Creepypasta

They can hear you (~part 8)

Hai everyone /.\ here's the next part :3 thankfully there is one last part that I will post later tonight :3 enjoy!
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Three-Thirty A.M., Wednesday

Greg rounded around the bend of the path and made his way towards the North West section of the cemetery. It had to have been the twentieth time he had passed around the employee building, and the boredom of the shift was really starting to set in. He had already taken his break earlier in the night, so the only salvation Greg had left for escape was the glorious dawn of the sun over the horizon. He looked around to see if Jim was out somewhere across the fields, but his flashlight ray was nowhere to be found.
Probably just over the hill where I can't see him, I'll likely run into him somewhere further in. Greg heaved a heavy sigh as he continued up the path.
As he crossed another row of headstones, he began to replay the scene that transpired in the storage room earlier that night back into his head. What was it that affected Jim like that? Why did he seem so deterred? Greg didn't have any clue then and still didn't now, but guessing gave him something to do while he walked along the darkness. He began to recall that Jim was set off when Greg whistled the Jeopardy theme. Then, without hesitation or thought, Greg whistled a note through his lips before stopping himself from going any further.
He looked around quickly to see if anyone heard him, that Crawford might jump out behind a gravestone and give him a scolding. But all was silent and still, nothing moved except the lugs filling Greg's chest with air. Greg felt a sense of relaxation and pleasure from the whistle. Whether it was simply working his pipes or the defiance of authority, it felt good. He did another double take around the area until, with a smile, spouted out another two notes. Then three, then four, he continued until he was laughing at his own enjoyment.
Doom and gloom eh? What is there to be worried about? There's no problem to just a few little whistles. Besides, if it helps pass the time then I'm all for it.
He licked his lips and began to whistle the thirty notes of "Pop Goes the Weasel" aloud. As he did, he looked around cautiously once again to see if anyone was noticing. Once the final note escaped Greg's lips, all fell silent again as though nothing had disturbed the solidarity. He gave a silent laugh towards his amusement and pressed on with warm vindication.
Up ahead he could see the mausoleum near the graves of the Davidson girls. He looked to his left and noticed the tree line where he was spooked by the branch a few nights before. He began to whistle the tune for a second time, this time slightly louder than the first. His song went uninterrupted, and the satisfaction kept pouring down in droves.
Greg had just passed the mausoleum when he began his third rendition of "Pop Goes the Weasel." This time he figured he would slow it down a bit and make it louder so all the dead he was watching could enjoy the tune with him. He started up once again as though he was whistling to the heavens themselves, he didn't care if Jim or anyone else would hear him, in that moment he was in his own. Greg finished the first twenty-five notes without pause, but before he could sound off the last five, something else finished the song for him.
"Shooo, shooo, shoo shoo, shoooo."
Greg froze in place as his heart sank deeper into his chest. The eeriness of the notes sounded like a noise only capable of being created by the denizens of hell. The notes were long and held out; making the atmosphere around Greg seem even grimmer than it already established itself to be. As he regained some control of his body he slowly turned his head to see the mausoleum door being pushed from the inside out.
A single figure stood in the shadows of the door frame. From the distance it looked to Greg as though it was human, perhaps one of the guys simply playing a trick on him during his shift. He gave a sigh of relief as he spoke out to the shadows.
"Jim, Crawford? Is that you? You scared me pretty good just then, even though I think it was a bit over the top."
The figure didn't move, nor did it respond to Greg's calls. Greg began t squint his eyes in an attempt to get a better look at the person in the door way. But once his eyes adjusted, he began to notice that he didn't recognize the person smothered in the darkness before him. He looked across the rest of the figures body and noticed that it was missing a pretty obvious feature. Where the figures right arm should have been resting was completely void of any structure or familiarity. And then it spoke.
"Jim?" the figure said slowly. "I haven't, seen him in, a while."
It spoke in long croaked sighs, as though it was short on breath while having a knot in its throat. The voice was shrill and quiet but carried far enough to create goose bumps all over Greg's body. From the voice Greg could tell it wasn't Jim or Ryan, it wasn't anybody from the night crew either. Reluctantly, Greg couldn't compare the sound to anything human. This was something else entirely.
"I, heard you, whis-tle," the figure said. "I used to, whistle, too when I, worked here. Th-at, was before, this."
The figure slowly stepped out from the shadows inside the mausoleum into the dim light of the moon. The picture became clear as Greg witnessed the horrifying sight that began to creep towards him. It was human at some point in the past, but now it was twisted and deformed, dead-like in nature. Its skin was a dull grey; any form of coloration was washed out leaving behind a lifeless tone. Chunks of flesh hung off the figures body in clumps revealing the faded vermillion muscle underneath. And the absence of a right arm Greg noticed earlier was now clear; where the right shoulder should have been was replaced by crimson soaked cloth tattered from his shirt. This thing used to have an arm, but it was physically torn from its socket.
Greg was paralyzed by fear, rooted to the ground where he stood being forced to watch a twisted perversion of life and death not only move, but talk to him as well. What Greg would have passed off as an elaborate prank earlier now seemed all too real, though so unreal at the same time. With eyes wide and jaw a gap, Greg could only watch in horror as the figure made its way closer and closer.
"This is, what happ-ens when, you're left here, to rot," the figure said. "You, don't die... you just, sleep. They bur-ied, me here. Thought it was, a moral ob-ligat-ion towards, me. I, hate them for, this. And if, you're working, with them..."
The figure began to slowly trudge its way towards Greg. It moved with a twitchy limp, its limbs convulsing as though the body was readjusting from a prolonged sleep. With only the path separating the two of them, Greg gained the minimal strength needed to back away from the figure. But he couldn't take his eyes off the thing that walked before him, the horror that lied ahead. Is this how Ichabod Crane felt before he was hunted down? He would have preferred the headless horseman over whatever this thing was.
"Didn't Craw-ford and, the others tell, you not to be, loud during the, night," the figure continued. "They told me, while I was here, before you took, my place. They can, hear you. WE can, hear you."
Greg suddenly ran into an object with the back of his legs and toppled over it with a thud. When he raised himself from the ground he noticed he had backed right into Clara Davidson's headstone. It was then that Greg began to notice the ground slowly pulsate under Clara's headstone, making him back up on his hands until he sat up against another headstone. He sat there transfixed on the shifting dirt while the figure continued to slowly make its way towards Greg's position. He figured it couldn't get any worse. And that was when a pestilent ridden arm broke through the ground and dragged the rest of the body up through the dirt. From Clara Davidson's grave crawled out a sickening woman with a twisted neck and gaze of death.
"Is that, you my dear?" the woman said. "I've mi-issed you, so much."
Greg's panting had become a shrill wheezing as he tried to make rational sense of the whole situation. But his mind was too dumbfounded, and all he could utter were a few simple words.
"What are you talking about?" Greg said between successions of heavy breathing. "I don't know you; I don't know either of you."
By this point the first figure was almost to Greg's new position while the woman crawled further forward. Greg began to wonder how and why the dead could rise up and move as though life was a familiarity. But more importantly, how was that they could actually speak.
"Of course, you know me, swee-tie," the woman continued. "You were the, only one to sur-vive the crash, that day. We were, separated, but now we're, back together. Sydney dear, your daddy is, here. Come see him."
Under Sydney Davidson's grave, the ground began to convulse until two small hands clawed their way out from under the dirt, bringing with them a small girl whose jaw was hanging on one end and had a large gash down her forehead. Her speech was a choking gargle due to her jaw being half disconnected, but Greg was able to faintly make out one word amongst the gibberish.
"Daddy?" It was enough to make him scream.
He rocketed up from the ground and made his way bounded his way onto the path where the lamp post gave him some solace from the nightmare around him. All around he began to see more people rise from their graves, sick and twisted forms rising from the dirt in droves. Most of them were fresh, but others seemed to carry death with more fealty than the rest. In his panic he could see five bodies sluggishly making their way towards him while four others were not much further behind. He could see Clara Davidson dragging her body across the ground while Matt kept up right by her side. And he could see Sydney Davidson inching her way closer and closer, arms outstretched as though she wanted a hug.
He backed away from the bodies only to be intercepted by more lumbering towards him. He looked in every direction as he was cut off by dozens of reanimated dead shuffling towards him. Those who weren't already out of their graves were pushing through the dirt with grim purpose, awakened by the most malevolent of intentions. Fiction had come to life as Greg slowly saw the bodies he was paid to watch crawl and pace their way towards him. The lions were out of their cages, and they had the gazelle cornered.
And as the mob of corpses descended upon him like a plague of locust, Greg could only manage to scream as his body was slowly torn to pieces. It was the greatest scare of his life.

~/.\ [credit to original author] okay guys hope you like this story so far :3 sadly there is only one part left ;-; night night lovelies