When I was young, my parents rented a cabin in the woods. We went there on weekends to spend time in nature. My brothers and I loved exploring.
There was a dirt road that passed in front of the cabin and at the end of the road there was a small cemetery. It was surrounded by a wrought iron fence with spikes on the top.
The door was locked with a rusty chain and padlock, but we managed to separate the bars and sneak into them.
The gravestones were very old and worn. On one of the graves, there was a smooth black stone. It looked like onyx and when we left, my big brother took it and put it in his pocket.
That night, we slept in the cabin. My parents slept in the room and my brothers and I slept in the living room. Suddenly, in the middle of the night, we heard a loud knock at the front door.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
We were afraid of our minds.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
The door was shaking. It looked like someone was trying to knock it off the hinges. My dad came out of the room and asked what was going on.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
When he saw the looks on our faces, he knew we had no idea.
SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
My father took an ax and headed for the door. He looked as scared as us. He raised the ax and opened the door, but there was nothing there. The knock had stopped and the night was dark and silent.
After we calmed down, we went back to bed, but none of us could sleep much. The next day, when we returned to the cemetery, the smooth black stone that my brother had taken was sitting on the same grave. As soon as we saw this, we fled and never came back.
