Read scary stories from real life about a cemetery. Real Moscow stories about graves and curses are worse than fairy tales

My mother and I live with my grandmother, but we are building a house completely on the other side of the city. I'm 12 and have been living with my grandmother since birth. Her house is very close to the cemetery and school. When I bring my classmates to visit, they are horrified when they realize that our house is located opposite the cemetery. But I answer them with mockery. Like, what's so scary about that? I spent my whole life here and nothing happened... Looking at the cemetery I have no feeling of fear. I don’t look at a cemetery with the conclusion that the ground there is saturated with corpses. For me, this is just a place with crosses.. But for a long time, my grandmother told me that when passing by a cemetery you need to say hello to *spirits* Like, they look at you and wait, will you say hello to them? But I completely forgot about it..
One fine day.. My best friend Tanya and I agreed to go to the cinema in the evening, to the cartoon *Shrek 2* We are Shrek fans and didn’t refuse this) It was winter then.. The days were short and already at 8 pm it was getting terribly dark. It's like 12 o'clock at night. The movie ended, as we feared at 8. We lived nearby. But on different streets. There was not a large forest near the school. And behind this forest there was a street *Lesnaya* and my friend lived there.
When we got to school we split up. *we were separated by the damn forest* She’s going home, and I’m going home... On my own way. I walked quickly. Strangely, the lamp standing on our street did not turn on. But I didn’t attach any importance to this.
I was about 70-80 meters from the house when I heard slow footsteps behind me. I quickened my pace until I was almost running. Soon I heard the voice of an elderly grandmother. The voice was trembling, but in some places it was angry. Grandmother said that she could not find her mother’s grave. Buried in this very cemetery. I have already seen the burning light of a chandelier in the windows of my house. But my grandmother suddenly grabbed me by the hand and dragged me to the cemetery. I wanted to scream, but my voice seemed to have disappeared... Grandma was weak, so in the cemetery gates I grabbed the fence and didn’t let go. Grandma has disappeared...
I wiped the sweat of fear from my forehead and went home. Having reached very close to my house, I saw the silhouette of my grandmother at the gate. And she was waving her cane at the gate. Knocked. I felt terrified. I called my mother and told her to kick this grandmother out. Grandma either heard what I said and immediately disappeared.
Mom came out, there was no one there, only I stood scared at the gate. Mom asked what happened. Out of fear, not understanding what I was saying, I said that there was a grandmother there... Mom answered me that it seemed to me and did not believe me.
In the morning, it turned out that a grandmother came to everyone on our street and asked if they would help her find her mother’s grave. And upon hearing the answer, she disappeared, one might say evaporated into thin air.
A month later we moved to a new house. At the end of the city. A year later, they started burying people there and made another cemetery. Right opposite our house. It's a shame and disgusting. Now I am afraid of cemeteries, I do not advise you to walk near a cemetery in the dark. You never know...

I lived in a big city, but after the birth of my son, our family was forced to return to live in the village where I was from. The son had a severe allergy to city smog and further living in the city threatened him with death. All our relatives who lived in the village were very happy about our return and often gathered together to while away the long winter evenings. They chatted about different things, but after the “destroying” of several graves in the cemetery (drunk youth were having fun), the conversation more and more often began with incidents related to the cemetery . INCIDENT ONE

Someone got into the habit of stealing fences near the graves in the cemetery - my uncle began the story. Almost every night the fence from someone's grave disappeared. Apparently he was a strong man, he removed some of the fences along with the concrete pouring and took them away to God knows where. They decided that he was stealing and selling somewhere in other villages, but they could not catch him, even the police were on duty and did not notice anything. As soon as we set up an ambush, the fences are intact, just like there is no ambush, the next fence disappears. How could this vandal know when the ambush would happen? And, most importantly, there were no traces of the car anywhere, it was clearly carried away on his shoulders, but no one knows where. The service dog didn’t pick up the trail, just sniffed, then snorted and turned away. Rumors spread throughout the village that it was the unclean who was acting up and no one went on duty at the cemetery at night, they were afraid of the unclean. Our priest walked around the cemetery with a censer, read prayers, it still didn’t help. But then one day, those who lived closer to the cemetery heard a strong and terrible scream from the cemetery at night. So strong that even in the hut one could hear some kind of inhuman scream. Naturally, they were afraid to go there at night, but a whole horde went when the sun was high and saw that a man was kneeling near the grave of a recently buried local blacksmith. His head sticks out between the bars of the fence. and the bars around the neck are compressed. The blacksmith forged this fence for himself while he was still alive and said that they would put it on his grave. A beautiful fence forged with love, not a single welded seam. The blacksmith probably got angry and punished the thief, but it wasn’t the thief himself who stuck his head into the fence and even squeezed the bars around his neck. Since that time, theft from the cemetery has stopped. INCIDENT TWO

You’re right, Semyon (that’s my uncle’s name),” the next interlocutor continued the conversation. The dead can punish their offenders. My friend from a neighboring village was visiting me and talking about the death of a girl after graduation. There they had a school graduation and three graduating girls decided, rather than buy bouquets of beautiful flowers, to collect bouquets at the cemetery. Early in the morning we ran to the cemetery and picked up bouquets from one of the graves from yesterday's funeral. They came to school with these bouquets. The girls gave bouquets to the teachers, and Yana (that was the name of one of the girls) left one bouquet at home - she put the most beautiful one in a vase on the table, and gave the second one to the teacher. So two girls and three teachers who received a bouquet from the cemetery fell ill the next day and went to the hospital, and in the evening Yana moved the bouquet from the cemetery closer to her crib and went to bed. This morning I didn’t leave my bedroom. Mom came in, and her daughter was dead. She found herself strangled. All the relatives had an alibi for that night, no traces - the killer was not found. Doctors concluded that she died from a severe allergy to flowers. INCIDENT THIRD

Do you remember the incident the year before last, Aunt Klava spoke up. This is what we had. That case with Kirill, a local drunkard and rowdy. He also called himself a demon or a vampire, and people called him that and shunned him, none of the men wanted to be friends with him. He was healthy and when he drinks, he gets into a fight, and even bites - he screams, I’ll drink the blood from you. No one could rein him in or teach him a lesson. Guys, it used to be that about five people would get together and try to teach him a lesson. They’ll attack him, beat him, but he doesn’t seem to feel any pain, he’ll give the men black eyes under his eyes, and he’ll even break someone’s arm or leg. But the scythe hit a stone - the drunkard couldn’t handle the local moonshine, he got so drunk that he died, as people say - he was burned by vodka. Well, the whole village gathered as many as they could (the drunkard himself lived) and organized a funeral, people after all. They took the coffin to the cemetery, lowered it into the grave and the diggers began to bury it, everyone stood quietly, there was no one to cry, and suddenly a noise was heard from the grave, the diggers froze in their tracks. The coffin with the earth thrown over it began to go into the ground, down there. He dropped about three meters and stopped. They covered the grave with the remaining earth, and they also had to bring it, almost one and a half cars fit into the grave while they made a mound and put up a cross with an inscription. In the village they said for a long time that he might actually be a vampire and that he was striving to go to the kingdom of shadows with his own people, but no one knows what is really there. From time immemorial there have been no quarries or mines in this area. These are the terrible real stories I heard about the cemetery from my relatives. #horror stories

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 sits and is 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.

During my life, I have heard various real stories about the dead and the cemetery. I decided to tell mine too. This story happened to me in my youth. A strange man who showed up at night asked to correct the tombstone inscription

It all started with a visit to the large old city cemetery. No one has been buried there for many years. The abandoned necropolis struck me with some kind of solemn, albeit somewhat frightening, beauty. Many inscriptions were in Latin, others in pre-revolutionary Russian. Some were erased by merciless time... But from that moment on, I became deeply hooked on the topic of epitaphs and tombstones. And then an idea came. I talked to my supervisor at the institute.
- And what? Interesting topic! Go for it, Roman! - said the professor. - At first, let it be a coursework, and then we’ll see, maybe it will grow into a thesis!

There are several cemeteries in our city. I visited one of them almost every day after class to work with epitaphs. There was one thing I didn’t like: I had to get from the hostel across the whole city. One day I saw an advertisement that a watchman was needed for one of the cemeteries. And since there were holidays at that time, I decided to get a job: to improve my financial situation, and to continue working on my coursework. My partner San Sanych, a frail little man of about sixty who clearly liked to look into a glass, handed over the shift.

You, guy, the main thing is not to be afraid of anything! Don’t let anyone stranger into the guardhouse, if someone comes at night, God forbid! And the undead - they are mostly normal, quiet, and don’t roam around the alleys! - he chuckled.
- In the majority? Are there people who wander around? - it is impossible to understand whether he is joking or not.
- Anything can happen! I’m telling you: don’t open the door! Well, you can read the “Our Father”, if anything... Yes, I almost forgot: Andrei Nikolaevich, well, the one who worked before you did not take some of his things. Maybe he'll show up for them.

Grandfather drowned, and I took a camera and went to photograph interesting monuments and epitaphs on them.
I don’t like working with photos on the computer, so I ran to the nearest store that provided printing services. And in the evening I started looking. To save money, I took all the pictures on plain paper; some of the inscriptions turned out to be difficult to read. Soon he lay down on the trestle bed in the guardhouse and dozed off...

In my sleep I heard someone persistently knocking on the door. To be honest, I felt a little uneasy: I immediately remembered my partner’s words about uninvited guests at night. Looked out the window. In the light of the bright full moon I saw an elderly man of an intelligent appearance.
- Young man! Open, please! Don't be afraid, this is not a stranger, but a local!
I thought that this was probably the previous guard who had come to collect his things. Why he appeared in the middle of the night, I had no question. I opened it for him and let him in.

Come on in. Are you Andrey Nikolaevich? - asked the stranger.
- I? - he asked absentmindedly, did not give any intelligible answer and stepped towards the table on which my papers lay. And then he began to delve into them in the most brazen manner.
- What are you doing? - my indignation knew no bounds.
- I?! Looking for...
- Why are you rummaging through my papers? - I screamed. - The exit is there! Nobody invited you here!
- Me?! - the man seemed to mock me. - Found...

He picked up one of the photographs, the one on which he could not read the epitaph:
“Such pain cannot be expressed in words, it is all in my wounded heart. How cruelly fate dealt with us, not allowing us to remain on earth together. But in my longing loneliness, under the hot sun and when it rains, I remember about you, I love you! My most faithful husband! See you... Wait!”
The uninvited guest tiredly sank onto the trestle bed, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
- I beg you, remove this inscription on the monument! That husband was a very bad person and does not deserve such flattering words from the woman whom he betrayed all his life!
- What nonsense? How do you imagine that? Are you delusional, or what?

I turned away from the crazy man for a minute to add wood to the stove.
- Do me a favor! It hurts to realize that Maria suffers and continues to love this scoundrel! When you destroy the old inscription, make another one: “Wife, forgive my sins, for which I now suffer in hell.”
- How do you imagine that? There is a watchman in front of you, and it is not his responsibility to spoil the monument! Are you crazy? - he barked at him, turned to the guest, but there was no trace of him, as if he had never been.
The fact that this crazy guy did show up was evidenced by the scattered papers. I went to the door, but it turned out to be locked. “Hmm... How did the guy get out? It probably just slammed shut...” Soon he fell asleep again...

In the morning San Sanych came, I told him about the night incident.
- Ah-ah... Then the professor appeared again! - Grandfather was not surprised. - And Andrei, well, the previous watchman, survived from here. I started going every night! I’m not afraid of him, Ivan Antonovich is peaceful, I’ll say a prayer, and he’ll disappear!
- What kind of professor?
- So he’s buried in one of the alleys. His missus kept going to his grave and was overcome with grief! People said that this same dead man was still a reveler during his lifetime, he didn’t miss a single skirt, but Maria, well, his wife, I mean, knew nothing about it! She sent all well-wishers who intended to enlighten her to a well-known address. And recently, the children took the woman to live in another city. So, I think, maybe I should still respect Antonich and redo the inscription? Will he suddenly feel better?

“Another crazy one!” - flashed through my head. Before leaving, I decided to look at the professor’s grave. Imagine the surprise and fear when I recognized the night guest in the photograph on the monument...
I never went back to work as a night watchman!

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 in that figure and in 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 grandchild! 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. Here 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.