Ghost Story Misc

It was back in my childhood days, There was cemetry beside the bays. I haven't been there for years, What held me back was my fears.

It was a place drenched in darkness, And ghosts were really not my weakness. All those unhappy souls, Where in my mind waiting for meals. Rejected, deperssed, murdered and envious, The soul of the dead are mischevious. With curious eyes I used to peek inside, And among sepulchures searched for life. A victim of morbid imagination, My eyes were thirsty to see some action. A headless corpse searching for his head, Or a murdered witch drenched in blood. Outside I was an adventurer ready to battle any, But truth was I could not handle any. At a drop of a leaf my heart skips, A beat or two till I lose counts. Still I kept coming back to that place, Fear has such a terrible grace. With little or no friends you are done, For fear escalates when you are alone. In one of those days I met this lady, Whose stories I had heard from many. A lovely lady in twenties, Who had admirer's beyong borders. Tragedy had struck her early, And she had lost her lover by the bay. His boat was smashed by the waves, They say his skull broke into pieces. A joyful guy who was loved by all, Too bad he was not aware of his fall. A victim of a tragic accident, In this bayside cemetry he was layed to rest. A baby angel's statue guards his grave, It stands among sepuchures as a symbol of peace. Time has eroded the color and form, And angel's smile these days has an evil charm. The lady visited him everyday, Until she dissappeared one day. A search was made to find the lady, Then it shifted to finding a unclaimed body.

The story was later forgotten, The cemetry was in many ways neglected often. Stories of haunting began to spread, As usual about people whom they thought were dead. Popular stories had many versions, Some created by people over drinks. They spoke of seeing their uncles and aunts, Long dead,but among sepulchures do special appearances. Among the many stories that were told, A story of lovely lady used to turn me cold. Maybe because I have seen her face, Memories of her sad face had made me unease. In many cold nights when the village is asleep, They say she visits her lover's grave and weep. The angels' statue on her lover's grave, Has now marks of tears on his face. When people find it hard to stay in love, And think about their love as fragile . Her love for him has survived her death. And refused to be entagled in a dead body beneath.

Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. PHIL . 4:8

thanks for reading - kochikkaran