TRUE GHOST STORIES - He Visited His Own Grave
The Lonely Spirit in the Cemetary
* As told by Marcus
While working in Spain as an architect I would often unwind at night by playing my saxophone. However, the neighbours complained about my playing so I decided to go elsewhere to indulge my creativity. That’s how I ended up practicing in a nearby graveyard that night. I figured there’d be no one who’d complain.
The cemetery was well lit by soft sodium lights and I perched myself by a large gravestone and began to play. Occasionally people would pass by and nod and smile at me and I was pleased that some people appreciated my playing.
Then one night I noticed a young man sitting by a nearby headstone watching me and listening to me play. He was well-dressed and looked neat and smart. He seemed to be enjoying the music, but after a while he seemed to become agitated by something. I stopped playing. “Are you alright?” I asked him in Spanish, but he just turned his face away. I continued my playing while he walked off through a couple of rows of grave sites. He stopped at a headstone, then looked back at me and waved me over. I put down my saxophone and headed over to where he stood.
“What to do you want to show me?” I asked him, again in Spanish. He nodded at the headstone, but it was too dark for me to be able to read the inscription. The ground around the headstone was slightly higher than everywhere else, as though the burial has been quite recent. When I turned to mention it to the young man, he was gone. I spun around and looked in all directions, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Feeling a little spooked, I grabbed my saxophone and headed home for the night.
The following day I stopped by the cemetery and went to the headstone where I’d stood with the young man the night before. I wrote down the inscription on the tombstone and saw that it was the grave of a young man called ‘Paulo’ who had died two months ago according to the dates on the stone.
Later that day I showed the village grocer, who knew everyone in the village. I asked him if he knew who this young man was, and he nodded instantly. “Yes, yes,” he said, nodding his head in confirmation. “His mother and father live just up there,” he said, pointing to a brown house halfway up the hill.
I went to the house the following day and nervously knocked on the door. An older man answered and I held out the piece of paper with the inscription details on it.
“Are you related to this person?” I asked the man. He nodded yes, and asked me to come inside.
I explained that I’d seen this young man at a gravesite a few nights earlier, when I was playing my saxophone. The old man silently took a photo off the mantelpiece and passed it to me. “This is my son Paulo,” he said softly.
I stared at the photo and audibly gasped. It was the same young many who’d watched me play that night. I was certain of it.
“He was killed in a car accident two months ago ...” the man continued.
I looked up at the father and I knew that he knew that I’d seen the spirit of his son that night. We looked into one another’s eyes for an extended moment, then I said my condolences for his loss and thanked him for his time.
I left Spain many years ago now, but I often think back to that lonely young man hanging around his own grave site.
* As told by Marcus
TRUE STORIES - Ghosts, Angels and Spirits
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