A story about a funeral. Scary stories about cemeteries

Life is boring, what to do?

Observing the purity of morals, the local authorities decided to remove the entrance benches and the adjacent domino tables in the courtyards! Too many have found free refuge on them.

The entire hungry city is scouring the courtyards in search of a saving shelter. Utility workers zealously carried out the orders of the authorities.

The centuries-old era of shops that had befriended the entire population of a city block was ended unceremoniously, with revolutionary haste.

Fortunately, there is no shortage of experience. We new world let's build it! Instead of inquisitive and all-knowing old women-experts, peacefully knitting warm socks for their grandchildren for the harsh winter, headless stumps stood bashfully in the courtyards.

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

Klavdia Semyonovna, the same age, is just as lonely and sad in the small kitchen, paying her meager pension for the morning porridge on duty and frozen sprat for Murzik. In the evenings, lonely stumps surrounded youth beer parties. This is how the passengers of the sinking Titanic hurried to the rare life-saving ice floes.

Habit, as you know, is second nature. The youth were in no hurry to change their drinking place. In numerous eateries, drinking happens casually, without the proper courage, but near your home spot, which was once your favorite bench, you can frolic to your heart’s content.

Again, they will tell you home if you dare to slightly exceed the dose. Comfortable. If the dose increases significantly, they will take it to another place, to a churchyard. Again ours, from the “patch”.

The demoted deputies of the courtyard khural hurried past their hungry grandchildren on the tree stumps. There is no quorum of old ladies at all. The entire parliament in in full force on an indefinite vacation in their own small-sized apartments.

Grandmothers are languishing from doing nothing and, once again, begin to count the new coffin stash. There 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 you can see the surviving benches at the picket fence of the first entrance.

Senile farsightedness, not bothered by cataracts, immediately highlighted the friends in misfortune, peacefully sitting on the far bench. There are at least two vacancies on the bench. We have to hurry. Applicants for the free space are completely bored at the windows.

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After the death of his wife, Selivanov started drinking. From a normal, intelligent man, he turned into a typical homeless person within six months

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

The rest of the leisure time is devoted to the vile behavior of Marinka from the fifteenth, who paraded past amazed old women with a new imported gentleman of curly brunette color. The new admirer has no advantages.

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

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

The grandmother's former partner was treated with respect. Although not a particularly handsome man, he treated old women with respect, always bowed and inquired after their health by name.

There is no way to throw away a won bench. 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 have been eliminated along the entire perimeter. That's why grannies don't go to the park and continue the conversation.

From the dissolute Marinka the conversation spread into the realms 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 - Vitka, Lenka and Svetka. But in fact the man was over fifty.

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

A year ago his wife died. Quickly, in one day. Heart. She was buried in a new cemetery, which was far from the city and grew with incredible speed. In a city with a population of over a million, death is a frequent guest.

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

Life is an unfair thing

After the death of his wife, Selivanov started drinking. From a normal, intelligent man, he turned into a typical homeless person within six months.

He quit his job, didn’t pay rent, and was warned more than once about eviction. No one knew where he got the money for food, just as no one knew whether he ate at all.

Vitka lost a lot of weight, and it was absolutely clear to everyone who saw him that he wouldn’t last long.

Compassionate men who drank in the yard in the evenings and on weekends always poured a drink for Selivanov, for which he invariably politely thanked them. But he didn’t impose himself, didn’t wait for more to be poured, and modestly walked away. By evening he was always drunk.

On weekdays, weekends, and 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. Viktor Stepanovich Selivanov outlived his wife by 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 his wife’s grave, because over the course of a year and a half the cemetery had grown both in breadth and distance.

Creepy incidents in the cemetery

In the spring, as soon as the snow melted, Polina Sergeevna from the sixth apartment went to the cemetery. Her mother was buried there, and it was necessary to put the grave in order after the winter. After clearing away the trash and sticking a bouquet 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 Selivanova. On the very monument that she remembered when Vitka was buried, there was the same portrait of him, his name, surname and dates of life.

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

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

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

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

Pensioners have nothing to do, so they can easily devote all their time to searching for 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 no less surprised than she was. A small delegation of representatives of the cemetery management and staff immediately went with her. They checked the documents, then went to see Viktor Stepanovich.

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

Of course, the interlocutors at the bench understood perfectly well that the request was supported financial assistance an elderly woman. Of course, the woman could keep this news to herself for no more than a week.

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

When she came to the cemetery for the second time, they showed her everything Required documents to 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 herself pills for sclerosis. They are, of course, expensive, so here's money for a year's supply of pills.

After her story, the entire community of retired women visited the cemetery. Everyone approached the graves of two people who had loved each other during their lifetime, stood and looked, then drove home, silent and thoughtful.

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

Moreover, new topics were not long in coming. Marinka from fifteen brought a new roommate.

A story from life.

I moved to another city and got a job. The job was the most “fun” - a night watchman at a cemetery. You won’t believe how many freaks come at night, dig up graves and take away everything more or less valuable. I resolutely stopped such attempts and I didn’t care where the bullet from the rifle hit - in the arm, leg, heart or head. I buried the dead robbers under a cliff on the eastern edge of the cemetery - it was always cold, gloomy, scary and eerie there.

But I will not further describe to you the delights of the life of a cemetery watchman, but will tell you about the events that happened on the night of July 11-12. Then the weather was calm, the wind was noisy, and in the sky, illuminating the surroundings with a silver light, full moon. I was sitting in the lodge, watching "Seventeen Moments of Spring" and quietly sipping cheap red wine, when a strange sound came from the street. Having become wary, I removed the rifle from its mounts, pulled the bolt and, quietly opening the door, went outside.

As I expected, three people were fussing over a lonely grave, located a little further from everyone else. Two of them skillfully waved shovels, the third was shining a flashlight at them. I was so angry that I became scared myself.

Why the hell are you desecrating a grave, bastards?!

A rifle shot broke the silence. However, none of the diggers even moved. It turned out that at the moment of the shot, one of them managed to turn the shovel over with the bayonet up and the bullet hit him, ricocheting into a tree. Three turned in my direction with such faces that I understood without words that they were going to kill.

There was no time to reload the rifle. I threw it aside and pulled out an army knife from the top of my boot. “I may not kill you,” I thought, “but I will certainly cut you badly.”
The two with shovels rushed towards me. I dodged a sharpened bayonet and slashed my attacker across the chest, but was immediately hit on the head with the flat of a shovel. My vision darkened and I sank to the ground. One digger grabbed me by the hair and threw my head back, the second, rubbing my chest - there was blood on his palm - picked up my knife and grinned.

Now you, bitch, will suffer, and then you will die like a mangy dog. - the blade rested directly on my trachea. And then I noticed HIM...

The three scumbags didn’t even understand who killed them. A black shadow darted, one of the trio squealed like a pig in a slaughterhouse - he was missing both arms up to the elbows - and immediately shut up, spraying the ground with blood from his stumps and a cut on his throat. The second one threw the knife on the ground and ran away, but he did not run far: at the very gate the shadow overtook him and the scoundrel fell to the ground next to his head, which had fallen off a second earlier. The third, having let go of me, was spinning around, panic was seething in his eyes, and when the creature appeared in front of him, there was a desperate, terrible cry of a man who did not want to die. Slowly turning around, I saw a dismembered corpse... and the one who was standing over it...

Black middle length hair, pale skin, dark brown eyes, black trousers, black boots, black blouse, black leather coat- I didn’t like the person right away. A strange-looking dagger was clutched in his hand - there was no handle, the blade seemed to be growing out of his hand. And then, looking closer, I realized with a shudder that I was not mistaken - the blade was really looking out from his palm.

The stranger turned to me and his thin lips curled into a grin:

I had never run so fast in my life and only stopped near the station, catching my breath. Having weighed everything and thought it over, I decided to return home, but a surprise awaited me near the apartment: the words “WE'LL SEE YOU AGAIN” were carved on the front door.

At the cemetery, the dead meet a newcomer. Gennady Ivanovich and Vitaly Nikolaevich were sitting on a bench, basking in the rays of the spring sun. They always did this when it was a nice day.

When bad weather prevailed outside, they rested, although there were times when curiosity forced them to get out into the snow, rain and wind. Previously, such troubles happened occasionally, but in Lately were falling out more and more frequently.

Now was one of those beautiful ones sunny days, when they had intelligent conversations about the meaning of life, about life and death, about love and hate and other topics that can be discussed forever. In principle, they had plenty of time. Something, but it was enough.

In this “boarding house,” as they used to call their place of stay, peace and quiet always reigned. True, there were incidents when some young vandals climbed here to misbehave or cause damage, but this happened infrequently. And strangers were extremely rare here. Apart from the working staff, they didn't see many visitors.

It was boring here, but no one could help it.

Their relatives rarely visited them. At first, when they settled in a “boarding house,” relatives, loved ones, sometimes friends came to them, talked about their lives, about painful things, remembered the past, cried and laughed. Each of those who lived here looked forward to these meetings with great impatience, because it was they who mainly adorned the monotony of their existence.

Another event was the arrival of another newcomer. From him one could learn a lot about life there, behind the fence, behind the gate that separated their small quiet world from a big world full of movement, events, and various interesting things.

Dear gentlemen, they were discussing one of their traditional topics when Andrei Semenovich approached them, dressed in an old, but clean and ironed, military uniform. Like them, the former military commissar was an old-timer in this establishment.

He greeted me politely.

- Comrades, another recruit has arrived to us. Let's go meet him.

For him, everyone who showed up at the boarding house was recruits. They are used to calling them newcomers. At the cemetery, the dead meet a newcomer.

Slowly we walked towards the gate. Out of the corner of their eye, they noticed that other residents were also rushing to meet them. Still would! Here everyone was eaten by boredom and any new events that could satisfy her hunger led the surrounding people to the center of the event, like moths to the flame of a fire. True, insects often find their death there, but this did not threaten the locals.

So they saw the whole procession: relatives, priest, gravediggers, relatives and friends, the traditional “lawn”. This usually always happens, with rare exceptions.

He stood to the side.

Short, thin, wearing a black two-piece suit. He looked at his own people, and at first did not pay attention to those who came to meet him. Finally I looked back and saw them. I realized who it was. But he didn’t say a word, he simply nodded, greeting his new roommates.

The driver, Uncle Kolya, that’s what the street kids called him, whom he loved to ride on his “lawn,” lit a cigarette.

A figure flashed in the side mirror of the car. I looked closer - no one. Crossed himself.

He looked at his colleague who had kept him company during the funeral.

- You know, people say that when they bury another dead person in a cemetery, the dead meet a newcomer - all the souls come out to meet him. More precisely, his soul. Do you believe this?

- I do not even know what to say.

“I don’t know either, but I think that after death we have two paths: to heaven or to hell.” There is no other option. Who then can meet them? Really those who did not serve their forty days on Earth?

- Who knows. You know, I think so myself that there may be cases when a person has committed so many sins in his life that he will definitely not be taken to heaven, but maybe he did good deeds, then his path to hell is barred. Those who are no longer needed by anyone can meet new souls in the cemetery.

- And what is this? Forever?

- Why? I think their fate will be decided in time Last Judgment.

- Hm... Maybe so. You know, I don't like uncertainty. Either yes or no. I wouldn't want to be in their place.

“Where we will be after death depends only on us.”

Uncle Kolya again thought he saw someone in the mirror. But, looking carefully into the reflection, once again I did not notice anyone. He held back the swearing that wanted to slip from his tongue. I started the engine and drove towards the exit from the cemetery.

2015, . All rights reserved.

Creepy stories about the dead, death and cemeteries. At the junction of our world and the other world, sometimes very strange and unusual phenomena, which are difficult to explain even to very skeptical people.

If you also have something to tell about this topic, you can do it absolutely free right now.

One of my relatives, who survived the Holocaust as a child, shared this story with me. Further from her words.

Before the war we lived well. Our family was large and friendly. I was the eldest child in the family, helped my mother with housework, looked after the younger children and, like all Soviet children, dreamed of a bright future. One day my mother told me: “Daughter, today I saw horrible dream“My grandmother came to me and said that we will all die, but you will be saved and will live happily ever after.” It was a prophetic dream.

Recently, a woman I knew’s mother died. She was very worried and shared her thoughts. She told a story that on the fortieth day, she woke up early in the morning, got out of bed and wanted to turn on the light. The switch clicked, the light came on and then went out. I tried to turn it on several times, but it didn’t light up, so I decided to replace it. I unscrewed it and it was intact. She thought that this was a sign and began to ask for forgiveness out loud from her mother’s soul.

Recently I read a prayer for the deceased with a lit candle in front of his photo. I read it late in the evening and at the end of the prayer for some reason I felt fear. This was on the 9th day after the funeral. Anxiety crept in.

Before this, the day before, a deceased person appeared, as in a dream. I didn’t understand anything at all, since it flashed by very quickly, and I only remembered the image of him lighting a candle, which was burning so brightly.

I will write about small strange incidents that happened to me, and which I heard about from witnesses of the phenomena.

Mom lives in a private house. When she was strong, she often baked something, and she made such wonderful pies. I come to my mother one day. She is sitting at the table with my brother's daughter. They sit at a table near the window, eat pies, drink tea. Immediately from the threshold they start vying with me to say: “We saw this! Just now! 5 minutes ago, several perfectly round balls flew past the window over the beds. So slowly, everyone is a little different in size, the size of an average ball. Light in appearance, like bubble. And they’re all so bright and shimmering different colors. They flew purposefully, calmly, as if someone was walking and leading them on a string. And they flew away towards the neighbors, to Baba Polya. We watched from the window as long as we could, but didn’t go out into the street, because, despite the fact that it was summer, day, sun, for some reason it was scary.” I helped them eat the pies, and after an hour and a half, Lena and I went home. We went out into the yard, and there was some kind of fuss among the neighbors, we left the yard, and on the street, a neighbor from the house opposite said: “Polya’s grandmother has died.”

The priests do not recommend opening the coffin after the funeral service has been performed for the deceased and the lid has been nailed shut. I always knew about this ban, but could not find an explanation for it. After googling, I came to the conclusion that it’s like official version, why is it prohibited, no. And now even, with the permission of the priest, sometimes it is allowed to open the lid of the cemetery so that people who were not in the church for the funeral service can say goodbye to the deceased. But still undesirable.

I addressed this question to my 80-year-old grandmother. To which she told me a story that happened to her relatives in the village.

As a child, every summer I vacationed with my grandparents in the village. But when I was nine years old, my grandmother died of cancer. She was responsive and kind person, and a very good grandmother.

At the age of fourteen, I came to the village to visit my grandfather, who was very lonely and sad without his wife. In the morning my grandfather went to local market while I was sleeping in a cozy bed.

Then, in my sleep, I hear some strange steps along wooden floor. It creaks just so clearly. I lay facing the wall and was afraid to move. At first I thought it was my grandfather who had returned. Then I remembered that in the morning he is always at the market. And suddenly someone’s cold hand falls on my shoulder, and then I hear the voice of my late grandmother: “Don’t go to the river.” I couldn’t even move from fear, and when I pulled myself together, nothing strange happened.

I talked here about the death of my neighbor, that we live next to the cemetery and I had a young neighbor who drank. Her deceased father came to see her, and we talked about life and death. She eventually died. Recently it was one year since his death.

She lived in a house located along the main street and which she had to pass by every day. And this year, I went to the store almost every day, past her house, but I did not walk quietly, but ran quickly without looking. There was always a bad feeling and some kind of lifelessness. I chalked it all up to past death and time.

When I received my profession, I lived in a dormitory not in hometown. I went home once every two weeks. There were 3 girls living in our dorm room; their home was closer than mine and they went to see their parents every weekend.

In January 2007, my only grandmother died. Although during her life we ​​did not communicate with her very often, and our relationship with her was not as close as many, but after her death, I often dreamed of her for some time. But we will talk about one dream or phenomenon, I don’t even know what to call it.

It was my grandmother’s fortieth day, but I didn’t go to the wake, we just had exams (and, as I said, we didn’t have any particularly warm family relations). I was left alone in the room and was preparing for exams, it was already about 2 am, and I decided to go to bed. I didn’t turn off the light (the girls and I often slept with the light on), closed the door and, turning to the wall, lay down. Sleep just didn’t want to come to me, and I lay there and thought about all sorts of exams.