The Mausoleum

Clara’s boots crunched against the frost-covered grass, each step heavier than the last. The cemetery gate loomed ahead, its rusted iron bars twisted into shapes that seemed to claw at the moonless sky. Her breath fogged in the November air, and her hands trembled as she shoved them deeper into her coat pockets. She stopped a few feet from the entrance, her heart pounding so loud she swore it echoed off the tombstones.

“Come on, Clara, it’s just a bunch of old graves,” Jake said, his voice light but edged with impatience. He leaned against the gate, his lanky frame silhouetted by the faint glow of a distant streetlamp. His grin was all bravado, the kind that dared you to call his bluff.

“Yeah, don’t be such a baby,” Ethan added, nudging her shoulder. He was shorter, stockier, with a mop of curls that bounced as he shifted his weight. His eyes sparkled with mischief, but there was a softness there, a flicker of concern he couldn’t quite hide. “We’ll be with you the whole time. In and out, twenty minutes tops.”

Clara’s stomach churned. She hated cemeteries. Always had. The silence, the stillness, the way the air felt heavier, like it carried the weight of every soul buried beneath. At night, it was worse—her imagination conjured shadows that moved, whispers that weren’t there. She’d told Jake and Ethan about it once, late at night over pizza and cheap beer, expecting them to laugh it off. Instead, they’d latched onto it, teasing her for weeks until this stupid dare was born: walk through St. Mary’s Cemetery at midnight, just the three of them, to prove she wasn’t afraid.

“I don’t know, guys,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “This feels… wrong.”

Jake rolled his eyes, pushing off the gate. “Wrong? It’s just a place, Clara. Dead people don’t care if we’re here. They’re, like, dead.”

Ethan snorted, then caught her gaze. “Look, we’re not gonna let anything happen to you, okay? We’re your bodyguards. Knights in shining hoodies.” He tugged at his worn sweatshirt, striking a mock-heroic pose.

Clara forced a smile, but her legs felt like lead. She glanced back at the empty street, the safe glow of the town just beyond the hill. She could turn back, go home, curl up with a book and pretend this never happened. But Jake and Ethan would never let her live it down. And worse, she’d know she’d chickened out. She took a deep breath, the cold air stinging her lungs, and nodded. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

Jake whooped, swinging the gate open with a creak that made Clara flinch. Ethan grabbed her hand, giving it a quick squeeze before letting go. “That’s the spirit. Come on, adventure awaits.”

The cemetery was larger than she’d expected, a sprawling maze of headstones, statues, crooked trees, and winding paths. The moonlight was faint, barely enough to cast shadows, and the trio’s flashlights bobbed like fireflies as they moved deeper in. Clara stayed close to Ethan, her eyes darting to every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig. Jake led the way, his flashlight beam swinging wildly as he narrated like a tour guide.

“Here lies Old Man Jenkins,” he said, pointing at a weathered grave. “They say he choked on a chicken bone and haunts anyone who eats fried chicken on Sundays.”

“Shut up, Jake,” Clara muttered, but Ethan chuckled, easing some of the tension in her chest.

They walked for ten minutes, the cold seeping through Clara’s coat, when Jake stopped abruptly. “Whoa, check it out.” His flashlight beam settled on a massive stone structure, its walls gray and moss-covered, with ornate carvings above a heavy iron door. A mausoleum. It stood apart from the scattered graves, isolated and imposing, like a forgotten castle.

Clara’s throat tightened. “Let’s keep going,” she said, her voice small.

“Nah, this is cool,” Jake said, circling the structure. “Bet it’s some rich dude’s eternal penthouse. Wonder what’s inside.”

“Nothing’s inside,” Ethan said, but he sounded curious, his flashlight joining Jake’s to trace the carvings. “It’s just a tomb, man. Don’t be weird.”

Clara hung back, her flashlight pointed at the ground. The mausoleum felt… wrong. Not just creepy, but alive in a way she couldn’t explain. The air around it was colder, sharper, and she swore she heard a faint hum, like a distant radio stuck between stations. She wanted to leave, to drag both boys back to the gate, but before she could speak, Jake let out a laugh.

“Yo, I gotta piss,” he said, already unzipping his jeans as he stepped toward the mausoleum’s side wall.

“Jake, no!” Clara hissed, horrified. “That’s disrespectful!”

Ethan spun around, his flashlight beam catching Jake mid-stride. “Dude, seriously? Don’t be a dick. People are buried here.”

Jake shrugged, his grin unapologetic. “What? They’re not gonna care. It’s just stone.” He turned his back to them, and Clara looked away, her face burning with secondhand shame.

“You’re gross,” she muttered, crossing her arms. Ethan shook his head, muttering something about Jake being an idiot, but Clara’s eyes were drawn to the mausoleum’s door. Had it always been like that? The iron door was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of darkness visible where it didn’t quite meet the frame. She frowned, stepping closer despite herself.

“Guys,” she said, her voice trembling. “Was… was the door open before?”

Ethan turned, his flashlight sweeping over the door. “What? No way. It was closed, right?”

Jake zipped up, rejoining them. “I dunno. Didn’t notice. Why, you think it’s haunted now?” He waggled his fingers, making a mock-spooky noise.

“Stop it,” Clara snapped. “I’m serious. I don’t remember it being open.”

Ethan squinted at the door, his bravado fading. “Yeah, that’s… weird. Maybe it was always like that?”

They stood in silence, the cemetery’s stillness pressing in. Clara’s pulse raced, her flashlight shaking in her grip. She was about to suggest they leave when a sudden glow caught her eye. It came from the crack in the door—a brilliant, pulsing light, blue and cold, like a frozen star. She gasped, stumbling back.

“Guys, look!” she stammered, pointing. “There’s a light inside!”

Jake and Ethan turned, their faces paling as the light intensified, spilling out like liquid. Before anyone could speak, a shadow moved within the glow, tall and humanoid but wrong, its edges blurred like smoke. It stepped forward, the door creaking wider, and Clara’s scream tore through the night.

“Run!” Ethan shouted, grabbing Clara’s arm. Jake was already sprinting, his flashlight beam bouncing wildly. Clara stumbled, her legs sluggish with terror, as the shadow glided closer. It wasn’t human—not anymore. Its face was a hollow blur, its limbs too long, and it moved without sound, like a predator stalking prey.

They ran, weaving through headstones, branches clawing at their clothes. Clara’s lungs burned, her boots slipping on the frosty grass. She was slower, always had been, and soon Jake and Ethan were just shapes in the dark, their flashlights fading. “Wait!” she cried, her voice breaking. “Don’t leave me!”

But they didn’t stop. She glanced back, and her blood froze. The apparition was closer now, fully visible, its form shimmering like heat waves. It had no eyes, just voids where they should’ve been, and its mouth stretched into a silent scream. It reached for her, its fingers like smoke, and Clara tripped, crashing to her knees.

“No, no, no,” she sobbed, scrambling backward. The apparition loomed, the light from the mausoleum pulsing behind it, and Clara’s mind screamed at her to move, but her body wouldn’t obey. She called for Jake, for Ethan, but the cemetery was silent except for the hum, louder now, vibrating in her bones.

“Get away. Stay back!” she yelled, throwing her flashlight. It passed through the apparition, clattering uselessly against a headstone. The thing didn’t flinch, its form rippling as it closed the distance. Clara curled into a ball, squeezing her eyes shut, waiting for the end.

But nothing happened.

The hum stopped. The air warmed, the cold bite gone. Clara opened her eyes, her breath hitching. The apparition was gone. No light, no shadow—just the cemetery, quiet and dark. Her flashlight lay a few feet away, its beam flickering. She crawled to it, her hands shaking as she clutched it like a lifeline.

“Jake? Ethan?” she whispered, standing on unsteady legs. The silence was worse than the hum, heavy and absolute. She turned in a slow circle, her flashlight sweeping the graves, but her friends were gone. The mausoleum stood in the distance, its door closed, no trace of the light, or the shadow.

She wanted to cry, to scream, but fear kept her moving. She stumbled toward the gate, her mind racing. Had it been real? A trick of the dark, her fear twisting shadows into monsters? But the light had been so bright, the shadow so clear. And Jake and Ethan—they’d seen it too. They ran. They left her.

The gate appeared ahead, and Clara broke into a sprint, tears streaming down her face. She burst through, collapsing onto the street, the asphalt cold against her palms. The town’s lights glowed in the distance, safe and normal, but she felt hollow, like something had been taken from her.

She didn’t see Jake or Ethan for days. When she finally did, at the diner where they always hung out, they wouldn’t meet her eyes. Jake mumbled about getting lost, about thinking she was right behind them. Ethan just stared at his coffee, his hands fidgeting. They didn’t talk about the mausoleum, the light, or the shadow. It was like it never happened.

But Clara couldn’t forget. At night, she dreamed of the cemetery, of the apparition’s hollow face, its silent scream. She’d wake gasping, her flashlight still on her nightstand, always on. She stopped going out after dark, stopped answering their texts. The friendship frayed, then broke, like a thread stretched too thin.

Months later, she heard a rumor: the mausoleum had been sealed shut, its door welded closed. No one knew why, and the town didn’t talk about it. Clara didn’t ask. She didn’t need to. She knew what lived inside, what waited in the dark.

And she’d never go back to find out.