In the coffin, next to the girl’s body, large, round stones were crammed in, some still wet, as if taken from a stream. Her feet were covered with a white cloth, embroidered with old Romanian motifs, but someone had soiled it with mud.
An uneasy murmur swept through the crowd. An old man from the village, leaning on his cane, whispered:
— It’s not a good sign… in the old villages, when stones were placed next to the dead, it was to prevent them from returning.
The girl’s mother remained motionless, but her eyes burned. She leaned over her daughter’s body and arranged her hair, whispering something incomprehensible. Some said it was a prayer, others — a curse.
The priest, disturbed, tried to regain his voice:
— Brothers, let us not forget that we are in the house of the Lord…
But a cold wind passed through the crosses, making everyone pull their clothes close to their bodies. The trees creaked, as if something unseen was passing among them.
One of the men who had lifted the lid gathered courage:
— Ma’am, do you know who did this?
The mother stood up and looked over the crowd. Then, in a clear voice, she said:
— I know. And I will not leave here until the truth is revealed to all of you.
People began to signal to each other. Some looked frightened, others angry. In Romanian villages, the death of young people always raises questions. And when the signs are not clear, the elders begin to seek answers in ancient stories.
An elderly woman, known for her remedies and stories, stepped forward:
— These stones… were not brought by the river by chance. Someone wanted to bind the girl’s soul. To prevent her from going to the light.
A few people made the sign of the cross, others shook their heads in disbelief. But the oppressive silence held everyone in place.
The girl’s mother took an old handkerchief, woven by the girl’s grandmother, from her black purse and began to wipe the mud off the cloth. Each movement seemed a gesture of defiance, as if she were wiping away not just the dirt, but also the evil done.
— Someone wanted to close her path, — she said. — But they will not succeed.
Then she turned to the priest:
— Father, please, bless everything again. Both the body and the coffin.
The priest sighed deeply, but took the cross and began to recite powerful prayers. The incense smoke rose slowly, enveloping the coffin. The wind stopped for a few moments, as if listening.
The eight men tried again to lift the coffin. This time, to everyone’s amazement, they could lift it effortlessly. The stones had disappeared, as if they had never been there.
The crowd was left speechless. Some said it was the will of the Lord, others that the girl’s mother knew what she was doing. But no one dared to comment further.
The coffin was lowered into the ground, and the mother, with tears in her eyes, threw a handful of earth over it, whispering:
— Go into the light, my child… no one can stop you now.
And then, a single ray of sunlight pierced the thick clouds, illuminating the grave. People left one by one, but the story of this burial would remain in the village’s memory for a long time, told at doorsteps, during gatherings, and on long winter evenings, as a warning that sometimes, evil hides even among the living.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to real events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher do not assume responsibility for the accuracy of events or for how characters are portrayed and are not liable for any misinterpretations. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed belong to the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
