Very scary stories about the cemetery. Stories of the Dead

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.

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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

This is a real story written from the words of a real person. However, my interlocutor asked to keep his name and some details secret. He is a medical worker, he went through two wars: the Patriotic and the Korean. We are sitting in a small, cozy living room, and he tells exciting, interesting stories, and he had many of them over the seventy-eight years of his life.

His sparkle in his eyes and oratory take us far, far back. However, now, telling this story, there was a stamp of sadness on his face, and a wave of pain splashed in his eyes.

“This happened just before the war. I had just received my diploma as a surgeon, and I was sent to work in the south - in the Kazakh steppes. He worked in a small regional center as a surgeon in the emergency room, but sometimes replaced a pathologist.

That hot summer day is deeply etched in my memory; there were many patients and I didn’t have a minute to rest. They sent an orderly to me with a request to stop the appointment and urgently begin an autopsy of the body of a man brought by his relatives on a cart; he was struck and killed by lightning. My colleagues examined him and pronounced him dead. The relatives were in a hurry; the journey home was long and far. One hundred kilometers in these places was not considered a great distance. Just at that moment I opened the boil and could not leave the patient. He replied that I could come over in a few minutes, asking my sister to apply a bandage. As soon as I headed towards the exit, I heard a quiet, female voice - “don’t go.” I turned around and looked around, there was no one in the office, the nurse was in the dressing room. Here they brought in a patient with an open hip fracture, and I began to provide emergency care. The orderly came for me again, but I was busy. When I finished providing assistance, again a woman’s voice very clearly said, “don’t go.” Then there was a patient with acute bleeding, and I was delayed.

An orderly came into the office and said that the head doctor was angry. I replied that I would be there soon. Having finished with the patient, and already approaching the door, I heard a woman’s voice again - “don’t go.” And I decided - I was stopped three times, I won’t go, and that’s it! I stayed in the office and resumed my appointment. The chief came - angry, beside himself: “Why don’t you follow my order?” To which I calmly say: “I have a lot of patients, but the therapist is sitting and not doing anything (I also got angry and was rude), let him go, he also went through this like me. The head doctor, furious, left after him.

Twenty minutes later the autopsy began. And a terrible thing happened: a colleague sawed open the chest and began to dissect the lungs, when suddenly the dead man jumped up and, spraying blood, began screaming and rushed at the doctor. A frightened colleague flew out of the anatomy room, covered in blood and with crazy eyes, ran into my office and shouted: “Faster, faster! He is alive!" I examined the patient and answered skeptically: “Who? Dead person? “Yes, he is alive, take the tool and save him.” I didn’t believe it, but I took the suitcase with the tools, talked to my sister and went after him. Having caught up with him, I saw that my colleague had turned completely gray.

A half-dead man was lying on the floor of the anatomy room. He was bleeding, it was too late to do anything, life was leaving him. A few minutes later he died for real. A colleague received a long sentence for premeditated murder. During the war he was released and died during the liberation of Warsaw. And to this day I don’t know who called me and stopped me and saved me from big trouble. Maybe a guardian angel, or maybe a premonition and intuition?..” He finished the story without touching the cooled tea. And I sat and thought about how thin the line between life and death is, how many mysterious and incomprehensible things are around.

This story about the cemetery may seem mystical and a little scary to you, but this story happened to me and I want to share it, it’s up to you to believe or not to believe in this story, but the story is very interesting.

A little about me: my name is Pavel and I have been working as a mechanic for 23 years and receive a good salary. I don’t have a wife or children either. After I finished 11th grade, I had a dream of becoming a director, making films and stuff like that. But apparently it didn’t work out for me with all this, you ask why? My parents divorced and I stayed with my mother, and after the divorce we didn’t even have enough money for food, so I had to go work at a factory. But still, I had my own dream of becoming a director. And in my city there were no places where one could learn this profession. Therefore, I decided to go to the city of Perm where my relatives lived and agreed to find me a good school. But I also had a mother whom I couldn’t just leave, so I promised her that I would help her. That's how I moved to the city of Perm.

The story itself: I moved to the city of Perm, I was traveling on a train that was moving very slowly. But still I got there in 6-7 hours. My relatives met me safely and I went to their home. The next day I woke up, they called me in for breakfast, fed me delicious porridge and gave me tea. But still, I asked them how things were going with school (where I was supposed to study to become a director)? They answered everything was fine, they found a suitable school for me, all I had to do was go there and discuss everything. I was very happy and thanked them. But they told me that in return I should go with them to the cemetery. I reluctantly agreed. We all got ready, left the house, got into the car and headed to the cemetery. I asked them a lot of questions about the cemetery, but they didn’t even say anything, as if they were going there for the first time and didn’t know anything about it. Well, we got to the cemetery and we parked the car. It seemed very strange to me that there was no one near the cemetery and no one was even selling flowers and all sorts of junk. We were walking along the road when out of nowhere some old woman appeared. She came up to us with a scary look and said, “I beg you, don’t go there.” Then she went to the exit. I was getting worse and worse. I couldn’t stand it and said, maybe we shouldn’t go there, but the old woman said not to go, why do we need all this? My relatives looked at me and said - if we don’t go with our dreams, we won’t help you get into school! I continued to follow them with a feeling of no similarity. We had already walked about 1-2 kilometers and I felt a pain in my head. We reached the grave we needed and I felt even worse. It seemed to me that the devil himself would come up to me and hit me on the head with all his might. We stood for about 5 minutes near the grave when suddenly I looked into the distance and saw the silhouette of a man, or rather an elderly woman, who was standing in my direction and looking at me. I shook my head, thinking this was nonsense, looked around and there was no one visible except my relatives. Relatives said that we could all go as ladies. I was happy and forgot about all these nightmares. We returned home, it was already evening, everyone had done their business and we all went to bed. And in a dream I dreamed of a situation where I saw that silhouette. I was looking at this silhouette when suddenly, blinking, the old woman we met at the cemetery appeared in front of the stove. I woke up looking scared, I didn’t believe in all this. But everything worked out, I still had these terrible dreams for about a week, but I continued to live. I entered the director's school and everything is fine with me. But still, I remember this story every day and even now I feel uneasy.

The cemetery is somewhere nearby

At the cemetery of the Donskoy Monastery

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

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.