At the funeral, she felt around for his middle finger. When she found it, she cut it off. The old woman wrapped it in a handkerchief and kept it in her pocket. For a short time, she was at peace.
One night, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs. She recognized the sound immediately. Those were the exact same footsteps of her late husband. The door to her room opened slowly, bringing with it the stench of death.
"Have you returned for your finger?" the woman asked.
Her husband bellowed, "That wasn't my finger you cut off!"