The Creepypastas That Many May Love

From Me to You

I sat on a bench under an autumn-dried tree, where I usually spent my time after school. The cemetery was empty; no surprise. An occasional mourner dropped flowers-always some old person coming in to see a lost loved one-or a jogger taking a new route for change. Nobody goes to a cemetery because they want to, at least, nobody but me. It's not like a daughter or son would stop by to see a parent who's passed away.

It's those little things you notice after a while: who cares and how they show it.

I was reading a book to set the mood - Poe's ever atmospheric "The Pit and the Pendulum" to be specific. It always made sunny days turn to cold nights, with the aid of my parasol to cast a much needed shadow over me. The last thing I needed was a tan; the grey clouds too few in numbers to fend off the sun above. At least it was quiet, no noise from any cars since the only thing nearby was a small neighborhood straight out of Leave it to Beaver. Even though the cemetery was out of the way from my house, I'd rather be around a bunch of dead dudes than be bored to death in my room.

There's nobody to relate to in this backwater town, especially for a girl that wears all black and would prefer a flannel skirt with chains over tight jeggings. I always look at the other girls at school and knew for a fact that I didn't want to be like them. Loud, flirty, giggling at every little thing, trying to get a guy's attention; it's just not for me. But, what are friends for anyway? All they do is tell you what to do, what to wear, how to do your hair, talk behind your back, take up your time, and make you miserable.

Who needs them...

I was starting to sink into the story when someone walked by, the scuffling of their shoes on the cement path making me look up. It was a boy, cute as can be. I remembered seeing him at school before, maybe an 11th grader at the most; probably a track guy with the strong legs and slim size he had. He was looking at me right when my eyes got up to his and I tensed up, unwantedly, pretending like I was still reading. When the feeling of someone coming too close popped my bubble, I looked up again slowly, as if I didn't know who was there.

"Haven't I seen you somewhere before?" He asked.

I tried to find my place while talking. "I don't know. I haven't see you here before."

He pointed at the nearby gates at the end of the path, where the timeless suburb was. "I live right there, super close by. I never really cut through here since cemeteries give me the creeps." There was a short pause, but he didn't leave. "... What are you doing here, just reading?"

"I'm trying to."

"For what? School?"

"Nope."

"For... fun?"

Cross legged, I wiggled my foot - like when a cat wags their tail angrily. "Do you mind? I kind of go to a place with no people for a reason."

He held his hands up defensively, a thumb hanging onto the strap of his backpack. "Sorry, I was just being friendly. You like stories? I got a story for you. It's about this cemetery - you'll love it."

I gave in, flooded by his pestering. He was lucky he was cute, or else I would have ignored him in the first place. I didn't realize that was why I let him talk, not until later. I felt shallow, but it's not really anything new. I wasn't alone in that way of thinking. I'm sure any human being would rather sit down with someone they wanted to kiss than sit down with someone they wanted to kill.

He seemed pretty human to me.

I slammed the book shut, frowning at him, hoping it would intimidate him. "Go ahead. Impress me..."

He sat next to me without an invitation, chuckling as if he was impressed by his own story before he even told it. "It's an old legend that my dad told me, after we moved here a few years back. He told me to be careful when you put your hand on a grave, because if you do, it will stir up the soul of the person buried there."