Gravestone Stories Novels & Stories

Much like the cemeteries of the Outside, there was a series of stones planted in the ground to mark the graves of each fallen Ravennite. Rowan headed over to the grave site, with Alex following behind her, as she approached the newest additions to the small burial ground. She stopped and rested on her knees before the largest stone among the array of graves. Alex came to stand by her side, placing his hand on her shoulder as he knew whose grave they had come to; Darowe’s.

The above sentences are the thoughts of the author about what he thinks, but it is my duty to tell all the things he has in his mind. The space science and the beginning of the human era, why I always talk about the past, why I'm interested in the dead stories, why I tell a tale of another time, why I don't like the present and, also why I'm not narrating about those dumbasses who were about to close the mysterious case of random killing by an unidentified criminal (creature)? You might have so many questions and confusions about the fact that I puzzle a simple story in what we call a Riddle…? But you can still believe in me that I'll give you a gift tomorrow.

“No. As in something strange happening in their territory.” “I don’t think so. I haven’t been keeping tabs for the last few days though.” “Maybe there’s no news.” “Is there something specific you want to know?” Marc stroke a match and dropped it down. The flames roared. “Probably. It’s still too soon.” After filling the dirt over the ashes, they exited the Western Umbre Graveyard, which was occasionally filled with ghouls even though it was illegal to dig old graves and eat the bodies. Witch Bones was decorated like a medieval cavern: gloomy atmosphere, wooden tables, and tall stools. On the walls were animal skulls and horns. Honestly, she often wondered how they had never been sued for tha

Marco's POV Give to Ceasar what belongs to Ceasars… In dirty, shallow graves, hidden in a remote field downtown, only notorious for the cannibals desperate for human flesh, the remnants of Cent and Lorenzo were buried. The capos assembled behind me, watching in silence, suddenly losing their tongues. I stumped on Cent's grave and dragged my heavy boots down to Lorenzo's. With a nasty smirk, I pulled down my zipper and peed on his grave, letting the amber liquid soak into the dirty black soil.

At least far more interesting than the story I heard yesterday at the antique auction, is this one, I thought. I became uneasy when he described how two werewolves broke their fated mate promise and unleashed a terrible calamity. The narrative was too visceral and realistic. Every time I hear the story, it seems to tighten my heart, so I don't want to listen to it anymore. It felt odd, as though I had also lived through the same narrative. She continued, "And it all began with the Grimoire." "Grimoire?" I asked, intrigued. This Grimoire seemed to be at the center of all the odd occurrences.

Even after everyone had paid their respects at my gravestone, I couldn’t find his figure among the crowd. As people began to disperse, only Troy and Mom remained at the gravestone. They shared one last glance before leaving. I sat idly in front of my gravestone, trying to appear strong. “Troy to choose such a nice photo. All those hours I spent editing it weren’t in vain, at least it’s serving a purpose now,” I said loudly, to no one in particular. Then my emotions suddenly burst forth like a dam breaking. The realization that I was dead and would never again sit with everyone I loved overwhelmed me, and I began to weep uncontrollably.

The cemetery wasn't an ordinary one—it was reserved for families tied to La Camorra. A place of power. A place of secrets. We stood before her tombstone. Right beside my father’s. Don Francesco chuckled. “They told you your mother is buried here, right?” “Yes.” “Poor boy…” Another laugh. Cruel, mocking. “Your mother isn't buried there. The grave is empty.” My chest tightened. “What do you mean?” He took a breath, as if preparing to recite a story he had enjoyed holding for years. “The Story He Told Me”

He yanks me by one arm, pulling me with such force it actually hurts. "Ow! Stop!" I shout, but he puts his other hand over my mouth, walking me down the hill until I see the cemetery, the same familiar place I know very well. "Do you see that gravestone?" he growls, pointing in the direction of Zack's resting place. "Yeah. Why?" I say in my best bitch voice. He turns me around to face him, his hands tight on my shoulders. "Because you'll be buried next to him if you do not listen to me carefully!" His words feel like they're cutting into my flesh.

The headstones were worn smooth by centuries of weather, and most of the names had been erased by time. As I crept between the headstones, trying to stay hidden while I figured out what was happening, I began to notice things that made my skin crawl. The symbols carved into some of the stones weren't Christian crosses or normal cemetery decorations. They were the same dark symbols I had seen in my father's box. This was a supernatural cemetery - a place where vampires and werewolves and other creatures had been buried for hundreds of years. And right in the center of it all, I found what I was looking for.

With a lingering sense of doubt, I approached the gravestone. The gravestone featured a photo of my mother. In the photo, she smiled tenderly as if life had never brought her any pain. Judging by the flowers laid down, she had frequent visitors. It didn’t concern me who was playing the part of a devoted mourner. Without a care, I took out photos of my travels and placed them one by one in front of the gravestone. I told her the places I had been to, the people I had met, and the stories I had encountered along the way.