malalai khan

It happened some time ago, in late October, on a dreary autumn day. I had gone out with my camera to take aesthetic photographs of the rusting ombre trees that swayed in the cold breeze. I was in high spirits, for the Fall Contest of Photography was to be held the next week.

I had my umbrella and a little leather satchel with tiny trinkets, odds ‘n’ ends of all sorts, my camera hanging around my neck. The street was quite deserted, save for a stray cat pouncing on the grass; I walked over the pavement, fallen leaves crunching under my rainboots. I made my way through brambles, found a short pebbled path that led to a low, black iron gate of the graveyard and entered.

Of all the places in the neighbourhood, it was the weeping willow that had caught my eye for the pictures. It hung close to a white tombstone, in the furthest corner of the yard, almost kissing the wet ground. Choosing a good spot, I crouched down and right before clicking, I froze.

Someone breathed behind me.

I stood up and looked around me at once, my free hand tightening on the umbrella.

Nothing.

Thinking it must have been the wind, I crouched back into position and shot several photographs.

I did not feel quite satisfied with the shots, so for changing the angle, I walked around the other side of the tombstone. There was hardly any grass and the mud squished horridly. I spread out my legs such that I may not slip and fall, and again peered through my camera for a snap.

Then, for a brief moment, everything went still; the wind stopped blowing, the thrush stopped singing—perfect stillness like that before a storm. I smiled to myself and took the flawless chance, when I heard a whisper over my shoulder.

A chill ran down my spine, and I shrieked wildly. I looked back, and dashed over to an open heath. My heart was drumming against the ribs, my mind racing. I took a few deep breaths. Just then, I realised my hands were empty.

I had left my cam and the umbrella there.

Summoning up all of my courage, I crept back to the weeping willow. I picked the things up, and noticed an image while browsing through the snapshots.

It was blurry, for it was the one I had taken accidently out of fright. It depicted the willow and the white gravestone. But what called my attention to was a dark figure standing right behind it.

I stared in horror.

A second later, out of the blue, someone pushed me from the back on the neck and, with a muddy splash, I fell forward.

For a moment, I passed out.

I opened my eyes to the roaring thunder above. Shadows crawled all around me, and I remembered everything all of a sudden. My back hurt. My clothes were spoiled with mud and my camera was stuck in the bracken. I had been lying against the white, marble tombstone, and for the first time it dawned on me that it had no inscriptions engraved into the rock, unlike all the rest around it.

Shivering, I picked up my stuff and ran for dear life as if the devil itself was after me.

I jumped over the low iron gate and sprinted along the street without stopping until I reached my garden.

After the incident, I collected my thoughts and theories, quite sure that there was not a single living soul in the graveyard except for me. It left me perplexed and has intrigued me to this day.

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