A fly circled lazily, landing on Maya’s open eye.

  She couldn’t blink.

  Thirty minutes ago, she’d been alive. Now her body lay cold—half-covered by a crumpled bedsheet, face frozen in an agonized grimace.

  And then—

  thump… thump…

  Her heart started beating again.

  Maya woke into absolute black.

  (Where am I? That smell… dirt? Am I underground?)

  Soil slipped between the folds of cloth and into her mouth. She choked, coughed hard, and spat it out.

  Panic scraped at the back of her throat—hot, animal, immediate. She swallowed it hard.

  (Panic wastes air. Air is life.)

  (It has to be him. Only my father would do this.)

  (I’m not dying here. Not like this.)

  Cold sweat slicked her back. Her limbs barely obeyed.

  Which way was up? Which way was out?

  (Find the soft soil. Move slowly.)

  She reached through the fabric, feeling her way. The earth to her left felt looser. She shoved her arm into it—her nails scraped something hard.

  Rock.

  Pain flared in her fingers, but there was no time to hesitate.

  The soil grew lighter where she dug. Her arm reached farther.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  (It’s getting hard to breathe…)

  She clawed in frantic bursts.

  Her chest wanted to explode into screaming breaths, but she forced them small, measured.

  (Soft… softer here. Shallow?)

  Then—air. Her fingers broke through.

  Relief hit her like a wave. Using both arms, she twisted her body inch by inch toward the opening.

  Slow. Careful.

  Finally—she broke free.

  The fabric around her was her own bedsheet.

  Still naked beneath it, Maya shook off dirt and wrapped it tighter around herself. A gentle rain fell from a pale afternoon sky—maybe around two or three.

  (My home’s backyard… inside the compound of a major cult facility in Valeslin.)

  A towering statue of the cult’s founder loomed beside the mansion. At its base—that was where she had been buried.

  (So it was him. My father.)

  She spat the last grit from her mouth and scanned the house. The front door was locked. The car was gone. Her father was out.

  He was a branch leader in a powerful religious cult. Since he rose to that position, followers in the district had multiplied. Even the neighbors had been converted. Every last one.

  Charming. Persuasive. A predator who preyed on the broken, wearing the charisma of a savior.

  (I might be the only one who knows what he really is. If I screamed for help, they’d believe him over me.)

  And if anyone saw her like this—naked, filthy, crawling out of the founder’s grave—they wouldn’t rescue her. They’d return her.

  Maya kept low and crept along the wall.

  (The bathroom door’s unlocked.)

  She slipped inside through the side entrance.

  She peeled off the filthy sheet and stepped into the shower.

  She didn’t want comfort. She wanted the dirt gone—proof gone—the smell gone. She needed to look normal enough to pass.

  Her hands were shaking. She pinned them under the water until they obeyed.

  The mirror reflected her 170-cm frame—ice-blue eyes, ruined hair, skin streaked with mud.

  (My beautiful hair… this body… what a mess.)

  “‘The faithful will be saved by God,’ huh?” Her voice was bitter. “I’m done with God. I’ll rely on no one but myself.”

  She wanted to stand under the water forever, but there was no time. She rinsed quickly, then pulled on a T-shirt and jeans.

  (I can’t live with that monster anymore.) She had to get her phone, cash, and cards before he returned.

  The phone was in her room. Easy.

  (No point calling the police. I’m technically alive. I need money. I need to run.)

  She dashed down the stairs to the first floor.

  (He called it ‘God’s love’…)

  The memory crashed over her—his ecstatic face, the hands at her throat, the cruel laughter.

  (He smiled… while he tried to kill me.)

  Nausea surged. She doubled over and vomited in the hallway. Her pulse hammered. Her head pounded.

  Now it came—the fear she’d gagged down in the dirt, spilling out through her stomach instead of her voice.

  “That thing… isn’t my father…”

  (I have to get out. Now…) But her legs wouldn’t move. Her breathing came in ragged gasps. Her vision fluttered—

  Click.

  The front door opened.

  He was home.

  New chapters every Tuesday and Friday.

  check out my Substack article here:

  https://open.substack.com/pub/knishi2050/p/why-i-wrote-hells-returners?r=5wfkgu&utm_medium=ios)