After the funeral service, the priest approached me, his face pale and his voice trembling as he asked if I was the wife of the deceased. When I confirmed I was, Father Michael unexpectedly urged me to call the police immediately and not let anyone leave the church. He explained that I would understand everything if I looked at my husband’s right hand, under his sleeve.
With trembling fingers, I lifted the cuff of my husband’s shirt. What I saw made my heart stop. Four fresh needle marks darkened the wrist of my husband, Samuel, like malevolent eyes staring at me from the lifeless flesh.
Dark purple bruises spread along his veins, creating a grotesque pattern that definitely wasn’t there three days ago when I had prepared him for his final journey. Father Michael leaned closer and quietly explained that he had only just noticed these strange marks while adjusting my husband’s hands for the final blessing. I felt the ground shift beneath my feet.
My gaze darted to the people gathered in the church, searching for an explanation. Samuel’s relatives stood by the walls, lost in grief. Colleagues from his work spoke quietly among themselves.
But my attention was drawn to Victor, an old family friend, who turned deathly pale as he realized what was happening. His usually calm face contorted, his eyes darting around, seeking an escape. Victor took a few cautious steps toward the exit, trying not to draw attention, but the priest noticed his movement.
Father Michael gave a barely perceptible nod to the deacon, who immediately moved to the church doors. A heavy bolt slid into place with a grating sound, cutting off any retreat. A tense silence fell upon the chapel, broken only by the whisper of prayers and muffled sobs.
I tried to gather my thoughts, but chaos reigned in my mind. I remembered that dreadful day three days ago when Victor had called me at work. His voice had sounded concerned, but not panicked, as he uttered the fateful words that Samuel had fallen ill and I needed to come home immediately.
I had dropped everything and rushed home, my heart pounding with fear. But when I burst into our apartment, Samuel was already lying motionless on the bed. Victor stood nearby with a phone in his hand, explaining the symptoms of a heart attack to the 911 dispatcher.
The paramedics had pronounced him deceased, finding nothing suspicious in the passing of an elderly man with a known heart condition. Now, these marks on my husband’s hand told a completely different story. I felt a chill of horror run down my spine.
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