R.T Davis Cemetery Back Story

🎃 Whispers Among the Stones

A Halloween Story at R.T. Davis Cemetery

Hidden deep in the countryside, beneath a canopy of dying oak trees, lies R.T. Davis Cemetery. By daylight, it’s silent—just wind through the grass and the occasional crow perched on a crooked stone. But when night falls, locals swear something ancient wakes from the soil.

Legends claim the cemetery was built atop ground that was never meant to be disturbed. A tiny country church once stood nearby, guiding lost souls home. When it closed decades ago, its congregation vanished, doors chained shut. Yet the spirits inside… never left.

Strange occurrences have haunted generations. Visitors hear footsteps on the gravel path behind them—slow, heavy, and deliberate—only to turn and find nothing but shifting fog. Whispered voices echo between leaning headstones, calling out names no living tongue should know.

Some describe a figure in black, standing beneath the dead oak near the ruins of the old church. Cloaked in darkness, its face permanently shrouded, it watches silently. Those who dare to meet its gaze say they see nothing within the hood, except… eyes. Cold, depthless eyes staring back through the night.

If you creep near the rotten church door, they say to listen closely. On windless nights, an organ plays softly from within. The melody is disjointed and slow, as though played by trembling fingers… though no human has touched those keys in decades.

But the shadows are the worst.

They move when you do not. Long, spidery silhouettes slither between the tombstones, stretching toward your feet like fingers reaching from the dirt. One shadow might crawl up from the base of a stone carved DAVIS, the name so old its letters crumble away.

Sometimes, if you’re unlucky… something reaches back.

Those few who flee swear they hear footsteps giving chase, closing in faster than any living person could run, accompanied by a whispering chorus buried deep in the fog. Their hearts pound as they sprint toward the gate, terrified to look behind them.

Only when they finally reach the road—breathless, shaking—do the footsteps stop.

No one knows why.

So this Halloween, if you’re feeling brave, perhaps you’ll visit the R.T. Davis Cemetery. Walk the gravel path. Count the stones. Listen for the organ behind the ruined church door.

Just don’t stay after midnight.

Because the ones buried here…

aren’t resting.

And if you feel cold fingers brush your back, or hear a voice whisper “We see you…” from somewhere behind your shoulder…

Don’t turn around.

You might not like what you see.