"it was on a Saturday, at six in the morning, that I died", t, 3 March 2016

This review is from: The Death of Oliver Becaille (Kindle Edition)
Opening with the unexpected phrase "it was on a Saturday, at six in the morning, that I died", this short story (27p) follows the eponymous narrator after his 'death' (to be more accurate, some sort of cataleptic state.)

(Spoiler alert) As the bored doctor fails to spot anything amiss, matters are soon arranged by a nosy neighbout and a young man who seems to have taken a liking to Becaille's pretty 'widow.' Zola's description of the horrors of his regaining his ability to move only after burial is quite horrifying and unforgettable:
"I yelled; I shouted; unearthly howls which I could not repress came from my relaxed throat. I called for help in a voice that I did not recognize, growing wilder with each fresh appeal and crying out that I would not die. I also tore at the wood with my nails; I writhed with the contortions of a caged wolf."

But Becaille's final fate is very different to what the reader thinks at this point... ( )