He was, he realized, encased in dead bodies

He could not breathe!

For a long time Lester was unable to move. He could not see. He could not hear. He could not breathe. His lungs shrieked for air, but there was none. He was buried in something. Something hot. And heavy. And sometimes it moved about him.

He could not see. He could not hear. His only sense was touch, and all he could feel was the crushing weight of whatever it was that kept him trapped.

He tried to scream. But his lungs were sealed.

Oh, God! Oh God!

What had happened to him? Where was he? He remembered being in the apartment. He remembered that he’d been translating a document. Automatic writing! That was it. And a quote from Faustus. And waking up. And then taking a shower.

Then . . . he was here.

Sometimes he prayed. Let me die. But he didn’t. It just went on and on.

Finally, the horror gave way to … not exactly indifference, but a kind of numbness. There is only so much pain the body can endure before it becomes merely background noise. The most horrific nightmare becomes a bore. So it was that after the first few months he found himself testing the limits of his helplessness. What could he move? What could he feel?

He discovered that by dint of enormous effort he could begin to move the muscles of his arms. Once the mass around him quivered . . . an earthquake? . . . and a space formed around the fingers of one hand. He pressed his advantage, pressing back whatever it was that buried him. He could move his fingers! Yes. He stretched them . . . there! What was it he felt?

A skull. Tissue.

He was, he realized, encased in dead bodies.