The Cold Ash

Three years ago, my friends and I were obsessed with capturing proof of the afterlife. We’d ditched the fancy gear for two battered camcorders and a voice recorder that had seen better days. The ringleader of our little group, a guy named Marcus, always had a new location in mind, but when we got there, he’d suddenly remember a prior engagement and stay in the car, engine running, doors locked. That left me, Liam, and our quiet tech wizard, Priya, to do the actual exploring.

We’d hit every abandoned warehouse and rumored haunted hotel on the South Island, but all we got were grainy footage and static. Desperate for results, we decided to go extreme: a late-night visit to the old Sandford Cemetery, a place that had been closed for decades, nestled near the industrial estate. Locals whispered about a caretaker who’d gone mad and buried a secret with him, but we were convinced it was just the perfect spot for a genuine encounter.

It was a humid night, the air thick with the smell of wet earth and exhaust fumes from the nearby motorway. We parked at the rusted gate, and as usual, Marcus claimed he needed to ‘stay with the equipment’ to monitor for any fluctuations from the car’s radio. So Priya, armed with a flashlight and the voice recorder, and me, with a camera, slipped under the chain-link fence. The cemetery stretched out before us, headstones tilting like rotten teeth in the moonlight.

We started down the main path, our footsteps crunching on the gravel. I lit a cigarette, trying to calm my nerves. We passed a massive mausoleum, its door slightly ajar, and I felt a chill despite the warm night. As I took a drag, I noticed the ash on my cigarette was glowing an unnatural orange, and I thought, ‘Better put this out before we go inside any close.’ I stepped off the path, knelt down to press the ember into the dirt, and as I did, I felt a sudden, biting cold envelop my hand. I looked down and saw my cigarette was extinguished, and the air around me was frosty. I shrugged it off as a freak temperature drop and rejoined Priya.

We recorded for what felt like hours, walking in circles, whispering ‘Is anyone here?’ into the recorder. Nothing. No shadows, no orbs, no strange sounds. Defeated, we headed back to the car. Marcus was asleep in the driver’s seat, and we woke him up with a knock on the window. As we settled in, I replayed the audio through the car’s speakers. We heard the usual hum of the trees, the faint distant traffic. Then, near the end, a sound that made all three of us freeze: heavy, labored breathing, close to the microphone, like someone or something was right there. Marcus’s eyes went wide, and he said, ‘That’s not any of us.’

We got home that night, exhausted. I tried to sleep, but that breathing echoed in my mind. The next day, I decided to go back alone, to see if I could find a logical explanation. I parked at the same spot, but this time, I didn’t even bring the camera. I just walked to where we had been standing when we recorded that breathing. The spot was near a large oak tree at the edge of the cemetery, and I noticed something I’d missed before: a small, unmarked grave, half-hidden under a pile of leaves. I knelt down and brushed away the debris, revealing a child’s name and date, worn but legible: ‘Elsie M. – 1967 – 1972.’

Suddenly, I felt that same cold at the back of my neck, and I heard a faint, raspy whisper, ‘You left her smoking…’ I spun around, but there was no one. My heart hammered. I looked back at the gravestone, and for a split second, I saw a small figure standing behind it, wreathed in a shimmer of cold air, a cigarette in its tiny hand. Then it was gone.

I tore out of that cemetery, and I haven’t been back since. My friends think I’m crazy, but I know what I saw. And now, every time I light a cigarette, I feel a bit of that cold, and I remember that I put out the wrong one that night. I think I became the thing she needed to quench her burning soul.