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

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.

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Until now, I have twice successfully turned to the same whispering grandmother for help, who twice poured out my fear on wax. And both times were connected with my, presumably, dreams. And they took place in different dormitories.

1. My grandmother died that summer (oncology). Lately, our relationship with her has been so-so: she was very weak and was in pain, which is why my grandmother was nervous. Yes, she lived with her grandfather in our private parental home. The relationship between our family members was out of control. Hate from morning to evening. Therefore, I dreamed of getting away from them all as quickly as possible.

This story happened to my friend Tanya several years ago. In those years, she worked in a funeral home, taking orders and filling out documents, in general, doing the usual routine work. She carried out her work functions during the day, and other employees stayed at night. But one day, due to a colleague going on vacation, Tanya was offered two weeks to work on the night shift, and she agreed.

In the evening, having started her shift, Tanya checked all the documents and phone number, talked with the employees who were on duty in the basement, and sat down at her workplace. It got dark, my colleagues went to bed, and there were no calls from clients. Time passed as usual, Tanya was bored at her workplace, and only the cat, which had taken root at their work and was considered a collective cat, brightened up her life a little, and even she was sleeping at that moment.

I didn’t really believe in the stories about how the intercom rang and then someone broke into the apartment. But my aunt's story shook my disbelief.

My aunt, my father’s cousin Nadezhda, is a complete materialist. She does not believe in anything otherworldly; she believes that any phenomenon has a physical or chemical explanation. In general, she never entered into discussions of this kind, believing that to each his own. She is an economist, has a scientific degree, and taught at one of the universities. Now she is 65 years old, has no children, got married by chance (according to her own words) at 50 years old. Her husband, Mikhail, on the contrary, believes very much in supernatural forces, is interested in ufology, and in general he is an engineer and a jack of all trades.

This story happened with my mother’s childhood friend, let’s call her Lena. Here we should make a short digression in order to talk about the heroine of the story herself. Lena is a very simple woman, to say the least. She doesn’t read books, isn’t interested in science fiction and mysticism, most of her life she worked as an ordinary clerk in a bank, and no one would think of accusing her of lying or having a wild fantasy. For this reason, the story she told does not raise the slightest doubt; she simply could not invent it.

One fine day, Lena was sitting at home with her four-year-old son Sasha in their one-room apartment and doing housework. Leaving the boy, enthusiastically playing with cars in the room, Lena went into the kitchen to prepare dinner for her husband, and, as usual, got busy with business and did not look into the room for quite a long time.

I'll tell you a story that was told to me at the funeral of a relative. Women began to criticize the mullah woman among themselves, saying that she did not allow her to cry from her heart. And suddenly one of the relatives present in the conversation began hastily talking about tears, too, but rather strange ones.

From her words, her niece, who is a distant relative of us, died. I didn’t know her during my lifetime, a young girl, a medical student, very beautiful, committed suicide. Nothing accompanied this behavior, as she was very cheerful, successful and a favorite in the family. And the suicide itself left many questions that were never answered. She jumped from a high-rise building. This was the police version. Law enforcement agencies and parents found nothing but a farewell letter on social networks.

Dear readers of the site, this story will be about unusual dreams involving the dead. I understand that reading about dreams may not always be interesting, but, as you know, in a dream we connect, if I put it correctly, to the universal space and we need to be attentive to what the dead say or do to us in a dream.

To begin with, I’ll explain that I rarely dream about the dead. The only exception was my grandmother, who at one time I dreamed about quite often, for some reason always sad and dissatisfied, although she was not like that during her lifetime. But these dreams stopped long ago and it’s good. But some other relatives dreamed literally several times and significant events always occurred after that.

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...

All stories about the cemetery are told through the mouths of real people. If you are under 18, run away from this page. Because you will be terrified and afraid. Just 3 stories from life.

My grandmother, who is 82 years old, does not let me go to the churchyard alone.

Look, what a brave man you have found. A cemetery is a refuge for souls, some of which have not found rest. “They should go back to our world,” the old woman said terribly.

I'm Maxim, and my story about the cemetery associated with an uncovered mirror.

When my grandfather broke, or rather wrapped himself in a strong rope, I found him blue and scary.

I called my father, I remember shouting to the entire guardhouse.

“Oh, Lord, it was not in vain that he was frightening,” my father said sickeningly, ordering me (a 17-year-old tomboy) to curtain all the mirrors.

Fortunately, there were a lot of rags in the village house.

I left one mirror open.

They buried my grandfather in a cemetery, on the outskirts of the churchyard, without Orthodox or religious ceremonies.

The people were loud that they were now excommunicated from the Lord God.

I was terrified to go there, where there was still a strong noose.

Walking around the house with memories, I accidentally looked into the mirror, which I deliberately did not cover.

What is this, righteous God!

In it I saw the distorted grimace of my grandfather lying in the village cemetery.

Something dark and strong, probably a fallen spirit, forced me to visit him.

I didn't say anything to my father.

He came, sat down, and began to sob.

And in the cemetery, the wind on the grave is restless, as if someone is desperately rampaging from underground.

The grave cross shook and cold rain poured over me.

Not feeling my feet under me, I ran away from the cemetery.

It was then that my grandmother told me everything.

You can't go to church - it's a mortal sin. Why didn't you hide the mirror? Obviously not created by the mind! Now wait for him in your dreams, grandfather will come and you will wake up. His soul, already imprisoned in hell, cannot say goodbye to this world. You hid it in the mirrors. Pray, poor thing, otherwise it will be bad for you and your father,” said the grandmother, baptizing me at last.

I read “Our Father”, chattering my teeth at night.

Grandfather left hard, he could not resist the noose.

Only I still have dreams in which she gradually tightens around my own neck.

Another story about the cemetery worse than the previous one.

Basically, everyone there rests in peace.

But there are also those who wander forever in lamentation.

I often leave some water or cookies on my grandmother’s grave.

I remember her, look around, and then look - there is no treat.

Apparently I'm disturbing someone...

For the twelfth year now I have been visiting an old woman who died of hunger during the war.

My the story about the cemetery is some kind of devilry.

One day he came to visit his father, and on the grave, instead of “dead” flowers, ritual candles were stuck.

Black, red, yellow, seemingly recently extinguished.

Lying nearby is a devil, or rather a wax figurine of him.

I dug them up, howling with indignation, and there, in the depths, my hand was wounded by an ancient dagger.

What are these, bloody masses?

He scooped up the desecrating trash and threw it in the trash.

He ran up to the cemetery worker and told him everything.

And he just shakes his head, saying, sorry, brother, I’ll notice, I’ll kill you.

On Easter I went to my father again.

The same picture was presented to my eyes.

Only instead of a dagger I dug up chicken remains.

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