Mystical stories from real life about a cemetery. One night in the cemetery

My parents and their parents are all from Vorkuta. But I didn’t see this city until I was fifteen, because they didn’t take me there and in every possible way dissuaded me from visiting the old people - my grandparents - who lived there until their death.

“Why do you hate your city so much?” - I pestered my mother in surprise. And she said that next to the mine, where almost all the men from the area worked, there was an old cemetery that terrified the local inhabitants. Allegedly, they saw the dead leaving their graves right in front of the eyes of Vorkuta residents who came to visit the deceased relatives.

My grandfather, my mother’s father, who lived next door to this cemetery as a boy in the 1930s, swore that he himself saw “people from the other world.” One day, literally the day before Epiphany, on a frosty January night, the risen dead marched in a column through the miners' village - so he claimed. And the cadaverous smell lingered on the street all day.

Of course, I didn’t believe these stories, believing that my grandfather was out of his mind, and the little girl—my mother was ten years old when he told her this nonsense—was easy to scare. However, my mother insisted that all this was true. And she claimed that her brother also witnessed the terrible incident. Once they were walking with the guys from the neighboring house in the evening near the fence of the cemetery, and at that time a man came out of the gate - a strange, even scary, bearded man in rags: he walked past them, shuffling with some tattered cast-offs that resembled felt boots, and turned behind them. corner.

The children rushed after him - they began to tease him, the fools. And he looked around, threatened them with a stick and simply disappeared into thin air, disappeared. At that same moment, the children felt a terrible gust of wind, as if a hurricane had begun... They were scattered along the road, one boy seriously injured his leg, another had his face scratched with blood by a torn off tree branch, and the girls rolled on the ground like peas and squealed from fear.

"So what? - I shrugged my shoulders in response to my mother’s attempts to impress me. - Just think, a strong wind! This happens. And a man in rags is not necessarily a dead man. And when he disappeared, he got scared of you, the brats, and hid.” But, according to the mother, there was something eerie about that figure and its disappearance - a person cannot simply melt into thin air. “Yes, and many of us have seen these walks of the dead. If you don’t believe me, ask whoever you want!” -Mom didn’t want to give up. “Why are you always bringing me some eyewitnesses? And you yourself? - I deliberately angered her. “No, I didn’t see it, thank God! - Mom crossed herself in fear. But I know many people whom I trust and who have encountered this evil spirits. And one boy from our yard went crazy from horror - forever! He never recovered afterwards... Such a dead man waylaid him and attacked him...

And here’s an interesting coincidence: on the very night when the dead man attacked him, I noticed an unusual bright light in the sky - something like the northern lights, but not quite lights. Wonderful! It never existed in our area. Still, we don’t live at the North Pole... And strange things happened at our school: at night, in the echoing corridors, someone’s shuffling steps could be heard, inarticulate muttering and plaintive moans were heard. The watchman, Baba Manya, told us this.”

“That old woman Manya of yours must have been a drunkard!” - I egged my mother on. “Fuck you... She fought in the Night Witches squadron! Has an order. What a drunk she is to you!” It is not surprising that when my mother married my father, she immediately left the “bad” village in Vorkuta forever. I never tried to visit my parents. My grandmother and grandfather often came to us, but my mother never visited them. And they didn’t let me visit the old people on vacation.

I was terribly envious of my classmates: well, everything is like summer - they go to their grandmothers in the village. Their stories fascinated me: there were adventures, fights and overnight trips, swimming and complete freedom! In a word, freedom! And I sat like hell all summer in the city, at best they took me to the sea, and then only for a couple of weeks...

When I turned fifteen, I made a terrible scandal and demanded that I be released to the old people. The parents resisted for a long time (or rather, my mother resisted), but in the end they gave in. Somewhere in mid-June I was sent by train from Kirov to Vorkuta. I enjoyed the journey for a day, then I found myself at the Vorkuta central station. Small, old, provincial, but quite clean. From the city center I took a minibus to the village of Severny to visit the old people. I found Vorkuta a dull, gloomy city. There is no need for a cemetery with zombies crawling out of the ground here - without that the landscape is apocalyptic.

My grandparents greeted me joyfully - after all, they were the only grandson! I, too, was very happy with the old people, however, when they took me to a neglected two-story house, surrounded by some rickety sheds and rusty garages, I became somewhat sour: I didn’t know that people still live like this in our time - well, I didn’t see barracks! This city, it must be said, is surrounded by a whole system of suburbs - mainly mining villages. There used to be a dozen and a half of them, but at the time I arrived in Vorkuta, only five remained; the remaining villages looked like gloomy ghosts among the bare tundra...

Honestly, I was no longer glad that I came. What can you do here? How to relax? How can you even live?! At least write to your parents: “Take me!” The next day, however, I found company - a couple of guys my age, and the prospect of spending two weeks here no longer seemed so gloomy. Moreover, I confess to you that I dreamed of going to the cemetery, about which I had heard so many “terrible” things.

I was dying to go there and, most importantly, take pictures! Suddenly I’ll get lucky, I thought, and someone from the other world will appear to me! These pictures will make me famous! A fool, of course, but I was only fifteen years old. I wanted thrills, like any boy. I asked my new friends to give me a tour of the cemetery: they say, I’ve heard about all sorts of miracles! They shrugged: it was a three-kilometer walk to get there. Don't be lazy, let's go...

And so we came to that same Lithuanian cemetery. Actually, it is not only Lithuanian, although its most noticeable grave is a monument to some prince with an inscription in Lithuanian: “Mother Lithuania is crying for you.” Yes, there were many of them in the local “Vorkutlag” - sons for whom Lithuania, Latvia, Estonia and Western Ukraine cried...

Tens of thousands of people went through this hell from the territories occupied in 1939, and then the Germans began to be sent here - no, not prisoners, but completely loyal to the USSR, only with the beginning of the war they all turned into enemies. Among my grandfather’s friends, by the way, there was a Lithuanian named Edgar - his ancestors ended up in Vorkuta in a convoy, and when they were freed, they stayed to live there. Edgar himself was born in Vilnius, but every year he came to these harsh lands beyond the Arctic Circle to lay flowers on his native graves.

There are hundreds, thousands of such stories in this city... But these prisoners still had graves, and how many people were left simply abandoned to lie in the frozen ground under snow and moss! What's strange about it, if you think about it, is that these souls do not know peace. And their ghosts walk around the dying city, looking for their executioners... Or maybe those who remained from their relatives to remind them of themselves? At the cemetery I saw many Orthodox crosses next to Catholic ones. And as an adult, I read so many tragic stories of ordinary Russian men, priests and teachers, workers and doctors, buried here!

Then, at the age of fifteen, I listened with rapture as one of my new acquaintances talked about how they were expanding a mine in the village of Yur-Shor. They simply dug up the neighboring cemetery, crushing the skulls and bones of the unfortunate people buried here with an excavator bucket. These are the people! They don't care! They are ready to throw the dead in the trash! But there lay not only political prisoners, but also civilian and local prisoners - quite possibly, relatives of those who crushed these bones into dust with the wheels of trucks.

That's when the cemetery was disturbed, and the locals began to have visions. Or rather, the dead began to come out... Presumably, in this way they demanded peace, and maybe justice. From time immemorial there has been a tradition of burying the dead away from housing and treating graveyards with respect. Our ancestors knew that the destruction of a cemetery could bring disaster. And we forgot. And therefore we must blame ourselves, and not the ghosts that frighten us.

In the late 40s of the last century, a local miner received a prison sentence for talking about ghosts that came to him underground. He was immediately sent to jail for trying to sow panic and spread a hostile ideology. But what is the ideology of those ghosts?! They certainly did not create a counter-revolutionary group, did not find out secret information about the mine tunnels and did not prepare terrorist attacks...

That miner's name was Ivan Khrapov, he was the grandfather of one of the guys who told me this story. And he served until 1953, until Stalin’s death. And the last case of the appearance of dead people happened here in the early 60s of the last century, at a dance in a local club. When the watchman, having escorted all the young people home around midnight, began to lock the doors, suddenly someone began to strangle him.

The watchman, despite his age, was a healthy man. He dodged and grabbed the attacker himself: but immediately pulled his hands back. Moreover, the blow almost hit him! In front of the man stood a corpse as pale as a sheet - just a corpse! He had empty eye sockets and almost rotten skin on his cheeks. The dead man grinned threateningly with his empty mouth.

The poor old man ran away with a wild cry, and in the morning he quit his job and never went to that club again - neither at night nor during the day. But the young people, having heard his story, began to be on duty there almost around the clock - brave souls! Let's drink for courage and let's walk around the club with jokes and jokes. On the third night, perhaps, one of these guys saw the translucent figure of a man, but the others did not have time to notice it, and therefore decided that he had simply had too much port wine.

Why don’t dead people come to scare Vorkuta residents after 1960? I think because around that time, a former political prisoner of Yur-Shor installed the first memorial sign in the cemetery, common to all the victims. My mother, in any case, said exactly that: “Guests from the other world stopped coming to us, they calmed down, apparently they liked this sign of respect.” By the way, I saw this simple wooden pillar, reinforced at the base with a concrete pad, on which the numbers “1953” are embossed.

And later, in 1992, I think, the Vorkuta “Memorial”, together with former political prisoners from Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia, erected another wooden memorial cross at the cemetery with a sign: “Eternal memory to those who died for freedom and human dignity.” This certainly pleased those who lie in the frozen ground here: memory and dignity are exactly what they were deprived of for so long.

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

If you also have something to tell about this topic, you can absolutely free.

Mom died in September 1992. My older brother Gena lived in another city. During the years that my mother was ill, he came to us only once. And then, of course, they gave him an urgent telegram. He replied that he was leaving. However, I never got there. I drank on the train and went on a drinking binge. I woke up only a month later. He could not remember where he was and what happened to him. With that, he returned home. It must be said that my brother actually held a responsible position and could not drink for years, but still occasionally broke into binge drinking.

I noticed that I write about snakes often. Maybe this is connected with our mystical beliefs, I don’t know. Be that as it may, here is another mystical story for you.

My classmate told this story back in school. And I remembered her because her father, the main character of this story, recently died. A friend said that he was afraid of snakes to the point of panic. For a long time, the children could not understand why such a powerful man was afraid of even a harmless snake. However, over time they found out. Further from his words.

And creepy at the same time. As for the owner of the cemetery, maybe he stood up for the girl. I have already heard about the owner and read somewhere, they say that he can take on different forms, it seems even like an animal too. There was one incident that happened to me, which I told my mother later, when she and I went to the cemetery to visit my father.

My mother lives in a village, or rather in a village, and you couldn’t really see people on the street at that time, there was almost no one. And it was only my mother and I who were at the cemetery. There were a lot of fresh graves around, the cemetery was large, but they recently started burying people in one part of it. The sun was shining mercilessly, it was hot, summer, we were there at about four in the afternoon. We came to my father’s grave, and while my mother was taking care of the grave, I stood and mentally talked to him. I was so sad without him, even if I screamed, I missed him terribly, but I didn’t talk about it with my mother, I didn’t want to upset her soul. Especially in the first years, the loss of my father physically hurt me, and I told him about this then, there, in the cemetery.

This incident happened two years ago. I was driving home from work. The road passes near the cemetery. Driving by, I “heard” a request for help. This time I didn’t think for a long time, turned on the turn signal and turned towards the cemetery. I found the grave quickly. Well maintained, good marble monument. Inscription: Valentina Nikolaevna. I mentally ask the question: how can I help? And in response there was silence. I waited ten minutes. So I didn’t wait for an answer. At first I thought I had the wrong grave. I decided to take a walk in search. But no matter how many times I walked, there was no answer. While returning, I heard crying. I came up and saw the same tombstone.

He asked: “How can I help Valya?” “It’s my son’s birthday today. I want to give him a gift. Player with a record. At home in the pantry in a box,” was the answer. I think to myself that there is nothing complicated, I’ll come, I’ll say it and that’s it, my mission is over. But everything went wrong. I asked the people about Valentina, since our village is small. And I heard this story.

According to Christian tradition, after the Easter service, it is customary to celebrate this holiday at home with family.

My friend Katerina lived with her parents in a large house, divided into 4 parts, in each of which their relatives lived. There was harmony between the neighbors. Holidays were celebrated together at a large table in the courtyard of the house. Long benches on both sides of the table accommodated everyone, regardless of age and size. The children grew up, started families, some moved to their own separate housing, but at Easter everyone was sure to be there, according to tradition. The table with benches was built by Katerina’s father, Uncle Lesha. He was a kind and welcoming person. In his old age, of course, he lost a lot, but he always tried, if not to organize, then at least to maintain the fun. After his death, the neighbors at first began to get together less often, and then only the little ones played around in such a playground. And it became sadder in the yard.

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 had a terrible 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

The cemetery is somewhere nearby

At the cemetery of the Donskoy Monastery

Shutterstock

Moscow, like any ancient city, stands on bones. And this is not an exaggeration. Walking through Moscow cemeteries, it is easy to notice that there are only a few pre-revolutionary graves, not to mention those from the 19th century. Pagan mounds and burial places of monks, plague cemeteries and rural churchyards - all of them are now under public gardens and cinemas, bridges and high-rise buildings.

Cemeteries in Moscow are dug up more often than treasures. And, as it turns out, our ancestors did not always bury their dead. In the Kitay-Gorod area in the 1920s, three stone coffins were discovered during excavations. From each of them there was a ventilation pipe leading to the surface.

It is obvious that people were buried there alive.

Did the boyar take revenge on his enemies? How long did the unfortunate people suffer? This is unknown to history.

In the 1970s, in the Sivtseva Vrazhka area, a medieval burial consisting of only skulls was discovered. Scientists suggest that these were disgraced boyars who were executed. For their souls, the king provided not only intravital, but also posthumous torment, since the burial was undignified.

There were also more romantic discoveries. In the 1930s, while exploring the basements of chambers on Bersenevskaya Embankment, archaeologists found the skeleton of a girl with a perfectly preserved long braid. When the hair was touched, it crumbled into dust. Was the girl sitting in prison, waiting for the handsome prince? Another mystery.

The road from the grave

Sometimes Moscow cemeteries get a second life. In the late 1930s, many granite tombstones were used to line embankments. If the waters of the Moscow River were more transparent, we would be able to read through their thickness the ancient epitaphs: “To the dearest spouse and parent from the mourning spouse and children,” “To the dear seller from grateful customers.”

And on Novaya Basmannaya, until recently, an attentive observer could notice a curbstone with snatches of phrases: “.. difficult...”, “.. we are proud...”, “... it will come...”. This is a tombstone from the destroyed cemetery at the Church of Saints Peter and Paul. In Soviet times, the streets were paved with gravestones - there was no point in wasting it. Last spring, the tombstone was taken away in an unknown direction, and an ordinary one was laid on the sidewalk.

Pushkin pushed from the other world

In such conditions, it seems that there is no need to call the spirits - they will come on their own. Nevertheless, in the old days Muscovites did this with pleasure. The story that happened in the middle of the 19th century with Pavel Nashchokin became a textbook story. A graduate of the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum and Pushkin’s closest friend, already in adulthood, he set up a spiritualist salon in his house on Vorotnikovsky Lane (where he visited, among others, whose membership in the belief in spirits apparently did not interfere).

Pushkin had already died in a duel by that time, and Nashchokin summoned his spirit with the help of a saucer, thread and needle. The poet willingly came, dictated poems, and once even promised to appear before his friends in the flesh. On the agreed night, Nashchokin and the company did not sleep a wink, but they did not wait for the otherworldly guest. In the morning the owner of the house went to church. On the way, he met some drunk man in a sheepskin coat. He pushed him on the shoulder.

House in Vorotnikovsky Lane, where the famous philanthropist Pavel Nashchokin, a friend of Pushkin, lived

Boris Kavashkin/TASS

Nashchokin raised his head and, to his horror, recognized his deceased friend in the passerby.

After this, Pavel Voinovich no longer remembered the spiritualistic seances, and burned Pushkin’s afterlife legacy. The Nashchokinsky house has been preserved; now there is a gallery there. There is a sign on the façade: “Pushkin was here.” During life, of course.

Curse of the Yusupovs

If you believe the legends, Muscovites were not good-natured at all and periodically cursed each other. Only the lazy do not know the story about the Ostankino grandmother, who supposedly has been coming to the inhabitants of this area for many centuries and cursing them for building houses in an ancient cemetery.

And if the existence of the hunchback is a big question, then the following story really makes you think. In Kharitonyevsky Lane, in the depths of a neglected garden, stands a gloomy, luxuriously decorated palace. This is the Yusupovs' house. Family legend says that the founder of the richest family in the country, a descendant of the Nogai khans, Abdul-Murza, converted from Islam to Orthodoxy in the 17th century and was cursed for apostasy. In a dream, a certain menacing voice allegedly told him that from now on, in every generation, all children, except one, would die before the age of 26. And what’s most amazing is that for three centuries this “club of 25-year-olds” really existed. The last pre-revolutionary scion of this family was Felix Yusupov, one of the most mysterious characters of that time. “Vicious cherub”, “fallen angel” - that’s what they called him for his combination of physical beauty and mental depravity. He went down in history as the killer of Rasputin. His only brother Nikolai had died in a duel several years earlier. He was 26 years old.

But let's get back to ghosts. A lot has been written, or rather invented, about them in Moscow. For example, Zhuzhu, a French fashion model and lover of Savva Morozov, wanders from article to article. Allegedly, in 1905, on Kuznetsky Most, she heard a newspaper delivery man shouting the latest news: “Savva Morozov committed suicide!” Juju jumps out of the carriage like a bullet to buy a new license plate, and immediately falls under the wheels of a car. In the evening, the newspaperman is found in a gateway, strangled with a silk stocking.

Since then, the ghost of Juju has allegedly been wandering along the wealthy street in search of new victims.

The story is frankly fable - the Morozov researchers know nothing about a mistress with that name, much less about her death. The death of Savva himself was provoked by truly dark events. The heir to the richest merchant dynasty died in Nice, in a hotel room, from a gunshot wound, but under what exact circumstances is still not clear. Some believe that it really was suicide. According to another version, Savva was shot by the Black Hundreds because he financed the Bolsheviks. According to the third, the Bolsheviks did this because in recent years Savva changed his mind about financing them.

After the death of the merchant, his Gothic mansion on Spiridonovka went to his widow. But Zinaida could not live there. According to her, at night rustling sounds were heard from her late husband’s office, and his steps could be heard on the stairs. The house was sold. Nowadays there is a reception house in the Morozov mansion. Its inhabitants diplomatically do not complain about otherworldly activity.

Secrets of the "gingerbread" house

Another popular story refers to Igumnov’s house on Yakimanka. The owner of the Yaroslavl large manufactory built it for himself at the end of the 19th century. Legend has it that the people laughed at the merchant for the pretentiousness of the box house, and he took it out on the architect by suing him for embezzlement. He allegedly could not stand the shame and committed suicide, having previously cursed the residents of the mansion.

This story is highly dubious. The house was built by the famous architect Pozdeev in Yaroslavl, whose work researchers claim that he died a natural death after a long battle with tuberculosis.

Another legend says that Igumnov himself made the house cursed when he walled up his ballerina lover who had cheated on him in the wall.

Of course, there is no documentary evidence of this. The mansion now houses the French Embassy. His employees do not observe any “girls in white” in pseudo-Russian interiors.

But even without this, the history of the “gingerbread” house has plenty of dark pages. After the revolution, the mansion was nationalized and in the 1920s the only Institute for Blood Transfusion in Russia was opened there under the leadership. A physician, philosopher and Bolshevik, he believed that in order to rejuvenate one must as often as possible—no, not drink, but transfuse oneself with young blood. Which I myself practiced regularly. This was successful ten times. On the eleventh time, something went wrong, and the inventor himself became a victim of his method. After Bogdanov’s death, his rejuvenation transfusions will be branded as quackery, and Igumnov’s house will be given to other researchers. One of their first “clients,” ironically, will be Bogdanov himself—his brain, along with Lenin and Mayakovsky, will be sent under the microscopes of the Brain Research Institute.

To all saints in the middle of nowhere

And yet, the most terrible holiday is still considered Halloween, which, as you know, is celebrated on the eve of All Saints' Day. In Moscow, this phrase is also associated with devilry. In the Kitay-Gorod area there is an ancient, 17th-century Church of All Saints on Kulishki. If we remember the saying “to hell with the middle of nowhere,” it turns out that saints and evil spirits have the same address. The story here is this: forest clearings used to be called kulishki, or kulizhki. The devil could be found there, according to one version, because of their remoteness, and according to another, because in pagan times sacrifices were made in the clearings. Our church was also located on the outskirts: in the 17th century, on the site of Slavyanskaya Square there was a water meadow. Hence the name. A harmless play on words about the proximity of good and evil took on a new meaning in the 1930s. The church was taken over by the NKVD, and executions began to take place there.

This story is more psychological than mystical.
In one village two families lived next door. In both families, by that time the children had already grown up and moved away. The men, who were previously friends, did not share something, quarreled and stopped communicating with each other. The women supported the attitude.
In the fall, Ivan (one of the neighbors) suddenly died of a heart attack.
The coffin with the deceased was placed in the living room. As expected, they curtained the mirrors, removed sharp objects, and sent telegrams to relatives. And then the wife of the deceased needed to go to a neighboring village. She comes to her neighbor and, with tears in her eyes, asks for help: to feed the cattle and look after the house - they say, she’ll be back tomorrow for lunch. There is nowhere to go - we need to help.
Evening came, the neighbor was getting ready to go fulfill what she had promised, and her husband started to protest (he had already gotten drunk by this time) - like “if you don’t go, I forbid you.” But the woman went anyway, answering her husband that it would not be humane.
She has arrived. She put a pot of mixed feed on the stove to cook, but she herself, no, no, and looked at the coffin with a dead person - it’s creepy to be alone with a dead person. But the deceased lies still.
Well, the pigs are fed, you can go home. She locked the door. That's it, it's not scary anymore, but that wasn't the case.
I came home, and my husband locked all the bolts and fell into bed drunk. She walked around the house, knocked on the windows, but did not get through. If it were summer, then it would be possible to sit out the night on the rubble, but the puddles outside were frozen. It’s already quite late, and I don’t want to go home and wake up the neighbors. The street lights have already been turned off. It's completely dark.
I remembered the saying that you should be afraid of the living, not the dead, and decided to return to the house with the dead man. So I did. She came, turned on the lights in the rooms, looked at the late Ivan (lying quietly), moved the chairs in the kitchen and lay down on them. And then, according to the law of meanness, the electricity was turned off...
As she later said, she had never been so scared in her life. Darkness as far as one can see, a stranger’s house (where the candles or a flashlight are, it is unknown) and a pleasant neighborhood in the form of a dead person...
And then she hears the gate opening and someone entering the yard. Some screams, laughter, flickering light in the window, someone knocking on the glass. The woman happily rushed out of the house (the relatives of the deceased had arrived!), but the yard was empty, no one.
She doesn’t remember how she waited until morning. Soon she left her husband and was never able to forgive him for this nightmare.

The cemetery is a place shrouded in mystical secrets and mysteries. If you believe ancient myths and legends, often the souls of the dead continue to live in the cemetery, near their dead body. Do ghosts live in cemeteries? Do anomalous phenomena occur in such places? We will try to understand this section of our site.

They also say that houses cannot be built on former burial sites. By the way, not only magicians and paranormal experts, but also famous scientists think so. Negative energy and restless souls will not allow you to lead a calm life in such a place. Moreover, living on the territory of a former cemetery can lead to mental disorders and even death.

Scary stories about cemeteries, studying the most interesting burials, ghosts in cemeteries, the consequences of terrible occult and satanic rituals in such places and much more - you can find all this on the pages of our website.

Mystical stories from real life about a cemetery. One night in the cemetery

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