MidReal Story
Whispers of the Midnight Graveyard
Scenario: Dans le silence d'une nuit glaciale, une silhouette encapuchonnée se glisse entre les tombes d'un vieux cimetière. Le grincement d'une porte rouillée résonne, un cri étouffé s'échappe des profondeurs de la terre. Les chuchotements des morts murmurent à l'oreille des vivants, tandis que des ombres dansent sur les pierres froides. Un vent soudain soulève les feuilles mortes, et les pas pressés d'une personne invisible se rapprochent. Le sol tremble légèrement, comme si quelque chose d'ancien et de maléfique se réveillait sous la surface. Les poils se dressent, un frisson parcourt l'échine, et le souffle court, on sent la présence d'une entité oubliée, revenant réclamer son dû.
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Jake Reynolds
skeptical yet supportive friend, friends with Emily and mentored by Professor Hawthorne, tall and athletic with piercing blue eyes, logical and protective.
Professor Samuel Hawthorne
seasoned paranormal researcher and mentor to Emily and Jake, colleague of Emily's late father, elderly with a sharp gaze and gray hair, wise and secretive.
Emily Carter
amateur paranormal investigator, friends with Jake and mentored by Professor Hawthorne, short with curly brown hair, curious and brave.
I’m not sure what I expected to find in the cemetery that night.
A ghost, maybe, or a demon.
But definitely not a book.
Not a book like this one.
I’d been warned about the cemetery, of course.
Everyone in town knew it was haunted, but I’d never seen anything myself.
I’d been inside once or twice during the day, but that was it.
It was an old place, with graves dating back hundreds of years, and it was huge—over a hundred acres, according to the sign out front.
The mausoleums were especially creepy, with their stone angels and gargoyles perched on the roof like they were watching you.
But other than that, it was just a cemetery.
At least until last week, when people started reporting strange noises and lights coming from inside at night.
The police had gone in to investigate, but they hadn’t found anything—no ghosts or demons or even any evidence of trespassing.
That should have been the end of it, but it only made me more curious.
Why would a cemetery be haunted?
What possible reason could the dead have for coming back to life?
And if they weren’t dead, then what were they?
Demons, maybe, or zombies.
Or maybe something worse.
The townsfolk all had their own theories, of course, but nobody really knew for sure.
As for me, I didn’t really believe in the supernatural.
I’d never seen any evidence of it before, and I didn’t expect that to change tonight.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t curious.
I’d always been curious.
Too curious, my mother used to say—just like my father.
He’d been a scientist, like me, and he’d devoted his life to studying the unexplained.
He’d been an expert in the occult and paranormal, and he’d written several books on the subject.
I’d never met him—he’d disappeared when I was a baby—but I’d grown up hearing his stories and reading his books.
I knew them all by heart, but that hadn’t stopped me from searching for more.
It was like an addiction, or a sickness—this need to know more about the world around me.
But no matter how many books I read or how many stories I heard, it was never enough.
It only made me want more.
And now, standing here in the cold dark of night, I couldn’t help but wonder if maybe there was more to this place than met the eye.
The wind was picking up now, rustling the dead leaves on the ground and sending shivers down my spine.
In the distance, I could hear the howling of wolves or coyotes—or maybe something worse.
The moon was full and bright in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the cemetery and making the tombstones look like ghostly apparitions rising from the ground.
If I listened closely, I could almost imagine I heard them speaking to me—the dead, whispering my name and calling me home.
It was just my imagination, of course.
There was nothing here but graves and trees and silence.
I stood at the edge of the Whispering Pines Cemetery, staring into the darkness beyond.
The cemetery was shrouded in shadow, hidden from view by the tall iron fence that surrounded it.
I couldn’t see much from where I stood, but I didn’t need to see anything to know what was out there—rows upon rows of graves, stretching out in all directions like a macabre maze.
Many of them were marked by simple headstones, while others were adorned with elaborate monuments and statues.
Others still were hidden beneath thick layers of moss and ivy, lost to the ravages of time and neglect.
Townsfolk claimed that strange lights and ghostly apparitions could be seen among the tombstones at night, but I had never witnessed such phenomena during the day.
And as far as I could tell, there was nothing out there now—no lights or ghosts or anything else.
The only sounds that reached my ears were the distant hoots of an owl and the rustling of leaves in the wind.
It was a still night, a perfect night for what I was about to attempt.
Drawing my coat tighter around me, I glanced at the high fence that surrounded the cemetery.
The police had put it up last week after reports of strange noises and lights coming from inside.
It was a temporary solution at best—made of flimsy iron bars and rusted wire—and it wouldn’t take long for someone to break through it.
But for now, it would have to do.
I could hear the guards on the other side of the gate, talking and laughing and smoking cigarettes.
They were young—probably in their early twenties—and they sounded bored.
It was a slow night, apparently, and they didn’t expect anything to happen.
I almost felt sorry for them.
Almost but not quite.
They had dismissed the reports as nothing more than pranks by local teenagers.
That was their first mistake.
Their second mistake was underestimating my determination.
My father used to say that to truly understand the supernatural, one must be willing to confront it head-on.
And that was exactly what I intended to do.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped forward and crossed the threshold.
I was almost immediately enveloped in darkness.
The moon was hidden behind a veil of wispy clouds now, and the only light came from the distant streetlamps and the stars above.
But that was enough to guide me as I made my way through the cemetery.
The ground was soft and wet beneath my feet, and the air was thick with the smell of rotting leaves and decay.
If not for the dead silence that surrounded me, I might have thought myself in the middle of a forest instead of a graveyard.
But that illusion didn’t last long—as soon as I rounded a bend in the path, I saw them: graves upon graves upon graves, stretching out in all directions like a macabre maze.
It was a clear night, and the moon provided just enough light for me to see them clearly: headstones and monuments and statues—some old and crumbling, others new and shining.
There were trees too—lots of them— towering oaks and pines and elms, their branches swaying in the wind like they were dancing to some silent tune.
I was standing in the middle of the Whispering Pines Cemetery.
The Whispering Pines Cemetery was the oldest graveyard in town—or so the locals liked to say—and it certainly looked the part.
The air seemed to whisper of unseen presences as I made my way through the graves that stood like silent sentinels in the darkness.
A shiver ran down my spine—it was a cold night and the wind had picked up—and I pulled my coat tighter around me as I pressed on.
I didn’t know exactly where I was going—there were no signs to guide me—so I followed the path that led me deeper into the cemetery.
I knew that the center was where the oldest graves were located—and that was where I needed to be— so that’s where I went.
My plan was a daring one—to say the least—but it was the only way to get to the bottom of the disturbances that had been reported here recently.
The townsfolk had good reason to be afraid of this place—I had seen enough horror movies to know that cemeteries were bad news—but I was not like them.
I had knowledge on my side.
And that made all the difference.
I had always been a curious person—I liked to know how things worked—but my father’s disappearance when I was a child had only made me more so.
He had been an amateur paranormal investigator—a ghost hunter, if you will—and he had spent his life studying the supernatural forces that governed our world.
He had also been a collector of sorts—as most paranormal investigators are—and when he vanished he left behind a vast collection of occult tomes and artifacts for me to study at my leisure.
I wasn’t sure what he had hoped to accomplish with his research—or if he had accomplished anything at all—but he had always told me that the secrets of the universe were hidden in plain sight, waiting for those with the courage to seek them out.
Now was my chance to prove him right.
I reached the center of the cemetery—where three ancient mausoleums loomed like silent guardians—and set down the backpack that was slung over my shoulder.
I unzipped it and began to search for what I needed: a silver dagger with a jeweled hilt; a small black book with golden runes etched into its cover; a glass vial filled with blood-red liquid; and a handful of dried herbs wrapped in wax paper.
I took them out one by one—careful not to drop anything—and set them down on the ground beside me as I continued my search for what came next: a cracked marble angel with outstretched wings—an old grave marker that stood out from all the others around it like a sore thumb.
