Gravestone Stories Novels & Stories

“Interesting,” Calisté stared up at Ghost. “I don’t think I’ve heard this story before.” “I never bothered to tell you,” Ghost smiled. “But I think I can now. I found Draymond’s body in a cave, abandoned, mud stained and stinking. Apparently, he had been dead for days. When I found him, he was already breeding maggots from his body but nothing is too hard for Calisté I suppose.” Ghost smiled at Calisté and she frowned and turned away looking at Jimin who seemed to be disappointed in her just hearing the beginning of the story.

“Isabel Norret.” Without stopping to think, I stretched my hand out above the grave. True, a woman had died there, and it was a bad death, in hate and agony. That was a haunted place. That was how graveyards could awaken—when the pain of those who lay in the consecrated soil became too much for the ground to bear. And if the thrall who had consecrated that land cared more about his belly than his debt, everything would happen even faster. And the horror would start. Well, it would be a horror for humans. I didn’t really care.

It would have to be a huge coincidence. Many of the vampire legends seemed to have a common theme: a vampire was created when someone died in a disturbing way, for example by murder, suicide, or disease—or when someone died a sudden, unexpected death. This was especially the case if the person was a low soul, such as a murderer or thief. Many of the stories had the vampire buried by the local villagers, only to have them visit the grave the next day and see it disrupted, the soil freshly overturned, the body still intact, not decomposing. In some stories, the corpse rose from the grave and attacked people; in others it stayed put, but the spirit of the deceased visited family and friends at

The smell of rotting flesh seem to seep out of the coffin. In the end, we had to have a closed burial for him. ++++++++++ Death offers us so many tnrills and chills. And in most cases, it's not even personal experiences that drive us a bit off the edge when we hear those stories. But again, I would like to remind you that some of these stories may or not be real, but it is the absolute truth for those who shared those tales. So once again, I bid you farewell from The Supernatural Spa, dear reader. This has been your Storyteller, The Diwata, saying goodnight and we hope to see you soon.

I recounted the times we sat together, sharing stories of our lives, laughing until our stomachs hurt, and shedding tears of both joy and sorrow. "Remember that time, Grandma, when we sat on the porch swing, sipping our cups of tea and sharing secrets? I can still feel the warmth of that moment, the comfort of your presence. It's moments like those that I cherish the most, and I wish I could relive them once more." My voice softened, filled with a bittersweet tenderness. "It may feel a bit awkward standing here and talking to a gravestone, but deep down, I know that you're listening.."

For this reason, I decided to move all then into strange short stories, that is already a storybook of different themes. The w******l policy does not allow me to remove or delete those books, so they will remain there but as a "paused" book. You can find only the introduction of those books on w******l and no else more. But there you can find some covers I made for those stories and that I can not upload here. The stories of a single chapter will continue to be published, of course. Each volume of Strange short stories will have 3 medium-sized stories and about 10 short stories.

He punched Christian for me. "Are we cool now?" He asked with his eyes as wide as saucers. "Yeah, where is mum's grave?" I asked and his breath hitched in his throat. "I want to visit her. There are so many things I want to tell her." His eyes shifted away from mine as his expression saddened almost suddenly. "Preston Graveyard. Hers is the stone at the middle. You'll find her for sure." His voice sounded so nervous and sad that the next thing I did, he didn't expect it.

1826 was the year that was listed as the oldest. Gwen made her way to the location of her mother's grave with great care as she went between the headstones. Cremation was the more common form of final disposition among werewolves. However, her mother had expressed a desire for a Christian burial, and despite the fact that there was not going to be a church service, the minister from the Methodist church in Jackson had consented to preside over the graveside service.

For me, it’s frozen, and days become emptier. As the gestures fade, the pain grows, the thoughts get louder, and the tears become lonelier. And the waves of misery hit me as though a wall of concrete is falling on top of me. I feel like the fossils being searched for, stuck in a moment and defined by it. Eric loved it when I brought stones home from excavations. He’d show his friends at school and make up all sorts of stories about them. I’ll find a special stone here and take it back to London to put on his grave.

Too much reading, which was good, but humiliating if you couldn't tell your son whether bluebloods had been canceled or capernaum destroyed, or what, in biology, oogonia stood for. For that brief moment after seeing the wierd later on Adulf Cains grave, mrs Damaris could not understand why the therapist looked at the letters personally. All she understood was that who ever had dropped that letter knew the kid personally, somewhat more personally than his own mother if you asked dr montoya. There was also a coin on the hedge stone. "Its ment to pay respect. He's likened for a soldier, the coin is ment to pay honor. " They both turned.