After so many years, as I passed by that deserted road beside the cemetery, memories from sixteen years ago gripped me like ghostly hands from the past—memories drenched in fear and cloaked in shadows—tales of horror and whispers from the other side. I halted my bike and stared at the cemetery with anger and dread. Even now, it lay hidden behind a curtain of mist, wrapped in the dark veil of night, like a slumbering beast waiting to awaken.
This was no
ordinary graveyard. The winds here still carried the whispers of lost souls. In
the moonlight, flickering shadows danced like phantoms across the crumbling
tombstones. Not even birds dared to rest here after dusk. Time had drained the
color from the gravestones, turning once-clear names and dates into faint,
forgotten scars on ancient rock. The earth was littered with dry leaves, and
wild grass sprouted from long-abandoned graves like tendrils trying to claw
their way back to the living world.
The trees
stood tall and lifeless, their branch-like arms spread wide in an eternal,
deathlike embrace. Their eerie stillness felt like they were mourners frozen in
time—guardians of the dead. This cemetery has long been the epicenter of
countless unspeakable horrors. For over 550 years, it has been home to ghosts,
wandering spirits, djinns, witches, and cursed creatures that defy all reason.
It’s a place whispered about in hushed voices—a cemetery whose legends lure the
curious and the foolish alike.
A loud
truck horn shattered my trance and pulled me back to the present. I started my
bike and rode away, heading towards my hotel. But I couldn’t shake the feeling
that something was calling me back—something old, something evil. Today’s tale,
the inspiration for this very story, stems from one such blood-chilling
event—an incident so horrifying, it's still spoken of among the few locals
brave enough to live near Michael Cemetery.
Year:
2008
It was the
final exam of my 12th grade—my last paper. After leaving the examination hall,
everyone was embracing, exchanging promises to stay in touch, their laughter
echoing through the air. I stood quietly, taking it all in, when a voice
snapped me back.
"Hey,
hero! Planning to camp out here or what?" It was Vedika, with my friends
Kshitij and Mridula beside her.
“Let’s go,”
I said, smiling.
We all got
on our bicycles and were about to head home when Kshitij suggested something
insane. “Guys, this might be the last time we’re all together. Vedika leaves
for Delhi tomorrow, Mridula’s going to Kerala, I’m off to Kanpur, and you’re
heading back to your village. Let’s take the route through Michael Cemetery and
hang out one last time at D’Costa Restaurant!”
“What? Are
you nuts?” I shot back. “It’s already 3 PM, and that place is 2 kilometers
away! Not to mention, no one uses that road even in broad daylight! And you
want to go there now—when the sun’s starting to set? That path is so deserted,
even stray dogs avoid it!”
Vedika
interrupted with a mischievous grin. “Come on! Just one last adventure before
we go our separate ways. Don’t be such a scaredy-cat. We’ll be back before
dark.”
Reluctantly,
I nodded. “Fine,” I said, half-heartedly.
Just as we
were about to take off, my father appeared, returning from work. He stopped in
front of me, eyes narrowed. “Where are you going at this hour? Did you forget
we’re leaving for the village tomorrow? You haven’t even packed. Go home.”
“Okay,” I
mumbled and turned my bicycle toward home.
As I
pedaled away, I glanced back. My friends were staring at me like I’d just
betrayed them. Vedika shouted sarcastically, “Go home, Kido!” Her voice echoed
in my ears like a curse. I looked at Mridula—she seemed anxious, troubled. But
I ignored it.
That… was the last day I ever saw any of them.
After
moving to my village, I tried many times to get in touch with the three of
them. But in 2008, social media and smartphones weren’t as common as they are
now. After days of fruitless searching, I gave up. Time passed. The sands of
memory blew over their faces, fading them into shadows.
Sixteen
long years went by.
In 2024, I
now work as a government clerk—a routine 10-to-5 job, drowning in paperwork and
monotony. Life passed in a blur of files and forms. That day, just like any
other, I was buried under documents when my eyes landed on an old newspaper
lying between two folders. It was an obituary from two years ago—one of those
printed tributes to the dead.
A face
stared back at me from the black-and-white photo.
Familiar…
but distant. My mind struggled to recall. And then I saw the name.
Mridula
Shankar.
My blood
ran cold.
It couldn’t
be… but it was. The same Mridula. My friend.
Dead. Forever lost to the darkness.
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