PART 2: Six Feet of Earth and Three Knocks: The Fragile Line Between Love and Crime
A cold draft swept through the funeral parlor in Mumbai, carrying the heavy scent of jasmine and marigolds that clung to the snow-white casket. Twelve-year-old Ethan stood alone in the center of the brightly lit ceremonial hall. He should have been outside with the rest of the family, but he had slipped away from the adults to be near his late mother, Claire, one last time.
He placed his small hand against the smooth wooden surface.
“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t get to say goodbye.”
His whisper, swallowed by the silence, was answered by a strange sound.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Ethan froze. He knew those three knocks by heart. Since he was little, every night before bed, Claire would knock exactly three times on his door. It was their secret signal: *I love you.*
Ethan pressed his ear against the ice-cold wood. “Mom?”
Another soft tap came from within. Ethan rushed out into the hall to find Raj—his stepfather, who had been slumped in grief all morning.
But when Ethan breathlessly recounted the three knocks, Raj made no move to check. He didn’t call for help. His gaze darkened, shifting into a cold, menacing stare. He gripped Ethan’s shoulders tightly and gritted out, “Don’t you ever say that again.”
That reaction shattered any lingering doubt in Ethan’s mind.
As the service began, the room filled with grieving relatives. While everyone bowed their heads in silent tribute, Ethan stepped out from the shadows, clutching an iron hammer he had just grabbed from the back storage room. He lunged toward the casket and brought the hammer down with all his might.
The mourners cried out in shock. Raj roared and lunged forward, trying to grab his arm. But no one could react in time.
CRACK!
The wooden lid split in two. Ethan swung the hammer a second time, striking the crack with force. A jagged opening appeared.
The pungent stench of anesthetic wafted up. Just beneath the shattered wood, a gaunt hand reached upward, its frail fingers clawing at the air. A woman in the front row screamed in shock:
“Oh my God! She’s still alive!”
The blood drained from Raj’s face. The secret of the anesthetic—and the plot to bury Claire alive to seize her fortune—had been utterly shattered by three knocks from the grave.
