Morbid Morsals Season 3. Episode 11 6 Feet

Some stories start with a bang.

This one starts with a breath.
A single moment stretched thin —
between before
and after.

Where memory, fear, and consequence
collide.
Everyone thinks they know how a story like this ends.

They’re usually wrong.
Because this isn’t about death.

It’s about time.
About choices.

About what happens
when there’s nowhere left to run…

except inside your own head.
And once you’re there —

you don’t get to leave.

Into the Abyss Morbid Morsals podcast has been a Darkshogun Production in association with Twisted Souls Media.

Hi, I'm Troy Bursch, creator and producer of this horrific show.

🙏 Please like, subscribe, download, and be sure to hit the notification bell—that way. You'll get a heads-up every time a new episode drops.

💀 Dare to listen… but beware—every story pulls you deeper into the dark.

Hello, my friends… Since your suffering and pain are so enjoyable, be sure to check out my Linktree:

linktr.ee/IntotheAbysspodcast

🔗  There you can:

Follow me on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube, Threads, and X.

Listen to the show on your favorite podcast platforms

🎧🎵  listen to DJ Trilliam and We R Legion for the dope music tracks that’ll keep your heads nodding.

🤟 Support the Show

⭐ Please consider leaving me a 5-star rating and review wherever you can—it really helps get the show in front of more listeners who enjoy short horror story podcasts.

Leave a review on Apple Podcasts

Drop me a comment or question on Spotify’s Q&A feature—I’ll definitely respond

Also you can make a recommendation on Facebook to suggest others to listen.

👍 Help the Show Grow

Thanks again for listening and downloading! Please share the show with friends, family, or anyone who loves horror. Word of mouth is the only way we can grow.

And remember… if you don’t, I’ll be seeing you soon in your darkest nightmare

Transcript

SPEAKER_02: 0:01

This episode contains mature language and adult situations. Listen to the I'm going to stop. It was your door. I am your tour mentor. You're only doing your best one. I am doing between the end. And you're a friend. My brothers and I are doing course. This one starts with a breath. A single moment stretched thin between before and after, where memory, fear, and consequence collide. Everyone thinks they know how a story like this ends. They're usually wrong, because this isn't about death. It's about time, about choices, about what happens when there's nowhere left to run, except inside your own head. And once you're there, you don't get to leave.

SPEAKER_01: 3:28

You're about to die. It's crazy what you think about. People imagine this all profound stuff. Your childhood. Your regrets. The people you loved and never said it enough to. And yeah, that's in there. It's floating around somewhere in the back of my skull like a balloon losing air. But the first things? The first things are stupid, like, did I leave the stove on? Did I pay my phone bill? Who's gonna feed my goldfish? I don't even have a goldfish, but my brain keeps insisting I do. And then there's the big one. The one that hits like a punch to the ribs. Who's gonna take care of my family? Not that I was doing a great job of that lately, but still, the thought shows up. Uninvited, tapping on the glass in my mind like, hey buddy, you forgot about me. I'd laugh if I had the air to spare. Because right now, I'm lying in a wooden box. A coffin, six feet underground, and the dirt above me is heavy enough to crush a man's chest if the wood gives out. And it will. Eventually. My name is Dan, and I'm a thief. Not a good one. Not a smart one. Just a petty one. A guy who thought he could skim a little off the top from people who don't miss money. People who have so much money they don't even count it. People who, and this is the part I should have paid more attention to. Don't forgive. The mob. Yeah. Those people. I didn't start out stealing from them. I started out stealing from vending machines, then pocket meters, then the occasional unlocked car. I was a small-time parasite, the kind nobody notices until you get greedy. And I got greedy. It started with a job at one of their warehouses. Just a forklift gig. Move boxes, don't ask questions, don't look inside anything. Easy money. Except I did look. And I did ask. And I did take. Just a little at first. A few bills from a crate that had stacks of cash wrapped in plastic like it was shrink-wrapped bread. Who would notice a few missing slices? Turns out, they would. They notice everything. But I didn't know that then. I thought I was invisible. I thought I was clever. I thought I was owed something. And now here I am. Breathing recycled air in a box the size of a dishwasher. Trying not to panic. Trying not to scream. Trying not to waste oxygen. My phone is the only light I've got. It's wedged against my chest. Screen dim to the lowest setting. Battery at 12%. Signal at zero bars. No one's coming. No one even knows I'm here. Except then. The man who put me here. The man whose money I stole. The men whose voices I swear I can still hear. Even though they're long gone. At first I thought it was memory, echoes. My brain replaying the last things they said before they shoveled the dirt in. But then I heard them again. Clearer. Closer. Like they were standing right above me, leaning down, whispering through the soil. My heart slams against my ribs like it's trying to punch its way out. They're not here. They can't be. They left hours ago. Or minutes. Time doesn't work right down here. But the voices, the voices sound real. I close my eyes. Not that it makes a difference. And try to remember how I got here. How everything spiraled. How I went from skimming a few bills to being buried alive like a bad joke with no punchline. I started three nights ago. Maybe four. I was at the warehouse doing my usual routine. Pretending to work while figuring out how much I could steal without anyone noticing. I got sloppy. I didn't see the cameras they installed. Didn't see the new guy watching me from the catwalk. Didn't see the trap closing around me like a fist. I remember the moment they grabbed me. The cold metal of the gun barrel pressed to the back of my neck. The way my legs went numb. The way my mouth filled with the taste of pennies. I remember the van. The blindfold. The ropes. The laughter. The way they talked about me like I wasn't even there. And then the shovel. The hole. The box. The lid. The nails. The dirt. And now this. I take a slow breath. My air tastes like wood and soil in fear. My chest rises only a little bit, but the coffin is too tight for anything more. I try to stay calm. I try to think. I try to remember if anyone will miss me. If anyone will look for me. If anyone will care. But all I can hear are the voices.

SPEAKER_05: 8:48

Oh wait, you're gonna be down there a while.

SPEAKER_01: 8:55

They laugh. I don't. My fingers brush the inside of the coffin. The wood is soft, cheap, rough. I could dig, maybe. If I'm careful, if I'm slow, if I don't cause a collapse. But the voices, they keep talking, they keep whispering. They keep pushing me toward the edge of panic. And panic, panic is death. I swallow hard. I press my palm against the lid and I start to push. I press my palm against the lid. The wood flex is just a little. Not enough to give me hope, but enough to make me think maybe, just maybe, I can do something besides lie here and wait for the air to run out. My fingers curl. I start scratching. Slow. Careful. The way you peel a sticker off a window without tearing it. The voice is above me. Or inside me. Keep talking.

SPEAKER_03: 9:55

Don't get worked up. Don't get worked up.

SPEAKER_01: 10:14

Sweating. It's hot in here. Hot and tight and raw. The air feels thick, like it's been chewed up and spit back out. I keep scratching. The wood flakes under my nails. Tiny splinters dig into my fingertips. I don't care. Pain is good. Pain means I'm still alive. Think about the night they caught me. The way the headlights hit my face when they opened the van door. The way the cold air slapped me like it was trying to wake me up. The way they didn't say a word. Not one. As they marched me to the hole. Silence is worse than yelling. Silence means they've already decided what you're worth. I scratch harder. A small glue forms. Barely anything, but it's something. My phone buzzes against my chest. Notification. Battery at 9%. I laugh. A short, stupid sound. Like I'm getting a reminder to update my abs while I'm suffocating. It vibrates through the soil. Or maybe through my skull. I close my eyes and keep scratching. The groove gets deeper. My fingers ache. My nails bend. One snaps. I hiss through my teeth. Blood beats on the broken nail. Warm, sticky. I smear it on the wood. It makes the scratching easier. Smoother. I don't know how long I work. Minutes. Hours. Time is a joke down here. Eventually I feel it. A soft spot. A place where the wood thins enough that I can push my thumb through. A tiny hole opens. A pinprick of cold air rushes in. I gasp. It feels like heaven. But then the dirt shifts. A low groan from above. The weight settles, and a trickle of soil pours through the hole, landing on my face, my lips, my eyes. I spit. I blink. I try to cover the hole with my hand, but the dirt keeps coming. The voices go quiet. For the first time. That's worse. Much worse. The dirt keeps falling. Not fast. Not yet. But steady. A warning. A promise. I press my hand over the hole, but the soil pushes through my fingers like water. Cold, grainy, relentless. My breath stutters. My chest tightens. I can't help it. Panic slams into me like a trunk. And that's when the voices return. Shake my head. I don't want to hear them. I don't want them in my last moments. But they keep talking. They always keep talking. I try to breathe slow. In through the nose, out through the mouth. But the air tastes like dirt now. Like the earth is already inside me. My phone screen dims again. Battery at 6%. I turn it toward the hole. The light catches the falling soil, turning each grain into a tiny spark. It's almost pretty. Almost. I think about my sister. About the last time I saw her. She told me to get out of the life, told me I was gonna end up dead or worse. I laughed at her, told her she watched too many movies. Turns out she didn't watch enough. The dirt flow thickens. My hand can't stop it. The wood around the hole cracks. A long, splintering sound, like a bone breaking. I freeze. Every muscle in my body locks.

SPEAKER_03: 14:45

There it is. The beginning of the end. Don't fight him, Danny.

SPEAKER_04: 14:49

The freeze flow. You're almost done. This is what you call a dirt cap, daddy boy.

SPEAKER_01: 14:54

The wood groans again. Then it gives. A chunk of the coffin wall collapses inward. Dirt floods in. Cold, heavy, choking. It fills my mouth, my nose, my ears. I thrash, I claw. I try to push it away, but there's too much. It's everywhere. Everything. My phone slips from my hand. I hear it bounce once against the wood. Then it's buried. The light flickers, fades, struggles. Battery at 3%. I can barely move now. The dirt pins my arms, my left legs, my chest. I can only breathe in tiny sips, little gasps, each one harder than the last. My vision blurs. Not that there's anything to see. Just darkness. And the faint glow of my dying phone. I think about all the things I should have done. All the things I shouldn't have done. All the things I never got around to. And then the phone light goes out. Darkness. Real darkness. The kind that feels alive. The kind that presses against your eyes even when they're open. I can't move. The dirt has me. Wrapped around me like a blanket made of stone. My breaths are tiny now. Shallow. Weak. Each one feels like it might be the last. And the voices, they're gone. Completely. Like they were never there. It's just me. Me in the dark. Me in the weight. Me and the thoughts that won't stop coming. And it's funny. When you're about to die, the mind doesn't give you the big cinematic memories. It gives you the weird ones. The stupid ones. Think about the time I stole a candy bar when I was eight. The guild ate me alive for a week. Funny how that was the worst thing I'd ever done back then. I think about the time I left my car windows down during a rainstorm. Ruined the seats. Smelled like mildew for months. I think about a joke I heard once. Something about a priest, a duck, and a bar tab. I can't remember the punchline. It's driving me crazy. I think about whether my landlord will be mad I didn't take the trash out. Whether my neighbor will notice my mail piling up. Whether anyone will water the plant on my windowsill. The one I kept forgetting to water myself. Think about whether I locked my front door. Whether I left the fridge open. Whether I left the stove on. Think about all the tiny things that don't matter. And all the big things I never fixed. My chest tightens again. Sharp, squeezing pain. My lungs feel like they're folding in on themselves. Try to breathe. A little air comes. Not enough. Never enough. My heartbeats slows. Each thumb softer. Further apart. Darkness feels warm. Comforting. It's pulling me in. The last thought. The one that sticks. Isn't about the mob. Or the money. Or the coffin. It's about a sandwich. A stupid sandwich. The one I was gonna make when I got home tonight. Peanut butter, banana, honey, my favorite. I never got to eat it, and then nothing. In the end, it wasn't the mob that buried Danny.

SPEAKER_02: 18:22

It was every bad choice he made, stacked on top of each other until the weight finally crushed him. You dig your own grave long before anyone else puts you in it. The brothers of darkness we try to play. But you don't are here. But no this is not high.

SPEAKER_00: 21:09

Hi, I'm Troy Birch, creator and producer of this horrific show. Please like, subscribe, download, and be sure to hit the notification bell. That way you'll get a heads up every time a new episode drops. Dare to listen. But beware, every story pulls you deeper into the dark. Hello, my friends. Since your suffering and pain are so enjoyable, be sure to check out my Linktree. Linkedr.ee slash into the Abyss Podcast. There you can. Follow me on Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube. Threads and X. Listen to the show on your favorite podcast platforms. Listen to DJ Trill and and We R Legion for the dope music tracks that'll keep your heads nodding. Support the show. Please consider leaving me a five-star rating and review wherever you can. It really helps get the show in front of more listeners who enjoy short horror story podcasts. Leave a review on Apple Podcasts. Drop or question on Spotify's QA feature, I'll definitely respond. Help the show grow thanks again for listening and downloading. Share the show with friends, family, or anyone who loves horror. Word of mouth is the only way that we can grow. Remember, if you don't, I'll be seeing you soon in your darkest nightmares.

SPEAKER_08: 22:57

We are, we are the next show.

SPEAKER_06: 23:01

Who's to blame for the lives that tragedies claim? No matter what you say, you don't take away the blame that I'm feeling sad. I'm tired of all the lies. Don't nobody know why. It's the blind leading the blind. Yes, that's the way that the story goes. Well, it never makes sense. Somebody's gotta know there's gotta be more in life than this. There's gotta be more everything I don't exist. We are, we are, we are, we are the youth of the nation.

SPEAKER_08: 23:28

We are, we are we allation, just a perfect day.

SPEAKER_07: 24:34

And then later, when it gets dark, we go home. Just a perfect day. Feed animals in the zoo, and then later movie too, and then home. Oh, it's such a perfect day. I'm glad I spent it with you. Oh, such a perfect day. You just keep me hanging on. You just keep me hanging on, just a perfect day. You make me forget myself.

SPEAKER_08: 25:34

I thought I was someone else, someone good when it's done, just a perfect day to make me forgive myself.

SPEAKER_07: 26:48

I thought I was someone else. Someone