Vengeance from the Grave

My daughter, Claire Shaw, is gone. It was myocarditis—acute, and merciless. The white hospital sheets couldn't conceal the emptiness inside my chest. I locked myself in Claire's room, breathing in the faint scent of her body wash, and didn't sleep for three days and nights. My husband William Shaw sat in the living room, smoking; his face hazy and cold within the swirling smoke. No matter what he thinks, I want Claire back. I hired the most powerful sorcerer, spending every last dime of my savings. The ritual took place on the seventh night after her passing, the stifling scent of incense bringing tears to my eyes. The sorcerer chanted obscure spells, and amid the chime of copper bells, the door suddenly creaked open. Claire stood at the doorway, wearing her favorite pink dress, her hair still tangled with bits of grass. "Mom." She called out to me softly. I rushed over and hugged her; her body was warm, and her heartbeat was real. William burst in, clutching the crumpled Death Certificate. "Wendy Evans, wake up! Claire is already dead! This is not true!" His voice roared, trembling with fear. I ignored him, holding Claire and running my fingers through her hair over and over. The joy of having her back was enough to drown all reason. William called his elder brother, Jerry Shaw, late into the night. The next day, Jerry hurried over, his eyes filled with curiosity as he looked at Claire. While I wasn't paying attention, he snipped a lock of Claire's hair and secretly took a sample from William as well. On the day the paternity test results arrived, William's hands trembled as he held the report. Biological father and daughter. But this result did not bring William peace; instead, it threw him into utter panic. He started avoiding Claire, ate alone in the kitchen, locked his bedroom door at night, and didn't even dare meet Claire's eyes. Claire came to him many times, but he always told her to get lost. Claire cried as she told me that Dad had changed, that he no longer loved her.