Footsteps in the Forgotten Graveyard

The Mud Remembers

Scarlet John—a thrill-seeking influencer—stood before the gates of the abandoned Willowbrook Cemetery, her muddy boots already caked from a rainy night. This cemetery was infamous for ghost sightings, particularly of a spirit known as The Mourner, said to walk the grounds endlessly, leaving icy footsteps in her wake. Scarlet's followers dared her to go, and despite the stories, she couldn't resist the challenge.

She pushed through the rusted gates, shivering as the fog swallowed her. "Alright guys, Here I am at the infamous Willowbrook Cemetery" she whispered to her viewers, her flashlight illuminating crumbling headstones and ancient names. "They say this place is haunted by a spirit known as The Mourner. If you see anything behind me, send me all the eye emojis" She forced a laugh, but the silence around her seemed to press in, as if waiting.

As she walked deeper into the cemetery, the squelching mud grew thicker, tugging at her boots with every step. She whispered into her phone, "Okay, this mud is unreal... feels like it's grabbing me." Her viewers laughed in the chat, "Your boots are doomed!" "Better run before The Mourner finds you!" But something in the night air made Scarlet's heart race.

Then, she heard it—a soft, wet plop in the distance, like someone else trudging through the mud. Scarlet stopped, listening intently. Another footstep sounded, closer this time. The fog thickened, and her heart pounded as she turned, scanning the graves. There was no one, just rows of stones stretching into darkness. But as she took another step, the sound returned, mirroring her movements.

Squish. Squelch. Splat. The footsteps were everywhere now, echoing off unseen paths, closing in like a slow, dreadful beat. Scarlet whispered into the camera, "Are... are you guys hearing this?" Her chat flooded with messages: "Yes! Behind you!" "Those footsteps are too close..."

She turned slowly, and through the fog, a figure emerged—a woman in a tattered black dress, her face hidden by a dark veil. Scarlet's breath caught. This was The Mourner. Her heart raced, and the footsteps grew louder, almost deafening, echoing like a crowd moving closer, surrounding her.

But The Mourner wasn't alone. Behind her, faint figures began to form out of the fog—silent, shadowed shapes drifting forward, each dragging its feet in the mud, their hollow eyes fixed on Scarlet. She wanted to run, but the mud was clinging tighter to her boots, and her flashlight flickered, casting shadows that twisted and stretched around her.

Panicked, Scarlet tried to wrench her feet free, but with every movement, the muddy footsteps grew louder, as if hundreds of unseen souls were stomping in unison, closing in from all directions. And then she heard it: a whisper, so close it brushed her ear. "You don't belong here."

She screamed, jerking her feet free with a loud squelch. She spun around and bolted, but the footsteps followed, each step sinking her deeper into the mud. She risked a glance over her shoulder, her heart stopping—the ghostly figures were closing in, their feet dragging, leaving dark, wet tracks behind them.

When she finally stumbled out through the cemetery gates, the footsteps ceased. She collapsed, panting, but as she looked down, she realized her boots were heavier than before, covered in thick, dark mud that seemed to pulse with an unnatural chill.

Back home, Scarlet checked her phone, only to find the video was gone. Her camera roll was empty, but a single, anonymous comment had been posted on her profile: "Some footsteps never leave."

And as she lay awake that night, she swore she heard faint, wet footsteps outside her window, each step a reminder that the spirits of Willowbrook Cemetery were never far behind.