The St. Michael’s Church was filled with a dense, almost tangible grief.
The air was thick with a mix of suffocating incense and wax, further weighed down by the faint smell of old wood and damp stone.
The light filtering through the colored windows cast trembling shadows on the cold stone floor, but it could not dispel the darkness that had taken root in the hearts of those gathered.
The deep, solemn tolling of the bells not only shook the church walls but also reverberated through the people’s chests, blending with the stifled sobs to form a heartbreaking symphony of loss.
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Klára stood motionless next to her husband Sámuel’s coffin.
In her strict black mourning clothes, she looked fragile under the weight of the sudden loss that had befallen her.
She tightly held their two-year-old daughter, Luca, who was wriggling in her mother’s embrace, her face red and swollen from uncontrollable crying.
She did not understand the solemnity of the situation, nor the finality of death.
She only sensed that her father was in that large wooden box and would never return to her.
Klára bent down, trying to soothe her child with quiet, broken words, but Luca would not be calmed.
Her wide, innocent eyes were fixed on the polished wooden coffin, where Sámuel’s lifeless body lay.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Luca sobbed, her tiny fingers trembling as they pointed at the coffin.
Klára swallowed hard, a lump stuck in her throat.
Beneath the black mourning veil, her hands clutched the edge of her dress so tightly that her fingers turned white.
She wanted to cry, to scream, to collapse – but her tears seemed frozen inside her, paralyzed by the suffocating grip of grief.
Sámuel’s sudden death still felt like a nightmare, one from which she could awaken at any moment.
After all, just yesterday morning, he had kissed her goodbye – strong, healthy, full of life.
And now\… now only this cold, lifeless body remained, locked in wood and silence.
The church was filled with nearly every villager.
They whispered softly to each other, exchanging sympathetic but curious glances.
No one understood how such a healthy, vibrant man as Sámuel could have died so suddenly.
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Some suspected an accident – perhaps a work-related injury in the forest.
Others, more superstitious, whispered about fate’s blow, about punishment, though no one could name a sin.
The gossip slithered through the church like an invisible snake, increasing the general sense of foreboding.
At that moment, Aunt Rózsa approached Klára – an elderly woman with kind eyes and a wrinkled face marked by the wisdom of years.
She lived in the neighboring house, and her eyes held sincere sympathy as she gently placed a hand on the young woman’s shoulder.
“My dear Klára,” she whispered softly, her voice as smooth as velvet, “I know how painful this is.
A horrible loss.
But… Luca… are you sure everything is alright with her?”
Klára looked down at her daughter, who was trembling all over.
Luca was no longer looking at the coffin but at the dark, dusty corner behind it, her gaze fixed there as if she saw something no one else could.
The next moment, a piercing scream sliced through the air, startling everyone:
“Daddy! Daddy’s trapped! He’s shouting for help!”
The atmosphere in the church changed abruptly.
The air thickened, becoming sticky with sudden anxiety.
A murmur ran through the crowd.
Many nervously looked around, some hurriedly crossed themselves, seeking protection from the unknown.
Aunt Rózsa took a step back, covering her mouth with her hand.
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“My God! The child… she sees…,” she whispered in a voice choked with fear.
A cold shiver ran down Klára’s spine.
She tried to speak calmly to her daughter, though her heart was pounding wildly in her chest from the sudden surge of irrational fear.
“Luca, what did you say, my dear?” she asked softly.
“Daddy’s there!” Luca insisted, still pointing at the same dark corner.
“He’s shouting for help! He’s trapped!”
At that moment, a cold draft swept through the church, though the doors were closed.
The altar candles began to flicker wildly, casting dancing shadows on the walls.
No one spoke, but the tension grew unbearable, thickening the air like an invisible weight.
And then…
The massive oak door of the church creaked open, quietly but unmistakably.
A tall, dark-clad man appeared in the doorway.
His face was closed off, his eyes cold, his gaze impenetrable.
It was Henrik, Sámuel’s cousin.
He wore a flawless black suit, which seemed to absorb the light as though it were a shadow itself.
Slowly, he entered, scanned the congregation, and then walked over to Klára, offering her a sympathetic smile – though it seemed somehow false, like a poorly applied mask.
“Klára, you must be shattered,” he said in a deep, falsely warm voice.
“We are all shocked by Sámuel’s death.
This is a real tragedy.”
Klára simply nodded, too exhausted and confused to respond.
Henrik’s gaze slid to Luca, who was still clinging desperately to her mother’s dress, her eyes stubbornly fixed on the dark corner.
“The little one is too young to understand,” Henrik continued, though his tone changed slightly, a hint of sharpness creeping in.
“Perhaps it would be better if you didn’t let her say such things.
She might scare people.”
Klára furrowed her brow slightly.
The remark unsettled her.
“She’s just grieving for her father,” she replied, trying to stay calm.
Henrik nodded, but his face tightened, and his gaze became insistent.
“Klára, I don’t want to discuss this right now, but… you know, there are serious debts left after Sámuel.
Debts.
Perhaps it would be best if you considered selling the house.
That would be the most practical solution.”
Klára froze.
Dizziness overwhelmed her.
Was he talking about their home?
Now?
They hadn’t even buried Sámuel yet!
“What are you talking about, Henrik?” she asked in a faint voice.
“Look,” Henrik sighed, as if pretending to care, “Sámuel was a good man, but… he had his weaknesses.
Gambling, bad deals…
I just want you and Luca to be safe in the long term.”
A cold wave of fear swept through Klára.
She had never trusted Henrik fully.
He had always been calculating and cold.
And now, before a single handful of earth had even touched Sámuel’s coffin, he was talking about selling the property.
Something wasn’t right.
Not at all.
Meanwhile, Luca once again clung to Klára.
She pointed first at the coffin and then at the dark corner, her voice soft but firm:
“Daddy’s trapped.
The bad uncle is holding him there.”
Henrik suddenly stiffened.
His face turned pale, and in an instant, a mix of surprise and panic flashed across him.
The people, who had been standing silently until then, began to stir nervously.
Some crossed themselves, others tried to distance themselves.
Henrik whispered:
“Children have vivid imaginations.”
But his voice was trembling.
Klára noticed how Henrik clenched his fist.
“What’s wrong, Henrik?” she asked suspiciously.
Henrik looked away but didn’t answer.
In the church, the light of the candles flickered, as though a draft had swept through – though all the doors and windows were shut.
The shadows of the saints on the walls seemed to move, as though watching the events unfold.
Then a woman whispered:
“The child is too young to lie about something like this.”
Klára tightly squeezed Luca’s hand.
The little girl was trembling.
Henrik’s gaze nervously swept the room, and the unease in the church grew.
Then, Márton, one of Samuel’s old friends, entered the church.
His face was tired and frightened.
“Klára!” he shouted.
“I heard… I came too late, but there’s something you need to know!”
Klára shuddered.
Márton hurried toward her and began speaking softly:
“A few days before his death, Samuel called me.
He said Henrik was pressuring him.
He wanted him to sell the old property by the river – the one he inherited from his grandfather.”
“And Samuel refused?”
“Yes, firmly.
The next day, the ‘accident’ happened.”
Blood drained from Klára’s face.
Meanwhile, Henrik nervously began to back away, but it was already too late.
The people in the church were watching – and now suspicious looks were focused on him.
“Luca,” Klára whispered.
“Why do you say Dad is there?”
The little girl answered in a trembling voice:
“I hear him crying.
He’s crying inside.”
A silence fell.
Everyone went quiet.
And then…
Something – or someone – knocked on the coffin from the inside.