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Welcome to Creepypasta & Scary Stories
I am your host Spooky Boo. Tonight I have for you 4 terrifying stories from the Creepypasta library. First, I’d like to invite you to my other podcast Spooky Boo’s Scary Story Time where I tell the spooky tales of the coastal town of Sancastle. Get more info at www.scarystorytime.com.
Also, on Saturday nights you can chat with me in the Creature Features chat room on YouTube while we watch spooky classic horror movies and chat in the chat room. Check it out at www.creatureatures.tv.
Now let’s begin…
Story Number 1
Doors
ACJohnson
I was adopted. I never knew my real mother; rather, I knew her at one time but I left her side when I was too little to be able to remember. I loved my adopted family though. They were so kind to me. I ate well, I lived in a warm and comfortable house, and I got to stay up pretty late.
Let me tell you about my family real fast: First, there’s my mother. I never called her Mom or anything like that; I just called her by her first name. Janice. She didn’t mind at all though. I called her that for so long, I don’t think she even noticed. Anyhow, she was a very kind woman. I think that she is the one who recommended my adoption in the first place. Sometimes I would lay my head against her in front of the television and she would tickle my back with her nails. She is one of those Hollywood mothers.
Second, there’s Dad. His real name was Richard, but he never really liked me much so I began to refer to him as Dad in a desperate attempt to gain his affection. It didn’t work. I think that no matter what I called him, he would never love me as much as his own child. That’s understandable so I really didn’t press the matter. The most notable attribute of Dad was his unmoving sternness. He was not afraid to pop his children when they did something wrong. I found that out before I could use the restroom properly. He didn’t hesitate to spank me. Well, I’m in line and it’s because of his methods.
Lastly, is my sister. Little Emily was really young when I was adopted, so we were about the same age, but she was slightly older. I liked to think of her as my little sister, though. We got along better than any sibling could possibly get along. We would always stay up late together and just talk. Well, she did a lot of the talking; I mostly just listened because I loved her. It was a great setup that we had! We were short on bedrooms, so- because I didn’t want to sleep in the living room by myself when I was littler- I had a pallet set up for me next to her bed on the floor. This is where I have slept since. But it was cool with me because I enjoyed being with her and I had always felt pretty protective of my little sis.
Everything changed on a horrible Wednesday night. I was at home taking a nap when little Emily opened the front door. The sound of the door opening pulled me to a state of consciousness and I walked from the room down the hall to the living room. That’s when I first remembered it was Wednesday. I was never any good at keeping track of what day it was. Actually I’ll just go ahead and say it: my sense of time was HORRIBLE! But nevertheless, I knew it was Wednesday because Emily had just come home from her Church’s youth group gathering. She walked in the front door and hugged me, and then was followed in by Dad and Janice.
“You have a good nap?” Janice said teasingly as she ruffled up my hair. I just shook my head away and snorted in a manner that clearly expressed that I was teasing back with her.
“Don’t you snort at your mother like that!” said my father gruffly with authority. He shut the door behind him and hung up his coat.
“I was clearly joking…” I growled under my breath. He must not have heard me because I didn’t feel him smack me. Emily then proceeded to our room and I followed. She started telling me about her day. You know… usual teenage girl stuff. But I listened so that she would feel better. After her summary she suggested watching TV and I obliged and jumped onto the couch as she was going for the remote. She rolled her eyes at my little-brother-like immaturity and scooted me over and sat down. The TV turned on and we watched it together until the sun went down. Emily was the kind of girl that- instead of watching cartoons and soap operas- would rather watch Discovery and Animal Planet and Natural Geographic. I like those too so I didn’t mind. Actually, those were the only channels that can hold my attention.
So it got late and Janice walked up behind the sofa. “Emily it’s past your bed time. Turn off the television and go to your room. You too.” She pointed at me. Emily turned off the program we were watching grudgingly and stood up. She started down the hallway to our room. As I followed I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.
We went into our room and Emily turned off the light. Just as she did, I caught a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye. It was out the window, but as soon as I redirected my line of sight to where the window was no longer in my peripheral vision, what it was that I thought I saw was gone. I still remained alert. For my sister’s sake.
I laid there in the darkness with nothing but the thin ray of light from the street lamp outside to illuminate the room. It wasn’t much. Time and time again I could have sworn that I heard subtle sounds just out the window… a twig break, leaves crunching, clothes jostling, and all the while I could smell a faint stench of sweat and blood. I kept my eyes open most of the night.
The sounds outside subsided and the smell left my nose. I began to feel at ease. My eyelids closed.
Not long after that, I heard a very loud crash on the other side of the house. I was up in an instant. “THERE’S SOMEONE IN THE HOUSE!” I barked with extreme adrenaline coursing through me. “Wake up!” I shrilly pleaded with Emily. She did, and as soon as I saw her sit up I ran to my parents’ room…
Dad was dead. His neck was splayed open and gaping as blood spilled out of it, off the bed, and onto the floor. I saw that the master bathroom’s door was closed and just before it- on the outside- was a man.
A man… I don’t feel comfortable calling it that.
He was very large and rugged. He turned around and saw me and that’s when I saw him accurately for the first time. I won’t forget it. His eyes were large and beady and trapped with lust. He was styling a beard that was badly unkempt with blood dripping off. His clothes were dirty and his face was cold. Just then I noticed the same horrid smell of sweat and blood from earlier, but this time it was overwhelming.
He saw me. He saw me and grinned with a set of crooked yellow teeth. That smile threw me off. I thought that I was going to die, but then he turned back to the bathroom door completely unperturbed by my presence. I was terrified and didn’t know what to do. I just yelled and cried. I watched as he shouldered through door that was Mom’s only protection. I watched as he raised the large razor that he was carrying, but had obviously neglected to use properly. I watched as he sliced her open and tore her to shreds…
I then heard something; the last thing that I wanted to hear… It was Emily’s scream coming from behind me. The large monstrosity looked up from my butchered mother and stared at my little sister. I was distraught. He stood up and quickly started walking toward us. My sis turned and ran, and I was at a loss when he bypassed me and went straight after her. Why was she still in the house? Had she not assessed the situation and run? Apparently not, and now she was dead and I was alone.
I ran after them both. I expected the man to kill her as he had the rest of my family, but I was sadly mistaken. He grabbed her by the arm and jerked her as a way to make clear that he was in control. He dragged her through the house… I was making all of the noise I could now, hoping and praying that someone would come to my aid. He mustn’t take her. Not her.
As he passed me I backed against the wall and whimpered with terror, “Why?” He didn’t respond except by putting his free hand on my head while Emily screamed in the other and saying “Good boy.” He gave another crooked grin and a very cold, unnatural laugh. I followed him to the door where he dragged my helpless sister after him. He opened it, pulled her out, and slammed it shut behind him.
I am now sitting in the house with my mutilated adopted parents, shivering and whimpering with dismay. He’s out there with her. Doing who-knows-what to her, and I can’t do anything. I would if I could, but I can’t. I would chase after them in a heartbeat, but I can’t. I sit here, looking at the front door. I look down at my paws. If only I could open doors…
Story Number 2
The Smiling Man
by Blue_Tidal
About five years ago I lived downtown in a major city in the US. I’ve always been a night person, so I would often find myself bored after my roommate, who was decidedly not a night person, went to sleep. To pass the time, I used to go for long walks and spend the time thinking.
I spent four years like that, walking alone at night, and never once had a reason to feel afraid. I always used to joke with my roommate that even the drug dealers in the city were polite. But all of that changed in just a few minutes of one evening.
It was a Wednesday, somewhere between one and two in the morning, and I was walking near a police-patrolled park quite a ways from my apartment. It was a quiet night, even for a weeknight, with very little traffic and almost no one on foot. The park, as it was most nights, was completely empty.
I turned down a short side-street in order to loop back to my apartment when I first noticed him. At the far end of the street, on my side, was the silhouette of a man, dancing. It was a strange dance, similar to a waltz, but he finished each “box” with an odd forward stride. I guess you could say he was dance-walking, headed straight for me.
Deciding he was probably drunk, I stepped as close as I could to the road to give him the majority of the sidewalk to pass me by. The closer he got, the more I realized how gracefully he was moving. He was very tall and lanky, and wearing an old suit. He danced closer still, until I could make out his face. His eyes were open wide and wild, head tilted back slightly, looking off at the sky. His mouth was formed in a painfully wide cartoon of a smile. Between the eyes and the smile, I decided to cross the street before he danced any closer.
I took my eyes off of him to cross the empty street. As I reached the other side, I glanced back… and then stopped dead in my tracks. He had stopped dancing and was standing with one foot in the street, perfectly parallel to me. He was facing me but still looking skyward, smile still wide on his lips.
I was completely and utterly unnerved by this. I started walking again, but kept my eyes on the man. He didn’t move. Once I had put about half a block between us, I turned away from him for a moment to watch the sidewalk in front of me. The street and sidewalk ahead of me were completely empty. Still unnerved, I looked back to where he had been standing to find him gone. For the briefest of moments I felt relieved, until I noticed him. He had crossed the street, and was now slightly crouched down. I couldn’t tell for sure due to the distance and the shadows, but I was certain he was facing me. I had looked away from him for no more than ten seconds, so it was clear that he had moved fast.
I was so shocked that I stood there for some time, staring at him. And then he started moving toward me again. He took giant, exaggerated tip-toed steps, as if he were a cartoon character sneaking up on someone. Except he was moving very, very quickly.
I’d like to say at this point I ran away or pulled out my pepper spray or my cellphone or anything at all, but I didn’t. I just stood there, completely frozen as the smiling man crept toward me.
And then he stopped again, about a car length away from me. Still smiling his smile, still looking to the sky.
When I finally found my voice, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind. What I meant to ask was, “What do you want?!” in an angry, commanding tone. What came out was a whimper: “Whaaat…?”
Regardless of whether or not humans can smell fear, they can certainly hear it. I heard it in my own voice, and that only made me more afraid. But he didn’t react to it at all. He just stood there, smiling.
And then, after what felt like forever, he turned around, very slowly, and started dance-walking away. Just like that. Not wanting to turn my back to him again, I just watched him go, until he was far enough away to almost be out of sight. And then I realized something. He wasn’t moving away anymore, nor was he dancing. I watched in horror as the distant shape of him grew larger and larger. He was coming back my way. And this time he was running.
I ran too.
I ran until I was off of the side-road and back onto a better lit road with sparse traffic. Looking behind me then, he was nowhere to be found. The rest of the way home, I kept glancing over my shoulder, always expecting to see his stupid smile, but he was never there.
I lived in that city for six months after that night, and I never went out for another walk. There was something about his face that always haunted me. He didn’t look drunk, he didn’t look high. He looked completely and utterly insane. And that’s a very, very scary thing to see.
Don’t change that podcast, I’ll be right back with another freaky story…
Story Number 3
French Beaches
A lot of people are immensely fortunate. I long for a way to get any sense of responsibility and organization off my mind, like those happy people I’ve seen people watch in television commercials. I’ve gotten used to reading facial expressions, and those characters always have this oddly fake smile painted to a fleshy canvas. It’s a kind of joy I only catch glimpses of, but I feel like that’s the case for most people. It’s an ignorance that I crave. You have to really focus to just enjoy the moment, to relax. I find it superbly impressive, really, when someone can blur out their life and enjoy each second. Weird, but impressive, nonetheless. I’ve always got my job rattling around my skull. I’m always travelling for it. Not exactly to sunny resorts all the time, but I’ve seen some hauntingly beautiful scenery.
Have you ever heard the waves crashing on a French beach? Like really listened to the pattern of each tide, or the crunch of the searing sand beneath people’s feet? I’ve been there a few times, but not for a while. I’m an older fellow, you see, so I’m itching with thousands of sand-grain stories. I’ve walked and hitchhiked all through Europe back when I first got hired. It’s amazing, the rugged history in each little town and hamlet. The lights in the big cities are mesmerizing and all, but it’s the quaint towns that got me. There’s not many left anymore, but they’re always so special. There’s so much life there, despite near non-existent populations. I can hear life in the swaying grass in the pastures, the mosaic trees rustling off waltzing leaves. Even the animals. My God, the animals. Quiet beings they are, but their eyes show more spirit than most humans. Each ring of colour on twin eggshells a portal into their minds. You can see real happiness in pigs when they hear their food being slopped in a trough. It’s all in the eyes.
Travelling can be lovely because you develop a sense of detail of the world you find yourself in. At least, I did. Sometimes I feel like the world is moving slower, just for me. Just so I can get my mind off the hustle and bustle of my life and wonder at life. It’s quite sweet, thinking about it like that. I wish that’s what I could do all day, but I move around so much I never soak it all in enough. I went to Japan, for example, I flew there. I was thrown back by the culture, the pride they all had. But, before I could enjoy myself, I was gone in an instant. Life is so beautiful to me, I just wish I could spend more time doing just that. If I could’ve I would’ve walked the cobblestone roads of Dublin for days on end, until my feet bled. I would sit on top of mountains and just stare at the sun, letting the cold whisper silence in my ear. I would’ve spent so much longer watching people in Pompeii take bliss in their everyday routine. Even the roads there have grooves for carts. It was so wonderful to see the controlled chaos. I haven’t been back since. Not very much, anyway. The ancient cities are the best. So much history. People long since dead still have a presence, a real moving presence.
It’s hard to find some place I can’t appreciate. However, I hate hospitals. I absolutely despise them. The Clorox scented halls are too clean, too false. Almost identical to the chipper advertisement actors. It’s a sculpture of happiness with no real meat to it. No cheering, or dogs yapping, or life just existing. I would say how many times I’ve been to one, but I prefer not to. I feel rather guilty about it. I often reflect on something I could’ve done to help those poor, poor bed-ridden patients. I wish I could lie to myself and say that there is. Then, I’d feel as though I’d done my best to help them. I remember this one time, I was in this hospital in Canada. I believe it was Toronto.
It was the usual amount of upsetting, to say the least. Babies crying, the stomping of running footsteps. I passed this lady at the front desk who was too glued to her smart phone screen to notice me coming in. Her blonde bangs sort of cascaded this curtain over her eyes. I glided through from room to room to check for the one I was looking for. I flew by walls of gateways to, what I can assume, are personal hells for people. I kept my eyes down and counted the tiles as I made my way down. They were these almost factory-fresh vinyl tiles. I missed the natural grass from those towns in Europe. Even the parking lot out front, that searing hot stove, was better.
Finally, I found it. I gazed into the door’s window and saw a reflection of myself. Through the vapour that was my translucent image was a small boy in this odd bed, his father, and a therapy dog. I entered, the dog staring me down. I saw fear in her brown eyes. Of course, I was a stranger, but dogs usually never like me. Her yellow fur stood up a bit, her ears matching it. Such beautiful, big eyes. I felt bad for coming and scaring the poor soul.
The father was asleep. The beep of his son’s life support worked in tandem with his snoring to perfect this morbid melody. I’ve heard it many times before, but each time is a kick to the gut. Each time’s a new family, a new experience. Nothing’s the same except the look on the person’s face when I get their attention. I silently hovered to the boy. His name was Matt. I’d been with him when his grandpa passed, but he wouldn’t remember. He was a sweet kid. He loved Spongebob. Actually, he was coddling a Spongebob blanket.The absence of his innocent, bleach yellow tussle of hair put a lump in my throat. I saw it in framed pictures on this baby blue nightstand he had beside him, but I couldn’t get passed the reality of it. I never can. Nobody does, actually. I poked Matt on the shoulder, waking him from his own sleep.
“W-what… who are y-”
“Matthew Chester?” I cut him off, my voice shaking a bit.
“Um… yeah?” He sat up in his bed without a sound. He was as shocked by the situation as I was.
I sat down in this chair he had next to him, unknowingly on his copy of I’ll Love You Forever. The beeps still persisted. The dad was still asleep. The dog eventually waddled over to my side, sat, and tried to scare me. Teeth glaring, slight growl.
“Matt, I like your choice of books.”
“Uh, thanks,” he muttered, “My dad reads it to me.” He was nervous, but they all are. I tried to ease him into it all.
“I’m not a stranger. I’m a friend.” I assured him.
“Who are you?”
I inched closer to him. My hand, pale as a ghost, held his. I ran the other through my wavy, onyx hair, uncomfortably. The dog came closer, lying down between Matt and I.
“I’m here to, um, well..”
“You don’t look so good.” He said, staring at my white arm. He swung to his nightstand to grab a cup of water, but froze when his hand passed through it. He sat there for a second but to me, and I think to him, it was like an hour went by.
“Matt, do you remember your Papa much?” I rubbed his back and moved strands of his returned hair from his eyes.
“A bit. He’s… Am I…?”
“He’s a good man, Matty. I met him when you were little.”
The room was quiet. Almost peaceful. But, each beep was a canon in the silence. Slowly, each one grew closer together. I always hated seeing children the most. I tried to think, but there wasn’t anything I could do to save him. I was stuck by his side, like God had glued me to that damned chair until I did my job. I should be used to that part by now, but I’m not.
“He’s always going on about your lovely pictures you draw.” I pointed to the one he had taped to his wall, by his window. To this day, I marvel about how much life was in that drawing. The radiant green trees, the popping yellow sun. The clouds above the grey jungle outside made it really hard to enjoy the view, let alone see the sun. He stood up out of his bed in front of me. I saw his knees get shaky so I held him in my arms.
“What’s happening?” He collapsed and sobbed into my body.
“Matt, I’m so sorry. I really am.” I paused and looked into his eyes. I felt this mutual understanding and we both welled up. He looked upon his reflection on the bed.
“I know, Matt.”
“It’s not…. It-it’s-”
“No, it’s not fair, buddy. It never is.” I shifted to the right of the chair, and he fell apart beside me. I remembered the beaches in France at that moment. The memories, like a family photo album, flipped through my mind. Then, screams of young men cut through them. The waters turned red and guns began crying. The beeps grew more frequent, like mines on a crowded beach. “You know, Matt. I really hate what I do.”
“Hate’s a bad word.” He protested. I smiled.
“Oops, I’m sorry,” I smirked and squeezed his shoulders together. “It’s never fair when the world loses a life. Nobody should have a time limit to live, especially not such a great young man like you.” He smiled. I think he enjoyed me thinking of him as a ‘young man’ and not a kid. “On my way here, I told your Papa you’d see him. He’s very excited to see you again.”
“Really?” He began to cry, not from sadness, but joy.
“Yes, really. You don’t need to be afraid, Matty. You’re safe now.”
He started staring at his sleeping father. He was blissfully unaware that his son had passed in his sleep. I could feel Matt’s emotions, and they tore me apart. Every time I take a life, I hurt their loved ones more than them, themselves. I hate it. I hate everything about myself, my job, hospitals. I just wanted it to be over. I could feel his emotions, but I can’t read minds. I don’t know whether he was still frustrated, or worried for his dad. Probably a depressed mixture of both. I felt a sort of buzzing in the air. An alert, if you will. My hands tensed.
“What’s wrong?” He asked, voice shaky.
“I have to see somebody else now.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
We sat in silence for what was like hours. I then stood up, Matt following me. I watched as he gave one last loving pet to the dog.
Beep.
Beep. Beep.
I walked him to his father. He gave him this great, big hug. It was quite something. The love between humans is one thing I, well, love about souls. Even in a room faking happy, they find comfort.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
His father slowly began to open his eyes.
“Everybody dies, Matt. I’m sorry.” I began to cry as I watched him say goodbye to his father.
“I know. But, why? Why can’t I be with my family?” Our emotions over took each other.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
“I… I don’t know, Matty. I really don’t.”
We stood there, witnessing his father wake up in slow motion through burning eyes. The silence was demolished by a last, ear-splitting beep. It filled the room, flooding my head.
“Is heaven nice?” Matt whimpered. I sniffed back sadness, thinking of the beauty I’m about to show him.
“Everything is. Just you wait. You have all of eternity to enjoy it all. Don’t be afraid.” I spoke through my sadness. He hugged me, quite hard, really. I took his small hand in mine and we flew passed running nurses, the tiles I counted, and an empty front desk. I took him to his grandpa and went on my way. My eyes were still wet when I got to my next location. The whole trip was blanketed in bittersweet moments. I screamed because I took somebody’s son, but that boy now has forever to enjoy the beauty I ramble to myself about. I don’t know what he’s doing with his grandpa right now, but whatever exploration they take part in must be filled with love. That’s something I wish I could indulge in. I would clean my thoughts with a shower of souls I hold dear, and visit all of my favorite towns. Not for my job, but just to relax and unwind. Maybe we’d watch the grass grow.
Some people are immensely fortunate. It must be Heaven on Earth to live without a care, to not reflect on everything around you. I am not one of those lucky few. I am flooded with wondrous detail until I tear up, only to have my pristine beaches invaded with blood and bullets. I’m the one who takes the beauty away from people. I’m the one who takes a son from his father. Enjoy the beauty with your own eyes. I know more than many that it all breaks down in a second. I know the marvel of life, for I’m who ends it.
Story Number 4
A Strange Occurrence
by RedNovaTyrant
I’m a student of St. Francis Xavier University in Antigonish, N.S., Canada. I’m in my third year at this point and have a handful of friends that I hang around so as to not get bored in this extremely mundane town. I’m not the biggest on parties and drinking super hard (a shot with friends once in a while isn’t so bad), so there’s not much for one to do in town since the only places of interest – that aren’t another friend’s room to hang out in – are bars. But it’s still a fun town to wander around at night.
One of my friends – I’ll call him R – and I have been all over the area. We’ve walked along the old highway, the new highway, railroad tracks, through the local park, just across campus. It’s not something we do every single day, but it’s more often than not that we just get bored hanging around his apartment (after three years, Halo night tends to lose its luster). So we walk.
Last night, while we were messing around in the park at around 1 AM, I made a suggestion. Behind our campus and across the highway, there’s an old and large graveyard on a wide hill called St. Ninian’s Cemetery. You could even see it from the student union building. Now I had been there as a child, when my mom wanted to go find the grave of her uncle, but I barely remembered the experience. So I asked R if he wanted to go and try to find my great-uncle’s grave. He said “hell yeah” and we were on our way back across town.
The journey there took us along the highway, but it was pretty dead at this hour, so we goofed around and walked down the middle of the road. We weren’t drunk or under any influence, I should add. Otherwise, we probably would have been slipping on all of the ice that covered the cemetery roads. Despite being January, the temperature had been a bit higher the last few days, and so there was lots of slush and water sitting on top of ice for an unfocused mind to slip on. There was still a cold wind though, and lots of snow on the ground, so we were bundled up appropriately. As we approached our target destination, R and I both jumped for a moment at how it looked like someone was wandering the place, as we both saw a light moving between the graves. But then we realized it was a combination of night lights on the graves and the reflection of other light sources as we got closer that made them appear to move. Regardless, it gave us a quick jump and kept us on our toes.
Not long after, we were crossing over the cold pavement with some haste to set foot on the frozen dirt road of the graveyard. There wasn’t a gate preventing us from getting in, so as far as we were concerned, it was open season. The sky was cloudy, so the night was fairly bright. Thanks to this, we were able to make out the basic layout of the cemetery from the entrance. There was a mausoleum right on the left as you entered, and to the left of that was a beautiful new cemetery shrine. The main road continued up the hill, where trees began to line the sides as you reached the top. At the top of the hill and a bit to the right was a massive crucifix. I took one picture of the cemetery later when we were climbing up the road, but it does not include the shrine or the crucifix. And I ain’t going back for another picture.
Entering a graveyard at night was a bit nerve wracking for no particular reason, so we decided to just take a look at the shrine right quick, which was heavily illuminated under some street lights. As we approached it though, I stopped dead in my tracks as I heard a “ha, ha” in the distant. It was an odd laugh, not a natural one, but disjointed – almost like someone just saying the words “ha ha”. I was already a little on edge after being fooled by the lights, so this just shot goosebumps down my back in an instant. I held my hand out to R, gesturing to stop and listen. There were no other sounds that followed, so I turned to R and asked if he had heard it. I suppose the question was unwarranted; his widened eyes told me everything before he nodded.
We scanned what we could see of the cemetery, but there were no signs of movement. I asked aloud, without shouting, if there was anyone else there, but got no answer. To take a moment to catch our wits before making our way into the cemetery, we stayed next to the shrine for a bit, comforted by the bright light and jokes about how it looked like something that would have a hidden passage in a video game. Then, once we were ready, we turned on the light features of our phones and proceeded up the road. R fell on his ass instantly, due to the incline and massive amounts of ice all over the dirt path. I nearly followed suit, so we tried to walk on the side without stepping on any graves. The wind was still gentle, but it brought with it a stink that we thought was manure from the many farms in the area. It was a common thing on campus during the spring and fall; random days where the whole campus smelled of cow pies.
I could vaguely remember the general location of my great-uncle’s grave, enough to know that it wasn’t right at the front of the cemetery, but somewhere at least on top of the hill. So we aimlessly wandered around, looking for my family name on one of the epitaphs. We found a few with the right surname, but the first name and dates didn’t match up. R went down for a second time, and I also took a tumble on the road. We laughed quietly and helped each other up, before continuing the search.
As I was wandering about, I shined the light down at my feet for a second to see where it was safe to step. What I found instead was this: a bone. After exclaiming in surprise, I called R over for him to take a look. He was also intrigued by the find. It had no meat on it, no blood splatter; it was simply stripped clean. It was pretty creepy to just find a bone lying in the middle of a graveyard like that, but the whole area was surrounded by forest, so it was more likely the remains of some feral cat or dog’s dinner.
Despite all of the doubts and explanations I was giving myself, I could feel a pool of dread beginning to fill in my heart. I couldn’t really tell if R felt the same way, mostly because we were telling dumb stories to each other to distract ourselves. As time wore on, it was getting a bit colder and R just wanted to head back soon. Since we were reasonable young adults, I said we should split up and search, since we both had our own light sources, which would make things go faster. R agreed to about another twenty minutes of searching, and so we split off.
Then, with only a few minutes left before we were ready to call it, I found it – my great-uncle’s gravestone. I felt an aura of pleasant surprise upon realizing it was the correct one, and I made sure to take a picture of it (I’ve hidden the name and dates for my own anonymity). I began to call out to R to tell him I’d found it, but we ended up interrupting each other. His shout, however, was much more panicked.
I stood up, hurried my way around the graves, and jogged across the ice to where he was shouting from. I met up with him halfway, but before I could ask what was going on, he simply grabbed my arm and yanked me to wherever he wanted to go. It was over on the right-hand side of the cemetery; I could tell thanks to the approaching crucifix. When we finally stopped, R pointed to the ground for me to look. At first I thought he was just showing me a grave in progress, but that was before I noticed the bones scattered about. Or the bloodstained snow. Finally, a waft of the terrible stench arose and hit me, and I was forced to keel over in disgust. R said that he nearly walked into the hole, but he had caught the strength of the wind’s stink increasing first, and stopped before he had fallen in. It was an absolute mess, the whole thing. The coffin lid was almost off its hinge, and what parts remained of the corpse inside it were flopped on top of each other. A half eaten skull stared at me; one side rotted but still intact, the other cleaned to the bone. And by how fresh the pile of soil was, we could only assume that whatever had done this, man or beast, was still nearby.
Obviously, R didn’t really give a shit anymore about seeing my great-uncle’s grave, and I completely understood. We decided to get the hell out of Dodge and rushed down the icy road as best we could. As we jogged, I took a look behind us, paranoid that whatever had dug up the grave was following us. I was right to be paranoid, but I wish I’d never looked. Standing there on the side of the cemetery road, I was able to discern the shadowy movements of a man in loincloth unfolding himself from lying on top of Jesus, before climbing down the crucifix. I kept my screams inside and whispered two words to R: “Fucking run.” I wouldn’t let him look behind us as we sprinted out of St. Ninian’s Cemetery and across the double lane highway to safety.
