“My husband Gena was always a strong and healthy person until he moved to work in the cemetery. Previously, he worked for a long time at an enterprise that went bankrupt and collapsed.
They paid very good money to work in the cemetery, but soon my husband changed a lot. At night he began to sleep poorly, and if he fell asleep, he snored very much, twitched and jumped. Next to him it was impossible not only to sleep, but also to lie. I was frightened by his sudden movements and wild screams. He began to sweat a lot, lost weight and all the time complained about something: either pain in the head, or palpitations. In addition, his legs almost always ached. My husband's bones cracked and cracked unpleasantly.
Her husband's character has also changed a lot. He stopped smiling, thinking to such an extent that I had to call out to him several times until he hears me. One day I woke up in the middle of the night, and he was sitting in the kitchen. I began to persuade him to tell what was happening to him. At first, he brushed it off, but after that I still got him talking. The husband carried some nonsense that the dead talk to him at the cemetery, but not aloud, but sort of like their voices in his head. He supposedly hears what they want to tell him.
From all that was said, I was stunned and decided that my husband was simply drunk. When I sniffed him, I didn't smell alcohol, and he just got mad because of my sniffing. He shouted that I first climb into his soul and persuade him to lay out what torments him, and when he confessed everything to me, I make an idiot out of him.
Maybe some other time I would have thrown a scene for him in response, because I hate it when my husband raises his voice to me. But not this time. There was something in his desperate voice that I immediately absolutely believed him. He probably understood this from my expression, as he stopped screaming, sat down and put his head in his hands. I looked at his hands, calloused from a shovel (he dug graves), and I felt sorry for him. What if he, it occurred to me, went crazy from the constant sight of a funeral. I personally absolutely cannot visit the cemetery, even for a short time. I have the feeling that the photographs on the monuments are looking directly at me, that there are crowds of silent people around me. Cautiously, I began to ask my husband what he had let slip. To my question, when he heard voices for the first time, he replied that it happened six months ago,when he settled in the cemetery. At first, he was uncomfortable in the cemetery. But after a month he no longer thought about the dead, he just dug, and that was all.
Once the director of a funeral company received an order to reburial the coffin in another cemetery. On that day, two gravediggers did not go to work at once, and therefore my husband had to work with only two men. They had to dig 3 graves for the newly departed and dig up a coffin for reburial during this day. They dug two fresh graves, and then went to look for the desired number of the grave, from which they had to dig and lift the coffin. The car behind this coffin was supposed to come up in about a couple of hours.
Having found the necessary grave, they began to tear it apart. One of the partners was just a kid and always sat down to rest. The second partner could not stand it, began to yell at the younger that he was not going to work for him, since they receive the same money. Gena felt sorry for the 18-year-old boy, and he stood up for him. As a result, the guy freaked out and left, and Victor's mate flew after him.
When they dug to the lid of the coffin, Victor's shovel handle broke. He had nothing to dig, and he went to the hut, hoping that the young guy had left his shovel there. When he left, Gena also sat down to rest, reasonably believing that they would be in time before the car arrived. He squatted on the edge of the dug grave and looked down at the lid of the coffin. Suddenly it seemed to him that someone in a low voice said: “The boards at the bottom of my coffin are rotten. When you pester me, I'll probably fall out, so don't be alarmed."
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Gena looked around and chuckled to himself. This is my fantasy, my thoughts, he thought.
I immediately heard in response:
- No, these are not your thoughts. It's me, Semyon. Gena got up from his squatting position and walked over to the removed monument.
“Semyon,” he read. - Semyon Kuzmich Kaigorodov.
My head felt somehow unwell. He began to look for an excuse. The name on the monument just coincided with the one that flashed through his head.
- Yeah, - thought Gena, - it is I, apparently, with a glance noted what was written on the monument when I removed it from the grave, before we began to dig it up.
And then, as if in response to his thoughts, he again heard a voice:
- Do you want proof? To my left is buried a woman named Christina, and to my right is Zhenya.
Gena jumped up and started checking. And so it was. The names on the graves are exactly the ones he heard in his head.
Victor came up with a shovel, and the voice disappeared.
When he and his partner tried to lift the coffin from the grave, Gena involuntarily exclaimed:
- Carefully, the boards are rotten under the coffin. But Victor did not react, deciding that Genka was simply suggesting that from time to time the boards could disperse.
Together they could not get out the coffin and decided to wait for the car and people. When the coffin was taken out, it actually turned out that the entire bottom of the coffin had fallen apart.
From that day on, Gennady began to hear the voices of the dead. He never told anyone about this, that is, he tried, but somehow, gradually, for example, asking his partners if they believed in the telepathy of dead souls, he heard ridicule. Realizing that it was better not to talk about this with anyone, he closed himself off.
In his free time, when the graves were dug, he wandered among the monuments, looked into the eyes of people in ceramic photographs, asked and … received an answer. There were graves whose dead souls were silent, without coming into contact with him. Sometimes he came to the cemetery on weekends and there he looked for graves, where he was answered. Voices told him what was about to happen. So, for example, they warned him that his partner Victor would soon die. And so it happened, soon their team buried Victor. Gennady was digging a grave and thought:
- That's interesting. There was a man and he is not. This is how I will die someday.
And then he heard a familiar voice in his head. It was the voice of the late partner. Victor said:
- And you, too, will come to us soon. You will get over by autumn.
I listened to my husband, and I felt sick. On the one hand, I did not believe his stories, and on the other, I no longer knew what to think.
Then I still could not imagine that on September 4th my husband Gennady would die …
From a letter from Nadezhda Dmitrievna Fomina from Myski. Stepanova N.