The Stone Visitor

In the autumn of 2012, my hometown was a brittle patchwork of dry leaves and low-hanging branches. I was in the tenth grade at Millbrook High, a squat building of brick and fluorescent light that sat across from St. Agnes Church and its whitewashed steeple. To the left, a cul-de-sac of identical houses, and to the right, the sprawling municipal burial ground called Hilltop Rest. That year, I had a friend, a girl named Sarah, who was close with a classmate that despised me for reasons I never understood. Her name was Emily, and she wore her hair in a tight, severe bun, as if pulling it back held in a scream. Emily never spoke to me, but her glare followed me through the hallways.

One Tuesday afternoon, with the sky the color of old dishwater, Sarah and I decided to ditch. We had no real plan, just the urge to shake the school’s stale air. Sarah was reckless in a way that made me feel brave. We slipped out the side exit and crossed the street, heading toward the wrought-iron gates of Hilltop Rest. The cemetery was our usual haunt; it was quiet, and no one bothered us. As we walked along the gravel path, Sarah told me that Emily’s mother had died when Emily was only eight. She was buried there, at the far back left corner, near a small thicket of oaks. Sarah asked if I wanted to see the grave. I shrugged, ‘Sure, we’ve got time.’

We entered through the main gate, which creaked like a hungry jaw. The headstones were old, some tilted, some draped in moss. Leaves scuttled across the paths. Sarah led the way, her steps precise, as if she’d walked it a hundred times. But as we went deeper, the air grew heavier, the light dimmer, even though it was only three in the afternoon. At last we reached a corner where the graves were older, some dating back to the 1800s. Sarah stopped before a flat, weathered stone. The name was nearly worn away: ‘Margaret H.’ and a date, 2004.

I knelt down to read it, and that’s when I felt it—a pressure, like a hand pressing on the back of my neck. I looked up, and there was a figure standing at the edge of the thicket, maybe thirty feet away. It was a tall, thin woman in a long dark dress, her face pale, her hair hanging straight. She was just standing there, motionless, staring at me. I nudged Sarah. ‘Who’s that?’ She squinted. ‘I don’t see anyone.’ But she was there. I blinked, and she was gone.

Sarah shrugged it off. ‘Probably a mourner.’ We started to walk back, but I kept glancing over my shoulder. As we passed a marble angel, I saw the figure again, now closer, behind a large oak. She was pointing at the ground. My stomach churned. ‘Let’s go,’ I said, quickening my pace. Sarah protested, ‘We’re not done yet.’ But I grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the main path. Behind us, a sound like leaves crunching, but when I turned, there was nothing.

We reached the gate and stepped onto the sidewalk. The sun had broken through, warm on my skin. I looked back at the cemetery, and the figure was there, just inside the gate, her lips moving silently. I couldn’t hear her, but I read the shape of the words: ‘He’s waiting.’ I didn’t tell Sarah. She was already pulling out her phone to check the time.

That night, I had a dream. I was back at that grave, and the stone was different—the name was mine. I woke with a jolt, my face cold. For weeks, I avoided Hilltop Rest, and I stopped hanging out with Sarah. Emily still glared at me, but I never knew why. It wasn’t until years later, when I was cleaning out my grandmother’s attic, that I found an old newspaper clipping. It was about a man who had been murdered in our town in 2002, a groundskeeper at the cemetery. His name was Henry, and his body had been found near that same corner. The article mentioned his wife, Margaret, who died two years later of grief. The last line read: ‘She was buried beside him, but some say her spirit still roams, looking for her husband.’ I never went back. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I still see her standing there, pointing at the earth, as if to say I would be next.