At her son’s funeral, the mother suddenly grabbed an axe and struck the coffin lid repeatedly: when it splintered open, everyone saw something horrifying.
– I’m not going to the funeral, that isn’t my son.
– Mom, what are you saying? This is your son, my husband. How can you refuse to attend?
– You don’t understand. My son isn’t in that coffin. They’re lying, hiding something.
– But Mom, you saw the papers. They explained his face was destr0yed in the cra:sh, yet the DNA confirmed it was him.
– That isn’t my son, I can feel it.
– You’re just grieving, refusing to accept he’s truly gone.
– My son is alive. Stop talking about him as if he’s already de:ad.
No matter how they reasoned with her, the mother remained firm. Only hours later did she reluctantly agree to come. She refused black clothes, instead wore a bright blue coat. In her hands she carried a heavy black bag, never letting it go for even a moment. Her daughter-in-law kept quiet—what mattered was she finally agreed to attend.
The day was dreary, thick clouds pressed down on the cemetery. When the service began and the coffin was about to be sealed, the mother suddenly stepped forward. Her face had drained of color. She placed the bag on the ground, pulled out an axe, and before anyone could stop her, she swung and struck the coffin lid with full strength.
The wood cracked, pieces flew apart. One blow, then another, until the coffin burst nearly in half.
…A chilling silence followed. The mourners froze; some gasped and covered their mouths, others stumbled back. The priest lowered his gaze, as though hoping to vanish. The crowd stood paralyzed until a horrified shout tore the air:
— It’s… empty!
And then the terrible truth was revealed.
Chaos erupted. Men rushed toward the gravediggers, others dialed the police. The daughter-in-law, white as chalk, dropped her purse. The mother, panting, stood above the shattered coffin, her fists locked around the axe so hard her knuckles blanched.
“I told you,” she said, voice steady though low, “my son isn’t here.”
Just then, a thin man in the cemetery guard’s uniform stepped out of the crowd. He faltered, then forced himself to speak:
— The body… was taken. At night. Two people arrived… showed documents… said it had to be moved to another city’s morgue for a new examination. I… I didn’t realize this would happen…
His words swept over the mourners like a winter wind. Where had they taken the body? Who were those people?
Police arrived quickly, questioning everyone. But worse news came soon after: there was no morgue record of any transfer at all.
Instead of the son’s name, the log contained a chilling note: “disposal – clerical error.” It meant someone had deliberately erased every trace of him after de:ath… or had staged his de:ath entirely.
The mother collapsed onto a bench, clutching a splinter of the coffin lid. Her eyes no longer held despair, but fierce resolve. She knew: if her son still lived, she would find him. If not, she would uncover who had robbed him of peace, even in the grave.
