Real Ghost Stories: True Tales Of The Supernatural From The UK (Real Ghost Stories: True Supernatural Tales) by Tina Vantyler

Author:Tina Vantyler
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2021-03-09T05:00:00+00:00

Goth, interrupted

For Grace, stopping by to chat to her sister was difficult enough without meeting a stranger there too…

It was a bright, frosty February morning and I was visiting Marty’s grave. The crocuses that had managed to push their way through ground as hard as the headstones around me were dotted through the grass, purple protectors of the dead.

My older sister, Marty, had died after a party three years ago when I was 15. She’d been a goth – “I’m drawn to darkness and I need dark things around me,” she would say when I’d beg her to shift her spooky skull paintings off the wall of the bedroom we shared.

I come here every few months, to chat, share my news and tell her how much I still miss her nicking my T-shirts, laughing at my choice of music, just being there as my big sister.

I always feel a heavy weight in my heart here, in this place. Walking to her plot, I found the fresh graves heartbreaking, especially the children’s. Newborn twins Clare and Adrian ‘went to sleep’ within hours of each other. ‘Beloved son’ John, ‘gone to Heaven’ at six years and four months.

Sighing, I was tucking a pot of yellow chrysanthemums into the holder by Marty’s headstone when I noticed a figure standing in the centre of a nearby grave and gasped. Fingerless gloves, messy dyed black hair tied away from her face with a red ribbon, black flared net skirt like a tutu from hell, Doc Martens boots.

Marty?

Hearing my exclamation, the girl turned towards me.

It wasn’t my sister. Of course it wasn’t.

Round, pallid face with plump cheeks. Thick black lines around her eyes. Despite the extreme cold, the girl’s legs were bare. Her face and exposed legs were as bleached of colour as the gravestone in front of her, but then, paleness was the goth trademark.

Should I go and say hello? She was young, like me, and probably hurting over someone she’d lost who was dear to her. Maybe she’d even known my sister! The goth community was a close-knit one, my sister had said, bound together by their shared experience of persecution, like witches.

The girl had deep, dark eyes, sad yet tinged with bitterness, and I couldn’t tear my own away from them. “It’s rude to stare,” I said to myself. “Stop it!” But I couldn’t look away. It was as though I was bewitched and she wasn’t allowing me to shift my gaze.

After a few moments, I realised the girl was perfectly still, hands hanging motionless by her sides, like a statue – or like one of the carved stone angels on some of the older graves.

The welcoming feeling I’d had for her faded as fear began to bubble up in my throat. Why was she glaring at me so hard? Those black eyes were boring into mine. There was something about her that wasn’t quite right. She really was very pale, even for a goth.

Panic washed over me. I had to get away.

With

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