This story about the cemetery may seem mystical and a little scary to you, but this story happened to me and I want to share it, it’s up to you to believe or not to believe in this story, but the story is very interesting.
A little about me: my name is Pavel and I have been working as a mechanic for 23 years and receive a good salary. I don’t have a wife or children either. After I finished 11th grade, I had a dream of becoming a director, making films and stuff like that. But apparently it didn’t work out for me with all this, you ask why? My parents divorced and I stayed with my mother, and after the divorce we didn’t even have enough money for food, so I had to go work at a factory. But still, I had my own dream of becoming a director. And in my city there were no places where one could learn this profession. Therefore, I decided to go to the city of Perm where my relatives lived and agreed to find me a good school. But I also had a mother whom I couldn’t just leave, so I promised her that I would help her. That's how I moved to the city of Perm.
The story itself: I moved to the city of Perm, I was traveling on a train that was moving very slowly. But still I got there in 6-7 hours. My relatives met me safely and I went to their home. The next day I woke up, they called me in for breakfast, fed me delicious porridge and gave me tea. But still, I asked them how things were going with school (where I was supposed to study to become a director)? They answered everything was fine, they found a suitable school for me, all I had to do was go there and discuss everything. I was very happy and thanked them. But they told me that in return I should go with them to the cemetery. I reluctantly agreed. We all got ready, left the house, got into the car and headed to the cemetery. I asked them a lot of questions about the cemetery, but they didn’t even say anything, as if they were going there for the first time and didn’t know anything about it. Well, we got to the cemetery and we parked the car. It seemed very strange to me that there was no one near the cemetery and no one was even selling flowers and all sorts of junk. We were walking along the road when out of nowhere some old woman appeared. She came up to us with a scary look and said, “I beg you, don’t go there.” Then she went to the exit. I was getting worse and worse. I couldn’t stand it and said, maybe we shouldn’t go there, but the old woman said not to go, why do we need all this? My relatives looked at me and said - if we don’t go with our dreams, we won’t help you get into school! I continued to follow them with a feeling of no similarity. We had already walked about 1-2 kilometers and I felt a pain in my head. We reached the grave we needed and I felt even worse. It seemed to me that the devil himself would come up to me and hit me on the head with all his might. We stood for about 5 minutes near the grave when suddenly I looked into the distance and saw the silhouette of a man, or rather an elderly woman, who was standing in my direction and looking at me. I shook my head, thinking this was nonsense, looked around and there was no one visible except my relatives. Relatives said that we could all go as ladies. I was happy and forgot about all these nightmares. We returned home, it was already evening, everyone had done their business and we all went to bed. And in a dream I dreamed of a situation where I saw that silhouette. I was looking at this silhouette when suddenly, blinking, the old woman we met at the cemetery appeared in front of the stove. I woke up looking scared, I didn’t believe in all this. But everything worked out, I still had these terrible dreams for about a week, but I continued to live. I entered the director's school and everything is fine with me. But still, I remember this story every day and even now I feel uneasy.
The cemetery is somewhere nearby
At the cemetery of the Donskoy Monastery
Moscow, like any ancient city, stands on bones. And this is not an exaggeration. Walking through Moscow cemeteries, it is easy to notice that there are only a few pre-revolutionary graves, not to mention those from the 19th century. Pagan mounds and burial places of monks, plague cemeteries and rural churchyards - all of them are now under public gardens and cinemas, bridges and high-rise buildings.
Cemeteries in Moscow are dug up more often than treasures. And, as it turns out, our ancestors did not always bury their dead. In the Kitay-Gorod area in the 1920s, three stone coffins were discovered during excavations. From each of them there was a ventilation pipe leading to the surface.
It is obvious that people were buried there alive.
Did the boyar take revenge on his enemies? How long did the unfortunate people suffer? This is unknown to history.
In the 1970s, in the Sivtseva Vrazhka area, a medieval burial consisting of only skulls was discovered. Scientists suggest that these were disgraced boyars executed by Ivan the Terrible. For their souls, the king provided not only intravital, but also posthumous torment, since the burial was undignified.
There were also more romantic discoveries. In the 1930s, while exploring the basements of Averky Kirillov’s chambers on Bersenevskaya Embankment, archaeologists found the skeleton of a girl with a perfectly preserved long braid. When the hair was touched, it crumbled into dust. Was the girl sitting in prison, waiting for the handsome prince? Another mystery.
The road from the grave
Sometimes Moscow cemeteries get a second life. In the late 1930s, many granite tombstones were used to line embankments. If the waters of the Moscow River were more transparent, we would be able to read through their thickness the ancient epitaphs: “To the dearest spouse and parent from the mourning spouse and children,” “To the dear seller from grateful customers.”
And on Novaya Basmannaya, until recently, an attentive observer could notice a curbstone with snatches of phrases: “..difficult...”, “.. we are proud...”, “... it will come...”. This is a tombstone from the destroyed cemetery at the Church of Saints Peter and Paul. In Soviet times, the streets were paved with gravestones - there was no point in wasting it. Last spring, the tombstone was taken away in an unknown direction, and an ordinary one was laid on the sidewalk.
Pushkin pushed from the other world
In such conditions, it seems that there is no need to call the spirits - they will come on their own. Nevertheless, in the old days Muscovites did this with pleasure. The story that happened in the middle of the 19th century with Pavel Nashchokin became a textbook story. A graduate of the Tsarskoye Selo Lyceum and Pushkin’s closest friend, already in adulthood, he set up a spiritualist salon in his house on Vorotnikovsky Lane (where, among others, Vladimir Dal visited, whose membership in the Academy of Sciences apparently did not interfere with his belief in spirits).
Pushkin had already died in a duel by that time, and Nashchokin summoned his spirit with the help of a saucer, thread and needle. The poet willingly came, dictated poems, and once even promised to appear before his friends in the flesh. On the agreed night, Nashchokin and the company did not sleep a wink, but they did not wait for the otherworldly guest. In the morning the owner of the house went to church. On the way, he met some drunk man in a sheepskin coat. He pushed him on the shoulder.
House in Vorotnikovsky Lane, where the famous philanthropist Pavel Nashchokin, a friend of Pushkin, lived
Nashchokin raised his head and, to his horror, recognized his deceased friend in the passerby.
After this, Pavel Voinovich no longer remembered the spiritualistic seances, and burned Pushkin’s afterlife legacy. The Nashchokinsky house has been preserved; now there is a gallery there. There is a sign on the façade: “Pushkin was here.” During life, of course.
Curse of the Yusupovs
If you believe the legends, Muscovites were not good-natured at all and periodically cursed each other. Only the lazy do not know the story about the Ostankino grandmother, who supposedly has been coming to the inhabitants of this area for many centuries and cursing them for building houses in an ancient cemetery.
And if the existence of the hunchback is a big question, then the following story really makes you think. In Kharitonyevsky Lane, in the depths of a neglected garden, stands a gloomy, luxuriously decorated palace. This is the Yusupovs' house. Family legend says that the founder of the richest family in the country, a descendant of the Nogai khans, Abdul-Murza, converted from Islam to Orthodoxy in the 17th century and was cursed for apostasy. In a dream, a certain menacing voice allegedly told him that from now on, in every generation, all children, except one, would die before the age of 26. And what’s most amazing is that for three centuries this “club of 25-year-olds” really existed. The last pre-revolutionary scion of this family was Felix Yusupov, one of the most mysterious characters of that time. “Vicious cherub”, “fallen angel” - that’s what they called him for his combination of physical beauty and mental depravity. He went down in history as the killer of Rasputin. His only brother Nikolai had died in a duel several years earlier. He was 26 years old.
The Ghost of Savva Morozov
But let's get back to ghosts. A lot has been written, or rather invented, about them in Moscow. For example, Zhuzhu, a French fashion model and lover of Savva Morozov, wanders from article to article. Allegedly, in 1905, on Kuznetsky Most, she heard a newspaper delivery man shouting the latest news: “Savva Morozov committed suicide!” Juju jumps out of the carriage like a bullet to buy a new license plate, and immediately falls under the wheels of a car. In the evening, the newspaperman is found in a gateway, strangled with a silk stocking.
Since then, the ghost of Juju has allegedly been wandering along the wealthy street in search of new victims.
The story is frankly fable - the Morozov researchers know nothing about a mistress with that name, much less about her death. The death of Savva himself was provoked by truly dark events. The heir to the richest merchant dynasty died in Nice, in a hotel room, from a gunshot wound, but under what exact circumstances is still not clear. Some believe that it really was suicide. According to another version, Savva was shot by the Black Hundreds because he financed the Bolsheviks. According to the third, the Bolsheviks did this because in recent years Savva changed his mind about financing them.
After the death of the merchant, his Gothic mansion on Spiridonovka went to his widow. But Zinaida could not live there. According to her, at night rustling sounds were heard from her late husband’s office, and his steps could be heard on the stairs. The house was sold. Now in the Morozov mansion there is a reception house for the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Its inhabitants diplomatically do not complain about otherworldly activity.
Secrets of the "gingerbread" house
Another popular story refers to Igumnov’s house on Yakimanka. The owner of the Yaroslavl large manufactory built it for himself at the end of the 19th century. Legend has it that the people laughed at the merchant for the pretentiousness of the box house, and he took it out on the architect by suing him for embezzlement. He allegedly could not stand the shame and committed suicide, having previously cursed the residents of the mansion.
This story is highly dubious. The house was built by the famous architect Pozdeev in Yaroslavl, whose work researchers claim that he died a natural death after a long battle with tuberculosis.
Another legend says that Igumnov himself made the house cursed when he walled up his ballerina lover who had cheated on him in the wall.
Of course, there is no documentary evidence of this. The mansion now houses the French Embassy. His employees do not observe any “girls in white” in pseudo-Russian interiors.
But even without this, the history of the “gingerbread” house has plenty of dark pages. After the revolution, the mansion was nationalized and in the 1920s, the only Blood Transfusion Institute in Russia was opened there under the leadership of Alexander Bogdanov. A physician, philosopher and Bolshevik, he believed that in order to rejuvenate one must as often as possible—no, not drink, but transfuse oneself with young blood. Which I myself practiced regularly. This was successful ten times. On the eleventh time, something went wrong, and the inventor himself became a victim of his method. After Bogdanov’s death, his rejuvenation transfusions will be branded as quackery, and Igumnov’s house will be given to other researchers. One of their first “clients,” ironically, will be Bogdanov himself—his brain, along with Lenin and Mayakovsky, will be sent under the microscopes of the Brain Research Institute.
To all saints in the middle of nowhere
And yet, the most terrible holiday is still considered Halloween, which, as you know, is celebrated on the eve of All Saints' Day. In Moscow, this phrase is also associated with devilry. In the Kitay-Gorod area there is an ancient, 17th-century Church of All Saints on Kulishki. If we remember the saying “to hell with the middle of nowhere,” it turns out that saints and evil spirits have the same address. The story here is this: forest clearings used to be called kulishki, or kulizhki. The devil could be found there, according to one version, because of their remoteness, and according to another, because in pagan times sacrifices were made in the clearings. Our church was also located on the outskirts: in the 17th century, on the site of Slavyanskaya Square there was a water meadow. Hence the name. A harmless play on words about the proximity of good and evil took on a new meaning in the 1930s. The church was taken over by the NKVD, and executions began to take place there.
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.
Real cases and stories
Road through the cemetery
For many years I have been haunted by an incident that happened to me in my distant youth. I was sixteen years old or something like that at the time.
“Granddaughter” - a mysterious story
My aunt worked as a cook in a children's camp, and she took me with her on one of the camp shifts. I was seven years old then. Almost all the children were older than me and played with each other, but I was completely alone.
Out of incredible boredom, I began to explore the surroundings of our camp. One day I went into the forest through a hole in the fence and began to go down the hill to the river bank. Suddenly a cemetery appeared ahead. Since it was daytime, I wasn’t scared at all.
I entered the cemetery and began to slowly walk along the widest path. Near one grave I noticed two people - an old woman and an old man, small, very quiet and, as usual, gray-haired. The old lady waved her hand at me, and I came closer to them.
The old woman dug into her purse and pulled out two dolls made of thread - white and red. She handed them to me with the words, maybe I want to be their granddaughter. The old man nodded his head and smiled. Very frightened, I rushed back without touching the dolls.
Seven years later, I was already fourteen. One night I dreamed about these old men. They were exactly as they were then. They smiled at me in my sleep and asked how I was doing. The old lady again offered me dolls. And at that moment I woke up.
Another seven years later, when I was already twenty-one, I got married. A week before the celebration, I was sorting through things, wondering what to take to my new home. There was an old coat hanging on the hanger that I hadn’t worn for a long time. Deciding to throw it away, she reached into her pocket to check that there was nothing there and pulled out those same dolls.
The next morning, getting on the bus, I went to the same cemetery where I had been fourteen years ago. I got to the old children's camp, which had not been open for a long time and was very abandoned. I began to go down to the cemetery along a familiar path.
And now I was already on the path, I found the grave quickly, it was noticeable that no one was looking after it.
I pulled out the weeds and dry grass and scattered the branches. I buried the dolls near the grave and asked for forgiveness in a whisper. From then on, I never dreamed of old men and never saw them anywhere. I guess they're already dead too. And when I finally celebrated my twenty-eighth birthday, nothing special happened in my life.
Source
Curse of the Child
In the village where I usually come every weekend, a neighbor who lived across the street killed his six-month-old daughter. He and his wife were caught in a cemetery while they were burying a child. I myself did not delve into the details and was not even surprised when I learned about the murder. The girl's father is a drug addict, and her mother was a prostitute. I would have forgotten about this story if not for its consequences. Two weeks after the girl, the old woman died.
She had a seizure right in the garden. And after some time, a girl Katya from our village died. Then I decided to go home out of harm’s way. When I returned about two weeks later, I was horrified to see the road all covered with fir branches, this is how we see off the dead. My grandmother told me that after I left, a widespread pestilence began in the village. I panicked, called my friend Christina and we began to make a list of all the dead. There were about fifteen people on the list. Having written down all the dates and causes of death, it turned out that there was not a single natural death. Then we remembered that it all started after the murder of the baby.
We decided to find her grave. First we went to the main cemetery. Walk five kilometers through fields, a highway and a forest. The only thing they found was an artificial skull. Then we went to the cemetery near the church, but we didn’t find anything there either. Out of fatigue, I assumed that perhaps the girl was buried right in the garden. Christina immediately suggested checking it out at night. We silently made our way onto the territory of the house and began to explore the garden. Having found an unusual mound, we took out small shovels and began to dig. There was a package there, and looking inside, we found the body of a child. I could barely restrain myself from screaming. When I calmed down, I was overcome by a feeling of enormous guilt.
We all knew what kind of family it was and heard the children's screams, but no one intervened. Then I realized that we really deserved all these deaths. We apologized to the girl for about half an hour. When we buried it back and left the garden, I finally burst into tears.
I blamed myself, I understood the feelings and pain of the unfortunate soul. Everyone thought that my nerves were shaken, but having realized everything, I quickly returned to my normal state. Deaths in the villages stopped after our trip to the garden, and life went on as usual. Apparently, the spirit of a girl cast a curse on the residents of our village.
Since then, when I remember this sad story, tears naturally well up in my eyes.
Source
"The Watchman" - a mysterious story
This story happened when I was thirteen years old, three years ago. On my street there was one long-abandoned two-story building, and no one knew what was in it before.
And as long as I can remember, this building has always been abandoned. The most curious thing was that all the furniture and things inside were untouched. And we took advantage of this fact, went to this house very often and even took books from the library at our own risk.
Our story happened around mid-September, we had just entered the eighth grade. Even then, a new boy was transferred to our class, and he had a very pliable character. The boy's name was Gosha, and everyone mocked him.
Back at the end of July, at night we periodically noticed on the second floor of this building some dark figure with something glowing in his hands. The figure always followed the same path, moving along a long corridor.
Then we thought it was a watchman, and this spurred our curiosity even more. One day we took Gosha with us. We stopped in front of the building to look around a little, because we had to get in without any of the adults noticing us. We got into the building unnoticed by anyone. And then one of the guys came up with the idea of locking Gosha up to laugh at him. When he found himself in the corridor on the second floor, the guys closed the door and propped him up with a bedside table that came to hand.
Gosha begged to be released, but we just laughed.
The guy standing guard said that the watchman was walking along the second floor again. We prepared to listen to Gosha make excuses to the watchman. And then there was a squeal. It was Gosha. He squealed, then began to wheeze and began to hit the door with such force that chips flew off the door. A gap began to form there.
Gosha was already crying silently and, sticking his head out into the crack, tore out the boards with his last strength. We started to pull Gosha out, but when we saw him, we recoiled. His hair stood on end, his eyes were wide with horror, simply indescribable fear splashed in them. And half the hair on his head simply turned grey. He scattered us to the sides and flew out of the house screaming. The next day Gosha did not come to school.
Later we found out that he was taken to a psychologist.
After that he spoke very poorly and stuttered. A week later his mother took him and they moved out of our city. This is what happened to us. We did not go to this house again, since it was clear to everyone that this was not a watchman, but something terrible.
Source
Took care of my own grave
In old Simbirsk (now Ulyanovsk), in the Kindyakovskaya Grove, there once stood a strange-looking gazebo, similar to a pagan temple - a round dome, columns around and urns on four massive pillars. Local residents had many beliefs and legends associated with this gazebo. It was often said that treasure was hidden underneath, and many even tried to break down the strong stone floor. The treasure was not found. But the true history of this gazebo was told in the 1860s by a very old man, who was once the owner of this land, Lev Vasilyevich Kindyakov. In his youth, he served under Paul I. He did not remember the exact date of construction of the gazebo.
The story took place in 1835.
In the evening, he called his colleagues to his estate to play cards. They played until late in the evening. After midnight, a footman entered the room and reported that some old woman had approached the house from the garden and demanded to call the owner. Kindyakov reluctantly left the table and went down to the uninvited guest.
She said that she was Emilia Kindyakova, his relative, buried under a gazebo in the garden, and reported that at eleven o’clock in the evening two unknown people disturbed her ashes and took off her gold cross and wedding ring. After this, the old woman quickly left. Lev Vasilyevich thought that he had gone a little crazy, and as if nothing had happened, he returned to the table, ordering him to give himself cold water to wash himself.
But the next morning the watchmen came and said that the floor in the gazebo was broken, and some kind of skeleton lay nearby. Kindyakov was frightened and indignant. He had to believe in his vision from yesterday. In addition, he became convinced that the footmen also talked to the lady and heard what she said. He turned to the police, to Colonel Orlovsky. He began an investigation and soon detained two criminals. They said that they wanted to find the treasure, but found only this cross and a ring, which they pawned in the first tavern they came across.
As for Emilia Kindyakova, she lived in the middle of the 18th century and was a Lutheran by religion. She was one of the first owners of the village of Kindyakovka, Simbirsk province, which later turned into one of the remote parts of the city and was a favorite place for folk festivals. After her death, a picturesque gazebo was built over her grave.
Until now, I have twice successfully turned to the same whispering grandmother for help, who twice poured out my fear on wax. And both times were connected with my, presumably, dreams. And they took place in different dormitories.
1. My grandmother died that summer (oncology). Recently, our relationship with her was so-so: she was very weak, and she was tormented by pain, which is why my grandmother was nervous. Yes, she lived with her grandfather in our private parental home. The relationship between our family members was out of control. Hate from morning to evening. Therefore, I dreamed of getting away from them all as quickly as possible.
This story happened to my friend Tanya several years ago. In those years, she worked in a funeral home, taking orders and filling out documents, in general, doing the usual routine work. She carried out her work functions during the day, and other employees stayed at night. But one day, due to a colleague going on vacation, Tanya was offered two weeks to work on the night shift, and she agreed.
In the evening, having started her shift, Tanya checked all the documents and phone number, talked with the employees who were on duty in the basement, and sat down at her workplace. It got dark, my colleagues went to bed, and there were no calls from clients. Time passed as usual, Tanya was bored at her workplace, and only the cat, which had taken root at their work and was considered a collective cat, brightened up her life a little, and even she was sleeping at that moment.
I didn’t really believe in the stories about how the intercom rang and then someone broke into the apartment. But my aunt's story shook my disbelief.
My aunt, my father’s cousin Nadezhda, is a complete materialist. She does not believe in anything otherworldly; she believes that any phenomenon has a physical or chemical explanation. In general, she never entered into discussions of this kind, believing that to each his own. She is an economist, has a scientific degree, and taught at one of the universities. Now she is 65 years old, has no children, got married by chance (according to her own words) at 50 years old. Her husband, Mikhail, on the contrary, believes very much in supernatural forces, is interested in ufology, and in general he is an engineer and a jack of all trades.
This story happened with my mother’s childhood friend, let’s call her Lena. Here we should make a short digression in order to talk about the heroine of the story herself. Lena is a very simple woman, to say the least. She doesn’t read books, isn’t interested in science fiction and mysticism, most of her life she worked as an ordinary clerk in a bank, and no one would think of accusing her of lying or having a wild fantasy. For this reason, the story she told does not raise the slightest doubt; she simply could not invent it.
One fine day, Lena was sitting at home with her four-year-old son Sasha in their one-room apartment and doing housework. Leaving the boy, enthusiastically playing with cars in the room, Lena went to the kitchen to prepare dinner for her husband, and, as usual, got busy with business and did not look into the room for quite a long time.
I'll tell you a story that was told to me at the funeral of a relative. Women began to criticize the mullah woman among themselves, saying that she did not allow her to cry from her heart. And suddenly one of the relatives present in the conversation began hastily talking about tears, too, but rather strange ones.
From her words, her niece, who is a distant relative of us, died. I didn’t know her during my lifetime, a young girl, a medical student, very beautiful, committed suicide. Nothing accompanied this behavior, as she was very cheerful, successful and a favorite in the family. And the suicide itself left many questions that were never answered. She jumped from a high-rise building. This was the police version. Law enforcement agencies and parents found nothing but a farewell letter on social networks.
Dear readers of the site, this story will be about unusual dreams involving the dead. I understand that reading about dreams may not always be interesting, but, as you know, in a dream we connect, if I put it correctly, to the universal space and we need to be attentive to what the dead say or do to us in a dream.
It all started when I returned from the store one weekend morning. Mom stared at me as if she saw all the aliens descending to earth at once.
- How did you end up here? – she asked a question that seemed strange even to me, immediately running away from the threshold into the room.
When I entered there, she frightenedly pointed to a chair. There was a pillowcase that one of our relatives gave us for New Year.
