After my wife Elizabeth’s tragic car accident, a fortune-teller at her funeral whispered something chilling: “Her death was no accident.” What I discovered next changed everything.
At 35, I never thought I’d be a widower. Elizabeth was my world, and losing her so suddenly felt like a nightmare. The news reached me while I was miles away in a hotel, struggling to grasp that she was gone after only five years of marriage.
When I finally made it to the cemetery, the grief was overwhelming. As I left, an elderly woman stood by the gates, watching me intently.
She approached, her voice soft but firm. “Your wife’s spirit seeks peace,” she said, extending her hand. Skeptical, I started to walk away, but her next words stopped me in my tracks: “Elizabeth won’t rest until justice is served.”
Against my better judgment, I handed her twenty dollars, and she gripped my hand, her gaze piercing. “Your wife’s death was no accident,” she whispered, sending a chill through me.
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