By Aartish Sharma I often find myself drawn to places steeped in mystery and legend. One such place was Dagshai Cemetery, a haunting locale nestled in my own state, Himachal Pradesh.
There are two parts in this story, you’ll find 2nd one at the end of this article.
The air was thick with anticipation as I stood before the imposing iron gates of Dagshai Cemetery, the one near ”Anhech” village. Although the sun hadn’t yet set, the forest around the cemetery was already casting long shadows, and the eerie atmosphere was undeniable.
Dagshai, with its history of two cemeteries, was a place where one could easily get lost, not only in the winding paths but in the tales of the locals. As I reached the village around 4 in the evening, I knew I needed supplies to survive the evening in the woods that concealed the cemetery’s secrets. I entered a quaint local shop, the kind that held the essence of a place unchanged by time.
While selecting my supplies, I struck up conversations with the villagers. What I found was a pattern of doubt and faith, a representation of the complexities surrounding the cemetery’s repute for being haunted.
Some locals, their faces etched with the wisdom of generations, spoke in hushed tones of the cemetery’s dark history. They shared tales of eerie apparitions, inexplicable sounds, and the lingering dread that had plagued the cemetery for decades. These individuals were the believers, aware that it was not advisable to go lightly through these eerie forests.
Conversely, others in the village regarded the stories of the haunted cemetery as mere superstition. They shrugged off the tales, attributing them to overactive imaginations and the whispers of the wind through the trees. To them, the cemetery was nothing more than a collection of weathered gravestones, silent witnesses to history.
I listened carefully to both sides, my curiosity piqued. I understood that the truth often lay somewhere in between, and my goal was to uncover the layers of history and legend that enshrouded Dagshai Cemetery. Armed with supplies and a heart unburdened by preconceived notions, I set out to find my own answers, guided by the uncertainty that hung in the air.
As the sun cast long shadows over the forest, my solitary journey into the heart of Dagshai Cemetery began. Yet, as I stood before the closed gate, a warning sign looming ominously, I noticed something that defied my expectations.
Young people, perhaps locals, were entering the cemetery through a broken wall beside the gate. Their laughter and the clinking of bottles broke the silence of the early evening. Curiosity got the better of me, and I approached them. These were not the paranormal enthusiasts or thrill-seekers I had expected to encounter. They were here for an entirely different reason.
“What brings you all here?” I asked, my voice carrying a blend of curiosity and caution. One of the young men replied, “We come here to party, man. It’s a chill spot, you know. Spooky, but that’s part of the fun.”
I nodded, finding myself in a unique situation. These locals were not here seeking answers from the beyond, but rather, they had turned this eerie place into their early evening hangout.
As I explained my own purpose for being at the cemetery that evening, the atmosphere changed. The laughter ceased, and a somber expression swept over that young man’s face. “You should be careful,” he warned, his voice tinged with concern. “Not just because of the ghosts, but also the wild animals. We’ve heard stories of leopards prowling these woods in the evening. It’s not safe to be out here alone.”
I felt a chill run down my spine, not from the presence of the supernatural but from the very real dangers that lurked in the gathering darkness. I thanked the young man for the warning and continued on my solitary path, Armed with the newfound understanding that the night contained more than just ghostly rumours.
I proceeded deeper into the heart of Dagshai Cemetery, ready for both the unpredictable gathering night and ghost encounters in this eerie place.
Amidst the rows of weathered tombstones, one grave stood out from all the rest, a name etched into the stone that had become synonymous with the cemetery’s eerie reputation—Mary Rebecca Weston. As I approached the grave, I couldn’t help but feel that the stories I had heard were leading me here, to the final resting place of a woman whose name still echoed through the ages.
The tale of Mary Rebecca Weston was one that had haunted the imaginations of the locals for generations. This cemetery, believed to date back to the British regime in India, had once been home to a British man named Major George Weston and his wife, Mary Rebecca.
Story of Dagshai Cemetery:
Major Weston was a respected medicine practitioner, and his wife, Mary, a skilled nursing assistant. The couple lived in Dagshai, content in their life together. However, they were childless for a long time, their home echoing with the absence of the laughter of a child.
It was during this period of longing that fate intervened. A wandering saint crossed their path, bestowing blessings in the form of a mystical amulet. Soon after, Mary conceived their first child, filling their hearts with joy and hope.
Tragedy, however, struck swiftly. Mary, young and full of life, passed away suddenly on the eighth month of her pregnancy, in the year 1909. The news of her death sent shockwaves through the village, and George was left to grieve not only for his beloved wife but also for the unborn child they had lost.
In his sorrow, George Weston undertook a heartfelt endeavor. He built a beautiful and ornate grave for his beloved Mary and their unborn baby. The marble used for constructing the resting place of the duo was shipped all the way from England, a testament to the depth of his love and grief.
As time passed, rumors regarding Mary’s grave began to circulate throughout the region. Some believed that her final resting place held the power to bestow blessings upon those who sought her intervention. A misconception took root—a belief that if a pregnant woman take a piece of marble from Mary’s grave, she would give birth to a baby boy, a cherished dream for many families in that era.
The consequences of this superstition were destructive. Countless visitors began flocking to the cemetery, all with the misguided belief that they could alter the gender of their unborn child through this act. Ignorant of the significance of the grave and the pain it represented, they sought to take a piece of the marble structure as if it were a talisman. As a result, the beautiful marble structure built in memory of a loving wife was almost destroyed by the relentless and superstitious visitors.
Many people who visited the cemetery over the years claimed to have seen the ghost of Mary Rebecca Weston wandering among the gravestones. Some believed that her spirit chose to intervene, not to harm, but to protect her own resting place from further desecration. Her presence, they said, served as a warning to those who sought to tamper with her final resting place.
Around 7:30, as the last traces of twilight vanished and the forest grew darker, I sensed that the locals who had been milling about had now departed. It was time to begin my exploration. I parked my car at a safe distance, knowing I would need to rely on my own resources within the cemetery’s haunting confines.
With a torch gripped firmly in my left hand and a pocket knife held ready for safety in the other, I embarked on my journey into the heart of Dagshai Cemetery. My backpack, containing an assortment of food items and tools for investigation, was securely strapped to my shoulders. Each step I took seemed to echo in the stillness of the night, and the gravestones cast eerie shadows in the faint glow of my torch.
As I ventured deeper into the cemetery, the air grew colder, and a quiet unease settled over me. The gravestones, some dating back to the British era, stood as silent sentinels to a bygone time. Each marker told a story, some lost to time, others preserved in the whispers of the wind.
My senses were heightened. Every rustle of leaves and every creak of a branch felt like a phantom’s touch. I had come prepared for both the supernatural and the natural dangers that lurked in the wilderness beyond. The pocket knife in my right hand was a symbol of caution, a reminder that not all threats came from the other side.
I took a round of the full cemetery, my torch cutting through the inky darkness. As I did, I couldn’t help but stop at the grave of Mary Rebecca Weston. There, something caught my eye—two packets of chocolate placed delicately in the latch of the structure surrounding the grave. It was a poignant gesture, one that spoke of reverence and protection. The locals, despite their superstitious beliefs, seemed to recognize the significance of this grave and had placed the chocolates as offerings, a symbol of safeguarding the resting place of Mary Rebecca Weston.
As the night deepened, and the cemetery lay shrouded in an eerie stillness, I found himself drawn back towards the gate of the cemetery. The two small rooms on each side flanking the entrance held their own mysteries, like sentinels guarding the secrets of the night.
To the left, one room bore the solemn sign of Christianity—a cross made of stone. On the right, the other room told a different story. It was filled with wrappers of food items, left behind by those who had sought solace or adventure within these haunted grounds.
Around 9:30, I decided to light a bonfire near the gate, both for warmth and as a source of light. I opened my bag, reaching for packets of chips and a bottle of water. The crackling flames cast dancing shadows on the gravestones, creating an eerie play of light and darkness.
Just as I was settling down, a sudden sound shattered the stillness of the night. It came from behind the stone stairs leading to the opposite end of the cemetery, the same path where I had first encountered the group of young locals. The torch slipped from my grasp as I sprang to my feet, my heart pounding in my chest.
In haste, I realized I had forgotten the pocket knife I always carried for safety in these locations. Fear and curiosity warred within me as I hurried towards the source of the sound. Every step echoed in the night, and the crunch of gravel beneath my feet seemed deafening. I knew I was not alone in this spectral realm. The memory of the young man’s warning about wild animals lingered in my mind.
As I approached the stone stairs, my torch casting a trembling beam of light, I could feel the weight of history and legend bearing down upon me. What had stirred in the darkness? What secrets did these ancient stones hold? My pursuit of the unknown had brought me to the cliff of a chilling discovery, and I braced myself for what lay ahead.
When I reached the spot after the stone stairs, my heart racing, I found myself confronted not by a sinister presence but by the remnants of a bonfire, its flames now reduced to smoldering embers. The realization washed over me—perhaps it had been the young boys I had encountered earlier who had lit the bonfire and then vanished into the night. Relief coursed through me as I considered that the source of the mysterious sound had been something as mundane as the dying fire.
I approached the dwindling bonfire, the warmth of the fading embers offering some solace in the chilling night. As I crouched to examine it, I couldn’t help but chuckle at my own nerves. The cemetery, it seemed, had played tricks on my senses, weaving its own brand of haunting magic. However, just as my laughter began to subside, I felt an unusual sensation—a prickling at the back of my neck, a subtle shift in the air. Slowly, I tilted my head, and there, in the flickering glow of my torchlight, I made a curious discovery.
Two dogs, as different as night and day, stood there behind me. their heads slightly tilted, their eyes locked onto me. One was a sleek black, its fur gleaming like obsidian in the dim light, while the other bore the familiar markings of an ordinary dog, its coat a mosaic of earthy hues. For a moment, a sense of connection passed between me and the canine pair. The stillness of the cemetery seemed to amplify their presence.
I hesitated, unsure of the significance of their presence. Were they simply curious onlookers or guardians of this ancient burial ground? As I met the gaze of the two dogs, I felt a silent understanding pass between us—a recognition of the mysteries that bound us together on this fateful night. With a cautious nod, I acknowledged their presence.
With a gentle smile and a desire to make some unexpected companions in this eerie place, I decided to offer the dogs the remaining chips I had in my backpack. I turned to walk back towards my bonfire, confident that the dogs would follow me, as dogs often do when tempted by treats. However, to my surprise, the two canine figures remained rooted to their spot, their unwavering gaze still fixed upon me and the fire near a grave. Their stoic stance left me with an odd sense of hesitation.
I paused, realizing that these dogs were unlike any I had encountered before. They seemed connected to this place, to the bonfire that flickered near a grave. Accepting that I couldn’t befriend them as I had initially hoped, I made my way towards the bonfire alone. The dogs remained where they were, their silent vigil unbroken.
As I settled by the bonfire, the warmth from the flames offering comfort against the night’s chill, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the presence of these enigmatic dogs was more than just a chance encounter. The mysterious connection between man and canine, between the living and the guardians of the dead, remained unspoken but palpable. I knew that the night held more secrets than I could fathom, and I had only just begun to uncover the layers of history and legend that clung to the Cemetery.
The night was far from over, and the mysteries that awaited me in the heart of this haunted place were yet to be unveiled. I felt a certain comfort in the presence of those mysterious dogs, as if they had accepted my presence in the graveyard as something more than an intrusion. This newfound understanding fueled my determination to unravel the secrets that lay within the whispering tombs of Dagshai Cemetery.
As the night wore on, I sat by the flickering bonfire, my companions the two enigmatic dogs who now came down the stairs and stood sentry nearby. The atmosphere in the cemetery was filled with a silence that seemed to stretch into eternity, broken only by the distant sounds of music that drifted on the night breeze. I knew that the source of the music was likely a party or gathering at the resort located on the opposite edge of the mountain.
However, around 12:30, as I took another round of the cemetery, the serene silence was shattered by a sound that chilled my very soul—a woman’s scream. It was a scream of terror, a cry that seemed to cut through the night like a dagger. My initial thought was that someone from the resort had encountered some form of danger or distress. I reasoned that it was not uncommon for such remote locations to have their share of accidents or emergencies.
But then, a dreadful realization struck me like a bolt of lightning. The source of the scream was not coming from the direction of the resort. No, it was coming from the very heart of Dagshai Cemetery itself, The grave of Mary Rebecca Weston, was on that side of the cemetery. The legend of Mary’s restless spirit, the superstitions surrounding her grave, and the tales of her ghostly apparitions suddenly took on a chilling new significance.
Part two- Whispers of Dagshai Cemetery pt-2.
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