn't taken it. He'd been too quick and too sloppy to check. I managed to pull the knife and flicked it open. Wasting no time, I thrusted it into the very

center of the wooden ceiling. Again and again, I swung my arm with only mere inches of space available. It was hard to get any leverage, and my meager attacks were only becoming weaker and weaker the more I swung. My hands were soaked in sweat, and as I gripped the knife tighter, it slipped. It ran a deep gash into my palm. I howled and cried and considered giving up at that moment, weeping as I struggled for air. No, I'm not going to give up. If I die, it won't be in submission. I took the knife in my unbloodied hand and used it to tear a strip from my shirt.

Wrapping my bleeding palm in the makeshift bandage, I returned the knife to my dominant hand and started driving it up into the wooden ceiling. Each time the blade reverberated, causing the horrible pain to flare up, worse and worse. Eventually, I heard the wood begin to split. Pieces broke off and splinters fell onto my hands and soon there was soil spilling through as well. A steady stream of it, like grains of sand tumbling through an hourglass. The wood cracked under the weight of six feet of earth and quickly, cool dirt began cascading onto my chest. It was flowing in so rapidly, putting my heart back into a full-blown staccato. I'd managed to break through the coffin lid, but now I had a new problem. Dirt was pouring in, while the air

was pouring out. I breathed in a cloud of dirt and felt it coating my lungs. At every breath, I was coughing up dust. Remembering a survival tip I'd heard once before, I pulled my shirt up over my head and tied it shut at the top and bottom, making a fabric helmet of sorts. Then I started kicking the dirt towards the foot of the coffin, wriggling myself towards the hole at the center. I tore at the splintered wood with my bleeding hands, pulling the boards apart piece by piece

until the space was wide enough for my shoulders and waist to fit through. The dirt was now threatening to overtake me. I kept shoving it down towards the foot of the coffin, knowing every inch of space could mean life or death. Pretty soon, the soil was invading the space beneath me, causing my body to rise like a buoy on high tide, lifting my face up closer towards the lid of the coffin until I was almost pressing up against it. With the shirt over my head like a funeral shroud, I was gasping for air. I tried spinning my body and curling up to fit through the tight hole I'd made.

My muscles were pulled and twisted, and pain sprung up like fire in my shoulders. For several panicky moments, I worried I wouldn't make it. But I focused on my breathing and continued to contort my body within the collapsing space. Finally, I wedged myself into the hole, forcing my head and torso inside the dirt-filled gap. I began digging with my head, desperate to form a pocket of air, pushing the soil down towards my feet as a shower of earth fell from above. My body scraping rocks and pebbles, I elbowed and climbed my way upwards until I felt my feet on top of the coffin. The air was so thin in my t-shirt hood that I was becoming dizzy. Every so often I found I had

paused or half passed out without even realizing. My arms gaining some room, I clawed at the grave soil, creating handholds in the clay to climb higher. The action of digging became a mindless motion as I heaved endless piles of dirt aside, shoving earthworms, soil, and bugs below. Despite the shirt over my head, I could taste the sand and grit as it crunched between my teeth. Millipedes and spiders crawled down my pants and bit my legs, scurrying and getting stuck in the folds of clothing. If I had had the air in my lungs to scream, I would have done so, but my breaths were coming in weak. I could hear my dust-coated airways rattling as my heart beat faster and harder than I had ever thought possible. And then suddenly, my hand reached up and I felt something flat, sturdy, and strong.

I realized after a moment that it was wet grass clutched in my fist. Fat, refreshing droplets of rain plopped down onto my hand, giving me a moment of hope and triumphant gratification. But then a second later, it was all gone. I was sinking back down. Desperately kicking my legs at the sides, I tried to slow my descent, but still, I could feel myself slipping even further until eventually my feet were right back on top of the coffin. That's when I understood the problem. The rain. The water was turning the soil into quicksand, and my weight only pulled me down. I tried to think of a solution using what little supplies I had.

Only my knife and the clothes on my back. And my boots. The boots were sturdy and had a steel toe. I pulled the right one off and wedged it into the harder soil, around waist level, facing the bottom upwards so that I could use it as a stepping stone. With the other boot in my hand, I put my foot on top of the impromptu foothold, just hoping it would hold. If it didn't, I was going to die. I was sure of that.

What little air I had left would be almost gone by now. The boot held fast, the boomerang shape of it serving as a wedge and giving the leverage I needed. I did the same thing with the other boot next, driving the toe of it into the hard clay and then pulling myself up onto it. After several long minutes, I found my hand free once again, touching grass and feeling the cleansing patter of rain pouring from the sky. I pulled my head up out of the hole, balancing on the thin boot and terrified of falling back down. I imagined what it would look like to a passerby, nighttime and raining, seeing my gasping visage

sticking out of the ground like a bulging mushroom growing in a graveyard? For several long moments, I worked at freeing my shoulder. Then, after a few more minutes of struggling, clawing, scraping, and pulling, I looked around to find an old rural cemetery. There were rows of tombstones stretching off into the distance, farmhouses and fields beyond that. The sounds of pouring rain and gusting of wind were loud in my ears. And there was the sound of something else as well. A man was clapping. In the shadows under a weeping willow leaned Vladimir, his back resting up against its wide trunk.

He was smoking a cigarette, shielding it with his hand like an umbrella. The tip blazed orange as he inhaled and puffed a cloud of smoke. A bemused smile caught its glow, and he nodded as if impressed. Good work, he said in his broken Russian accent. You are the first one who do that. I like to hear the sounds they make when they wake up and try to escape. But you are the first one to really do it. Congratulations.

I will have to dig whole deeper next time. There was the sound of rustled clothes, and then the distinctive click of his.45 Magnum. On second thought, I am tired of digging. You make hole this time. To be continued... group and read by Mike Saporkin. The story was modified slightly for audio retelling, but you can find the original in full on our website. So, what do you think, Chuck? Do you approve?