The tombstone

A freezing cold punctured its way through the early cloudless morning sky. It promised to become a shining day whose beauty was already disturbed early by screaming flower salesmen, preparing their stands. Each year they battle to conquer the best possible places near the gates of the city cemetery. The same cemetery where I had lived since birth and whose view is each day again my first observation when I get up.
Today is a very special day, a day when everybody, specially those born Christian, brings honor to their beloved deceased. November the first is for many amongst us the ultimate opportunity to profile themselves as excellent human beings at the cost of a flowerpot only.
I intended to take some pictures today at the cemetery, accompanied by a friend. All kinds of pictures that is. Photo's of graves, of things, of people and situations that will be printed, after a severe selection, on shiny white pages accompanied by suitable remarks. As a seventeen years' young amateur-photographer, I was already for the third year very involved at the editorship of our monthly school paper.

The doorbell rang short and loud, signaling me to sip up the remains of my coffee, part of a late breakfast. Sprinting towards the front door, I grabbed my camera gear, briefly greeted my friend, grabbed his arm and dragged him along towards the main entrance of the City burial-ground.
People were crawling everywhere, most of them loaded with colorful flowerpots, garden tools and toddlers, on the narrow paths between the many graves. Especially the last resting places of the most recently deceased were a very occupied stage, so I immediately decided to photograph our first sphere images there.
Like two slippery eels, we moved our way through the mass, recording here and there a snapshot on pellicule. In the middle of the last finished row of graves, right next to an old solemn poplar, was an open space in the crowd just opposite a dark red colored tombstone, surrounded by two gray look-a-likes.
Slightly relieving ourselves, we took advantage of this breathing space and I began involuntary, nearly shameless, to read the deceased’s name. Near the end of his gold colored family name, my breath failed me. My heart pounded as mad and my legs felt like velvet. Could it be that here was buried a man which first name and surname were exactly the same as mine? I looked hastily for the date of birth and screamed out loud. My companion turned towards me and was just in time to catch me before falling to the ground. He looked at me, not understanding the situation, but I was unable to speak out a single word, only my arm was pointed out towards the gravestone. My friend began to read the epitaph what resulted seconds later in a slight hysteria.
Equal name, equal birth date and even the blurred portrait of the deceased resembled all my looks. The date of death was end of last week but still nobody could convince us differently about believing this was my own grave. We scraped all our courage and mental condition together in order to leave this doomed place at once. Suddenly I reminded that my camera was still hanging around my neck and I took just the time to photograph the stone.

At home, I immediately went to my bedroom and passed out. For days, I was confined to my bed, overpowered and seized with emotions regarding my sinister discovery. It took me a whole week to recover and finally carry my roll of film for development.
In the meantime, I could not resist returning to the graveyard. I arrived there around closing time and went straight to the lugubrious place of finding. I walked towards the old poplar, where I only could determine that the only remains left of my grave were a molded heap of sand, covered with all kinds of weeds.
That’s impossible!
I have seen clearly what was here before, we simply cannot have dreamed the same thing by the two of us. But I have proof, I took pictures and tomorrow I’ll have them in my possession.

The fear in collecting the pictures was enormously minor to the fierce emotions I felt when opening the portfolio. With trembling fingers, I browsed the photos. When reaching the second last one, my heart almost collapsed and I closed my eyes for a moment.
Holding the last picture in my hand, I carefully opened my eyes and stated promptly that the photo was clearly developed.
Between two gray colored graves, under the old poplar, lay a dark red colored grave .... with a gold coloured epitaph.


Copyright© 2004 by Voyager9940
All rights reserved

The first thought: Once I saw the girl on the bus that looked very similar to me. Unfortunately I was at the street and could not chaise the bus... but that was a very strong emotion, and i sa w her with my boyfriend then, we were very surprised. Isn't it interesting how genetics work to produce two similar looking people who could not be relatives?

Thanks for your wonderful story Voy! Looking forward to the next one.

Dear Sunnylady, you brought joy to my tombstone ....... ahum, well .... you know what I mean, right?! 😋😋😋

The purpose in the French lesson that day was to write a story around Halloween that was surrealistic. I came up with that cemetery idea because since birth, I lived opposite a cemetery for 25 years! Inspiration enough for scary things!!

Till next one!

Voy your story had me on the edge of my seat. I fell for it hook line and sinker!

TLP, you are such a great guy!!

Your comment made me smile so much!
This is the thrid short story that I uploaded here since I like to be complete as an artist so that includes writing for my as well.
Can you imagine I was just 16 years and two months young when I wrote this? AND in French (a language I dislike!)?

Till next one!

Merci Voy, mais, je suis une femme. Femme fatale haha. That was a decent piece of work for someone so young. Well done. This is a true story. I recently moved into a big victorian house by the sea. I haven't quite got used to the old house noises and I've been imagining allsorts. So I dreamed that I was in bed and was awoken during the night by noises just outside the bedroom door. A ghost walked in dressed in old fashioned policeman's uniform. I could see right through him. He leaned over me and quietly said that he's brought these people to see me. There behind him were 4 more ghosts. I woke up in a complete panic. I can see them all so clearly, maybe I will paint the scene one day. Thank you for the idea. I bet everyone here has a story just waiting to be painted.

Brrrr, TLP, girl! 🤭 Really thought you were a guy but no worries, I don't discriminate! 😊

Your story really intrigues me! I had a ghost experience once before (2015) and everybody knows I do not believe in such things until .... I had such an encounter myself! Luckely with a happy ending.

It would be GREAT to either paint this or put this into a story, like I did.

Thanks SO MUCH for visiting and appreciating, always a joy to see you in my comments!! 💖

Your story gave me chills, Voy. I enjoyed it very much. I've also had more than on experience with something not quite of this plane of existence. I truly believe there are ghosts out there.

Brrrr!!! I was glad to got rid of them!

So happy you liked my story! This was my third short story, I have four more left but rarely post them.