Mysticism in the cemetery - real stories. Stories of the Dead

Life is boring, what to do?

Observing the purity of morals, the local authorities decided to remove the entrance benches and the adjacent domino tables in the courtyards! Too many have found free refuge on them.

The entire hungry city is scouring the courtyards in search of a saving shelter. Utility workers zealously carried out the orders of the authorities.

The centuries-old era of shops that had befriended the entire population of a city block was ended unceremoniously, with revolutionary haste.

Fortunately, there is no shortage of experience. We will build a new world! Instead of inquisitive and all-knowing old women-experts, peacefully knitting warm socks for their grandchildren for the harsh winter, headless stumps stood bashfully in the courtyards.

Certificate

Vitka Selivanov has lived in the third entrance for the last twenty years. For pensioners, everyone under sixty - Vitka, Lenka and Svetka. But in fact the man was over fifty

Klavdia Semyonovna, the same age, is just as lonely and sad in the small kitchen, paying her meager pension for the morning porridge on duty and frozen sprat for Murzik. In the evenings, lonely stumps surrounded youth beer parties. This is how the passengers of the sinking Titanic hurried to the rare life-saving ice floes.

Habit, as you know, is second nature. The youth were in no hurry to change their drinking place. In numerous eateries, drinking happens casually, without the proper courage, but near your home spot, which was once your favorite bench, you can frolic to your heart’s content.

Again, they will tell you home if you dare to slightly exceed the dose. Comfortable. If the dose increases significantly, they will take it to another place, to a churchyard. Again ours, from the “patch”.

The demoted deputies of the courtyard khural hurried past their hungry grandchildren on the tree stumps. There is no quorum of old ladies at all. The entire parliament in its entirety is on indefinite vacation in their own small-sized apartments.

Grandmothers are languishing from doing nothing and, once again, begin to count the new coffin stash. There should be enough for a modest funeral and a three-course memorial dinner for fifty mourners.

A respectful conversation with Murzik resulted in a sad monologue. There are no listeners. There is only one way - to the window, from which you can see the surviving benches at the picket fence of the first entrance.

Senile farsightedness, not bothered by cataracts, immediately highlighted the friends in misfortune, peacefully sitting on the far bench. There are at least two vacancies on the bench. We have to hurry. Applicants for the free space are completely bored at the windows.

Certificate

After the death of his wife, Selivanov started drinking. From a normal, intelligent man, he turned into a typical homeless person within six months

The happy owners of the surviving bench and with full right sit in places free from visitors, popularly explaining to visitors the essence of the newly introduced communal reforms.

The rest of the leisure time is devoted to the vile behavior of Marinka from the fifteenth, who paraded past amazed old women with a new imported gentleman of curly brunette color. The new admirer has no advantages.

The car is beautiful and the upholstery is rich and plush. And so the guy is completely useless, not at all remarkable for himself, even pimply. Such impudent behavior of the dissolute Marinka required additional investigation and long logical calculations.

In pre-reform times, before communal terror, a discussion about changing a Russian boyfriend to an Ethiopian would have lasted two full, talkative days.

The grandmother's former partner was treated with respect. Although not a particularly handsome man, he treated old women with respect, always bowed and inquired about their health by name.

There is no way to throw away a won bench. You can, of course, go to the city park with the whole court, but the long arms of the municipality have already reached there. Benches have been eliminated along the entire perimeter. That's why grannies don't go to the park and continue the conversation.

From the dissolute Marinka the conversation spread into the realms of mysticism. It was then that I happened to be nearby and overheard this story.

Death on two legs

Vitka Selivanov has lived in the third entrance for the last twenty years. For pensioners, everyone under sixty - Vitka, Lenka and Svetka. But in fact the man was over fifty.

He lived with his wife, they had no children and, apparently, no relatives either. They lived in seclusion and did not have much friendship with their neighbors. We always saw them together. We went to the store together, together in the evenings we walked along Cosmonauts Avenue, which is two hundred meters from the house.

A year ago his wife died. Quickly, in one day. Heart. She was buried in a new cemetery, which was far from the city and grew with incredible speed. In a city with a population of over a million, death is a frequent guest.

Certificate

He was buried in the same cemetery where his other half found peace. A few neighbors claimed that his grave was far from his wife’s grave, because over the course of a year and a half the cemetery had grown both in breadth and distance.

Life is an unfair thing

After the death of his wife, Selivanov started drinking. From a normal, intelligent man, he turned into a typical homeless person within six months.

He quit his job, didn’t pay rent, and was warned more than once about eviction. No one knew where he got the money for food, just as no one knew whether he ate at all.

Vitka lost a lot of weight, and it was absolutely clear to everyone who saw him that he wouldn’t last long.

Compassionate men who drank in the yard in the evenings and on weekends always poured a drink for Selivanov, for which he invariably politely thanked them. But he didn’t impose himself, didn’t wait for more to be poured, and modestly walked away. By evening he was always drunk.

On weekdays, weekends, and holidays in the evening he returned from his mysterious voyage around the city, barely able to stand on his feet. Sometimes he fell near the entrance, and then the neighbors helped him get to the apartment. Viktor Stepanovich Selivanov outlived his wife by a year and a half.

Him in the same cemetery where his other half found peace. The few neighbors who went to the cemetery later claimed that his grave was far from his wife’s grave, because over the course of a year and a half the cemetery had grown both in breadth and distance.

Creepy incidents in the cemetery

In the spring, as soon as the snow melted, Polina Sergeevna from the sixth apartment went to the cemetery. Her mother was buried there, and it was necessary to put the grave in order after the winter. After clearing away the trash and sticking a bouquet of artificial asters into the ground near the modest obelisk, she headed home.

The path lay past the grave of her neighbor Selivanova. Polina Sergeevna decided to go there. Imagine her amazement when, next to the grave of Irina Nikolaevna Selivanova, she saw the grave of Viktor Stepanovich Selivanova. On the very monument that she remembered when Vitka was buried, there was the same portrait of him, his name, surname and dates of life.

Certificate

There was no grave there; moreover, it was clear that the ground there was dense and the undertakers’ shovels did not touch it. The churchyard workers stood in bewilderment for a long time, then politely asked Polina Sergeevna not to tell anyone about this strange incident.

At first, the neighbor thought that relatives had come to the rescue, but then she remembered that there were no relatives at the funeral. Then she decided that the cunning employees of the cemetery administration had sold his grave, and he was reburied next to his wife.

But this option also seemed somehow unnatural to her. The location was not the best, especially in a lowland where water accumulated in the spring, and hardly anyone would have wanted to covet it.

Deciding to find out what was wrong, the woman went straight to the administration. It must be said that thieving officials are afraid of retired fighters for justice.

Pensioners have nothing to do, so they can easily devote all their time to searching for the truth. Moreover, there were many stories about the sale of places in the cemetery, everyone knew about them, and several leaders of local churchyards went to the camps to correct their mistakes.

But this time, as Polina Sergeevna says, the cemetery administration was no less surprised than she was. A small delegation of representatives of the cemetery management and staff immediately went with her. They checked the documents, then went to see Viktor Stepanovich.

To everyone’s amazement, there was no grave there; moreover, it was clear that the earth there was dense and the undertakers’ shovels did not touch it. The graveyard workers stood in bewilderment for a long time, then politely asked Polina Sergeevna not to tell anyone about this strange incident.

Of course, the interlocutors at the bench understood perfectly well that the request was supported by financial assistance to the elderly woman. Of course, the woman could keep this news to herself for no more than a week.

Certificate

By some unspoken agreement, they stopped discussing this news. The story turned out to be too incomprehensible, implausible and creepy

When she came to the cemetery for the second time, they showed her all the necessary documents for Selivanov’s grave and said that she was mistaken, and that Viktor Stepanovich was buried here from the very beginning, and if she doubts, then let her buy herself some tablets for sclerosis. They are, of course, expensive, so here's money for a year's supply of pills.

After her story, the entire community of retired women visited the cemetery. Everyone approached the graves of two people who had loved each other during their lifetime, stood and looked, then drove home, silent and thoughtful.

By some unspoken agreement, they stopped discussing this news. The story turned out to be too incomprehensible, implausible and creepy.

Moreover, new topics were not long in coming. Marinka from fifteen brought a new roommate.

The Grave Digger's Tale

In the 90s, when the Union collapsed, a bunch of research institutes were closed. The researchers scattered in all directions. Some joined the shuttle trade and began transporting consumer goods from China, others simply drank themselves to death, and others radically changed their work profile. My friend Oleg Petrovich Dementyev settled down in the cemetery. Digging graves. I must say, not the worst profession for that time. It was he who told me this strange mystical story. I just processed it literary. Here is his story. For many months, the small, quiet woman flinched at every call on the door of her apartment. Cautiously she asked: “Who’s there?” and waited with bated breath for a short answer: “Police!” And only then, opening the lock to the voice of a neighbor or friend, she could not come to her senses for a long time. I drank valerian and corvalol. But they helped little. It was especially difficult on sleepless nights. Memories came flooding back, and it seemed that her terrible secret would certainly be revealed. Then they will come for her. Tamara Petrovna committed her rare crime because of him, Sergei.

If suddenly trouble comes

Only now, fifteen years after her desperate act, did she finally calm down. It's too old. All that was left of him were heavy ones and even a bad heart. Tamara Petrovna had a chance to lose close people since childhood: in 1935, right before her eyes, two younger brothers died of hunger, then her parents died, and even later her husband. The only joy in her life was her children.

She devoted all her free time to her daughter and son, which, unfortunately, was always in short supply. A conductor is a traveling profession. Today - here, tomorrow - there.

When her daughter Svetlana got married and left with her husband, a young scientist, for Novosibirsk, Tamara Petrovna took it for granted: her daughter was a cut-off piece. And the youngest Seryozha, a cheerful fellow and guitarist, remained nearby. Her favorite, her support and hope in her coming old age. But everything turned out differently...

Sergei Volsky went to jail due to his youth and stupidity. The Sortirovochny microdistrict, which is located right next to the railway, is a restless, hectic place, there are often fights here in the evenings, drinking and injecting drugs.

The guy got into bad company and got into trouble. In a brutal fight with passing truckers, the big-faced guys almost kicked two half-asleep drivers to death, taking their money and belongings with them. Although Sergei did not participate in the fight, he was in the company of the pogromists, and so he was accused along with the “activists” for hooliganism and robbery.

The article is serious. First he served his sentence in a Nizhny Novgorod prison, then he was transferred to one of the colonies in the south of the region. According to Tamara Petrovna, he asked to go there himself. The mother was terribly worried. Apparently, with some sixth sense she guessed evil.

But after some time, Sergei sent a letter from the zone. He wrote that he was satisfied. He is about to be transferred for good behavior and conscientious work to the duty company. Then you can visit him often.

Tamara Petrovna calmed down and even rejoiced. She counted the days until the next letter. But the son was still silent. This . To disperse the melancholy, the mother was thinking about what gifts to buy for Seryozha in Moscow, imagining a warm meeting with her son after a long separation.

How to bring back a dead son...

Instead of the long-awaited envelope, inscribed in his native handwriting, the postman brought an urgent telegram. It reported that prisoner Volsky died suddenly.

Tamara Petrovna, blackened and lost, rushed to her friends. Thank you, they supported me, advised me to somehow pull myself together, and told the bad news to my relatives. Volskaya's sister and daughter Svetlana urgently flew to Nizhny Novgorod.

All together they went to this damned zone. Then Tamara Petrovna said: “If he hanged himself, I won’t come!”

For some reason, it seemed that the son had committed suicide without even thinking about his mother. Sergei Volsky was killed in his sleep with two blows to the head with a stool. During a short investigation, it turned out that his cellmates thought that he was an “informer” and had become a duty officer too quickly. For this Sergei paid with his life.

At the trial, eleven witnesses did not want to provide any details. Some “fell asleep”, some “forgot”. And the killer turned out to be a particularly dangerous criminal, a repeat offender. Eight years were added to his sentence for murder. But this did not make it any easier for the mother. You can't bring your son back.

Then she wanted only one thing: to bury Sergei in a cemetery in Nizhny Novgorod. The thought that her boy was buried somewhere like a vagabond without a clan, without a tribe was unbearable.

Other orphaned mothers are consoled, albeit a little, by caring for the grave. They talk to the photograph on the monument, plant flowers in the tomb, light funeral candles on religious holidays. She didn't even get that.

Instead of the long-awaited envelope, inscribed in his native handwriting, the postman brought an urgent telegram. It reported that prisoner Volsky died suddenly

But, despite all the requests, entreaties, demands to give her the remains of Sergei, the police officials answered: “It’s not allowed!” Some weakly referred to possible exhumation if the case went on for further investigation. But they clearly had no intention of following him up.

Desperate, Tamara Petrovna reached the highest ranks of the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Prosecutor's Office of the Russian Federation. At that time she was still working as a conductor on Moscow trains and, when she came to the capital, she went to receptions with big bosses several times. Some cursed, some promised to look into the matter. Meanwhile, six months have already passed.

Tamara Petrovna promised one colonel from the Ministry of Internal Affairs all her savings for decades of traveling around the country in rattling carriages. He said: “We’ll decide.”

And then an acquaintance turned up to her on the street. She listened to Tamara Petrovna's complaints, her story about the ordeal and advised Sergei... to steal. Otherwise, they say, you won’t get your problem resolved. Prisoners are never given a proper burial. Volskaya understood what she had to do.

Lord, give me strength and patience

“Lord, give me strength!” - Tamara Petrovna asked and on her day off she went to the caretaker of the cemetery at Sortirovka. He listened carefully to the woman, who had turned gray with grief.

You can help, but it will be expensive...

How many?

He named the amount.

Two times less than what she offered to the capital’s officials!

The woman took administrative leave from the Passenger Services Directorate and began preparing for the operation. After the death of her brother, the energetic daughter visited the zone again. There were people there who, for a certain fee, indicated the exact location of the burial. The daughter visited the outskirts of a rural churchyard.

On the unmarked grave, compassionate local old women laid out a brick cross. Leaving for Novosibirsk, Svetlana drew a diagram for Tamara Petrovna, on which she indicated the place where her brother lay. Now a piece of paper with a drawing is very useful.

Despite all the requests, entreaties, demands to give her the remains of Sergei, the police officials answered: “It’s not allowed!” Some weakly referred to possible exhumation if the case goes on for further investigation.

How to rebury a person...

The cemetery caretaker turned out to be a man of his word. At the appointed hour, Tamara Petrovna and four strapping men (among whom was my acquaintance) left the city in two cars.

It turned out that one of the drivers had once served in this zone, so he knew the way there well. Already after midnight they finally reached a small grove among the fields. Four highlighted simple fences, tacky plastic flowers, monuments, and not far from them, a red mound with a brick cross that had spread from the rains.

The mother's heart sank painfully, she frantically grabbed the pills. It took an unexpectedly long time to dig up the grave. Sticky clay stuck to the shovels. Tamara Petrovna volunteered to help. It was feared that they would not make it before dawn. The men sent her to the cars, away from them: “And if you feel bad, then what do you tell me to do?”

Finally, the spades clattered dully against the wood. All that was left to do now was to move the coffin into and fill the hole. But a hastily put together house that had lain in the ground for more than six months could fall apart. It was necessary to get it out by tying the boards. The ropes were prudently taken with them. Suddenly one of the conspirators felt ill.

And then it struck me: what if it wasn’t Sergei? – recalls Tamara Petrovna. - After all, prisoners, they say, are often placed in mass graves. I started asking the men: “I’ll give you another thousand rubles, just let’s see if he’s there or not.”

They hesitate and are afraid. And time flies. Then we see that the board at the coffin has come off and I immediately recognized my son’s face by the scar and dimple on his cheek and chin. At dawn they dug the hole and laid bricks so that no one would guess what was what.

And then some old woman appeared at the cemetery. Either she came to visit her family early in the morning, or for some other reason... My nerves rose again. What if he notices, guesses, reports? What then? But nothing good, because the matter is under jurisdiction. But the grandmother turned out to be somewhat blind; she couldn’t figure out what was what in the fog.

Sergei Volsky was reburied on the same day at the Sortirovka cemetery. Now Tamara Petrovna herself can’t believe that she decided to take such a desperate step.

But she simply could not do otherwise. If you couldn’t live together with your living son, then at least let him be there when he’s dead.

Sergei Volsky was reburied on the same day at the Sortirovka cemetery. Now Tamara Petrovna herself can’t believe that she decided to take such a desperate step.

Now cemetery guards often see this woman near a well-kept grave, on a bench next to the monument behind an iron fence. She has a long, leisurely and quiet conversation with her son about something.

Some of the rare visitors, looking at her, shake their heads and twirl their fingers at their temples, but the cemetery attendants know that the woman is completely normal, sensible and always gifts them with delicious homemade pies, sweets, and gives them money for vodka.

And most importantly, she found some kind of peace when visiting her “native hill”, there it always seems to her that her son’s soul is nearby, that he hears everything, that one day she too will be close to the closest soul in the world.

And she stopped being afraid of the police a long time ago. A mother's heart is truly omnipotent and fearless.

Supernatural: A Call from Beyond

It was on one of these visits that the same grave digger, my acquaintance Oleg Petrovich Dementyev, met her. This is how he remembers this meeting.

The woman was sitting on a bench near the grave, twirling a key in her hands and looking very pale. You feel bad? - I asked. “She looked at me with a strange look, then recognized me, smiled timidly and handed me the key.

What is this? - I asked in surprise.

I see it's from your apartment?

The woman nodded.

I found it under the bench.

And then she told how it happened:

I lost him a week ago. I searched everything in the house. There was no key. It's good that there was a spare one. But I decided to order another one. Although the money is small, it’s still a pity. You can't buy an extra carton of milk. In the evening I went to bed. I couldn’t sleep for a long time, I kept thinking about something, some minor worries were depressing me, then I dozed off. Woke up to a phone call. It was past midnight. For a long time I couldn’t figure out where I was or what the call was, then I picked up the phone. The voice was male and terribly familiar.

I stood and was silent, there were no thoughts in my head. There was no fear or surprise. Then again:

Who is this?

But I already knew who. It didn’t even occur to me that this could be someone’s evil prank.

Can you hear me?

I hear you, Seryozha...

You lost the key at my grave. It's under the bench. So don't order a new one. And one more thing... He hesitated, sighed, it was audible through the receiver, - thank you and goodbye.

Short beeps. I woke up when it was dawn outside the window, and the birds were already singing with all their might. The receiver was in my hand, and short beeps squeezed out tediously. I came here half an hour ago and now...

She handed me the key again. It was old, from English locks that slam shut when you leave the apartment. Nowadays they don't install them like that anymore.

I took it in my hands, turned it over, then handed it back to her. He kissed the gray hair that smelled of shampoo, turned and went to his thirtieth station. By 12.00 we had to dig another grave.

Now cemetery guards often see this woman near a well-kept grave, on a bench next to the monument behind an iron fence. She has a long, leisurely and quiet conversation with her son about something.

VIDEO: 7 mystical phenomena in the cemetery, captured on camera

A story from life.

I moved to another city and got a job. The job was the most “fun” - a night watchman at a cemetery. You won’t believe how many freaks come at night, dig up graves and take away everything more or less valuable. I resolutely stopped such attempts and I didn’t care where the bullet from the rifle hit - in the arm, leg, heart or head. I buried the dead robbers under a cliff on the eastern edge of the cemetery - it was always cold, gloomy, scary and eerie there.

But I will not further describe to you the delights of the life of a cemetery watchman, but will tell you about the events that happened on the night of July 11-12. Then the weather was calm, the wind was noisy, and the full moon shone in the sky, illuminating the surroundings with a silver light. I was sitting in the lodge, watching "Seventeen Moments of Spring" and quietly sipping cheap red wine, when a strange sound came from the street. Having become wary, I removed the rifle from its mounts, pulled the bolt and, quietly opening the door, went outside.

As I expected, three people were fussing over a lonely grave, located a little further from everyone else. Two of them skillfully waved shovels, the third was shining a flashlight at them. I was so angry that I became scared myself.

Why the hell are you desecrating a grave, bastards?!

A rifle shot broke the silence. However, none of the diggers even moved. It turned out that at the moment of the shot, one of them managed to turn the shovel over with the bayonet up and the bullet hit him, ricocheting into a tree. Three turned in my direction with such faces that I understood without words that they were going to kill.

There was no time to reload the rifle. I threw it aside and pulled out an army knife from the top of my boot. “I may not kill you,” I thought, “but I will certainly cut you badly.”
The two with shovels rushed towards me. I dodged a sharpened bayonet and slashed my attacker across the chest, but was immediately hit on the head with the flat of a shovel. My vision darkened and I sank to the ground. One digger grabbed me by the hair and threw my head back, the second, rubbing my chest - there was blood on his palm - picked up my knife and grinned.

Now you, bitch, will suffer, and then you will die like a mangy dog. - the blade rested directly on my trachea. And then I noticed HIM...

The three scumbags didn’t even understand who killed them. A black shadow darted, one of the trio squealed like a pig in a slaughterhouse - he was missing both arms up to the elbows - and immediately shut up, spraying the ground with blood from his stumps and a cut on his throat. The second one threw the knife on the ground and ran away, but he did not run far: at the very gate the shadow overtook him and the scoundrel fell to the ground next to his head, which had fallen off a second earlier. The third, having let go of me, was spinning around, panic was seething in his eyes, and when the creature appeared in front of him, there was a desperate, terrible cry of a man who did not want to die. Slowly turning around, I saw a dismembered corpse... and the one who was standing over it...

Black medium-length hair, pale skin, dark brown eyes, black trousers, black boots, black blouse, black leather coat - I didn’t like the man right away. A strange-looking dagger was clutched in his hand - there was no handle, the blade seemed to be growing out of his hand. And then, looking closer, I realized with a shudder that I was not mistaken - the blade was really looking out from his palm.

The stranger turned to me and his thin lips curled into a grin:

I had never run so fast in my life and only stopped near the station, catching my breath. Having weighed everything and thought it over, I decided to return home, but a surprise awaited me near the apartment: the words “WE'LL SEE YOU AGAIN” were carved on the front door.