At the funeral of a young woman, four men could not raise the coffin, and then her grieving mother demanded that it be opened.
The atmosphere reflected the sorrow: heavy clouds, damp air, and a restless breeze moving the cemetery trees. At first, nothing seemed unusual, just another somber farewell—until it took eight men to lift the coffin.
It appeared elegant: dark polished wood, glossy surface, and large metal handles. Inside lay a young woman. Her sudden d3ath surprised everyone who knew her: stunning, intelligent, gentle.
She was only twenty-two. The official cause was called an acci:dent. Still, rumors circulated. Some claimed they saw her crying the day before, others muttered she had been threatening someone. Nobody knew the truth. Her family pressed for a quick burial.
When the moment came to lower the coffin, the bearers gripped the handles. Suddenly…
“One, two, three!” one man ordered.
The coffin barely shifted.
“Again! One, two, three!”
They groaned, exhaled, pushed with all strength—but it would not move. It felt as if it were filled with bricks.
“What the hell…?” one bearer muttered, wiping his brow. “Feels like three bodies inside!”
They exchanged nervous looks. Silence thickened. Guests whispered:
– Something’s wrong…
– Has this happened before?
– Never.
One undertaker spoke quietly:
– I’ve carried countless coffins, even of large men. This weight makes no sense.
At that instant, the girl’s mother, dressed in black, her face drawn with grief, stepped forward. She stared at the coffin.
“Open it,” she demanded firmly.
“Are you certain?” the director hesitated.
– I said open it.
The staff glanced at one another and complied. They loosened the screws and lifted the lid.
What appeared inside left the crowd in paralyzed shock.
The girl rested calmly in a pale dress, flowers folded in her hands. Her face seemed serene. Everything appeared ordinary—except the coffin’s sides were taller than normal. A platform hid beneath the lining. One man cautiously raised it.
Instantly, everyone recoiled.
Inside, concealed in plastic wrapping, lay another corpse: a middle-aged man, tattooed on the neck, skin already decomposing. A strong chemical stench spread.
One attendant stumbled back:
– Dear God… another body!
“This… this isn’t just concealment. This is criminal,” someone gasped.
The mother lowered her head.
– I don’t know him. He should not be there.
The workers turned pale.
– Impossible. We received it sealed. Everything was locked…
“Who arranged the coffin delivery?” a man demanded.
– A private firm. Through a broker. Order came online. Cash only.
Silence.
Someone pulled out a phone to call the police.
Later, at the station, it was revealed: the corpse was an accountant for a construction company who had gone missing days earlier.
The firm faced allegations of fraud, money laundering, and fa:ke contracts. Reports said he had prepared evidence for prosecutors—then vanished.
Investigators discovered the funeral company had been forged, stolen with false documents, and given a request for “sealed transport.”
The girl’s burial was genuine. Yet beneath her body, they concealed a man who might have testified.
One clue remained: a faint glove imprint on the plastic covering the corpse. It was enough to launch the case.
The mother swore until the end she had no knowledge. And she was believable—her own grief had shattered her.
But someone exploited that loss, that chaos, and decided the safest place to hide a witness was beneath another person’s grave.
