Every town has its spooky spots, the places teenagers dare each other to visit after dark. In Austintown, one of those places is the old Brunstetter Cemetery, specifically, the grave locals call the "Witch"s Grave." Tucked away in a neglected corner, overgrown with weeds and shaded by a perpetually gloomy cypress tree, the grave itself is unassuming – a simple, weathered stone, the name and dates long eroded by time and acid rain, or perhaps deliberately effaced. Some say it"s unmarked entirely, just a patch of ground where nothing seems to grow right.
Legends cling to it like the stubborn ivy on the cemetery walls. They say the woman buried there – Eliza Thorne, according to some versions, though no official record confirms it – was a healer, a midwife, maybe something more, accused of witchcraft back when Austintown was just a frontier settlement. Others claim she was a genuine practitioner, consorting with dark forces, buried outside consecrated ground (though she"s clearly within the cemetery bounds). Her death, the stories whisper, was unnatural, maybe suicide, maybe murder by fearful townsfolk. Whatever the truth, the folklore insists her spirit lingers, bitter and powerful, capable of granting wishes or inflicting curses, depending on her whim.
The tradition, passed down mostly among bored teenagers and local occult dabblers, involves leaving an offering on the grave. Coins, flowers, trinkets, sometimes more personal items like photos or written requests. Leave something she likes, the legend goes, and your wish might come true. Displease her, or ask for something foolish, and you might regret it. The most persistent, and unsettling, part of the legend concerns what happens after you leave the offering.
Liam didn"t believe in witches, but he was desperate. His band, perpetually stuck playing dive bars, had a make-or-break audition coming up, a chance to open for a semi-famous indie band passing through Youngstown. He wanted it badly. His friend Chloe, more into local folklore, half-jokingly suggested visiting the Witch"s Grave. "Couldn"t hurt, right? Leave her something cool, ask for a little luck."
So, one moonless night, armed with a flashlight and a brand-new, unopened pack of expensive guitar strings (something meaningful to him, something representing his wish), Liam met Chloe and two other friends, Maya and Ben, at the cemetery gates. Finding the grave took time, navigating crumbling paths and leaning headstones by flashlight beam, relying on Chloe"s vague directions. They found it eventually, in the oldest section, under the drooping cypress. The air around the simple, eroded stone felt noticeably colder, quieter, than the rest of the cemetery. A few sad, plastic flowers and some tarnished pennies lay scattered on the bare patch of earth in front of the stone.
Feeling slightly ridiculous but also undeniably spooked, Liam placed the unopened pack of guitar strings carefully on the flattest part of the stone. "Uh, Eliza, if that"s you," he mumbled, "we"ve got this audition. Really need it to go well. These are for you. Hope you… like music?" Chloe snickered nervously. Maya shivered. Ben just looked bored.
They didn"t linger. Walking back towards the gate, Liam kept glancing over his shoulder, but saw only shadows and stones. He tried to shake off the unease. It was just a story, a creepy old grave.
Two days later, driven by a nagging curiosity, Liam went back to the cemetery alone, in the late afternoon sunlight. He found the grave easily this time. The pack of guitar strings was gone. He searched the ground around it. No sign of wrappers, no footprints other than the ones his group had left. The old plastic flowers and pennies were still there. Just his offering had vanished. Cleanly. Completely. He told himself an animal took it, a squirrel maybe, though what a squirrel wanted with guitar strings, he couldn"t imagine. Or maybe a groundskeeper tidied up? But why take only his offering? The disappearance felt too neat, too specific. Had she… accepted it?
A week passed. The audition was approaching. Liam found himself thinking about the grave more than he wanted to admit. He decided to check it one more time. He went back on a grey, drizzly afternoon. As he approached the cypress tree, he saw something glinting on the gravestone, right where he"d left the strings. His heart gave an uncomfortable lurch.
It wasn"t the strings. It was a single, heavily rusted, old-fashioned skeleton key. It lay starkly against the weathered stone, looking ancient and vaguely menacing. It hadn"t been there before. Where had it come from? He picked it up hesitantly. It felt cold, unnaturally heavy, and left a faint reddish-brown rust stain on his fingers. It wasn"t just a random object; it felt deliberately placed, an answer, an exchange.
A key. What did it mean? A key to success? The key to the audition? Or something else? He pocketed it, feeling a deep sense of unease. This wasn"t a game. Something had taken his offering, and left this disturbing object in return.
He tried to research the key"s symbolism. Keys could mean opportunity, unlocking potential, secrets. But this key felt wrong. Rusted, old, almost broken. It felt like a key to something locked away for a reason, something dark and forgotten. A prison? A tomb? He thought about his wish – for the audition to go well. Could the key represent that, but with a sinister twist? Unlocking success, but at what cost? Or was it a warning? A mockery?
The audition was a disaster. Liam"s guitar malfunctioned halfway through their first song, emitting a horrible screeching feedback they couldn"t stop. The replacement guitar broke a string – something that had never happened with that particular instrument before. The drummer dropped a stick at a crucial moment. The singer"s voice cracked. It wasn"t just bad luck; it felt orchestrated, cursed. They didn"t get the opening slot.
Liam was devastated, and scared. Had the witch done this? Was the key a symbol of failure, of doors locking instead of opening? He tried to throw the key away, tossing it into a dumpster behind his apartment. The next morning, he found it lying on his doorstep.
He tried again, throwing it into the Mahoning River. Two days later, it reappeared inside his guitar case. The key wouldn"t leave him. It was his now, a tangible link to the grave, a reminder of the exchange.
Other strange things started happening. He had nightmares filled with crumbling cemeteries and rusting metal. He"d find small, dead insects – spiders, moths – arranged in odd patterns on his windowsill. He felt constantly watched, especially at night. Chloe, Maya, and Ben, who had only been witnesses at the grave, seemed unaffected, though Chloe felt guilty for suggesting the visit.
Liam, desperate, started researching the grave"s history more deeply. He found fragmented accounts in old local histories and online forums. Stories of others who had left offerings and received strange replacements. A woman who wished for beauty found a shard of broken, distorted mirror. A man who asked for wealth found a handful of counterfeit coins that brought him nothing but trouble. A teenager who left a love letter found a desiccated toad. The pattern was clear: the entity at the grave granted wishes, perhaps, but always in a twisted, malevolent way, and the exchange always left the petitioner worse off, often marked by the disturbing replacement object.
He found darker stories too, linking disappearances and accidents to those who had angered the spirit or tried to interfere with the grave. There were tales of attempts to exorcise the spirit or consecrate the ground, all failing, sometimes with dire consequences for those involved. The entity seemed deeply rooted, powerful, and malicious.
Was it really Eliza Thorne? Or something older, darker, drawn to a place of death and sorrow, wearing the legend like a mask? Its actions seemed deliberately cruel, feeding on the hope and subsequent despair of those who came seeking favors. The exchange wasn"t just a transaction; it was a trap.
Terrified, Liam knew he had to do something. He couldn"t live with the key, with the feeling of being haunted. He researched appeasement rituals. Folklore suggested showing remorse, offering something precious without asking for anything in return, perhaps something connected to the spirit"s life, if he could figure out who she really was. Finding information on Eliza Thorne, or whoever was buried there, proved impossible. Records were lost, memories faded.
He decided on a simple, heartfelt apology. He bought a small, beautiful white rose – a symbol of peace, he hoped. He went back to the cemetery, this time in the bright light of midday, forcing himself past his fear. He placed the rose on the grave, next to where the key had appeared. "I"m sorry," he whispered, meaning it. "I shouldn"t have bothered you. I don"t want anything. Please, just… leave me alone." He backed away slowly and left, not looking back.
For a few days, nothing happened. The key remained wherever he"d last seen it (he"d stopped trying to throw it away). The nightmares eased slightly. He started to hope.
Then, one morning, he woke up to find the white rose lying on his pillow. It was withered, blackened, its petals crumbling to dust at his touch. And lying beside it, glinting faintly, was the rusted skeleton key.
The appeasement hadn"t worked. Or perhaps it had, in its own twisted way. The exchange was complete, the debt acknowledged. He was marked. The door had been opened, and the key was his to keep.
Liam still has the key. He keeps it locked away in a small box, but he can still feel its presence, a cold weight in his life. He never achieved musical success. He rarely plays guitar anymore. He avoids cemeteries. Sometimes, he finds dead insects arranged in patterns. Sometimes, he feels watched. He knows the Witch"s Grave is still there, under the gloomy cypress in Austintown, waiting patiently for the next visitor, the next offering, ready to make another terrible exchange.