Where the Dead Thread

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

When the person whom you loved most in this world had departed through the doors of death, traverse to another realm, beyond our grasp and imagination, what is one to do? To wept, to visit their graves and place of passing, in hope to glimpse them one more time. Should one be offered the chance to join their love one beyond the doors of mortality, will one take the fall and perish?

The freezing breeze rushed past, chilling the marrow of bones. The grisly black earth teemed with the scent of death.

The pitch-black sky loomed above like a black hole, ready to suck in everything in its path. The stems of dead trees crackled menacingly, and their lumpy branches waved like demonic fingers in the wind.

The ominous earth gave way to copious slabs of stone. Some of them were made from smooth, polished marbles. Others were not as ornamental, made from rugged, gray-ish black stone. However, they both of share a certain characteristic.

They contained ornately written inscriptions, death plagues, commemorating the information of their long dead owners. The inscriptions enlisted the tomb owner’s name, year of birth and death, and a brief description of them when they were still alive or what they were remembered for.

Multitudes of the plaques were already worn out by time. Rock brittles had chipped off, some engravings were so worn out that they were illegible, and mosses and vines grew up around the plaques.

As the tumultuous clouds parted, the silver lunar gradually lighted up the gloomy night sky. The lunar beam shone through the entirety of the area. Its light reached even the darkest cracks and crevices, and visibility became significantly clearer than before.

 The lone cemetery was not very large in size. It was surrounded on all four sides by black iron fences, with two polished metal gates marking the entrance and exit. To the eastern end of the area stood an Orthodox church.

Some of their mournful melodies escaped into the cemetery and lingered in the area, like a lullaby to the dead. On the northern and southern end of the cemetery is the villagers’ residential area. The time is late, all of the lights were off and the villagers fast asleep.

The only sounds in the area were the cold night wind blowing against the tiled brick roofs. Finally, to the west, was a wild patch of forest. Strident howls of wolves and other creatures echoed through the night, chilling anyone who heard it.

The pacific nature did not continue for long. The black metal gates clanged open with a creaky groan. A tall, black-clad figure strode hurriedly into the graveyard, his leather shoes scrunching the dried leaves upon the ground.

He usually walked with assertive steps, but the man was evidently not in control of his emotions today. He was a man in his mid-30s and wore a stylish black business suit. He had a strong face, with square jaws and a rough chin with stubbles.

Gleaming beneath a fringe of short black hair were eyes that gleamed like topaz and the deep blue sea. His destination was a grave in the center of the cemetery that was distinctive from the others.

The grave’s plaque was wrought from marble of the best grade, and its surface was richly polished. Upon reaching the grave, he stood there, staring at the plaque with a mixture of emotions: grief, confusion, and disbelieve.

The sight affected him gravely, his hands loosened, letting a rose bouquet and small ring box clattering onto the ground. Tears trickled down his cheeks as the man stood there silently in the lonely graveyard, weeping, never satiated…

In the midst of silence, the man muttered softly, to body resting beneath his feet or to himself, none could say,


“Ya lyublyu tebya, Anastasiya…” I love you, Anastasiya…


With his voice cracking with emotions, the man continued solemnly, “I was going to propose to you, did you know that? Despite the precautions and restraints of both our parents’, I was about to propose to you, when…” His voice faltered slightly at this point, “When it happened.” A single drop of tear rolled onto the dry, frosted earth of the cemetery.

“I was working when I heard of what had happened to you, and I just couldn’t believe my ears. Couldn’t believe what I had heard had been the truth.” His eyes were pale films of years, wet and glistening,

“The truth that you are no longer here struck me like an anvil, like a hammer driven right into my heart. I couldn’t stand, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even bring myself to come here at first.”

His voice was barely a rasp as he continued, “Ya proshu proshcheniya, Anastasiya” I am sorry, Anastasiya.

With a slump, the man fell onto is knees before the grave of the woman he loved most in his life, “I am sorry that I hadn’t been there for you, that I hadn’t hold your hand when it had happened, that I hadn’t visited you sooner, when I could have. I am so sorry…”

As if an omen of sort, or the response to a heartfelt prayer, the light from the only lamp in the cemetery flickered, then went out. Beneath the black lamppost stood the glimmering form of a woman clad entirely in white, her golden-blonde hair blowing freely in a non-existent breeze.

“Victor…” The spirit called out, her voice melodious yet shrilling to the ears. The man was entirely oblivious to the fact, as he gaped at the figure in shock and wonder.

“Anastasiya!” Victor gasped as he sprinted toward the glimmering spirit. Within seconds, his arm went around her and he could feel her again. The warmth of her body, the smell of sunlight in her hair, the feel of her tender hands brushing against his.

Then everything was gone in a flash, the ghost returning to its pale, shimmering form, and Victor thrown back with a force beyond the power of a frail woman.

“I miss you so much…” Victor sighed despondently, his tone filled with regret and longing.

“I miss you too, Victor. I couldn’t bear to leave you, and our love held my soul to this world.” The lady replied with her queer, melodic voice, her tone tinged with profound sorrow.

For hours, they talked, and the contents of both their hearts came tumbling out in great heaps and bounds. Finally, as the clock strikes twelve, Anastasiya gaze up at the cloudy night sky and sighed,

“I must be going, Victor. It is time…” Her face, as she turned back to Victor, was a mask of regret and sadness.

“I cannot bear to part with you, my love. My Anastasiya, even for one more time.” Victor replied sternly, his face set in grim determination.

With a shrill, inhuman laugh from the lady as a reply, she went sprinting through the cemetery, leaving Victor to run after her. They chased each other around the graveyard for what seemed like hours, their feet marking paths through the mounds of dry leaves.

As they sprinted around the stony death plagues, Anastasiya sang melodies upon melodies with her beautiful yet haunting voice, setting chills deep into Victor’s bones. One of the songs he remembered, the tragic and macabre Szomorú Vasárnap (Gloomy Sunday):


The heavy gusts of the previous night had sent some of the dry leaves into great heaps upon the cemetery’s frozen ground. The grave keeper hummed a mirthless tune as he set to work, clearing piles of leaves off the dusty, ragged tombstones.

His broom making contact with something hard and solid, the grave keeper brushed off the leaves cluttering over a tombstone, larger and noticeably more lavish than the others.

When he discovered what was underneath, the man gave a ragged scream, and made a run for the exit out of the cemetery.  

It was the body of a man in his mid-30s, clad in a business suit that is now dusty and stained. He had a strong face, with square jaws and a rough chin with stubbles. His eyes, once a brilliant topaz blue, was now glazed and cloudy like the surface of a muddy pond.

His stare was leadenly fixed ahead, as if gazing at something with a great intensity. His lips were frozen in the formation of a word, a promise…


Navsegda Forever


From the boughs of trees, came a voice like the shuffling of leaves, ghostly and silent,


We will be together, my love. Never to part. Never again. Forever… 

Submitted: October 31, 2016

© Copyright 2020 S. K. Inkslinger. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:


Oleg Roschin

What a beautifully atmospheric, poetic story! You can truly paint with your words. Attention to detail creates a uniquely melancholic atmosphere, pervasive sadness... Just one minor remark: the title should probably be "Where the Dead Tread", not "thread". Excellent work, keep it up!

Tue, June 6th, 2017 4:12am


Thank you so much for the comment, Oleg! I'm glad you found the atmosphere to be in a fitting mood with the story, that of sadness and grief of a lost loved one. Also thank you for the remark on the book title's spelling, I will get to changing it right away! You couldn't imagine how elated I am that my work had been commented on by such a famous and popular booksie author like you. Thank you! :D

Tue, June 6th, 2017 4:14am

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