This is an automated archive made by the Lemmit Bot.
The original was posted on /r/ghoststories by /u/SlovakGhostHunter on 2025-11-02 17:48:01+00:00.
Title: I found a grave from 1333 with my own name carved under it. Now, something watches me every night.
It was supposed to be just a walk.
A stupid idea, really — going to the old cemetery behind our village at midnight.
The air smelled like wet soil. There was fog crawling across the grass. The gate was rusty, half-broken, but when I pushed it, it opened with a scream that echoed across the empty field.
I stepped inside. The moment I did, the gate closed behind me. I swear I didn’t touch it.
Graves everywhere. Some were tilted, others cracked open. My phone light cut through the fog, and then I saw it — a shadow standing still between the graves.
Tall. Too tall.
It didn’t move.
I whispered, “Hello?”
No answer.
Then my flashlight blinked out.
I heard breathing — right behind my ear.
When the light came back, the shadow was gone. But a few steps ahead stood an ancient tombstone, older than any other. The name carved into it was:
John
1333 – 1410
I don’t know why, but I knelt down to touch it.
The stone was cold, almost wet.
And then, for less than a second, the name changed.
Right under John, new letters carved themselves into the stone, glowing faintly in the fog:
**Michael 1994 – 2025
My name.
My birth year.
And this year.
I froze. My phone screen went black again.
A voice whispered inside my head, not through air but inside my skull:
“You came too soon.”
I ran. I don’t even remember how I made it home.
I spent the whole night searching the internet.
I typed “John 1333 – 1410 cemetery”, “old grave legend Europe ”, “ancient tomb John”.
Nothing. No results. No history.
Then I opened Messenger.
There was a local group chat — people from my town. I scrolled up and found this:
Peter: Did you see that thing at the cemetery?
Mark: Yeah… by the old grave.
Susanna: The one with the name John?
Peter: Exactly that one.
And under it… a message from a blank account.
No name. No profile photo. Just a black circle.
“Those who see me never forget me.”
My phone restarted by itself.
When it turned back on, the chat was gone.
Completely erased.
Three days later, I went back.
The grave of Ivan was gone.
Only a metal stake remained, stuck in the dirt.
One word was carved into it:
YOU SAW.
Behind me — footsteps.
Slow. Dragging.
I turned.
The same figure stood there, closer now.
Pale face, hollow eyes, mouth half-open as if it couldn’t breathe.
It lifted one arm and pointed at me.
“The grave waits.”
Since that night, my Messenger lights up at 00:33 a.m.
Every night.
A message from a blank account appears, then vanishes before I can open it:
“I’m still waiting.”
If anyone from Europe ver finds a grave marked John (1333 – 1410) —
don’t touch it. Don’t even read the name aloud.
Because if you do…
you’ll start hearing the breathing to