“Then there was darkness. The light from the oil lamp had gone off. She wasn't in the tub anymore. She had been wrapped in a thin cloth that impeded her movement, but she managed to pull it apart, to slide it away, and it slipped from her shoulders as neatly as the membrane she'd observed. Wood. She could smell damp earth and wood, and when she raised a hand her knuckles hit hard surface and a splinter cut her skin. Coffin. It was a coffin. The cloth was a shroud.”
Book:Mexican Gothic