Films about the walking dead, we perceive as a horror story, nothing more. Everyone is sure that the dead are not resurrected. Then why are they certainly found among the most diverse peoples, separated by thousands of kilometers of space? Don't you think this is strange? (website)
vampire graveyards
In 1994, an ancient cemetery of the 10th-11th centuries was excavated in the Czech city of Chelyakovitsy. The remains of 13 people lay in 11 graves. They were men in their 30s and 40s. Everyone was connected. Many had their hands and heads cut off. Each one has broken ribs on the left side - an aspen stake was driven in here. Apparently, a thousand years ago, the inhabitants of Chelyakovitsy had good reason to fear that these 13 people would rise from their graves and tried to protect themselves from the visit of dangerous guests. Many newspapers talked about the terrible find, and only a few bothered to mention that this was not the first find of vampire burials.
Burials with pierced bodies are often found in the Balkans. And not only in the Balkans. In 2009, in Italy, they found the skeleton of a woman with a brick in her mouth (one of the methods of fighting a vampire). And the very custom of putting the dead man in a coffin, and then nailing him firmly with nails, suggests that our ancestors seriously feared that the dead man might rise from the coffin.
Resurrection from the dead
Let's leaf through the chronicle of the last resurrections. In 2003, the Italian Roberto de Simone, when his relatives were about to cover the coffin with a lid, cleared his throat and asked for water. In 2007, 21-year-old Zach Dunlap, who was declared dead in an accident, moved his legs during the farewell procedure. In 2010, in Colombia, a 45-year-old "deceased" when the staff of the funeral agency began to prepare her burial, she suddenly began to breathe. In 2011, one of the revived "dead" began to knock on the door of the Simferopol morgue: open, you bastards, it's cold!
But the death of each of them was ascertained by a medical worker. If even today physicians are mistaken, then earlier, with a lower level of development of medicine, such cases happened much more often! The Italian poet Francesco Petrarca fell into a lethargic sleep in 1344 and was declared dead. After 20 hours, he woke up, shocking everyone present, and worked for another 30 years after the "resurrection".
In 1772, the Duke of Meckleburg decree introduced a mandatory three-day period between death and burial - there were too frequent cases of "rising from the grave." In England, there is still a law that requires every mortuary to have a bell so that the "reanimated dead" can tell the world about his return to the world of the living. As you can see, premature burials were considered a serious problem that needed to be addressed.
But there were unfortunate people who came to their senses after the burial. If for some reason such a burial was opened, they found a dead man turned over in a coffin, with a distorted face, with bloody hands, tore his clothes.
The dead man is back!
In medieval villages, where there were no doctors at all, there were much more cases of burial of the living than in cities where at least some doctor was present. Much more often here the "dead" were resurrected. Buried in a shroud at a shallow depth, the "dead" could completely break the shroud, dig out and return home.
And now imagine the scene when the “resurrected” returns home - distraught (it is clear that such an “adventure” could not but affect the psyche), with a bloody mouth (in the struggle for life, the unfortunate could bite his lips into blood), in a torn shroud! Naturally, the first desire of people was to send a relative back to where he came from as soon as possible. They sent him quickly and quickly: they tied him up, chopped off his legs, arms, head, so that he would definitely die, and they drove a stake into his chest - for insurance.
Died - so died, do not resurrect
No one wanted to experience such horror. Therefore, so that the dead would not return, people began to spend money on coffins, they were tightly knocked together. If a person with frozen vital functions, already ready for burial, suddenly showed signs of life - instead of rejoicing, they hurried to drive a stake into the "vampire's" chest. Each such case was remembered for a long time, overgrown with a mass of details. It is not surprising that the story of the resurrected dead man can be found in the folklore of any nation.
So there were reasons to create horror stories about the walking dead. We can only take comfort in the fact that such cases are becoming less and less, and each of them is already becoming a sensation. And to believe that - the fruit of the imagination of writers and filmmakers.
Somehow I had to get a job as a night watchman in one of the morgues. The work is not dusty, after three days, the clientele is accommodating, without any special complaints.
At first, of course, it was scary and disgusting. Then nothing, I got used to it. One day I go on duty. Mitrich appeared in the evening. He probably worked in the morgue for twenty years. Comes and says:
“You close yourself in the duty room tonight and don’t come out, no matter what happens there. The night is bad. The first night of the full moon, anything can happen.
I woke up at six o'clock in the morning, helped by the snoring of a dead drunk man over my ear. Opening my eyes, I tried for some time to determine my location. After examining the room, he remembered that at night he had come to a friend's party, where a grandiose drinking party was planned. And, judging by the unusual chaos in the house and the people sleeping in different places, she really succeeded. Shaking off the snoring body of a comrade, I rise to my feet. By nine in the morning I should have been in one place, doing business. Cold showers and coffee cleared me up. For twenty minutes I tried to call a taxi, but the line is constantly busy. Finally, I decided that I could not wait any longer, and left the house towards the road, hoping to catch a ride.
One of my friends, her name was Olga, rented a dacha for the summer in the Tula region. A simple log house in the outskirts, an old apple orchard, a hedge of currant and raspberry bushes, a small pond overgrown with reeds nearby, goats from a neighbor, you can buy fresh milk. Olga was pleased and called all June to let me in on new details of life in this promised land. Her news was ingenuous (I found a strawberry field in the forest, there was a thunderstorm, and she watched the lightning from the attic - it was damn beautiful, the neighbor pierced his leg with a nail, and she gave him first aid, an old red cat nailed to her, and now she is every day brings a saucer of sour cream to the veranda), and her voice is pleased, and even without seeing her face, I understood that she was smiling.
Come, - said Olga. - At least for a couple of days.
Surely in every village there are a couple of local "scarecrows". Usually these are told by village grannies or children during campfire gatherings. As a rule, these are boring tales about brownies, queens of spades, coffins on wheels and other superstitious garbage. At best, you will be told the story of a local maniac, if there was one - of course, with all the details and embellishments.
This didn't pass me by either. And in the camps I heard a lot of everything, and at the fires, and at school, in general, we almost had a competition, who would tell the horror story more abruptly. Each was duller and more banal than the last. However, among all this rubbish, I came across one story that is very different from the usual horror stories.
The unusualness, even the exclusivity of this story, I realized only with age.
In general, this story happened a very long time ago .. I live in an ordinary five-story building, where there are usually three or four apartments opposite each other. And of course the sound from neighboring apartments is heard well, very well.
An alcoholic named Uncle Sasha lived under our apartment. Not the most outstanding person, there are a lot of them in our area, he lost his job, lived under the care of his mother. But if we talk about his mother - a wonderful woman, always friendly, she never said a bad word, she was friends with everyone. And she loved her son very much. Like him. True, she was very worried about her son (and who doesn’t worry about their children?), And at one such moment, when her “gift” returned home drunk and began to rage, his mother caught a heart attack.
We all chipped in at the funeral, because it was a pity - she was a good woman. They buried, as they say, and forgot ... And her son was reproached for a long time that the death of his own mother was his fault. Uncle Sasha also felt guilty. And he has changed a lot since the funeral. They began to see him less often, he lost weight and became silent, and we practically stopped hearing the sounds of drinking. But everything has its end. So Uncle Sasha still fell for alcohol, broke loose.
A long time ago, when our golden-domed Kyiv was still in the power of the Poles, there lived an old woman, the widow of a forester. Her small hut stood in the forest, where the road to the Kitaevo desert lies: here, in half with grief, she survived with the labors of her hands, together with the sixteen-year-old Gorpinka, her daughter and her only joy. And truly, the daughter was given to her as a comfort: she grew like a young cherry, tall and slender; her black hair, braided in dribushkas, shone like a raven's wing under multi-colored skins, her big eyes were black and shone with a quiet fire, like two half-burnt coals, on which sparks still ran. White, ruddy and fresh, like a young flower in the morning dawn, she grew to the misfortune of brave hearts and the envy of her girlfriends. The mother did not hear the soul in her, and the workers of God, the honest fathers of the Kitaev desert, tenderly and affably looked at her as at her future fellow paradise when she approached them for blessing.
The soft tapping of the rough plastic somehow calmed Pavel. Moreover, it plunged his consciousness into a kind of healing half-sleep. In a couple of hours, he will emerge from his semi-dark shelter with renewed vigor. And he will need strength, especially tomorrow. In the morning he had a great run: find two assistants and start fulfilling the order, for the completion of which they were given only four days.
My pavilion (and not a stall, please) is at a bus stop. In winter, someone got into the habit of breaking windows - they didn’t break them in, but simply hooliganized. And I set up two cameras, looking in the directions where the windows go - well, of course, so that they would not catch the eye from the outside.
I get up on my own, my parents are alcoholics, there was neither money nor time for education. And my pavilion is purely my merit. I am at the checkout, I buy goods, and I submit financial statements. And around the pavilion I follow the order - I'm not going to stop there, and therefore it is necessary to keep the mark now.
The first autumn morning pleased with the invigorating coolness. A damp breeze ruffled the bows of her first-grader daughter, and obsessively licked Andrey's freshly shaved cheeks like a dog. Morning chill was just what we needed after a sleepless night. The wife was never able to take time off from work, so the exemplary dad had to lead his beloved child to the first school line after the night shift.
As programmed, Andrey released the shutter of the digital "soap box", aiming at the cutely grimacing daughter. The solemn speeches of the teachers brought on the strongest drowsiness. Only tall high school girls could cheer up Andrey a little, catching the light moths of male glances with their surprisingly mature forms like a net. But even this explosive mixture of temptation and innocence did not become an insurmountable barrier to fatigue, which closed Andrei's swollen eyelids like a viscous glue.
The loss of a loved one is a great grief and an irreparable loss. Here are 8 shocking stories about people who could not come to terms with the loss and part with a dead person. They somehow continued to live with their loved ones, but people who left them. Not for the faint of heart!
The man who spent all his days at his wife's grave for 20 years
When Rocky Abalsamo's wife died in 1993, a part of him died with her. In sorrow and longing, Rocky spent 20 years every day at her grave in St. Joseph's cemetery in Roxbury. He hardly ate or drank while he was there, and came to the grave in spite of the cold or bad weather.
On January 22, 2013, Rocky died at Stonehenge Health Center in Roxbury after a long illness, at the time of his death he was 97 years old. He was buried in the same cemetery as his wife Julia. Their graves are very close - Rocky does not part with her even after his death.
Vietnamese man sleeps in the same bed with his dead wife
In 2009, Le Van, a Vietnamese citizen, hit all the local newspapers: it became known that he had slept in the same bed with his dead wife for five years. Two years later, reporters from the newspaper Nguoi Lao Dong contacted Le Van again, and he confirmed that he continued to sleep next to the body of his beloved. The government can't do anything about it, of course.
Le Van sleeps in the same bed as a plaster statue containing the remains of his late wife. During the funeral, the man realized that he could not live without his beloved, so he dug up the grave, removed the remains from there, placed them in a plaster statue and continues to share a bed with her.
The 57-year-old Vietnamese explains that by doing so he hopes to increase the chances of their reunion in the next life.
Georgian woman takes care of her son who died 18 years ago
Joni Bakaradze died 18 years ago when he was 22 years old. But instead of burying him in the cemetery, the family decided to keep the body intact so that the two-year-old son could someday see his father's face.
For the first four years after Joni's death, his mother Tsiuri Kvaratskhelia used embalming fluid to preserve Joni's body, but then she had a dream in which someone told her to use vodka instead. So she did: Tsiuri made a vodka poultice every night to prevent her body from turning black and starting to decompose.
For the first ten years after her son's death, Tsiuri dressed him up for every birthday. But the older she got, the more difficult it was for her to take care of her son in the way she used to. She says that the lack of care quickly became noticeable and her son's face turned black, but as soon as she used her alcohol tincture again, the face turned white again.
Currently, Joni's body is kept in a wooden coffin with a window in front of her face. Tsiuri says her grandson, now 20, saw his father's preserved body and believes his grandmother made the right decision.
An Argentinian widow sleeps in her late husband's mausoleum to keep him company
A widow from Argentina named Adriana Villarreal sleeps in the small mausoleum where her husband is buried so that he won't get bored. A 43-year-old widow from Buenos Aires came to the attention of the media in 2012 when she admitted that she spends several nights a year in this mausoleum.
Dos de Mayo Police Commissioner Gustavo Braganza said his colleagues decided to take a look at the San Lazaro Cemetery as several people complained that loud music was playing there. They knocked on the door of the mausoleum, and the door was opened by Adriana Villarreal in pajamas. It was evident that she lived for some time next to the coffin and the embalmed body.
The police examined the tomb: it turned out that the woman even equipped the mausoleum - she brought a bed, a radio, a computer with Internet access, and even a small stove.
Adriana's husband, Sergio Yede, committed suicide in 2010, when he was 28 years old. Adriana built a mausoleum for him with the money he saved to buy a house.
Widow slept with her husband's decaying body for a year after his death
A woman slept with her husband's decomposing body for a year, until the horrifying fact came to the attention of the authorities in November 2013.
Marcel H., 79, from Liege, Belgium, died in November 2012 from an asthma attack. The grief of the wife was so strong that she did not find the strength to announce the death of her husband and continued to sleep with the body in the same bed until the authorities intervened.
They came to the widow only because the owner of the apartment complained about the evasion of this family from paying rent for a year. The body was not mummified, but, surprisingly, the neighbors never complained about an unpleasant smell.
Man lived with mother's mummified body for more than ten years, and it was only revealed when he himself was found dead
Claudio Alfieri, 58, was found lying in a chair in his Buenos Aires apartment next to the woman's remains. Her body was wrapped in plastic bags, she had slippers on her feet, and her body was sitting on a chair at the kitchen table.
Police and firefighters broke into the apartment after neighbors complained about the disgusting smell. Forensic experts and neighbors identified the woman as Claudio's mother, Margherita Aimer de Alfieri. Neighbors said that the last time they saw this woman alive was ten years ago, when she was 90 years old, but her son continued to claim that she was alive and well. An autopsy showed that both mother and son died of natural causes.
Husband kept his wife's death a secret for 35 days and treated her like she was alive
A contractor spent 35 days going to work and living a normal life while the body of his 42-year-old wife decomposed in the bedroom of their two-story home in Damai Impan, Malaysia.
When family friends asked about her, her husband answered vaguely, never giving any reason to think anything was wrong. But his wife, Lim Ah Tee, died on September 2, 2013 after complaining of chest pain.
According to police, their 16-year-old son knew his mother had died but gave his father time to come to terms with the reality of her death. The heartbroken man reported the death of his wife to the police only when it became impossible to bear the stench.
The police were shocked - they found the body on the bed, clean and in fresh clothes - this indicated that her husband regularly washed and changed her clothes. The room also smelled strongly of perfume - probably her husband was spraying perfume everywhere to kill the smell of a decaying body.
The guy hid the dead body of his father for five months to receive benefits
In March 2012, a man was jailed for three years after police found the body of his 54-year-old father, Guy Blackburn, on the bed of his home in Lancashire, UK. The son did not report his father's death for almost five months because he wanted to receive benefits for him.
Christopher Blackburn, 29, lived in the house next to the body, but did not report the death of his father, who died of natural causes. It also turned out that Christopher's ten-year-old daughter lived in the house - she was told that her grandfather was just sleeping in his room.
Blackburn pleaded guilty to denying his father a decent burial from October 31, 2010 to March 22, 2011, and to embezzlement of £1,869, which he took on behalf of his father at the post office. Blackburn also lied to police, saying he talked to his father in November 2010 and had drinks with him on Christmas Day.
This story is more psychological than mystical.
Two families lived in the same village. In both families, by that time, the children had already grown up and dispersed. The men, who were previously friends, did not share something, quarreled and stopped communicating with each other. The women were supportive.
In the fall, Ivan (one of the neighbors) suddenly died of a heart attack.
The coffin with the deceased was placed in the living room. As expected, they curtained the mirrors, removed sharp objects, sent telegrams to relatives. And then the wife of the deceased had a need to leave for a neighboring village. She comes to a neighbor and, with tears in her eyes, asks for help: to feed the cattle and look after the house - they say, tomorrow I'll be back for dinner. There is nowhere to go - you need help.
Evening came, the neighbor was about to go to fulfill the promise, and her husband spoke up (he managed to get drunk by this time) - like “you won’t go, I forbid you.” But the woman went anyway, answering her husband that it would not be human.
Came. She put the pan with mixed fodder on the stove to cook, but she herself no-no, and even looks at the coffin with the dead - it’s creepy to be alone with the dead. But the deceased lies quietly.
Well, the pigs are fed, you can go home. She locked the door. Everything is no longer scary, but it was not there.
I came home, and my husband closed all the bolts and fell asleep drunk. She walked around the house, knocked on the windows, but did not get through. If it were summer, then it would be possible to sit out the night on the mound, but the puddles froze on the street. The time is already very late, and I don’t want to go door-to-door to wake up the neighbors. The street lights have already been turned off. It's completely dark.
I remembered the saying that you need to be afraid of the living, not the dead, and decided to return to the house with the dead. And so she did. She came, turned on the lights in the rooms, looked at the late Ivan (lies quietly), moved the chairs in the kitchen and lay down on them. And then, according to the law of meanness, the electricity was turned off ...
As she later said, she had never been so scared in her life. Darkness at least if your eyes, someone else's house (where candles or a flashlight is unknown) and a pleasant neighborhood in the form of a dead person ...
And then she hears the gates open and someone enters the courtyard. Some screams, laughter, flickering light in the window, someone knocking on the glass. The woman happily rushed out of the house (the relatives of the deceased arrived!), but the yard was empty, no one.
How she waited for the morning, she herself does not remember. Soon she left her husband, and could not forgive him for this nightmare.
