Scary stories about funerals from real life. Scary stories about the cemetery

Bored life, what to do?

Observing the purity of morals, the shtetl authorities decided so: to remove the benches near the entrances and the domino tables that joined them in the yards! Too much has found a free home for them.

The whole thirsty city roams the yards in search of a saving shelter. Public utilities zealously carried out the order of the authorities.

The centuries-old era of shops that had made friends with the entire population of the city quarter was cut off unceremoniously, with revolutionary haste.

The benefit of experience is not to borrow. We will build a new world! Instead of inquisitive and omniscient old women-experts, peacefully knitting warm socks for their grandchildren for the harsh winter, decapitated stumps bashfully stood up in the yards.

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Vitka Selivanov has lived in the third entrance for the last twenty years. For pensioners, everyone under sixty is Vitka, Lenka and Svetka. But in fact the man was in his fifties

Klavdia Semyonovna, the same age, is just as lonely yearning in a small kitchen, painting a meager pension on duty morning porridge and frozen sprats for Murzik. In the evenings, lonely stumps stuck around youth beer parties. So the passengers of the sinking Titanic hurried to the rare saving ice floes.

Habit, as you know, is second nature. Young people were in no hurry to change the drinking place. In numerous eateries, drinking takes place on an everyday basis, without due courage, and near the native "patch", which was once a favorite bench, you can frolic to your heart's content.

Again, they will inform you to the house if you dare to slightly exceed the dose. Comfortable. If the dose increases significantly, they will take it to another place, to the churchyard. Again, their own, with a "patch".

Degraded deputies of the yard Khural hurried past the grandchildren, who were hungry on the stumps. There is no old lady quorum at all. The entire parliament in full force is on indefinite vacation in their own small-sized.

Grandmothers are languishing from doing nothing and, for the umpteenth time, they begin to count a new coffin stash. Should be enough for a modest funeral and a three-course memorial dinner for fifty mourners.

A respectful conversation with Murzik resulted in a sad monologue. There are no listeners. There is only one way - to the window, from which the surviving benches at the fence of the first entrance are visible.

Senile farsightedness, not disturbed by cataracts, immediately highlighted her friends in misfortune, peacefully located on the far bench. There are at least two vacancies on the bench. We must hurry. Applicants for a free place are completely bored at the windows.

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After the death of his wife, Selivanov took to drink. From a normal intelligent man, he turned into a typical homeless man within six months

The happy owners of the surviving bench and rightfully sit in places free from visitors, popularly explaining to visitors the essence of the newly introduced communal reforms.

The rest of the leisure is devoted to the vile behavior of Marinka from the fifteenth, who paraded past the astonished old women with a new imported gentleman of a curly brunette suit. The newly-minted admirer has no advantages.

The car is beautiful and the upholstery in it is rich, plush. And so the tipchik is completely useless, he is not at all remarkable, even - he is pimply. Such impudent behavior of the dissolute Marinka required additional investigation and long logical calculations.

In pre-reform times, before the communal terror, a discussion about changing a Russian boyfriend to an Ethiopian would have dragged on for two full talkative days.

The grandmother's former roommate was treated with respect. Although not a written handsome man, he treated the old women with respect, always bowed and inquired about health by name.

You can’t throw a won bench in any way. You can, of course, go to the city park with the whole court, but the long arms of the municipality have already reached there. Benches are abolished around the perimeter. Therefore, grannies do not go to the park, continuing the conversation.

From the dissolute Marinka, the conversation turned into the spheres of mysticism. It was then that I happened to be nearby and overheard this story.

Death on two legs

Vitka Selivanov has lived in the third entrance for the last twenty years. For pensioners, everyone under sixty is Vitka, Lenka and Svetka. But in fact the man was in his fifties.

He lived with his wife, they had no children and apparently no relatives either. They lived closed, did not have a great friendship with their neighbors. They were always seen together. We went to the store together, walked together in the evenings along Cosmonauts Avenue, which is two hundred meters from the house.

A year ago, his wife died. Fast, in one day. Heart. They buried her in a new cemetery, which was far from the city and grew at an incredible speed. In a million-plus city, death is a frequent visitor.

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They buried him in the same cemetery where his other half found peace. A few neighbors claimed that his grave was far from the grave of his wife, because in a year and a half the cemetery had grown both in breadth and distance

Life is unfair

After the death of his wife, Selivanov took to drink. From a normal intelligent man, he turned into a typical bum within six months.

He quit his job, did not pay the rent, and was warned more than once about eviction. Where he took money for food, no one knew, just as he did not know if he ate at all.

Vitka lost weight terribly, and it was completely clear to everyone who saw him that this one would not last long.

Compassionate men who drink in the evenings and weekends in the courtyard always poured Selivanov, for which he invariably politely thanked them. But he did not impose, did not expect that they would pour more and modestly retired. By evening he was always drunk.

On weekdays, weekends, holidays in the evening, he returned from his mysterious voyage around the city, barely able to stand on his feet. Sometimes he fell, near the entrance, and then the neighbors helped him get to the apartment. Victor Stepanovich Selivanov survived his wife for a year and a half.

Him in the same cemetery where his other half found peace. The few neighbors who went to the cemetery later claimed that his grave was far from the grave of his wife, because in a year and a half the cemetery had grown both in breadth and distance.

Terrible incidents at the cemetery

In the spring, as soon as the snow melted, Polina Sergeevna went to the cemetery from the sixth apartment. There her mother rested, and it was necessary to put the grave in order after the winter. After cleaning up the rubbish and sticking a bunch of artificial asters into the ground near the modest obelisk, she headed home.

The path lay past the grave of her neighbor Selivanova. Polina Sergeevna decided to go there. Imagine her amazement when, next to the grave of Irina Nikolaevna Selivanova, she saw the grave of Viktor Stepanovich Selivanov. On the very monument that she remembered when Vitka was buried, there was the same portrait of him, name, surname and dates of life.

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There was no grave there, moreover, it was clear that the earth there was dense and the shovels of the undertakers did not touch it. The churchyard workers stood for a long time in bewilderment, then politely asked Polina Sergeevna not to tell anyone about this strange incident.

At first, the neighbor thought that relatives were in a hurry, but then she remembered that there were no relatives at the funeral. Then she decided that the cunning employees of the cemetery administration sold his grave, and he was reburied next to his wife.

But this option also seemed to her somehow unnatural. The place was not the best, especially in the lowland, where water accumulated in the spring, and hardly anyone would want to covet it.

Deciding to find out what was the matter, the woman went straight to the administration. It must be said that thieving officials are afraid of pensioners-fighters for justice.

There is nothing for pensioners to do, so they can easily devote all their time to finding the truth. Moreover, there were many stories about the sale of places in the cemetery, everyone knew about them, and several leaders of local churchyards went to the camps to correct their mistakes.

But this time, as Polina Sergeevna says, the cemetery administration was surprised no less than she was. Immediately, a small delegation of representatives of the cemetery authorities and servants went with her. They checked the documents, then went to Viktor Stepanovich.

To everyone's amazement, there was no grave there, moreover, it was clear that the earth there was dense and the shovels of the undertakers did not touch it. The churchyard workers stood for a long time in bewilderment, then politely asked Polina Sergeevna not to tell anyone about this strange incident.

Of course, the interlocutors on the bench perfectly understood that the request was supported by material assistance to an elderly woman. Of course, the fact that the woman could keep this news in herself for no more than a week.

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By some unspoken agreement, this news was stopped discussing. The story turned out to be too incomprehensible, implausible and creepy

When she came to the cemetery for the second time, they showed her all the necessary documents for Selivanov’s grave and said that she was mistaken, and that Viktor Stepanovich was buried here from the very beginning, and if she doubts, then let her buy pills for sclerosis. They are, of course, expensive, so here's the money for a year's supply of pills.

After her story, the entire yard community of pensioners visited the cemetery. Everyone approached the graves of two people who loved during their lifetime, stood, looked, then went home silent and thoughtful.

By some unspoken agreement, this news was stopped discussing. The story turned out to be too incomprehensible, implausible and creepy.

Moreover, new themes were not long in coming. Marinka from the fifteenth brought a new roommate.

This story about the cemetery may seem mystical and a little scary to you, but this story happened to me and I want to share it, it's up to you to believe or not to believe in this story, but the story is very interesting.

A little about me: my name is Pavel and I am 23 years old, I work as a mechanic and get a good salary. I have no wife and no children. After I finished 11th grade I had a dream of becoming a filmmaker, making films and stuff like that. But apparently it didn’t work out for me with all this, you ask why? My parents divorced and I stayed with my mother and after the divorce we didn’t even have enough money for food, so I had to go to work at the factory. But still I had my own dream of becoming a director. And in my city there were no places where one could learn for this profession. Therefore, I decided to go to the city of Perm where my relatives lived and agreed to find me a good school. But I also had a mother whom I could not just leave, so I promised her that I would help her. That's how I moved to the city of Perm.

The story itself: I moved to the city of Perm, I rode a train that was going very slowly. But still I arrived in 6-7 hours. I was safely met by relatives and I went to their home. The next day I woke up, they called me for breakfast, they fed me delicious porridge and gave me tea to drink. But still, I asked them how things are with the school (where I was supposed to study as a director)? They answered well, they found me a suitable school, it remains to go there and discuss everything. I was very happy and thanked them. But they told me that in return I should go with them to the cemetery. I reluctantly agreed. We all got ready, got out of the house, got into the car and headed to the cemetery. I asked them a lot of questions about the cemetery, but they didn’t even say anything, as if they were going there for the first time and didn’t know anything about it. Well, we drove to the cemetery and we parked the car. It seemed to me very strange that there was no one near the cemetery and no one even sells flowers and all sorts of junk. We walked along the road as if from nowhere some old woman appeared. She came up to us with a terrible look and said - do not go there, please. Then she left for the exit. I got worse and worse. I could not stand it and said, maybe we won’t go there, the old woman said not to go, why do we need all this! My relatives looked at me and said - if you don’t go to sleep, we won’t help you go to school! With a feeling of absence and similarity, I continued to follow them. We had already walked about 1-2 kilometers and I felt a pain in my head. We got to the grave we needed and I felt even worse. It seemed to me that the devil himself would come up to me and hit me with all his might on the head. For about 5 minutes we still stood near the grave, when suddenly I looked into the distance and saw the silhouette of a man, or rather an elderly woman who was standing in my direction and looking at me. I shook my head, thinking it was nonsense, looked around and there was no one to be seen except my relatives. Relatives said that we can all go as a lady. I was delighted and forgot about all these nightmares. We returned home, it was already evening, everyone did their business and we all went to bed. And in a dream I had a dream about the situation where I saw that silhouette. I was looking at this silhouette, when suddenly, blinking, an old woman appeared in front of the house, whom we met at the cemetery. I woke up with a frightened look, I did not believe in all this. But everything worked out, I still had these terrible dreams for about a week, but I continued to live. I entered the school of the director and everything is fine with me. But still, I remember this story every day and even now I feel uncomfortable.

I lived in a big city, but after the birth of my son, our family was forced to return to live in the village where I come from. The son had a strong allergy to urban smog and further residence in the city threatened him with death. All our relatives who lived in the village were very happy about our return and often gathered together to while away the long winter evenings. They chatted about different things, but after the "defeat" of several graves in the cemetery (drunk youth had fun), more and more often the conversation began with incidents related to the cemetery . INCIDENT ONE

Someone got into the habit of stealing fences near the graves in the cemetery - my uncle began the story. Almost every night the fence disappeared from someone's grave. Looks like a strong man was, he removed some fences along with concrete pouring and took it away to no one knows where. They decided that he was stealing and selling somewhere in other villages, but they could not catch him, even the police were on duty and did not notice anything. As soon as we set up an ambush - the fences are intact, as there is no ambush - the next fence disappears. How could this vandal know when the ambush would be. And, most importantly, there were no traces of the car anywhere, it was visible on his shoulders, but no one knows where. The service dog did not follow the trail, only sniffing, then snorting and turning away. Rumors spread around the village that this unclean person was acting outrageously, and at night no one went on duty at the cemetery, they were afraid of the unclean person. Our father walked around the cemetery with a censer, read prayers, but it still didn’t help. But one day, those who lived closer to the cemetery heard a strong and terrible scream from the cemetery at night. So strong that even in the hut one could hear some kind of inhuman scream. Naturally, they were afraid to go there at night, but they went in a whole mob already when the sun was high and saw that a man was kneeling near the grave of a recently buried local blacksmith. His head sticks out between the bars of the fence. and on the neck the bars are compressed. The blacksmith himself forged this fence when he was still alive and said that they would put it on his grave. A beautiful fence forged with love, there is not a single welded seam. Probably the blacksmith got angry and punished the thief, but the thief himself did not put his head into the fence, and even squeezed the bars around his neck. Since that time, theft in the cemetery has ceased. INCIDENT TWO

You are correct Semyon (this is my uncle's name) - the next interlocutor continued the conversation. The dead can punish their offenders. Here is my girlfriend from a neighboring village was visiting me and talked about the death of a girl after graduation. There they had a graduation at school and three graduate girls decided not to buy bouquets of beautiful flowers, to collect bouquets at the cemetery. Early in the morning we ran to the cemetery and took the bouquets from one of the graves of yesterday's funeral. With these bouquets and came to school. The girls presented bouquets to teachers, and Yana (that was the name of one of the girls) left one bouquet at home - she put the most beautiful one in a vase on the table, and gave the second to the teacher. So, two girls and three teachers who received a bouquet from the cemetery fell ill the next day and ended up in the hospital, and in the evening Yana rearranged the bouquet from the cemetery closer to her bed and went to bed. I didn't leave my bedroom in the morning. Mom went in, and the daughter is dead. She became suffocated. All relatives had an alibi for that night, no traces - the killer was not found. Doctors concluded that she died from a severe allergy to flowers.

Do you remember the incident the year before last, Aunt Klava spoke up. That's what we had. That case with Cyril, a local drunkard and rowdy. He also called himself a demon or a vampire, and people called him that and shunned him, none of the peasants wanted to be friends with him. He was healthy, and as soon as he drinks, he climbs into a fight, and even bites - he screams the blood out of you. No one could restrain him and teach him a lesson. Guys, about five people used to gather and try to teach him a lesson. They attack, beat him, but he doesn’t seem to feel pain, he will instruct the peasants with black eyes, and even break someone’s arm or leg. But the scythe ran into a stone - he did not master the drunkard of the local moonshine, he got so drunk that he died, as people say - he burned out from vodka. Well, the whole village gathered as much as they could (the drunkard himself lived) and organized a funeral, a man all the same. They took the coffin to the cemetery, lowered it into the grave and the diggers began to dig in, everyone stood quietly, there was no one to cry, and suddenly there was a noise from the grave, the diggers froze to their feet. The coffin with the earth thrown over it began to go into the ground, there, down. He dropped three meters and stopped. they covered the grave with the remaining earth, and even had to bring it, almost one and a half cars climbed into the grave until they made a mound and put up a cross with an inscription. In the village they said for a long time that he could really be a vampire and seeks to go to his own kingdom of shadows, but no one knows what really is there. From time immemorial, there have been no quarries and mines in this area. I heard such terrible real stories about the cemetery from my relatives. #horror stories

During my life I have heard different real stories about the dead and the cemetery. I decided to tell my own. This story happened to me when I was young. A strange man who showed up at night asked to fix the tombstone

It all started with a visit to the big old city cemetery. No one has been buried on it for many years. The abandoned necropolis struck me with some kind of solemn, albeit somewhat frightening beauty. Many inscriptions were in Latin, others in pre-revolutionary Russian. Some of them were erased by ruthless time... But from that moment on, I was deeply addicted to the topic of epitaphs and tombstones. And then an idea came. I spoke with my supervisor at the institute.
- And what? The topic is interesting! Go ahead, Roman! - said the professor. - First, let it be a term paper, and then we'll see, maybe it will grow to a thesis!

There are several cemeteries in our city. I visited one of them almost every day after class to work on the epitaphs. One thing I did not like: I had to get from the hostel through the whole city. Once I saw an announcement that a watchman was required for one of the cemeteries. And since there were holidays at that time, I decided to get a job: to improve my financial situation, and to continue working on my coursework. My partner San Sanych, a frail little man of about sixty who clearly loved to look into a glass, handed over the shift.

You, boy, the main thing - do not be afraid! Do not let anyone else into the gatehouse, if someone comes at night, God forbid! And the ghouls - they are mostly normal, quiet, do not roam the alleys! he chuckled.
- In the majority? And what, there are those who roam? It's impossible to tell if he's joking or not.
- Anything can happen! I say, don't open the door! Well, you can read Our Father, if anything... Yes, I almost forgot: Andrei Nikolaevich, well, the one who worked before you didn't take some of his things. Maybe call for them.

Grandfather was drowning, and I took the camera and went to photograph interesting monuments and epitaphs on them.
I don't like working with photos on a computer, so I went to the nearest store where they provided printing services. In the evening I started looking. In order to save money, I took all the pictures on plain paper, some of the inscriptions turned out to be difficult to read. Soon I lay down on the trestle bed in the gatehouse and dozed off ...

In my sleep, I heard someone knocking on the door insistently. To be honest, I felt a little uncomfortable: I immediately remembered the words of my partner about the nightly uninvited guests. Looked out the window. In the light of the bright full moon I saw an elderly man of an intelligent appearance.
- Young man! Please open! Do not be afraid, in front of you is not a stranger, but a local!
I thought that this was probably the previous watchman who had come for his things. Why he appeared in the middle of the night, I had no question. Opened it for him and let him in.

Come on in. Are you Andrey Nikolaevich? - asked the stranger.
- I? - He asked absently, did not give any intelligible answer and stepped towards the table on which my papers lay. And then in the most brazen way he began to dig into them.
- What are you doing? - My indignation knew no bounds.
- I?! Looking for...
Why are you rummaging through my papers? I yelled. - Exit - there! Nobody invited you here!
- Me?! The man seemed to be mocking me. - Found...

He picked up one of the photographs, exactly the one on which he could not read the epitaph:
- “Such pain cannot be expressed in words, it is all in my wounded heart. Cruelly as fate disposed of us, not allowing us to stay on earth together. But in my loneliness yearning, under the hot sun and when it rains, I remember about you, I love you! My most faithful husband! See you... Wait!”
The uninvited guest sank wearily on the couch, his shoulders trembling with sobs.
- I beg you, remove this inscription on the monument! That husband was a very bad man and does not deserve such flattering words from a woman whom he betrayed all his life!
- What nonsense? How do you imagine that? Delirium, right?

I turned my back on the crazy peasant for a minute to put some wood on the stove.
- Do me a favor! It hurts to realize that Mary suffers and continues to love this scoundrel! When you destroy the old inscription, make another one: "Wife, forgive my sins, for which I now suffer in hell."
- How do you imagine that? There is a watchman in front of you, and it is not his duty to spoil the monument! Are you crazy? - barked at him, turned to the guest, but he was gone, as if he had never been.
The scattered papers testified that this crazy man did appear. I went to the door, but it was bolted shut. “Hmm ... How did the man get out? Probably just slammed shut ... " Soon he fell asleep again ...

In the morning San Sanych came, I told him about the night incident.
- A-ah-ah ... That professor was again! - the grandfather was not surprised. - And Andrei, well, the last watchman, survived from here. Made me go every night! I'm not afraid of him, Ivan Antonovich peaceful, I will read a prayer, and he will perish!
- And what kind of professor?
- Duc on one of the alleys is buried. His faithful all went to the grave to him and was killed with grief! People said that this same dead man was still that reveler during his lifetime, he didn’t miss a single skirt, but Maria, well, the wife, in a sense, didn’t know anything about it! All well-wishers who intended to enlighten her were sent to a well-known address. And recently the children took the woman to another city. So, I think, maybe, after all, respect Antonych and redo the inscription? Will he suddenly feel better?

"Another freak!" - flashed through my head. Before leaving, I decided to look at the professor's grave. What was the surprise and fright when I recognized the night guest in the photo on the monument ...
I never went to work as a night watchman again!