The Night I Spent in a Graveyard—And What I Saw

I had always been drawn to the unusual—abandoned buildings, forgotten alleyways, and places people were too afraid to explore. But nothing tempted me more than the local graveyard on the outskirts of our town. A massive, crumbling patch of land, overgrown with wild bushes, broken tombstones leaning like old men, and the kind of silence that echoed in your ears. It was said to be haunted, of course. Every town has one.

One night, driven by equal parts boredom and bravado, I decided to spend the night there. I told no one—just packed my flashlight, my phone (fully charged), a sleeping bag, and some snacks. I climbed over the rusted gate at around 11:50 p.m. and found a spot under a tree near the center. I wasn’t scared—yet.

For the first half hour, everything felt almost peaceful. A cool breeze whispered through the leaves. Distant dogs barked, and the occasional hoot of an owl reminded me that I was alive, and so was the world.

Then the wind stopped—abruptly, unnaturally. The air grew stale, and even the crickets silenced. That’s when I heard it.

A tap-tap-tap, like fingers drumming on a wooden box. I aimed my flashlight around, but nothing moved. Then came a sound that made my skin tighten—breathing, shallow and deliberate, right behind me.

I turned around with a jolt—no one.

I laughed nervously. “Your mind’s playing tricks,” I whispered to myself. I turned the flashlight off to conserve battery and sat still.

That’s when the atmosphere changed.

The air felt thick, like walking through water. My chest grew heavy. Suddenly, I noticed movement in the far corner of the graveyard—a dark figure, hunched, slowly walking between tombstones. Not gliding, not floating—walking, with a limp.

I switched on the flashlight—nothing.

But the sound of footsteps continued—slow, dragging, rhythmic. Then another sound joined it—a child crying. Not wailing—just soft, continuous sobbing. The sound came from a grave barely ten feet from me. I froze.

Then the ground near that grave shifted—like something was pushing up from beneath.

I could no longer breathe.

The sobbing stopped.

Then came the voice.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even angry. It was sad—desperately, hauntingly sad. I turned my flashlight in every direction. The shadows seemed to move on their own. I could feel them inching closer.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated violently. I looked at the screen—it was a video call.

No name. Just “UNKNOWN.”

I declined it instantly.

It rang again. Same “UNKNOWN.”

Foolishly, I picked it up. The screen showed nothing—just static. But in the background, I heard someone whispering my full name, repeatedly, slowly, like a chant.

I threw the phone and ran.

But the graveyard didn't end.

I ran for what felt like hours, but the same tombstones, the same tree, the same broken wall appeared again and again.

I screamed, “Let me out!”

From behind a nearby grave, I saw a hand rise—gray, thin, trembling. It pointed toward the gate.

I followed it.

The rusted gate was wide open, though I clearly remembered jumping over it.

I stepped out, and everything returned to normal—the breeze, the dogs, the distant sounds of life.

I walked home in complete silence, without ever looking back.

The next morning, I checked my phone. No call logs. No video call history.

But in my gallery, one new image.

A selfie—of me sleeping under the tree, in the graveyard.

Behind me in the image: the same hunched figure I had seen… now standing right beside me, its face just a blur of blackness.

I never went near a graveyard again. Not even in daylight.