The Haunted Grove
The Haunted Grove is where paranormal horror fiction fans come to escape the everyday world through immersive, story-driven horror experiences.
We craft immersive scary stories that blur the line between reality and nightmare, perfect for late-night listening or satisfying your Creepypasta cravings. Our growing collection features everything from subtle psychological horror to full-blown supernatural encounters.
The Haunted Grove
I work in haunted cemetery. And I only have one job to do.
The boundary between folklore and reality blurs in this chilling tale of Shadowwood Cemetery, where eternal caretaker Jamie stands vigilant against an ancient horror sealed behind rusted chains and weathered stone.
Deep in forgotten woods lies a cemetery that doesn't appear on any map—for good reason. Shadowwood hasn't seen a proper burial in over fifty years, but something still lives there. Jamie, the cemetery's mysterious caretaker, shares the dark history of this abandoned graveyard and the terrifying entity trapped within its central mausoleum: Sheriff Silas Greaves, a cruel lawman from the 1770s who was sealed alive for his tyranny but refused to truly die.
As Halloween approaches, Jamie's warnings fall on deaf ears when a group of college students armed with cameras and a sledgehammer decide to make the cemetery the subject of their next viral video. Despite Jamie's increasingly desperate attempts to keep them away, the veil between worlds thins on All Hallows' Eve, and three fateful knocks on the mausoleum door unleash a horror that has waited patiently for centuries.
The true brilliance of this story emerges when we discover Jamie's shocking secret—he is actually the ghost of Jamie Coolidge, Sheriff Greaves' first victim and the first person buried in Shadowwood. Now bound to this place for eternity, Jamie carries the impossible burden of preventing others from suffering his fate, all while watching history tragically repeat itself year after year.
This immersive paranormal tale weaves together classic ghost story elements with deeper themes about the weight of responsibility, the cyclical nature of evil, and how the past refuses to stay buried. The haunting imagery of this forgotten cemetery—with its fog-laden grounds, watchful ravens, and the ancient oak tree marking generations of victims—will linger with you long after the final words fade.
Ready to experience more spine-tingling stories that blur the line between fiction and the supernatural? Subscribe to the Haunted Grove Podcast and join our Midnight Club on Facebook for exclusive content that will keep you looking over your shoulder long after dark.
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Welcome. You've stumbled into the Haunted Grove podcast, the place where paranormal, horror fiction fans come to escape the everyday through immersive storytelling. I'm Megan, your host and narrator for tonight's tale, and, trust me, it's a good one. So sit back, turn the lights down low and, whatever you do, don't look behind you. I've never understood why people think cemeteries are peaceful. These aren't places of rest where the dead sleep undisturbed, or where marble angels stand eternally watching over ordered rows of stone. Not in Shadowwood, anyway. Nothing rests easy here. The locals avoid this place. They take the long way around, even in the middle of the day. I can't say that I blame them.
Speaker 1:The forest has grown in too close over the years, its branches reaching over crumbled headstones like gnarled fingers, moss crawling across the weathered names that no one remembers. Most mornings, the fog clings to the ground, as if the earth itself is breathing out cold sighs of relief to have made it through the night. Today, that fog is rolling right through me as I stand by the eastern gate, a sensation like cold water passing through my chest. I've never gotten used to it, even after all these years. You're probably wondering why I'm here. Well, I live here and I work here. My job? Well, my job is to keep stupid people from doing dumb shit. Teenagers, thrill-seekers and ghost hunters they all come here because they hear stories of how haunted this place is, and now, with social media, people will come here and risk their lives for the potential of 10 seconds of viral fame. Shadowwood Cemetery is over 200 years old and it was still in use until it was abandoned half a century ago. It sits in a small clearing about two miles from town and has since been swallowed up by the surrounding trees. There's no path to get here and you won't find it on any map, but that doesn't stop people from coming and sometimes from dying. I'm the caretaker At least that's what I tell the few people who ask Jamie, the odd one who tends to the forgotten cemetery deep in the woods, the one who discourages visitors, the one who seems to appear from nowhere when you cross the rusty gates. It's kind of flattering to know that I've become part of the local lore.
Speaker 1:It's fall now. I don't feel the autumn chill anymore, but I do remember what cold feels like, which is why I still wear my heavy coat. It's a habit, I guess, from a previous life, october 5th. Most nights I walk the perimeter. I check the locks and make sure the chains on the mausoleum are secure. I know every cracked pathway, every leaning stone and every hollow where the ground has settled over a century of decay. The ravens know me too. They watch me from the twisted oak by the eastern wall, silent witnesses to my daily routine.
Speaker 1:The fall is always the worst time. The dying leaves and dark, chilling nights tend to bring out all the thrill-seekers and seasonal paranormal enthusiasts. This October night I can feel something different in the air. There's something waiting. There were some reporters out here doing a news story on the history of this place gearing up for Halloween, which is only going to make things worse. More people are going to want to come out here for a scare.
Speaker 1:Something in the distance caught my attention. I hear them before. I see them whispers and laughter cutting through the stillness, flashlight beams dancing between the trees. Bro, this place is perfect for the channel. A young man's voice trying to sound braver than he feels. Ghost hunting at Shadowwood Cemetery. We'll get so many views.
Speaker 1:There's four of them College kids, I'm guessing, two boys and two girls. They have expensive camera equipment and are passing around a bottle of something as I quietly step out from behind the Delancey family crypt. I raise my hands up and stand in the middle of the path trying to give the illusion of blocking their way. Sorry guys, the cemetery's closed. I must have startled them. The tallest one nearly dropped his camera. Jesus man, where did you come from? You need to leave. I kept my voice flat and calm. It's not safe here after dark.
Speaker 1:The girl with blue hair laughed, emboldened by whatever was in that bottle. What are you going to do? Call the cops. This place has been abandoned for like 50 years, not abandoned, just forgotten. And you really don't want to be here tonight.
Speaker 1:The second guy, the quiet one in the back, shivers, despite himself. I can tell that he feels it. Some people just do. I can tell that he feels it. Some people just do the wrongness of this place. What's in there? Blue hair points to the mausoleum that stands at the center of the cemetery. It's larger than the rest and much older, the stone darkened with age and the door secured with heavy chains. I've heard that's where they put the sheriff. She continued there's nothing in there that concerns you.
Speaker 1:I step forward, my voice dropping to a growl. Though I can't physically stop them, I've learned that my presence alone can be powerful. I position myself between them and the mausoleum. Go home, there are plenty of other places to make your videos. The tall one tried to step around me. Come on, we just want to take a look. No, something in my voice stopped him cold. That's Sheriff Silas Greaves in there, and trust me when I say you don't want to wake him up. The quiet boy tugged at his friend's sleeve let's go, jake. That guy's crazy and this place feels wrong. Blue hair rolls her eyes, but I can see the doubt creeping in. Whatever, we'll just come back tomorrow during the day. Do that and I'll be here.
Speaker 1:I stood firm and watched them retreat, grumbling back through the gates, their flashlights fading into the darkness of the surrounding woods. As I inhale, slowly tasting the damp night air, I realize that that was close, too close, and they'll be back. They always come back, all of the curious thrill-seekers who don't believe the stories. Each year they get bolder with their new equipment and their live streams and their need to provoke something beyond their understanding. I check the chains on the mausoleum door again. They're holding firm for now, but it's only October 5th. The closer we get to Halloween, the worse it gets. It may not seem like such a big deal. Just keep them away, keep the chains secure and keep that old sheriff locked inside his tomb until dawn and just hope and pray that that's enough. As I take a seat on the worn stone bench and watch the moon climb higher in the sky, I exhale a breath that feels like I've been holding since the sun went down. They don't know what lies in wait here every night in the Shadowwood, but I do.
Speaker 1:Sheriff Silas Graves wasn't just some local lawman buried with honor. The history books don't tell his true story. The townspeople made sure of that back when they sealed him away. Greaves ruled this area with cruelty in the 1770s when Shadowwood was just a struggling timber town at the edge of the frontier. They say he'd hang a man for looking at him wrong. They say he took what he wanted Land, livestock, women and they say his knuckles were always split from beating confessions out of the innocent. The town endured him for years until they couldn't take it anymore.
Speaker 1:A few men got together and decided they needed to end Sheriff Greaves' reign of terror. So they came up with a plan. One winter night they lured him to this place. Back then it was just a clearing in the woods. They told him they'd caught witches in the act, a group of local women meeting secretly in the woods and performing rituals. The sheriff came eagerly ready for another execution. Instead, they overpowered him, but not before he managed to kill one of the young men who'd come to take him down, the son of Curtis Coolidge, a well-known and well-respected man in town and the man that would go on to replace Greaves as the sheriff.
Speaker 1:They dragged Sheriff Greaves to a stone chamber they'd prepared and sealed him in alive, with only a small opening to prolong his suffering. They buried the body of Coolidge's son in the ground, right outside the stone mausoleum, right in front of that small opening. So it would be the last thing Greaves ever saw, they said. Now he could spend the rest of his time by himself, unable to unleash his cruelness outside of his tomb. For days they could hear him screaming, cursing them and promising vengeance, until, finally, silence.
Speaker 1:As the years went on, they built a cemetery around his tomb, a prison disguised as a mausoleum. Each new grave was a weight to hold him down, each death a reminder of his failed duty to protect. They thought they had sealed him away for good. But someone that evil, there's no way he could stay dead forever. Him away for good, but someone that evil. There's no way he could stay dead forever. They didn't understand what they had created. With every new body laid in this ground, with every grief-stricken tear that soaked the soil, he grew stronger. The dead fed him. Somehow. Their passage from this world to the next created something that he could use.
Speaker 1:Soon after his death the knocking started. It was soft at first, just a tapping from the inside of the sealed mausoleum, and then eventually it got louder and more insistent. People would swear they could hear old Sheriff Greaves inside that mausoleum trying to get out. The town elders added chains in 1875, blessed by seven preachers from seven churches. It helped, but only for a while. But as the time passed and he grew stronger, they had to learn the rules of how to keep him dormant, but there did seem to be some limitations to his reach. He remained quiet until provoked Knocking on his door will wake him. He can only emerge between midnight and dawn, and he grows stronger with every death. But as the years went on, everyone that had known about Sheriff Greaves had passed and all that was left were the stories. And then one day it just seemed that the whole world had forgotten about this little shadow wood cemetery and moved on, leaving it completely abandoned. But he's still here, make no mistake.
Speaker 1:I've spent more nights than I can count in this place. I've seen the door rattle on moonless nights. I've heard what sounds like boots pacing inside when no living thing should be there. I felt the air grow colder around the stone structure and saw the frost form on the chains. The hardest part of my job isn't the solitude or the cold or the endless waiting. It's the failures. Every time I have to dig a fresh grave beneath the oak tree, I wonder again if this job is worth it. Year after year after year, it's the same cycle Warning, failing and burying. Sometimes decades pass without incident and I almost convince myself the sheriff is weakening and that perhaps someday I might finally be able to rest. But then another soul breaches the gates and it begins again. What keeps me here? Maybe it's the knowledge that I'm the only one left who understands the true threat that lies within that mausoleum. It's been a pretty good run lately, though.
Speaker 1:Only three people have died since the cemetery was officially abandoned and forgotten 50 years ago, each one of them leaving me with the grim task of burying them in unmarked graves far from the main paths. The first was a historian came asking questions about the founding families, picked the lock on the mausoleum. I found pieces of him scattered throughout the forest. The official report called it an animal attack. The second was a pair of teenagers who snuck into the mausoleum on a dare. They left the gate open behind them. Only one of the bodies was recovered the girls. They never found the boy.
Speaker 1:The third happened just last summer. It was a livestreamer with 20,000 followers watching as he approached the mausoleum. Knocking on death's door is what he called the segment. The feed cut out. Just after midnight I found what was left of him at dawn, arranged in a tableau that still haunts me. His eyes were missing. His camera was intact, but the memory card was destroyed. I buried him beneath the old oak, unmarked, just like the others, and added another stone to my burden. Tonight feels different, though. The air has a charge to it, like before a lightning strike. The ravens haven't left their perch in the oak tree, even though it's well past time for them to roost. Something is changing at Shadowwood Cemetery. I think Sheriff Greaves is waking up.
Speaker 1:October 15th, the group of college kids came back just as they'd promised, and this time they brought friends. I chased them off again, but not before they filmed the exterior of the mausoleum for their channel 50,000 views already. Comments asking for more, daring them to go inside. I checked the chains in the lock just to make sure. Last night I heard knocking from inside, not the usual restless, shifting, but deliberate Three slow knocks and then silence and then three more. He knew they were coming. He was preparing After the kids had finally left.
Speaker 1:A memory flashed through my mind Another Halloween a group of teenagers with a crowbar, a sickening snap of the lock breaking. I remember the girl with the red coat who ran first. She almost made it to the gate Almost. I remember how the sheriff moved, not walking but stuttering, jerks, like a film missing frames, how he reached her in seconds despite her head start. I remember the sound she made, not a scream, something worse. I snap out of the memory and feel terrible, knowing that it can happen again and I'm truly helpless to stop it.
Speaker 1:October 25th I usually don't feel exhausted, I usually don't feel anything, but today I think I'm tired. Sometimes my hands pass through solid objects when I'm not concentrating. Little slips, signs of my fatigue. The blue-haired girl returned alone yesterday morning. I found her making charcoal rubbings of the weathered lettering on the mausoleum door S Greaves 1732. Sealed 1774. May God have mercy. What does sealed mean? She asked when I approached. No fear this time, just curiosity. It means he wasn't dead when they put him in there. I answered, surprising myself with the honesty she studied my face. You talk about him like he's still alive. I didn't answer. I'm writing my thesis on forgotten historical sites.
Speaker 1:She continued this place doesn't show up on any registry, but the stones date back to the 18th century. Why was it abandoned? I guess because it had served its original purpose and over time people just moved on Well, most of them anyway. She laughed, but it faded quickly. You really believe it's haunted, don't you? What's your name? I asked instead of answering Ellie.
Speaker 1:She studied me for a long moment. Her head tilted slightly. You know I've been researching Shadowwood for months. There are stories about this place going back generations and there's always a caretaker mentioned, always someone warning people away. Something in her gaze made me uncomfortable, like she was seeing more than she should Some of the descriptions in the old journals. She hesitated. They sound a lot like you.
Speaker 1:I frowned and looked away. People see what they want to see, or maybe some things don't change. She took a step closer, lowering her voice. I found a photograph from 1925. There's a figure in the background by the same oak tree. It's blurry, but you should go, I said sharply. For the first time in decades I felt truly seen. It was both terrifying and strangely comforting. But I had to warn her. Well, ellie, some advice from the caretaker of a supposedly haunted cemetery Don't come back on Halloween, don't bring your friends and never, ever knock on that door. She left without arguing. Something in my voice must have convinced her, at least temporarily. But I know the pull of this place, the way it whispers to the curious, the way it draws them back again and again until the inevitable happens. I've tried everything over the years Barriers, warnings, threats. Nothing works for long and there's only so much I can do. The sheriff wants company and somehow he finds a way to ensure he gets it.
Speaker 1:October 31st the morning of October 31st dawns gray and cold, the kind of biting chill that sinks into your bones. Mist weaves itself between the headstones. The iron chains on the mausoleum door are coated with a thin layer of frost. Ugh, I hate Halloween. All day I wait, tense as a bowstring, but no one comes. By sunset I allow myself the faintest hope. Perhaps this year will be different. Perhaps the warnings took hold. That hope died at 11.42 pm.
Speaker 1:Voices from the gate, flashlights and laughter that sound too loud. It's too forced. I count six of them as they spill into the cemetery Ellie with her blue hair, the boys from before. They're dressed for Halloween Cheap costumes, half hidden under their jackets. They're dressed for Halloween cheap costumes, half hidden under their jackets. They carry a bottle of whiskey, a Ouija board and something worse a small sledgehammer.
Speaker 1:I step into their path. Hey, now I told you not to come back. The tall one, jake, startles and then recovers with a sneer Dude, it's Halloween. We've got every right to be here. This isn't public property, I say, and you're making a terrible mistake. Relax, says the girl I haven't seen before. She's dressed as a witch, with a plastic cauldron serving as a makeshift purse. We're just going to do a little seance, film some content and then be on our way. No harm done. Ellie won't meet my eyes, she knows better. But peer pressure is a powerful thing. You need to leave. I say more forcefully Right now, before midnight, my tone getting a lot more forceful as the time inches closer.
Speaker 1:As Jake steps closer, I can smell the alcohol on his breath. Or what caretaker you going to call the Ghostbusters? The quiet boy from before? I heard someone call him Thomas. He hangs back Guys, maybe this isn't such a good idea.
Speaker 1:This place does feel weird tonight. It's a cemetery on Halloween dumbass. It's supposed to feel weird. Jake laughs, but it's hollow. I took out my pocket watch, 11.53pm. Last chance.
Speaker 1:I say quietly, walk out that gate and don't look back Before it's too late. For a moment I think Ellie will listen. She takes half a step backwards and her eyes meet mine and I see recognition there, understanding perhaps. Then Jake moves right past me, heading straight for the mausoleum at the center of the cemetery. Come on, let's wake up this famous sheriff.
Speaker 1:I brought something that'll help with those chains. He holds up the sledgehammer, moonlight glinting off the metal head. Time slows as I lunge for him. But what am I going to do? Sometimes, if I concentrate hard enough, I can almost feel solid for a moment, enough to create the illusion of blocking a path, of being more substantial than I am. But it never lasts long and it drains me terribly, and right now I'm too weak for even that. I shout warnings that fade into the night air and I watch in horror as Jake approaches the mausoleum, the sledgehammer raised.
Speaker 1:The first blow rings like a bell, sparks flying as metal strikes metal. But the chain holds. It's 11.58 pm. The second blow finds a weak link. Something gives with a snap that echoes across the cemetery. The ravens in the oak tree take flight, a dark cloud against the moon. Ellie's voice suddenly afraid Jake, stop, let's go. 11.59 pm. The third blow breaks the remaining chains. They fall away like dead snakes.
Speaker 1:Jake stands before the unlocked mausoleum door breathing hard, sledgehammer dangling from one hand. No, turning back now. He says with the bravado I can tell he doesn't feel. Let's see what's got this caretaker so spooked. Midnight strikes as Jake raises his fist to the ancient door, three knocks, sharp and deliberate. Sheriff grieves, he calls his voice cracking slightly, anyone home?
Speaker 1:In that moment everything fell silent. There's no wind, no distant cars and no sounds of the night's creatures. And then from inside the mausoleum, three knocks answer. Ellie screams and Thomas turns to run. And the others stand frozen in disbelief as the door creaks open. Just an inch, it's a trick. Jake whispers, but he's backing away now. Sledgehammer, forgotten on the ground. It has to be a trick, some kind of joke.
Speaker 1:The door creaks open wider, but what emerges isn't the skeletal remains that they expected First. A hand, not decomposed, but wrong. The skin gray-white like river clay, the fingers too long, the joints bending in unnatural directions, dirt-packed nails curved into talons. Then a shape fills the doorway Tall, impossibly tall, unfolding from a space that couldn't possibly contain it. A uniform, once proud, now stained black, with centuries of decay, the silver star on its chest catching the moonlight, reflecting it back, distorted, and the face god, that face, not rotted away but somehow preserved in a perpetual state of dying. Skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones, lips pulled back in a permanent snarl, milky and vacant eyes that hadn't seen daylight in two and a half centuries, yet somehow burning with recognition as they fixed on Jake. The sheriff's mouth opened a black void that seemed to swallow the cemetery's dim light, and when he spoke, his voice was like gravel being crushed. You knocked, I closed my eyes. I've seen what comes next and I can't bear to watch it again. The screams tell me everything I need to know. You knocked, stands open, the chains lying broken on the ground Inside, nothing but empty darkness. He's returned to his rest. Until next time I gather what's left of them, it doesn't take long. The sheriff was thorough this time.
Speaker 1:I dig the graves myself, as I always do Brand new, unmarked mounds beneath the oak tree. As I work, I feel the weight of my failure, the guilt that never lessens no matter how many years pass. I should have tried harder, done more, found a way to keep them out. The sun climbs higher, burning away the morning mist In the harsh light. I look down at my hands on the shovel handle and notice how the sunlight passes right through them, transparent and ghostly. It happens sometimes when I'm tired, when the veil thins and when I forget what I am. I'm so damn tired of this. I let out a sigh as I sit on the headstone that marks my grave under the twisted oak. The stone is so weathered now you can barely read my name Jamie Coolidge 1756-1774.
Speaker 1:I was 18 years old when my father told me the plan. None of us saw the revolver hidden under the sheriff's jacket. He only managed to get one shot off, but that's all it took. The bullet hit me square in the chest and everything went black. I shot off, but that's all it took. The bullet hit me square in the chest and everything went black. I became the first grave in what would become Shadowwood Cemetery. They thought they were forcing Greaves to face the grave of the last person. He killed me and here I've remained the first victim, and now I'm bound to this place for eternity by some invisible tether. So now I live in this haunted cemetery and I only have one job to do. I live in this haunted cemetery and I only have one job to do.
Speaker 1:You've been listening to the Haunted Grove Podcast. If tonight's story drew you in, leave a review, share the scare and follow and subscribe for more immersive paranormal horror fiction stories. If you love spooky storytelling and want to support the show, consider joining the Midnight Club over on our Facebook page. Members get exclusive access to stories, behind-the-scenes content, early access to episodes and so much more. This isn't just a membership. It's where you belong. Until next time, sleep tight and, whatever you do, don't look too closely at the shadow in the corner of the room. You might just find it's looking back.