It was Halloween night, and I decided to take a shortcut through the old cemetery on my way home from a party. The fog clung to the tombstones like ghostly fingers, and the distant laughter of trick-or-treaters faded into an unnatural silence. I felt a chill, not from the wind, but from the sensation of eyes watching me from the shadows.
As I hurried past a weathered grave, I heard it—a soft whisper, like dry leaves rustling my name: "Come closer." I froze, heart pounding, telling myself it was just the wind. But then, from the corner of my eye, I saw her: a figure in a tattered white dress, her face pale as bone, drifting toward me with hollow eyes that locked onto mine.
I ran, branches whipping my face, but the whispers multiplied, echoing from every grave: "Stay with us." Tripping over a root, I fell hard, and when I looked up, she was there—kneeling inches away, her cold hand brushing my cheek. Her breath smelled of earth and decay as she murmured, "You've been missed."
I scrambled away, bursting onto the street, but as I glanced back, the cemetery gate swung shut on its own. That night, I bolted every lock, but in the mirror, I swear I saw her reflection smiling behind mine. And sometimes, when the fog rolls in, I still hear her calling me home.