01 Feb Who Visits a Grave on Halloween? | Creepypasta
It’s Halloween on a Thursday and Bret and I are headed towards the Whitebear Cemetery with a case of a beer. It’s not that we’re out of school for the holiday; it’s more like we skipped. The reason we’re going to the Whitebear Cemetery is partly because it’s Halloween and we wanted to get in the mood, and partly because it’s an okay place to drink.
We turn off of Kimberlin Road and we’re on the road leading to the cemetery, a short fast drive past empty fields and an old radio tower. At the cemetery we roll around the twisted gravel roads and find a place to park under an evergreen tree. I know the skies are gray and it’s Halloween, but everything is far from scary. The gray skies make it gloomy. The cemetery reminds you of funerals, not zombies.
Bret gets out and pops the trunk where the ice chest sits. After a slog through our first hour, the first beer tastes like heaven. Bret wanders off, flicking the bottle with his wrist and into his mouth. I lean against the car and stare at fake flowers and dead grass. I need to hear coyotes howling and yipping, chains rattling, ravens calling, ghosts whispering, tortured souls screaming, anything to scare me out of this depressed mood.
After the first couple of beers go through me, I try not to piss on any graves.
Hey Ray, check this out.”
I look up and there’s Bret, he’s made a necklace out of fake plastic flowers. There’s a pink carnation behind his ear.
“Don’t do that,” I say.
“Why? Do you think I might disturb the dead? They’re fake flowers anyways. No one cares. You can take a sweat bath later.”
I throw my empty bottle over the chain link fence that surrounds the cemetery. It disappears into the trees. I grab another beer and don’t say anything. Then Bret asks me if I believe in ghosts.
I tell him no, but that I had seen one before. It was a little bit late and my sister and I were on Antioch road coming home. Out in the middle of the road we saw a lady or a girl; at 70 mph you can’t really tell. I figured she had to be a ghost since she stood out in the middle of the road, didn’t flinch or nothing. Either that or she was just some lady strung out on some wild stuff. Crackheads roamed the countryside like a disease, cooking meth in trailers, hanging ice chests full of ingredients from fenceposts for discreet pick ups.
Bret shrugs and gets another beer. Maybe he doesn’t believe me, but people seldom do. I know what I saw. I still believe that she was a ghost. He takes off his deathly lei and sets it by the nearest grave.
I open up my fourth beer and we drink without talking for a while. Bret wanders around looking at graves and I hope that he doesn’t fuck with anymore flowers.
“Hey check out this grave. It’s facing a different direction than all of the others.”
I walk to where he’s standing and sure enough there’s a small stone, cheaper and rougher looking then all the others, facing the opposite direction of all of the other headstones.
“Jeremiah Tilman, 1909-1939.” he says out loud.
“Oh yeah, I know about this one.” I give Bret the details on what I’d heard about this stone and the body laid to rest, tell him that it’s a black guy who had died and that his family wanted him buried here at the Whitebear. The community wouldn’t have anything to do with allowing a colored person being buried with all of the other dead white folks and refused to let him be laid to rest in the cemetery. I don’t know if there was a court case or what, but finally the community acquiesced and let ol’ Jeremiah be buried at Whitebear. But as a final spit in his dead, decomposing face, they buried him facing the wrong way.
Bret looks around and gets his bearings. “Hmm. I guess all the headstones are facing east.”
“It’s so the dead can greet Jesus when he comes back for his second coming. They will rise and up as he arrives from Jerusalem or whatever.”
Jeremiah Tilman, forever buried the wrong way, not worthy to meet his savior during the second coming on account of his skin color, or so some folks way back when would have you believe.
We take a few pulls from our bottles, trying to figure out how much longer we should stay out here, if we should skip the rest of the school day, talk about what we’re going to do tonight.
Then there’s a car moving down the road towards the cemetery. It’s a bulky maroon sedan, an old lady car. We know it’s the Whitebear that the car is headed for since the cemetery is the last thing on a dead end road. My first thought is that they’re going to catch us underage and drinking and playing hooky, and then my second though is that we’re at a cemetery being disrespectful as hell and they’re liable to get pissed. Nothing spooky crosses my mind at the moment.
“Damn,” Bret says.
“Move the car.”
We hop in and Bret heads to a grove of evergreens and a pile of red dirt that are nestled in the corner of the cemetery, at the bottom of a lightly sloping incline. And maybe it’s the beer, maybe it’s the frantic rushing around, maybe it’s a mixture of the two, but Bret nails a tree pretty good. He curses and I fall out of the car laughing. He gets out and assesses the damage silently, whispering obscenities.
We can see the car at the top of the incline and we stick to the background. The driver parks so that from our vantage point all we see is the top of their car. A car door opens, slams shut.
“Who comes and visits a grave on Halloween?” Bret asks.
“Two guys that are drinking some beer. I dunno, maybe their relative or whoever died on a Halloween.”
“Well I’m getting a closer look,” he says as he starts off towards the tombstones. He’s dodging and crawling like a soldier through the mud and he bangs a huge marble headstone with his shoulder. It doesn’t faze him thanks to that six-pack buzz. I follow. He’s crouched behind a big hunk of granite. The words, Henry Ferguson, Beloved Husband and Father are etched into it. I hunker beside him and we watch from about fifty yards away as an elderly lady in a blue pant suit stands in front of a headstone.
She’s wearing one of those plastic head scarves that protect her frozen old lady hair from moisture. Under the clear scarf you can see her badly dyed hair that’s supposed to be red, but looks orange. Out here in the gloomy gray air, her hair’s as bright as a torch. She leans forward and caresses the headstone slowly. Reaching into her purse, she pulls out a small ornate blue bottle.
“What the fuck?” Bret whispers in between heavy breaths.
My bladder, already about to burst from the beer, and compounded by the effect of the fear, is about to unleash itself. I have to concentrate real hard on keeping my urethra shut. All that beer in me, it’d be a real mess.
She tilts her flaming head back and lets out a noise like an animal that’s dying. A strangled noise that tapers off into a high pitched gag at the end, a sound that is no doubt playing on the loudspeakers in hell. Maybe it’s grief or something. People can make the most awful sounds at times. All that I know is that I don’t like it and then I become even more disturbed. She undoes the top of the vial that she’s holding and pours its contents over the earth surrounding the grave, sprinkling it like it’s a bottle of Italian dressing. I think that I can see steam or smoke rising from the ground. I look at Bret, his eyes wide with terror.
“That’s enough for me,” Bret says.
I have to agree and we both scoot back on our hands and knees towards his car. So far, we’re in the car without detection, but this can’t last for long, as there is only one exit. We can wait until she leaves and pray that she and the dead that she’s obviously resurrecting don’t find us. Or we can run like hell.
Bret starts the car. We’re running like hell. He digs up some tremendous ruts as he backs out and dirt and grass flies everywhere. There’s no way of getting out undetected now. The burial plot she is at sits in the middle of the cemetery, with gravel paths running along both sides. Bret, bastard that he is, speeds along the path with the passenger side window adjacent to the old lady and her evil vial. I have to look out the window as we drive by.
She turns her head slowly, following the car. She only looks slightly surprised. We make eye contact (which is weird since Bret has tinted windows and I’m pretty sure she can’t see my eyes) and I see the dark pits of her eyes, two big black seeds nestled in the craters of her sunken sockets. The whites of her eyes, they’re not there.
“Aw, shit man sees us. Go! Go!”
“No shit man?”
We hit the main road and its sweet smooth asphalt and floor it, breaking a few land speed records in the process.
Bret gives a triumphant laugh. “Man that shit was wild! What the hell was she doing out there?”
“I don’t know,” I say, coming down from all of the adrenaline and fear. Cotton mouth, heart fluttering, feeling a little safer.
“There were no whites of her eyes,” I say.
“What?””The white part—nothing, let’s go back to school.”
“We need to get some food, sober up. We can still make fifth hour after that.””That sobered me up enough as it is, but, yeah let’s go.”
I haven’t pissed the bed since I was six years old, but a week later I awake with my boxers damp and my legs irritated, the sheets drenched. Covered in urine and shame, I take a shower, wash my sheets. The bedwetting isn’t accompanied by a nightmare this time, but a week or so later it is.
The most vivid nightmare of my life occurs where I can’t distinguish it from reality. I’m sleeping in bed when I hear pounding on my window, pounding so fierce that it rattles the glass in the pane. I sit up and there she is, the lady from the cemetery. Her face is illuminated by her hair, which is on fire. A raging brush fire on her pale head. Her black eyes are slanted downwards and her mouth shaped in an “O”. She keeps pounding and begins to moan. I feel wetness in my bed, look down, blood. Her moaning grows louder and louder and correlates with my rising heartbeat. Before my heart beats out of my chest, I awake for the second time. Sweet reality, the only remnants from the dream is the wetness. Not blood, piss.
The bedwetting occurs with some degree of regularity, maybe twice or so a week. When it happens I feel embarrassed, shamed, even though no one knows that it is happening. I wash my sheets discretely when no one is home, my secret. The old lady never visits me in my dreams again, but each night I dread visiting my bed, fearful of another nightmare.
I do not know if Bret is experiencing any symptoms, if he is wetting the bed, if he gets depressed for no reason out of the blue, if he is having dreams, but he appears to be his normal self. He laughs. He talks. He still hangs out on the weekends. But then again, he wasn’t as unfortunate as I and didn’t get a look in to the ladies eyes. He didn’t get a full dose. I did and I sleep with a night light now. I don’t get out as much. I don’t have the spark.
It’s getting worse. I see her out of the corner of my eyes in the busy halls of the high school, hair as bright and eye catching as a clown’s rubber nose. When I turn to look she’s gone. It happens more often than I’d like—out in the courtyard she peeks out from behind an oak tree. A tattered rag doll face with black button eyes leers at me. She disappears in between blinks. On the drive home she’s there, standing out in the middle of an empty pasture as I drive past, waving.
Maybe it’s only going to get worse. Maybe the reason that she hasn’t been visiting me in dreams is because she has gone on to bigger, better things like visiting me in the waking world. Maybe I’m going crazy, moments away from hunching in a corner, mumbling and screaming and drooling.
The notebook ended there and so did the hallucinations,, the dreams, the bed wetting. I had broken down and told my parents that I thought I was depressed. They had noticed that there was a change in me, that I shut myself in my room most weekends. I saw a psychiatrist, told her about the bed wetting and depression symptoms, and came out with a prescription. I didn’t tell her about the old lady at the cemetery or the hallucinations. Everything slowly returned to normal and I had an uneventful senior year–prom and graduation and sports and parties.
Bret, he seemed as carefree as ever. We mentioned the event in passing a couple of times, usually after we had been drinking and in the manner of, “remember that time we were drinking at the cemetery and saw that crazy old bag?”
We graduated and went off to separate state colleges. He to the ag college out west and me to the preppier state university. I visited him a couple of times and nothing seemed amiss. Seemed to be enjoying himself out there and had more luck with the ladies than he had ever had back in high school.
My mom called me on a Tuesday evening with the news. Bret had been found dead in his dorm room, hanging from a noose that had been fashioned around a support beam in the ceiling. It had been ruled a suicide. He had done it over the weekend while his roommate was gone and his body had hung around for a couple of days before he was found.
It was a few days later when I got the package in the mail. It was postmarked on the 23rd, a Friday, the Friday before Bret’s fateful weekend. And it was from Bret, a thick manila envelope.
Dread filled my stomach as I set it on the table. I paced around for an hour before I got the nerve to open it. There was page after page after page. Drawings and scribblings and illegible handwriting. Her flaming orange hair depicted in orange crayon, the pits of her eyes scrawled deep black until there were holes worn into the paper. That gaping O of a mouth. Not everything was unreadable and much of it was repeated over and over again.
DO YOU STILL SEE HER, RAY?
SHE HAS STARTED TALKING TO ME. I HEAR HER ALL THE TIME NOW.
WILL I EVER BE NORMAL AGAIN?
DON’T USE YOUR MIRRORS.
THOSE GODDAM FUCKING EYES. EVERYONE HAS THEM NOW
My mouth was dry and my heart was pounding. Sweat drenched my forehead and back. I looked around the room, thumbed through the papers, looking for the clue that this was all a prank, a coincidence, that he had planned this thing long ago and then committed suicide for a separate, unrelated reason.
I came upon a phrase that I hadn’t seen before, in a sea of letters and illegible figures it jumps out at me:
DON’T LOOK OUT YOUR WINDOW RIGHT NOW. SHE IS WATCHING YOU AND THINKS YOU LOOK GOOD IN THAT BLUE SHIRT.
I looked down at what I was wearing, a navy polo. Across the room, the blinds fluttered, begging me to peek out of them.