Whispers Among Stones

Eliana arrived at the cemetery at 10:47 p.m., officially late by her own standards and apparently centuries late by the standards of the dead. The gate screeched in protest as if it had been waiting all night just to yell at her.

Perfect.

Just like Grandma used to say: “If you’re late, you at least better be dramatic.”

The gravel crunched under Eliana’s boots, loud in the unnatural stillness. Fog hugged the tombstones like silent spectators. Shadows leaned, shifted, and stretched, distorting familiar shapes into grotesque forms. Eliana shivered, gripping her cleaning kit tightly. Each brush, cloth, and spray bottle in her bag was a talisman of normalcy, a small rebellion against the universe conspiring to remind her that her grandmother was gone.

At the heart of the cemetery, Chana Miriam Levinsky’s headstone rose like a sentinel: beloved. Fierce. A storm disguised as a woman.

Eliana knelt, brushing her fingers over the carved letters. “I’m sorry I’m late,” she whispered. “I tried yesterday… but grief is louder than your lectures.”

A gust of wind stirred the trees, rattling the branches against one another. A whisper slid through the leaves: Eliana…

Her stomach tightened. Nope. Not real. Not happening, she muttered, gripping the stone harder. The air grew colder, heavier, as if the night itself was pressing in on her. Fog bloomed around her knees, curling like fingers. She felt the gaze of the cemetery—not just the still monuments, but something alive behind the granite eyes.

And then she saw it: movement at the corner of her vision. A shadow flickered, too fast to track, twisting into shapes her mind struggled to comprehend.

“Eliana…”

Her head snapped around. Nothing. Only fog and gravestones.

The wind whispered again, colder this time. Eliana… come.

She stumbled backward, her kit tipping over. Brushes and bottles clattered across the ground.

Then came the faint, hollow laughter.

High, brittle, and impossible. Not human. Not alive. Not dead.

Eliana’s knees buckled. The fog thickened. Her chest felt tight. Reality was warping. She gasped—and then everything went black.

When she woke, her world had shifted

A flickering, translucent figure hovered over her.

“You fainted?” the apparition snapped.

Eliana’s heart seized. “Grandma? You’re… dead!”

“Yes.” Chana crossed her ghostly arms. “And apparently, you’re dramatic. Get up.”

Eliana scrambled backward. “Why are you haunting me?!”

“I’m not haunting you,” Chana said, offended. “You’re haunting yourself.”

“That… that makes zero sense!”

“Elianaleh,” Chana corrected, “you’ve never been good with metaphors.”

The fog twisted around them, forming shapes that were almost faces. Almost hands. Figures began emerging from the mist: long-dead townsfolk, distorted and eager, peering at her with hollow eyes.

“You inherited a gift,” Chana whispered. “You can see the dead.”

Eliana swallowed. “That’s… terrible.”

“Some people inherit bad knees,” Chana said. “You got ghosts. Be grateful.”

The figures floated closer. Voices rose, overlapping:

“EXCUSE ME, ARE YOU TAKING REQUESTS?”

“MY BAKERY WAS STOLEN IN 1932!”

“I NEED MY LEG!”

“I’VE BEEN WAITING 70 YEARS TO ASK YOU A QUESTION!”

Eliana screamed, bolting between stones. The ghosts surged behind her. Their movements were chaotic, but eerily graceful, as if they knew the limits of her fear.

The deeper horror

Her breaths came in short, panicked gasps. Whispers layered over one another, unintelligible yet pressing. She felt eyes crawling across her skin. Shapes darted just beyond vision—some grotesque, some familiar, like twisted versions of people she’d once known.

“Eliana,” Chana hissed. “Stop. You’re attracting more.”

Tears blurred her vision. “Grandma… I can’t. I just… I miss you. Everything hurts. I feel hollow. Nothing is real without you.”

Chana’s voice softened, her ghostly glow dimming. “Grief feels like drowning because it is love with nowhere to go.”

Eliana collapsed into her grandmother’s spectral embrace. Cold. Soft. Familiar. Real—somehow.

“I’m so alone,” she whispered.

“You’re not,” Chana murmured. “And you never will be.”

The fog thickened. Shadows stretched like black ink across the ground. One of the ghostly figures stepped forward, taller and darker than the rest, its form almost shifting into smoke.

“Because your heart is learning to carry both love and loss,” Chana said gently. “And because I taught you to survive storms.”

Light began pooling around Chana. Her voice was soft but unyielding: “Tonight is the last time I can come to you.”

Eliana froze. “No! Don’t leave me again!”

“I can’t,” Chana said. “But you can carry me in your blood, your bones, your gifts. You are ready.”

The tallest figure loomed behind her. A shadow that twisted unnaturally. A low, humming vibration filled the air, like the night itself was aware of her fear. Eliana could feel the pull of something ancient, older than the cemetery, older than her grandmother. Her chest tightened. Her hands shook.

“I… I love you,” she whispered.

“More than breath,” Chana replied.

Then she was gone.

The descent

The fog collapsed inward, leaving the cemetery empty—except for Eliana and the lingering echo of voices. Sobs wracked her body. She crumpled, mud staining her knees, grief clawing at her chest.

Shadows flitted, just at the edge of sight. The whispers had not ended. They were patient. Waiting. Testing.

Finally, she whispered, “I love you, too.”

A gentle breeze brushed her cheek. One last touch. One final goodbye.

The ghostly crowd began to stir, quieter this time. Softer. Less frantic.

“Sorry about your grandmother,” one said.

“She seemed… wonderful,” another added.

“Can you still help us?” a third asked.

Eliana wiped her face. “I… I think so. I don’t know how yet, but… I can try.”

“That’s enough,” a grandmotherly ghost said. “We’ll teach you.”

“I GET TO TEACH HER HOW TO HEX TAX COLLECTORS!” a mischievous spirit yelled.

“NO YOU DON’T, MORDECHAI!” the others shouted.

Eliana let out a cracked, exhausted laugh. Painful. Joyful. Real.

Maybe this was her inheritance.

Heavy. Chaotic. Sacred.

A power older than herself, older than grief, waiting to be understood.

She stood, trembling but steadying.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s start.”

The ghosts cheered.

Somewhere far beyond the veil, Chana smiled.