Gravestone Stories Novels & Stories

PETER DENTON ANDREWS 1981-2030 Beloved Friend & Hero CAROL 1987-2030 Beloved Friend & Hero A week after the apocalyptic event, two gravestones stood erect above the earthly ground and the inscriptions above had been carved on them. The stones glistened slightly in a glossy fashion as rivulets of water droplets trickled down them due to the light shower that precipitated from the grayish clouds that morning. The cemetery at Brookhaven was packed with people dressed in black—all of whom were standing somberly—a few of them with umbrellas quivering over them.

They had to see us with their own eyes. With the gravesite nearly unearthed, the groundskeeper stumbled out. “Oh, my Moon Goddess! I laid those she-wolves to rest. It’s bad enough that no werewolf held a funeral for them now that they are gone. Why are you digging up their grave?” Dumbstruck, Blake and Kaden paused. “Lucia, I was wrong! It’s all my fault. Come back! I regret everything!” Blake dropped to his knees and struck his palm across his face repeatedly.

To find answers, I had to dig deep. At first, my search was vague. I checked jet words. Names. Nothing specific. I wasn't even sure what I was looking for, just that there was something and that I had to find it. There were no results for an heiress to the Gravestone empire but the more I dug, the more I uncovered. Somehow, inevitably, my search led me there. To an old article. I leaned over my laptop, reading keenly. The headline reported the disappearance of the Gravestones ' little daughter. My breath caught and I clicked.

Once we reached the cemetery, he paused for a second, “I haven’t been here in years.” “We don’t have to, -“ I started, but Zev stopped me. “We do.” I followed Zev around the different gravestones. There were a lot of them. How many of these people had been killed by hunters? “Some packs burn their dead. Especially smaller packs that don’t have the space. Maintaining a grave costs money and time, or it will overgrow and, -“ he said, turning to face me. “Sorry, I’m nervous, so I’m spouting facts. But Luna Grace is the one who keeps my mother’s grave in order.”

“I look at it this way. A few things you might be able to write off as coincidence, bad luck, or someone making up a tale. But there are just so many stories collected in this one place that you have to pay attention. I mean, it seems like something’s going on.” Jon kept his mouth shut. His recent brush with the bizarre had tossed all his old objections out the window. But—he couldn’t help yanking out that but—one of the reasons there were so many stories was that it was one of the first areas inhabited by colonists. The cemetery had some of the oldest graves in New York State. Thus it had more time to collect weird stories than in other places. As for the larger number of car fatalities, th

Dominic’s POV It’s past midnight in the old Voss family cemetery, a place that smells of damp stone and old promises. The headstones lean like tired sentinels, watching as I commit another crime for the sake of a ghost. The grave I came for sits apart from the others, marked by a simple granite plaque: Elia Beloved daughter, cherished friend. A lie carved in stone. The same grave that, according to every official record, holds her remains. The same grave Stanley once ordered sealed and forgotten. The same grave he swore she wasn’t dead in.

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”

"Been here long?" "Thirty years," he grunted, unlocking the gate with a key from his belt. The chain rattled as it swung open. "Seen all sorts come through—grievers, historians, even ghost hunters. You take your time; no rush." I smiled faintly, stepping through. "Appreciate it." The gate clanged shut behind me, and I was in, the cemetery unfolding like a forgotten storybook. The paths were gravel-strewn, crunching underfoot, lined with tombs and markers etched with names long faded. The air carried a musty scent, earth mixed with stone, and the quiet was profound, broken only by distant birdsong. Shay's tomb was deeper in, under that massive willow, its branches swaying gently like a natura

"Well that's not creepy" She tried looking for a way out of the cemetery but couldn't find one. How could a Cemetery not have a gate she wondered. So how did she get here? All these questions with no answers, she decided to kill time by moving around from grave to grave reading the names of people who died and mocking those who didn't live a long life. "How could he die so early, I wondered if it was his crazy ex who did that to him" she laughed after coming across a 21-year-old's grave.

It was April, and spring had finally sprung in New York. In Queens Cemetery, the grass had begun to turn green again. A few unnamed wildflowers had grown beside my gravestone, as if they had decided to stay where I once was. Vincent came every afternoon. Sometimes, he brought a book; sometimes, he brought nothing at all, but he would sit by the gravestone for hours. John would sometimes follow him, standing far away at the cemetery gate. From there, he watched Vincent’s silhouette. The man who once made New York’s underworld tremble now spent his days sitting in front of a grave, quietly letting an afternoon pass him by. Sometimes, Vincent would speak to the gravestone. Other times, he just