The Forgotten Cemetery

Lena had never been fond of her grandmother’s house. It was a creaky old thing, tucked away at the edge of a small, fog-covered town. The walls seemed to groan at night, and the air always felt too thick, like it was holding onto memories—memories that were never meant to be unearthed.

When her grandmother passed away, Lena had inherited the house, along with the promise of a life free from the heavy weight of family secrets. Or so she thought. The house, now hers to sort through, felt like a maze of forgotten time. Dust hung in the air like a mist, and the faint smell of lavender mixed with something darker—something she couldn’t name.

It was in the attic, while she was sorting through old boxes of yellowing photographs and knick-knacks, that Lena found the journal.

The leather cover was cracked, the pages fragile as if they'd been left untouched for decades. Her grandmother's handwriting, precise but hurried, filled the pages in a way that seemed almost desperate. Lena began reading:

"The cemetery is not as they say. The graves are not of the dead. Do not look for it, child. It calls to you. It calls to all of us."

The words seemed nonsensical at first, but the further she read, the more she was pulled in. Her grandmother detailed a hidden cemetery—one that wasn’t marked on any map. It wasn’t a place where people died, but where they disappeared. Family members, friends, neighbors—vanished without a trace. Each one taken to that forgotten place, and the journal hinted that Lena’s own ancestors were among them.

Her heart pounded in her chest as she turned the page.

"They took my mother in 1947. They took my sister in 1953. They took your uncle in 1961. They took your father last year."

Lena froze. Her father, missing for nearly a year. She had assumed he had run off, as he’d often done during his drunken rages. But now, something gnawed at her—something she couldn't ignore. He hadn’t just disappeared. He’d been taken.

"They will come for you, too, if you seek them. The cemetery calls when you are ready."

Lena dropped the journal, her mind spinning. She was shaking. Her father’s disappearance had never made sense, but this… this was too much. She ran downstairs, searching for the last place she remembered seeing him—an old map that hung in the living room, framed and faded with age. The map, though, seemed to be more than just a map. It was a guide. It led to the woods behind the house, to a spot marked only by an X, where no one dared venture.

Her heart raced as she grabbed her coat and ran out into the night, the cold air biting at her skin. The fog hung low, making the world feel distant, like a dream.

The woods behind her grandmother's house were dense, the trees towering over her like silent sentinels. The path was barely visible, and Lena had to push through thick underbrush, her hands scraping against the rough bark. As she went deeper, the fog thickened, and the air grew colder. It wasn’t just the chill that made her shiver—it was the feeling that something was watching her.

After what felt like hours, she stumbled upon it.

A stone archway stood at the entrance to a small clearing. The gate was covered in ivy, and the stone was chipped and weathered by time. But there was no mistaking it. This was the place. The forgotten cemetery.

Lena stepped through the archway, her breath catching in her throat. There were no headstones—no markers of any kind. Instead, there were only mounds of earth, each one neatly covered, as if freshly buried. And yet, the air felt wrong. Too still, too quiet. As if the very ground beneath her feet had swallowed the truth.

She reached out to touch one of the mounds, her fingers trembling. And then, she heard it.

A soft whisper, like the rustle of dry leaves. It echoed from deep within the cemetery.

"Lena..."

Her name.

She jerked her hand back, heart hammering in her chest. The voice sounded like her father. But how could it be? He was gone, lost to the world for nearly a year.

The ground beneath her trembled, and then, slowly, the earth began to shift. One of the mounds cracked open, the dirt sliding away like liquid. Out of the hole, a hand emerged—pale, thin, and covered in soil. The fingers twitched, then curled.

Lena stepped back, her breath catching in her throat as she realized what was happening. From the graves, figures began to rise. Silent, gaunt figures, their faces hidden by shadows, but their presence undeniable. They were not the dead. No. They were those who had vanished. Those who had been taken.

And they were looking for her.

A chill spread through her bones as she backed away, her legs unsteady. One of the figures took a step toward her, its face slowly becoming clear in the dim light. It was her father—his eyes wide, but vacant, his mouth open as if to speak, but no sound emerged. His skin was gray, his body thin, his clothes tattered.

Behind him, more figures emerged. Her uncle. Her sister. Her grandmother.

All of them staring at her, their eyes hollow and lost.

Lena stumbled backward, her mind screaming for her to run, but her feet refused to move. The figures surrounded her, their cold, lifeless hands reaching out, their eyes pleading, as if they were begging her to understand.

"You were meant to come," her father’s voice rasped from the depths of his chest, his words cracking like dry wood. "We were taken, but you can stop it. You can end it all."

Lena’s heart lurched as she realized the truth. The cemetery was not a resting place. It was a prison. A prison for those who had vanished from her family, bound to return when the time was right. And now, it was her turn. She wasn’t just meant to visit. She was meant to join them.

With every ounce of strength she had left, Lena turned and fled, pushing through the fog, the trees, the darkness. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t.

But she knew the truth now.

The cemetery wasn’t forgotten. It had simply been waiting. And it was never done claiming its own.