For a moment, Anna stood frozen, her eyes fixed on the man’s hand. Her instincts screamed at her to run, to flee the room and never look back. But a fragment of curiosity rooted her to the spot, battling against the fear that coursed through her veins. Had she imagined it? Was it a stress-induced hallucination, the product of guilt and fear entwining in the dark corners of her mind?

She forced herself to take a deep breath, trying to steady her trembling hands. Her logical mind argued that it was just a spasm, a post-mortem reflex she had encountered before. But the grip had felt deliberate, purposeful. She recalled the stories she’d heard, whispered among the staff about spirits who lingered, unable to part with their earthly possessions.